The Land Before the Kingdom of Israel: A History of the Southern Levant and the People who Populated It 9781575064284

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The Land before the Kingdom of Israel

History, Archaeology, and Culture of the Levant Edited by Jeffrey A. Blakely University of Wisconsin, Madison K. Lawson Younger Trinity Evangelical Divinity School  1. The Horsemen of Israel: Horses and Chariotry in Monarchic Israel (Ninth–Eighth Centuries b.c.e.), by Deborah O’Daniel Cantrell  2. Donkeys in the Biblical World: Ceremony and Symbol, by Kenneth C. Way  3. The Wilderness Itineraries: Genre, Geography, and the Growth of Torah, by Angela R. Roskop  4. Temples and Sanctuaries from the Early Iron Age Levant: Recovery after Collapse, by William E. Mierse  5. Poetic Astronomy in the Ancient Near East: The Reflexes of Celestial Science in the Literature of Ancient Mesopotamia, Ugarit, and Israel, by Jeffrey L. Cooley  6. A Monetary and Political History of the Phoenician City of Byblos in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries b.c.e., by J. Elayi and A. G. Elayi  7. The Land before the Kingdom of Israel: A History of the Southern Levant and the People Who Populated It, by Brendon C. Benz

The Land before the Kingdom of Israel A History of the Southern Levant and the People Who Populated It

Brendon C. Benz

Winona Lake, Indiana Eisenbrauns 2016

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

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Benz, Brendon C., author. Title: The land before the kingdom of Israel : a history of the Southern Levant and the people who populated it / Brendon C. Benz. Description: Winona Lake, Indiana : Eisenbrauns, 2016. | Series: History, archaeology, and culture of the Levant ; vol. 7 | Includes bibliographical references and indexes. Identifiers: LCCN 2016001593 (print) | LCCN 2016002075 (ebook) | ISBN 9781575064277 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781575064284 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Bronze age—Palestine. | Ethnology—Palestine. | Canaanites—History. | Bronze age—Middle East. | Palestine—Antiquities. Classification: LCC GN778.32.P19 B46 2016 (print) | LCC GN778.32.P19 (ebook) | DDC 933—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016001593

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

For my wife, Merritt, whose faithful support has been manifest in her enthusiasm for life, her ability to engage, and her vision for our future In memory of my dear friend Joseph R. Reilly (1976–2012)

Contents Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   ix Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   1 Part 1 The Varieties of Sociopolitical Experience in the Late Bronze Age Levant Chapter 1. Setting the Context of the Late Bronze Age Levant: Defining Policies and Perceptions . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Chapter 2. Cities of the Southern Levant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Chapter 3. Lands of the Southern Levant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Chapter 4. Other Categories of People in the Land: The Sutû and the ʿapîrû . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 Part 2 Two Case Studies on the Varieties of Sociopolitical Experience in the Late Bronze Age Levant: The Land of Amurru and the Land of Shechem Chapter 5. Tracing the Political Trajectory of the Land of Amurru . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 Chapter 6. The House of Labʾayu and the Land of Shechem . . . . 180 Chapter 7. The Land of Shechem in the longue durée . . . . . . . . 210 Chapter 8. The Land before the Rise of Israel . . . . . . . . . . . . 246 Part 3 The Transition from the Late Bronze Age to the Iron I and the Rise of Early Israel Chapter 9. Setting the Context of Premonarchic Israel . . . . . . . 263 Chapter 10. Shechem, Israel, and the Historical Memories in Judges 9: The King and the Collective . . . . . . . . . 303 vii

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Chapter 11. Shechem, Israel, and the Historical Memories in Judges 9: The Shechemite Identity, the Identity of Shechem, and Identity in Israel . . . . . . . . . . . .   337 Chapter 12. Reflections of the Multipolity Decentralized Nature of Early Israel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   366 Conclusion From Decentralization to Centralization and Back: Israel’s Return to Its Roots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   401 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   429 Indexes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   477 Index of Authors  477 Index of Scripture  484 Index of Other Ancient Sources  490

Acknowledgments “Spirit,” writes Martin Buber, “is not in the I, but between I and Thou.” 1 Indeed, much of the inspiration and motivation behind the present volume was the product of fruitful collaboration with and the support of many colleagues, family members, and friends. To list them all and all of their contributions would be impossible. What follows, therefore, is an abridged account, with the understanding that I am grateful to all. This monograph is a revised version of my New York University doctoral dissertation that I completed in 2013. Consequently, Professor Daniel E. Fleming and Professor Mark S. Smith have left the most obvious imprint on it, each in his own way. From the outset, Dan modeled and fostered within me the method of taking an accepted scholarly paradigm, turning it on its head, and asking new questions of the evidence. He often reminded me that, though this practice does not always bear fruit, it is the process that matters. In this way, he provided the space and encouragement that allowed me to raise many of the questions that inform this study. As my adviser, Dan also offered unrivaled support during the writing process, reading and commenting on an inordinate number of drafts. I acknowledge with pleasure that his influence on this study will not go unnoticed. Mark, too, has greatly influenced my approach, instilling within me a methodology that emphasizes the necessity of pursuing concentric circles of evidence in order to support a claim. And yet, I must confess that, in spite of his best efforts, one of the most outstanding phrases in his copious comments on my drafts was “too speculative for me.” For this, I take full responsibility. Most importantly, both Dan and Mark continue to model for me and many others what it means to be a friend who cares as much about his students’ personal development as he does about their scholarly and professional development. The support that I received from Dan and Mark was complemented by the other members of my defense committee. As my professor of Egyptian language, history, and religion, Dr. Ogden Goelet, who is fondly known by his students as a walking bibliography, played a crucial role in shaping my understanding of the social and political history of the southern Levant 1.  I and Thou (trans. R. G. Smith; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1937).

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from an Egyptian perspective. Dr. Lauren Monroe took an interest in my work at an early stage, graciously dialoguing with me for an extended period of time after I presented material that was eventually included in this monograph at the national meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in 2010. Since then, she has played a unique role as one who has challenged my interpretation of the archaeological evidence and encouraged me to think more deeply about the philosophical underpinnings of my approach toward it. Though I list him last, Professor Leong Seow’s academic contributions began years ago. In the fall of 2001, he began constructing a solid foundation on which many have helped me build, when I became his student at Princeton Theological Seminary. During my training at NYU, I also received a high level of support from the faculty and staff in the Skirball Department of Hebrew Judaic Studies, where hospitality and collegiality stand front and center in all the fields represented. Ann Macy Roth, Robert Chazan, David Engel, Jeffery Rubenstein, Shayne Figueroa, and Madeleine Goico all added to my experience. The quality of student that the department draws is a testament to its commitment to fostering a healthy scholarly community. This was palpable in the colleagues that I worked with and the friends that I made during my years there, many of whom read portions of this project and served as dialogue partners and sources of encouragement. In this regard, I think specifically of Mahri Leonard-Fleckman, Sara Milstein, Stephen Russell, Cory Peacock, Elizabeth Knott, Aaron Tugendhaft, Daniel Oden, Lynn Kaye, and Jeffrey Garcia. I am also thankful for the opportunity to have worked with Anne Porter, whose vision is uninhibited by convention, and to dialogue with Ellen Morris while they were both at the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World. Recognizing that this project has been the product of a long journey, I would also like to express my gratitude for those outside NYU who contributed to it. While in New York, I had the distinct privilege of taking a class with David Carr at Union Theological Seminary. At Princeton Seminary, I was heavily influenced by J. J. M. Roberts, Chip Dobbs-Allsopp, and George Parsenios. After graduating from Princeton, I was welcomed with open arms by the faculty at Yale University and its Divinity School while my wife completed a post-M.S.W. fellowship at the Yale Child Study Center. I am particularly thankful to Benjamin Foster, Kathryn Slanski, Emmanuelle Salgues, David Bartlett, and Christine Hayes for giving their time and opening my eyes to the breadth of the field. Several portions of this study were also presented at a number of professional meetings and conferences. The feedback I received from participants at the American Oriental Society and the Society of Biblical Literature was very fruitful. Most notably, Daniel Pioske contributed enormously to my understanding

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of the relationship between place and memory. Recently, the Central States regional meeting of the SBL has provided a welcome home, affording me the opportunity to engage in productive dialogue with, among others, Victor Matthews, Roger Cotton, John Strong, and Adam Dodd. I am also thankful for having had the opportunity to present at the conference “Exodus: Out of Egypt,” organized by Thomas Levy and Thomas Schneider at the University of California, San Diego, in 2013. While there, I received generous feedback from Israel Finkelstein and was able to engage in vigorous conversation with Avi Faust. Finally, this volume would not have been possible without the wonderful team at Eisenbrauns and the editors of HACL, Jeffrey Blakely and Lawson Younger. The editorial acumen of Jim Eisenbraun and Beverly McCoy and the competent work of the rest of the production team were rivaled only by their swift, patient, and personable responses to my inquiries. Additionally, the artistic eye of Andy Kerr made my suggestions for the cover palatable. Completing this project in a healthy and balanced manner would not have been possible without a strong community of friends in Brooklyn and in Kansas City. With this in mind, I want to recognize the support of Mike and Char Turrigiano, who were shepherds and harbormasters to us in New York, and the rest of the community that they fostered. In addition, I am grateful to Jon Stanley, Adam Konopka, Andrew Rock, Beau Smith, Don Groscost, Isaac Anderson, and Todd Marcus for serving as models of what it means to pursue a life of inquiry and virtue. When my wife and I made the snap decision to move to Kansas City in 2011, I had the certain fortune of becoming part of the community at William Jewell College. The support that I have received from my colleagues, specifically Brad Chance and Milton Horne in the Department of Religion, contributed significantly to the smooth completion of this project and its revision. My students have also been a source of inspiration. I am particularly grateful to Curtis Chapin, who gave me the honor of reading through the entire manuscript and offering penetrating feedback as I was preparing it. At last, I want to acknowledge the unwavering support, generosity, and contributions of my family. My parents Stephen and Linda, my brother Blake, my in-laws Margi, Mike, and Dana, and my wife Merritt, to whom this book is dedicated, have never stopped believing in me. Finally, I am grateful to Judah, now seven, who spent many early mornings as an infant looking up at me with his characteristic inquisitive gaze that inspired as I translated Egyptian and Akkadian, and Jack, now four, whose joy for life has been disarming. May good will extend to all. —Brendon C. Benz Kansas City, Missouri

Abbreviations Note to the reader : Abbreviations found in the bibliography are based on the list of abbreviations in The SBL Handbook of Style for Biblical Studies and Related Disciplines (2nd ed.; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature) §8.4.2. Egyptological and a few other abbreviations that are used in the text of the book are listed here.

General A. Louvre Museum siglum AMP Asiatic Mode of Production model Ass. Assyrian D/Dtr Deuteronomist/Deuteronomistic source E Elohistic writer/source E Execration Texts sigla in Posener, G. Princes et pays d’Asie et de Nubie. Brussels: Foundation égyptologique reine Élisabeth, 1940 EB Early Bronze Age ESM Early State Modules J Yahwistic writer/source km kilometer(s) LB Late Bronze Age LXX the Septuagint m meter(s) m. masculine MB Middle Bronze Age MT Masoretic Text n(n). note(s) NA Neo-Assyrian no(s). number(s) NRSV New Revised Standard Version P. Papyrus pl. plural pl(s). plate(s) rev. reverse RS field numbers of tablets excavated at Ras Shamra–Ugarit SMN tablets excavated at Nuzi, in the Semitic Museum, Harvard University

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Reference Works ARM AT

Archives royales de Mari Wiseman, D. J. The Alalakh Tablets. London: British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, 1953 BDB Brown, F.; Driver, S. R.; and Briggs, C. A. Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament. Oxford: Clarendon, 1907 CAD Oppenheim, A. L., et al., eds. The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. 21 vols. (A–Z). Chicago: Oriental Institute, 1956–2011 CDME Faulkner, R. O., ed. A Concise Dictionary of Middle Egyptian. Oxford: Griffith Institute, 1962 CT Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum DDD Van der Toorn, K.; Becking, B.; and van der Horst, P. W., eds. Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible. Leiden: Brill, 1995 EA Knudtzon, J. A., editor. Die El-Amarna Tafeln. 2 vols. Leipzig, 1915. Reissued, Aalen, 1964 KAI Donner, H., and Röllig, W. Kanaanäische und aramäische Inschriften. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1964–68 KAV Schroeder, O. Keilschrifttexte aus Assur verschiedenen Inhalts. WVDOG 35. Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1920 KRI Kitchen, K. A. Ramesside Inscriptions: Historical and Biographical. 8 vols. Oxford: Blackwell, 1976–90 KTU Dietrich, M.; Loretz, O.; and Sanmartín, J., eds. Die Keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 24. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1976 NEASB Near East Archaeological Society Bulletin PBS Publications of the Babylonian Section, University Museum, University of Pennsylvania PRU Le Palais royal d’Ugarit Urk. IV Sethe, K., ed. Urkunden der 18. Dynastie. Urkunden des ägyptischen Altertums 4. 3 vols. Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1914–84 WVDOG Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der deutschen Orientgesellschaft YOS Yale Oriental Series

Introduction For many of the civilizations of the ancient Near East, the Late Bronze Age (LB; ca. 1550–1200 BCE) 1 was a period of renaissance. In Egypt, this era commenced with the achievements of Ahmose (ca. 1539–1514 BCE), who ushered in the New Kingdom by driving the foreign Hyksos out of the land and reunifying his country. The subsequent kings of the 18th (ca. 1539–1295 BCE) and 19th (ca. 1295–1186 BCE) Dynasties instituted policies of imperial expansion into the Levant, at times exerting their influence as far as Ugarit on the northern coast of the eastern Mediterranean. The Egyptian advance could extend only as far as Mesopotamia, however, as it too was dominated by a number of powerful entities, including the Hittites, Mittani, the Assyrians, and the Babylonians. Though the power of these kingdoms ebbed and flowed as the LB unfolded, it was an age of empires, international diplomacy, and conflict. Located between these superpowers, the small polities and populations of the southern Levant served as buffer zones and battlegrounds where these “world powers” often negotiated their relationships and resolved their differences. In spite of the benefits they reaped as middlemen in an extensive network of international trade, they were rarely, if ever, able to achieve political independence. This situation drastically changed during the transition from the LB to Iron Age I (ca. 1200–960 BCE). From the western horizon emerged waves of invaders whose origins have yet to be firmly fixed. The arrival of the Sea People, a group of whom have been identified with the Philistines of the Bible, in combination with the already declining glory of the regional superpowers led to the Egyptian withdrawal from the Levant and the decline of the socioeconomic fabric of the region. At the same time, however, it created a sociopolitical vacuum in the midst of which a new political entity referred to as “Israel” emerged. This transition and the social and political changes associated with it have long been topics of intense interest and debate because of the implications they hold for understanding both the biblical and extrabiblical evidence regarding the origins and nature of Israel. 1. See Finkelstein 2013: 6–10 for a nuanced description of the end of the LB and the dates attributed to the Iron I based on recent developments in archaeology. The implications of Finkelstein’s proposals will be discussed in greater detail below.

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While archaeology has long been an important source of information for understanding this period, the discovery of the Amarna letters paved the way for scholars to investigate the sociopolitical landscape of the LB Levant in a new way. Dating to the middle of the 14th century, this corpus includes hundreds of missives dispatched to Egypt from its vassals and dependents who were scattered throughout the region. As texts, they offer a unique window into the entities that populated it, providing key names and unparalleled details regarding a number of political categories, identities, and alliances that help fill the gaps in the archaeological record and bring it to life. In spite of the wealth of information provided by the ancient data, scholarly inquiry has been overshadowed by several underlying presuppositions revolving around three critical issues. They include the nature of social power, the processes involved in the formation of ancient “states,” and the sociopolitical makeup of ancient societies. Social power is often viewed as a resource in and of itself that is exercised in a unidirectional manner; the development of polities is often tracked according to a linear evolutionary or neo-evolutionary model; and there is very little recognition of the potential political integration between populations who are identified as “urban centered” and those who are not. Working from this theoretical framework, the resulting reconstructions generally maintain that the LB Levant consisted of small “city-states” in the lowlands of the coast and valleys and larger “territorial kingdoms” in the eastern highlands. As characteristically “Canaanite” polities, each was defined by a particular urban center from which power was administered by a small proportion of the political elite over and against the large sedentary populations within their respective domains in a manner comparable to medieval feudalism or a Marxist “Asiatic mode of production.” As for the “non-sedentary” populations, their relationship with these polities is often viewed as inimical. If interaction did occur between these two sectors of society, it was limited to the economic sphere. This backdrop has become the foil for understanding the emergence of Israel. It is generally agreed that it was into or out of the dominant “Canaanite” sociopolitical structure that Israel emerged and that it was against it that Israel defined itself. For these reasons, Israel is commonly cast as a group of geographical, economic, and/or political outsiders to what is conceived as the dominant regional society of hierarchically organized, urban centered city-states and territorial kingdoms. In order for this field of inquiry to move forward, the data must be reevaluated through a new set of theoretical lenses. The study at hand responds to this call. Drawing on a number of insights from the disciplines of sociology, history, anthropology, and archaeology, I argue that the land-

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scape of the southern Levant was characterized by a wide variety of sociopolitical experiences. Rather than consisting of several static, monolithic entities, the southern Levant’s political structures and its populations were diverse and fluid. Social power was more widely distributed than is generally recognized and was often negotiated among a range of political players in a relational or “egalitarian” manner. Because of this, political entities and alliances took several forms, often consisting of populations that were defined by settled centers and those that were not. Moreover, these entities and alliances were subject to a high degree of variability and flux over a relatively short period of time. In the end, these phenomena resist any attempt to conceptualize the Levantine landscape according to narrowly defined categories and parameters. Such observations radically alter not only the accepted view of the LB Levant but conventional wisdom regarding the origin and nature of early Israel as well. I argue that, instead of being relegated to a purely outsider status, a large contingent consisted of geographical, economic, and political insiders who were socially and spatially embedded within the land before they were identified as “Israel.” This conclusion is largely based on the continuity between the sociopolitical structure of the LB Levant as it is described in the textual and archaeological evidence and the nature of early Israel as it is attested in a number of biblical texts, many of which have not been sufficiently explained by the models that currently dominate the field. A prime example of this is Judges 9. Because this text revolves around what has been interpreted as an urban-centered population under the authority of a king during the premonarchic period of Israel, several scholars have concluded that it stems from a Canaanite rather than an Israelite tradition. As I will suggest in part 3 of this book, this judgment overlooks a number of critical issues associated with the history of Shechem, the way it is depicted in Judges 9, the nature of premonarchic Israel, and the function of memory in the creation of history. For example, there is evidence in both the textual and archaeological record of a strong collective political tradition consisting of a variety of populations associated with Shechem during the Bronze Age, a feature that plays a defining role in Judges 9. In addition, several other biblical texts suggest that monarchies may have existed within Israel before the founding of the Israelite monarchy. Because the Iron I populations who identified themselves with Shechem were probably continuous with their LB predecessors, these points of continuity suggest that we should read Judges 9 in the same way that the tradents of this tradition did—as a critical part of Israel’s early history worthy of inclusion as a biblical text. This book does not represent another hypothesis of how Israel began but an entirely new way of looking at Israel’s context that will significantly

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affect the entire range of hypotheses regarding its early history. At many points, I will draw from and build upon a number of the critical insights of studies that have preceded this book, which represent another stage in the history of scholarship. Nevertheless, I will provide a historical foundation by which one can better evaluate and understand the land before the Kingdom of Israel.

Historical Data Pertaining to the Late Bronze Age and the Iron I The Amarna Archive One of the most important bodies of evidence pertaining to the social and political landscape of the LB Levant is the Amarna archive (EA). This body of texts derives its name from Tell el-Amarna, the location of its discovery. Tell el-Amarna was the site of Akhetaten, the short-lived capital of Amenhotep IV (ca. 1344–1328 BCE), who is better known by his alternative name Akhenaten and his fame as the so-called “heretic king” who attempted to introduce monotheism to Egypt. 2 Discovered in the late 19th century CE, the archive consists of 382 cuneiform tablets written in Akkadian, the international language of the day. Though the archive includes a variety of genres, 3 345 of tablets are personal letters, most of which are addressed to the Egyptian king or members of his administration. While some of these letters were sent from the major political players of the day, 4 the majority were dispatched from Egypt’s vassals and dependents who were scattered throughout Syria–Palestine. 5 To be sure, they cover a relatively short span of time, 6 dating from approximately the last decade of the reign of Amenhotep III (ca. 1382–1344) to the abandonment of Akhetaten in the first year of Tutankhamun (ca. 1327–1318), the son of 2. For a summary of the life and religious innovations of Akhenaten, see Hornung 1999a. 3. The remaining tablets consist of inventories associated with specific letters (EA 13, 14, 22, 25, 120), literary texts (EA 340 [?], 341, 356–59, 375 [?]), syllabaries (EA 348, 350, 379), lexical texts (EA 351–54, 368, 373), a god-list (EA 374), and, according to Moran’s tentative identification, an amulet (EA 355). Due to their fragmentary condition, the nature of the remaining texts (EA 342–47, 349, 360, 301, 372, 376, 377, 380, 381) has yet to be determined. 4. These include Babylon (EA 1–14), Assyria (EA 15–16), Mittani (EA 17–30), Arzawa (EA 31–32), Alašia (EA 33–40), and Ḫatti (EA 41–44). Because EA 18 is broken and its clay is of a different type from the other Mittani letters, some have questioned whether it should be considered part of the Mittani corpus (see Moran 1992: 43 n. 1). 5. EA 99, 162, 163, 190, 367, 369, and 370 were sent from the Egyptian court to their vassals. 6. For a summary of the evidence and the various arguments, see Moran 1992: xxxiv–xxxix.

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Akhenaten. Nevertheless, they are indispensable for the evidence they provide about the period in general. As texts, they contain direct accounts of the social and political dynamics that occurred on the ground, bearing witness to, identifying, and describing in relatively consistent terms the various political entities, categories of people, and players involved. As personal letters, they also supply the reader with intimate descriptions of the web of often-strained relationships that the local leaders had to negotiate and the motivations behind the actions that they, their allies, and their enemies took. An excellent example of this is found in a letter from Rib-Addu, the ruler of Gubla (Byblos). One of the most prolific communicators with the Egyptian king, he frequently aired his concerns regarding the complexity of the situations in which he found himself. This is dramatically illustrated in EA 114: The ships of the men of Tyre, Beirut, and Ṣidon are in Waḫliya. Everyone in the land of Amurru is at peace with them. I am the enemy! . . . If you are unable to fetch your servant, then send archers to fetch me. It would be good to be with you. The enemies of the king are at war with me, as are his governors! (EA 114, lines 11–15, 44–48)

Rib-Addu’s testimony bears witness to the fact that professed loyalties and political affiliations were not always clear-cut. Such intense and detailed descriptions of history can only come from the type of firsthand reports found in the Amarna texts. It is for this reason that they will take a leading role in my analysis of the period in parts 1 and 2 of this book. Egyptian Literary, Military, and Administrative Records In addition to the Amarna archive, there is a large body of Egyptian literary, military, and administrative records that provide information on the region and its history. Inscribed for perpetuity on monuments and temple walls in both Egypt and Syria–Palestine, these often take the form of selfaggrandizing depictions of military campaigns that the kings of Egypt led into the Levant. One of the most enduring examples is the description of the battle of Megiddo orchestrated by Thutmose III (ca. 1479–1425 BCE). Carved on the walls of the Temple of Amun-Re at Karnak, this inscription depicts his bold victory over a coalition of more than 100 polities gathered at Megiddo (Aharoni 1967: 140). After learning of his opponents’ intentions, Thutmose III consulted his military advisers to determine the best plan of attack. There were three roads that led to Megiddo. Two were wide, and the third was narrow. Those assembled encouraged their king to take one of the wide roads, cautioning that the narrow path would put the army in peril. In spite of this advice, Thutmose III threw caution to the wind and “valiantly” chose the narrow path. Expecting the alternative strategy, the

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coalition at Megiddo was taken by surprise. Fighting with the strength of the gods at the head of his army, Thutmose III defeated his enemies and firmly established Egyptian hegemony in the region. 7 The value of these texts is not limited to their literary panache and imaginative accounts. They provide modern historians with important information regarding the entities who populated the southern Levant, as well as Egypt’s own interests and interaction with them. In addition to his annals, there are three topographical lists from the reign of Thutmose III that preserve the names of approximately 350 cities in the region (Urk. IV 781–806; Helck 1971; Astour 1963; Aharoni 1967: 143). While the location of some remain unknown and others debated (Aharoni 1967: 147–51; Helck 1971: 12, 126–32; Weinstein 1981: 11), many have been identified. Several other texts also provide insight into additional categories of people that are not directly identified with settled centers. One of the most significant of these is the Shasu (šꜢsw). 8 In the topographical list of Amenhotep III (ca. 1382–1344 BCE) discovered in the Temple of Amun at Soleb, the Shasu are associated with the Transjordanian land of Seir (tꜢ šꜢsw sʿr), as well as the ambiguous term yhwꜢ (tꜢ šꜢsw yhwꜢ; Giveon 1964: 244; 1971: 26–28, no. 6a and 74–77 no. 16a), which some take as one of the first extrabiblical reference to Yahweh. 9 When it comes to the study of early Israel, the most significant Egyptian document is the Merenptah stele. The majority of this text is dedicated to an account of Merenptah’s victory over the Libyans who had invaded Egypt during the fifth year of his reign (ca. 1207 BCE). However, it concludes with a short poem extolling Merenptah’s triumph over Egypt’s neighbors to the north. Included in this hymn of self-praise is the earliest extrabiblical reference to an entity called “Israel”: 10 7. For a full English translation of this and other New Kingdom texts, see Lichtheim 1976 and Simpson 2003. 8. See, for example, the record of Ahmose Pennekhbet (Urk. IV 36: 12–14), an official of Thutmose II; the 14th campaign from the annals of Thutmose III (Urk. IV 890: 14–15); the Karnak stele booty list from the campaign of Amenhotep II during his ninth year (Urk. IV 1315: 5–17); Amenhotep’s Memphite stele (Urk. IV 1306: 6–10; ANET 245–47); and the Karnak relief of Seti I (KRI I 7: 1–2; 9: 3–5). 9. Recently, Schneider has identified what he believes is another reference to Yahweh in the name of the owner of a late 18th or 19th Dynasty (ca. 1330–1230 BCE) Book of the Dead (Pharaonic Roll 5). Commonly rendered j: t-w-n-jꜢ-rʿꜢ-y-h—the reading *ʾadoniroʿe-yah, “my lord is the shepherd of Yah,” is proposed by Schneider rather than the more familiar reading ʾaduni-raʿiyu-hu, “(my) lord is his shepherd” (Schneider 2008: 113–20). 10. However, van der Veen, Theis, and Görg (2010: 15–25) have recently proposed an earlier reference to Israel in an Egyptian inscription (Berlin Statue Pedestal Relief 21687) dating to the reign of Ramesses II (ca. 1279–1218 BCE).

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7

Canaan has been plundered into every sort of woe Asheklon has been overcome Gezer has been captured Yenoam is made nonexistent Israel is laid waste—its seed is not [ysrꜢr/l fk(w) bn prt.f] Hurru has become a widow because of Egypt

In chaps. 9 and 11, I will examine a number of the critical issues revolving around this reference and its implications. Archaeological Evidence Though this study will rely primarily on textual evidence, it will also appeal to the significant contributions made by archaeology. A number of new methodological approaches in the field (Shanks and Hodder 1995; Renfrew and Bahn 2004) have greatly contributed to our understanding of this region during the period in view. Perhaps the most significant of these is the scope of archaeological surveying that has taken place in the Palestinian central hill country (see esp. Finkelstein 1985; 1988a; 1988–89; 1994; 1995b: Zertal 1991; 1993: 1311–12; Ofer 1994), the region that scholars have isolated as the place where Israel emerged (de Vaux 1978: 391–92; Hasel 1994: 48; 2000: 80; Hoffmeier 1997: 29; Dever 1992; 1995a; 1998; 2001; 2003; Kitchen 2003: 460; Finkelstein 1988a: 28, 324; Faust 2006). Though these surveys focus on the surface pottery of archaeological sites as opposed to systematically uncovering and evaluating each site’s individual layers, they have produced a wealth of information regarding settlement patterns in both the LB and the Iron I. In addition, large-scale excavations at such sites as Tell Balâṭah, which has been identified with the biblical city Shechem, have also contributed significantly to our understanding of the historical phenomena that took place in the region. Several other important methods and sites will be described in greater detail in my analysis of the contributions that the archaeological world has made to this discussion. Reading the Ancient Data The wide range of ancient evidence available to the modern historian makes the job of reconstructing the social and political landscape of the southern Levant during the LB and the Iron I an exciting and an accessible endeavor. One must, however, always proceed with caution when working with these data. For one thing, it is important to remember that the record is incomplete. The aforementioned texts from Egypt that detail the nature and extent of various royal campaigns are an excellent case in point. As I noted above, there are several toponyms that scholars have not identified

8

Introduction

or whose identification is dubious. In addition, it is safe to assume that only those campaigns, conflicts, and toponyms that were viewed as significant enough to be publicized in the official propaganda would have been recorded (E. F. Morris 2005: 36–37). This implies that the Egyptians may have confronted additional entities that were not mentioned. To argue, therefore, that these lists provide a comprehensive picture of Egyptian involvement in the region would be misleading. Cases such as this underscore the importance of reading the textual record in conversation with the relevant archaeological data. Just as texts provide an interpretive framework for the archaeological evidence, so also archaeology aids in the reading of texts. This becomes particularly germane when we recognize that texts are highly influenced by the perceptions and motivations of their authors, making it difficult for the reader to distinguish between history and ideology. Events are invariably filtered through the interpretive lenses and ideological concerns of their authors—regardless of whether they are kings or their dependents. Rather than simply reporting history, these authors constructed history for a particular audience in order to express an immediate concern. This is not to say that the use of textual material for reconstructing history is an entirely subjective enterprise. 11 In many cases, the details that I will be analyzing are reported in a consistent way by their authors and are occasionally confirmed by the reports of others. These qualities contribute to the likelihood of their authenticity. Nevertheless, it is always important to be conscious of the intended audience, or what I refer to as the direction of political discourse; to be attuned to any ideological motivations that may color a report; and to be aware of the archaeological record when evaluating the contents of a written source. In addition to these concerns, one must also be aware that texts and archeological data are shaped by the influences of modern scholarship, a phenomenon that I will highlight at a number of points throughout this book. As A. Giddens has noted, there is a “widespread proclivity to generalize to all forms of societal totality features that are in fact specific to modern societies” (Giddens 1984: 164). One way to avoid this tendency is to focus one’s attention on the specific terminology used by the authors of 11. This position is taken by L. Grabbe, who argues that inscriptions and archaeology “furnish information not found in texts and also provide an objectivity not possessed by texts because they provide actual realia from the past” (Grabbe 2007: 6). However, there are at least two problems with this statement. First, inscriptions themselves are texts and can provide more information about a sociopolitical entity than the simple narrative that it contains (see esp. Sanders 2009). Second, as Grabbe himself states only a few lines later, the “use of archaeology for historical reconstruction is as complicated as the use of texts. The material data have to be interpreted just as much as textual data” (Grabbe 2007: 6).

Introduction

9

the ancient texts themselves. Though one cannot (and perhaps even should not) completely avoid modern terminology in the classification of ancient social and political structures, a higher degree of clarity and nuance can be achieved by pursuing a greater level of precision with one’s language (Giddens 1984: 164). In this regard, I will follow the lead of a number of scholars of the ancient world who appeal, whenever possible, to the regional or indigenous term for the polity, social phenomenon, or category of people under scrutiny (Marcus 1989: 92; Hansen 2000: 166; Fleming 2004).

The Bible Appealing to the Bible as a source for reconstructing Israel’s early history poses its own unique set of problems. As with the other texts that I have introduced, those in the Bible that deal with this period run the risk of being influenced by the ideological motivations of their authors. This problem is exacerbated by the belief held by a number of scholars that most of these stories were developed—if not entirely invented—at a time far removed from the period they are depicting. In their opinion, therefore, the best that the Bible can offer is a picture of “Israelite history” that suits the theological program and reflects the immediate historical concerns of the exilic and postexilic Judahite authors who fabricated it. 12 In response to this view, D. Fleming (2012) has developed a method to access what are likely authentic memories of Israel’s early history that have been retained and embedded within the later Judahite framework of the Bible. Turning the argument of the skeptics on its head, he contends that some of the nuanced accounts of the social and political organization of Israel could not have been devised by a Judean author who was living so far removed temporally, ideologically, and even geographically from the events being depicted. 13 Perhaps the most compelling example of this is found in the various texts that portray Israel as maintaining a strong collective political tradition. Such a tradition would have been foreign to an exilic or postexilic Judean whose own political heritage was highly centralized under the authority of a single dynastic tradition. Though these memories were recast through a variety of editorial methods for the purpose of supporting the specific aims of a later Judahite author, the unique 12. In the words of Finkelstein, the Bible’s “relatively late date and its literaryideological character make it irrelevant as a direct historical source” (Finkelstein 1995a: 351; see also 2007b: 74). 13. In many ways, Fleming’s work along with the present analysis serve as a response to the question recently posed by Finkelstein (2013: 5) regarding “how the late-monarchic Judahite author(s) who lived in Jerusalem know about the events that took place centuries before their own time, some in locations far from Jerusalem.”

10

Introduction

contours of Israel’s history were retained. Fleming provides further support for the credibility of these memories by pointing to structural parallels among the polities and populations of Mesopotamia that preceded Israel’s emergence. Following a similar methodology, I dedicated parts 1 and 2 of this book to setting the historical backdrop of Israel’s emergence by providing a fresh look at the sociopolitical landscape of the LB Levant. The intent of part 3 is to illustrate the points of continuity between these entities and the biblical depictions of early Israel found primarily in the book of Judges. In most cases, these parallels present an alternative view of Israel’s earliest history that is so foreign to the interpretive framework in which it is set that it is difficult to imagine a Judean author fabricating them centuries later. In this way, they will affirm the historical reliability of these core depictions. Moreover, and perhaps more importantly, they will provide social and historical explanations for several phenomena recorded in the Bible that have not yet been sufficiently evaluated because of the interpretive influence that the Judahite ideological framework continues to hold. While I am concerned with highlighting the points of continuity between the sociopolitical landscape of the LB Levant and the biblical depictions of early Israel, it is not my intent to “prove” the historicity of the biblical texts that I analyze. 14 I do, however, take seriously the idea that the Bible is a sociohistorical document. While there are core texts containing historical memories, the historical veracity of these memories is not the type framed and defined by modern scientific notions of historical analysis. However, as a social historian, I am of the mind that the Bible does provide a faithful account of the sociopolitical phenomena associated with early Israel. 15 As K. van der Toorn contends, “The Hebrew scriptures remain of eminent value to the historian—on condition that they be used with intelligence and discrimination. One of the ways in which such discrimination can be exercised is by comparing the biblical information on a given period with relevant data that have not been subject to subsequent alterations” in 14. In this way, I follow Fleming’s contention that, if “we want a precise picture of the population and political players of the region during what archaeologists call the Iron Age I, Judges will not provide it. At the same time, however, its picture of separate peoples who consider themselves part of a larger association has historical value for understanding Israel under kings and may also preserve glimpses of the earlier period, fixed in the details of stories passed down for generations” (Fleming 2012: 403). 15. Here, my approach corresponds to that of Heffelfinger, who states that her own “study . . . is concerned only with what may have seemed plausible to the ancient tradents of the tale based on their implicit familiarity with their own political system” (Heffelfinger 2009: 290).

Introduction

11

the way that the biblical texts have been (van der Toorn 1996: 237). In this way, the general contours may be regarded as sociohistorically accurate, particularly when they reflect the sociopolitical situation attested in the historical records that I evaluate in parts 1 and 2 of this study. 16 In the end, “the goal is the engagement itself, under new terms that raise fresh questions about what Israelite writers understood about their past and how that understanding relates to actual history” (Fleming 2012: 403). Theoretical Presuppositions Governing Previous Reconstructions As I noted at the outset of this introduction, reconstructions of the Levantine sociopolitical landscape and the subsequent emergence of Israel have been and largely continue to be overshadowed by several theoretical presuppositions. These presuppositions are influenced by a long tradition in ancient Near Eastern studies of adhering to what Fallers (1974) refers to as a “macrocosmic” analysis of ancient societies. In this approach, sociopolitical structures that stand at the center are emphasized at the expense of those on the periphery (see also Marfoe 1979: 1, 10). Recently, a handful of social theorists, historians, archaeologists, and anthropologists have recognized that this trend is largely informed by a myopic vision of power that casts it as a resource in and of itself that is wielded in a unidirectional and often oppressive manner by a small proportion of the population. This has led to the common assumption that ancient Mesopotamian societies were characterized by a high degree of centralization, where “exclusionary power struggles predominate[d]” (Blanton et al. 1996: 2) through the monopolization of certain resources and the imposition of certain rules (Giddens 1984: 162; see also Marfoe 1979: 1, 10, 16; Yoffee 2005: 5, 15). In other words, the primary concern of a central political authority is often seen as the promotion of its own goals at the expense of the goals of the populations that fell within its domain. The prevalence of such a model is exhibited in the longstanding use of the popular phrase “oriental despotism” when referring to the polities of the region (Marfoe 1979: 16; Stager 1985: 25–28; Master 2001; Fleming 2002; 2004: 227–28). Admittedly, there is good reason for this trend. In the documentary evidence from the ancient Near East, kings are often depicted as the sole source of political authority and action. Even when such texts are read with an eye for their ideological intentions, this monolithic view of power and its impact on the development of the ancient “state” is intensified by a number of modern assumptions that are imposed upon the evidence and 16. Even Finkelstein acknowledges that many of the biblical texts contain early cultural artifacts (Finkelstein 2003: *189; 2013: 5, 21, 26–27, 35).

12

Introduction

thereby overshadow the various clues that point to the contrary. The first of these is the idea that power is exercised within a single social sphere. Perhaps the most common example of this is the tendency to locate power in the economic sphere. As D. Schloen (2001: 51; see also McGeough 2007: 49–60) has pointed out, this view has led to a “reductionist ‘two-sector’ model based on Marx’s concept of the ‘Asiatic mode of production’,” where a “contrast is drawn between the simple village community as the locus of production and the highly developed and powerful centralized state” (Gottwald 1983: 26–27). Those who had political power were largely those who had control over the agricultural means of production. One can observe the general acceptance of this model in the common reference to those elements of the population who are not immediately identified with the centralized political authority as “peasants.” As I shall point out in chap. 2, this trend is demonstrated in the widespread rendering of the Akkadian term ḫupšū in the Amarna letters as “peasantry” (Mercer 1939; Albright 1940: 217; 1963: 25–26; Mendenhall 1962: 77–78; Astour 1964; Altman 1978; Liverani, 1979; Zertal 1994: 67; Gottwald 1999: 212–13; Adam­thwaite 2001; Killebrew 2006: 571; Grabbe 2007: 66, 118–19). Not only does this model fail to recognize the influence of other social spheres in the exercise and administration of power, but it also tends to overlook the viability of other important subsectors within a single sphere. A second misconception stems from the general acceptance of M.  Rowton’s model of ancient societies (1967; 1973; 1974; 1976; 1977). In spite of the significant insights articulated by Rowton, his categories and those who adhere to them tend to oversimplify the complexities on the ground (Marfoe 1979: 10). This is due largely to a misunderstanding of the Amorite period and a number of problematic ethnographic cross-cultural analogies that have been imposed upon the data (Kamp and Yoffee 1980: 92; Fleming 2004: 70; Porter 2012). According to Rowton’s model, society was strictly divided between two categories of people based upon their competing identities and their different lifestyles. The first were those who identified themselves with an agriculturally based urban center. This category was viewed as largely leading a sedentary lifestyle. The second category consisted of individuals who were associated with a nonsedentary lifestyle. This group was made up of tribally identified nomadic or pastoralist populations. Because they were not sedentary, they were less culturally developed than their urban-centered counterparts. These competing modes of sustenance and different levels of development led Rowton to envision sharp social and political distinctions between these two groups. In spite of these distinctions, Rowton set himself apart from his contemporaries by arguing that sedentary and nonsedentary populations were

Introduction

13

not entirely isolated from one another. According to his analysis, before such advancements as the domestication of the camel, the practice of tribal nomadism could not extend beyond the fringes of sedentary zones. Tribal elements were therefore “enclosed” by the urban centers around which they operated, leading to the phenomenon that Rowton referred to as “enclosed nomadism.” Due to their proximity with their sedentary neighbors, tribal populations tended to interact with them. It was this “double process of interaction between nomad and sedentary, between tribe and state” that led to the “dimorphic societies” that Rowton was interested in isolating (Rowton 1973: 202). In spite of their nonsedentary, tribal identification, Rowton did acknowledge that pastoralist populations could settle in towns or villages. However, though these settlements may have fallen within the territorial scope of urban-centered polities, they were under the authority of their own “chiefs.” This essentially meant that they were independent entities, distinguished from the centralized bureaucratic structures of their state-centered counterparts (Kamp and Yoffee 1980: 93; Lemche 1985: 198– 201; Grabbe 2007: 106–7). Underlying this reconstruction is the assumption that urban-centered polities viewed these tribal groups as outsiders with regard to the states that dominated the political landscape. Only the sedentary populations who fell under the hegemony of these states were considered insiders. A final misconception is the notion that the formation of the “state” follows a narrowly conceived evolutionary model of development. As outlined by E. Service in his oft-cited work Origins of the State and Civilization: The Process of Cultural Evolution, the path that civilizations take in their development toward statehood begins at the level of bands, progresses through the subsequent stages of tribes and chiefdoms, and finally reaches their telos in the formation of states. 17 As Giddens points out, this model frequently results in “unilineal compression,” in which general social trends are used to explain a specific social phenomenon (Giddens 1984: 239), and “homological compression,” in which every society is thought to progress according to the same stages of development (Giddens 1984: 239–41; Eisenstadt 1964: 375; Upham 1990: 97; Fleming 2012: 180–84). There are several consequences associated with this approach. Because it regards state formation as a linear, developmental process, it can overlook and disregard the important role of flux and variability within a single political entity. In addition, it tends to make strict distinctions between 17. Examples of the use of this model can be found in Flannery 1972: 401; Redman 1999: 49–53; Gosden 1999: 476–82; Renfrew and Bahn 2004: 178–82; Oeste 2011: 214. For recent critiques of the way this model has been imposed upon the evidence from the ancient world, see especially Grabbe 2007: 108; Feinman and Marcus 1998: 5–6.

14

Introduction

political entities based upon the developmental stage according to which they are classified. This appears to be one of the primary assumptions informing Rowton’s conclusions. Because the “tribe” is viewed as an early stage in the development of the “state,” groups who embody these opposing characteristics are viewed as necessarily distinct on a political level. Finally, the evolutionary model of the state often highlights objective, environmental influences in the development of a polity at the expense of other, less tangible causes, including the agency of individual actors. In the words of Giddens, this results in “a form of reified discourse not true to the real characteristics of human agents” (Giddens 1984: 179). 18 To one degree or another, all of these theoretical frameworks have informed scholarly interpretations of the textual and archaeological evidence from the period in view. This is immediately apparent in the underlying similarities among the various reconstructions of the LB political landscape and the origin and nature of early Israel. The purpose of this project is to challenge these theoretical frameworks and subsequently to analyze the data through a new set of lenses. This will require a review of scholarship that to some may seem lengthy, if not laborious. Nevertheless, in doing this, we will discover new significance in key details from the hard evidence of history that were inadequately explained by previous studies. In addition, the review will serve as an entry point for those less familiar with the arguments involved, allowing them to engage the arguments presented in a more informed, complete, and hopefully critical manner. 18. Though K. Flannery maintains his own modified version of an evolutionary model in his ethnographic analysis of cultural development (see also Yoffee 2005), he appropriately critiques this tendency. In his words (Flannery 1972: 400), the “ ‘ecologists’ have largely contented themselves with matter and energy. . . . [E]cologists must cease to regard art, religion, and ideology as mere ‘epiphenomena’ without causal significance.” More recently, A. Mazar (2007c: 138–39) has argued that “historical development is not linear, and history cannot be written on the basis of socio-economic or environmental-ecological determinism alone, as was common during the processual phase that dominated historical studies and archaeology in the 1970s and 1980s.”

Chapter 1

Setting the Context of the Late Bronze Age Levant: Defining Policies and Perceptions Introduction The dawn of the LB was marked by the political reunification of Egypt and the expansion of its influence into the southern Levant. By the Amarna period, Egypt had firmly established its imperial presence there. Supported by an administrative network of local leaders who cooperated with Egyptian officials, this structure constituted the general backdrop in which the polities and populations of the region operated, affecting their character, the ways in which they defined themselves, and their interactions with one another. Though its impact is not as immediate or as historically direct, modern scholarship has also left its mark on our perception of the entities that occupied the land. The purpose of this chapter is to set the stage for the study that follows by outlining and assessing both of these important influences. I will begin with an analysis of the nature of Egypt’s imperial presence and then turn to a brief review of scholarship on the sociopolitical landscape of the LB Levant. Throughout this process, I will pay special attention to certain presuppositions that have dominated the field and the way that they have influenced accepted reconstructions. In so doing, I hope to open the door to new ways of evaluating the data at hand.

Empire under Scrutiny: The Nature, Purpose, and Extent of the New Kingdom Imperial Interests in the Southern Levant A cursory review of popular surveys on the history of ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia is sufficient to demonstrate that they are often dedicated to tracking the rise and fall of dominant political entities. This approach is a helpful way of organizing what is often an overwhelming amount of information. There are, however, limitations to this method. For one, it tends to overlook populations and social structures that were not directly associated with the primary players in view. This problem is exacerbated when modern categories are imposed upon the ancient evidence. 1 When 1. Giddens highlights the limitations of this phenomenon by pointing to the commonly used term nation-state when referring to political entities of the ancient world:

17

18

Chapter 1

this occurs, many of the sociopolitical nuances embedded in the data that do not correspond to these categories are lost to the modern observer. Political maps of ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia are an excellent case in point. Often, the various spheres of political influence are delineated through color-coded zones, each representing a single polity’s range of authority. Again, this is helpful for providing a general sketch of a region’s political landscape. However, it can be deceptive when one is considering the actual situation on the ground. 2 These territorial divisions resemble and are therefore often regarded in terms of modern political boundaries that are, in most cases, clearly defined and relatively fixed. The use of the term empire to describe some of these entities only adds to the confusion. Without further qualification, it implies that everything and everyone who fell within the “borders” of the “empire” were under its direct control. In other words, imperial powers are usually defined geographically rather than by the populations who cooperated and/or were identified with them. In “The Growth of the Assyrian Empire in the Habur/Middle Euphrates Area: A New Paradigm,” M. Liverani constructively responds to this trend by proposing a new model for understanding the nature and function of the Middle Assyrian “empire.” Liverani suggests that rather than regarding it as an “oil stain” that evenly spread across the region over which it presumably had control, it should be understood as having consisted of a network of tributary cities and military outposts “embedded in a native world” (Liverani 1988: 86). Though these “islands” were under the hegemony of the Assyrians, much of the territory surrounding them was not. This was largely because the benefits that these outlying regions offered did not correspond to the cost of maintaining a permanent presence in them, even if this presence could have been achieved. 3 The goal of the Assyrians, therefore, was to maintain the viability of the network in which their outposts and the populations loyal to them were located. 4 “Nation-states have clearly and precisely delimited territorial boundaries, but other types of society, by far the more numerous in history, do not” (Giddens 1984: 164). 2. As Fleming (2004: 29–30) has pointed out, “We should not imagine the political map of ancient Mesopotamia to have consisted of states with fully enclosed boundaries of the sort drawn on modern maps.” See also F. Joannès 1996. 3. An example of this phenomenon is provided by M. Mann (1986: 136): Animals such as oxen, mules, horses, and donkeys carrying maximum loads of fodder have to consume it within about one hundred and fifty kilometers in order to stay alive. Any further distance by land is impossible without supplies along the route. This would be possible but not cost effective. The only land transport over eighty to one hundred fifty kilometers that would make economic sense in the ancient would was of goods high in value-to-weight ration for animal fodder.

4. Mann arrived at a similar conclusion in his evaluation of the political entity created by Sargon of Akkad (ca. 2334–2279 BCE), which is often referred to as the first “territo-

Setting the Context of the Late Bronze Age Levant

19

The interpretive value of Liverani’s insights suggests that we should similarly reexamine the nature of Egyptian imperialism in the Levant. Egyptian documents from the LB indicate that it closely corresponded to that of the Middle Assyrians. Rather than resembling an oil stain with welldefined geographical boundaries, the Egyptian sphere of influence more closely corresponded to a web or network of outposts and tributary centers that ran along four primary arteries. 5 These arteries included (a) the Mediterranean coast and the inland north–south corridor along the Via Maris; (b)  the Beqaʿa Valley, which runs along the Orontes River, south to the Litani River, and finally along the Jordan Valley down to the Jezreel Valley; (c) the Esdraelon Valley, which extends from Acco on the Mediterranean coast down to the Jezreel Valley; and (d) the southern corridor, which stretched east through the Judean highlands and into the Transjordan. Approaching Egyptian imperialism in this way will generate several important insights that will inform this study as it unfolds. First, it will call into question the commonly held view that the Egyptian empire was primarily defined geographically, a view that contributes to the notion that it was divided into three distinct territorial districts. Second, it will provide concrete reasons why Egypt maintained its imperial network. Third, it will isolate regions that did not fall within it. By comparing these regions with those that were located within the network and the motivations behind Egypt’s desire to maintain its presence in them, I will provide concrete reasons why these imperial “negative spaces” existed. The most important of these was the central hill country surrounding biblical Shechem (Tell Balâṭah). Recognizing that this region largely fell outside Egypt’s imperial interests will not only shed light on its sociopolitical constitution (parts 1–2) but will also contribute to our understanding the origins and nature of early Israel, because this is the area to which most scholars point as the place out of which Israel emerged (part 3). A New Paradigm: The Middle Assyrian Network of Interests Middle Assyrian influence in Mesopotamia was relatively stable along its southern and western limits due to the presence of natural boundaries and rival polities. Its southern border was held in check by the Middle Babylonian kingdom, and its western border was demarcated by the Euphrates River, which ran as far as the Kingdom of Ḫatti. By contrast, the rial empire” of world history. According to Mann (1986: 134), “Sargon’s . . . power lay not in direct control over territory, but rather, in personal domination over clients.” 5. This view runs contrary to the perspective of such scholars as N. Naʾaman, who contends, “Egypt ruled over all the area of the land of Canaan” (‫מצרים שׁלטה אז בכל תחומי‬ ‫ ;ארץ כנען‬Naʾaman 1986: 464).

20

Chapter 1

area situated between the Upper Euphrates and Lower Zab “border[ed] on a series of states and mountain tribes more or less unstable and which press[ed] immediately upon Assyria” (Liverani 1988: 90). This required the Assyrians to employ a specific strategy in order to maintain their interests there, a strategy that is reflected in the nature and extent of their military campaigns. Aside from the increased level of conflict that occurred during the reign of Aššurnaṣirpal II, his regular military campaigns are nearly identical with those of his predecessors Adad-nirari II and Tukulti-Ninurta II. They follow similar paths, fulfill similar purposes, and betray “the same alternation of places paying tribute and those not” (Liverani 1988: 86–87). According to Liverani, the alternation in tributary and nontributary sites reveals that Assyrian influence was arranged along a network of control that consisted of compliant regions interspersed with and surrounded by regions and populations that were not (1988: 87). Nevertheless, the Assyrians were able to maintain a viable network over which trade and communication could successfully occur, into which they could extend their agricultural interests, and from which they could access a steady flow of tribute (1988: 87–90). In addition to their regular military campaigns, the Assyrians employed several other tactics to preserve their network. First and foremost, they established fortified centers along it that served as bases from which they and their dependents could strike out against hostile elements. In order to sustain the viability of these “strong points,” they encouraged members of their own population to settle in them (Liverani 1988: 90). Finally, during periods of elevated resistance, as in the reign of Aššurnaṣirpal II, they increased their presence within and along the network (1988: 87). Applying the Paradigm The Nature and Extent of Egyptian Military Campaigns in Syria– Palestine.  As with the Middle Assyrians, the New Kingdom pharaohs’ campaigns tended to follow similar paths and fulfill similar purposes. Though these paths evolved over time, by the end of the LB, the four primary arteries identified above became the standard routes of exploitation. Rather than summarizing the military activities of every king, I will highlight the evidence in support of this pattern and describe the contours and extent of the various evolutions as they occurred. As A. Alt (1968: 185) observed, texts detailing the exploits of Egypt’s kings in the Levant before Thutmose III are relatively limited. However,

Setting the Context of the Late Bronze Age Levant

21

the combined evidence suggests that Ahmose (ca. 1539–1514 BCE), Amenhotep I (ca. 1514–1493 BCE), Thutmose I (ca. 1493–1481 BCE), Thutmose II (ca. 1481–1479 BCE), and Hatshepsut (ca. 1473–1458 BCE) were primarily concerned with securing Egyptian interests in two of the four abovementioned regions 6—namely, (a) the Mediterranean coast and inland corridor of the Via Maris, and (b) the Beqaʿa Valley. Evidence for this reconstruction comes from references to urban centers, rival kingdoms, and geographical regions that are situated along these arteries (Aharoni 1967: 140; Weinstein 1981: 6; E. F. Morris 2005: 31). This picture is developed by the considerable increase of textual evidence from the reign of Thutmose III (ca. 1479–1425 BCE). During his 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th and 16th regnal years, Thutmose III continued the tradition of his predecessors by campaigning along the Mediterranean coast and the inland north–south corridor. 7 In addition, the text of his first and most famous campaign states that, after making his way from Gaza to Yaham in the Sharon along the Via Maris, he marched northeast to the Jezreel Valley, where he met and defeated a coalition of nearly 120 foes who had assembled at Megiddo. 8 According to his account, this campaign was motivated by a rebellion that affected the entire territory from “Yurza to the outer ends of the earth.” 9 The reference to rebellion may suggest that Egypt exercised some form of control over the Jezreel Valley before Thutmose III took the throne (Rainey and Notley 2006: 65). Regardless, his victory solidified Egyptian authority in the region. In addition to the texts dealing with these campaigns, three topographical lists from his reign have survived. 10 Together, they contain the names of approximately 350 locations in the southern Levant. Though the exact nature of these lists is debated, most accept their historical reliability, affirming that they are “an honest compilation of those places that were either conquered by the king or provided troops or other aid to the defenders of Megiddo” (Weinstein 1981: 11; see also pp. 10–12). As such, they serve as the foundation for the scope of Egyptian interests in the region. Because the toponyms to which subsequent kings refer do not significantly deviate from those in the catalogs of Thutmose III, they also represent a 6. See esp. Aharoni 1967: 139–40; Redford 1979: 270–87; E. F. Morris 2005: 27–66. 7. See Urk. IV 685–703, 729–34; ANET 238–41; E. F. Morris 2005: 115–26. For a succinct description of Thutmose’s other campaigns, see Rainey and Notley 2006: 65–69. 8. Urk. IV 648: 9–11; 652: 13; 655: 15; Aharoni 1967: 140–41; E. F. Morris 2005: 116–17; Rainey and Notley 2006: 72–74. 9. Urk. IV 648: 4; ANET 235; Aharoni 1967: 140–41; E. F. Morris 2005: 115–16. 10. Urk. IV 781–806; Aharoni 1967: 143; Weinstein 1981: 11.

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relatively comprehensive description of Egyptian interests throughout the New Kingdom. 11 The toponyms that have been identified on a map correspond to three of the four networks of interest described above. Beginning in the south, they are concentrated along the Mediterranean coast and the Via Maris (a). Along the east side of this artery, these locations terminate at the border of the Palestinian central hill country. The number of toponyms significantly increases, and their distribution becomes wider when one reaches the Esdraelon Plain (c). This concentration thins as one moves north from Acco to Tyre between the Mediterranean and the Sea of Galilee, and along the northern end of the Jordan River. By the time one reaches the southern bank of the Litani River, the toponyms are limited to the region around the Jordan. As the Litani bends north and leads to the Orontes, its shores, along with those of the Orontes are dotted with cites all the way to the northern frontier of Carchemish  (b). The only region that is not represented is the southern corridor (d). 12 The entire network of Egyptian interests comes into view during the reigns of Amenhotep III (ca. 1382–1344 BCE) and Amenhotep  IV/Akenaten (ca. 1344–1328 BCE) and is confirmed by the exploits of Ramesses II. A number of locations along the southern corridor (d) make an appearance in the Amarna letters. The most notable of these is Jerusalem. In his correspondence to his Egyptian overlord, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba, the ruler of Jerusalem, stresses his loyalty to Egypt and his unique position by offering several examples of how he fell outside the traditional parameters of an Egyptian vassal. On the one hand, he repeatedly reminds the king that he did not rise to his current position on account of his mother or his father but by 11. See the table of “Asiatic Countries under the Egyptian Empire” in ANET 242–43. As Aharoni indicates (1967: 165), “Only a very few additional names can be found in the later topographical texts from Amenhotep II until Ramses III.” 12. The representative nature of Thutmose III’s topographical lists is confirmed by the military activities of his successor, Amenhotep II (ca. 1382–1344 BCE). During his first campaign into Syria–Palestine, which is dated to his 3rd regnal year, Amenhotep II marched north along the Via Maris to the Lebanese Beqaʿa, “going as far as the land of Ni and perhaps to Ugarit” (Aharoni 1967: 155). His topographical list preserves the following names: Retjnu, Kadesh, Aleppo, Ni, sdr, Tunip, Qaṭna, and Hazor (see Simons 1937: 45–46, 129; see also ANET 247–48). During the campaign of his 7th year (Urk. IV 1301–5, 1310–15; ANET 245–47), he entered the Jezreel Valley via the Via Maris, thus completing the general coverage of the areas represented in the topographical lists of Thutmose III. Though Thutmose IV also campaigned in the Levant, the only topographical reference comes from a stele from western Thebes that reads, “The settlement of the fortification of mn-ḫprw-rʿ with Kharu whom his majesty captured in the city of Gezer” (Urk. IV 1556: 10–11; ANET 248).

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the hand of the king himself. 13 On the other hand, he rejects the customary title of vassal kings in the Amarna correspondence (ḫazannu) for the Egyptian title wʿw. 14 By adopting this designation, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba may have been trying to minimize his Levantine roots in order to demonstrate that he had been fully “Egyptianized.” Alternatively, his claim that he was not elevated to the throne by his mother or father may suggest that, according to the principles of primogeniture, he was not the rightful heir to the throne in the first place. 15 In either case, it appears that the Egyptians directly intervened in the affairs of Jerusalem in a way and to an extent that they had not in the past for the purpose of asserting greater control in the south. This would correspond to E. F. Morris’s (2005: 271) observation that it was during this period that the Egyptians stationed garrisons at Gezer, Tell el-Hesi, Lachish, Jerusalem, and possibly Gaza for the first time in order to fortify the southern corridor. 16 The reason for the emerging importance of this artery may be attributed to the sudden appearance of references to Transjordanian populations that posed a threat to Egypt’s imperial interests. In a topographical list of Amenhotep III, six names associated with the phrase “the land of the Shasu” (tꜢ šꜢsw) appear. Four of them, including Seir (tꜢ šꜢsw sʿr) have been identified with locations in Moab and Edom. 17 In the 19th Dynasty, Ramesses II (ca. 1279–1213 BCE) appears to have used the southern corridor when he marched into this territory. 18 As E. F. Morris indicates (2005: 367), prior to this campaign, “the Egyptian government had expressed little interest in Moab.” The “intensification of settlement in the areas south and west of the Dead Sea in the LB IIB period, or roughly contemporary with the

13. EA 286: 9–13; 287: 25–28; 288: 13–15. 14. EA 285: 5–6 (ú-i-ú); 287: 69–70 (ú-e-e); 288: 9–10 (ú-e-ú). 15. According to Redford (1990: 68), “In the south the Egyptian authorities suspended the right of primogeniture, perhaps an indication of Egypt’s greater concern for this region, and installed a younger scion of the Jerusalem house.” 16. Compare with E. F. Morris’s (2005: 43, 144, 278) maps of the region, which illustrate the evolution of Egypt’s military presence there. 17. Kitchen 1964: 66–67; Giveon 1964: 239–55; Redford 1992: 272–73; E. F. Morris 2005: 221 n. 12. See also P. Anastasi VI, 54–56, which refers to the “clans of the Shasu of Edom,” and P. Harris I 76: 9. For a detailed study of the link between the Shasu, the lands of the Transjordan, and the proposed migration of these people into the central hill country of Palestine, see Faust 2006 and Killebrew 2005. Consider also the reference to the large number of captured Shasu in the booty list of Amenhotep II. 18. See KRI II 185; Kitchen 1964: 47–70; 1982: 67. For a summary of the debate revolving around the date of this campaign, see E. F. Morris 2005: 366–67 n. 87.

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Nineteenth Dynasty” 19 would explain why the southern corridor was the last significant artery to take shape in Egypt’s network of imperial interests. According to D. B. Redford (1990: 72), “Ramesses’ wars in Transjordan [were] clearly occasioned by the hostility of elements there which sought to deny Egypt access to the north–south route.” 20 Though this survey of the nature and extent of Egyptian military campaigns in the southern Levant is not comprehensive, it demonstrates the general contours of the specific arteries that Egypt utilized. To summarize, these interests were limited to four primary channels: (a) the Mediterranean coast and the north–south corridor along the Via Maris; (b) the northwestern inland belt, which included the towns of Nii, Tunip, Qaṭna, and Kadesh, following the northern half of the King’s Highway along the Orontes, the Litani, and the Jordan down to the Jezreel Valley; (c) the Esdraelon Valley, which extended from Acco on the Mediterranean coast southeast to the Jezreel Valley; and (d) the southern corridor, which stretched east through the Judean highlands and into the Transjordan. 21 Defining the Nature of the Egyptian Network.  As with the Middle Assyrians, there is evidence that Egypt’s imperial interests were interspersed with and surrounded by hostile polities and populations. This is reflected in the campaign of Amenhotep II dated to his 7th year. 22 After marching north along the Via Maris through Aphek, Socoh, and Yaham, he made two raids against unspecified foes dwelling in unidentified locations in the western Sharon. 23 In the opinion of Aharoni, “such a picture typifies that region, which still had a scattered and semi-nomadic population because of the many forests and swamps” (Aharoni 1967: 155). This situation reflects that of the Middle Assyrians, for whom “the constant worry and overriding military concern [was] to subjugate and keep under control the mountain 19. E. F. Morris 2005: 367; see also Kitchen 1964: 67–69; Redford 1982: 55–74; Hasel 1998: 159–63; Aḥituv 1984: 143. 20. Singer (1988: 2) suggests that the “extension of Egyptian authority east along Nahal Besor should probably be seen in connection with the road system leading to Transjordan, the Arabah, and the copper mines at Timnaʿ, all of which the Egyptians exploited during this period.” Nevertheless, he goes on to say that an “additional aim of the Egyptian penetration into the central hill country may have been the necessity to open an alternative route to the north via the Jordan Valley towards Beth-shan and Yenoʿam. This possibility had become an urgent task because of security problems in the central sections of the international highway running along the Sharon Plain” (1988: 3). 21. See esp. the maps at the back of Aḥituv’s volume (1984), where all of the known locations are plotted. There are a few exceptions to this general trend, such as Damascus and Abila along the Barad and the locations east of the Yarmuk. 22. Urk. IV 1301–5, 1310–15; ANET 245–47. 23. Urk. IV 1306: 2; ANET 245–47.

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tribes in the arc north of the Tigris” (Liverani 1988: 90). In order to achieve this goal, they would occasionally deviate from their primary network and strike out against those “tribes.” By analogy, the groups that Amenhotep confronted probably represented elements that were not dwelling directly along the primary routes of the Egyptian network but posed a large enough threat to it that he felt compelled to flex his military muscles against them. The Shasu represented a particularly important category of people that threatened Egyptian interests in this way. Controlling the Shasu was a difficult task for the Egyptians because they appear to have maintained a high level of mobility. In spite of the fact that the aforementioned topographical list of Amenhotep III locates the “lands” of the Shasu (tꜢ šꜢsw) east of the Jordan, the Egyptians encountered them throughout the southern Levant. 24 Thus, they “were mainly attacked in order to eradicate the threat that these groups posed to the safety of caravans and travelers or to settled populations in general” (E. F. Morris 2005: 33). This reality is dramatically articulated by Amenhotep, son of Hapu in his inscription: I have put a company of soldiers at the head of the road in order to repulse the foreigners upon their places, which surround Egypt, by keeping an eye on the movements of the bedouin. I have done likewise at the head of the bank at the river mouth, surrounded by my troops, quite apart from crews of royal sailors. 25 24. According to E. F. Morris (2005: 126), these confrontations “may well have taken place in the Negev, where Thutmose III is known to have fought at some point during his career” (Urk. IV 890: 14–15). As is apparent from later texts, however, Shasu warriors could be encountered even in the northernmost reaches of the Egyptian empire” (see Giveon 1971: 15–17, 22–23; Astour 1979: 17–34). The first recorded conflict with the Shasu during the New Kingdom is found in the autobiographical text of Ahmose Pennekhbet. According to this document, the Egyptians confronted the Shasu and took some of them prisoner during the reign of Thutmose II (Urk. IV 36: 12–14). After Thutmose II, they turn up again in the booty list of Amenhotep II (see the Karnak stele [Urk. IV 1315: 5–17] and the Memphite stele [Urk. IV 1306: 6–10; ANET 245–47]), and in the annals of Thutmose III (Giveon 1971: 15–17, 22–23; Astour 1979: 17–34) and Seti I. According to KRI I 9: 3–5, “The fallen-ones of the Shasu are plotting rebellion. Their clan leaders are united in one place, standing upon the ridges of Kharu. They have taken to confusion and quarrelling, each slaying his fellow. They disregard the edicts of the palace.” In addition, KRI I 7: 1–2 states, “(As for) the hills of the rebels, none could get past them, because of the fallen-ones of the Shasu who had attacked.” See Murnane 1990: 40–42. 25. Urk. IV 1821: 10–14. The ubiquitous ʿapîrû posed a similar threat to Egyptian interests. As Bunimovitz (1994b: 198) indicates, the “Amarna letters indicate that despite the Egyptian consolidation in Canaan, bands of ʿApiru were active not only on the fringes of the settled land, but also in the coastal plain, the Shephelah, and the northern valleys.” From Byblos to Jerusalem, local leaders were complaining that “The ʿApiru plunder all the

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Ultimately, accounts such as this support the view that Egypt’s dominion in Syria–Palestine did not extend throughout the entire region but was, by necessity, limited to specific networks. As R. Gonen observes, “From the point of view of Egyptian interest, the country was divided in two—areas of high accessibility in the coastal plains and valleys and areas of poor accessibility in the mountains. The extent of Egyptian control . . . was undoubtedly dictated by this division” (Gonen 1984: 37). Thus, rather than controlling a territory that resembled an oil spot, the Egyptians strove to maintain a web-like system that was primarily defined by populations who recognized and submitted to their imperial authority. These conclusions conflict with the popular claim that Egypt administered its interests through a system of regional districts. According to this view, the southern Levant was divided into three provinces: (a) Canaan, which was governed from Gaza; (b) Phoenicia/Amurru, which was governed from Ṣumur; and (c) Upe, which was governed from Kumidi (Yeivin 1950: 51–62; Gelb 1961: 42; Rainey 1965: 106 Aharoni 1967: 146–53, 161; Helck 1960: 5–8; 1971: 248–52; de Vaux 1968: 25–28; Weinstein 1981: 12; Naʾaman 1986: 467; Singer 1988: 4; Leonard 1989: 13; Redmount 1998: 81; Goren et al. 2002: 202; Killebrew 2005: 57). 26 According to Redford, however, the function and assignments of the officials who were in charge of Egypt’s Levantine interests, which were modeled on the Old and Middle Kingdom practice of sending administrators into the frontier regions on “patrols,” 27 conflict with this view: The spheres of operation of the officers concerned were constantly shifting on an ad hoc basis which at this distance in time one cannot fathom. . . . The officer is sent out of Egypt by the king on assignment, he is allotted a certain number of cities, visits them on his rounds with specific ends in view, and can reside in the interim in one of the headquarters. Sooner or later he returns to Egypt where he can be consulted by the king. Because of his familiarity with one part of the country, his activity might be restricted to towns in one region only, but the reason for this was a personal one and had nothing to do with any prior division of Palestine or Syria. (Redford 1990: 34; see also p. 76) lands of the king” (see, e.g., EA 286: 56 [from ʿAbdi-Ḫeba of Jerusalem], EA 284: 6 [from Šuwardata of Gimtu], and EA 126: 7 [from Rib-Addu of Gubla]). 26. In addition, Naʾaman has suggested a bipartite division (1975: 166–72; 1981: 183–84; 1999: 34), and Hachmann has argued for a four-part division (1982). For a convincing critique of Rainey’s contention that EA 36: 15 makes reference to the “province of Canaan” (Rainey 1996b: 7–8), see Lemche 1998: 22–23. See also chap. 3 below. 27. Redford 1990: 35; see also Pyramid Text 269a–b; Merikare XII, 2.

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This unique function of these officials is underscored by the titles that they held—namely, “circuit (officials)” (pẖr.ty; Redford 1990: 35). 28 In support of Redford’s conclusions, E. F. Morris was unable to confirm a direct correspondence between named Egyptian officials and a particular region or “province” to which they were assigned. 29 In addition, Morris has shown that Kumidi, a city that is commonly isolated as the seat of Egyptian administration in the proposed province of Upe, actually had a very short administrative life. An Egyptian governor and garrison first appear in Kumidi no earlier than the beginning of the Amarna period. According to EA 197, by the end of this period it was no longer garrisoned as a “provincial center.” Instead, it depended upon Damascus for protection. This reading is confirmed by the reference to Kumidi in the topographical lists of Seti I, 30 which “implies that the base had not remained under direct Egyptian authority” during his reign (E. F. Morris 2005: 240; see also pp. 238–39). These data compel us to return briefly to and reevaluate the topographical rosters of Thutmose III. M. Noth suggested that they recorded the actual routes taken by Thutmose III and his armies during their campaigns (Noth 1938b). However, as Aharoni points out, there are problems with this reading. Of all the toponyms, only nos. 57–71 are arranged in geographical order from south to north. In addition, though Noth assumed that nos. 53– 119 were located in the Jezreel Valley, several have been identified with locations outside it (Aharoni 1967: 145; Helck 1971: 122–23). Working from the premise that Syria–Palestine was divided into provinces, Aharoni and others propose that these lists demarcate the administrative divisions of the region (Aharoni 1967: 146; Yeivin 1950). Recalling the evidence against this proposal and the evidence supporting the existence of an Egyptian network, however, we must reject this explanation as well. Building on his aforementioned observations, Redford has suggested a third, more satisfactory reading. By comparing the rosters with the itineraries found in P. Anastasi I, he argues convincingly that they were simply collections of 28. Elsewhere, Redford points out that that, when “Egyptians alluded to the northern empire, they still spoke of ‘the land of Canaan (or Kharu, Djahi, etc.)’ and the cities therein each with its own ‘territory,’ never to the province so and so” (Redford 1992: 201). E.  F. Morris (2005: 255) complements this argument with the observation that, because “of this apparent fluidity in the placement of garrisons and their officers, it seems best to argue that the Egyptian empire cannot be neatly parceled into well-defined administrative units, each governed by an officer stationed at his permanent base. Instead, one should view the empire as peppered with representatives of the Egyptian government—some Egyptian, some Egyptian officials of Syro-Palestinian origin.” See also Lemche 1996: 769–70. 29. Private conversation on December 17, 2008. 30. Simons 1937: XIII, 55; XIV 57; XV, 60.

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common itineraries (Redford 1982: 59–60; see also Rainey 1987: 535; Rainey and Notley 2006: 67). In sum, the weight of the evidence strongly suggests that Egypt’s Levantine interests consisted of a network of polities and populations that fell along the four primary arteries listed above rather than a provincial regional empire. The idea that these routes were common itineraries suggests that they were maintained for specific purposes. It is to a brief analysis of these purposes that I now turn. By highlighting the reasons why the Egyptians were concerned with maintaining a limited network, I will not only provide additional support for the view that this was indeed the shape that their interests in the region took, but I will also provide reasons why other areas in the southern Levant were not of interest to the Egyptians. 31 The Purpose of the Network.  As with the Middle Assyrians, there were three primary reasons motivating Egypt’s construction of a limited network of influence in the southern Levant. The first was to create and sustain viable routes of communication and trade. The benefit of maintaining its interests along the Mediterranean coast and the Via Maris is clear. As early as the Old Kingdom (ca. 2686–2150 BCE), the Egyptians sought to establish a profitable trading relationship with Byblos (Gubla), a city on the Mediterranean coast that provided them with access to luxury goods that were not native to Egypt, including the Lebanese wood they so coveted. 32 The urban centers along the inland arteries also provided protection for the caravans of the king. For example, in EA 255, Mut-Baʿlu, the son of Labʾayu, indicates that he and his father faithfully provided safe passage for royal caravans to such distant locations as Mittani. 33 Because Mut-Baʿlu is explicitly referred to as the “king of Piḫilu” 31. These nuances argue against Naʾaman’s contention that “using the term ‘province of Canaan’ to describe the Egyptian Empire in Asia has become so common in scientific literature that there is no point in giving it up, so long as we remember that the Egyptian administration of Canaan called it by other names” (1999: 34). 32. With regard to the campaign of Seti I, Aharoni indicates that “it began at the southern end of the Via Maris, going from Sile via Raphia to Gaza. . . . The campaign was primarily directed against the Phoenician coast . . . Pharaoh’s main objective was to renew the regular supply of Labanese wood to Egypt” (Aharoni 1967: 166; note the map on p. 167; see also E. F. Morris 2005: 138). 33. The pertinent portion of this letter reads as follows: “Who am I that I would not send on a caravan to the king, my lord, seeing that Labʾayu, my father, used to serve the king his lord, and he himself used to send on all the caravans that the king would send to Ḫanigalbat” (lines 12–21). It is my contention that the House of Labʾayu operated out of Piḫilu on the east side of the Jordan (see chap. 6 below). As such, it is likely that it would have protected the passage along the King’s Highway.

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(LUGAL urupí-ḫi-lì; EA 256: 8), the caravan route being referred to here probably ran north along the King’s Highway. Control of the Mediterranean coast also held strategic value for the Egyptians. The harbors that were situated along it offered important staging points from which the Egyptian army could make passage through the northern mountain passes inland. Access to these points was particularly important with the rise of Hittite activity in the north. For example, Ṣumur, which was located on the coast of Lebanon, represented the access point “to the Eleutheros Valley transit corridor, a path that led straight into the heart of southern Syria” (E. F. Morris 2005: 123–24; see also pp. 243, 252, 273, 360–61). Finally, by safeguarding these routes, the Egyptians were able to maintain efficient lines of communication. 34 The second factor that motivated Egypt’s imperial policy was the desire to expand its agricultural efforts into the region. The clearest example of this is Egypt’s exploitation of the fertile regions in the Esdraelon Plain, and in particular, the Jezreel Valley. Naʾaman (2005e: 232–39) has demonstrated that the Jezreel Valley was treasured by the Egyptians during the New Kingdom for its agricultural productivity. The value of this land is reflected in the relatively frequent internecine warfare that occurred in it during the Amarna period and in the resulting interventions that Egypt made in order to secure and ensure its productivity. 35 It was for these very reasons that Beth-Shean served as an important Egyptian military outpost in the Jezreel Valley from the middle of the 18th Dynasty (ca. 1539–1295 BCE) into the 20th Dynasty (ca. 1186–1069 BCE). 36 The final motivation behind Egypt’s creation and maintenance of a network of interest was its desire to generate reliable sources of tribute and taxes. As one would expect, these resources were largely derived from the urban-centered polities situated along the aforementioned routes. According to Redford, a native Egyptian tax system was imported to and imposed on these entities. In addition to the assessed “tax quota” (ḥtr) and the “harvest tax” (smw), the Egyptian subjects were expected to provide 34. See E. F. Morris 225: 33–34; Redford 1990: 30; Urk. IV 138: 10 P. Anastasi V, 12: 7; P. Turin B, 2: 2–3. 35. For example, EA 244, 245, and 250 provide details regarding the conflict between the House of Labʾayu and a coalition of polities in the Jezreel Valley. In EA 250: 46–47, after the sons of Labʾayu remind Baʿlu-UR.SAG that their father had conquered Ginti-rimûna, they tell him that he “cultivated the fields of the king, your lord.” According to Naʾaman (2005e: 239), “The mention of ‘the fields of the king’ is another reference for the Egyptian lands in the Jezreel Valley in the Amarna period.” See chap. 6 below. 36. E. F. Morris 2005: 144, 717. Note also the bḫns established for Egyptian deities throughout Syria–Palestine for the purpose of providing revenue for these deities (E. F. Morris 2005: 399–402).

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the “products of their labor” (bꜢkw) 37 and the yearly “royal gifts” (jnw; Redford 1990: 40; 1992: 209; E. F. Morris 2005: 213, 727–29). The Egyptian kings were also fond of extracting manpower from their Syrian-Palestinian vassals. 38 Maintaining the Network.  There are also several points of continuity between the methods employed by the Middle Assyrians to protect and administer their interests and those used by the Egyptians. As with the Assyrians’ network, the Egyptian network was characterized by a system of “strong points” situated along it (see E. F. Morris 2005: 27–67, 115–79, 217–310, 343–610, 691–773). In order to solidify their authority over these routes, the Egyptians often encouraged their own to take up residence in these locations. 39 During periods of elevated threat, they would increase their military presence. 40 As I will discuss in greater detail in chap.  9, however, increased Egyptian presence did not necessarily imply a higher level of control or an extension of this control into regions beyond the established network. Rather, it was largely in response to heightened threats from the outside and may reflect periods of Egypt’s weakness. 37. See esp. KRI V 117: 13–14, which reads, “I built bḫnw in your name in Egypt, in Nubia, and likewise in the land of Syria–Palestine. I taxed them for their bꜢkw every year, every town by its name gathered together, bearing their tribute to bring them to your ka” (see also E. F. Morris 2005: 182–84, 420–21, 458–60). 38. Redford 1990: 29; EA 99: 12–15; 268: 15–20; 287: 53–59; 288: 18–22; 301: 20; 309: 23–24; Naʾaman 2011a: 47–49. 39. The most notable example of this comes from the evidence from Beth-Shean at the close of the New Kingdom. As E. F. Morris (2005: 249) indicates, “The unusual quantity of Egyptian and Egyptian-style artifacts suggests that Egyptians may also have been resident at the site.” The establishment of cult centers for Egyptian deities and the Pharaoh himself also suggests at least a limited attempt to assert Egyptian authority by means of cultural influence. The most notable of these cult centers was the Temple of Hathor in Byblos. Redford (1990: 33, 65–67) also makes reference to a number of other cult sites throughout Syria–Palestine: Besides the cult of ‘Anath of Gaza’, the city could boast of one of the few Egyptian temples dedicated to Amun and the worship of Pharaoh (P. Harris I, 9: 1). . . . The best example is Gaza wherein Ramesses III, probably in imitation of his great namesake, ‘built for you (Amun) a mysterious mansion in the land of Djahy, the replica of the “Horizon-of-Heaven” ’ (P. Harris I, 9: 1–3). . . . The worship of the person of Pharaoh seems also to be attested at Beth Shean, perhaps at Jerusalem, and at Aphek. Whether the presence of architectural elements such as gates at Lachish, Joppa, and Byblos inscribed with royal cartouches can be used as evidence for similar shrines is doubtful. . . . A temple of Ptah once stood in Ashkelon. . . . Such centers were Gaza where a Pharaonic temple stood, Beth Shean where royal garrison-troops celebrated the king’s cult, possibly Jerusalem near which a LBA temple may have stood, Tyre and possibly also Ashkelon and Aphek.

40. Note esp. the above discussion regarding the increased importance of the Judean highlands in the Amarna period, the role of Kumidi, and the novel forays made by Ramesses II into the Transjordan.

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The Amarna corpus also offers a unique window into the types of officials used to administer Egyptian holdings in the southern Levant. The two most prominent political figures to which these letters refer are the rābiṣu and the ḫazannu. The rābiṣu was an Egyptian official who was directly involved in the affairs of the Egyptian dependents in Syria–Palestine. 41 His duties included the provision of Egyptian soldiers, 42 waging war against the enemies of the state, 43 escorting both the faithful and the accused to Egypt to stand before the king, 44 administering justice within Egypt’s imperial network, 45 delivering tribute and gifts to Egypt, 46 and conveying royal messages to the ḫazannūti. 47 By contrast, the ḫazannūti were local leaders under the direct care of the rābiṣū. Each ḫazannu was stationed in and identified with a particular urban center, from which he administered his authority. 48 As loyal vassals, the ḫazannūti were expected to fulfill a number of duties associated with the preservation of Egyptian interests in the land. As one would expect, they were charged first and foremost with protecting the cities and populations under their control. 49 They were also called on to support their fellow ḫazannūti if an antagonistic force rose against their particular sphere of influence. 50 If the ḫazannūti captured an enemy to the throne during these conflicts, they were expected to guard and help to deliver him safely into the hand of the king. 51 Even if a ḫazannu was not asked to become directly involved in a conflict, he was still required to make preparations for the arrival of Egyptian 41. According to Moran, these officials also shared the designation rabû (Moran 1992: xxxvi n. 70). 42. See, e.g., EA 55: 10–15; 60: 10; 238: 4–14; 366: 28. 43. See, e.g., EA 117: 59–63; 118: 30–33; 366: 28–34. 44. See, e.g., EA 234: 33; 254: 37; 285: 15–19; 288: 57. 45. See, e.g., EA 113: 17–19. 46. See, e.g., EA 254: 10; 288: 9. 47. See, e.g., EA 250: 22. 48. See, e.g., EA 125: 33–34: lú.mešḫa-za-nu-tu URUmeš-šu-nu a-na ša-šu-nu, “the cities of the ḫazannūti belong to them,” and 162: 9–11, 17–18. 49. See, e.g., EA 83: 33; 99: 8–9; 100: 30; 117: 83–85; 123: 26–28; 137: 52–56; 141: 41–42; 142: 11–14; 144: 10–14; 147: 61–63; 149: 9–10; 151: 6–7; 153: 4–20; 165: 10; 178: 4–11; 187: 14–15; 193: 5–7; 209: 11–14; 220: 15–19, 25–26; 221: 11–16; 227: 5–7; 228: 10–17; 231: 11–19; 235 + 327: 1–5; 243: 8–18; 292: 21–22; 293: 10–13; 294: 9–10; 314: 11–12; 315: 8–9; 323: 9–11; 325: 10–11; 326: 9; 331: 12–14; 364: 10–16; 370: 1–6. 50. See, e.g., EA 92: 29–40; 102: 13–19; 103: 13–19; 117: 59–63; 142: 15–17; 189 rev.: 1–18; 191: 11–21; 193: 13–16; 195: 24–32; 201: 17–24; 202: 15–19; 203: 13–19; 204: 14–20; 205: 13–18; 206: 13–17; 256: 19–28; 366: 20–28. 51. See, e.g., EA 162: 55–77; 245: 1–47.

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troops, provision those who were in transit, 52 and supply their overlord with intelligence. 53 In addition to helping maintain order in the region, the ḫazannūti’s role was to provide the very things for which this order was established. For example, they were required to supply tribute, goods, and personnel to their Egyptian overlord, 54 to cultivate local lands by means of their own labor force, 55 or to send their own labor force to a neighboring entity for this purpose, 56 and to protect Egyptian officials and caravans who were stationed in or passing through the region. 57 Negative Space in the Network.  In the end, it is reasonable to conclude that the paradigm proposed by Liverani for reconstructing the Middle Assyrian imperial policy in the Habur is useful for understanding the nature of Egypt’s imperial policy in the Levant. Egypt’s interests were not defined geographically per se but consisted of a limited network of fortified outposts and tributary centers through which they could control trade and communication, extend their agricultural holdings, and ensure a continuous flow of taxes and tribute. Accordingly, those areas that would not have contributed to these goals would have fallen outside the purview of Egyptian concern. As the foregoing analysis has demonstrated, this led to a number of imperial negative spaces in the southern Levant. The most conspicuous of these is the Palestinian central hill country surrounding Shechem. Outside two references to Shechem deriving from the MB IIA (see chap. 7 below) and the thorny reference to the “land of Shechem” in EA 289 (see chap. 6 below), the polities located in this region are absent from the textual record. This strongly suggests that the cost of maintaining control in the central hill country outweighed the benefits that it would have provided. To be sure, the archaeological record indicates that most of the urban centers in this region were destroyed during the middle of the 16th century (Weinstein 1981: 1–13; Redford 1992: 168, 208–9). Many of these sites were either never rebuilt or lay dormant for at least a century. For example, Tell Balâṭah (Shechem), the most important urban center in the region, shows 52. See, e.g., EA 53: 10–13; 141: 18–30; 144: 18–20; 147: 35–38; 154: 5–10; 191: 4–8; 193: 19–24; 201: 9–13; 202: 7–11; 203: 9–12; 204: 9–14; 205: 9–12; 206: 9–12; 216: 6–11; 324: 10–15; 325: 15–19; 337: 7–12. 53. See, e.g., EA 108: 24–25; 116: 14–16; 145: 22–29; 149: 54–57; 151: 49–69. 54. See, e.g., EA 53: 50–51; 77: 7–15; 99: 10–20; 143: 13–17; 148: 4–8; 151: 44–48; 160: 14–19; 161: 54–56; 168: 4–12; 173: 3–16; 187: 22–24; 222: 6–11; 224: 7–13; 235 + 327: 5–11; 242: 9–11; 254: 12–15; 266: 26–33; 268: 15–20; 287: 53–59; 288: 12, 16–22; 301: 12–23; 309: 18–24; 314: 17–22; 323: 13–16; 325: 20–22; 331: 18–2; 369: 15–23. 55. See, e.g., EA 226: 10–14; 244: 13–14; 365: 8–14, 24–31. 56. EA 249: 5–18. For an explanation of this letter, see Naʾaman 2005c: 152–53. 57. See, e.g., EA 112: 43–47; 161: 20–24; 199: 10–13; 255: 8–25; 292: 20; 337: 24–30.

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evidence of suffering two destructions during this period (Campbell 2002; Zertal 1994: 50) from which it did not recover until a century later (Gonen 1994: 61–73; Toombs and G. E. Wright 1963; see chap.  7 below). Because the details of this catastrophic period are (at this point) not attested in the written record, scholars have been forced to speculate regarding the cause of the catastrophe. Many point to the Egyptians as the most likely culprit, 58 proposing two reasons in particular for their “silent” incursions. First, they may have sought to drive out what they perceived to be any remnant of the Hyksos threat (Weinstein 1981: 1–10). Second, they may have sought “to create a no-man’s-land in the remote and difficult to control hill country” (Zertal 1994: 51). All do not agree with this explanation, however. For example, Bunimovitz (1994b: 181–93) attributes these destructions to “internal problems.” 59 In spite of this disagreement, both reconstructions confirm the very point that I have sought to make. Though the Egyptians may have sent early expeditions into the central hill country, it was never their goal to directly incorporate it into their imperial network.  60 If one does accept the theory that the Egyptians involved themselves militarily in this region, they did not consider these expeditions significant enough to be recorded. 61 Ultimately, it seems likely that the Egyptians never intended to include the central hill country within their imperial domain because of the difficulties and the costs that would have been involved in directly controlling it.

The History of Scholarship on the Late Bronze Age Levant The “Canaanite City-State and Territorial Kingdom” Having outlined the nature and extent of Egyptian imperialism in the southern Levant during the LB, I now turn to the second factor that has influenced our understanding of the Levantine political landscape. Though the primary figures associated with this history have employed 58. See esp. Hayes and J. M. Miller 1986: 89; E. F. Morris 2005: 35; Redford 1992: 138– 40; Weinstein 1981: 1–23; Zertal 1994: 50–51. 59. See also Kenyon 1973: 351. One should also bear in mind that the cause of such collapses should not be oversimplified and attributed to a single factor. On this consideration, see Renfrew 1978. 60. In the words of Weinstein (1981: 7), “The massive destructions in southern Palestine and interior central Palestine in about the mid 16th century B.C. were followed in most cases by an abandonment of the devastated cities. Thus any booty or tribute acquired from these cities would have been a one-shot affair, and no permanent economic benefits would accrue to the Egyptians from these early military conquests.” 61. As Weinstein indicates (1981: 15), “The massive destructions and long occupation gaps in the hill country . . . were not repeated in the 15th century.”

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different methods in their analysis of the data and have privileged elements of this data in different ways, they have all arrived at very similar conclusions regarding the typical “Canaanite” polities that populated the region. In general, they share the view that the LB Levant consisted of small “city-states” in the lowlands of the coast and valleys and larger “territorial kingdoms” in the eastern highlands. Both types of political organization were defined by an urban center that served as the seat of authority for the central administration. This administration consisted of a small proportion of the population. As the political elite, they had a monopoly on power, which they administered over and against the large sedentary populations under their control in a manner that resembled medieval feudalism or the Marxist model of an Asiatic mode of production. As for the “nonsedentary” populations, their interaction with these polities was limited to the economic sphere. By outlining and evaluating this history, we will arrive at a better understanding of the methods used to confirm these conclusions, the limitations of some of these methods, and the governing presuppositions that have informed them. This study, along with the foregoing analysis of Egyptian imperialism, will serve as the foundation for reevaluating the sociopolitical landscape of the southern Levant in the chapters that follow. Albrecht Alt The first attempt at a large-scale, systematic reconstruction of the LB Levant emerged in 1925 with the publication of Albrecht Alt’s Der Landnahme der Israeliten in Palästina. Not only did Alt set himself apart from those who preceded him with his methodological approach and the sources to which he appealed, but he also set the agenda for subsequent scholarly inquiry into the field. The value that Alt placed on reconstructing this period was based largely on his adherence to the territorial Geschichte principle, which holds that political divisions are highly influenced by geographical features in the landscape. Because of this, they often remain constant through time, even in the face of demographic and political change (Alt 1968: 176–77; see also Naʾaman 1992). Alt believed that, in addition to determining territorial boundaries, the geography and environment of a political entity had direct bearing on the pace and nature of its development (Alt 1968: 204). Accordingly, by outlining the territorial divisions of LB Levant, he thought that he could better reconstruct the sociopolitical setting of Israel’s emergence. Because the territorial Geschichte principle is based upon the notion of territorial continuity throughout time, Alt’s methodology also included a nascent version of the longue durée method, or a long-term perspective in the reconstruction of history, which has be-

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come increasingly popular among scholars since its formulization by the French historian Fernand Braudel of the Annales School. 62 This methodological background was particularly important for Alt because he believed that the biblical texts, which he held to be the most important source of information regarding the emergence of Israel (Alt 1968: 176), do not provide any direct information about the social or political structure of the period in view. In spite of the Bible’s silence regarding these matters, Alt did not lack textual evidence to aid his reconstruction. For him, the clearest and most reliable source of information came from Egyptian administrative, military, and literary texts. Nevertheless, he occasionally turned to the Amarna letters to support his conclusions. It was only on rare occasions that he made reference to the archaeological data available to him at that time (1968: 178–79). His hesitation to appeal to this body of evidence reflects his textual orientation as a scholar and the suspicion he held toward his colleagues in the field, whom he regarded as relying too heavily on archaeological data to support what they viewed as “historical” claims made in the Bible (Ray 2008: 81). Alt’s reconstruction was ultimately based on two fundamental ideas. The first was that Canaanite “city-states” dominated the landscape of the entire region. Extending the political system that he saw originating during the Hyksos’ domination of Egypt in the MB (ca. 1782–1570 BCE), and drawing on the various references in the LB Egyptian documents 63 to the maryannu, whom he viewed as aristocratic charioteers (1968: 184), Alt argued that these city-states were characterized by a political structure similar to that of medieval Europe. Perceived as “hereditary princes,” whose confirmation to the throne by their Egyptian overlord depended upon their lineage (Alt 1968: 187–90), the kings of these city-states would invest the local aristocratic soldiers, or maryannu, with large land tenures. These land tenures not only ensured the economic stability of the aristocracy but also bound them to their lord. In this way, the political structure was similar to a feudal system, complete with a small “ruling class . . . maintaining its rule over a population of serfs” (Alt 1968: 184). Alt’s second contention was that the region was divided into two specific geopolitical units, each characterized by a particular nuance in its sociopolitical structure. The first of these consisted of the coastal lowlands and the Jezreel Valley. Basing his reconstruction of this region on the 62. See esp. Braudel 1958. 63. See, e.g., the booty lists of Amenhotep II’s third campaign, in which 17 maryannu are listed as being taken captive at Anaharath and 57 in the battle of Adorain and Migdalain (Edel 1953: 134; Spalinger 1983: 91).

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aforementioned topographical lists of Thutmose III, 64 Alt suggested that it was filled with a crowded network of independent city-states whose territory rarely extended beyond 5 km from the urban seat of their administrative centers. According to Alt, “The possessions of an average city-state” in this region “consisted of nothing more than the fields belonging to the city and the few villages around it” (Alt 1968: 192). By contrast, the mountains of central Palestine, the location of his second geopolitical division, were home to two large “territorial kingdoms.” The first of these occupied the northern region in the Galilee and was administered from its urban capital Ḫaṣor (1968: 201–202). The second was identified with what Alt perceived as the large kingdom of Labʾayu, whose seat of power he located in Shechem (Tell Balâṭah). Alt also recognized the important role of Jerusalem in the Judean hill country. However, based on his reading of the Amarna texts, he concluded that it was the lone city-state in a region whose autonomy was continually threatened by the hostile powers that surrounded it, including Shechem (1968: 198, 203). Drawing on his theoretical models, Alt concluded that the differences in the political structures of these two regions were largely attributed to geography. The rugged hill country lacked large tracts of arable land. This led him to conclude “that the settlements of the mountains, and the development of an advanced culture there, had not at this stage reached the same level” as their lowland counterparts. For Alt, this explained why “there was not the same multiplication of true fortified cities” in the central hill country during the LB (Alt 1968: 194). Nadav Naʾaman Alt’s reconstruction of a network of small Canaanite city-states in the valleys and lowlands, complemented by large territorial kingdoms in the hill country dominated future studies of the region in general 65 as well as its component parts 66 years after the publication of his study. The general acceptance of his model within scholarship is indicated by the fact that it 64. On p. 190 n. 4, Alt makes the following observation: “That a place mentioned in the list of Thutmose III was the seat of a feudal lord or some other kind of ruler can only be proved if other evidence is available, which in the nature of the situation is only possible in a few cases (in particular with the help of the Amarna letters). But even without such proof, one may presume that at least a majority of the places given in the list were the seat of some ruler.” On p. 193, he also raises the possibility that some city-states were even omitted. 65. In 1962, Helck published his work on the relationship between western Asia and Egypt. In it, he also discussed the network of LB Canaanite polities in Syria–Palestine, publishing maps of the territorial divisions of these polities in the revised edition of this text (Helck 1971: 188, 309; see also Aharoni 1967; Kessler 2008; Finkelstein 2013: 16). 66. See, e.g., Reviv 1963; Campbell 1965; Campbell and Wright 1976; Ross 1967; Rainey 1968; Kallai and Tadmor 1969.

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took 50 years for a comprehensive reevaluation of the region to emerge. In 1975, Naʾaman completed his own analysis in his doctoral dissertation entitled The Political Disposition and Historical Development of Eretz-Israel according to the Amarna Letters. Though this study formed the foundation of his view of the region, he returned to the material a number of times in the decades that followed, only slightly altering the arguments and conclusions recorded in this original work. As the title of his dissertation indicates, Naʾaman was influenced by Alt’s original approach. Like Alt, Naʾaman recognized the importance of the territorial Geschichte principle over the longue durée in outlining the political divisions of the region. In addition, as a textual scholar, he relied primarily on written sources for his reconstruction. Nevertheless, Naʾaman introduced a number of his own approaches and theoretical insights to the debate. With regard to the sources from which he drew, Naʾaman argued that priority should be given to the Amarna letters in reconstructing the political landscape of the southern Levant. The rationale for this decision was based on his belief that “only the rulers of these political units were allowed to correspond with the Pharaoh” (Naʾaman 2005c: 148; see also p. 167). However, because Naʾaman argued that the register of polities that can be drawn from the Amarna corpus is incomplete, he also used Egyptian military documents and topographical lists to fill in the gaps. Naʾaman also set himself apart from Alt early in his work by appealing to biblical texts in his reconstruction. This appeal was based on his assumption that there was a direct correlation between the tribal allotments of early Israel and the boundaries of the Canaanite kingdoms that preceded them (Naʾaman 1975; 1986: 465, 469; 1988a: 21–26). In his later work, however, he followed the caution and critique of his archaeological colleagues, retracting his position on the historical value of the biblical texts (Naʾaman 2005c: 147). In addition to these textual sources, Naʾaman relied heavily on the archaeological evidence that was available to him. Of particular interest were the number and size of the archaeological sites in each region. Finally, he introduced the idea that many of the “Canaanite” polities under scrutiny were surrounded by sparsely populated areas, which he referred to as “no-man’s land.” Reflecting the imperial negative spaces in the network of Egyptian Levantine interests introduced above (Naʾaman 1986: 468), these were areas that were not effectively controlled by the central authority embedded in those regions. According to Naʾaman, these “negative spaces” served as havens for nomads and fugitives (1986: 467). Because these populations are largely “invisible” to the archaeological record, “their relationships with the authorities of neighboring kingdoms are unknown.” There is therefore “no evidence that kings effectively dominated these sparsely

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inhabited areas or that the kings considered them parts of their kingdoms” (Naʾaman 2005c: 153). 67 Based on this evaluation, Naʾaman rejected the tendency of some of his colleagues to draw maps that cleanly divided the political units of the Levant, as though their territories were fixed and easily determined. Because of this hesitation, he limited his own reconstruction of the political landscape to the so-called Canaanite polities that he could locate with confidence (Naʾaman 2005c). With these sources and theoretical tools in hand, Naʾaman isolated “at least 25” polities in the land and allowed for the possibility of even more (Naʾaman 2005c: 167). 68 Based on his assumptions regarding the political structure of these polities, he preferred to refer to them as “Canaanite kingdoms” rather than city-states. 69 Though he agreed that Shechem was the most powerful kingdom in central Palestine, 70 he did not make a distinction between its sociopolitical structure and Jerusalem’s, as Alt did. Rather, he referred to both of them as kingdoms and even included Bethel and Debir of the same region within this category (Naʾaman 2005c: 163; 1986: 466). With each one of these specific conclusions, Naʾaman distanced himself from Alt. In spite of this distance, however, Alt’s program continued to influence Naʾaman and those who followed him. Modern Archaeology In the years that followed Naʾaman’s initial study, a number of archaeologists, including S. Bunimovitz, 71 I. Finkelstein, 72 and J. Strange 73 entered the debate. To a large extent, they adhered to Naʾaman’s methodological program. Though they all recognized the importance of the Egyptian 67. At best, these groups, who organized themselves independently, cooperated with their hierarchically organized neighbors (Naʾaman 1986a: 467). 68. Note that this number is more moderate than those he proposed in his earlier works. As Finkelstein indicates in his own analysis (Finkelstein 1996b: 222) “Naʾaman proposed that Late Bronze Canaan was divided between 32 (more in his dissertation of 1975).” 69. According to Bunimovitz, “Due to the assumed form of government—monarchy— Naʾaman preferred to call the basic politico-territorial entities which characterized Palestine in the 2nd millennium B.C.E. ‘city-kingdoms’ rather than city-states” (Bunimovitz 1994a: 3 n. 1). 70. See esp. Naʾaman 1986: 466, where he distinguishes it from the kingdoms of the valleys, the plain, and those near the sea by referring to it as a “great kingdom” (‫ממלכה‬ ‫)גדולה‬. 71. For a map of Bunimovitz’s reconstruction, see Bunimovitz 1995: 328. 72. For maps of Finkelstein’s divisions, see Finkelstein 1996d: 254–55. A full description of these divisions and other potential entities is found on pp. 228–42. See also Finkelstein 2013: 15. 73. Strange (2000) reproduces Finkelstein’s maps on pp. 69–71 and provides a detailed description of each city-state on pp. 71–72.

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documents, the main textual source for their respective reconstructions was the Amarna corpus. In addition, they were unanimous in their rejection of the Bible as a viable source for history (see esp. Finkelstein 1995a: 351; 1996b: 225; 2013: 1–5). With regard to their theoretical approaches, they all appealed to the territorial Geschichte principle (Finkelstein 1995a: 351; 1996b: 226), the longue durée approach (Bunimovitz 1994b), and some version of Naʾaman’s no-man’s land principle (Bunimovitz 1994a: 4 n.  2; Finkel­stein 1996d: 226; 2003: 193). 74 As archaeologists, however, they contended that textual evidence alone could not paint a complete picture of the region. 75 As one might anticipate, their contribution to the field came with the introduction of four archaeologically oriented analytical models. These models were employed primarily for the purpose of determining the territorial scope of the “Canaanite” polities in view. The first of these is based on C. Renfrew’s “Early State Modules” (ESM). In his analysis of several early civilizations (Renfrew 1975: 12–14), Renfrew observed a common pattern regarding the size and spatial relationship among them. In general, the political landscapes that he investigated consisted of 10–20 independent entities. Each was separated by approximately 40 km and controlled about 1,500 km2 of territory. Renfrew concluded that this spatial pattern was based on two related factors. The first was the cost/benefit ratio associated with the time and energy required for the political elite of the urban administrative centers to assert their authority over the populations within their domain (Cherry 1978: 424–25; see also Mann 1986: 136–37). As the distance of certain populations from the center increased, the time and energy required for the political elite to maintain their authority over them also increased, thereby decreasing the benefits gained from their inclusion. Conversely, the second factor was the ability for the governed populations to participate in the services provided by the central administration (Johnson 1987: 115–17). Again, as the distance separating these populations from the central administration increased, the viability for them to affiliate themselves with it 74. While Finkelstein initially accepted this principle, “in certain cases, especially in the highlands,” he rejected Naʾaman’s conclusion regarding the implications of such pockets of no-man’s land. According to Finkelstein, “There is no doubt . . . that all of Canaan was divided between directly adjacent polities with shared borders” (Finkelstein 1996d: 226). Most recently, Finkelstein has disputed “the notion that certain areas of Canaan, especially in the highlands, were a sort of ‘no man’s land’ ” (Finkelstein 2013: 14). 75. According to Finkelstein (1996d: 224), “The texts—the Amarna tablets and other Egyptian sources—do not provide us with a complete set of data on the Late Bronze polity. Therefore both branches of archaeology—excavations and results of surveys—should also be consulted. . . . [T]he natural landscape must also be taken into consideration.”

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decreased. Ultimately, the range of influence of a particular polity was, in most cases, limited to the distance that could be traversed on a round trip excursion from the capital in a single day. According to Bunimovitz (1994a: 3–4), this same pattern, with a few minor modifications, could be used to reconstruct the territorial limits of individual polities in the southern Levant (see also Finkelstein 1996d: 226). Having established the general contours of the territorial limits of a single “city-state,” these scholars sought to confirm them by means of population estimates for each region. These estimates are calculated by multiplying the amount of urban buildup in the archaeological record by a predetermined density coefficient representing the number of people per hectare (10,000 m2 or 2.471 acres) of buildup. However, this method is fraught with difficulties. First, these estimates only account for sedentary populations, thereby excluding any nonsedentary groups that also might have inhabited the region (Adams 1972: 8), and even affiliated themselves with the urban center in question. Second, as Adams points out, “Some uncertain but probably significant proportion of contemporaneously settled areas” likely represented “duplicate accommodations for families or individuals moving frequently” (Adams 1972: 8). A related problem stems from sites that show a high level of urban buildup with very little evidence of a residential sector. In these cases, any attempt to calculate the population density is highly problematic because the sites may have not been “settled” at all. Finally, the variations that have resulted from the different estimates have indicated to a number of scholars that they are at best educated guesses. 76 For example, Bunimovitz (1989: 152) provided two population estimates for the region based on two different population density coefficients. The first was 58,000 people, which he derived from a density coefficient of 250 inhabitants per build-up hectare, and the second was 46,000 people, based on a density coefficient of 200 inhabitants per built-up hectare. This problem is intensified by the fact that the amount of urban build-up to which scholars appeal varies widely. Thus, using the same population coefficient with which Bunimovitz arrived at 46,000 people, Finkelstein arrived at an estimate of 90,000 people for the same area (1996d: 244; see also Strange 2000: 72). 76. According to Strange (2000: 72–73), the population number provided by Finkelstein “is of course arbitrary. First of all the estimate of the actual size of the settlements in the LBA is to a large degree dependent on surveys, and not on excavations, and is consequently quite arbitrary (Finkelstein 1996d: 227). Furthermore, the coefficient of 200 persons per sq.km. is little more than a guess.” As a result, “The estimates for the population of Late Bronze Age Palestine range from 200,000 to 46,000” (see also Finkelstein 1996d: 244). For more critiques of this model, see Finkelstein 1990; Zorn 1994; Bunimovitz: 1996b: 2; Leh­ mann 2003: 130; R. D. Miller 2005: 23–26.

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In spite of the inherent problems associated with these demographic estimates, they played a critical role in reconstructing the individual political units in the region. For Finkelstein, a city-state needed to have control over a population that was large enough to produce the agricultural surplus necessary to support the state (Finkelstein 2013: 16). This was particularly important during the LB because human labor was in high demand due to a sharp decline in the population (Bunimovitz 1994a; Marfoe 1979). The significance of these considerations is compounded when measured in association with the third method of analysis that these archaeologists utilized, namely, the analysis of the architectural data. Finkelstein argued that the identification of the administrative centers of individual city-states depended both on their appearance in the Amarna archive and archaeological evidence of “public architecture such as palaces and temples” (1996d: 225). Thus, sites such as Megiddo, Ḫaṣor, and Lachish, which contain examples of “monumental architecture,” should be considered administrative centers of their respective domains. It is at this point where population estimates play a crucial role in determining the territorial scope of city-states involved. In order for these centers to construct monumental architecture, they needed the level of human labor required for such projects. Following the demographic estimates described above, these centers required hegemony over a certain number of hectares of urban build-up, according to a pre-determined population coefficient, in order to have access to the human labor necessary to construct the monumental architecture found in them (Finkelstein 1996d: 226; 2013: 16; see also Bunimovitz 1994a: 9; 1995: 325–26). By integrating population estimates and architectural analysis, these scholars believed that they could reconstruct the territorial scope of these “Canaanite” polities from yet another angle. The final model used to verify both the nature and the territorial scope of individual “Canaanite” polities is rank-size analysis. Originally developed by G. A. Johnson (1977), this method now has practitioners who compare the size of settlements and their distribution across space to determine the level of political integration within the region. A highly integrated, centralized political entity is marked by the presence of a few large urban centers surrounded by a low ratio of “rural” settlements. By contrast, territories that betray an increase in “rural” settlements with a concomitant decrease in the size and number of “urban” centers suggest the presence of multiple, less-integrated, autonomous political entities (see R. D. Miller 2005). Analyzing the evidence according to a rank-size analysis over the longue durée, Bunimovitz (1994b: 190; 1995: 323) proposed a political structure that ultimately reproduced Alt’s original conclusions. According to Bunimovitz, in the coastal region and valleys, the landscape was characterized by a low

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level of political integration, resulting in a network of small, autonomous city-states dominating the landscape. By contrast, the central hill country was characterized by a more highly integrated political system where the main urban centers of each territorial region dominated the few, widely distributed settlements that surrounded them (see also Naʾaman 1986a; 1992). The Emergence of a Dominant Model Though all of the aforementioned scholars appealed to many of the same historical sources and shared a number of analytical models, those who ventured to estimate the specific number of polities populating LB Levant differed widely in their conclusions. Representing the high end of the spectrum, Naʾaman estimated at least 25 city-states. Finkelstein represented the low end, estimating 14–17 (Finkelstein 1996d: 242). 77 Finally, Bunimovitz’s reconstruction fluctuated somewhere in the middle. At one point, he estimated between 15–17 city-states, only to increase this range to 17–18 primary polities, “with smaller, semi-autonomous polities located within or along their borders” in a subsequent article (Bunimovitz 1994a: 3–4). 78 This variability largely stems from two theoretical differences. The first revolves around the question of whether or not the Amarna corpus allows for a complete reconstruction of the southern Levantine political landscape. While Naʾaman argued that it is necessary to fill in significant gaps in the data (Naʾaman 2005c: 148–51; 1986: 464), Finkelstein, following Bunimovitz, held that the letters allow for a “full, or almost full reconstruction of the territorial map of Late Bronze Canaan” (Finkelstein 1996d: 224; see also 2013: 14). This is largely based on the contention that “most Canaanite city-states known by name are mentioned in several letters” (Finkelstein 1996b: 224; see also 2013: 13–14). The second difference involves the population requirements of individual city-states. As I noted above, Finkel­stein held that the population of a city-state needed to be large enough to produce the necessary agricultural surplus to support its population and to provide the necessary manpower to produce the monumental structures unearthed in them. He therefore critiqued Naʾaman for dividing the region into too many polities. According to Finkelstein, the resulting “entities did not control a large enough territorial and demographic hinterland” 77. Naʾaman (2005c: 147) cites Finkelstein as dividing the region between 13–14 “relatively large kingdoms.” 78. This reference to other “semi-autonomous polities” explains Naʾaman’s (2005c: 146) claim that Bunimovitz’s “map of Late Bronze Canaanite kingdoms is quite similar to the system that I suggested” and Bunimovitz’s own citation of Naʾaman’s work in support of his own numbers.

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for such polities as Megiddo, Lachish, and Ḫaṣor to produce the large-scale building projects found at those sites (Finkelstein 1996d: 223). Naʾaman countered this argument by pointing out that very few fortifications were built by these polities during the LB (Naʾaman 2005c: 152). 79 With regard to the examples of monumental architecture, he argued that resorting to hired labor was not uncommon. Therefore, smaller polities could utilize a “foreign” work force for public works projects (Naʾaman 2005c: 152). 80 Taken together, these different perspectives help to explain why Finkelstein, Bunimovitz, and Strange propose a relatively low number of political divisions as compared with Naʾaman. Though scholars disagree on issues such as these, they ultimately reproduce the same general conclusions. This is largely because their approaches are informed by similar presuppositions. Beginning with Alt, every analysis has assumed that kingdoms and city-states dominated the political landscape. Though a precise definition of the term Canaanite is elusive, it has largely come to denote an ethnic category represented by individuals that are primarily identified by their affiliation with an urbancentered polity (see M. S. Smith 2001: 14–18). This premise underlies a number of the archaeological methodologies detailed above. For example, any analysis based on the rank-size distribution of settlements assumes that large-scale political integration requires the presence of a large urban center from which the central administration operated. 81 A second presupposition is that these polities were characteristically feudal in nature. 82 As such, political and economic power was administered by an elite class, which, according to Bunimovitz (1994a: 5), constituted only 10–15% of the entire population. 83 According to this position, the political elite sought to 79. Naʾaman cites Bunimovitz (1994a: 9; see also Bunimovitz 1995: 325–26) in support of his argument. It should be noted, however, that while the evidence suggests that very few fortifications were constructed during this period, Bunimovitz does point out that examples of monumental architecture such as palaces and temples dating to the LB were discovered in several urban centers (Bunimovitz 1994a: 9–10). 80. Bunimovitz limits the use of such hired labor to a military function, which he refers to as “auxiliary forces” (Bunimovitz 1994a: 12). 81. This is also emphasized in Bunimovitz’s (1994a: 5) claim based on his EMS analysis that there were “no secondary centers between the capitals of the city-states and the rural countryside” (see also Finkelstein 1996d: 244). Contrast with Finkelstein’s own contention of a three-tier urban structure: settlements, medium-sized towns, and cities. This system is followed by Strange 2000: 73. 82. Zertal betrays his agreement with this general reconstruction in his claim that the Amarna archive is the only piece of documentary evidence that points to a “peasant rebellion” (Zertal 1994: 67; see also Rainey and Notley 2006: 89). 83. Bunimovitz bases this estimation on his reading of Marfoe’s (1979: 15–16) analysis of the sociopolitical situation in the Beqaʿa Valley during the LB.

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“control” and “constrain” (Giddens 1984: 162) as much of the population and associated resources as possible. 84 These governing assumptions are apparent in the titles given to the most recent of these studies, which differ only in the specific term used to characterize the “Canaanite” polities under scrutiny. Naʾaman’s concern (2005c) is the reconstruction of “The Network of Canaanite Late Bronze Kingdoms.” Strange’s concern (2000) is the reconstruction of “The Palestinian City-States of the Bronze Age.” 85 These assumptions are also reflected in their similar views on the nature of the Amarna correspondence. As I indicated above, Naʾaman argued that the only individuals “allowed” to correspond with the kings of Egypt were the rulers of the “Canaanite kingdoms” (Naʾaman 2005c: 148). Similarly, Finkelstein (1996d: 224) contends that the only individuals who were able to write to or receive letters from Egypt were the “rulers of city-states.” 86 Finally, for Strange (2000: 74), the Amarna texts demonstrate “that the government was monarchical; each city-state had a king.” On the basis of these assumptions, Bunimovitz arrives at the following conclusion: “The fundamental characteristics of these petty kingdoms were no different than those of other city-states or small-scale states throughout the world” (Bunimovitz 1994a: 3). In addition to the similarities regarding the nature of individual “Canaanite” polities, these reconstructions also share the view that there was a strict political division between the sedentary and nonsedentary populations that inhabited the land. This division is directly influenced by Rowton’s dimorphic model of society (see chap. 4 below) and is manifest in Naʾaman’s no-man’s land principle. According to this view, an undetermined amount of the population consisted of seminomadic pastoralists. This was particularly the case for the populations of the central hill country, which was more conducive to this type of lifestyle. As the theory 84. Specifically, Bunimovitz (1994a: 1) suggests that “the urban elite’s efforts to control as much human resources as possible are identified as the prime movers behind the endless attempts at territorial expansion, border disputes and ad-hoc coalitions.” With regard to his ESM analysis (Bunimovitz 1995: 326–27), he claims that “a radius of about 20 km (a one day round-trip distance in the pre-automobile ear) apparently formed in early complex societies the boundary both for direct administrative control of rural populations, and for the participation of such populations in the central palaces’ economic and social activities . . . political and economic power meant having control of as many human resources as possible.” 85. Note also the title of Finkelstein’s 1996 study, “The Territorial-Political System of Canaan in the Late Bronze Age.” 86. See also Bunimovitz (1995: 326), who argues that the “contemporary texts leave no doubt that most of ” the cities from which they were sent “were centers of petty kingdoms or city-states.”

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goes, because these populations did not identify themselves with an urban center, they did not fall under the dominion of urban-centered polities. Since their pastoral ranges were “enclosed” within the territories of these polities, their interactions were characterized by a symbiotic relationship. However, this relationship was purely economic. According to Finkelstein, “The nomadic pastoralists [would] supply the sedentary dwellers with animal products in exchange for surplus grain” (Finkelstein 1988a: 346; see also pp. 337, 344; 1988b: 36, 43; 1995a: 361; Malamat 1983: 14*; Bunimovitz 1994b: 201–2; 1994b: 3 n. 1; Strange 2000: 72). Recognizing the role of these governing presuppositions is critical for understanding the way in which these scholars have evaluated the evidence in their reconstructions. In his critique of Finkelstein’s study, Naʾaman (2005c: 166) claims that Finkelstein “force[s] the evidence into a rigid scheme that he made on the basis of theoretical considerations” because at times he interpreted the evidence “in an effort to fit it into his model.” Again, this can be observed in Finkelstein’s need to delineate territories that are large enough to contain the level of populations necessary to produce what he perceives to be the amount of grain needed to sustain the central administrations and to provide enough labor to construct the monumental architecture of the urban centers where he locates those administrations. In response, Naʾaman points out that the “Egyptian Execration Texts mention four kingdoms (Acco, Achshaph, Mishal and probably Rehob) that were then located in the Acco Valley. This density of kingdoms in a relatively small territory underscores the danger of making assumptions of the size of territories based on calculated size factors and numbers of population for each unit” (Naʾaman 2005c: 152). 87 In spite of his caution, Naʾaman is subject to his own critique. Two brief examples, which I will develop more fully as this book unfolds, illustrate this point. First, there is a relatively large body of evidence both from the ancient Near East in general and the Amarna archive in particular that points to a political relationship between what Naʾaman calls the “neighboring kingdoms,” or urban-centered polities, and the “invisible population groups,” or populations that are not identified with an urban center. Second, the conflicts mentioned in the Amarna letters did not simply involve villages and towns, as Naʾaman argues. Such a view stems from the tendency to define a population by its town, kingdom, or central 87. The Jezreel Valley, which is referred to as the land of Gina in the Amarna texts, raises similar problems. Though Finkelstein contends that the majority of this region was under the authority of Megiddo, the Amarna letters indicate that this land consisted of a coalition of independent polities and their rulers, including Taḫnaka (biblical Taanach) and its ḫazannu, Yašdata (EA 245, 248; see chaps. 3 and 6 below; Naʾaman 2005e: 238).

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administration rather than defining a town, kingdom, or central administration by its population. In addition to influencing our understanding of the sociopolitical structure of the LB Levant, presuppositions such as these have deeply influenced our understanding of premonarchic Israel. For most scholars, by the time of the Merenptah stele, the system of small Canaanite city-states in the lowlands and valleys and large Canaanite kingdoms in the hill country was firmly established in the land. Explicitly or implicitly, it is against this backdrop that the emergence of Israel is understood. In the chapters that follow, I will reconsider the evidence from the LB Levant through a new set of theoretical lenses and suggest an alternative picture of its sociopolitical makeup. Rather than being dominated by a characteristic polity type, the evidence betrays a variety of sociopolitical experiences in the region during this period. The evidence presented will ultimately set the stage for a reevaluation of the land of Amurru and the land of Shechem in part 2 and the nature and origins of premonarchic Israel in part 3.

Chapter 2

Cities of the Southern Levant Introduction Having sketched the wider historical context of the LB Levant and outlined the ways in which modern scholarship has evaluated it, we are now prepared to focus on the types of polities that populated the region. Throughout the Amarna letters, scribes used two designations when referring to these entities. The first was the determinative URU, which is the Sumerian logographic equivalent of the Akkadian word ālu, “city.” The second was the determinative KUR, which is the Sumerian logographic equivalent of the Akkadian word mātu, “land.” Together, these two forms of identification referred to one of three types of political organization: (a) the URU, or “city”; (b) the first-order KUR, or “centralized land”; and (c) the second-order KUR, or “multipolity decentralized land.” The regularity with which these labels were employed underscores the distinctive nuances that they held. These were not minor designations haphazardly wielded by ill-trained scribes. 1 Rather, they embodied a symbolic meaning intended to communicate a specific message to the reader. By paying close attention to the character of the political entities with which these determinatives were associated, one can avoid the pitfalls of arbitrarily assigning them indefinite and often interchangeable terms such as “city-state” and “kingdom”—terms that all too often invoke modern images that do not correspond to the ancient evidence. At the same time, such an approach can shed light on certain nuances that are not immediately apparent to the modern reader. The intended meaning of the determinative KUR is an excellent case in point. By itself, it does not offer any insight into the proposed distinction between centralized lands and 1. Contra Horowitz (1995: 215 n. 14) who, following Adamthwaite (1992: 8–9), argues that the “Amarna period scribes do not use the geographic indicators KUR, URU, and KI consistently.” His sole example in support of this claim comes from EA 289: 20, where the city Beth-Shean is not written with a determinative. This is, however, the only attestation of this name in the entire corpus. In general, geographical names are preceded by determinatives that specify the type of polity involved.

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decentralized lands. However, it is used for both. This largely accounts for the fact that scholars have overlooked this important distinction. In addition to being attuned to these designations, therefore, we must also be aware of the content beneath them. Though these determinatives represent an important piece of the puzzle, there are also significant clues embedded in the body of these letters that explain, complement, and expand upon their descriptive scope. Frequently, reference is made to specific categories of people such as the ʿapîrû, the Sutû, and the ḫupšū. The relationships that these groups had with the central administration from which the letters derived shed light on the complex nature of the polities involved. The same can be said for instances in which the voices of actors both inside and outside the sphere of a particular polity are recorded. It is important to note that these references stemmed from a particular perspective and were motivated by specific situations and intentions that may have influenced the ways in which the aforementioned groups were cast and the manner in which certain events were recounted. For example, the ḫazannūti overwhelmingly depicted the ʿapîrû as an inimical force that constantly threatened Egyptian interests in the region. This has led to the common scholarly opinion that the ʿapîrû consisted of an unruly group of bandits and brigands who resisted affiliation with the dominant “Canaanite” political structure. However, this assessment conflicts with the report of Biryawaza, the hazannu of Damascus, who included the ʿapîrû in his list of forces that were prepared to protect Egyptian interests. 2 This example serves as a warning that these references should be analyzed cautiously on a case-by-case basis. Because it was the fundamental building block of the political landscape in the southern Levant during the Amarna period, the character of the URU/ālu, or “city,” will be focused on in this chapter. In chap. 3, I will turn to an analysis of the two types of “land” (KUR/mātu) attested in the Amarna corpus. Finally, in chap. 4, I will evaluate the nature of the ʿapîrû and the Sutû, the relationships that these groups had with cities and lands, and the role they played in shaping the landscape in general. By taking this systematic approach, I intend to provide a comprehensive picture of the political structure of the region and thereby to set the stage for a detailed analysis of the land of Amurru and the land of Shechem in the chapters that follow. 2. “Behold, I (go forth) together with my soldiers and my chariots and together with my brothers and together with my ʿapîrû troops and together with my Suteans before the archers to wherever the king, my lord, commands” (a-nu-ma a-na-ku qa-du ERÍNmeš-ia ù gišGIGIRmeš-ia ù qa-du ŠEŠmeš-ia ù qa-du LÚmeš SA.GAZmeš-ia ù qa-du lú.mešsu-te-ia a-na pa-ni ERÍNmeš pí-ṭá-te a-di a-šar yi-qa-bu mLUGAL be-li-ia; EA 195: 24–32).

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The City and Its Sociopolitical Structure The URU/ālu is the most basic political unit attested in the Amarna corpus. It consisted of a single urban center together with its immediate hinterland. The identification of an individual ḫazannu 3 with the specific URU/ālu from which he or, in the case of NIN.UR.MAḪ.MEŠ, she (EA 273, 274) administered his/her political authority is common. In his formulaic introductory greeting, Ammunira, the ruler of Beirut employs the standard designation, referring to himself as the LÚ uruBêruta (PÚ.ḪÁ), “man of Beirut” (EA 141: 4). This type of identification is even attested in instances when a leader has been deposed from his administrative seat. In spite of the fact that Rib-Addu had recently taken refuge in Beirut due to the political upheaval at Gubla, Ammunira still refers to his ally as the LÚ uruGubla, “man of Gubla” (EA 142: 15). 4 The political authority administered from an URU could extend to include other urban centers, each of which may have had its own administrative body. However, the totality of this political complex is never referred to as an URU. For example, in EA 228, ʿAbdi-Tirši, who identifies himself as the ḫazannu of uruḪaṣor, assures his Egyptian overlord that he is guarding not only the city of Ḫaṣor (i-na-ṣa-ru-um-mi uruḫa-ṣú-ra ki; lines 14–15) but the cities that belong to Ḫaṣor (URUdidli.ḫi.a-ni-ši; line 16) as well. Though Ḫaṣor had authority over a number of urban centers, in this context, Ḫaṣor is identified as a distinct entity separate from its dependents through the use of the determinative URU. As I demonstrated in chap.  1, the political concerns of cities were most often expressed and managed through the voice and activities of the ḫazannūti. This holds true even when their activities ran contrary to the expectations of their Egyptian overlord. The common association of a ḫazannu with the urban center from which he administered his authority and the political activities of that center has contributed to the widely accepted view that even the smallest of these entities were highly stratified institutions in which the ḫazannu and his small cadre of elite administrators exercised their authority over and against the rest of the largely powerless “peasant” population. Contrary to this common perspective, Fleming has observed that the term URU/ālu in the wider ancient Near East is first and foremost a political designation that refers to the population that 3. Only occasionally is the ḫazannu of a city referred to as a šarru, “king” (e.g., EA 88: 46; 197: 13–14). 4. Further examples of this phenomenon include EA 198: 4–5; 201: 3–4; 203: 3–4; 204: 4; 227: 3; 232: 3–4; 233: 4–5; 234: 3; 241: 3–4; 242: 3–4; 299: 3–4; 314: 3–4; 315: 3; 319: 4–5; 321: 5–6; 322: 4–5; 328: 4–5; 329: 5–6.

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inhabits the physical structures of the urban center. By extension, then, the URU/ālu is the collective political organization of those inhabitants, 5 an organization that is most commonly referred to by the designation LÚmeš uruGN, or “GN-ites.” 6 A brief evaluation of the nature of political power will clarify the theoretical underpinnings of this claim. Armed with a new model of social power, I will isolate several examples in which power is widely distributed among the population of a city rather than monopolized by the so-called political elite.

Social Power Reevaluated: Its Origins, Nature, and Administration In the first volume of The Sources of Social Power, M. Mann (1986: 6) defines power as “the ability to pursue and attain goals through mastery of one’s own environment” (see also Eisenstadt 1963: 5; Lehman 1969: 455; Giddens 1984: 257). In spite of providing this relatively clear and concise definition, Mann warns his audience that it should not lead to the idea that society is an “unproblematic, unitary totality” (1986: 2). Such a warning is well founded. As I pointed out in chap. 1, an “unproblematic, unitary totality” characterizes the typical scholar’s view of the LB Levantine political landscape. This landscape is broadly regarded as archetypically oppressive, unidirectional power dynamics. This viewpoint is understandable because it is not limited to studies of this period and region. Modern perceptions of ancient Near Eastern polities in general continue to be influenced by Herodotus’s evaluations of the Persian Wars, which he cast as a conflict between Greek freedom and “oriental despotism.” 7 Even the more recent “patrimonial household model” proposed by D. Schloen casts power relations in terms of a hierarchical pyramid, at the top of which stood a single individual who ultimately controlled the exercise and flow of power 5. According to Fleming, “The defining trait of the ālum and URU is . . . political, and the institutional face of a town polity is the collective body. . . . The ālum was therefore the physical expression of a political reality, the clustering of some group of people for the shared use of the ālum structures, whether for homes, mutual defense, celebration, or economic exchange” (Fleming 2004: 108, 116; see also pp. 170–90). Similarly, M. H. Hansen claims that “it was usually the word for city which came to denote the political community” (Hansen 2000: 16; see also p. 18). He supports this claim with the following cross-cultural list: “qrt (Phoenician); polis (Greek); civitas (Latin); città (Medieval and Renaissance Italian); ilu (Yorba); birni (Hausa); oman (Akan, meaning 1. town, 2. kingdom); mji (Swahili); guo (Chinese); negeri (Malay from Sanskrit); müang (Tai); ahawlel (Maya); yuhuitaya (Mixtec); altepetl (Aztec)” (Hansen 2000: 29 n. 58). 6. For a similar phenomenon at Mari, see Fleming 2004: 180–90. 7. For a similar critique, see Marfoe 1979: 16; Porter 2012: 39–42, 202.

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(Schloen 2001; compare with Marfoe 1979: 16; Stager 1985: 25–28; Master 2001; Fleming 2002). 8 As several scholars have already demonstrated (see esp. Fleming 2004; Porter 2012), if we are to gain new insights from the ancient data, then we must view it through a paradigm of power that resists “comfortable theories” (Grabbe 2007: 22) 9 and better reflects what A. Giddens (1984) refers to as its “muddled” and “multi-dimensional” character. In Giddens’s analysis of the role of social power in the formation and continuation of political entities, he develops what he calls the theory of structuration. Put simply, structuration is the successful production and preservation of a social system through time (Giddens 1984: 19). This model heavily relies upon the insight that power in and of itself is not a social resource. Rather, it is exercised through social resources. These resources and the rules of operation associated with them are embedded within the various spheres of society, which constitute a particular social complex and inform the institutions that take shape within it (1984: 15–17, 185). Employing a similar theoretical framework, E. W. Lehman (1969) subdivides power into three categories. They include (a)  power through coercion, (b)  power through induction, and (c)  power through persuasion. Anticipating Giddens, Lehman argues that each of these sources of power depends upon and is administered through its own set of resources, which are, again, embedded within the spheres of a social complex. As is frequently attested in the annals of the kings of Assyria, achieving social cooperation through coercion depends upon resources derived from the sphere of militarism that threaten physical violence and death. 10 By contrast, power through induction operates through “utilitarian resources,” or what Giddens refers to as “allocative resources” (Giddens 1984: 33). 11 They include tangible incentives to cooperation such as goods and services that are used to overcome resistance and induce a population to work together with the central authority to attain certain social goals (Lehman 1969: 454). The most common example of this is the use of wages to motivate employees to work together to achieve corporate goals. In this case, the resources through which power is exercised derive from the economic sphere. 8. As Porter (2012: 41) points out, “Schloen ultimately duplicates the same hierarchical and authoritarian structure as any positivist archaeologist in his understanding of the household. . . . One of the key problems lies in Schloen’s conceptualization of the household as highly authoritarian and only vertically, and not also horizontally, integrated.” 9. In Grabbe’s words, “The comfortable theory is not a disinterested search for the ‘facts,’ the ‘truth’ or whatever term one wishes to use, but a means of maintaining our position with the least amount of effort” (2007: 22; see also Sandmel 1979: 139). 10. See, e.g., Grayson 1972; 1976. 11. See also Flannery (1972), who refers to these as ecological or objective resources.

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Finally, power through persuasion relies upon “normative resources,” or symbols of shared social values (Lehman 1969: 455). These authoritative (Giddens 1984), cognitive, or symbolic resources (Flannery 1972), which are most often embedded within the sphere of religion, appeal to ideological claims regarding legitimate authority and “how the cosmos operates.” As such, they are capable of persuading a population to cooperate without recourse to physical coercion or concrete rewards. 12 Because power through persuasion is not administered entirely through physical resources, it is often more difficult to achieve. However, it is more resilient than its counterparts because it does not depend on the maintenance of resources that may expire as quickly as they are attained or on physical coercion against which the coerced tend to resist as soon as the opportunity arises. The role that persuasive power played in the ancient Near East is demonstrated in the common appeal to the “beneficent king” motif. In both the prologue and epilogue of the famous Code of Hammurabi, the king is intentionally depicted as the divinely appointed custodian and guardian of all the major cities within his realm along with their divine patrons and human populations. In this way, Hammurabi portrays himself as the “good shepherd,” who is to be embraced as a peacemaker rather than feared as a conqueror. 13 This understanding of power and the role that resources play in its administration exposes the limitations of the various reconstructions of the LB political landscape outlined in the preceding chapter. Beginning with Alt, scholars have tended toward the belief that “Canaanite” polities were akin to medieval feudalism or a Marxist model of an Asiatic mode of production. 14 This contention is largely based on the premise that power 12. D. H. Wrong describes the nature of persuasive power in the following way: “If an actor is believed to be powerful, if he knows that others hold such a belief, and if he encourages it . . . then he truly has power and his power has indeed been conferred upon him by the attributions, perhaps initially without foundation, of others” (Wrong 1968: 679). See also Lehman (1969: 455), who argues that “the symbolic capacity for [persuasive] power derives from alter’s attribution of a reputation for power onto the ego. This attribution occurs because ego’s ‘gestures’ of power or claims to the right to exercise power seem credible.” 13. For a translation of the prologue and epilogue of the so-called Code of Hammurabi, see Foster 2005: 126–35. 14. According to N. Gottwald (1983: 28), this model closely resembles feudalism: “Labor services and heavy rent or mortgage payments are imposed on peasants. The produce of the land tends to be monopolized by an advantaged minority.” Similarly, McGeough (2007: 50) contends that, in an “Asiatic Mode of Production model, all non-elites are dependent on the absolutist authority. Self sufficient villages may be self sufficient, but in fact participate in a larger scheme typically through a tributary relationship.” However, Gottwald (1983: 28) points out several differences between the two: “The political units are larger and more powerful than those of European feudalism. The absentee owners have questionable legal entitlement to the land they hold, and they are not personally bound to the peasants

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primarily stemmed from the economic sphere and was exercised through the resource of land. Accordingly, Levantine society was divided into two sectors. The first consisted of the political elite who controlled arable land and its tenure. The second consisted of the remaining landless peasants and/or serfs who made up the majority of the population. 15 However, this model is insufficient for at least two reasons. First, it limits the exercise of power to a single sphere and a single resource. Second, it privileges the “systemic” aspect of power, or “the capacity of some unit acting as an agent of the system to overcome the resistance of system members in setting, pursuing and implementing . . . goals” (Lehman 1969: 455–56). In response to such reductionist tendencies, Mann developed an analytical model corresponding to the models of Lehman and Giddens that see power as something that is distributed across multiple social spheres and exercised through a variety of social resources. Rather than limiting power to the economic sphere, Mann extends the sources of social power to include the militaristic sphere, the institutional sphere, and the political sphere (Mann 1986: 2). Though these social spheres operate independently, they form overlapping networks of interaction or power relations. 16 Because a single individual or party is unable to control all the spheres of society and the associated resources through which power is administered, access to social power is available to multiple social players. For example, though one element of a social system may control the economic resource of land production, a second element is likely to control animal husbandry, another important resource embedded within the economic sphere of the ancient world (Gelb 1986; Porter 2012). as in the nobleman/serf ties of feudalism.” As McGeough (2007: 50) has pointed out, the “Two-sector model is completely opposed to the AMP model. In a Two-sector society there are two distinct relationships between people and the means of production (including real estate) that exist side-by-side but frequently in tension with one another.” For a review of the various scholars who have characterized the sociopolitical system at Ugarit in terms of a feudal model or a Marxist model, see McGeough 2007: 42–60. In response to this type of top-down, totalizing model of society, McGeough proposes a “Network-based model,” which attempts to do justice to the complexities of economic life at Ugarit. 15. Note Gelb’s critique of limiting the source of political power to the control of land: “This important point, that the political growth of a state may depend on wool, has not received the attention it deserves from political scientists: most have assumed that grain alone could nourish the growth of higher forms of civilization. But Ebla, as these extraordinary tablets make clear, was an empire built on the backs of simple shepherds” (Gelb 1986: 158). In spite of this critique, Gelb still limits power to the economic sphere (see also 1986: 165). 16. Though these spheres function independently, Mann also recognizes that “organizations and functions weave across each other in the historical process” (Mann 1986: 18), a phenomenon that he refers to as promiscuity.

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The diffuse nature of social power is compounded by the fact that individuals in power relations can accept or reject the resources through which power is being exercised. This is illustrated in the ability of laborers to reduce the power of corporate bosses and increase their own through labor strikes. In refusing to work, and consequently, to accept the resources used to induce their labor, the laborers are recognizing and asserting their control over the social resource that is their own—namely, the capacity to work. Not only does this decision in itself stem from a place of power, but it increases the chances of gaining more power and incentives from those who are in need of the workers’ labor. This dynamic supports Giddens’s claim that all “sanctions, no matter how oppressive and comprehensive they may be, demand some kind of acquiescence from those subject to them” (Giddens 1984: 175). 17 In this way, social power is best viewed as a “relational” phenomenon consisting of both a systemic aspect and an intermember aspect (Lehman 1969: 454). These “two faces of power” are reflected in Mann’s division of power into “distributive” and “collective” forms. While “distributive” power is characterized by the ability of a single actor in a social relationship to “carry out his own will despite resistance,” “collective” power is characterized by corporate activities undertaken by multiple social players in their common attempt to “enhance their joint power over third parties or over nature” (Mann 1986: 6; see also Weber 1978: 1.53). 18 Building on these insights, Giddens makes the following observation: We should not conceive of the structures of domination built into social institutions as in some way grinding out ‘docile bodies’ who behave like automata suggested by objectivist social science. Power within social systems which enjoy some continuity over time and space presumes regularized relations of autonomy and dependence between actors or collectivities in contexts of social interaction. . . . [A]ll forms of dependence offer some resources whereby those who are subordinate can influence the activities of their superiors. (Giddens 1984: 16)

This type of power relation in a social system is what Giddens refers to as a “dialectic of control” (Giddens 1984: 16; Porter 2012: 41–42) and serves as the foundation of the “dual-processual theory” developed by R. Blan17. According to Giddens (1984: 173–74, 175), “Each of the various forms of constraint are thus also, in varying ways, forms of enablement. They serve to open up certain possibilities of action at the same time as they restrict or deny others. . . . [P]ower is the means of getting things done, very definitely enablement as well as constraint.” 18. In a similar way, Blanton et al. divide power into “exclusionary” and “corporate” forms (Blanton et al. 1996: 6).

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ton and his colleagues (1996; Fleming 2004: 178). The dialectic of control, or “dialectical process” (Mann 1986), is ultimately rooted in the idea that power inherently leaves room for all members of a society to “practice” and “participate” in one way or another. Returning to Giddens’s theory of structuration, for a social system to endure through time, the exercise of power must be both constraining and enabling (Giddens 1984: 162, 169). 19 According to Giddens, these two qualities of power flow in multiple directions. Not only is the individual or body who is exercising power “enabled” due to their access to certain resources, but their power is also “constrained” by a particular set of rules or limitations (Blanton et al. 1996: 2). As Wolf comments (1990: 587), “Structural power shapes the social field of action so as to render some kinds of behavior possible, while making others less possible or impossible.” Thus, those who are enabled through their participation in a labor strike are simultaneously constrained by the very survival of the corporation for which they work and therefore must limit the demands they place upon their bosses. A brief reevaluation of Schloen’s patrimonial household model will illustrate this point further. For Schloen, the patrimonial structure of the ancient Near East was an institutional resource through which the king, who stood atop of the patrimonial pyramid, exercised his power. The identity of the king as the ultimate father figure of the social system provided him with the power to exercise his authority in pursuit of his goals. In this way, the king’s power constrained all who were considered members of his household. However, the rules associated with this institutional resource enabled the members of his household to make certain demands of the king that his position required, thereby constraining the exercise of his power. If these demands were not fulfilled, the king’s power could be disputed and even rejected. This dynamic is illustrated in the Ugaritic Epic of Kirta. One of the rules commonly associated with kingship in the ancient Near East is the proper administration of justice. If a king did not sufficiently abide by this rule or was not constrained by its demands, members within his immediate or extended household were enabled to question his authority. In the Epic of Kirta, Yassib, the young son of Kirta, the king of the land, approaches his father and presents his case as to why Kirta should step down from his throne in order that Yassib might be elevated in his stead (KTU 1.16 VI 41–54). In addition to the facts that Kirta does not engage in battle in a manner befitting a king (lines 43–44) and that his virility has waned 19. Similarly, Mann (1986: 165–66) argues that, “if the techniques of compulsory co­ operation are successful, it is in everyone’s interest to be part of a larger imperial domain.”

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(lines 50–52), Yassib argues that his father is not fulfilling his royal duty as the administrator of justice (lines 44–50). Yassib’s claims constitute the largest segment of his argument: his father has not only failed to pass judgment on the claim (ltdn dn; lines 45–46) of the widow (ʾalmnt), and judge the case (tlṯpṭ ṯpṭ; lines 46–47) of the people (npš), but he has allowed his own hand to fall into mischief (šqlt bǵlt. ydk; lines 44–45). 20 Thus, as Porter (2012: 42) points out, “Relationships configured through kinship work in a multiplicity of directions and on a multiplicity of levels that produce a dialectic whereby no member of the kin-group, ruling elite or otherwise, is unconstrained by the desires, actions, and existence of others.” In her analysis of ritual, C. Bell articulates a very similar conclusion regarding the dialectic, participatory nature of power. As the title of her book Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice suggests, she sets out to demonstrate that one cannot isolate the form and function of ritual from the notion of practice. 21 According to Bell, every participant, regardless of his or her social status, is strategically asserting some form of power by actively participating in a ritual. Through the act of participation, dominant power 20. Yassib’s speech to his father consists of three more lines that extend and exemplify Kirta’s failure to administer justice in the land. According to Yassib, he neither expels the oppressor of the poor (ltdy ṯšm ʿl. dl) nor feeds the orphan and the widow who surround him (lpnk ltšlḥm. ytm. bʿd kslk. ʾalmnt). Note also the similar collective responsibilities of the chiefs/heads of a polity in KTU 1.17 V 6–8 // 1.19 I 21–25. In lines 45–46, the nuance of the root ṯpṭ, “to judge,” is confirmed through its parallel relationship with the root dn, “to judge.” Compare with Hebrew dyn and Akkadian diānu/dânu. This phenomenon is also depicted in the Hebrew Bible. For example, Absalom operated under the same pretext as Yassib when he tried to subvert David’s authority. Looking to gain the support of David’s subjects, Absalom would sit along the road that led to the city gate and inform those seeking justice from the king (‫ ;ריב לבוא אל־המלך למשׁפט‬2 Sam 15:2) that there was no one from the king to hear the case (‫ ;ושׁמע אין־לך מאת המלך‬15:3). With calculated shrewdness, Absalom would then rhetorically ask, “Who will set me as judge over the land in order that everyone who comes unto me with a complaint or a claim I might set it right?” (‫מי־ישׁמני שׁפט בארץ‬ ‫ ;ועלי יבוא כל־אישׁ אשׁר־יהיה־לו־ריב ומשׁפט והצדקתיו‬15:4). See also Psalm 72, which lists the attributes that characterize the rule of a legitimate king. Included within this list is the ability to administer justice (vv. 4, 12–13). Cf. Isa 33:22; Ps 9:5, 50:6, 75:8. 21. As in the case of Giddens’s work, this project derives from a poststructuralist attempt to critique the history of ritual theory and the methods that this discipline has traditionally employed. According to Bell, ritual theorists tend to impose upon the data speculative, “academic” paradigms based on false dichotomies that are alien to ritual itself. For Bell, these paradigms ultimately obscure the dynamics of power relations that are implied in ritual practice. This critique is particularly relevant for scholars who seek to universalize the aspects of ritual across cultural boundaries and thereby fail to recognize the distinctiveness of ritual within specific contexts. According to Bell, “ ‘Ritualization’ attempts to correct the implications of universality, naturalness, and an intrinsic structure that have accrued to the term ‘ritual’ ” (Bell 1992: 222–23).

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structures are not only legitimized 22 but can be disputed as well. In this way, space is provided “to reproduce or reconfigure a vision of the order of power in the world,” a phenomenon that Bell calls “redemptive hegemony” (Bell 1992: 81). By understanding the practice of ritual in this way, Bell convincingly argues that one of its central features is the negotiation of power relations both in terms of the horizontal realm (relationship negotiation among “equals”) and the vertical realm (relationship negotiation within a hierarchical order). 23 This relational negotiation on both axes of “reality” ultimately promotes the “coherence of a cosmos in which one takes a particular place” (1992: 141). Thus, “ritual does not control; rather, it constitutes a particular dynamic of social empowerment” (1992: 181; see also Porter 2012: 188). 24 This depiction of the nature, sources, and administration of power strongly suggests that the traditional tendency to posit a fixed political system dominated by “city-states” and “territorial kingdoms” in which power was a “top-down” phenomenon in the Levant during the LB is based on the failure to recognize the dynamic and relational nature of power. 25 It also militates against the problems associated with an evolutionary model of state development. For one, it recognizes the role of ecological influences, symbolic influences, and personal agency in the structuring of any polity (Weber 1946: 260, 1978: 943; Porter 2012: 41–42). In the words of Blanton (1998: 143), all “are likely to be mobilized simultaneously, and almost every political-economic strategy has both material and symbolic dimensions.” In addition, as J. Marcus has highlighted in her “dynamic model” of 22. In the words of Bell, “Power and freedom do not come to a ‘face-to-face confrontation’ as mutually exclusive states. . . . Freedom is the condition, as well as the precondition, for the exercise of power . . . [T]here can be ‘no relationship of power without the means of escape or possible flight.’ Hence, to explore power is to explore a necessary and simultaneous resistance to power that continues to provoke and legitimize its exercise” (1992: 200–201). 23. See Bell 1992: 212–18. 24. Ultimately, this reflects the role of ritual in the structuration of a social system (see also Porter 2000: 87–89; Blanton 1998: 164; Abercrombie, Hill, and Turner 1980: 158; cf. Bender 1990: 259). 25. For Porter (2012: 41), such reconstructions “take no account of the complexity of human interactions nor of the possibilities of a dialectic of control, where every human being has some form of, or access to, power.” In addition, they “fail to recognize the fact that in any world, power is vested in multiple, heterarchical, groups . . . while in the ancient world it was also vested in multiple beings—specifically, the dead and the divine.” As I shall demonstrate in greater detail below, the nature of these power relations is intensified when multiple groups with competing identities are brought under the umbrella of a single social structure, a process that often requires specific strategies for overcoming traditional claims to power that are embedded in the individual identities of each player (see esp. Mann 1986: 90).

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society, due to the various factors involved in the administration of power and the process of structuration, the overwhelming characteristic of any ancient society is not the linear movement through successive stages of development but variability and flux (Marcus 1998: 60; see also Marfoe 1979: 10; Adams 1981: 133; Mann 1986: 39; Wolf 1990: 590; Feinman 1998: 100–101). To posit, therefore, the same sociopolitical structure for the 300 years spanning the LB based on the brief period of time for which we have written documentation—and even for the short period of time covered by this documentation—is problematic. 26

A Case Study of Social Power: The City of Gubla (uruGubla) and Its ḫupšū Turning to the Amarna corpus, we find that Gubla serves as an excellent case study of the multidimensional nature of power. This is largely due to the extensive dossier of letters deriving from this city. Having dispatched at least 56 messages to Egypt (EA 68–69, 71, 73–95, 102–9, 112, 114, 116–19, 121–27, 129–34, 136–38), Rib-Addu of Gubla stands out as one of the most prolific writers and intriguing personalities in the Amarna archive. His letters are characterized by a constant stream of appeals for support from his Egyptian overlord. According to Rib-Addu, it was his unwavering and unparalleled loyalty in the face of widespread treachery that compelled him to be so demanding. In order to understand his plight, scholars have sought to reconstruct the nature of the hostility that Rib-Addu faced and the primary players involved. In addition to the oftmentioned figures of ʿAbdi-Aširta, his sons, and the ʿapîrû, all of whom represented a direct threat to Rib-Addu and his position at Gubla, a lessprominent but equally important element was a category of people referred to as the ḫupšū. Several studies have embarked on the task of determining the nature and place of the ḫupšū both at Gubla and in the wider ancient Near East. Under the influence of a narrowly conceived model of power, scholars generally regard them as “peasants” 27 or “serfs,” 28 terms that 26. This was the very point that Marfoe was trying to make in the late 1970s, when he analyzed the nature of LB polities in the Beqaʿa Valley. According to Marfoe (1979: 35), “Change should not be viewed as alternation between phases of static equilibrium, each characterized by a dominant sociopolitical structure, but in terms of sociopolitical organisms composed of small units, which are continually changing and which are tied politically by a variety of elastic sociocultural bonds.” 27. Knudtzon 1964 passim; Liverani 1979b; Moran 1992 passim; Adamthwaite 2001: 247, 249. 28. Albright 1926: 107; 1975: 110; Campbell 1960: 15.

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historically imply economically depressed and politically disempowered rural denizens. 29 Because socioeconomic status and primary residence have played a central role in categorizing the ḫupšū as such, these aspects of their lives must be reevaluated if we are to arrive at a better understanding of who they were and the role they played in the social and political structure at Gubla. Rather than supporting the popular claim that the ḫupšū were necessarily and primarily a rural, economically depressed, and politically disempowered peasant class, I will demonstrate that they were an economically viable, urbancentered group who played a significant role in the political scene at Gubla. Thus, a study of the ḫupšū provides a fruitful entry point for a study of the political structure of Gubla in general. The Economic Status of the ḫupšū at Gubla M. Adamthwaite’s (2001: 247) characterization of the ḫupšū at Gubla as “an economically depressed peasantry” 30 rests largely on his reading of their plight described in EA 81 and 85. In his own words, these letters depict them as having to sell “their children in the land of Yarimuta for provisions to stay alive” (2001: 247). 31 Though these letters clearly indicate that the ḫupšū were in economic straits at the time in which they were written, a closer reading of their contents reveals that this group should not be defined by this condition. Rib-Addu opens the body of EA 85 with a description of the events that led to the drastic steps taken by the ḫupšū cited by Adamthwaite. According to Rib-Addu, his archrival ʿAbdi-Aširta attacked him three times in one year, resulting in the significant reduction of his grain (lines 8–10). Accordingly, Rib-Addu informs the king that “we have no grain to eat” (ŠE-imḫá a-na a-ka-li a-na ia-ši-nu; lines 10–11). It was in response to this dire situation that the ḫupšū sold not only their sons and their daughters to the land of Yarimuta but “the furnishings of their houses” as well (GIŠ⸢mes⸣ É-s̆u-nu; line 13). The addition of these articles to the abbreviated list cited by Adamthwaite raises questions about their economic status. This list implies that not only did they possess the right of sale over their children, but 29. See, however, Mendelsohn, who is more moderate with his language. He refers to the ḫupšū as “free proletarian,” comparing them with the coloni of the early Roman Empire. Nevertheless, his use of this term still implies that he regarded them as constituting a low social class within society (Mendelsohn 1941: 36–37). 30. Adamthwaite (2001: 247, 249) concludes in a similar manner, stating, “They are indeed a peasant class.” 31. The phrase under scrutiny, a-na ba-la-aṭ ZI-šu-nu (EA 81: 25), is more appropriately rendered “for the preservation of their life” (cf. EA 85: 15).

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they also had the means to own houses and furnishings valuable enough to attract buyers. EA 81 significantly expands the list of possessions attributed to the ḫupšū. With a well-known poetic turn of phrase, Rib-Addu likens the ḫupšū to a “bird in a trap” (see also EA 105: 8–10; 116: 17–20), indicating that his enemies were laying siege to his town, thereby preventing the ḫupšū from departing (see also EA 88: 19–21). This situation had devastating consequences. In the words of Rib-Addu, “Their field is like a wife without a husband, because it is without a cultivator.” 32 Though eqlu (“field”) is effaced in this line, the presence of the verb erēšu (“to cultivate”) provides a high degree of certainty for its restoration. 33 Accordingly, the ḫupšū did not simply work the arable fields associated with Gubla but, as is indicated by the possessive pronoun -šunu, “their,” they possessed them as well. This observation casts doubt upon L. Stager’s claim that “the Late Bronze Age city-states” consisted of “free land (in the highlands and marginal regions), nonworking landowners, and ‘serfs’ ” (Stager 1998: 105). In this context, it appears that the landowners worked their land. Ultimately, the list of possessions attributed to the ḫupšū suggests that they were neither a peasant class nor did they by definition constitute an economically depressed element of society. Rather, at the time in which these letters were written, the ḫupšū were a population in crisis, and that crisis resulted in personal and household losses. In addition to shedding light on the socioeconomic status of the ḫupšū, EA 81 and 85 provide information regarding their primary place of residence. The statement that the fields of the ḫupšū continue to go uncultivated because they are trapped in Gubla 34 implies that the domiciles of the ḫupšū were located there. Rather than being a rural community, therefore, the evidence suggests that they were an urban population that dwelled in the city of Gubla itself. This situation reflects Schloen’s description of the residents of Ugarit. On the basis of his analysis of the archaeological remains of one of the city’s residential sectors, the Centre de la Ville (Schloen 2001: 335–42), Schloen concluded that “urban households in Ugarit engaged in agriculture” (2001: 342). 35 32. [A.ŠÀ]-šu-nu DAM ša la mu-ta ⸢ma-ši⸣-íl [aš]-⸢šum ba-li⸣ i-re-ši (lines 37–38). 33. See, e.g., Rainey 2015: 484–85. 34. See also EA 81: 20–22; 88: 20–21; Moran 1992: 161 n. 4; 151 n. 5. 35. This conclusion is based on the “numerous sickles and other stone tools associated with cereal production and processing; of silos and large pithoi for the storage of grain; of oil presses . . . of watering troughs, mangers, and flagstone pavement that indicate stables; and of stone-lined pits in which manure was composted to fertilize fields” attested at the Centre de la Ville (Schloen 2001: 342).

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This state of affairs is confirmed in EA 85. After listing the items sold by the ḫupšū to the land of Yarimuta, Rib-Addu specifies that they took this drastic action “for the preservation of our life” (i-na bá-la-aṭ ⸢ZI⸣-nu; line 15). It is significant that Rib-Addu employs the 1st-person-plural pronoun to specify the lives that are being preserved by the sacrifice of the ḫupšū. Contextually, it is natural to read Rib-Addu and the ḫupšū as the antecedents of this pronoun. If this is indeed the case, the line that follows includes a further designation for both of them. Having reported this dire situation, Rib-Addu asks the king to heed his words and “send grain in ships in order to keep his (the king’s) servant and his (the king’s) city alive” (ù yu-wa-ši-ra ŠE-imḫá i-na lìb-bi GIŠ.MÁmeš ù yu-ba-li-iṭ ÌR-šu ù URU-šu; lines 17–19). Read in parallel with line 15, line 19 indicates that Rib-Addu, the first antecedent of the pronoun, is the servant of the king, while the ḫupšū, the second antecedent, constitute the king’s city. 36 Referring to the population of a city as the “city” itself is not exceptional. As I indicated above, the notion that a city is defined first and foremost by its population is a common phenomenon in the ancient Near East. Consequently, “the essence of the town is not its walls or buildings. It is the people who occupy them” (Fleming 2004: 11). This identification is articulated in even clearer terms as EA 85 unfolds. In lines 48–50, Rib-Addu asks the king to “tell Yanḫamu,” an Egyptian rābiṣu, “to take the money [and clothing (?)] for the Gublites in the land of Yarimuta” ([qí]-ba-mi a-na mia-an-ḫa-mi ù ⸢yi-ìl⸣-qé KÙ.BABBAR⸢meš⸣ [lu-bu]-ši a-na LÚmeš ⸢urugub⸣-la i-na kur⸢ia⸣-ri-mu-ta). Though the line is broken, it appears that he is requesting his Egyptian overlord to ransom 37 or at least provide for those who were sold to Yarimuta for the support of Rib-Addu and his city. If this is indeed the case, then Rib-Addu not only refers to the ḫupšū as the “city” but also reckons them as Gublites (LÚmeš ⸢urugub⸣-la). A comparison of EA 118 with EA 138 confirms this identification. To set the stage, in several other letters, Rib-Addu indicates that the ḫupšū have given him cause for concern. He not only fears that they will become hostile toward him (EA 130: 41–43) and perhaps even kill him (EA 77: 36–37), but he is also afraid that the difficult circumstances might lead to their desertion (paṭāru; EA 114: 20–22; 125: 23–30; 134: 16–18). To be sure, 36. Rib-Addu uses similar language in EA 112 when he states, “If the heart of the king is for the preservation of his servant and his city, then send a garrison to guard your city and your servant” (šum-[ma] lìb-bi bi (!) LUGAL-ri a-na ba-la-aṭ ÌR-šu ù URU-li-šu uš-šira ⸢ma⸣-ṣa-ar-ta ù ⸢ti⸣-na-ṣa-ru URU-ka ù ÌR-ka; lines 30–36; see also EA 114: 20–21; 116: 45–47; 117: 78–80). 37. See also EA 55: 44–52; 114: 7–17; 292: 49–51; Albright 1941: 43–49.

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these fears were not simply hyperbolic statements meant to induce the pity of the king. In EA 106, Rib-Addu informs his overlord that he had witnessed first hand the flight of Ṣumur’s inhabitants as war raged against the city. 38 Rib-Addu describes the calamitous result that such a departure would have for Gubla in EA 118: “If the ḫupšū desert, the ʿapîrû will seize the city” (pa-ṭá-ri-ma lú.mešḫu-up-ši ù ṣa-ab-tu LÚmeš GAZmeš URU; lines 37–39). In other words, if the ḫupšū depart, there will be no one to live in the city, and perhaps more importantly, to protect it from the onslaught of the enemy. Rib-Addu articulates the same concern in EA 138. There he informs the king that he was compelled to kill a number of the Gublites (⸢LÚmeš urugubub-li⸣; line 36) because they had “moved against” (namāšu + muḫḫu) him (line 39). 39 He continues with a report of how the Gublites responded to this act of violence. They asked him, “How long can you go on killing us? Where will you get people to live in the city?” (ù ti-iq-bu a-di ma-ti ti7-duku-nu [a]-ya-mi ti-ìl-qú LÚmeš a-na a-ša-bi a-na ⸢URU⸣ ki; lines 40–42). If the Gublites and the ḫupšū constituted two different groups of people, the departure of either would not result in absolute vacancy. It is only if these two terms referred to the same body that the threat of the departure of either would evoke the desperation implied in both cases. In an apparent attempt to compel the Egyptian king to intervene directly in these matters, Rib-Addu notifies him that his failure to fulfill Rib-Addu’s previous request for Egyptian troops motivated “the city” to make the following proclamation: “Abandon him (the king of Egypt)! Let us align ourselves with Aziru!” (ù ti-iq-bi URU ki i-⸢zi⸣-bu-šu ni-te-pu-uš-mi a-na ma-zi-ri; lines 44–45). Reading the evidence together, we can clearly see that the terms ḫupšū, the Gublites (LÚmeš uru.(ki)gu-ub-la), and “the city” (URUki) are used interchangeably to refer to the same group of individuals. 38. “And I was in Ṣumur and all of its inhabitants fled” (ù i-ba-ša-ti i-na [uruṣu-mu-ur ù] ⸢gáb⸣-bi LÚmeš-ši ⸢en⸣-[na-bi-tu]; lines 24–25). 39. In two additional letters, Rib-Addu relates an event during which he was “stabbed nine times” (am-ma-ḫa-aṣ-ni 9-ta-an; EA 82: 38–39) by a resident of Gubla with a bronze dagger (EA 81: 15). A similar event is recorded in EA 197, where Biryawaza of Damascus reports that the city of Yanuamma, which had apparently been under his authority, “moved against me” (ù yi-⟨⟨MAŠ⟩⟩-an-mu-uš uruya-nu-am-ma UGU-ia; line 8) and subsequently “bolted the gate behind me” (ù yi-du-ul KÁ.GAL a-na EGIR-ia; line 9). These accounts directly parallel the following claim made by Ḫami-Ištar, a tribal leader headquartered in the city of Aḫuna during the reign of Zimri-Lim at Mari: “From death I have escaped and from the heart of Aḫuna, from rebellion 10 times I escaped!” (⸢i⸣-n[a m]u-[t]im ù-ṣi-m[a i-n]a li-[ib-bi] a-ḫu-na-a  ki i-na ba-ar-tim 10 -šu [ú-ṣí]; A.1146: 40–41). All of these examples challenge Flannery’s claim that “states” are characterized by the fact that “individual citizens must forgo violence” (Flannery 1972: 404).

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By way of this connection, EA 138 provides further information regarding the economic status of the ḫupšū. In the same context referred to above, Rib-Addu details the Gublites’ motivation for rising up against him. Because the city had been fighting with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta for so long (see also EA 81 and 85), they levied the following complaint: “All of our silver (has gone) to the hostilities” (ga-mi-ir KÙ.BABBAR-pu-⟨nu⟩ ⟨⟨na⟩⟩ 40 a-na nu-kúr-ti; line 38). This reference to silver indicates that the ḫupšū, here referred to as the Gublites, at one time had the economic means to protect themselves against the hostilities of Aziru and were expected to use their silver for that purpose. To summarize my observations up to this point, the evidence regarding the economic and social status of the ḫupšū strongly suggests that they were not “peasants.” With regard to their economic status, the ḫupšū had some level of control over the means of production in the form of cultivable fields. Moreover, the fact that they were in possession of houses, household implements of value, and silver suggests that they did not, by definition, constitute a low economic class. In terms of their social status, they had free disposal of their offspring, who were significant enough to Rib-Addu for him to request that the Egyptian king either provide for or ransom them from those to whom they had been sold. Finally, rather than being a rural community, they not only dwelled in Gubla but were defined by their urban status. In this way, the ḫupšū embody none of the classic socioeconomic characteristics of a peasant class. 41 If the ḫupšū were not peasants, we must try to determine their role at Gubla and the nature of their relationship with Rib-Addu. The Social and Political Status of the ḫupšū at Gubla The most fruitful way to begin an inquiry into the role of the ḫupšū at Gubla and their relationship with Rib-Addu is to examine the ways in which Rib-Addu refers to them. Of the eleven attestations of this term, Rib-Addu identifies these people as “my ḫupšū” six times (lú.mešḫu-up-ši-ia; EA 85: 12; 112: 12; 114: 22, 57; 117: 90; 130: 42). Of the remaining five instances, three are too broken to determine with confidence whether they included a pronominal suffix (EA 77: 36; 81: 33; 118: 37), and two are written without one (EA 118: 23; 125: 27). Because Rib-Addu regularly refers to the ḫupšū as “my ḫupšū,” A. Altman concluded that they were “dependent on him” (1978: 11). Altman is certainly correct in this. In EA 130, Rib-Addu expresses his 40. For the repetition by error of -na at the end of KÙ.BABBAR-pu, and the restoration of -nu, see Moran 1992: 223 n. 8; see also Rainey 2015: 706–7; 1489. 41. Cf. Mendelsohn 1941: 37.

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concern that, “if there are no provisions of the king for me, my ḫupšū will become hostile” (šum-ma i-na-na ia-[nu] ba-la-aṭ LUGAL-ri a-na ia-ši ù ul-ta-na-⸢na⸣ lú.mešḫu-up-ši-ia; lines 39–42). This implies that the support and loyalty of Rib-Addu’s ḫupšū were dependent upon whether or not he had the necessary provisions to distribute to them. Rib-Addu explicitly refers to this practice in EA 85: “Look, three times he has stood against me this year and for two years I have meted out my grain—there is no longer grain for us to eat” (a-nu-ma 3-ta-an i-zi-iz UGU-ia MU.KÁMmeš an-ni-ta ù 2 MU am-ma-ša-ʾu5 ŠE-imḫá-ia ia-nu ŠE-imḫá a-na a-ka-li a-na ia-ši-nu; lines 8–11; cf., EA 118: 22–23). The direction of dependence and distribution does not, however, come solely from “the top.” In fact, there is evidence that Rib-Addu himself was dependent upon the ḫupšū. As described above, in EA 85, the ḫupšū sold their children and the furnishings of their houses for the provision of both their lives and the life of the king (line 15). Here, provisions are directed from the ḫupšū to the palace itself. Finally, there are two texts that suggest that the ḫupšū were also expected to provide for themselves. Under “normal” circumstances, this probably occurred through agricultural activities on their land, paralleling the situation at Ugarit, where “the members of joint-family households throughout the city .  .  . subsisted primarily by means of their own agricultural effort” (Schloen 2001: 342). 42 Under “abnormal” circumstances, the ḫupšū were compelled to sell their children and household implements for the provision of their lives (line 41). 43 The complexity of this system is reminiscent of the type of social stratification and agricultural production and provision during the Old Babylonian period. According to the textual evidence, there were two main social groups, the awīlum and the muškēnum. As F. R. Kraus has pointed out (1973: 92–125), the muškēnum consisted of “private citizens,” or “commoners without governmental duty,” while the awīlum were characterized by their dependence upon the palace. This dependence consisted of royal grants of land in return for which the awīlum would perform obligatory royal service (ilkum; see Schloen 2001: 286). As opposed to the Ur III period, during the Old Babylonian period these royal land grants “were large enough to support the recipient and his extended family without recourse 42. Schloen (2001: 335) further contends that “it is unlikely that more than a small minority of the residents of the city of Ugarit subsisted entirely on royal rations.” 43. This situation is underscored in EA 114. There, Rib-Addu informs the king that “previously, my ḫupšū procured provisions from the land of Yarimuta” (lines 54–57). We can infer from EA 81 and 85 that this took place through the sale of their children and household implements. At the time of the writing of this letter, however, a certain Yapaḫ-Ḫadda was preventing the ḫupšū from doing this (lines 57–60).

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to rations” (Schloen 2001: 283). In fact, access to this land generally made the awīlum wealthier than their muškēnum counterparts. As such, “dependence” in this context does not imply a lower socioeconomic status. This evidence suggests that the social status of the ḫupšū paralleled that of the awīlum. 44 The fact that Rib-Addu refers to the ḫupšū as “my ḫupšū” indicates that they were affiliated with and to some extent dependent upon the palace. This is most clearly demonstrated by the fact the ḫupšū looked to the palace for the distribution and/or redistribution of provisions during times of economic turmoil. This may also be reflected in the ḫupšū’s possession of land. At the same time, because the ḫupšū possessed this land, they were not only required but had the capacity to support themselves (EA 81; 114). Their economic stability, at least prior to the turmoil described in these letters, is underscored by the notice that they owned houses in Gubla, possessed furnishings of value, and had access to silver. The evidence also indicates that the ḫupšū were required to provide goods and services to the palace (EA 85). According to EA 118: 36–39, these services likely included military support (Wansbrough 1986: 207). Adamthwaite (2001: 248–49) ultimately rejects this idea because Rib-Addu constantly appeals to Egypt for troops. However, these requests do not preclude the possibility that the inhabitants were expected to protect the city during the absence of a regular Egyptian garrison, if such a thing existed at Gubla. This is the only way to explain why Gubla was not taken by ʿAbdi-Aširta during the apparent siege depicted in EA 81 (Altman 1978: 11; Liverani 1979b: 18). The situation at Mari supports this reconstruction. The author of ARM XIV 104+ reports that the town force (ṣābum āluyûm) was expected to fight for its city in the absence of the town’s “regular army” (ṣābum piḫrum). 45 In sum, the direction of dependence at Gubla was not simply a “top-down” phenomenon. Instead, three directions of dependence are attested: (a) top down, (b) bottom up, and (c) dependence from within. The Collective Political Heritage at Gubla Describing the ḫupšū in these terms helps to provide a clearer picture of the political structure in operation at Gubla. According to P. Artzi, Gubla boasted of a strong collective political tradition. In his analysis of EA 136, he notes that Rib-Addu’s “house,” his wife, and the Gublites had the capacity to pressure him politically (lines 8–15). All of these parties urged Rib-Addu to ally himself with Aziru. Rather than heeding their advice, 44. Contra Mendelsohn (1941: 38), who equates the ḫupšū with the muškēnum. 45. For evidence that the duties of the ḫupšū included military service elsewhere in the ancient Near East, see CAD Ḫ 241, sub e.

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however, he went to Beirut to make an alliance with Ammunira. This decision proved to be detrimental to Rib-Addu’s political career. While in Beirut, his brother incited the Gublites, with the result that the city transferred its loyalty to the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta (EA 137: 57–58; 138: 47–50). With the rejection and exile of Rib-Addu, EA 139 and 140 introduce a new mode of political discourse at Gubla. Rather than being officially represented by a single individual, the political voice of this polity is articulated by a certain Ili-rapiḫ and the Gublites (uruGubla). 46 According to Artzi, “this joint leadership means to us a re-establishment at Gubla of the ancient city-organization” (Artzi 1964: 162). However, this assertion is an overstatement. What we see throughout these letters are systemic and intermember power strategies coexisting at Gubla and at times struggling against one another. This phenomenon directly reflects Fleming’s contention that, “[i]n political terms, the language of the ‘town’ seems always to have been corporate in nature, even when subsumed into the exclusionary notions of kingship” (Fleming 2004: 151). 47 The “power” of the ḫupšū is demonstrated not only in their ability to take political action but in the simple fact that they had the option to abandon Gubla, an option that may represent an early example of a “labor strike” in the ancient Near East. In the end, the power dynamics attested at Gubla reflect Blanton’s definition of an “egalitarian” social structure. This “does not imply an absence of hierarchical control.” Rather, egalitarianism is reflected in “any behavior that aims to establish and uphold restrictions on the exercise of exclusionary power, whatever its social setting in simpler or more complex societies” (Blanton 1998: 151). 48 46. The introductory formula of EA 140 reads as follows: “To the king, the lord, my sun. Thus says Gubla, your maidservant; thus says Ili-rapiḫ, your servant” ([a-na] LUGAL EN dUTU-ia um-ma urugub-la GÉME-ka um-ma mAN-ra-pí-iḫ ÌR-ka; lines 1–3). The address in EA 139 differs only in that the order of the addressees is reversed. In EA 138, RibAddu informs the king that the Gublites also wrote to him (ša-ap-ru-mi LÚ⸢meš ša⸣ urugub[ub]-la a-na ia-ši; lines 9–10) during his exile in Beirut. 47. Similarly, Yoffee (2005: 61) claims that “[w]ithin Mesopotamian cities, local assemblies were constituted by community members and traditional leaders. . . . These assemblies exercised judicial privileges, settling disputes among community members, and could stand in opposition to the palace and royal court.” Interestingly, collective political governance at Gubla is hinted at as early as the 20th century BCE. In both sets of the Egyptian execration texts that derive from this period, it is not the physical site of Gubla that is mentioned but the clan of Gubla (Ben-Tor 2006: 66). 48. In his own analysis of the sociopolitical structure of the Beqaʿa, Marfoe arrives at a similar conclusion: “One difference is that I perceive the Bronze Age ‘city-states’ to be much looser and less despotic structures than Mendenhall and others suppose and hence I see the ‘withdrawal’ of rural groups as less a ‘rebellion’ than a basic, alternate strategy in adaptation—one aspect of a constant demographic fluidity” (Marfoe 1979: 33). Blanton’s definition

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Disentangling the Dynamics of Political Discourse If we take seriously the conclusion that the ḫupšū were identified with the Gublites and the collective political tradition that they embodied, it is important to ask why different terminology was used to refer to the same group of people. It is here that we must consider the nature and direction of the political discourse involved. If two competing political structures coexist within a single polity, it is natural that political discourse could take place on at least two levels. At Gubla, where both a systemic royal tradition and an intermember collective tradition were in operation, political discourse came from both the “top down” (systemic) and from “within” (intermember). When appealing to the loyalty of Gubla, Rib-Addu had two options available to him, depending on the circumstances. On the one hand, he could speak from the top and appeal to the loyalty of the royal tradition of which he was a part. On the other hand, he could speak from within, appealing to the long-standing loyalty of the city. In EA 118, after expressing his concerns regarding the desertion of the ḫupšū (lines 36–39), Rib-Addu confirms the loyalty of the palace by appealing to the royal tradition that he inherited: “Behold, my only purpose is to serve the king in accordance with the practice of my fathers” (a-mur a-⸢na⸣-ku pa-nu-ia-ma a-⸢na⸣ a-ra-ad LUGAL ki-a par-ṣí ša a-bu-ti-⸢ia⸣; lines 39–41). By contrast, in the face of the threat that surrounded Gubla described in EA 88, Rib-Addu appealed to the traditional faithfulness of the city itself: “Behold, Gubla is not like the other cities. Gubla is a loyal city of the king, my lord, from old” finds support in Lemche’s study of tribal leadership in the Near East. As he indicates, the description of the Arab sheik as a primus inter pares is fitting “in that it simultaneously points to the fact that the societies in question are characterized by an egalitarian ideology while also stressing the fact that this ideology does not mean that they are in reality equal with respect to political and economic potential” (Lemche 1985: 119). Accordingly, it “is usually the case that the sheik among the Arab nomads, the aga or khan among those of Turkey or Iran, belongs to a leading family or lineage in the society in question. Moreover, this family or lineage will have monopolized the leadership position for up to quite lengthy periods of time, so that it would not be unreasonable to characterize it as dynastic.” In other words, in many tribally organized societies, “their members ordinarily regard themselves as equals while at the same time it is easy to demonstrate that the very same social systems also display very considerable differences in the social status of their members” (Lemche 1985: 121). Lemche therefore concludes that there are “clear examples to prove the point that egalitarian societies may well be stratified” (1985: 124). Accordingly, Lemche suggests that “the retention of the egalitarian is a facet of the ethnic self-consciousness of a given tribal people.” In this, he is referring to the “ties of solidarity, understood as a superstructure which unifies a tribe, so that all members are prepared to join in the common defense if the external enemies are thought to threaten the existence of the society in question” (1985: 124).

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(a-mur uru-gub-la la ki-⸢ma⸣ URUki.ḫá [x x x] urugub-la URU ki-it-ti LUGAL ⸢BE⸣-[ia] iš-tu da-ri-ti; lines 42–45; see also EA 74: 5–8; 88: 42–45; 116: 55–56). Here we have two explicit statements representing the two political categories in operation at Gubla. This dynamic ultimately explains the opposing ways in which Rib-Addu referred to the members of the collective body at Gubla. When Rib-Addu wanted to emphasize their status as dependents who fell under the authority of the palace, he referred to them as “my ḫupšū.” However, when this group represented a political body that was acting in opposition to the palace, as in EA 138: 26–39, he referred to them as the Gublites. It is important, therefore, to keep in mind throughout this analysis of these ancient texts that the place and perspective of the speaker can greatly influence the way in which a particular group or polity is identified and defined. Similarly, the place and perspective of the modern reader of these texts can also deeply affect the way certain categories of people are identified. The foregoing study has demonstrated that this has been the case with the ḫupšū at Gubla. By paying close attention to the details of the text, however, I have demonstrated that, rather than being an economically depressed, politically disempowered, rural class of “peasants,” the ḫupšū played a significant role in the economic and political life of Gubla. Though this study is valuable in itself, it also represents the first step toward dismantling the model of feudal lords or the political elite operating from city-state bases. In the sections that follow, I will provide further evidence in support of my contention that collective political action among urbancentered populations of the LB southern Levant was not unusual.

The Collective Political Voice of the City Several of the scholarly reconstructions surveyed in chap.  1 rely on the idea that the king of Egypt would only communicate with “hereditary princes” whom he had appointed on the basis of their “descent from the ruling family of the city in question” (Bunimovitz 1994b: 187–89). 49 49. Finkelstein and Naʾaman are more cautious with their terminology when they claim that only the “rulers” of these political units were allowed to communicate with the king. According to Naʾaman (2005c: 148), the “ḫazannu, ‘mayor’ . . . is the equivalent of Egyptian ḫꜢty-ʿ, a mayor of an Egyptian town. . . . [W]e may conclude that each person who wrote either to the Pharaoh or to his officials was a city-state ruler, regardless of the scope of his territory or his political power” (see also Finkelstein 1996d: 224; Naʾaman 1986: 464). I agree with Naʾaman and Finkelstein only insofar as the term “ruler” can refer to a collective body that represents the political voice of the “city” in general. Due to the constitution of these political bodies, however, it is unlikely that they required the pharaoh’s “confirmation” before they communicated with him.

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This claim highlights a critical insight. The act of communicating with the Egyptian king was a political act. It therefore required some form of political power, legitimate representation, and authority to occur. At the same time, my review of the evidence from Gubla indicates that the ability to do this was not limited to the ḫazannūti. As we have already observed, the collective body of Gublites communicated with the Egyptian king after they deposed Rib-Addu (EA 139–40). This phenomenon was not unique to Gubla. It is also attested in the letters from Irqata and Tunip. The Collective Political Voice of uruIrqata Much of what is known about Irqata during the Amarna period derives from second-hand reports, mostly from Gubla. 50 These reports overwhelmingly describe a situation familiar to Rib-Addu and the Gublites. According to Rib-Addu, Irqata was one of a number of cities in the region that were embroiled in war (EA 88: 5–8; see also EA 103: 9–13). This conflict ultimately led to the death of Aduna, the ḫazannu of Irqata (EA 75: 25–27; 139: 12–15; 140: 10–11). Due to the varying accounts of this act of regicide, it is difficult to determine the culprit. On the one hand, Rib-Addu reports that Aduna fell to a group of people likely identified with the ʿapîrû. 51 In the lines that follow, he accuses ʿAbdi-Aširta of being the mastermind behind this plot, though he does not appear to have had a direct hand in it (EA 75: 27–29). 52 On the other hand, in both of the missives sent by the Gublites (EA 139 and 140), blame is cast on Aziru, one of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s sons (EA 139: 12–15; 140: 10–11). 53 Support for this accusation derives from an earlier letter sent by Rib-Addu, where he charges the sons of ʿAbdiAširta with invading the region (EA 103). To be sure, Aduna could have been murdered twice if two individuals shared this name. In this case, the elder Aduna would have fallen to the ʿapîrû at the behest of ʿAbdi-Aširta, while his son and/or successor fell at the hands of Aziru after he and his brothers assaulted Irqata. Regardless of the way in which one reads these 50. Irqata is mentioned in eight letters (EA 62, 72, 75, 88, 100, 103, 139, 140). ʿAbdiAširta sent EA 62; the name of the correspondent of EA 72 has been lost to a large break in the text; EA 100 was sent from Irqata itself; and the rest stem from Gubla. 51. This identification cannot be confirmed due to the fact that the text is slightly effaced at the place in which they are mentioned. While Knudtzon identifies them as “hired people” (1964: 379; see also note h), Moran believes that they are the ʿapîrû (Moran 1992: 145; see also n. 4). 52. Further corroboration for ʿAbdi-Aširta’s involvement is found in EA 88 where, after alluding to the hostilities faced by Irqata a second time (lines 4–6), Rib-Addu refers to ʿAbdiAširta as one who “acts according to his own heart in the land of my lord” (lines 10–11). 53. Note that in these letters Irqata is preceded by the determinative KUR, “land.” The significance of this shift in identification will be developed in the following chapter.

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accounts, they all agree that the ḫazannu of Irqata was killed while hostilities were raging against his city. It is out of this general context that the only extant letter from Irqata emerged (EA 100). This letter was probably contemporary with the affairs described in EA 103, because the turmoil at Irqata is attributed to the “sons of the enemy of the king” (DUMU⸢meš⸣ lúša-ri LUGAL-ri; lines 15–16), a probable reference to the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta. It is difficult to determine whether or not Aduna had died by the time this dispatch was sent because no specific reference is made to the event. Nevertheless, the letter is identified as a “tablet of Irqata” (ṭup-pí uruir-qa-ta; lines 1–2) that contains the message of “Irqata and its elders” (um-ma uruir-qa-ta ù lú.mešši-bu!(ŠE)-ti-ši; lines 3–4). 54 The reference to the “elders” of Irqata is significant. In addition to being the only attestation of this term in the entire Amarna corpus, it refers to a category of people that had a strong connection to collective political traditions throughout the ancient Near East. As Fleming has observed, the “difference between ‘elder’ terminology and the adjectival form of town . . . names (LÚmeš GN ‘the GN-ites’),” such as the Gublites (LÚmeš Gubla) encountered above “is that the former emphasizes the representative nature of the group, as a subset of the whole population” (Fleming 2004: 191). This representative function is underscored in the opening address, which attributes the voice of this letter to both the population of Irqata (uruir-qa-ta) and Irqata’s elders, a representative “subset” of that population. In sending this letter, the elders aimed to express the political will of the population of the city in general (lìb-bi uru⸢ir⸣-[qa-ta]; line 23). As a political entity, this body attributes a number of important political activities to itself that can be added to the act of communicating with the Egyptian king. They “do obeisance at the feet of the king” (a-na GÌRmeš LUGAL-ri EN-nu 7-šu 7-ta-an ni-am-qú-ut; lines 5–6), they “guard Irqata for him” (ni-na-ṣa-ru uruir-qa-ta a-na ša-⸢šu⸣; lines 9–10; see also line 30) by going to war against its enemies (lines 24–30), and they “keep the city gate barred until the breath of the king reaches” them (a-bu-la nu-ú-du-lu a-⸢di⸣ ka-ša-di ša-ri ⸢LUGAL⸣ a-na ia-ši-nu; lines 39–41). In fact, contrary to the claim that the Egyptian king only communicated with the “hereditary princes” of his vassal cities, the elders report an occasion in which a messenger of the king addressed them directly: “When the king, our lord, sent DUMU-Biḫa, he said to us, ‘Thus says the king: Guard Irqata.’ ” 55 54. For the reading ši-bu!(ŠE)-ti-ši, see Rainey 2015: 548–49, 1444–45. See also Albright 1946a: 23; Moran 1992: 173 n. 4. 55. i-nu-ma yu-wa-ši-⸢ra LUGAL⸣ EN-nu m[DUMU]-bi-ḫa-a [ù] yi-iq-bi a-na ia-[ši ]-⸢nu⸣ um-ma LUGAL ⸢ú ⸣-ṣa-ru-⸢mi⸣; lines 11–14; see also lines 24–30. For the reading of ⸢ú⸣-ṣa-ru-⸢mi⸣, see Moran 1992: 173 n. 3.

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Irqata’s elders, therefore, embodied an important element of Irqata’s political constitution that represented the political voice and will of the city in general. The fact that EA 139 and 140 specifically attribute the death of Aduna to Aziru suggests that Aduna was still alive when this missive was dispatched. As was indicated above, they identify their assailants as the sons of ʿAbdiAširta. This text therefore was probably written before Aziru emerged from among his brothers as their leader (see chap. 5 below). In addition, though the elders make reference to “their lord whom the king of Egypt placed over Irqata,” for whom they had recently fought (lines 27–30), they never report that he had been killed. If he had, it seems that it would have been worthy of mention. 56 If, therefore, Aduna was still alive when this letter was written, then this corporate body of elders was exerting its political authority in concert with its ḫazannu. This state of affairs is reminiscent of a situation reported centuries earlier to Zimri-Lim, the king of Mari, in ARM XIV 104+. According to this account, the city of Razama, which fell under the hegemony of Zimri-Lim, was attacked by a coalition of Elamites and Ešnunnaites led by a certain Atamrum. After fighting for a period of 10 days, the two sides divided and the elders (lúŠU.GImeš) of Razama went to Atamrum to negotiate a “ceasefire” agreement, claiming that they were “in a state of peace” (ša-al-ma-nu; line 12). However, Atamrum believed that their plan was nothing but an elaborate ruse designed to compel his forces to withdraw. In an attempt to expose their deceit, he asked the following question: “If you are in a state of peace, why did Šarria not come out to meet me?” (šum-ma sa-al-ma-tunu mLUGAL-ri-ia a-na pa-ni-ia am-mi-nim la ú-ṣe-e-em; lines 17–18). This Šarria was probably the “lord of the city” (be-el a-li  ki) referred to in line 22. Whether Šarria was at Razama during the original attack and subsequent peace talks is a point of debate. It is apparent, however, that Atamrum believed that he was there. What is interesting about this turn of events is that Atamrum was not surprised to see a group of elders leave the safety of the city to negotiate with him rather than the king himself—though he was suspicious of it. This underscores the fact that it was common for multiple political bodies to operate within the same political entity in the ancient Near East and for the corporate body of “elders” who represented that 56. Further evidence for this reconstruction derives from one of the concluding requests that the elders make. In lines 32–34, they ask the king to heed “the words of his loyal servants and grant a gift to his servant” (a-wa-te ÌRmeš ki-ti-šu ù ia-di-na NÍG.BA a-na ÌRšu). In the first half of this line, the term “servants” clearly refers to the elders. By contrast, the singular “servant” that follows could either be an allusion to the city in general or to the current ḫazannu of Irqata.

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entity to negotiate with outsiders (Fleming 2004: 191). In the same way, it is likely that political power was distributed among a number of players at Irqata, including the king and a group of elders who represented the population of Irqata at large. The Collective Political Voice of uruTunip In their introductory greeting, the correspondents of EA 59 address “the king of the land of Egypt, our lord” (a-na LUGAL KUR-ti4 mi-iṣ-ri be-lí-ni; line 1), referring to themselves as “the sons of Tunip, your servant” (DUMUmeš urudu-ni-ip ki lúÌR-ka-ma; line 2). 57 As in the evidence from Mari, in “strict orthographic terms,” the designation DUMUmeš GN (“sons of GN”) is interchangeable with the more common designation LÚmeš GN or “GN-ites” (Fleming 2004: 188). In contrast to the way in which this terminology is used at Mari, however, it can refer to a corporate political body in the Amarna letters. This is immediately verified by the fact that this group is engaging in the political act of corresponding with their Egyptian overlord. The representative function of this assembly is underscored in the formulaic introduction to the body of the letter that follows. It begins, “O Lord, thus has Tunip your servant repeatedly said” (be-lí um-ma urutú-ni-ip lúÌR-ka iq-ta-bi; line 5). Read in parallel with line 2, the sons of Tunip, or the Tunipites, are directly identified with the city of Tunip itself. As was the case with the elders of Irqata, this collective political body served as a representative subset of the population of Tunip as a whole. At the heart of this correspondence stands a request that the king give (li-id-din-šu; line 17) the son of Aki-Teššup to Tunip. If this is the same AkiTeššup referred to in the treaty between Šattiwaza of Mittanni and Suppiluliuma I of Ḫatti, Tunip may have originally fallen under the domain of the land of Nii. 58 In the first historical prologue of this treaty, Aki-Teššup, who is identified as the “king of Nii” in the historical introduction to the treaty between Suppiluliuma I and Niqmaddu II of Ugarit, 59 is said to have 57. At the conclusion of this letter, the sons of Tunip complain that, though they had been writing for 20 years, they had never received a single response. This charge could support the notion that the Egyptian king only corresponded with “legitimate” heirs to the throne. However, the fact that they persevered for so long indicates that they expected the king to reply. 58. This would locate Tunip in the vicinity of Nii. Others, however, identify Tunip with Baalbek, which is located to the east of Byblos, probably putting it out of the range of Nii’s domain. See esp. Velikovski 1978: 32. 59. There, Aki-Teššup is accused of having participated in a military coalition against the land of Ugarit. This coalition included the king of Mukiš and a king of the land of Nuḫašši (cf. EA 53: 43; see chap. 3 below; Beckman 1999: 34).

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united with a coalition of kings against the Hittites. However, the latter force prevailed. With the defeat of the anti-Hittite coalition, Aki-Teššup was captured and deported to Ḫatti. 60 This may have been the “hostile fate” that befell the unnamed servant//man//gardener of Egypt referred to in lines 21–24. In any case, it appears that Aziru of Amurru participated in the defeat of Aki-Teššup and the capture of Nii, his royal city (see lines 25–28; chap. 3). Following the practice of the Egyptians, Aki-Teššup’s son may have been sent to Egypt under the guise of being trained in the ways of the Egyptians in order that he might become a faithful vassal when the throne passed to him (Helck 1971: 155). This “hostage situation” also served the purpose of keeping Aki-Teššup in line while he was on the throne. It is likely that any act of infidelity would have resulted in the death of his son and heir. With the demise of Aki-Teššup, the city of Tunip looked to the return of his son from Egypt to take his place as their ḫazannu, even though Aki-Teššup appears to have ruled from Nii. According to Artzi (1964: 161), “This implies that they are ready to (re)change their inner political organization, which is now ‘democratic.’ ” Again, this conclusion betrays a narrow vision of political power and runs contrary to the evidence from Gubla and Irqata. As with those two cities, the evidence suggests that Tunip was represented by a collective political body that had the capacity and desire to request and operate in concert with a ḫazannu.

The Collective Political Action of the City Though the tablets from Gubla, Irqata, and Tunip are the only examples of missives sent from corporate bodies that represented the political voice of their respective “cities,” 61 there are a number of examples in which the corporate activities of a city are reported. Whereas the former category is largely concerned with the domestic affairs of the city from which the letter was sent, the latter focuses on the collective action of a city in “foreign” affairs. These affairs often revolve around the formation or 60. Note, however, that in the historical introduction to the second document of this “single diplomatic agreement” (Beckman 1999: 41), Aki-Teššup is said to have fled to Babylon before the onslaught of Ṣuttarna III, a Hurrian king who was working on behalf of the Assyrians. It was while he was in Babylon that he appears to have met his fate (Beckman 1999: 49). 61. In EA 89, Rib-Addu reproduces what he believes the collective political voice of the Tyrians would consist of if the king communicated with them: “But if you make inquiry about my brother, then the city will say, ‘This man is not the ḫazzanu. Inquire, O king, about him! We are unable to do anything!” (ù šum-ma a-na a-ḫi-ia ti-ša-i-lu ù ta-aq-bu URU annu-ú la-a ḫa-za-nu ša-al LUGAL-ru UGU-šu ú-ul ni-le-ú i-pé-eš mi-im-mi; lines 39–43).

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dissolution of political relationships with other distinct entities, indicating that the ḫazannūti were not the only figures who had the authority to take such an action. There are a number of phrases that are used to signal the dissolution and/or formation of a political relationship between political entities. The following examples constitute a representative though not exhaustive list. The first formula is constructed around the precative form of the verb paṭāru, “to loosen, release,” standing alone or in combination with the preposition ina or ana. This phrase is then followed by the name of the entity (X) with which the political alliance is being formed. The resulting idiom reads “to secede to X.” 62 The second, more common phrase consists of the verb epēšu, “to do, to make,” in combination with the preposition ana, which is also followed by the name of the entity (X) with which the political relationship is being forged. When epēšu is used in the N-stem, the middle voice is emphasized, resulting in the nuance “to align oneself with X.” 63 This formula is occasionally employed in the context of oath taking, which further highlights the commitment between the parties involved. The final phrase is related to the foregoing idiom in that it also involves the taking of an oath in the formation of a political alliance. Attested only once in the Amarna corpus (EA 149: 59–60), it consists of the verb tamû, “to swear,” followed by the phrase “and repeat an oath to one another” (ù iš-ta-ni ma-mi-ta i-na be-ri-šu-nu). All three of these phrases underscore the volition of the party or parties involved in the association being forged and should therefore be distinguished from instances in which cities are “taken” (leqû) 64 or “seized” (ṣabātu) 65 by force and probably against the will of their ḫazannūti and/or citizens. In addition, as with the act of communicating with the Egyptian king, the act of forging and/or dissolving relationships with other entities is a political act that requires some form of political power by those who are undertaking it. The Amarna letters attest three types of political alliances forged by cities. They include (a) alliances with other cities, (b) alliances with individuals who may or may not be identified with a particular urban center, and (c) alliances with groups who are not identified with an urban center. 62. See CAD P 296–97. 63. See CAD E 235. Contra Liverani (1979a) who, on analogy with Egyptian irw.m, takes this phrase to mean “to become like.” This rendering improperly removes the political implications inherent within the phrase. 64. See, e.g., EA 90: 25; 91: 4–5; 104: 30–33; 274: 15–16; 288: 36–38. 65. See, e.g., EA 118: 37–39; 179: 26; 185: 13–22, 28–29, 59; 186: 22–30, 61.

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Inter-City Alliances This category of political affiliation is admittedly quite small because there is only one explicit example of a city politically aligning itself with another city. Nevertheless, it provides an important window into the political options available to these entities. Following the trend of the other letters that we have examined, in EA 290 ʿAbdi-Ḫeba of Jerusalem describes the treachery of Milkilu, the ḫazannu of Gezer, and Šuardatu, another leader in the area. According to ʿAbdi-Ḫeba, these two men assembled the soldiers (ERÍNmeš) of Gezer (uruga-az-ri  ki), Gimtu (urugi-im-ti  ki) and Qiltu (uruqíil-ti  ki), and proceeded to seize the land of Rubutu (ṣa-ab-tum kur.ururu-bute ki; lines 8–11). Perhaps as a result of these hostilities, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba reports that uruBit-dNIN.URTA “seceded to the city 66 of the Qiltuites” (pa-ṭa-ra-at [a]-šar LÚmeš uruqí-il-ti  ki; lines 17–18). The resulting political alliance was particularly significant for ʿAbdi-Ḫeba because uruBit-dNIN.URTA had previously been a “city of the land of Jerusalem” (URU kurú-ru-sa10-lim ki; line 15). The facts that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba did not participate in the forging of this political alliance and that a ḫazannu is not associated with the activities of the Qiltuites in this context suggest that an inter-city alliance did not require the mediation of a ḫazannu. Rather, in this case it was negotiated—or was at least conceived as having been negotiated—by the representative populations of the cities themselves. This example may shed light on the political relationship that existed between the cities of Tyre, Beirut, and Ṣidon. Two texts offer examples of these three polities acting cooperatively as “cities,” suggesting a shared political affiliation with one another even in the absence of one of the characteristic phrases listed above. The first (EA 101) describes what appears to be the common affiliation of these cities with the land of Amurru. Because the passage under examination is slightly effaced, reconstructing the exact nature of the events that it describes is difficult. Nevertheless, it depicts the Tyrians ([LÚmeš] uruṣur-ri), Ṣidonians (LÚmeš [uru]ṣi-du-na), and the Beirutites (LÚmeš ⸢uru⸣be-ru-ta) corporately “bringing” [something] (wabālu; no direct object present in text) to the land of Amurru (lines 18–25). 67 In EA 114, these same polities are accused of gathering their ships at the city of Waḫliya (i-na ⸢uru⸣ya-áʾ-li-ia gišMÁmeš 66. For other examples of the use of ašar/ašru for “city,” see EA 99: 8; 267: 18; 286: 11; 293: 11; 321: 25; 322: 16. 67. I here follow Rainey’s (2015: 552), Moran’s (1992: 174 n. 7), and Naʾaman’s (1975: *63 n. 33) reading of line 23: [LÚmeš ]⸢uruṣur⸣-ri. A comparable scenario is described in EA 287: 14–16, where ʿAbdi-Ḫeba informs the king that the lands of Gezer (kur.⸢urugaz⸣-ri  ki) and Ašqaluna (kur.uruaš-qa-lu-na  ki) along with the city of Lachish (uru⸢la⸣-[ki]-⸢ši⸣  ki) have given (i-din-nu) food, oil, and other provisions to the ʿapîrû.

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LÚmeš uru⸢ṣur⸣-ri urube-ru-ta uruṣí-du-na; lines 11–13), probably in support of a blockade against Gubla (EA 105: 83–87; 114: 55–59). As Rib-Addu indicates, “[E]veryone in the land of Amurru is at peace with them” (gábbu i-na kura-mur-ri šal-mu šu-nu), emphasizing the fact that they had forged a corporate political relationship against him. As with the preceding example, the citizens of Tyre, Ṣidon, and Beirut apparently formed an alliance with one another in order to engage in collective political action. Alliances with Individual Leaders In addition to forming relationships with other cities, a city could forge political relationships with individuals who were identified with an urban center and those who were not. Both of these options are depicted in EA 149. In this text, Abi-Milku, the ḫazannu of Tyre expresses his concern over the fact that Zimredda, the ḫazannu of Ṣidon, Aziru, and the Arwadites (LÚmeš uruar-wa-da) “repeated oaths with one another” (iš-ta-ni ma-mi-ta i-na be-ri-šu-nu; line 60) and prepared “their ships, their chariots, and their soldiers” to take Tyre. Here, the corporate decision-making body of the Arwadites formed a political coalition with Zimredda, who is identified with Ṣidon, 68 and Aziru, who is not identified with an urban center. Though this alliance was forged by means of an oath, it illustrates the variability of these political coalitions. As was observed in EA 101 and 114 above, Ṣidon and Tyre were operating in concert. However, in this text, Abi-Milku fears being attacked by Ṣidon. In spite of the penalties that were undoubtedly associated with breaking an oath taken in the process of fostering a political alliance, polities apparently took the liberty of transferring their allegiances when it suited their interests. Reports of cities forming political alliances with ʿAbdi-Aširta and his sons are relatively common, particularly in the letters of Rib-Addu. 69 Two examples are sufficient to demonstrate this phenomenon. They both come from Rib-Addu’s description of the events surrounding his ultimate eviction from Gubla in EA 138. As observed above, Rib-Addu uses this letter to inform the king that, after his request for Egyptian troops went unan68. A similar attempt at forging a political relationship between a ḫazannu and the citizens of a city is recorded in EA 280. There, Šuwardata accuses ʿAbdi-Ḫeba of writing to the Qiluites (LÚmeš uruqé-el-te), who apparently were under the authority of Šuwardata, urging them to “take silver and follow me” (⸢li⸣-qa-mi KÙ.BABBARmeš ù ⸢al⸣-ku-ni a-na ar-ki-ia; lines 18–20). 69. See also EA 84: 11–13, where Ṣumur is accused of aligning itself with ʿAbdi-Aširta; EA 87: 19–20, where Baṭruna is accused of aligning itself with ʿAbdi-Aširta; and EA 88: 29–34, where Rib-Addu expresses his fear that Gubla will align itself with ʿAbdi-Aširta if the king does not take immediate action.

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swered, “The city said, ‘Abandon him (the king of Egypt)! Let us align with Aziru.’ ” (ti-iq-bi URU ki i-⸢zi⸣-bu-šu ni-te-pu-uš-mi a-na ma-zi-ri; lines 44– 45). This decision was probably motivated by the imminent threat posed by Aziru. The identity of the “city” (URU ki) to which Rib-Addu is referring is clearly the Gublites (⸢LÚmeš urugubub-li⸣; line 36), who are mentioned in the preceding passage. Underscoring his own loyalty to the king in spite of the force of popular opinion against him, Rib-Addu claims that he resisted this alternative and traveled to Beirut to establish an oath (ni-pu-[uš ki]-tam; line 53) with its ḫazannu, Ammunira. However, in his absence, his brother spoke and swore to the city/Gublites (yi-iq-bi ŠEŠ-ia ù ⸢yi⸣-it-mi a-na URU ki; lines 47–48) with the result that “the lords of the city aligned with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta” (lú.mešBE URU ki [ti]-⸢te⸣-pu-šu-mi a-na DUMUmeš mÌR-aš-ra⸢ti⸣; lines 49–50). As was indicated above, the name of a city (uruGN), as well as the phrases LÚmeš GN (“GN-ites”) and DUMUmeš GN (“the sons of GN”) can all be used to designate a corporate political body representing the political affairs of its respective city. In this letter, a fourth designation is added to the register, namely, “the lords of the city.” That the “lords of the city” were not simply “property owners” as Moran suggests (1992: 102 n. 5) but were representing the will of the city in the political alliance that they forged with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta is confirmed in lines 90–93. 70 To underscore his plight, Rib-Addu tells the king that “the city (URU ki) has said, ‘Look, Rib-Addu is living in Beirut. Where is a man who has come from the land of Egypt to him?’ ” Due to the lack of intervention, “They (the city) aligned themselves with Aziru” (te-né-pu-šu-na a-na ma-zi-ri; line 93). 71 Here, the political actions of “the city” and “the lords of the city” are equated. In the end, the collective body at Gubla rejected their ḫazannu’s 70. For a similar reference, see EA 102. Perhaps out of his frustration with his inability to incite the desired reaction from his Egyptian overlord, Rib-Addu addressed EA 102 to Yanḫami, an Egyptian rābiṣu. As his letter unfolds, Rib-Addu adds to his woes by lamenting that the city Ampi is now at war with him (ù a-nu-ma uruam-pi nu-kùr-⸢tu4⸣ it-ti-ia; lines 20–21). Consequently, the “rābiṣu and the lords of the city are at peace with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta” (lúGAL ù lú.mešbe-li URU-lim šal-mu it-ti ⸢DUMU⸣meš mÌR-aš-ra-ta; lines 22–23). Here again, the capacity to take political action in the form of an alliance with the sons of ʿAbid-Aširta is not limited to the ḫazannūti. In this case, there is no mention of a ḫazannu. It is the “lords of the city” with the support of their Egyptian rābiṣu who made this decision. 71. An instance in which a city takes steps to dissolve a political relationship with an individual is recorded in EA 197. There, Biryawaza of Damascus reports that the city of Yanuamma, which originally had a political relationship with him, “moved (yi-⟨⟨maš⟩⟩-namu-uš) against me (UGU-ia) and it barred the gate behind me” (lines 8–9).

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move to form a political alliance with Beirut 72 and formed their own alliance with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta. The second example is a collection of cities that aligned themselves with Pu-Baḫla, another one of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s sons (EA 104). Again, though this alliance is not marked by one of the characteristic phrases listed above, the relationship is clear. According to Rib-Addu, it included Ardata, Waḫlia, Ampi, and Šigata (lines 10–14) along with Ullassa and Erwada/ Arwada (lines 40–43). What is particularly interesting in this context is that the actions of these polities are not identified with or defined by the actions of their respective ḫazannūti or šarrū. Because none of the city names is preceded by the phrase LÚmeš, Moran (1992: 189 n. 3) argues that the names are actually referring to the leaders of those cities. However, as we have already observed, the “named polity in simple form (GN)” and the “adjectival form of the named entity” (LÚmeš GN) “function as equivalents, both representing the town or land in action as decision maker” (Fleming 2004: 190). 73 The collective capabilities of this coalition are described as the letter unfolds. Indicating that its members were prepared to participate in a coordinated military maneuver, Rib-Addu expresses his fear that, if anyone hears that he entered Ṣumur, the cities will attack him by sea while the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta attack him from the countryside (lines 40–48). 74 Alliances with Groups Unaffiliated with a Particular Urban Center Political coalitions forged between cities and with individual leaders seem like a natural phenomenon, particularly in the ancient world. What may be surprising, however, is the frequency with which cities allied themselves with people who are not identified with an urban center, specifically, the ubiquitous ʿapîrû. For example, in EA 76, Rib-Addu reports that Ṣumur aligned itself with the ʿapîrû (in4-né-ep-ša-at .  .  . a-na lúGAZmeš; lines 34–37). Again, in EA 104, Rib-Addu sends word that the city of Ibirta also aligned itself with the ʿapîrû after they had paid a visit to it (in4-né-ipša -⟨at⟩ a-na LÚmeš GAZmeš; lines 53–54). This testimony is made directly after Rib-Addu expresses his fear that, if he is attacked, Gubla will align itself with the ʿapîrû as well (ù ep-ša-at URU gub-la [a]-na LÚmeš GAZmeš; 72. Note the similar rejection recounted in EA 248. There, Yašdata reports that the “men of Taḫnaka” (⸢LÚmeš⸣ uruta-aḫ-[na]-⸢ka ⸣) slaughtered his oxen and drove him away (lines 14–17). 73. Elsewhere, when the action of such an entity is defined by the action of its leader, that leader is specifically mentioned. See, for example, EA 197, where Arsawuya of Ruḫizzi is accused of capturing Šaddu, and Biridašwa of Aštartu is accused of “causing the loss of the land of Upi.” 74. Compare with EA 105: 7–13.

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lines 51–52; see also EA 116: 37–38 and 117: 94). Similarly, Zimredda, the ḫazannu of Ṣidon, complains that “all the cities that the king gave into my hand have aligned themselves with the ʿapîrû” (en-ni-ip-šu a-na LÚmeš ⸢SA. GAZ⸣meš; EA 144: 25–26). In a valiant attempt to redeem the situation, he requests that the king place him in charge of a man who “will lead the archers of the king to call to account the cities that have aligned themselves with the ʿapîrû” (in4-né-ep-šu a-na LÚmeš SA.GAZmeš; lines 29–30). To be sure, a city’s ḫazannu often resisted the formation of a political relationship with the ʿapîrû, particularly if the Egyptians would have viewed it as an act of infidelity and a threat to their interests in the region. As a result, forming these relationships often required the citizens of a city to take drastic steps. At times, a third party instigated these actions. This is reflected in EA 73. There, Rib-Addu quotes from a letter written by ʿAbdi-Aširta to the Ammiyites (LÚmeš uruam-mi-ia; lines 26–27) in which he recommends the following course of action: “Kill your lord and align yourselves with the ʿapîrû” (du-ku-mi EN-ku-nu ù in-né-ep-šu a-na lú.mešGAZ; lines 27–29). The outcome of this exchange is detailed in two separate letters. In EA 74 and EA 75, Rib-Addu reports that the Ammiyites were “persuaded” by ʿAbdi-Aširta “and executed his words” (ù pa-aš-ḫatu-nu ù ti-né-ep-šu ki-ma [a]-⸢wa⸣-temeš-šu; EA 74: 27–28). Having “killed their lord” (⸢LÚ⸣meš uruam-mi-i ti-du-ku EN-⸢šu⸣-[nu]; EA 75: 33–34), “they became like the ʿapîrû” (i-ba-aš-šu ki-ma lú.mešGAZ; EA 74: 28–29). 75 A similar event is detailed in EA 81. According to Rib-Addu, ʿAbdi-Aširta wrote to the citizens of another city, the name of which has been lost to a break in the text (LÚmeš [URUxxx]-⸢na⸣), and gave them the following instructions: “Kill your lord and align yourselves with the ʿapîrû” ([du]-kumi EN-ku-nu ù in4-né-[ep-šu a-na] lú.mešGAZ; EA 81: 12–13).

Conclusion: Levantine Cities and Their Collective Political Activities This review of the various ways in which cities manifest themselves politically is by no means exhaustive. Nevertheless, the above examples reflect a wide spectrum of political representation. One end of the spectrum 75. See EA 74: 23–29 and 75: 30–34, where the fulfillment of this act is described. In EA 89, Rib-Addu reports that the citizens of Tyre also killed their ḫazannu along with the members of Rib-Addu’s own family: “They (the Tyrians [uruṣur-ri; line 18]) have surely killed their ḫazannu, together with my sister and her sons” (al-lu-ú ḫa-za-na-šu-n da-ku qa-du a-ḫa-ti-ia ù DUMUmeš-še; lines 20–21). Unfortunately, there is not enough information in this letter to shed light on the motivations of the Tyrians or any political affiliations that may have been involved. Nevertheless, it provides yet another example of the citizens of a city taking political action against their leader and his allies.

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consists of cities that were represented by the political voice and actions of their respective ḫazannūti alone. These include such cities as uruQaṭna, which was represented by Akizzi (EA 52–55); uruAkka, which was represented by Surata (EA 8, 88, 232–34, 245, 366); and uruMegiddo, which was represented by Biridiya (EA 242–45). The other end of the spectrum consists of cities that took corporate political action in the absence of a ḫazannu, as was the case with Tunip, 76 or against their ḫazannu, as was the case with Gubla, Bit-dNIN.URTA, and Ammiya. 77 Finally, the city of Irqata, which shows evidence of a collective body of elders operating in cooperation with its ḫazannu, falls somewhere in the middle of this spectrum. As we observed in the foregoing analysis of the situation at Gubla, however, the location of a city along this spectrum was subject to change over a short period of time. Not only did the cities themselves demonstrate a high degree of variability, but so too did the types of political coalitions that these cities could form. As we have seen, these coalitions were flexible, and perhaps even fickle, in terms of both type and membership. These observations ultimately call into question the static models of city-states and their political activities that dominate the field. 76. Compare this with the notice regarding the citizens of Ṣidon and Beirut in EA 118: 24–32. 77. See also the exploits of the Taḫnakites in EA 248: 14–17 and the Tyrians in EA 89: 18–21.

Chapter 3

Lands of the Southern Levant Introduction In chap. 2, I investigated the nature of cities (URU/ālu) and introduced the various ways in which they were represented and took action in the Amarna letters. Though the political will of a city was often identified with and executed by its leader, or ḫazannu, the citizens of a city and/or the collective decision-making body that represented them could also take political action. This took the form of sending diplomatic correspondence to the king of Egypt and others, and forging political alliances with the citizens of other cities, with individual leaders, and with other categories of people such as the ʿapîrû. Activities such as these ultimately reflect the dialectical and diffuse nature of social power. As I pointed out, corporate/intermember and exclusionary/systemic forms of power often coexisted within a single political unit. While these two power strategies could operate in concert with one another, they could also struggle against one another. The latter phenomenon is attested most clearly in the letters from Gubla, which depict an ongoing conflict between the Gublites and their ḫazannu Rib-Addu—a conflict that ultimately led to the rejection and exile of the latter. Rather than corresponding to the currently prevailing model of hierarchically organized “Canaanite” polities, the cities of the land spanned the spectrum of power relations, and their political structures and affiliations were subject to change over time. The second major unit attested in the Amarna archive is the land (KUR/mātu). As with the city, a land is a complex political entity that resists categorization along narrowly defined parameters. This is immediately evident in the fact that the determinative KUR is used to designate two entirely different types of political organization. The first, which I refer to as centralized lands, were characterized by a high degree of centralization under an administrative complex located in a single urban center or royal city. By contrast, the second consisted of a collection of independent cities and centralized lands, each of which fell under the immediate authority of its respective ḫazannu, king, and/or collective governing body. 81

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In spite of their independence, these entities took collective political action in cooperation with one another. I therefore refer to them as multipolity decentralized lands. While the political will of these opposing units was often associated with and articulated by their governing ḫazannūti and/ or kings, there is evidence that the populations of both could take collective political action much in the same way that the citizens of a city could (Fleming 2004: 29). In the end, the city, the centralized land, and the multipolity decentralized land embodied two distinct forms of political organization. The first, represented by the city and the centralized land, revolved around and was defined by a single urban center. The second, represented by the multipolity decentralized land, was based upon the cooperation of multiple centers and/or entities. As I demonstrated in chap. 2, multiple cities could form political alliances with one another. However, such alliances did not necessarily constitute a multipolity decentralized land. Dynamics such as these require that we evaluate the unique characteristics of centralized lands and multipolity decentralized lands. As with the preceding study of cities, this approach will bring into focus the variety of polity types that populated the land during the LB and will set the stage for a more complete understanding of the land of Amurru and the land of Shechem.

Centralized Lands in the Amarna Letters If the city was the basic political unit of the LB Levant, the centralized land was a more complex form of political organization. Nevertheless, it was still constructed upon this principal building block. A centralized land was a politically integrated unit that consisted of multiple dependent cities. 1 At the head of those cities stood an administrative center or “royal capital” from which the ruler of the centralized land governed. The elevated position of this figure is reflected in his title. As opposed to the leader of an individual city, who was generally referred to as a ḫazannu, the leader of a centralized land often took the title “king” (LUGAL/šarru). In addition, the prominence of the administrative center is underscored by the fact that it regularly lent its name to the centralized land, which commonly took the form kurGN, “the land of GN.” For instance, the “land of Ammiya” (kuram-mi-ia; EA 139: 14; 140: 11) was a centralized land administered from 1. On a larger scale, this type of polity is reflected in the political units that consist of various districts (ḫalṣum or gnomes) and cities that fall under the authority of a single king and his administration (Fleming 2004: 133, 136–38). Examples of such large-scale polities referred to in the Amarna letters include Ḫatti (kurḪatti, kurNaḫrima), Mittani (kurMitanni, kurḪanigalbat, kurḫar-wu-ḫe), Babylon (kurKarduniaš), and Egypt (kurMašrianni, kurMiṣri).

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the city of Ammiya, and the “land of Irqata” (kurir-qa-ta 139: 15; 140: 10) was a centralized land administered from the city of Irqata. 2 An alternative, though less common designation further highlights the leading role that the administrative center played in defining a land. Texts stemming from the Hittite and/or Northern Syrian scribal tradition (Moran 1975: 151; Adamthwaite 1992: 8; Fleming 2004: 132) often affix the determinative URU to the name of the capital city to create the designation kur.uruGN, “the land of (the city) GN” (Rainey 1996a: 1.29). Thus, Ammistamru, the king of Ugarit, refers to his domain as the kur.uruú-ga-ri-ti, “the land of (the city) Ugarit” (EA 45: 35). Similarly, in the letters of ʿAbdi-Ḫeba, whose name bears witness to his connection with northern traditions, this designation is employed when reference is made to his own domain (“the land of [the city] Jerusalem”; kur.uruú-ru-ša10-lim; EA 287: 25, 46) as well as to the centralized lands administered from Gezer (kur.urugaz-ri  ki; EA 287: 14), 3 Ašqaluna (kur.uruaš-qa-lu-na ki; EA 287: 14), Gintikirmil (kur.urugín-ti-kiir-mi-il  ki ; EA 289: 18), and Rubutu (kur.ururu-bu-te  ki ; EA 290: 11). 4 This system of naming reflects the sociopolitical complexity of centralized lands. In his study of the evidence from Mari, Fleming (2004: 116) concluded that a centralized land “was always defined with reference to towns (ālum)” because they were the “building block[s]” of the land. If we recall that the term URU/ālu was, above all, a political designation that referred to the populations who were identified with the city in view (chap. 2), then centralized lands were “defined not by place but by population” (Fleming 2004: 29). 5 Consequently, a centralized land was “created 2. The same can be said for the evidence from Mari. According to Fleming, “Most often . . . the mātum appears to be named for its central ālum settlement” (Fleming 2004: 121). In the Amarna letters, scribes used the determinative KUR to identify these polities. Functioning in this way, KUR would not have been articulated as a separate word. In order to acknowledge this category, however, I will translate it as I have in these examples. 3. On the basis of EA 273 and EA 298, in combination with the fact that Milkilu was the ḫazannu of Gazru (see esp. EA 254 and 290), the kur.uruGazri ki mentioned in EA 287 may have included the cities of Ayyaluna, Ṣarḫa, and Muḫḫazu. 4. KURmeš uruGN, “the lands of the city GN” (see, e.g., EA 178: 4–5 KURmeš ⸢uru⸣yata-ni) is also attested (see also EA 1: 39; 53: 42; 138: 85; 139: 14–15; 140: 11–12; 175: 10; 176: 10; 197: 32; 287: 61). See Adamthwaite 1992: 8, who makes the same distinction in his analysis of these determinatives in the letters of ʿAbdi-Ḫeba, the leader of Jerusalem. He suggests that the reference to kurú-ru-sa-lim, “the land of Jerusalem,” in EA 287: 61 is an exceptional case because one would expect the writing kur.uruú-ru-ša10-lim (‘the land of the city Jerusalem’) as it is found in lines 25, 46, and 63 (kur.ḫi.a.uruú-ru-ša10-lim). In EA 289, the writing uruú-rusa-lim (lines 14, 29) indicates that the city itself is in view. Compare with the reference to ururu-bu-⸢tá⸣ and its fate in lines 11–13. 5. As I will discuss in greater detail in chap.  4, the factors involved in classifying group identity were more complex than this. Urban affiliation did not necessarily imply

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by combining populations across distance” (Fleming 2004: 116; see also Naʾaman 2005c: 158). This view stands in sharp contrast to the commonly held idea that kings “ruled over people through their rule over territory, not over territory through their rule over people” (Dodgshon 1987: 137). It also implies that several levels of political identification were involved with every centralized land. On the most basic level, populations identified themselves with the city from which they originated and the social structures associated with it. When these populations were absorbed into a centralized land, another, broader political identity was introduced (see Fleming 2003: 117). For example, as I pointed out in chap.  2, the land of Jerusalem included the citizens of uruBit-dNIN.URTA (EA 290: 15–16). The fact that the land in question took on the name of the administrative center indicates that the primary identities of the incorporated cities were subsumed under the larger identity of the centralized land—at least from the perspective of the central administration. Accordingly, to ʿAbdi-Ḫeba, Bit-dNIN.URTA was “a city of the land of Jerusalem” (URU kurú-ru-ša10-lim  ki; line 15). From the perspective of the dependent populations, however, the situation was more complicated, because conflict between these competing identities could arise. As I will explore in greater detail below, it was the primary identification of the uruBit-dNIN.URTA-ites that eventually allowed them, or motivated their decision to secede to the Qiltuites (EA 290: 17–18). In order to reduce the risk of such an event, the central administration employed several strategies of centralization that contributed to the defining character of centralized lands. The Strategies of Centralization and the Character of Centralized Lands Combining a variety of independent populations to form a single political organism that represented a unique political identity was a difficult task. This was largely due to the fact that the disparate populations that a centralized land absorbed tended to maintain the social, cultural, and political traditions that were associated with their city of origin; the kinship identity to which they laid claim; differences in lifestyle and occupation; or a combination of all of these things. As Feinman (1998: 106–7) indicates, “in the pre-industrial world . . . individuals in a population generally bethat a population identified itself as “urban dwellers.” Nor did it imply that they resided in an urban center for an extended period of time. There is evidence that groups who spent a large portion of the year away from a settled center could still be affiliated with one. Accordingly, lands were “adapted to peoples who were defined in both tribal and non-tribal terms” (Fleming 2004: 29).

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long to an array of nested social groups and arrangements, the nature and number” of which have significant implications “when it comes to organizing or integrating the whole population” 6 and maintaining the political integrity of a centralized land. There are, however, a number of tactics that could be used to achieve political unity in spite of these competing identities. Though a central authority is unable to control every resource through which power is exercised (see chap.  2 above), it can transition from a “microlevel” polity to a “macrolevel” polity (Lehman 1969) through a twofold process. First, it must extend its influence over a broad range of social spheres or resources through which it can exercise its power. Second, it must penetrate deeply into those social spheres or resources (Flannery 1972: 409–11). These goals are achieved through the process of “differentiation,” whereby the central administration seeks to disembed and institutionalize “major social and cultural activities, as well as certain basic resources,” including “manpower, economic resources, [and] commitments . . . from kinship, territorial and other ascriptive units” (Eisenstadt 1964: 376). In so doing, the central authority creates and absorbs free-floating resources that are no longer associated primarily with the traditional sources of identity and authority in which they were originally embedded. Examples of this can include the creation of a standing army that replaces local militias, the implementation of a system of taxation that overshadows and impinges upon local sources of revenue, and/or the introduction of a standardized law code that usurps the authority of local law codes and those who administer them (see esp. Eisenstadt 1964). There are two benefits associated with this process. The institutionalization of social resources enables a central administration to “cut across social divisions and recombine them” (Yoffee 2005: 15; see also Mann 1984: 170; Parsons 1967) in a way that promotes a higher level of social “integration” in which “differentiated social groups come to exist within an institutionalized framework” (Yoffee 2005: 32). In this way, “initial political 6. Similarly, Marfoe (1979: 3) indicates that “[g]roup alignments are frequently classified by a diverse assortment of real or presumed kinship ties, by racial or linguistic groups, by sectarian or regional affiliations, or simply by ‘local customs.’ ” As a result, the full integration of marginal social groups relying on a broad pattern of shifting subsistence strategies was difficult to achieve not only because tax rights and patron-client relationships could be changed from year to year, but also because cultural identities and political affiliations under these conditions were diffuse, ambivalent, and constantly interchangeable. . . . [T]here continually existed progressively lower substrata of smaller local units, whose cohesiveness was founded on common economic, social, cultural, ethnic, ecologic, or kinship ties. . . . [T]he ideological contribution to political integration—as seen in the identification of specific leaders with specific sectarian groups—became as much fact as it was fiction. (Marfoe 1979: 19–20; see also Yoffee 2005: 36)

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disunity is transformed into” a political unit “that is the expression of [an] underlying cultural unity” (Yoffee 2005: 133; see also Adams 1978: 333). As E. Wolf points out, this was the very process that facilitated the colonization of Africa. “Colonialism overrode the kin-based and tributary politics it encountered” with “new ethnic and class identities” that “replaced older . . . decentered ties” (Wolf 1990: 590). Even with the demise of colonialism, the same strategy was employed in the formation of independent African nations, a phenomenon that C. Geertz (1973: 193–341) refers to as the “integrative revolution.” The result was “the aggregation of independently defined, specifically outlined traditional primordial groups into larger, more diffuse units whose implicit frame of reference is not the local scene but the ‘nation’ ” (Geertz 1973: 306–307). In addition to integrating disparate elements of a population, differentiation creates institutions “that are capable of precluding, or at least limiting, the exercise of intermember” or corporate “power strategies.” By disembedding and co-opting local sources of social power, the central administration is able to increase its own authority. Returning to the militaristic sphere, rather than relying on the process of mustering troops from its individual constituents, a central administration can create a standing military force that is first and foremost identified with it and/or its leader. In so doing, it reduces the capacity of its constituents to determine if and when they will engage in military maneuvers. Exclusionary or systemic power is therefore “basic to the establishment of politically unified states that can transcend the scale limits inherent in personalized power networks” (Blanton 1998: 146; see also Eisenstadt 1963: chap. 2; Wolf 1990: 594; Lehman 1969: 455–56). There are two immediate indications of this process occurring in the formation of a centralized land. The first of these is the elevation of a single leader over the entire political complex. In the Amarna archive, the unique status of those who filled this position is underscored by the fact that they are often referred to as kings (LUGAL/šarru). 7 For example, in EA 53, Akizzi, the ḫazannu of Qaṭna, confesses his love for the king of the land of Nii (LUGAL kurni-i), the king of the land of Zinzar (LUGAL kurzi-in-za-ar), and the king of the land of Tunanat (LUGAL kurtu-na-na-at; lines 42–43). Similarly, in EA 139: 14–15 and 140: 10–12, the citizens of Gubla inform their Egyptian overlord that Aziru killed “the king of the land of Ammiya” 7. See also EA 175: 10 (LÚ kurqí-in-sà) and 176: 10 (⸢LÚ⸣ kurqí-in-sà). Compare with EA 59, where the recipient is referred to as “the king of the land of Egypt” (LUGAL KUR-ti4 mi-iṣ-ri) in the opening line and in a number of the lines that follow (10, 18, 30, 43). See also EA 1: 3, 51; 2: 1; 3: 1; 4: 6; 7: 1; 8: 2; 9: 1, 26; 10: 1; 11: 1; 15: 1; 16: 2; 19: 1; 28: 1; 30: 4; 31: 1; 33: 1; 34: 2; 35: 1–2; 38: 1–2; 39: 1–3; 40: 1–3; 51: 1; 52: 1; 197: 25.

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(LUGAL kuram-mi-ia), the “king of the land of Ardata” (LUGAL kurel/arda-ta), and the “king of the land of Irqata” (LUGAL kurir-qa-ta). 8 Paralleling the evidence from Mari, in the Amarna letters in order for a political entity to be treated as a land by the authors of the letters there had to be leadership by a king (see Fleming 2004: 104–6; 114–17). An interesting point of contrast to these examples occurs when the administrative center of a centralized land is represented by a collective decision-making body. In these cases, the polity in question takes the determinative URU, even if a king was operating in that center. Irqata is an excellent case in point. As the above examples demonstrate, when reference is made to the king of Irqata, his region is referred to as a land (kurirqa-ta). 9 However, throughout EA 100, which contains the message of “the city Irqata and its elders” (um-ma uruir-qa-ta ù lú.mešši-bu-ti-ši; lines 3–4; see chap. 2 above), Irqata takes the determinative URU (see also lines 8, 10, 15, 18, 23). A similar phenomenon occurs with Ammiya. In EA 139 and 140, where reference is being made to its king, it takes the determinative KUR (LUGAL kuram-mi-ia). By contrast, in the reports of Rib-Addu that describe ʿAbdi-Aširta’s successful attempt to persuade the Ammiyites to kill their leader, Ammiya takes the determinative URU (LÚmeš uruam-miia; EA 73: 26–27; 74: 25; 75: 33). This slight shift in terminology indicates that the authority of a king was more extensive than that of a local governing body. While the latter only had the capacity to represent the city with which it was associated, a king’s authority extended over the entire complex of cities that fell within his domain. The second, related indication of the process of centralization occurring with the formation of a centralized land is the isolation of a single administrative center (ālu) that is viewed as the sole “capital” or “royal city” of the entire complex. As the royal capital from which major political decisions were made for the entire land, it overshadowed the political will and authority of the other cities and their administrative bodies within the land. As with the elevation of a single leader, the isolation of a new capital “served to dislocate and disenfranchise old elites and bureaucratic 8. Three exceptions to this pattern are found in EA 147, EA 227, and EA 256. In the first, Zimredda is referred to as “the king of (the city) Ṣidon” (⸢LUGAL⸣ uruṣí-du-na; lines 66–67). In the second, ʿAbdi-Tirši refers to himself as “the king of (the city) Ḫaṣor” (LUGAL uruḫa-ṣú-ri  ki; line 3). In the third, Mut-Baḫlu uses the title “the king of (the city) Piḫilu” (LUGALurupí-ḫi-lì; line 8). These deviations from the standard practice suggest that the authority of these men extended beyond their respective cities. For a discussion of ʿAbdiTirši’s realm, see chap. 2 above. For a discussion Mut-Baḫlu’s realm, see chap. 6 below. 9. See, however, the proposed reconstruction of EA 75: 25–26 (ma-⸢du⸣-[na] [LUGAL] uruir-qa-⸢ta⸣).

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networks” and to represent “changes in administrative power and purpose” (Baines and Yoffee 1998: 209). These observations explain the different ways in which political entities are defined in the Amarna letters. 10 When a centralized land is conquered by an opponent and its administrative center, dependent cities, and affiliated populations are absorbed into the conqueror’s domain, the original royal capital no longer takes the determinative KUR but the determinative URU. For example, though Nii is referred to as a centralized land in EA 53: 42 when it is ruled by Aki-Teššub (LUGAL kurni-i), after he is defeated by the Hittites (Beckman 1999: 43) and his royal capital is captured by Aziru, Nii is identified as a “city” (uruni-i; EA 59: 28). A combination of these two phenomena occurs in the various references to Ardata. Though they all speak of the fall of this polity, in references to the fallen king, Ardata takes the determinative KUR (EA 139: 12–17; 140: 10–16). 11 However, in references to the besieged or captured city, Ardata takes the determinative URU (EA 75: 30–34; 88: 4–9; 104: 4–14; 109: 10–12). 12 As we will observe in the case studies undertaken in part 2 of this survey, the elevation of a single leader and the establishment of a single administrative center were not the only strategies used by the central administration to co-opt power from the periphery and unite a variety of disparate populations. Nevertheless, these methods were basic to the formation of a centralized land. The Corporate Political Volition of Centralized Lands and Their Constituents As we observed in the case of Irqata, though an array of strategies were at their disposal, the royal administration of a centralized land was never able to co-opt the social power of its dependent populations completely. Just as corporate and exclusionary forms of power could coexist within a single city (chap. 2), the populations who constituted a land also had the 10. This serves as a response to Horowitz (1995: 215 n. 14) who, following Adamthwaite (1992: 8–9), argues, “Amarna period scribes do not use the geographic indicators KUR, URU, and KI consistently.” See my discussion of this claim in chap. 2. 11. Note also that the reference to the fallen king of Irqata takes the same form in these texts. 12. Compare with EA 81: 11–13 (Ammiya), EA 88: 4–9 (Irqata), and EA 289: 11–14, 25–36 (Jerusalem). This phenomenon may also help explain the difference in the reference to Rubutu in EA 289 and EA 290. In the former letter, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba informs the king that Milkilu and his father-in-law Tagi took the city of Rubutu (ururu-bu-⸢tá⸣; line 13). However, in EA 290, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba reports that the forces of Milkilu and Šuwardata seized the land of Rubutu (kur.ururu-bu-te  ki; line 11). This may be interpreted as a notice that the city of Rubutu fell to Milkilu and Tagi (EA 289) only after the land associated with it fell into the hands of Milkilu and Šuwardata (EA 290).

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capacity to exert their own political will (Fleming 2004: 121). Again, Fleming’s observations are helpful in this regard. Though the “mātum comes to identify the realm of a king, or that which he rules . . . it can exist apart from the king himself,” as a “population with its own political will. Conceptually, the mātum is apart from the king and, by its very separation, represents a distinct political force” with which a king must continually negotiate (Fleming 2004: 106, 117; see also p. 121). 13 If these negotiations failed, the land had the capacity to assert its own political will over and against that of its king. This phenomenon is referred to in general terms throughout the Amarna corpus when “lands,” like cities, exert their political volition by “seceding” (paṭāru), 14 “fleeing” (ḫalāqu), 15 and “aligning themselves with” (nēpušu + ana) 16 other political entities. In contrast to the alliances forged by cities, however, the entities with which lands affiliated themselves are limited. In all but two cases, when the political partner involved is named, the land either “deserts to,” “flees to,” or “aligns itself ” with the ʿapîrû. In the remaining instances, the “land” aligns itself with ʿAbdi-Aširta (EA 79: 42–44; 84: 9–10), who was also regarded by some as an ʿapîrû (see chap. 6 below). In these examples, the term ʿapîrû may have been used as a pejorative to refer to an individual or entity that was acting against the interests of the Egyptians or the more immediate interests of the leaders who sent these reports. 17 If this was the case, they shed very little light on the specifics of these alliances. Nevertheless, they support the contention that lands had the capacity to engage in political activities that were not identified with their leaders. Lands could also be “taken” (lêqu) 18 by an inimical force. However, as the representation of a population, lands are never “given” (nadānu) to 13. This reflects Mann’s (1986: 165–66) assertion that it is only when “the techniques of compulsory cooperation are successful” that “it is [in] everyone’s interest to be part of a larger imperial domain.” 14. EA 272: 14–17; 273: 11–14; 286: 35; 289: 44; 290: 12–13, 23–24. 15. EA 215: 13–15; 274: 10–14. So too do cities flee in EA 207: 19–21. 16. EA 73: 32–33; 74: 34–36; 76: 34–37; 77: 28–29; 79: 19–20; 85: 71–73 and 88: 29–34. See CAD E 191, 231, 235. In EA 148: 45, the king of uruḪaṣura aligned (i-pu-uš) the land of the king with the ʿapîrû. Cities also align themselves with another polity in EA 73: 26–29; 76: 34–37; 81: 12–13; 88: 29–34; 104: 51–54; 116: 37–38; 117: 94; 144: 24–30. So too do men in EA 121: 19–22. 17. See also EA 74 and 75, where Rib-Addu compares the Ammiyites with the ʿapîrû (i-ba-aš-šu ki-ma lú.mešGAZ; 74: 28–29) after they kill their lord (⸢LÚ⸣meš uruam-mi-i⟨a⟩ tidu-ku EN-⸢šu⸣-[nu]; 75: 33–34). 18. EA 83: 15–18; 284: 6–8; 288: 6–8. Cities are also “taken” (EA 90: 25; 91: 4–5; 104: 30–33; 274: 15–16) as well as “seized” (ṣabātu; EA 118: 37–39; 179: 26; 185: 13–38, 59; 186: 13–30, 61).

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another polity by anyone, including their own kings. This stands in contrast to examples of cities (ālus) being given (nadānu) to another individual or group. 19 The exchange of cities is not uncommon to the ancient Near East because they were “the political tender of kings” (Fleming 2004: 173). As an example, when Ibal-pi-el II of Ešnunna cuts a treaty with Zimri-Lim, “he treats walled towns as the primary unit of exchange in barter over territory” (Fleming 2004: 173). By contrast, the only way in which lands can exchange hands is by means of political force. This may reflect the ancient notion that “[t]he gods bestow on rulers not a city but a mātum” (Fleming 2004: 120; see also pp. 130–32). Such a world view would certainly prevent a king from believing that he had the authority to take this type of action himself. Essentially, while individuals could “give” cities, it was the prerogative of the gods to give lands. On a practical level, this is sensible. It would run contrary to the interests of a king for him to hand over the entire domain of his authority. 20 Though lands are never given to another entity by an individual, there is one instance in which the collective populations of two lands exercised their political will by “giving” provisions, without any reference to their respective leaders. In EA 287: 14–16, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba informs the king that the centralized lands of Gezer (kur.⸢urugaz⸣-ri  ki) and Ašqaluna (kur.uruaš-qalu-na  ki), along with the city of Lachish (uru⸢la⸣-[ki]-⸢ši⸣ ki) gave (i-din-nu) food, oil, and other provisions to an unnamed entity. This parallels the report in EA 101, where the Ṣidonians, Beirutites, and the Tyrians are accused of furnishing Amurru with some sort of commodity (see chap. 2 above). In both of these cases, emphasis is placed upon the collective activities of the populations as a whole rather than the activities of their individual ḫazannūti and/or kings. 21 The exercise of intermember power strategies by the population of a land is brought into sharp relief in EA 290, which describes the actions taken by the constituents of Jerusalem. ʿAbdi-Ḫeba opens this correspondence with the following complaint: 19. See, for example, EA 197: 28–30 where Arsawuya, the ḫazannu of Ruḫizzi, is accused of seizing (iṣ-ba-at) uruŠaddu and giving it to (ya-di-in4-ši a-na) the ʿapîrû.” However, it should be emphasized that this case is unique in that Arsawuya did not originally have authority over Šaddu. This was a distinct entity that was taken by force and subsequently handed over like a commodity. 20. These insights call into question the conventional reading of EA 289: 21–24, which contends that Labʾayu, who is regarded as the king of Shechem, gave the land of Shechem to the ʿapîrû. I will address this reading in chap. 6. 21. Contrast this with EA 186: 26–27, which emphasizes the activities of the ruler of a city rather than its population: “and Amanḫatpe, the man of Tušultu (LÚ uru⸢tu⸣-[šal-ti ki]), gave food (i-di-nu-⸢mi⸣ NINDAmeš) and [ . . . ] to the ʿapîrû.”

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Consider the deed (against) the land that Milkilu and Šuwardata did: Against the land of the king my lord they ordered 22 the troops of Gazru, the troops of Gimtu, and the troops of Quiltu. They seized the land of Rubute. The land of the king has deserted to the ʿapîrû. And now, in addition to this, a city of the land of Jerusalem, whose name is uruBit-dNIN. URTA, a city of the king, seceded to the city of the Qiltuites. (lines 5–18) 23

According to this account, the Bit-NIN.dURTA-ites were originally part of the centralized mātu administered by ʿAbdi-Ḫeba from Jerusalem. Consequently, one aspect of their identity would have been defined by their association with the land of Jerusalem and their identification as one of its constituents. In this way, they would have been reckoned as Jerusalemites. In the face of increasing hostilities in the region (see EA 286–89; chap. 6), however, they appear to have appealed to their local identity as Bit-NIN. dURTA-ites over and against their identity as members of a centralized land for the purpose of pursuing their own immediate interests. Of course, this came at the expense of the interests of the land of Jerusalem. A similar phenomenon may have informed the activities reported by Šuwardata in EA 281. Reflecting the circumstances that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba faced in EA 290, Šuwardata notifies the king that his own cities became hostile toward him in EA 281 (⸢URUdidli⸣.meš-ia ⸢nu⸣-KÚRmeš ⸢a-na ia-ši⸣; lines 10–11). He is more specific with regard to the primary players involved in EA 280. There he reports that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba wrote to the Qiltuites, the very polity with which the Bit-NIN. dURTA-ites had formed a political alliance in EA 290, asking them to “accept silver and follow” him (⸢li⸣-qa-mi KÙ.BABBARmeš ù ⸢al⸣-ku-ni a-na ar-ki-ia; lines 19–20). Apparently, the Qiltuites accepted ʿAbdi-Ḫeba’s offer, motivating Šuwardata to request the king’s permission to wage war against them (EA 280: 9–11). In the end, permission was granted, resulting in the return of Qiltu to Šuwardata, who, as the leader of a centralized land, specifically refers to it as “my city” (URUkiia; EA 280: 14; see also EA 279: 11–13). Both of these examples indicate that the administration of a centralized land “may be just another competitor in purely inter-member power struggles” (Lehman 1969: 461; see also Feinman 1998: 112). This is largely due to the fact that “traditional practices and kinship relations, even tribal 22. See Moran 1992: 334; 1975: 151; line 25. 23. [a]-⸢mur ip-ša⸣ KUR ša e-pu-šu-ni mmil-ki-lu ù mšu-ar-da-tu4 a-na KUR LUGAL-ri EN-ia mu-ʾì-ru ÉRINmeš uruga-az-ri ki ÉRINmeš urugi-im-ti ki ù ÉRINmeš uruqí-il-ti ki ṣa-ab-tum kur.ururu-bu-te ki pa-ṭa-ra-at KUR LUGAL-ri a-na lú.mešḫa-pí-ri ù i-na-an-na ap-pu-na-ma uru.kurú-ru-sa -lim ki šu-mu-ša uruÉ-dNIN.URTA URU LUGAL-ri pa-ṭa-ra-at [a]-šar LÚmeš 10 uruqí-il-ti ki.

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identifications, remain very prominent” in centralized lands in spite of the strategies used by the central administration to increase its own power at the expense of that of its constituents (see Giddens 1984: 183). Ultimately, these power struggles come to a head when “the center refuses to incorporate the needs and orientations of local leadership in the formulation of political goals” or when it attempts “to replace the beliefs and values of peripheral groups with the beliefs and values of the central ruling elite” (Yoffee 2005: 139; see also Blanton 1998: 137). In Yoffee’s estimation, these were the very things that led to the demise of the Akkadian dynasty established by Sargon during the latter half of the third millennium: “The collapse of the Akkadian state can therefore be ascribed to the failure of Sargon and his descendants to integrate the traditional leadership of the city-state into the new venture of the territorial state and its imperial ambitions” (Yoffee 2005: 143). It is important to note, however, that this type of political flux “should not be viewed as an alteration between phases of static equilibrium, each characterized by a dominant sociopolitical structure, but in terms of sociopolitical organisms composed of small units, which are continually changing and which are tied politically by a variety of elastic sociocultural bonds” (Marfoe 1979: 35). Centralized lands and the cities that were affiliated with them are therefore best characterized as being in a constant state of flux as the administrators of exclusionary power and corporate power struggled with one another. Centralized Lands in the Levantine Landscape In total, approximately 15 Levantine polities referred to in the Amarna letters can be identified as centralized lands. They include Ammiya, Ardata, Aškaluna, Gezer, Gintikirmil, Joppa, Irqata, Jerusalem, 24 Kinsa/ Kissa, 25 Kadeš, 26 Nii, 27 Rubutu, Tunanab, Ugarit, and Zinzar. 28 The “land of Shechem,” which is attested only in EA 289: 23, and “the land of Amurru” raise several unique questions. Because of this, I have reserved treatment of them for part 2 of this book. Due to the limited nature of our evidence, it is unlikely that this is an exhaustive list. These impediments are compounded 24. Ammiya: EA 139: 14; 140: 11. Ardata: EA 139: 15; 140: 12. Aškaluna: EA 287: 14. Gezer: EA 287: 14. Gintikirmil: EA 289: 18. Joppa: EA 138: 85. Irqata: EA 75: 26; 88: 6; 139: 15; 140: 10. Jerusalem: EA 287: 25, 46, 61, 63; 290: 15. 25. Kinsa/Kissa: EA 175: 10; 176: 10; 197: 32. Kinsa is also listed as a land under the authority of a king in several Hittite vassal treaties. See Beckman 1999: 39, 43–44, 55–56, 59, 62, 66, 94. 26. Kadeš: EA 189: 12. 27. Nii: EA 53: 42. Nii is also listed as a land under the authority of a king in several Hittite vassal treaties. See Beckman 1999: 34, 39, 43, 56, 66. 28. Rubutu: EA 290: 11. Tunanab: EA 53: 43. Ugarit: EA 1: 39; 45: 35. Zinzar: EA 53: 42.

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by the inherent distinction that is drawn between the administrative center of a centralized land and the “land” itself. As I have already noted, the former could be referred to as an independent entity even if it served as the administrative center of a centralized land. In these cases, the determinative URU is employed to designate the city proper. 29 An example of this is found in EA 289. After indicating that the centralized land of Gintikirmil (kur.urugín-ti-ki-ir-mi-il ki) was under the authority of Tagi, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba goes on to inform his king that the men of the city of Ginti (LÚmeš uru ⸢gín⸣-ti ki), an abbreviated form of Gintikirmil, are garrisoned at Beth-Shean (lines 18–20). Here, the city takes the determinative URU when it is referred to as an independent entity and KUR.URU when the entire land is in view. Similarly, though Ugarit is spoken of as a centralized land in EA 1: 39 (kuruga-ri-it[k]i; see also EA 45: 35), when reference is made to the palace of the city of Ugarit itself, it is marked with the determinative URU (EA 89: 48–51; 151: 55–56). 30 This suggests that some entities that are only attested with the determinative URU may in fact have served as the administrative center of a centralized land of the same name. Gubla represents a likely case in point. Though it is never introduced with the determinative KUR, a number of Rib-Addu’s correspondences make it clear that other cities fell within its domain. 31 In EA 81, Rib-Addu laments the fact that ʿAbdi-Aširta has “taken all my cities for himself ” (ílti-qé ka-li URU⸢ki⸣.meš-⸢ia⸣ [a-na] ša-a-šu; lines 8–9). 32 According to RibAddu, only Gubla and Baṭruna (urubaṭ-ru-[na]; line 9) remained to him. In application, the political categories “city” (URU) and “centralized land” (KUR) can overlap, allowing for individual cities to be both an independent entity and the administrative center of a land. Without the KUR determinative, however, the polity is simply treated as a city. The difficulty of this dynamic is escalated by the fact that individual ḫazannūti never refer to themselves as the leader of a centralized land, even though, as I have noted above, their contemporaries could define 29. See EA 62: 13–24; 71: 23–27; 89: 48–51; 90: 9–16; 98: 3–9; 100: 8–31; 103: 8–14, 34–36; 126: 4–6; 138: 5–7; 151: 49–65; 289: 14–17, 25–29; 294: 14–24; 296: 30–33. 30. The same distinction is made in the historical introduction of the treaty between Suppiluliuma of Ḫatti and Shattiwaza of Mittanni with regard to Nii. Describing the treacherous activities of Aki-Teššup, who apparently took the throne of Nii from his brother Takuwa (see Beckman 1999: 34), the writer indicates that Aki-Teššup incited both “the land of Nii and the city of Nii to hostility” (Beckman 1999: 43). 31. See, esp., EA 74: 19–22; 76: 9–10; 78: 7–16; 79: 20–26; 81: 8–11; 129: 32–34, 40–45. Compare this with cities that are never associated with a larger domain or determined by KUR. See especially Lachish in EA 287: 14–15. It does not take the KUR determinative in spite of the fact that the other two polities with which it is grouped do take it. 32. See also EA 125: 37.

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them as such. Rather, they identify themselves with their administrative center. This convention may have stemmed from the desire to show deference to the Egyptian king. There are two examples of local leaders referring to themselves as kings. However, in both cases their kingship is identified with their administrative center (URU) and not with a land (KUR). 33 The distinction, then, depends on context and the direction of the political discourse. 34 Finally, as we saw with Nii, Rubutu, and perhaps even Gubla, the vicissitudes of history can quickly lead to the transformation of a “centralized land” to a single “city.” 35 Nii is a particularly interesting example of this. As I suggested in chap. 2, the city of Tunip appears to have been part of the centralized land of Nii during the tenure of Aki-Teššup. With the defeat of Aki-Teššup and the capture of his royal city, this centralized land appears to have dissolved. Nevertheless, the citizens of Tunip took steps to have Aki-Teššup’s son installed as their ḫazannu, thereby transferring the center of his authority from the old administrative seat of a centralized land to an entirely new city. Whether or not their request was fulfilled and Tunip became the new administrative center of a centralized land or remained a simple, though independent city is impossible to determine. If the former did occur, the Tunipites certainly would have reaped a number of benefits from their initiative. While this type of political flux was often caused by the activities of hostile forces, the unity of a centralized land was also threatened by the competing demands and goals of the different populations that constituted it. The relationship that the Bit-NIN.dURUTA-ites had with the land of Jerusalem is a clear example of this. Because the Amarna texts only give a brief glimpse into the political landscape of the southern Levant, it is safe to assume that this type of variability was characteristic of the polities in the land throughout the LB. According to Adams, in “political regimes as in patterns of settlement and land use, it is thus clear that stabil33. In EA 256, Mut-Baḫlu adopts the title “the king of (the city) Piḫilu” (LUGAL urupíḫi-lì; line 8), and in EA 227, ʿAbdi-Tirši identifies himself as “the king of (the city) Ḫaṣor” (LUGAL uruḫa-ṣú-ri ki; line 3). 34. Another likely example of this is the polity administered from Ḫaṣor. Recalling my discussion in chap. 2—in EA 228, ʿAbdi-Tirši, the ḫazannu of uruḪaṣor, assures the king that he is not only guarding the city of Ḫaṣor (i-na-ṣa-ru-um-mi uruḫa-ṣú-ra ki; lines 14–15), but the cities that belong to Ḫaṣor (URUdildi.ḫi.a-ni-ši) as well. Though Ḫaṣor had authority over a number of distinct urban centers, a situation that is reflected in that fact that ʿAbdi-Tirši elsewhere refers to himself as the “king” of Ḫaṣor (LUGAL uruḫa-ṣú-ri ki; EA 227: 3), in this context, Ḫaṣor is identified as an entity separate from its dependents through the use of the determinative URU. 35. The opposite could also occur, where what was once merely a “city” could transform into the administrative hub of a centralized mātu. See chap. 5 below.

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ity almost always may have been the objective, but flux was the prevailing outcome.” With this observation in mind, he advises scholars to “strive to avoid the impression that the individual city-state and its hinterlands, or even a group of immediately neighboring cities and towns, constitutes the elemental, seemingly ‘natural’ unit of study” (Adams 1978: 331; see also Marcus 1998: 60). Twenty years later, Feinman arrived at a similar set of conclusions that correspond to the findings of this study: Even more dynamic oscillations in polity size, political centralization, and population agglomeration have been recognized by subcontinental and regional studies synthesizing long trajectories of history. . . . Collectively, these findings should direct our thinking away from simple taxonomic dichotomies that have been drawn between weak or segmental states and bureaucracies, and toward more continuous models that recognize pre-industrial organizations as dynamic formations that may oscillate in scale, integration, and complexity. . . . [F]or a given social field, episodes of relative multi-polity decentralization, when the landscape was occupied by many autonomous or semiautonomous states, might alternate with periods of centralization, when a single polity or center dominated or extended its boundaries to incorporate others. (Feinman 1998: 100–101)

These insights ultimately expose the shortcomings of some of the techniques used in the past to reconstruct the social and political landscape of the southern Levant. According to Feinman, “[T]here is no reason to assume that cultural or economic boundaries should necessarily conform with the political boundaries of the state.” Because of the dynamic political system, “the size of the sociocultural network of interaction” in the Levant “might remain more or less comparable, while the power relations and boundaries of individual component polities ebbed and flowed” (Feinman 1998: 101). Feinman goes on to contend that the “nested, multiscalar, and dynamic nature of these systems of states might in part account for the enormous range in the recorded sizes of archaic states, and for some of the difficulty that researchers have had in reporting size/scale estimates” (1998: 101). To propose a fixed political map of the Amarna Age Levant—to say nothing of the entire LB—based on population coefficients and hypothetical models, therefore, seems like a fruitless task.

Multipolity Decentralized Lands The second category of mātu attested in the Amarna archive is the multipolity decentralized land. Rather than consisting of an integrated political unit under the authority of a single leader who governed his

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domain from a centralized administrative hub, this type of land was comprised of a political coalition of cities and centralized lands 36 that retained their local independence and identities under the authority of their respective kings, ḫazannūti, and/or collective representative bodies. This type of organization was not unique to the political landscape of the southern Levant. A similar polity type is attested in the evidence from Mari. Referring to them as “mātum alliances,” Fleming points out that Zalmaqum, IdaMaraṣ, and Šubartum were not kingdoms in themselves but “coalitions of several rulers with šarrum status” that often took collective political action in co­operation with one another. 37 Similarly, in the Assyrian texts of the 11th–9th centuries, the land referred to as Ḫatti was divided among several independent Neo-Hittite kingdoms. Nevertheless, its inhabitants were collectively referred to as “Hittites” (Naʾaman 1994: 408; see also 1 Kgs 10:29; 2 Kgs 7:6). Perhaps the best-known example of this type of political organization is Philistia, which is well attested in the biblical witness. Divided among a number of independent city-based domains, each under the authority of its own king, this “land” frequently took collective military action against Israel as the Philistines (see Fleming 2012: 468–69; Naʾaman 1994: 408). The reason that the affiliate members of a multipolity decentralized land organized themselves in such a way may be related to the processes involved in centralization described above. Because the constituents of a multipolity decentralized land retained their independence, this form of organization provided for some level of political unity without threatening the locally embedded sources of identity and authority to the degree that a centralized land did. In spite of this distinguishing feature, multipolity decentralized lands shared a number of general characteristics with their organizational counterparts, largely because they shared the same basic organizational principles. As with the city and centralized land, in a multipolity decentralized land the political will could be identified with and administered by both the leaders of its individual constituents and its population in general, further demonstrating the notion that, as a political unit, a “land” was defined first and foremost by its population. In addition, multipolity decentralized lands were not immune to internal dispute. 36. The lands of Irqata (EA 75: 26; 88: 6; 139: 15; 140: 10), Ammiya (EA 139: 14; 140: 11), and Ardata (EA 139: 15; 140: 12; see Singer 191: 143) were probably part of the larger multipolity decentralized land of Amurru before its centralization under the authority of Aziru (see chap. 5 below). This observation conflicts with Fleming’s analysis of the evidence from Mari. From what he observed, centralized lands were never incorporated within larger mātum alliances (Fleming 2004: 128). 37. Fleming 2004: 105; see also pp. 106, 124–28; 2012: 215–19.

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While their affiliates often took action in cooperation with one another, there are instances in which they are depicted as taking action against one another. This likely contributed to the fact that a multipolity decentralized land, like its centralized counterpart, could experience a high degree of variability and flux. 38 In addition to its membership, which could change over time and according to one’s perspective, its political organization could change as well. Under the right conditions, a multipolity decentralized land could transform into a centralized land under the leadership of a single individual who administered the entire complex from his royal center. In this way, the multipolity decentralized land constituted yet another important element in the complex and dynamic web of sociopolitical interaction, integration, and disintegration that occurred throughout the southern Levant during the LB. As a distinct form of political organization, the multipolity decentralized land has been overlooked by modern scholarship. Thus, isolating this polity type and describing its general characteristics will nuance and enhance our understanding of the Levantine political landscape. For example, to preview the work that follows, I will argue in part 2 that this is the most appropriate category for understanding the nature of the land of Amurru before its consolidation as a centralized land under the leadership of Aziru. Not only will this understanding shed light on the historic contours of Amurru, but it will also aid in understanding the nature and function of ʿAbdi-Aširta as a leader within Amurru while it was still a multipolity decentralized land. Working from these data, I will then turn to the land of Shechem, suggesting that it also took the organizational form of a multipolity decentralized land throughout much of its history, including the period covered by the Amarna corpus. As with the study of the land of Amurru, this will have implications for understanding the role of Labʾayu and his sons in the region and their affiliation with this land. Ultimately, these case studies will set the stage for an evaluation of early Israel in part 3. There I will suggest that Israel’s political organization also corresponded to that of a multipolity decentralized land before the formation of the monarchy. In preparation for this larger endeavor, I 38. Fleming observes a similar phenomenon taking place among the constitutes of the mātum alliances attested in the evidence from Mari: The Ida-Maraṣ coalition had a somewhat fluid constituency, always comprising several more than the four stable city centers of Zalmaqum. ARM XXVIII, the collected correspondence between Zimri-Lim and other kings, includes a majority of letters from individual kings in the Ida-Maraṣ coalition. They never send to Zimri-Lim as a group, and they reveal themselves to be a fractious crew. In one missive, Ibal-Addu of Ašlakkâ speaks of ‘when I made peace with Ida-Maraṣ,’ recognizing the claim of the confederacy on the participants who keep their distinct political identities. (Fleming 2004: 126)

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now turn to several examples of multipolity decentralized lands in action under the leadership of their constituent members and their populations in general. The Collective Nature and Political Activities of Multipolity Decentralized Lands In the historical introduction of the Hittite treaty between Muršili II of Ḫatti and Tuppi-Teššup (ca. 1312–1285 BCE) of Amurru, Muršili recalls a time when Tuppi-Teššup’s grandfather Aziru came to the aid of the Hittites when “the kings of the land of Nuḫašši” became hostile. 39 In this brief notice, Nuḫašši is remembered as having been a single “land” consisting of several independent kingdoms, firmly placing it in the category of a multipolity decentralized mātu. In fact, the conflict between the affiliate members of Nuḫašši and Aziru is recorded in several letters recovered from Amarna. Depicted by Aziru as an alliance of independent kings who operated in cooperation with one another against a common enemy, the “kings of Nuḫašši” were at war with him on a number of occasions, as he informed his Egyptian overlord (LUGALmeš kurnu-ḫa-aš-še ⸢na⸣-ka-ru-nim it-⸢ti-ia⸣; EA 160: 24–25; see also 161: 36–37). 40 Even during one of Aziru’s visits to Egypt, the members of this multipolity decentralized land began harassing his domain. According to Aziru’s son, in response to Aziru’s absence, the “kings of Nuḫašši” (LUGALmeš kurnu-ḫa-aš-še) accused the son of selling his father to the king of Egypt for gold (EA 169: 17–23)—probably an example of “psychological warfare” meant to plant the seeds of unrest among the populations under Aziru’s authority. 41 The corporate activities of the kings of Nuḫašši are paralleled by those of the constituent leaders of the land of Gina. According to Naʾaman (2005e: 238–39; 1986: 469), rather than referring to a single polity or city, 42 the land of Gina was the name by which the entire Jezreel Valley

39. See Fleming 2004: 105–6, 124–28, 132. For a translation of this treaty, see Beckman 1999: 59. 40. Contra Naʾaman (1994: 412), who refers to Nuḫašše as a “kingdom,” implying that it was centralized under the leadership of a single king. Similarly, Rainey and Notley (2006: 80) refer to it as a “state . . . in inland Syria.” 41. See also EA 51, where Addu-nirari recalls the historical episode when the king of Egypt established his forefather Taku as a king in Nuḫašše (i-na KUR nu-ḫa-aš-še a-na LUGAL-ru-tú i-ip-⸢pu-ša⸣-aš-šu; lines 5–6). 42. So Moran (1992: 389), who equates kurGina with the ruins found at Beth-Haggan. According to Rainey and Notley (2006: 85), the “people of Gina may either be those of the modern Jenin area or perhaps even Megiddo.” See also E. F. Morris 2005: 227.

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was known during the 18th Dynasty in Egypt. 43 He goes on to argue that Megiddo and Taḫnaka were two of the most prominent cities located in the region (Naʾaman 2005b: 238). 44 In EA 245, Biridiya, the ḫazannu of Megiddo, and Yašdata, the ḫazannu of Taḫnaka, are listed as allied leaders of a coalition of cities that took up arms against Labʾayu (see chap. 6 below). In EA 250, this coalition is specifically referred to as kurGina, “the land of Gina.” The list of affiliate members is expanded as EA 250 unfolds. There uruŠunama, which Moran identifies as biblical Shunem 45 located just east of Megiddo, uruBurquna, uruḪarabu, and uruGittirimmunima, are listed as cities that Labʾayu attacked (lines 40–47). It is therefore likely that they too were members of the anti-Labʾayu coalition that constituted the land of Gina (kurGina). Though the authors of the Amarna letters were often consumed by military concerns, the activities of the constituent leaders of a multipolity decentralized land did not always revolve around such matters. Returning to the land of Gina, in EA 365, Biridiya complains that he alone had furnished the necessary labor force to cultivate the land around Šunama, accusing the other ḫazannūti of not doing the same. Such an accusation suggests that, as members of the land of Gina, these ḫazannūti were expected to reciprocate. If this was the case, it indicates that multipolity decentralized lands did not exist solely for mutual protection against a common enemy but for other, nonmartial corporate activities such as agricultural production as well. During the LB, when human labor was one of the most important commodities, such coalitions would have been particularly beneficial for undertaking public works projects (Marfoe 1979; Bunimovitz 1994a). These observations ultimately call into question Finkelstein’s method of measuring the geographical scope of a polity by the population requirements needed to produce the necessary agricultural surplus to support it and to construct the monumental architecture discovered in its administrative centers (see chap.  1 above). If multiple polities shared their 43. With regard to this area, Aharoni (1967: 161) makes the following suggestion: “One might assume, on the basis of EA 365, that Megiddo had control of Shunem and the northern part of the valley as far as the slopes of Lower Galilee, but these were unusual circumstances brought about by the destruction of Shunem (EA 250). The King of Megiddo argued that not he alone but other kings as well were commanded to cultivate the lands in those areas.” 44. Contra J. Strange (2000: 72), who refers to Megiddo as a city-state that controlled the Jezreel Valley. This conclusion betrays the fact that he does not do justice to the evidence provided in the text. As an example, he makes no effort to distinguish between the nuance of the determinatives KUR and URU. Note that he also regards Garu as a city-state. 45. This is a likely identification because Biridiya of Megiddo indicates that he cultivates land there in EA 365.

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labor forces, determining the population density of any would become even more complicated. In addition to the examples in which the corporate political activities of a multipolity decentralized land are identified with and defined by the collective actions of the participant leaders, there are also examples in which such activities are defined in terms of and carried out by their constituent populations. The actions taken by the populations affiliated with the land of Gina provide an excellent example of this. In contrast to the foregoing examples, the actors who participated in the slaying of Labʾayu were not the leaders of the land of Gina but, rather, the “Ginites” themselves. According to Baʿlu-UR.SAG, the author of EA 250, after the demise of their father, the sons of Labʾayu repeatedly made the following threat against him: “Wage war against the Ginites for they killed our father” (nukur-ta5 i-na LÚmeš kurgi-na UGU da-ku-mì lúa-ba-nu; lines 16–18; see also lines 21–22). The collective political action taken by the multipolity decentralized land of Garu (kurga-ri) is also defined in terms of its constituent cities. According to Mut-Baḫlu of Piḫilu, when these cities, which included uruUdumu, uruAduru, uruAraru, uruMešta, uruMagdalu, uruḪeni-anabi, and uruSarqu, “became hostile” (i-nu-ma na-ak-ru gáb-bi; lines 19–28), he fulfilled his duty as a faithful vassal by going to the aid of the city of Aštartu. Recalling our discussion regarding the political constitution of cities, we understand this notice to indicate that Mut-Baḫlu was attributing the corporate political action of the land of Garu to its people, who were identified with their individual cities, rather than its ḫazannūti. The Land of Canaan: An Evolving Perspective The land of Canaan is another important entity attested in the Amarna letters whose status has been hotly debated. This debate primarily revolves around whether Canaan was a definite territorial entity or a “diffuse and vague” designation for a region whose size, location, and inhabitants were largely unknown even to the individuals who populated the southern Levant during the LB (Lemche 1991: 39). 46 Reevaluating references to the land of Canaan and the Canaanites within the framework of the political structures attested in the Amarna archive may help to resolve some elements of this dispute. Following the studies of Naʾaman (1994; 1999) and Rainey (1996b), we should view Canaan as a distinct entity that corresponded to 46. According to Lemche (1991: 39), “[T]he inhabitants of the supposed Canaanite territory in Western Asia had no clear idea of the actual size of this Canaan, nor did they know exactly where Canaan was situated.”

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certain geopolitical parameters by which individuals were identified and probably identified themselves. 47 In this way, the designation was not as “imprecise” as Lemche has argued (1991: 50). However, the evidence clearly indicates that the parameters of Canaan shifted over time and according to one’s perspective. This variability suggests that Canaan was not primarily a geographical designation, as both Naʾaman and Rainey contend, 48 but a political designation. The evidence highlighted below will demonstrate that, as a political entity, it corresponded to the type of organization characteristic of multipolity decentralized lands. In the Akkadian texts from Alalakh, Ugarit, and Amarna, Canaan is commonly preceded by the determinative KUR, thereby producing the designation “the land of Canaan.” 49 The only exceptions to this rule are found in the Autobiography of Idrimi. There, Canaan is preceded by the syllabic spelling of the word “land” (ma-at ki-in-a-ni7ki; line 18; Greenstein and Marcus 1976: 64). This designation is common to all of the “lands” mentioned in that text. Canaan is also found in AT 48: 4–5, where it is preceded by the determinative URU. 50 In this case, D. J. Wiseman (1953: 46) points out that the “reading is difficult as the scribe has written over another word.” In the end, Rainey (1996b: 3) attributes this variation to a scribal error deriving “from the frequent use of KUR.URU for names of countries” in the aforementioned Northern Syrian/Hittite scribal tradition. 47. Rainey best articulates this latter feature in his analysis of the pertinent administrative documents from Alalakh that identify an individual as a man (LÚ) or son (DUMU) of Canaan. When “foreigners” came to Alalakh and were registered by scribes there, their “foreignness” is underscored by the fact that they are not recorded according to their patrimony but according to their place of origin. Rainey (1996b: 4) explains this process in the following way: “The scribes undoubtedly asked the foreigners where they came from and each one replied that he was from Canaan. Thus we have clear documentary evidence that people called Canaanites knew they were Canaanites and were recognized as such by the scribes of another country.” 48. According to Rainey (1996b: 1), the textual tradition provides “an accurate picture of a geographical entity know to the ancients as Canaan.” Naʾaman goes further by claiming that the “identification of Canaan with the Egyptian province in Asia is self-evident” (Naʾaman 1994: 402). 49. See EA 8: 15, 17, 25 (?); 14 II: 26; 30: 1; 109: 46; 131: 61; 137: 76; 148: 46; 151: 50; 162: 41; AT 181: 9; 188: 8. According to Naʾaman (1994: 399), AT 154 also contains a reference to Canaan. 50. There is also one example from the Amarna letters in which Canaan is not preceded by a determinative (⸢pi⸣-ḫa-ti ša ki-na-ḫi; EA 36: 15) and one in which it takes the determinative KUR.MEŠ (kur.meški-na-a’-⸢ni⸣; EA 131: 61). A third example derives from a ritual text from Emar. There, reference is made to “the storm god of Canaan” (dIM ša ki-na-i; Emar VI/3, no. 446: 107–8; Fleming 1994: 274). Again, in this context, Canaan does not take a determinative.

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In the administrative texts from Alalakh and Ugarit, the designation “the land of Canaan” was employed to specify the identity of an individual or group of individuals in the same way that others were defined by their city or land of origin. This means of identification was arrived at through one of the following constructions: “man of Canaan” (LÚ uruki-ina-ni7ki, AT 48: 5), “son/sons of Canaan” (DUMU kurki-in4-a-ni ki, AT 181: 9; DUMUmeš kurki-na-ḫi, RS 20.182 A+B: 6, 8), or simply though an appositional relationship constructed between the individual and Canaan as in AT 188: 9 (mla-ḫa-še kurki-in-a-ni; Rainey 1996b: 3). In addition, the nisbe form of Canaan is used in EA 9: 19 to refer to the population of Canaan in general (ki-na-ḫa-a-a-ú ga-ab-bi-šu-nu, “the Canaanites, all of them”). This usage is paralleled in KTU 4.96, where “Yaʿilu, a Canaanite” is written yʿl . knʿny (line 7). According to Rainey, for the ancients, this method of identification “was their way of defining people and groups in relation to themselves and to one another” (Rainey 1996b: 3). 51 In other words, an individual was identified first and foremost according to his or her affiliation with a particular land (KUR) or city (URU). 52 For Rainey and Naʾaman, this phenomenon is sufficient to demonstrate that Canaan, like the other entities referred to in these texts, was a distinct sociopolitical unit recognized by both the ancient scribes and those whose names and identities they were recording. Rainey reconstructs this state of affairs in the following way: People from [Canaan] came to Alalakh and were registered by the scribes there. Since they were foreigners, they were recorded not according to patrimony but according to nationality. The scribes undoubtedly asked foreigners where they came from and each one replied that he was from Canaan. Thus we have clear documentary evidence that people called Canaanites knew that they were Canaanites and were recognized as such by the scribes of another country. (Rainey 1996b: 4) 53

This assessment seems more faithful to the evidence than Lemche’s conclusion that the “Canaanites of the ancient Near East did not know that they 51. Similarly, Naʾaman contends that all of the texts from Alalakh indicate “that Canaan was regarded in Alalakh as a foreign land whose name sufficed to define the origin of individuals” (Naʾaman 1994: 399). 52. Conversely, as I have indicated several places above, lands (KUR) and cities (URU) are defined by their people. 53. Similarly, Naʾaman contends that, for “them, this territorial definition was entirely clear and they treated it exactly as they treated all other names of towns and lands (Naʾaman 1999: 32; see also 1994: 399). He goes on to say, “[C]ontrary to Lemche’s conclusion that nobody ever used the name Canaan as self definition, it seems to me that people from Canaan would indeed sometimes have defined themselves as Canaanites” (Naʾaman 1994: 408).

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were themselves Canaanites” (Lemche 1991: 152). 54 However, by employing the general term “nationality,” Rainey fails to take into consideration exactly what type of “land” Canaan was. As the foregoing analysis has demonstrated, this is a critical nuance that will hold significant implications for understanding the nature of Canaan. AT 188 is particularly helpful in setting the stage for this discussion. It contains a list of muškēnū, three of which are identified with separate lands. They include Alašiya (kura-la-ši-ia; line  5), Nuḫašše (kurnu-ḫaši; line 6), and Canaan (kurki-in-a-ni; line 8). On the basis of these data, Naʾaman (1994: 399) concludes that “Canaan was a well-defined territory, like Alashia (Cyprus) and Nuhašše.” Similarly, in his analysis of the Idrimi inscription, Rainey contends that the land of Canaan (ma-at ki-in-a-ni7ki; lines 18–19) “enjoys the same status as other countries in the inscription” (Rainey 1996b: 4), which include the land of Mugiš (ma-at mu-gi5-iš-ḫe; line 21), the land of Nii (ma-at ni-i ki; line 22), and the land of Amaʾe (ma-at a-ma-e ki; lines 22–23). Insofar as these entities are recognized as distinct sociopolitical units, the conclusions of Naʾaman and Rainey are correct. However, this distinction does not differentiate them from the other entities in these texts that are defined as cities by means of the determinative URU. 55 Insofar as they are defined as “lands” (KUR/ mātu), their conclusions oversimplify. This common characterization does not imply that these lands shared the same status or the same sociopolitical structure. By the Amarna period, 56 Alašiya was clearly a centralized land under the leadership of a single king (LUGAL kura-la-ši-ia; EA 33: 2; 34: 1; 35: 2; 37: 2; 38: 2; 39: 3). The language of “brotherhood” that its king employs in his correspondence with his Egyptian counterpart demonstrates its position among the imperial powers of the day (see, e.g., EA 33: 1–2; 34: 1–2; 35: 1–2; 37: 1–4; 38: 1–2; 39: 1–3). Though Nii was not ranked among these great powers, before its demise at the hands of Aziru and the Hittites 54. According to Lemche, “[T]o the scribe of ancient Western Asia ‘Canaanite’ always designated a person who did not belong to the scribe’s own society or state, while Canaan was considered to be a country different from his own” (Lemche 1991: 52). 55. In AT 188 (Dietrich and Loretz 1970: 101), these entities include urutu-ḫul (line 4) uru and zi-ṣur (line 9). Additionally, in the Idrimi inscription (Greenstein and Marcus 1976: 64, 67, 73–78) Ammiya is mentioned twice (uruam-mi-ia ki; line 20). Note also that Rainey disregards the determinative URU preceding ma-at ni-i ki. It is difficult to determine the entity to which this designation is referring. While it may have been the administrative center of the land of Nii referred to by the same name, it could have been an altogether different city within its domain. 56. AT 188 and the Idrimi inscription are both dated to the 15th century (see D. Wiseman 1953: 2; Rainey 1996b: 3).

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(EA 59: 28; Beckman 1999: 43), it was also a centralized land. By contrast, as was observed above, Nuḫašše was a multipolity decentralized land defined by the collective actions of its independent kings. The question, therefore, is whether the land of Canaan was a centralized land like Alašiya and Nii or a multipolity decentralized land on par with Nuḫašše. As with Nuḫašše and the other multipolity decentralized lands evaluated above, multiple kings are identified with the land of Canaan, indicating that it consisted of several independent political entities that were included under the umbrella of the land of Canaan. 57 In addition, its kings had the capacity to take collective political action. This is clearly demonstrated in EA 30. Commonly regarded as a diplomatic passport drafted in the court of Tušratta, the king of Mittani, it is addressed to all of “the kings of the land of Canaan”: 58 To the kings of the land of Canaan (a-na LUGALmeš ša kurki-na-a-aḫ-[ḫi]), servants of my brother: Thus says the king. Herewith I am sending Akiya my messenger to the presence of the king of Egypt, my brother, to speed post-haste. No one is to detain him. Cause (him) to enter safely to Egypt and give him into the hand of the fortress commander of Egypt. Let him go quickly. May there not be any tax (?) 59 against him. 60

Here, the kings of Canaan, referred to as a corporate body, are asked to take collective political action on behalf of a foreign dignitary, paralleling the corporate political actions of the kings of the land of Nuḫašše and the kings of the land of Gina. 57. In EA 109, Rib-Addu informs his overlord that a shift in the atmosphere of the region has taken place. According to Rib-Addu, “Previously, on seeing a man from Egypt, the kings of the land of Canaan (⸢LUGAL⸣meš kurki-na-⸢aḫ⸣-ni) fled before him. But now the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta make men from Egypt prowl about like dogs” (lines 44–49). An interesting parallel is drawn between the land of Nuḫašše and the land of Canaan in a Hittite evocation, where both Nuḫašše and Canaan are listed together with some of the independent political entities that constituted them: Ugulzit and Zunzurḫi for Nuḫašše, and Ṣidon, Tyre, and Amurru for Canaan (Goetze 1969: 352). See also EA 8, where the city of Ḫinnatuna is situated in the land of Canaan (i-na uru.kiḫi-in-na-tu-ni ša kurki-na-aḫ-ḫi; line 17). 58. So Moran 1992: 100 n. 1; see also Naʾaman 1994: 400. 59. See Moran 1992: 100 n. 5, where he indicates that “Gordon thought that the first sign might be ši-ib rather than ù,” resulting in the word ši-ib-su, which should be read šibšu on the basis of the common confusion of sú and šu in the letters from Mittani. 60. a-na LUGALmeš ša kurki-na-a-aḫ-[ḫi] ÌRmeš ŠEŠ-ia um-ma LUGAL-⸢ma⸣ a-nuum-ma ma-ki-ia lú.dumuKIN-ia a-na UGU LUGAL kurmi-iṣ-ri-i ŠEŠ-ia a-na du-ul-lu-ḫi a-na kál-le-e al-ta-pár-šu ma-am-ma lu-ú la i-na-aḫ-ḫi-is-šú na-aṣ-ri-iš i-na kurmi-iṣ-ri šu-ri-bá ù a-na ŠU ⸢lú⸣ḫal- ⸢zu⸣-uḫ-li ša kurmi-iṣ-ri-i id-⸢na⸣-[ni ] (?) ḫa-mut-ta li-il-⸢li -ik⸣ ši-ib (?)-sú mi-im-ma i-na muḫ-ḫi-šu lu-ú la ib-bá-aš-ši.

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The collective political action that could be taken by the constituents of Canaan is identified not only with its kings but with its population as well. With the rise of the political relationship between Assyria and Egypt, Burra-Buriyaš, the king of Babylon, tries to affirm his historic ties with his Egyptian counterpart by recalling the following event from the past: During (the time of) Kurigalzu my father, the Canaanites—all of them— wrote here to him saying, “Come to the border of the land in order that we might revolt and be allied with you. (EA 9: 19–22) 61

Though Naʾaman reads “the Canaanites” as a collective reference to the kings of Canaan (Naʾaman 1994: 400), 62 the terminology that the same Burra-Buriyaš uses in another missive suggests an alternative reading. In EA 8, he informs the king of Egypt of a troubling event that threatened his diplomatic relationship with Egypt: Now, my merchants who had set out with Aḫu-ṭabu were delayed in the land of Canaan for business matters. After Aḫu-ṭabu went on to my brother in the city of Ḫinnatuna in the land of Canaan, Šum-Adda, the son of Balumme, and Šutatna, the son of Šaratum of the city of Akka, having sent their men, killed my merchants and took their silver. (lines 13–21) 63

He continues by calling on the king of Egypt to rectify the situation, reminding him that “the land of Canaan is your land and its kings are your servants” ([kur]⸢ki⸣-na-aḫ-ḫi KUR-ka ù ⸢LUGALmeš⸣-[ša ÌRmeš-ka]; line 25). Here Burra-Buriyaš is referring to two distinct though related entities. They include “the land of Canaan,” or the Canaanites, and “its kings.” Canaanites killed the merchant of Burra-Buriyaš, and it was the responsibility of the king of Egypt to punish the culprits through the kings of Canaan, his servants. Based on this reading, it appears that Burra-Buriyaš’s reference to the Canaanites in EA 9 was not limited to its kings but referred to its population in general. As we saw above, and shall see with even greater precision 61. i-na ku-ri-gal-zu a-bi-ia ki-na-ḫa-a-a-ú ga-ab-bi-šu-nu a-na mu-uḫ-ḫi-šu el-ta-apru-ni um-ma-a a-na qa-an-ni KUR ⸢ku-uš⸣-da-am-ma i ni-ba-al-ki-ta-am-ma [it]-⸢ti⸣-ka i ni-ša-ki-in. 62. Rainey offers a similar reading, suggesting that “the king of Babylon is concerned with a specific body of political leaders” that “are called ‘Canaanites’ ” (Rainey 1996b: 7). 63. i-na-an-na DAM.GÀR-ú-a ša it-ti ŠEŠ-ṭa-a-bu te-bu-ú i-na kurki-na-aḫ-ḫi a-na šima-a-ti it-ta-ak-lu-ú ul-tu ŠEŠ-ṭa-a-bu a-na mu-uḫ-ḫi ŠEŠ-ia i-ti-qu i-na uru.kiḫi-in-na-tu-ni ša kurki-na-aḫ-ḫi mšu-um-ad-da DUMU mba-lum-me-e mšu-ta-at-na DUMU mša-ra-a-tum ša uruak-ka LÚmeš-šu-nu ki iš-pu-ru lúDAM.GARmeš -ia id-du-ku ù KÙ.BABBAR-⸢šu⸣-nu it-tab-lu.

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in my analysis of the land of Amurru, the populations of a multipolity decentralized land could in fact engage in these types of political action. It seems best, therefore, to regard the land of Canaan as a political entity on par with a multipolity decentralized land. This identification supports Lemche’s claim that “Canaan was never united under the rule of one king” (Lemche 1991: 154). 64 As Naʾaman points out, however, this does not mean that it was an indefinite political entity whose member polities and populations never identified themselves with it. One need only appeal to the corporate political activities of multipolity decentralized lands analyzed above to support this claim. 65 At the same time, one can also account for the fact that the constituent members of the land of Canaan did not refer to themselves as “Canaanites” when describing the local affairs of the region by appealing to its political structure. Because the land of Canaan consisted of several independent political entities, these local entities would have served as the primary sources of identification for the affiliate populations, particularly when they communicated with the Egyptian king. As M. S. Smith (2001: 15) suggests, “[T]his term did not function as the primary self-designation of people from ‘Canaan’ (perhaps their individual clan units, cities, towns, or sub-regions were the primary selfdesignations).” 66 In fact, throughout the entire Amarna corpus, specific individuals are never identified—by themselves or by others—in terms of their affiliation with a multipolity decentralized land. Though the land of Canaan was a definite political entity that corresponded to a multipolity decentralized land, this does not mean that it was “well-defined,” as Naʾaman suggests (1994: 399; 1999: 32, 36). This is largely due to the fact that affiliation with or participation in a decentralized land could fluctuate over time and according to one’s perspective. If one accepts the contention of Naʾaman and Rainey that, from the Egyptian perspective, the land of Canaan roughly corresponded to their imperial interests in Syria–Palestine, 67 the land of Qaṭna offers an excellent case in point. According to Naʾaman’s analysis of a letter from Mari, “in the mid-18th cen64. Similarly, Rainey recognizes that “the entity called ‘the land of Canaan’ ” was “the area occupied by rulers who are subject to the king of Egypt” (Rainey 1996b: 6; see also p. 8). 65. Naʾaman also cites Philista and the Neo-Hittite kingdoms. From “the very beginning,” Philistia, whose inhabitants were referred to as Philistines, was “divided among four/ five kingdoms and was never united under one king.” Similarly, the Neo-Hittite kingdoms were collectively referred to as Ḫatti “in the Assyrian texts of the 11th–9th centuries bce,” and the populations associated with them “are called ‘Hittites’ in the Assyrian texts and in the Bible” (Naʾaman 1994: 408). 66. Compare this with the use of the term binū yamina at Mari (Fleming 2012: 213). 67. In the words of Naʾaman, the “identification of Canaan with the Egyptian province in Asia is self-evident” (Naʾaman 1994: 402; see also 1999: 36; Rainey 1996b: 7–8).

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tury bce people called ‘Canaanites’ lived south of the kingdom of Qaṭna” (Naʾaman 1994: 398; Durand 1987: 219–20). Accordingly, the inhabitants of Qaṭna are excluded from this designation. 68 However, several letters from the Amarna corpus sent from Akizzi, the king of Qaṭna (see EA 57: 2), clearly indicate that at some point during this time Qaṭna fell under Egypt’s authority, making it part of their imperial interests, and therefore, from the Egyptian perspective, part of the land of Canaan (EA 52, 53, 55). 69 The land of Amurru reflects a similar dynamic. In EA 162, after politely reminding Aziru that his life was dependent upon fulfilling his duties as a vassal, the king of Egypt issued the following admonition: “[Y]ou yourself know that the king does not want (to come) to the land of Canaan in its entirety when he is angry.” 70 According to Rainey’s reading of this passage, “Aziru was in Amurru and it follows that at that time Amurru was still officially part of Canaan (‘Canaan in its entirety’)” (Rainey 1996b: 7). 71 This reading is supported by the Idrimi inscription, written a century earlier (Greenstein and Marcus 1976), which locates Ammiya, a city that is also associated with the land of Amurru in the Amarna archive (see chap. 5 below), “in the land of Canaan” (i-na ma-at ki-in-a-ni7ki uruam-mi-ia ki; lines 19–20). However, this poses a number of problems for Rainey’s analysis in general. First and foremost, it runs contrary to the boundaries he establishes for Canaan in the map he provides in the same article (1996b). As I will describe in greater detail in chap. 5, Ṣumur, which was situated some distance north of Ammiya on the Mediterranean coast, was an important center within the land of Amurru during the tenure of both Aziru and his father, ʿAbdi-Aširta. 72 In addition, Rainey fails to address the problem of how to regard the extent of Canaan from the Egyptian perspective when Aziru severs his ties with Egypt and becomes a Hittite vassal. 73 Finally, 68. See also Rainey’s map in 1996b: 2. See, however, Lemche’s (1996: 768) critique of Naʾaman’s reading of this letter. 69. Naʾaman himself agrees with this point, conceding that Qaṭna represented itself as an Egyptian vassal (Naʾaman 1994: 412). The fact that Aḫi-Teššup’s son was being held in Egypt (see EA 59, above) indicates that this was more than a simple “representation.” 70. ù ti7-i-de9 at-tá ki-i LUGAL la-a ḫa-ši-iḫ a-na kurki-na-aḫ-ḫi gáb-bá-ša ki-i i-ra-úub (lines 40–41; following the translation of Rainey [1996b: 7]). 71. This interpretation is anticipated by Naʾaman, who contends that “Amurru was initially a small rural state, governed by the Egyptians and hence situated within the boundaries of Canaan” (Naʾaman 1994: 402). 72. While Rainey’s map conveniently locates Ammiya within the confines of Canaan, it excludes many of the cities to its north, including Ṣumur. 73. As Lemche points out, the “notion that the identity of Canaan did not change between the Amarna Age around the middle of the 14th century B.C.E. and end of the 13th century B.C.E. is a basic part of Rainey’s argument” (Lemche 1998: 22).

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Rainey’s view runs contrary to the following linguistic distinction he highlights in support of the boundaries of Canaan delineated in the later biblical texts: Furthermore, in the dialectical division of the Amarna tablets, those towns whose scribes use the West Semitized jargon are from towns of that border (Canaan). To the north, places like Qatna, Qidšu and Tunip, and to some degree the letters of Aziru of Amurru, are in the HurroAkkadian dialect common to cities within the Mitannian (and Hittite) states of northern Syria. . . . It can hardly be coincidental that this dialectical situation conforms to the division of the Levant into northern and southern areas as divided by the borders in Num 34:7–11. That the southern part is designated as Canaan by biblical tradition conforms to the evidence cited from the cuneiform documents discussed above. (Rainey 1996b: 12)

Not only did the entirety of the land of Amurru and Qaṭna constitute part of Egypt’s imperial interests during a portion of the Amarna period, but so did Tunip as well. In fact, according to the citizens of Tunip who authored EA 59, they had been writing their Egyptian overlord for 20 years! 74 In the end, Lemche’s critique of the tendency of Naʾaman, Rainey, and others to read the LB evidence in a way that conforms to later biblical traditions regarding the boundaries of Canaan is well founded (Lemche 1996: 771–72). 75 From the evidence cited above, it seems best, at least from the New Kingdom Egyptian perspective, to regard the land of Canaan as consisting of those entities that aligned themselves politically with Egyptian interests. In this way, it represented a large multipolity decentralized land. As the contours of these interests evolved, so did the label that referred to them, indicating that geography is not an adequate category for defining this land or any other multipolity decentralized land (contra Grabbe 2007: 20–21). Nevertheless, insofar as the land of Canaan was defined by the corporate political activities of its affiliate kings and its populations, it did represent a “bounded political entity” (contra Fleming 1994: 127). Due to its size, the land of Canaan appears to have been a special category of multipolity decentralized land when compared with those previously evaluated. In addition to including the populations of cities and cen74. ù i-na-an-na 20 MU.KAMmeš a-na LUGAL be-lí-ni ni-iš-tap-ru; line 13. Though one should not read this number literally, it does imply “a long/considerable time” (Liverani 1971: 254 n. 2). 75. This is made explicit by the fact that Naʾaman contends that Piḫilu, a city mentioned both in the Amarna letters (EA 256) and in the Beth-Shean stele dated to the 1st year of Seti I, should not be considered part of Canaan proper on account of its Transjordanian location (Naʾaman 1994: 412–13).

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tralized lands, it also included the affiliate members of other multipolity decentralized lands. This situation only highlights the complex nature of the web of identities that defined ancient populations and polities. To put it simply, identification with one multipolity decentralized land did not necessarily preclude identification with another. Canaan’s status as a large multipolity decentralized land that could include and refer to the members of smaller lands may explain the longevity of this designation. The title appears to have been adopted and adapted by polities that engaged in collective political action after the decline of Egyptian imperialism, which may explain why it was retained in the consciousness of the later biblical authors and editors. In his analysis of the Song of the Sea (Exodus 15) and the Song of Deborah (Judges 5), Fleming makes the following observation, concluding with a critical question: As in the Song of the Sea, Canaan is depicted in collective terms, except that the capacity to fight as a unit is put into action. . . . Together, these two texts portray Canaan with a political aspect similar to that of Israel, as an association of groups that could act together, especially in war. In the list of peoples from the Song of the Sea, Philistia, Edom, and Moab are all names that could be taken by the people themselves, and are not simply labels applied to foreigners. Could the same be true of Canaan? (Fleming 2012: 288)

If so, this does not mean that Canaan referred to the same entity across all periods and all perspectives. Its status as a political entity allowed for a high level of variability over time. Thus, groups that at one time were identified with Canaan could later use the same designation to set themselves apart from Canaan. This may explain at least one nuance associated with the term when Israel appeared on the scene. These observations ultimately raise the question of whether or not “ethnicity” is a suitable category by which to identify the people who are associated with a multipolity decentralized land—or even a centralized land. While a political affiliation with either of these entities may have fostered “genetic” bonds in the form of political “brotherhood” and “fatherhood,” these bonds likely followed the vicissitudes of the political landscape. In this way, any “ethnic” relationship would have been intimately intertwined with, if not primarily based upon, a “political” relationship. I will discuss the implications of this insight, particularly as it relates to the nature of early Israel, as this study unfolds. At this point, however, it is important to emphasize the fact that multipolity decentralized lands were first and foremost “political” entities meant to unite disparate groups under a common political cause (see Fleming 2004: 125).

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Defining the Limits of Multipolity Decentralized Lands In the end, seven mātus can be identified with confidence as multipolity decentralized lands in the Amarna Age Levant. They include the aforementioned lands of Garu, 76 Gina, 77 Canaan, 78 and Nuḫašše, 79 as well as lands of Amki, 80 Upe, 81 and Amurru, which I will analyze in chap. 5. Other candidates, whose places in this category are not as clear, include the lands of Yarimuta, 82 Subaru, 83 Salḫi, 84 Seir, 85 and Taḫaši. 86 Because these entities are never depicted as taking political action, it may be best to regard them as purely geographical references. As was the case in the above discussion regarding the number of centralized lands, this list is probably incomplete. Nevertheless, it contributes to our understanding of the diversity and complexity of polity types in operation during the period in view. As with the centralized lands, determining the membership and geographical scope of individual multipolity decentralized lands is difficult—if not impossible. As was the case with the land of Gina, some polities appear to have been defined geographically, deriving their names from the region in which they were located. In cases such as the land of Canaan, the geographical scope of some may have been broad, based on a historical title given to a region that transformed over time. What is clear, however, is that membership within a multipolity decentralized land was variable. In addition, as we shall see in greater detail in the second part of this study, the polities that constituted a multipolity decentralized land could choose not to operate in cooperation with one another and even take action against each other. Again, this variability ultimately indicates that neither geography nor ethnicity is a suitable category for defining these entities. 76. EA 256: 23. 77. EA 250: 16–21; 365. 78. EA 8: 15, 17, 25 (?); 14 II: 26; 30: 1; 109: 46; 131: 61; 137: 76; 148: 46; 151: 50; 162: 41. 79. EA 51: 5; 53: 41; 55: 21; 160: 24; 161: 36; 164: 22; 165: 18 (?), 38; 166: 21; 167: 11, 20; 169: 17; 170: 27. 80. EA 53: 58; 140: 27, 30; 170: 16; 173: 2; 174: 9; 175: 8; 176: 8. 81. EA 53 passim; 189: rev. 12; 197: 34, 42. 82. EA 68: 27; 75: 13; 78: 31 (?); 81: 40; 82: 29; 85: 14, 35, 50; 86: 46 (?); 90: 38; 105: 48 (?), 86; 112: 29; 114: 55; 116: 74; 125: 17. 83. EA 100: 21; 108: 17; 109: 40. 84. EA 126: 5. 85. EA 288: 26. 86. EA 189: R 12; 197: 19 (?).

Chapter 4

Other Categories of People in the Land: The Sutû and the ʿapîrû Introduction Up to this point, we have focused on polities and populations of the southern Levant that were defined by their affiliation with one or more urban centers. While cities could operate independently, they also formed the backbone of centralized lands and multipolity decentralized lands. In addition to these polity types, several other categories of people were present in the land. The most significant of these were the Sutû and the ʿapîrû. It is the purpose of this chapter to reevaluate the nature of these groups in order to arrive at a better understanding of the role that they played in shaping the complexion of the LB landscape. Conventional wisdom holds that the ʿapîrû were disenfranchised urban dwellers who took to the hills as brigands and mercenaries in order to escape their former creditors and/or overlords. 1 There are several factors that have contributed to this view. In addition to the feudal and Marxist models of society that have influenced the field, the ʿapîrû are overwhelmingly cast in a negative light by the authors of the Amarna letters. More often than not, they are depicted as engaging in hostilities against Egyptian interests in the region, which included taking (leqû) and/or seizing (ṣabātu) the cities and the lands of the king. 2 In spite of their interest in taking cities, however, the ʿapîrû are never directly identified with them. This has been interpreted as evidence that they operated outside the confines of urban-centered polities. Scholars often appeal to Egyptian texts to support this conclusion. For example, in an undated stele from Beth-Shean composed during the reign 1. See, e.g., Mendenhall 1962; Gottwald 1999: 401–4; Bienkowski 1987: 57; Redford 1990: 39; Pitard 1998: 47–49; Stager 1998: 103–4; Dever 2003: 179, 181; Finkelstein 2013: 21–22. 2. See, e.g., EA 185, where Mayarzana of Ḫasi informs the king that the ʿapîrû made war with him, seizing the cities of Maḫzibtu, Gilunu, Magdalu, and Uštu (see also EA 83: 17–18; 90: 25; 104: 30–33; 118: 37–39; 179: 26; 185: 59; 186: 13–14, 22–23, 29–30; 284: 6–8; 288: 36–38).

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of Seti I (ca. 1290–1279 BCE), the ʿapîrû from Mount Yarmuta in concert with the Taryanu people are said to have attacked the Asiatics of Rehem (KRI I 16: 2–17). In this text, the term ʿapîrû is classified by means of the “throw-stick” determinative. According to many Egyptologists, this determinative is used for categories of people who were defined by a nonsedentary lifestyle. 3 However, because of the difficulties associated with this determinative and the type of lifestyle associated with it (Spalinger 2008: 158), at this point it seems best to conclude that, from the perspective of both the Egyptians and their vassals in the southern Levant, the ʿapîrû were not primarily identified with settled centers. Scholars generally interpret this lack of identification as a sign that the ʿapîrû were a “stateless” people. This is predicated upon the assumption that the administrative apparatus necessary for a state to function is always located within and dependent upon an urban center, where a direct correlation is made between the size of that center and the size of the state (Ember 1963; Johnson 1982; Stager 1985: 25; Feinman 1998: 105–9). Consequently, as a “nonsedentary” group, the ʿapîrû were, by definition, “stateless.” C. Redmount (1998: 86) adheres to this dichotomy in her description of the LB Levantine landscape. In her view, it “was highly heterogeneous, and along with the settled occupants of the city-states it included such disruptive stateless elements as the Apiru and the Shasu.” 4 Even if the ʿapîrû provided their services to an urban-centered entity, they are still regarded as being politically independent of it, serving in most cases as hired hands or mercenaries. When informed by the perspective of those who were being threatened by the ʿapîrû, these characterizations are fitting. However, as I shall demonstrate below, such generalizations do not do justice to the entirety of the textual witness. The above-cited statement from Redmount indicates that the Sutû have suffered a similar interpretive fate. Scholars generally agree that the Sutû of the Amarna letters should be identified with the Shasu (šꜢsw; Giv­ eon 1971; Ahlstr̈om 1993: 276; Lemche 1999: 406; 2014: 182; Rainey and Notley 2006: 89, 103; Grabbe 2007: 49; Nelson 2014: 8) found primarily in Egyptian military texts of the New Kingdom (Hasel 1998: 217). Based on the proposed etymologies of the term šꜢsw, analyses of the determinatives and other identifying words associated with it, and the iconographic evidence, 5 most have concluded that they were a “pastoralist, nomadic ele3. See E. F. Morris 2005: 352. 4. See also Rainey and Notley 2006: 84. In the words of G. Lehmann (2003: 129) these “ ‘mountain people’ were people difficult to control, wild, and independent.” 5. For a thoughtful review and analysis of the pertinent data, see Hasel 1998: 217–36. In his concluding summary of the evidence, Hasel takes a cautious position, indicating

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ment in Canaanite society” (Rainey 2008: 53–54; see also Ahlstr̈om 1993: 276; Lemche 1999: 406; 2014: 182; R. D. Miller 2005: 95; Rainey and Notley 2006: 103; Finkelstein 2007b: 81; Naʾaman 2011a: 47; Nelson 2014: 8). 6 As nonsedentary groups, they are regarded as a “stateless” people as well, who, because of their “tribal” affiliations, which are thought to be indicative of “nomadic pastoralists,” were not aligned politically with urban-centered states. Falling outside the authority of these polities, they are also regarded as “disruptive” elements of society. To be sure, the Sutû are never directly identified with an urban center in the texts from Amarna. They are also cast as an inimical force both by the ḫazannūti  7 and the Egyptians. However, absolutely defining this category of people is a complex matter. For example, in spite of the prominence with which the “throw-stick” is used to determine the Shasu in Egyptian texts, 8 other determinative combinations are attested as well. One of these is the throw-stick in combination with the foreign land determinative. 9 In another, the throw-stick is replaced by the determinative for “city” and is followed by the foreign land determinative. 10 This final combination suggests that, though the Shasu were generally characterized as leading a mobile lifestyle, which was “foreign” to the Egyptians, elements of this population could have dwelled in and may have identified themselves with settled centers. 11 In the breif analysis that follows, I will evaluate the social structures and political affiliations of the Sutû and the ʿapîrû. In both cases, I will highlight evidence in support of the notion that members of both of these groups were in fact affiliated with cities and played a significant role in the city-centered political structure of the LB Levant—in spite of the frequent that neither the textual nor the archaeological evidence offers a clear indication of who the Shasu were or the type of lifestyle they led. For example, the “evidence does not provide a complete picture of the degree of mobility (nomadism), type of subsistence economy (pastoral and/or agricultural), or specific geographical boundaries for this entity.” In addition, the “mention of toponyms within tꜢ ŠꜢsw indicates that there might have been some sedentary elements or they may simply have been names of significant locations and not settlements at all” (Hasel 1998: 235). As it is my intent to avoid narrow categorization, and thereby, recognize with greater clarity the complexity of a region and/or people group, I have adopted a similar posture with regard to both the ʿapîrû and the Sutû. 6. Because of their connection with this type of lifestyle, they have largely been reckoned as an “unsettled” group of people (A. Mazar 2007b: 94). 7. EA 122: 33–35; 123: 13–15; 297: 11–16; 318: 8–15. 8. See Giveon 1964; Ward 1972; Spalinger 2008: 146–47 n. 42; KRI I 7.2. 9. KRI I 11.4; KRI II 304.14. 10. Urk. IV 1309: 2–3. See Spalinger 2008: 147. 11. It is also critical to note that depictions of the Shasu in Egyptian texts derive from a specifically Egyptian perspective that was no doubt biased and limited in view.

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characterizations to the contrary. Because the nature of tribally identified pastoralists and/or so-called nonsedentary populations has played an important role in defining both of these groups, I will begin this study with a brief evaluation of the nature of tribal societies in the ancient Near East. This analysis will serve as the theoretical and historical backdrop for my evaluation of select data revolving around the Sutû and the ʿapîrû that follows.

Pastoralists Revisited Tribal Identity and Rowton’s Dimorphic Model of Society As I noted in chap. 1, in addition to a model of power that classifies “Canaanite” polities as highly stratified societies in which social power was located in the hands of a small cadre of the political elite, reconstructions of the Levantine political landscape are frequently characterized by a socio­ political distinction between tribally organized “pastoralists” and urbancentered populations (see esp. Porter 2012). This distinction has a long history, going as far back as the Mesopotamian literary tradition. Many of the texts from this tradition characterize the “nomads of the highlands . . . who knew no grain” in less than flattering terms, contrasting them with the civilized and culturally advanced societies of urban-centered populations. 12 Stereotypically cast as primitive folk who searched for truffles in the steppe, ate raw meat, lacked proper houses, were an abomination to the temples of the gods, and were never given an appropriate burial, they and their lifestyle were viewed with contempt (Adams 1974: 2; Gordon 1959: 92; Jacobsen 1946: 166–68). 13 In the first tablet of the standard Babylonian version of the Gilgamesh Epic, Enkidu, who later becomes the comrade of Gilgamesh, is introduced as a wild man who, like an animal, roams with the beasts of the steppe: “His whole body was shaggy with hair . . . he knew neither people nor country; he was dressed as cattle are. With gazelles he ate vegetation, with cattle he quenched his thirst . . . with wild beasts he pressed forward for water.” Enkidu is able to evolve out of this primitive state only after he is brought to the city of Uruk, where he is introduced 12. See Jacobsen 1987: 363. A similar depiction comes from the Lugalbanda Epic (1: 304, 370). 13. This description is taken from The Marriage of Mardu in Chiera 1934: no. 58 iv 23– 29. Compare this with the depiction of the “wretched Asiatics” in The Teaching for King Merikare (Simpson 2003: 161). See, however, Porter (2012: 280–95), who argues that The Marriage of Mardu and other related texts did not characterize the Mardu as inherently barbaric or hostile. Instead, they generally referred to them in neutral terms and in at least one instance cast them in a positive light. See, however, my recent response (Benz 2014: 310).

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to the institutions of “civilization.” This popular dichotomy even resulted in nonsedentary tribal populations being cast as the scourge of the gods, whose roaming bands caused the periodic decline and downfall of Mesopotamian civilization. Unfortunately, early historical reconstructions of the relationship between urban dwellers and their pastoralist counterparts that were based solely on these literary productions failed to take into consideration the fact that the discourse within them derived from the perspective of urban dwellers. 14 As such, it was heavily biased, arguing for the cultural superiority of the familiar world from which the authors and keepers of the tradition stemmed. 15 By moving beyond this literary convention and undertaking an analysis of Sumerian and Akkadian economic and political texts, M. Rowton took an important step in recognizing that tribal pastoralists played a significant role in the life of urban centers. Nevertheless, he held fast to the notion that a sharp distinction existed between these two categories of the population, which he argued constituted the independent elements of a “dimorphic” society. These components interacted with one another because the pastoral range upon which the nomads depended and the settlements from which their “chiefs” ruled were “enclosed” by the urban centers of the “sedentary” population. However, this interaction was limited to the economic sphere and was strained at best because it could quickly transition “from trading to raiding” (Porter 2012: 20–22). 16 Critics of this model have pointed out that the dichotomy Rowton draws between “nomadic” and “sedentary” and between the associated terms “tribe” and “state” (Rowton 1973: 202) is influenced by his 14. As Lemche (1985: 90) points out, if “one undertook to evaluate the phenomenon on the basis of texts which derive from cultures which were in primary contact with nomads, one would be forced to conclude that there are no indications of any symbiosis between nomads and the sedentary populations. Instead, both seem to be sharply distinguishable cultural types.” He goes on to describe how this literary depiction “became canonized as the truth concerning the relationship between nomads and sedentary dwellers” within the scholarly tradition (Lemche 1985: 91–95). 15. The same type of bias is also demonstrated in texts stemming from pastoralists. In this case, however, the tables are turned. Those who spend too much time in settled centers are the ones who are degraded. An excellent example of this is found in A.1146, a letter from Ḫami-Ištamar, a Yaminite king, to one of his counterparts, Yasmaḫ-Addu. After addressing the slanderous remarks that Yasmaḫ-Addu made against him (lines 6–13), he personally attacks him, suggesting, in less than flattering terms, that he is less than a man because he is more interested in spending time in his city than spending time on the steppe (lines 14–19, 32–37). Compare this with the critique of David in 2 Samuel. 16. In their description of the Shasu, for example, Rainey and Notley (2006: 103) contend that they “lived in symbiosis with the sedentary population but . . . were prone to violence in times of distress.”

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adherence to an evolutionary model of social development. According to this model, the “tribe” and the “state” represent two distinct stages in the development of a society. Consequently, the two are incompatible, preventing full political integration between them (Marfoe 1979: 9; Kamp and Yoffee 1980: 93–94, 98–99; Adams 1981: 136).  17 In this way, the “tribe” is perceived as a strictly bounded sociocultural entity in the same way that the “state” is. 18 The influence of this model and the type of polarization to which it has led is demonstrated in Liverani’s explanation of the evolution of the term Amurru as it is used in the Amarna letters. In answering the question of how this old term became associated with a particular region in the northern Levant during the LB, Liverani makes the following claim: The link can be seen in that the population of the Lebanon range was the direct heir of the Amorite tribes, not having taken part in the historical evolution of the town areas. Or more simply, the term “Amurru,” previously used of Syria in its entirety, was now free to be used to designate the mountainous part of the interior after the other parts have assumed specific names, just as they assumed a specific political order, namely as kingdoms. . . . Consequently the term was adopted by the most recently formed state. (Liverani 1973: 117)

For those who contend that early Israel originally consisted of pastoralist elements, the same paradigm informs the conclusion that it too was politically distinct from its urban-centered, “Canaanite” counterparts (Finkelstein 1988a: 337, 344, 346; 1989a: 36, 43; 1992: 137; 1994: 173; 1995a: 361; 1996d: 226, 243; 2007b: 76; Bunimovitz 1994b: 195, 199, 201–2; Strange 2000: 72). It has also influenced the accepted nuance of modern terminology as it is applied to the ancient world, where nomadism has become interchangeable with pastoralism, and pastoralism has been associated with “tribal” polities (Kamp and Yoffee 1980: 93–94). At the same time, the term tribe commonly refers to rural populations (Lapidus 1990: 26) whose political structures have not yet evolved to the level of the state. This is largely accounted for on the basis of their mobility, which is viewed as a threat to fixed territorial boundaries that many regard as a defining characteristic of ancient states, and the notion that they lacked the social differentiation, the organized administrative systems (Khazanov 1978: 124–25; Nissen 17. This is clearly the implication of J. Huxley’s description of both social and natural evolution as “a self-maintaining, self-transforming and self-transcending process, directional in time and therefore irreversible” (Huxley 1956: 3). 18. A similar critique is articulated by Giddens 1981: 160; Porter 2000: 82; 2012: 28, 44–46; and Fleming 2004: 28.

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1980: 289; Kafadar 1995; Khoury and Kostiner 1990: 11; Postgate 1992: 86), and the military apparatus (Gellner 1990) necessary for state formation. 19 In the absence of these hierarchical structures, “tribes” are commonly regarded as “egalitarian” societies (Service 1975). Recent work on the role and nature of tribes and tribal identification, however, has shed new light on the topic. Drawing on the work of Leach (1954), M. Fried (1975), and Giddens (1984), A. Porter has argued that this reductionist model has been influenced by the presupposition that a “tribe” is a bounded social entity. Drawing on Giddens’s concept of “distanciation” (Giddens 1981: 162), Porter suggests that the first step in correcting this misperception is to recognize that tribes are better understood as “loosely organized intersocietal system[s]” (Porter 2000: 82–83). In her research on tribal populations, Porter has concluded that no tribal group “is bounded by a single set of relationships, but consists rather of a series of relationships structured through kinship, descent, tradition and ritual (amongst other possibilities) that connect different elements together.” It is this “web of integrative structures that form a tribal system or network” (Porter 2000: 83; see also 2012: 57–59). Rather than having a purely political function, these integrative systems are meant, first and foremost, to help maintain a common identity between groups who run the risk of being fragmented by distance. Nevertheless, this common identity can manifest itself in political terms. 20 In addition to preventing group fragmentation, tribal identities are also meant to establish integrative social systems that limit the exercise of exclusionary power according to Porter (2002: 9, 27–28; see chaps. 2–3 above). Porter appeals to her work at Tell Banat in Syria to support this conclusion. According to her analysis, the large third-millennium burial monument that was originally located outside the zone of urban buildup served to confirm the common identity of groups who spent much of the year dispersed across long distances with their flocks. The nature of the interments discovered there ultimately reflect a cognitive corporate code that emphasized social integration (Porter 2002: 28): 19. According to Porter (2000: 50), “[T]here is a correlated assumption that pastoralist groups, because they are tribally organized and are mobile, do not constitute examples of complex social organization, and are not capable of an internal transformation to statehood.” 20. Elsewhere, Porter contends that “time and space was transcended in the ancient Near East . . . by an intricate mesh of social structures, political ideologies, religious beliefs, rituals, and other practices, that, whether consciously intended or not, had the effect of binding disparate, and distant, components of the sociopolitical entity into one” (Porter 2009: 202; see also 2012: 46–64).

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Finkelstein has suggested a similar function for the cult sites and cemeteries that he views as having been unaffiliated or loosely affiliated with urban settlements in the Palestinian central hill country (Finkelstein 1988a; see chap. 7 below). Here again, shared ideology and common ritual is thought to have maintained the collective identity of a number of groups who were isolated during a large part of the year. To be sure, these identifications were subject to change, being influenced by such external factors as the environment and political upheaval. However, this variability could actually lend strength to these identifications. As Giddens indicates with regard to putative kinship relations (Giddens 1984: 142), “Genealogies can be consciously or unconsciously manipulated, they are capable of broadening and narrowing, and of spitting up and merging in accordance with practical necessities and a specific historical situation.” In this way, “nomadic social organizations . . . acquire the ideological flexibility they need and the ability to re-organize to suit new conditions, without losing the structuring principles” (see also Rappaport 1968; Adams 1971: 1; Salzman 1978: 627–29; Braun and Plog 1982: 518; Lemche 1985: 116, 145; Cooper 2006). The flexibility of these tribal identifications suggests that the sociopolitical structure of “tribes” was not monolithic. Neither was it inherently opposed to urban centers and/or “states.” The dynamic nature of tribes and their nomadic constituents does make it difficult to define this term precisely. In the ensuing analysis, therefore, I follow Fowles’s contention that, with regard “to the problem of tribal society, we . . . stand to profit from an analytic framework that . . . concerns itself less with characterizing the political, ideological, or eco21. See also Porter 2012: 40–58. Porter points to similar strategies in the nature of a number of ancient genealogies. As opposed to their counterparts from Ebla, where the ancestors seem to perpetuate and legitimate kingship through complex ritual interactions between very specific individuals—the newly married royal couple, the gods and preceding rulers as seen in the ritual text ARET XI—the Mari rituals perpetuate and affirm the role of a generalized class of the dead in the realm of the living. . . . Two quite different worldviews would seem therefore to be perpetuated in mortuary-related ritual at Ebla and Mari. At Ebla a restrictive perspective is apparent; at Mari a communal imagery of society is purveyed through an affirmation of an ideal tribal unity. (Porter 2002: 5)

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nomic qualities of a society—in other words, with what a tribe is—and more with what happens over time in tribal contexts” (Fowles 2002: 18; see also Szuchman 2009: 2–5). Because of the wealth of information that it provides on this topic and the insightful work that has been done on it, the context toward which I will direct most of my attention is the evidence from Mari. Tribal Identity and State Participation at Mari In his analysis of the textual evidence from Mari, Fleming has demonstrated the diversity of form and function among the tribal constituents that is attested in this archive. 22 At Mari, tribal populations were distributed between two main coalitions that engaged in corporate political activities. They were the binū yamina or “children of the right (hand),” probably a directional reference to the south, and their counterparts, the binū simʾal or “children of the left (hand),” also probably a directional reference, to the north. As their names imply, these two groups represented a “coherent duality” (Fleming 2004: 24, 94). The large geographical range that their individual components covered in their pastoralist activities illustrates the role of tribal identification in preventing group fragmentation. In one of the letters from Mari, the range of the Yaminites is said to have included the “land of ” (māt) Yamḫad, Qaṭna, and Amurrum. 23 Scholars generally agreed that at least Yamḫad and Qaṭna were discrete political units at this time. Accordingly, this reference demonstrates that tribal identification and organization could extend across multiple political entities (Fleming 2004: 31). Tribal identity was, therefore, only one aspect of the larger political identity of its constituent members. The complex nature of tribal identity as it relates to political identity (not to mention the complexity of identity in the ancient world in general) is illustrated in the differences in political organization between the Yaminites and the Simʾalites. The Yaminite confederacy was subdivided into five named liʾmums or “tribes” (Fleming 2004: 43). These included the Uprapû, the Yariḫû, the Yaḫrurû, the Amnanû, and the Rabbû. Each of these divisions was under the authority of a single sugāgum or “leader” (2004: 51–53). These leaders were identified with the settled centers from 22. This is the case in spite of the fact that that Jean-Marie Durand, the head of the current French publication team of the Mari texts, “has been inclined to see the essential structures of the Mari archives’ ‘Amorrite’ tribes as largely homogeneous, especially across the main duality of Simaʾalite and Yaminite peoples” (Fleming 2004: 45). See also Porter’s review of the evidence (2012: 30–38). 23. This reference is taken from an unpublished letter, a portion of which is reproduced in Fleming 2004: 29; see also p. 93.

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which they administered their authority. 24 According to demographic estimates (see Millet-Albà 2004), some of these towns could be quite large, ranking them among the “urban centers” of the Levant. For example, a population of approximately 675 inhabitants has been estimated for the Yaminite town of Dumtên, and about 550 inhabitants for the Yaminite town of Dabiš(an) (see Fleming 2004: 51–52). In addition to identifying themselves with settled centers, the Yaminite sugāgums also maintained close connections with the pastoralist elements of their society, which were referred to by the terms ḫibrum and kadûm (Fleming 2004: 53, 93, 95). Each liʾmum also consisted of an assembly (verb paḫārum) whose members assisted the sugāgum in making political decisions (Fleming 2004: 60). In this way, each liʾmum functioned as a distinct political entity consisting of intermember and exclusionary forms of power under the larger umbrella of the Yaminite identity, which itself functioned as a political unit. While the Simʾalites were also divided into tribal subcategories called gayums, their political structure differed from that of the Yaminites. For one thing, these divisions were only associated with the mobile pastoralist or “Ḫana” component of the Simʾalite population. These gayums also had individual sugāgums, but they were never identified by their political authority over a settled center. Nevertheless, there is evidence that Simʾalite towns were populated by individuals who also identified themselves with a gayum. For example, ARM VIII 85+ lists a number of Simʾalites who lived in a town and maintained their association with a gayum. Yet another text refers to a Simʾalite sugāgum who paid his financial obligation to the throne in both silver and sheep. 25 Because the Yaminite sugāgums who were identified with towns generally paid the same obligations in silver, 26 while the Simʾalite sugāgums of the Ḫana regularly pay in livestock, 27 Fleming has concluded that this double payment reflects the “leader’s responsibilities for both fields and flocks” (Fleming 2004: 53). Additionally, the gayums never acted independently in political matters (2004: 54). Rather, they were politically united under the authority of a single Simʾalite king. 28 24. It is unclear, however, whether every Yaminite town was governed by a sugāgum (see Fleming 2004: 45, 52–53). 25. ARM XXIV 61 iii 6′–7′. See also ARM VII 227 in connection with the sugāgum texts of ARM XXIV. 26. See esp. ARM XXIV 53–63; VII 311. 27. See esp. ARM XXIV 53. 28. According to Fleming, this term is particularly difficult to comprehend: “Not only does it lack any demonstrable political role, but it also is attested only for the mobile pastoralist or ‘Ḫana’ segment of the Simʾalite community” (Fleming 2004: 44; 47–49). It is

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Of particular significance is the fact that these Simʾalite kings were the kings of the centralized land administered from Mari, the last of whom was Zimri-Lim (Fleming 2004: 43, 55; see Charpin and Durand 1986). Without going further into the provocative details of these tribal organizations, I will simply state that a number of significant conclusions can be drawn regarding their sociopolitical makeup. The first of these is that settlements and larger urban centers were not excluded from the system of “tribal” integration. Members of both the Yaminites and Simʾalites were identified with cities and with mobile pastoralist elements, relying upon both agriculture and herding to sustain their social complex. 29 Thus, Fleming concludes that we “cannot explain the situation by opposing desert and sown” (Fleming 2004: 95; see also Porter 2012: 298–300). The second, related conclusion is that both the Yaminite and Simʾalite tribal organizations were, according to their own unique political structure and history, fully integrated into the sociopolitical structure of the kingdom administered from Mari. On the one hand, a contingent of the Yaminites who had been subdued by the Simʾalites was successfully incorporated into this larger polity. Though their initial opposition contributed to the depiction of the Yaminites as “outsiders” in the Mari archive, their sugāgums were still expected to pay regular financial obligations like their Simʾalite counterparts and to provide military support to the kingdom. On the other hand, the Simʾalites, under the leadership of their own Simʾalite kings, dominated all of the populations that were identified with the Kingdom of Mari. These conclusions clearly demonstrate that the traditional distinction between tribal and urban-centered populations is not satisfactory (see Pitard 1998: 55). 30 In other words, “It makes no sense to speak of a dichotomous culture or a dimorphous one, as does M. B. Rowton,” nor is it “reasonable to attempt to camouflage this lack of ” distinction “by suggesting that a symbiosis between the two ‘distinct’ sectors ‘conceals’ the cleft between them” (Lemche 1985: 152–53). 31 As Fleming indicates (2004: 231), “Tribal for this reason that Fleming translates the word gayum “division,” “because Ḫana ‘tentdwellers’ are defined by their mode of life, not by tribe per se.” 29. This structure parallels Lemche’s description of the Baḫtivari, whose territory spanned from the plains of Khuzistan to the Zagros Mountains, before the Arab invasion (Lemche 1985: 105). During this period, the “main part of the population of the region was composed of sedentary peasants who were divided into tribes and politically organized in ‘Gaufürstentümer’ ” (see Ehmann 1975: 41). Similarly, when the Yörük of southeastern Turkey settled in urban centers, they continued to “retain their tribal affiliation” (Lemche 1985: 107). 30. Compare this with Porter’s recent treatment of the Amorites (2012: 280–325). 31. Lemche continues this line of thought with the following observation: On the other hand, it would be likewise unreasonable to maintain that there are no differences, that is, to assert that the various line (or lines) of the continuum are invariably present in a given

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organization was fully integrated into the political world of kingdoms and cities, or perhaps we must even say that kingship and urbanism were fully adapted to a tribal form of social organization.” 32 Ultimately, “the categories commonly isolated as ‘tribe’ and ‘state,’ along with ‘nomad,’ ‘pastoralist,’ and the like, came together in a single social web” (Fleming 2009: 228; see also Porter 2012: 30–37, 238–40). 33 As with the reevaluation of social power undertaken in chap. 2, these insights will impact one’s vision of the sociopolitical structure of the southern Levant and the nature of Israel before the formation of the monarchy. Interestingly, both Mendenhall and Albright anticipated similar conclusions. Based on his study of the interaction between sedentary and nonsedentary elements in the region where he believed Israel wandered before the conquest of Palestine, Albright (1942: 101) concluded that a “[s]harp differentiation between sedentary and nomadic culture would . . . be quite impossible.” Similarly, Mendenhall (1962: 69) pointed out that “modern Bedouin often have tribal ties with villages.” Because of this, he believed that “no conclusions based upon an assumption of a radical contrast between nomad and villager are at all justifiable. . . . [T]here is no justification for the conclusion as to a radical contrast between the shepherd culture and that of the village” (see also Mendenhall 1962: 68, 70). Nevertheless, because the methodology of both scholars was still informed by a reductionist view of power, the effect that their insights may have had on their reconstructions of the LB Levant and the nature of early Israel did not reach fruition. area. Areas which appear to be dichotomies because two populations compete for the same resources are entirely conceivable. However, such a situation need not necessarily pit a nomadic group on one side and a peasant society on the other, as the same sort of competition could apply to two peasant societies or to two nomadic ones. Elsewhere we might discover three or more different types of occupation in the area in question. (Lemche 1985: 153)

In other words, lifestyle and/or means of production are not the determining factors in this type of dynamic. 32. See also Fleming 2012: 209–12, 224–27. Note that Sinuhe, a “tribal leader,” is identified with encampments (Spalinger 2008: 158). 33. As Porter (2012: 33) points out, Mari under Zimri-Lim is not the only city-based kingdom that garnered support from mobile groups: [M]ost leaders at this time seem to have been able to at least call on the allegiance of various mobile groups: the kings of Yamhad (modern-day Aleppo), Yarim-Lim (Zimri-Lim’s father-in-law), and his father, Sumu-epuh, deployed Yaminites against Samsi-Addu; Samsi-Addu exists within a duality of ‘town and tribe’ since Ekallatum is associated with the Yahruru (Durand 1997: 215, letter 84), and he himself may have been a member of the Numha; the kings of Uruk were also kings of the Amnanum (Charpin 2003: 16; 2004a: 108), a Yaminite group, while the kings of Larsa had particular ties to the Emutbal (Steinkeller 2004), as indeed did various kings of the Habur (Charpin 2003; Porter 2009).

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“Tribe” and “State” Terminology The above evaluation of the categories “tribe” and “state” has demonstrated that modern terminology is often imprecise and bound by certain presuppositions that are imposed upon the evidence. As we have already observed, while the “tribe” has traditionally been regarded as the antithesis of the “state” both in terms of its political organization and the level of its centralization, this characterization is misleading. Another factor that contributes to this confusion is the common way in which “pastoralism” is defined. As I indicated above, “pastoralism” is often conflated with the concept of “nomadism,” a term that is typically used to describe “extensive and mobile pastroalists who either have nothing at all to do with agriculture, or are occupied with agriculture to a limited degree” (Khazanov 1984: 15). This has led to a myopic view of pastoralism, and has, in turn, contributed to the governing assumptions regarding “tribes.” In practice, pastoralism in the ancient world was a diverse phenomenon, paralleling the diversity of pastoralism in the modern world (see Szuchman 2009: 2–3; Lemche 1985: 124–30). This diversity is dependent upon three related factors. The first is the level and degree to which a society integrates pastoral production with agricultural production. A.  M. Khazanov (1984: 19–24) has isolated five distinct forms that fall along the spectrum of integration. They include: (a) pure pastoral nomadism, which is characterized by a lack of supplementary agricultural production; (b) seminomadic pastoralism, which involves “secondary and supplementary” agricultural production; (c) semisedentary pastoralism, where agricultural production plays an important role but is supplemented by short pastoral migrations; (d) herdsman husbandry or distant-pastures husbandry, in which specialized, nonmigratory herdsmen tend flocks year round in pastures often removed from the settlements where a majority of the population engages in agricultural production; and (e) sedentary animal husbandry, where grazing and stabling takes place close to the primary settlement and is only meant to supplement agriculture. The second factor is the type of ecological zone in which pastoralism is practiced. Though the ecological zones in what Khazanov calls the “Near East” (a category in which he includes Arabia, North Africa, the Sahara, Syria, Palestine, and Iraq) are quite diverse, he indicates that Syria and Palestine were dominated by those that promoted (b) semi-nomadic pastoralism and (d) herdsman husbandry (1984: 53). In these regions, which are dominated by hilly landscapes with proximity to steppe areas, pastoral production provided a supplementary form of subsistence to agricultural production (see Finkelstein 1995a: 353).

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The final factor in Khazanov’s scheme involves immediate environmental and sociopolitical concerns. Because of their mobility and their capacity to cover relatively long distances, societies that practice some form of pastoralism have an acute ability to adapt to certain environmental stresses such as drought and sociopolitical concerns such as economic collapse, the decline of a central authority, and/or foreign invasion. Thus, Adams (1972: 9) has suggested that “the very severe retrogression in Mesopotamian urban life in the late 2nd and early 1st millennia B.C. . . . may imply that much of the formerly urban population could have readily dispersed back into the countryside.” Because these factors must be accounted for when we consider the role and nature of pastoralism in a particular region, they will continue to inform this analysis (see also Lemche 1985: 110–35). Nevertheless, it should be noted that Khazanov believes there were “few, if any, pure pastoral nomads in the Near East until the first millennium B.C.” because of the strenuous demands of this practice (Khazanov 2009: 124; see also pp. 119, 122). He therefore concludes that the majority of “Bronze Age pastoralist groups did not constitute separate societies, but rather were more or less specialized but integrated parts of larger agrarian-urban societies within a shared kinship idiom, sociopolitical organization, or other institutions” (Khazanov 2009: 125; see also Porter 2012). 34 As Rowton’s model demonstrates, pastoral production has long been seen as being at odds with agricultural production and the development of urban-based cultures. According to a number of historians, with the development of irrigation based agriculture, the labor demands of canal building and maintenance made it difficult for individual families to engage in both modes of sustenance. This led some families to specialize in animal husbandry. As more and more land was reclaimed for agriculture due to increased demographic pressure, these families were forced to move further into the fringes of the land as fringe populations (Bates and Lee 1974; Buccellati 1990). As we have seen from Fleming’s evaluation 34. In this regard, Khazanov critiques proposed “ethno-cultural” distinctions commonly appealed to by archaeologists to differentiate and perpetuate the proposed dichotomy between sedentary and pastoralist populations. According to his own account, during his fieldwork among populations that engaged in transhumance in Central Asia and the Caucasus, he “noticed that material culture of their shepherds, while they were away from permanent settlements, had many peculiarities in dwellings, dress, or utensils.” Though he admits that at that time in his career his “knowledge of the early pastoralists in the Near East was next to nothing,” he nevertheless arrived at a very important conclusion: “if future archaeologists, in addition to permanent settlements, study seasonal camps of those shepherds, without having any ethnographic information about them, they may well come to a conclusion that they are dealing with different ethno-cultural groups” (2009: 125).

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of the Mari evidence, however, pastoral production played an important role in urban societies, complementing and supplementing agricultural production. In his own analysis of the economic texts from ancient Ebla and the modern economic practices of the people who live near that site, I. Gelb has concluded that only a very small percentage of the region was used for agricultural purposes. The majority of land was used for animal husbandry for the purpose of textile production (Gelb 1986: 162). For Gelb, in spite of the fact that most historians of the ancient world “have assumed that grain alone could nourish the growth of higher forms of civilization,” this datum strongly suggests that “the political growth of a state may depend on wool” as well. He concludes that “Ebla . . . was an empire built on the backs of simple shepherds” (Gelb 1986: 158). Similarly, N. Kouchoukos (1998: 252–53) has suggested that the early phases of Uruk’s economic power in the later fourth millennium may also have at least partially been based upon wool production via animal husbandry (see also Porter 2012: 238–50). These observations demand caution when describing the sociopolitical structures and associations of groups who maintained tribal identifications and engaged in pastoral modes of production. 35 This is particularly the case when the textual and archaeological evidence says very little about these populations (Hasel 1998: 235). As Fleming contends, “we cannot look for a single ‘Syrian’ or ‘tribal’ social grid into which any new evidence can be made to fit. This one contrast is a harbinger of other contrasts that must be sought out in a mosaic of populations and forms” (Fleming 2004: 45). While categories are important for the organization and presentation of information, as we continue our evaluation of the primary evidence, we must always be mindful of the fact that significant historical phenomena are often embedded in the nuances of a particular sociopolitical organization. This methodological approach will allow us to recognize “the potential synchronism between the ‘tribal’ and ‘land’ categories that have sometimes been read as mutually exclusive” (Fleming 2004: 190).

The Sutû The foregoing section laid the groundwork for viewing the Sutû in a new way. As I noted at the outset of this chapter, most contend that the Akkadian term Sutû was used to identify tribally organized populations who practiced pure nomadism. This defining mode of existence implied that they were a “stateless” people, who were “not considered part of the local Mesopotamian societies” (Fleming 2009: 230). However, a close 35. On the dangers of classification, see especially Lemche 1985: 125–30.

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study of the texts from the Old Babylonian period casts doubt on these conclusions. To be sure, Sutû was used as a general term to refer to populations and individuals who were, at times, defined more specifically by their tribal affiliations. Nevertheless, several texts demonstrate that those who were identified as such were not all outsiders living on the margins of Mesopotamian society. Rather, some were involved in the civil and agricultural activities of settled centers and fully integrated into the social and political structures operating in them. 36 In the end, their activities closely paralleled those of the Yaminites. In fact, the data suggest that some Suteans were members of the Yaminite coalition. This evidence, in combination with the textual data from the LB will ultimately require us to rethink the meaning and function of this term. While it was attached to tribally-organized populations, it does not appear to have been associated with a particular lifestyle. Rather, it seems to have been used to identify one’s geographical heritage. Evidence from the Old Babylonian Period In his study of the Suteans, M. Heltzer (1981) isolates several tribal divisions whose members were identified by this term. The most significant of these is the Rabbeans. Two administrative documents from Mari record the delivery of silver to three Rabbeans who are referred to as Suteans. The first, ARM VII 133, mentions two Suteans by name and defines them as the messengers of the Rabbeans: 3 GÍN KÙ.BABBAR sa-am-sa-nu 2 GÍN na-ap-sú-um GAL [  ] 2 lúsu-tu-ú DUMUmeš ši-[ip]-ri š[a r]a-bi-[i-i]m 3 shekels of silver to Samsanu, 2 shekels of silver to Napsum (?): 2 Suteans, the messengers of the Rabbeans. (lines 1–5). In the second (ARM VII 165), though the name of the Rabbean at the center of the transaction is not specified, he is also identified as a Sutean: 5 GÍN ra-bi-ú-um su-tu-ú 5 shekels to the Sutean Rabbean 37 36. This would correspond to the instances in which the Shasu are written with the “city” determinative rather than the “throw-stick.” 37. Heltzer takes issue with Kuppper, who contends that ra-bi-ú-um is here used as a personal name rather than a tribal designation. Instead, Heltzer suggests that “the reference is to a messenger who is called after his tribal-name in order to denote that he represents the tribe” (Heltzer 1981: 14 n. 8). These lines parallel other instances in which individuals are identified by their place of origin or another larger category of identification. For example, in ARM VIII 210, Innibum and Yanṣibum are identified as “two Uprapeans” (yn-ni-bu-um

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Though I disagree with Heltzer’s conclusion that these texts identify the Rabbeans as a Sutean tribe, 38 it does appear that some of the Rabbeans were classified as Suteans. That is to say that the term Sutû represented a larger category that partially overlapped with the Rabbean tribal division. If this connection is accepted, it will shed light on the political affiliations and lifestyles of the Suteans, providing an entirely new angle from which to understand the nuance of this term. By the time Zimri-Lim regained his father’s throne at Mari after a period of Assyrian domination, the Rabbeans were fully integrated into his kingdom as members of the Yaminite confederation. 39 As Fleming points out, ARM XXIII 428 and 429 “record all of the Yaminites from Zimri-Lim’s districts of Mari, Terqa, and Saggaratum who are supposed to serve with the king’s armies” (Fleming 2004: 67). Included in this list are the Yaḫrurû, the Yariḫû, the Ṣuraḫammû, the Uprapû, and most importantly, the Rabbû. In addition, ARM XXVI 241 contains a reference to “Zazum the sugāgum,” ya-an-ṣi-bu-u[m] 2 LÚ meš up-ra-pi; lines 16′–18′), one of the tribal constituents of the Yaminite collective (see Fleming 2004: 67). 38. Heltzer also appeals to ARM VII 210: 19′–24′ and VI 44: 6′ to support this identification (Heltzer 1981: 15). However, their fragmentary nature makes them less viable pieces of evidence. Among the other names that Heltzer identifies as Sutean tribes (two of which will be explored in greater detail below) are Ḫammiṭelu and Yaḫmumum. Ḫammiṭelu is problematic because, in the primary piece of textual support, Ḫammiṭelu is preceded by a personal name determinative: ù pa-ni-tam iḫa-am-mi-ṭa-lu-ú su-tu-ú ik-[š]u-dam-ma 3 U.GÀR šeʾam ú 5 kur ku-na-ši ad-di-ni-šum (“And earlier, Ḫammiṭalu the Sutean came to me and I gave him 3 ugar of barley and 5 gur of emmer”; ARM VI 15: 18–21; see also VI 44: 3′–8′). In order to alleviate this difficulty, Heltzer contends that this individual is “called after his tribal-name in order to denote that he represents his tribe” (Heltzer 1981: 14 n. 8; see also 15 n. 11; 19 n. 24). With regard to the identity of Yaḫmumum, a close reading of the evidence indicates that it was the name of a city rather than a tribe. This reading is confirmed by the following report reproduced in Bottéro (1954: 19), text 20: “According to the instruction of Aškur-Addu, the ḫabirum who were in Šuruzim went forth and dwelled in front of Ḫalisuma. At night they went forth and seized the city Yaḫmumam” (aš-šum ṭe4-em aš-kur-dAddu lú.mešḫa-bi-ru ša i-na šu-ru-zi-im ki ú-ṣú-ma UGU ḫa-lí-su-ma wa-aš-bu muši-tum-ma al-li-ku-nim-ma a-lam ya-aḫ-mu-ma-am ki iṣ-ba-tu). Though Heltzer cites this text in support of his reconstruction, he not only overlooks the fact that Yaḫmumam is set in apposition to the word ālum, “city,” which thereby defines it as such, but attempts to force this entity into his tribal scheme by claiming that the “determinative KI shows, perhaps, that this is a tribal name, which could also be a place name” (Heltzer 1981: 20). See also Dossin 1983: 986, where Yaḫmumum serves as the place of assembly for the Yaminites (DUMUmeš ya-mi-na ki i-na ya-aḫ-mu-mi-im ip-ḫu-ru). 39. See also ARM IX 291, which lists 18 women of Zarrum Rabbûm (18 SALmeš za-ar-ri ra-bi-iu-umki; line 19), or, as Heltzer suggests, “Zari of the Rabbeans” (Heltzer 1981: 36–37). Note also that Abattum, the urban center of the land of the Rabbeans mentioned in the Yaḫdun-Lim inscription, is located in the heart of the Suggaratum district, which fell under Zimri-Lim’s authority.

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who dwelled in the town of Zarrum Rabbûm. 40 Not only is this town included in the muster lists of ARM XXIII 428 and 429 (see Fleming 2004: 52, 253 n. 79; Heltzer 1981: 51), but its name implies a connection with the tribe of Rabbûm. If some of the members of this tribe were identified as Suteans, then it seems at least some Suteans would have been integrated within the kingdom administered by Zimri-Lim. 41 As with their fellow Yaminite confederates, the Rabbeans engaged in both sedentary and nonsedentary activities. This is clearly illustrated in ARM VIII 11, a legal document that records the sale of 150 ikû of land. In total, 13 individuals are involved in this transaction, all of whom are identified as “the sons of Awin.” Together, “they constitute ‘the house of Awin’ (É  a-wi-in; line 3), which represented part of the larger Rabbûm tribe as the ‘Rabbean Awin’ ” (a-wi-in [r]a-a[b]-bi; line 30; see Fleming 2004: 95–96; Heltzer 1981: 17). 42 In spite of this common identification, 40. “In the town of Zarrum of the Rabbeans, among the sheep of Zazum the sugāgum, a malformed lamb was born” (i-na za-ar-ri ki ra-bi-im i-na UDUḫa ša za-zi-im lúsu-ga-gi-im SILA4 iz-bu-um i-wa-li-id-ma; lines 4–7). 41. See also the inscription of Yaḫdun-Lim for the Temple of Šamaš (Dossin 1955). The third column of this text opens with a list of three kingdoms that were under his vassalage. Each is defined by the name of its king, its administrative center, and its wider land (mātum). These lands are in turn identified with an individual tribal entity: mla-ú-um

šar sa-ma-nimki ù ma-at ub-ra-bi-im mba-aḫ-lu-ku-li-im šar tu-tu-ul ki ù ma-at am-a-ni-im ma-ya-lum šar a-ba-at-timki ù ma-at ra-ab-bi-im

Lâʾûm, the king of Samanum and the land of the Uprapeans Baḫlu-kulim, the king of Tuttul and the land of the Amaneans Ayâlum, the king of Abattum and the land of the Rabbeans

The last of these indicates that the Rabbeans constituted the land administered by Ayalum from Abattum. Paralleling the way in which Yaḫdun-Lim defined his own domain in this same text (mya-aḫ-du-un-li-im DUMU ya-gi-id-li-im šar ma-ri ki ù ma-at ḫa-na; I  17–19) and the way his son Zimri-Lim defined his kingdom elsewhere (Fleming 2004: 147–69; see Charpin and Durand 1986: 151–52; Charpin 1992d: 72–73), this text indicates that the Rabbeans constituted the core of Ayalum’s kingdom. Again, if members of the Rabbean tribe could be identified as Suteans, this text suggests that Suteans could be integrated within the urban-centered polities of the region. The evidence also indicates that Suteans served as members of Hammurabi’s military force. ARM VI 51 records the following injunction from the king of Babylon: “If you transfer the Suteans that I dispatched to you, the Suteans that I dispatched, gather and dispatch to Zimri-Lim. But, if you do not transfer the Suteans that I dispatched to you deliver this tablet to Zimri-Lim” (šum-ma su-ti-i ša aṭ-ru-da-ak-kum tu-še-et-te-eq [s]u-tu-ú ša aṭ-ru-dam šu-ta-aṣ-bi-it-ma [a-na ṣ]e-er zi-im-ri-li-im ṭú-ru-ud [ú šum-m]a su-ti-i ša aṭ-ru-da-ak-kum [la] tu-še-et-te-eq [a]t-ta-ma tup-pa-an šu-a-ti [a]na zi-im-ri-li-im šu-bi-il; lines 13–20). 42. As Fleming indicates, the title “Awin should be understood as a clan defined in relation to the Rabbûm tribe, not an individual, even if the group took its name from an ancestry” (Fleming 2004: 269 n. 263).

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the buyers and sellers are described as leading two different lifestyles. The former consisted of five leaders (ŠÀ.GA.DU) 43 who were the “inhabitants of (the town of) Appum” (wa-aš-bu-ut ap-pa-anki; lines 9–10), and the latter consisted of eight leaders who were identified as “ḫibrum of the steppe” (ḫi-ib-ru-um ša na-wi-im; line 21). Recall that the term ḫibrum was used among the Yaminites to identify the pastoralist component of their social structure. Based on this evidence, we can conclude with Fleming (2004: 95–96) and Heltzer (1981: 21, 39, 50–51) 44 that the Rabbeans consisted of both a steppe-based and a townbased component. 45 Unfortunately, because there is no indication that all Rabbeans were included within the Sutean category, this tells us nothing about the lifestyle of the latter. It only allows for the possibility that they led a pastoralist lifestyle, a sedentary lifestyle, or both. While there is little debate regarding the nonsedentary character of the Suteans, several letters from Mari and Sippar indicate that they were also involved in the civil and agricultural activities of urban-centered polities. For example, ARM VII 225 records the delivery of payments to the royal stores of Mari by a number of its dependents. Included among them are Dabiš (line 3; see Fleming 2004: 93, 97, 317), Asqudum (line 5; see ARM XXVI 5: 20; Fleming 2004: 189), the Ḫana (lines 8, 13, 19), Abattum (line 9; ARM XXVI 158; Heimpel 2003: 16; Fleming 2004: 158), and Appan (line 4′; ARM XXVI 171). In line 20, the same text indicates that a certain “Yanṣib-Dagan, the Sutean,” also delivered “one male sheep” to the central administration ([1 UDU.NI]TA ya-an-ṣi-ib-dda-gan lúsút[u-ú]). Drawing on Fleming’s conclusions regarding the connection between one’s tribute and the lifestyle that the donor led, we are safe in saying that this sheep-bearing Sutean operated as a pastoralist. Nevertheless, as a tribute-bearer, he participated in the same activities as the other dependents of Zimri-Lim, indicating that this Sutean was part of Zimri-Lim’s kingdom. 43. See Fleming 2004: 96, 269 n. 264. 44. Elsewhere, Heltzer (1981: 14), who is followed by Lemche (1985: 157), contends that the term ḫibrum was used to refer to these independent tribal divisions, or “a tribe within the tribal coalition” (Lemche 1981: 157; see n. 292) on par with the term gayum used of the Simʾalites. In Heltzer’s words, “The whole body of the tribe, or the confederation of tribes, is divided into smaller units—ḫibrum,” which he translates “tribe” (Heltzer 1981: 14; see also pp. 21–25; Dossin 1972). 45. Fleming goes on to say that, by “the very nature of the transaction, which transfers land for cultivation from the town community to the steppe community, we cannot conclude that the mobile group takes care of the settled group’s flocks while the settled group farms for the mobile group. Both groups are portrayed as self-sufficient, if interdependent, each represented by adult men” (Fleming 2004: 96).

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Several other texts from Mari describe Sutean participation in legal transactions as witnesses. 46 The most provocative of these is ARM VIII 78. In line 37, Awil-ilu is named as one of the witnesses of the transaction described therein. The identity of this individual is expanded by two distinguishing terms that follow. The first is tupšarrum, which identifies him as a scribe, and the second is DUMU: dumusu-tu-um “(son of) a Sutean.” Though the function of DUMU (“son”) in this context is difficult to determine, it does indicate that this scribe was affiliated with the Suteans and/or identified as a Sutean himself (see also AT 181: 17 below). A Sutean by the name of Yabsu was also involved in the civil affairs at Sippar. Three documents dating to the second half of the reign of Ammiṣaduqa (ca. 1582–1562) indicate that he not only played a relatively prominent role in Sippar’s society, serving as a witness in a legal transaction (CT IV 39d: 10) 47 and providing a loan of silver to a certain IbniMarduk (PBS VIII/2 223), 48 but that he also resided there. 49 During the same period, a number of other individuals who are identified as Suteans rented land for agricultural purposes. These transactions were undertaken individually 50 and in cooperation with the son of an abi ṣābim, a highranking official in Sippar. 51 In yet another text, Alku the son of Abdanu, 46. See also ARM VIII 103. 47. Luke 1965: 107, no. 13. 48. “Two shekels of silver for the harvest of grain from Yabsu the son of Sugagu / the sugāgu Ibni-Marduk took. On the day of the harvest, the silver that remains he shall give to the person who gave it. Grain he will measure” (2 GÍN KU.BABBAR a-na BURU14 MÁS še-im KI ya-ab-sú DUMU su-ga-gu mib-ni- dmarduk [DUMU] DINGIR-šu-ib-ni-[šu] ŠU. BA.AN.TI UD BURU14.ŠE KU ša ib-ba-aš-šu-[u] a-na na-din-šu i-di-in ŠE i-AG.E; lines 1–11; Luke 1965: 107, no. 9). 49. CT IV 31a records the lease of the second floor of a house by “Yabsu the Sutean” from Ṭaribatum: “The second story of a house, all that is available, from Ṭaribatum, the daughter of Warad-Sîn (to) Yabsu, the Sutean, the son of (the) sugāgu for lease for one year rented. The lease-rent for year 1 / 3 shekel of silver he shall pay” (É.ÙR.RA ma-la ba-šu-ú KI ṭa-ri-ba-tum UTU DUMU.SAL Warad-Sîn mya-ab-su-ú su-tu-ú DUMU su-ga-gu a-na KA.SAR a-na MU 1 KAM IB.T.E.A KA.SAR MU 1 KAM-ma 1 / 3 GÍN KÙ.BABBAR Ì.LÁ.E; lines 1–10). His social status is also reflected in his title DUMU su-ga-gu. While su-ga-gu may have been the name of his father, this designation may have also indicated that he was the son of a local “leader” (sugāgum; see Luke 1965: 107, no. 13; Heltzer 1981: 68; Fleming 2004: 51–54). If the latter option is accepted, it strengthens the connection between the Sutû and the Yaminites. 50. CT VIII 10b: 1–5; 14a: 1–18; Schorr 1913: 178, no. 123. 51. In CT XLV 59, Alku, the Sutean, the son of Abdanu, and Utlutum, the son of Ibqu, the abi ṣâbim form a partnership and rent land from Ibqatum (KI ib-qa-tim be-el A.ŠÀ malku-ú su-tu-ú DUMU ab-da-nu ù ut-lu-tum DUMU ib-qu AD.ÈRIN a-na er-re-šu-tim a-na GUN a-na TAB.BA a-na MU 1 KAM IB.TA.[E].Ameš a-wi-lum ma-la a-wi-lum ma-na-aḫtam i-ša-ak-ka-nu; lines 4–13; Heltzer 1981: 62). As Heltzer points out, the abi ṣābim was “a

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the same Sutean involved in the aforementioned agricultural partnership, served as the guarantor in a transaction between a citizen and another abi ṣābim (Anbar 1975: 112, no. 2). Finally, in a ration list dated to the 5th year of Ammiṣaduqa, an unnamed Sutean is listed as the “guard of the sesamefield” of the gāgum at Sippar. 52 All of this evidence indicates that, while some Suteans were associated with a pastoralist lifestyle, others dwelled in cities, participated in the civil affairs of those cities, and engaged in agricultural activities. We may conclude, therefore, that the term Sutû neither designated nor necessitated a particular lifestyle. This is supported by the way the Rabbeans are identified in ARM VIII 11. There we observed that the term ḫibrum was used among the Rabbeans to identify the mobile component of their population. At the same time, the sedentary element was identified by the city in which they resided. 53 The very need to identify Rabbeans as Sutû, therefore, suggests a subcategory within this population of some explanatory value that fell outside the realm of sedentary versus nonsedentary. Though the evidence is admittedly sparse, the fact that Sutû is never used with reference to the Simʾalites but is associated with the Yamminites may suggest a connection with the south. When read in light of the evidence from the LB, it may well be that it was used to designate one’s southern geographical heritage. The Sutû of the Late Bronze Age The volume of documents dating to the LB that make reference to the Sutû is significantly less than the preceding era. This makes it impossible to determine Sutûs’ tribal associations and difficult to reconstruct their social structures and political affiliations. Nevertheless, there are several points of continuity between the Sutû of the Old Babylonian period and those of the Amarna Age. A number of texts indicate that the Sutû were politically aligned with urban-centered polities that were recognized by and in communication with the Egyptians. The first of these is EA 195. In this letter, Biryawaza of Damascus lists the ʿapîrû and the Sutû among several groups that are prepared to fight high royal military official in Sippar” (1981: 67). YOS XIII 395 (Heltzer 1981: 65) also records a loan that involved “Daduaḫi, a Sutean” borrowing 3 measures of “peas for seed” to be paid back after the harvest from Awil-Ea, the walik Amurru (3 PAN GÚ.GAL a-na za-ra-ni KI awi-il-dEa UGULA MAR.TU a-na qa-bi-e mbi-ta-ku-nu mda-du-a-ḫi su-tu ŠU.BA.AN.TI U4 BURU14.ŠE za-ra-ni pi ⸢A.ŠÀ⸣ u-ta-ar IGI u-tul-Iš[tar] lú AD.ÉRIN” (lines 1–10). According to Harris (1975: 94), this title was given to one of the highest-ranking military officials in Sippar. Note also that repayment was to be made before the abi ṣābim. 52. CT VIII 21d: 9; see Harris 1963: 143–44. 53. Note also the town of Zarrum Rabbûm mentioned in ARM XXVI 241.

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with him on behalf of Egypt’s interests in the land (lines 24–30). In addition, he identifies both of these groups with himself, referring to them as “mine.” One wonders if this designation, in a context where Biryawaza also refers to “my troops” (ÉRINmeš-ia), “my chariots” (gišGIGIRmeš-ia), and “my brothers” (ŠEŠmeš-ia), indicates that the Sutû were integrated members of the political entity that he administered from Damascus. This would reflect the background of ARM XXIII 428 and 429, which contain a list of Yaminites expected to participate in Zimri-Lim’s military force. Similarly, in EA 169, the Sutû are depicted as constituting an important element of Aziru’s base of power. The situation described therein reveals the complexity of Sutean involvement, indicating that they were more than simply hired mercenaries. 54 The son of Aziru sent this correspondence to an Egyptian official named Tutu while his father was in Egypt, probably being interrogated regarding his fidelity to his king. In Aziru’s absence, the kings of Nuḫašše began threatening hostilities against his son. Perhaps seeing the lack of fortitude on the part of Aziru’s temporary replacement in the face of these threats (a characteristic that is apparent in the fearful tone of his letter), he reports that “all of the lands and all of the troops of the Sutû said to me, Aziru is not going to come forth out of Egypt” (ù gáb-bá KUR.KUR meš ù gáb-bá LÚ meš ÉRIN meš sú-u-tù ⸢ki-a⸣-am-ma iq-bu-nim la-a-mi [ú]-uṣ-ṣí-mi ma-zi-ri iš-tu kurmi-iṣ-ri; lines 24–28). This position was probably based on the belief that Aziru had been deemed “unfaithful” by his Egyptian overlord and, as a result, met his fate while there. Because of this, the Sutû threatened to depart (i-pa-⸢ṭá⸣-ru-nim) from the land (lines 29–30). Two important observations can be drawn from this notice. The first is that the Sutû had access to the son of Aziru. This implies that they also had some sort of access to Aziru himself. In this way, their voice had political sway within Aziru’s kingdom. The second is that their affiliation with the land of Amurru was contingent upon Aziru’s leadership. In the absence of Aziru, they felt that they had the right to depart. This may have been based on a political alliance they had forged with Aziru but not his son. In other words, their threat of departure indicates that they did not recognize the authority of the son of Aziru, only that of Aziru himself. 55 If this reconstruction is accepted, it places the Sutû in an important political 54. See Fleming’s related treatment of the proposed mercenary status of the ʿapîrû (Fleming 2012: 258–67). In Fleming’s estimation, the ʿapîrû “joined for military service under a separate census category, and this is what unites them for classification purposes” (2012: 265). 55. This hypothetical reconstruction is reminiscent of the political events that took place between Rehoboam and the Israelite assembly at Shechem in 1 Kings 12. Though the

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relationship with the polity administered by Aziru, indicating that they were not by definition a “stateless” and “disruptive” element of society. 56 Instead, they constituted an important element of Aziru’s authority, whose cooperation and participation had to be negotiated. With regard to the specific nuance of this term, a significant development occurs in the way Sutû is used in the texts from this period. There are a number of instances in which the word is determined by or associated with the term KUR (mātu), “land,” and occasionally the determinative of place, KI. For example, in the highly effaced opening lines of the treaty between Niqmepa, the king of Mukiš and Alalakh, and Ir-IŠKUR, the king of Tunip, the phrase “the soldiers of the land of the Sutû” (ṣá-bemeš kursu-tiki; line 5) appears (AT 2; D. J. Wiseman 1953: 25–30). In a text from Nuzi, two individuals “from the land of the Sutû” appear in “a list of slaves given to the king of Apugga to be sold abroad” (mša-ar-tum ù mi-[ ] ša kursu-ti-i; SMN 1680: 16–17; Lacheman 1940: 23; 57 Heltzer 1981: 80–81). Versions of the same designation are also found in two Amarna letters. In EA 122, Rib-Addu issues a complaint against “the people of the land of the Sutû” (LÚmeš kursu-te; line 34). Similarly, in EA 297, Yapḫu of Gezer refers to “the people of the land of the Sutû” (LÚmeš KUR  / kur⸢su⸣-te meš; line 16). 58 These examples indicate that, from the perspective of the authors of these texts, the term Sutû was regarded as or affiliated with a “land.” In this way, they reflect the references to “the land of the Shasu” (tꜢ šꜢsw) in the topographical list of Amenhotep III. 59 However, there is no indication that “the land of the Sutû” was a centralized mātu under the authority of a single urban-centered leader or a multipolity decentralized mātu. This may indicate that the “land of the Sutû” was a geographical designation reflecting an Egyptian convention. By extension, then, the term Sutû would have been used to designate individuals who originated from or were associated with a particular region. latter had ratified David’s authority over Israel (2 Sam 5:1–3), they subsequently rejected the authority of Rehoboam and “departed” from his “land” (1 Kgs 12:1–16). 56. Of course, the nature of an individual’s or a group’s “disruptiveness” heavily depends on the person who is referring to them as “disruptive.” 57. Though Lacheman reads this reference as the “name of a country,” the evidence is too scant, and his definition of what a “country” represents is too vague to arrive at any firm conclusions regarding it. 58. Note also that, in the Idrimi inscription, the term is followed by the determinative KI, indicating that it was regarded as a “place” (su-tu-ú ki; line 15). 59. Kitchen 1964: 66–67; Giveon 1964: 239–55; Redford 1992: 272–73; E. F. Morris 2005: 221 n. 12. See also Hasel 1998: 220–25, 235–36. Based on his analysis of the various references to the Shasu, he concludes that they “are primarily to be understood as geographical designations” (1998: 235).

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The question remains regarding the precise location of “the land of the Sutû.” Though the question may never be settled, the evidence does suggest that it was located in and around the Syrian Desert, supporting the “southern” designation suggested above. For one thing, the Sutû were directly associated with Damascus and Amurru. The organized activities of the Sutû in this region are also described in A.1098. In line 10′, YasmaḫAddu reports that the Sutû led attacks against Palmyra, which is located northeast of Damascus, and against the land of Qaṭna, one of the pasture lands of the Yamina listed in A.2730 (see chap. 5 below). Finally, if one accepts the identification of the Sutû with the Shasu, the topographical list of Amenhotep III locates the origin of a number of these groups in the southern reaches of the Syrian Desert. 60 To summarize, the term Sutû appears to have been a general designation used to refer to tribally organized groups that consisted of both steppe-based and settlement-centered populations who originated from or were associated with regions in and around the Syrian Desert. Regardless of the particular lifestyle that they led, they were integrated into the social and political structures of urban-centered polities, according to the evidence. The identification of some Rabbeans as Suteans and their implied association with the Yaminite coalition that was loyal to ZimriLim attest this reality. 61 Thus, as with most tribally organized populations, to postulate an inherent distinction if not an inherently inimical relationship between the Suteans and the polities and populations that were defined by an urban center does justice to neither the evidence nor the integrative capacities and sociopolitical complexities of ancient Near Eastern polities. Ultimately, this conclusion supports Khazanov’s contention that “the search for a fully nomadic society should be abandoned in favor of an approach which recognizes nomadic tendencies manifested in varying degrees in a wide range of societies and communities” (Khazanov 2009: 121). 62 60. See P. Anastasi VI, 54–56, which refers to the “clans of the Shasu of Edom.” See also P. Harris I 76: 9. For a detailed study on the link between the Shasu, the lands of the Transjordan, and the proposed migration of these people into the central hill country of Palestine, see Faust 2006; and Killebrew 2005. 61. Drawing on this observation in particular, one wonders whether the Suteans referred to in the Amarna letters may provide a concrete link between the Yaminites of the Old Babylonian period and the Benjaminites of the Bible, a suggestion that I will explore in greater detail in part 2. 62. He goes on to suggest that there “is no reason to look upon . . . Suteans . . . as pure pastoral nomads (Khazanov 2009: 122).

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The ʿapîrû in the Amarna Letters In contrast to the Suteans, the ʿapîrû are well attested in the letters from Amarna. Because of this wealth of documentation, my aim in this section is to identify how the ʿapîrû act and/or how they are depicted as acting in this corpus itself. As with the Sutû, there are a number of examples of ʿapîrû engaging in organized political activities. In the concluding lines of EA 273, NIN.UR.MAḪ.MEŠ informs the king that the ʿapîrû wrote (ša-ap-ru) to the cities of Ayyaluna (urua-ia-lu-na) and Ṣarḫa (uruṣaar-ḫa). This is one of the only occasions on which the ʿapîrû are said to have written to independent political entities. 63 However, the fact that the phenomenon of writing is mentioned in this letter suggests that it did not run contrary to the expectations of the one who sent it or to those who received it. In this context, the ʿapîrû appear to be engaged in diplomatic activities that are not characteristic of a roaming band of brigands. As I argued in the preceding chapters, the formation and maintenance of diplomatic ties through letter-writing was an inherently political act. Thus, the ʿapîrû are here depicted as engaging in an organized political activity that has often been relegated to urban-centered populations. In fact, their access to the apparatus necessary for letter-writing may imply that they had some association with settled centers. 64 The political activities of the ʿapîrû were not limited to diplomatic overtures. In several letters, ʿAbdi-Aširta (EA 76: 17–20; 91: 13–25; cf. EA 71: 28–31; 85: 76–79) and Aziru (EA 132: 19–25) are accused of assembling (paḫāru) the ʿapîrû before taking military action. As participants in these assemblies, the ʿapîrû engaged in political decision-making processes with the other groups and individuals involved (see Fleming 2004: 207; 2012: 96 n. 14, 314; chap. 5 below). As I mentioned in my discussion in chap. 2, the ʿapîrû also forged political alliances with urban-centered populations. The most illuminating example of this activity is found in the actions taken by the Ammiyites. In EA 74, Rib-Addu informs the king that ʿAbdi-Aširta encouraged the Ammiyites to kill their ḫazannu and to align themselves with the ʿapîrû (see also EA 73: 26–29; 81: 12–13). Rib-Addu goes on to report that the Ammiyites ultimately heeded ʿAbdi-Aširta’s words. The result of this decision had significant implications. According to Rib-Addu, in undertaking this act, the Ammiyites “became like the ʿapîrû” (ù i-ba-aš-šu 63. See also my reading of EA 82: 9–13 in chap. 5. 64. Naʾaman (1994: 398) also points out that there are “numerous examples in the Amarna letters for the stay of groups of ʿapîrû bands in Canaanite cities under the protection of local leaders (note in particular EA 185–186).”

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ki-ma lú.mešGAZ; lines 28–29). 65 Clearly this statement does not imply that they fled their city or rejected the larger systems of political organization and identity associated with it. In the end, they are still referred to as Ammiyites. The reason that they were encouraged to kill their lord was so that the administrative apparatus of their city would remain intact and under their control when they aligned themselves with the ʿapîrû. 66 Nevertheless, when the citizens of this “urban-centered” polity aligned themselves with the ʿapîrû, they were categorized as such. As Moran puts it, for Rib-Addu, “the followers of ʿAbdi-Aširta and the ʿApiru were virtually indistinguishable” (Moran 1992: 144 n. 8). This common characterization may suggest that, from the perspective of Rib-Addu, the ʿapîrû were those groups that either did not align themselves with Egyptian interests or fell outside the scope of Egyptian control. However, this perspective was not representative of the entire population. As I noted above, in EA 195 Biryawaza of Damascus informs the king that his ʿapîrû were prepared to fight on behalf of Egypt (lines 24–30). This suggests that the ʿapîrû constituted an important part of Biryawaza’s domain that was, by association, loyal to the Egyptians. 67 Whether or not this was the case, the accounts of Rib-Addu and Biryawaza clearly reflect competing attitudes toward the ʿapîrû. In sum, though the ʿapîrû were rarely identified with urban centers, they were affiliated with them and had access to the social and political apparatus associated with them. In addition, they attained a level of political organization that allowed them to engage in diplomatic relationships with polities and populations who identified themselves with urban centers. In fact, the evidence indicates that they were politically aligned and perhaps even integrated with these polities and populations. Evidence such as this has led Fleming to conclude that the ʿapîrû “have something in common with the Hana of Zimri-Lim and the Binu Simʾal, a population named by its mobile potential and yet carrying on the identity of a whole city-based kingdom” (Fleming 2012: 260; cf. Porter 2012: 319–20; contra Rainey and 65. See also EA 67: 16–17, where an unnamed individual, likely ʿAbdi-Aširta, is also accused of being “like” the ʿapîrû (i-na-an-na šu-ú-tú ⸢ki⸣-[ma lú]SA.⸢GAZ⸣.ZAmeš). 66. See also EA 104: 40–52; 117: 94; and 127: 20–21, where Rib-Addu expresses his concern that the city of Gubla might align itself with the ʿapîrû. Compare this with the various reports in which cities and lands are said to have defected (paṭāru) to the ʿapîrû (EA 272: 14–17; 273: 11–14; 290: 12–13, 23–24) or aligned with (epēšu + ana) the ʿapîrû (EA 73: 32–33; 74: 19–21; 76: 34–37; 77: 28–29; 79: 19–20, 42–44; 85: 71–73; 88: 29–34; 116: 37–38; 144: 24–30) introduced in chap. 2. 67. A similar relationship may be depicted in EA 148, where the king of Ḫaṣor is said to have “abandoned his house and taken up a position with the ʿapîrû” (LUGAL uruḫa-ṣú-ra i-te-zi-ib É-šu ù it-ta-ṣa-⸢ab⸣ it-ti lúSA.GAZ; lines 41–43).

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Notley 2006: 89). If one accepts this reconstruction, the ʿapîrû represent a population involved in long-range herding that was fully integrated into polities administered from a settled center.

Conclusion The foregoing evaluation of the polities and populations in the Levant during the LB demonstrates that the sociopolitical character of the landscape was less than clear-cut. There are, in fact, a number of polity types, power strategies, and populations represented in the Amarna corpus that, together, constituted a dynamic web of sociopolitical interaction. The basic political unit of this region was the city (URU/ālu). While the political authority of a city was often limited to the urban center and its immediate hinterland, its administration could enact several strategies to centralize and extend its authority over other cities. When this occurred, the polity took the form of a centralized land (KUR/mātu). In order to avoid the traditional and/or local sources of power and identity from being co-opted by a centralized administration, independent cities and centralized lands could also foster political coalitions in the form of a multipolity decentralized land. In this way, a single political unit could be a city (URU/ālu), the administrative center of a land (KUR/mātu), and the member of a multipolity decentralized mātu (KUR) at the same time. The status of a polity could also change over time. Not only could the administrative center of a centralized land be reduced to the center of a simple city and/or be absorbed as a dependent within another centralized land, but the opposite could occur as well. Moreover, it appears that membership within a multipolity decentralized land could change over time and according to one’s perspective. Thus, variability and flux characterized the polities attested during this short period of time, a phenomenon that exposes the difficulties involved in rigidly defining political units and their boundaries. All three of these polity types betray a spectrum of exclusionary and corporate power strategies in operation. While the political will of an entity is often articulated in the words and activities of its individual ḫazannu or king (šarru), there are a number of instances in which the governing bodies and/or populations of an entity took corporate political action. This is most clearly attested in the diplomatic dispatches sent from the Gublites, the Tunipites, and the elders of Irqata; in the decision of the Gublites and the Ammiyites to reject or even kill their respective ḫazannūti in favor of a political alliance with other leaders and/or the ʿapîrû; and in the capacity that cities had to form political alliances with other entities and groups.

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Finally, there is evidence that other categories of people that are not directly identified with an urban center, such as the ʿapîrû and the Sutû, took political action and politically integrated themselves with urban-centered populations and “states.” However, unlike references to centralized lands and multipolity decentralized lands, the terms used to identify these populations were not political. Nor do they appear to have referred to a particular ethnicity. Rather, they were general categories used by outsiders to characterize their lifestyles and origins. This phenomenon is underscored by the fact that none of the categories discussed here appears to have been closed. In other words, individuals and groups could be identified by a number of these terms at any one time. As we saw above, individual Rabbeans could be identified as Suteans and Yaminites during the reign of Zimri-Lim. AT 181 provides another illuminating example of this. According to the introductory line, the 20 individuals that follow are armed ʿapîrû soldiers of the city of Ananaše (ÉRINmeš lúSA.GAZ EN gišTUKULmeš; line 1). Most of these men are identified by their city of origin. However, in line 17 we find the name m.dIM.EN, the son of the Suteans (m.dIM.EN DUMU su-ti). Accordingly, a single individual could have been regarded as both a Sutean and an ʿapîrû. In this case, the ʿapîrû in question may have originated from or have been associated with the inland desert. These observations demand caution when we equate the Sutû with the Shasu. Insofar as these two groups appear to have led a similar lifestyle, engaged in similarly activities, and derived from a similar location, this identification seems reasonable. However, the individual populations who constituted these larger groups were often separate.

Chapter 5

Tracing the Political Trajectory of the Land of Amurru Introduction In his brief treatment of the scale and organization of archaic states, G.  Feinman contends that one cannot fully comprehend the nature of a political entity if it is studied in isolation. Instead, it must be evaluated in light of the larger sociopolitical landscape in which it is set (Feinman 1998: 101). This landscape provides a context for comparison that often exposes the more nuanced elements of an individual polity. For Feinman, the passage of time must also be considered because a single polity can undergo a number of critical permutations over a relatively short span of time. By taking these methodologies seriously, one can avoid the pitfalls of fabricating and imposing sharply drawn dichotomies and categories that stem from an isolated study of a single polity over a limited period (Yoffee 2005: 8; Mann 1986: 173–74). As was observed in the preceding analysis, such an approach enables one to detect “dynamic oscillations in polity size, political centralization, and population agglomeration” and thereby to “recognize pre-industrial organizations as dynamic formations that may oscillate in scale, integration, and complexity” (Feinman 1998: 100–101; see also Marcus 1998: 60; Wolf 1990: 590; Mann 1986: 39). In an attempt to continue following Feinman’s recommendations, we will consider part 1 as the backdrop for evaluating the land of Amurru and the land of Shechem. By focusing on these entities, the polities and populations affiliated with them, and the changes they experienced over time, chap. 5 will provide specific examples of some of the details discussed more generally in what preceded. This will make it possible to isolate several important aspects of the land of Amurru and the land of Shechem that have been overlooked or misunderstood by earlier studies because of the way the region has been cast in the past. In addition, it will set the stage for an analysis of the origin and nature of premonarchical Israel, which occupies part  3 of this book. There are several striking comparisons between the constituency and nature of Amurru, Shechem, and Israel as they are cast 141

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in the core narratives of Judges and 1 Samuel. As I see them, these parallels suggest a level of sociopolitical continuity between Israel and the entities that populated the land during the LB that has not been fully explored. Ultimately, exposing these similarities will advance my aim of highlighting the “insider” status of at least some of the early Israelites. I begin part 2 with an analysis of the land of Amurru. Because of the unique volume of letters revolving around this entity, tracing its history provides penetrating examples of cities, multipolity decentralized lands, and centralized lands in action. It also allows one to observe Amurru pass through three discrete phases of political development. Each of these phases corresponds to the rise of individuals who play a central role in its leadership. The first of these is the land of Amurru under the leadership of ʿAbdi-Aširta. The second attributes leadership to the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta. In the third, Aziru, one of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s sons, is named as its sole leader. The boundaries of these phases cannot be firmly established because the second plays an intermediate role, overlapping with the first and third. Just as the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta were active during their father’s tenure, they continued to operate corporately for a period after Aziru emerged as the primary leader, as we know from indications in a number of the letters. The second phase, therefore, represents a transitional period between the first and third. Because the specifics behind these stages are significant, the following analysis will focus on the land of Amurru under the leadership of (a) ʿAbdiAširta, (b) ʿAbdi-Aširta’s sons, and (c) Aziru, respectively, and will pay special attention to “the decisions of individual actors as well as institutional structures and responses” (Feinman 1998: 105). There are three critical reasons for taking this approach. First, following E. R. Wolf ’s contention that “the state” should be viewed less as “a thing than ‘a process’ ” (Wolf 1990: 592), we will be able to observe how Amurru changed over time. Second, we will have the opportunity to witness specific examples of decentralized leadership and centralized leadership in operation, as the land of Amurru transitioned from a multipolity decentralized land under the leadership of ʿAbdi-Aširta to a centralized land under the authority of Aziru. 1 This is particularly important as I continue to uncover the problems associated with reading the Amarna evidence in terms of a rigid grid of “city-states” and “territorial kingdoms,” as is commonly done in scholarship. Third, I will highlight how the style of leadership in Amurru changed during this 1. As Naʾaman has pointed out, this nuance has been overlooked by “all scholars,” who “agree that Amurru was initially a small rural state,” only later to be “consolidated into a well-defined geo-political unit” by ʿAbdi-Aširta and Aziru “during the first half of the 14th century bce” (Naʾaman 1994: 402).

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transition and thereby illustrate the ways in which leadership, social relations, and political structures are deeply intertwined.

Phase One: The Land of Amurru during the Tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta ʿAbdi-Aširta is one of the more distinctive and complex figures in the Amarna archive. While his activities as a leader within Amurru are relatively well attested, there is no information regarding his background or origins. Building on the general consensus that ʿAbdi-Aširta was indigenous to the land of Amurru, I. Singer proposes that he may have come from “one of the highland tribes, possibly in southern Amurru” or even from “one of the ʿapîrû bands who operated in the region” (Singer 1991: 142–43; see also Klengel 1969: 247; Altman 1978: 5). Petrographic analysis of the clay used for his letters confirms that “in the early days of the Amarna period, the seat of Abdi-Aširta was located in the mountainous area east of Tripoli,” in and around Ardata (Goren et al. 2003: 8). Much of what we do know about him can be reconstructed through his own correspondence to the king (EA 60–65) and the letters of his contemporary and archenemy Rib-Addu. 2 The often-opposing perspectives embedded in these two sources intensify ʿAbdi-Aširta’s complexity. Not only did he originate from Amurru, but he also played an important role in the administration of Egyptian interests in the region. This meant that he had to negotiate two very different identities that stemmed from two very different and at times competing sources of authority (see chaps. 3 above and 11 below). As one might expect, his own letters are dedicated to demonstrating his fidelity toward his Egyptian superiors. By contrast, the letters of RibAddu often depict him pursuing his own interests and those of Amurru at Egypt’s expense. Understanding the nature and role of ʿAbdi-Aširta, therefore, requires distinguishing and disentangling his capacity as a local leader and his role and responsibilities as an officer in Egypt’s administrative framework. It is also important to be aware of the points at which those roles overlapped. Because the nature of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s leadership is deeply intertwined with the sociopolitical disposition of the land of Amurru, it directly reflects Amurru’s distinctive character. Conversely, the nature of Amurru had direct bearing on how ʿAbdi-Aširta operated. As a result, the two must be analyzed in tandem if we are to comprehend either. The sections that follow will begin with an analysis of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s place in the Egyptian administration. I will then turn to an analysis of the 2. The letters in which Rib-Addu describes the activities of ʿAbdi-Aširta include EA 71, 73–76, 78–82, 84, 85, 88–90, and 92–95.

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land of Amurru both during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta and before his arrival on the scene. This will establish the appropriate context for an evaluation of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s role, both in his capacity as an Egyptian administrator and as a local leader. It will also set the stage for us to comprehend more fully the changes that occurred in the land and in its leadership during the transition from ʿAbdi-Aširta to Aziru. ʿAbdi-Aširta in the Egyptian Imperial Administration ʿAbdi-Aširta’s place in the Egyptian administration reflects the position and role of the ḫazannūti in three ways. First, from the outset of his correspondence, ʿAbdi-Aširta was under the direct authority of an Egyptian rābiṣu. In EA 60, he refers to Paḫanate 3 as “my rābiṣu” no less than four times (lúMÁŠKIM-ia; lines 11, 20, 24, 32). This identification firmly places ʿAbdi-Aširta in the employ of the Egyptian king. This is confirmed in the conclusion of EA 60, where ʿAbdi-Aširta issues the following confession: “But the king, my lord, surely recognized me and appointed me into the hand of Paḫanate, my rābiṣu.” 4 The second point of continuity with the ḫazannūti is that ʿAbdi-Aširta’s primary responsibility was to defend Egyptian interests in the region. 5 In fact, all of his letters detail the threat of outside, inimical forces 6 and the steps that he took to resist them, even in the face of accusations to the contrary. The range of this responsibility consisted of the entirety of the land of Amurru (ù kura-mur-ri gáb-ba-šu a-na LUGAL EN-ia a-na-ṣa-ar-šu; EA 60: 7–9), and the cities of the king that were located within it (ù URUdidli.meš LUGAL-ri it-ti ù i-na-ṣa-ru; EA 65: 9–10). Two particularly important sites under ʿAbdi-Aširta’s care were Ṣumur and Ullassa. 7 Located on the Mediterranean coast, they served as 3. See EA 68: 22–23, where Paḫanate is referred to as the “rābiṣu of the king” (mpa-ḫaam-⸢na⸣-ta lúMÁŠKIM LUGAL); see also EA 62: 1; 131: 35. 4. ù LUGAL EN-⸢ia⸣ lu-ú yi-da-an-ni ù yi-ip-⸢qí⸣-id-ni i-na ŠU mpa-ḫa-na-te lúMÁŠKIM-ia (lines 30–32). Moran (1992: 132) and Rainey (2015: 418–19) render the lū as a marker of the injunctive. However, this function only occurs in verbless clauses (Huehnergard 2005: 326). It should, therefore, be read as an asseverative particle followed by the preterite meant to confirm the actions of the king that took place in the past. 5. See, e.g., EA 83: 33; 99: 8–9; 100: 30; 117: 83–85; 123: 26–28; 137: 52–56; 141: 41–42; 142: 11–14; 144: 10–14; 147: 61–63; 149: 9–10; 151: 6–7; 153: 4–20; 165: 10; 178: 4–11; 187: 14–15; 193: 5–7; 209: 11–14; 220: 15–19, 25–26; 221: 11–16; 227: 5–7; 228: 10–17; 231: 11–19; 235 + 327: 1–5; 243: 8–18; 292: 21–22; 293: 10–13; 294: 9–10; 314: 11–12; 315: 8–9; 323: 9–11; 325: 10–11; 326: 9; 331: 12–14; 364: 10–16; 370: 1–6. 6. See esp. EA 60: 10–17 and 64: 8–9. 7. After assuring his king that he was guarding the entirety of the land of Amurru (lines  8–9), he encourages him to confirm this claim by asking Paḫanate if he does not “guard Ṣumur (and) Ullassa” (la a-na-ṣa-ar uruṣu-mu-ri uruul-la-sà; EA 60: 22–23).

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fortified Egyptian garrison cities during the latter portion of the 18th Dynasty (EA 76: 35–36), housing Egyptian administrators and soldiers. 8 During the absence of his rābiṣu, ʿAbdi-Aširta was also charged with protecting the “harvest of the grain of Ṣumur” (ŠE.KIN.TAR ŠEḫá ša uruṣu-mur .  .  . a-na-ṣa-ar-šu; EA 60: 26–29). Finally, ʿAbdi-Aširta was required to make preparations for the arrival of Egyptian troops and to supply those who were in transit (EA 65: 11–13). 9 In spite of these similarities, ʿAbdi-Aširta himself was not a ḫazannu. Neither the Egyptian king nor his local contemporaries refer to him by that title. Moreover, in EA 62 ʿAbdi-Aširta explicitly excludes himself from this category. The majority of this letter is dedicated to ʿAbdi-Aširta’s selfdefense in the face of what he depicts as a conspiracy orchestrated by the ḫazannūti meant to misrepresent him. In lines 39–40, he informs Paḫanate in no uncertain terms that the ḫazannūti lied to his face (⸢i-ka-az⸣-zi-bunim [LÚmeš] ḫa-za-nu-temeš a-na pa-ni-ka). Here, ʿAbdi-Aširta not only differentiates himself from the ḫazannūti, but even sets himself in opposition to them. Though it derives from a second-hand account, EA 74 paints a similar picture. There, Rib-Addu records a direct quotation of ʿAbdi-Aširta in which he again distinguishes himself from these leaders. According to Rib-Addu, ʿAbdi-Aširta wrote to “the troops” (ÉRINmeš) saying, “[L]et us drive the ḫazannūti from the heart of the land in order that all of the lands might align themselves with the ʿapîrû” (ù nu-da-bir5 lú.mešḫa-za-nu-ta iš-tu lìb-bi KUR.KURki ù ti-né-pu-uš ka-li KUR.KURmeš.ki a-na lú.meš⸢GAZ⸣; lines 34–36). If ʿAbdi-Aširta had indeed been a ḫazannu, this plan would have been counterintuitive and detrimental to the one who devised it. On two occasions, Rib-Addu also excludes ʿAbdi-Aširta from the ḫazannūti in his description of their collective activities. In EA 73, he notifies the king that “all of the ḫazannūti” (ka-li lú.mešḫa-za-nu-te) long for the Egyptian archers to advance against ʿAbdi-Aširta (lines 20–25). Again, if ʿAbdi-Aširta was a member of this category of officials, all of the ḫazannūti would certainly not be longing for the Egyptians to take such an action. 10 8. See, e.g., EA 68: 19–26; 76: 33–37; 81: 48–51; 84: 9–14; 103; 104: 31–37; 105: 83–85; 107: 14–19; 112: 40–50; 118: 50–53; 157: 9–12; E. F. Morris 2005: 251–55, 271; Naʾaman 1994: 411; Helck 1960: 6. 9. “And ⟨I⟩ prepare before the arrival of the arch[ers of the kin]g my lord” (ù ⟨i⟩-šuši-ru [i]-na pa-ni ÉRINmeš pé-⸢ta-ti⸣ [LUGAL]-ri EN-ia; so Moran 1992: 136 n. 2; Rainey 2015: 430–31). Compare this statement with EA 144: 18–20; 191: 4–8; 195: 24–32; 201: 17–24; 203: 9–12; 204: 9–14; 205: 9–12; 206: 9–12. 10. Later in this same correspondence, after reporting the fate of Ammiya, whose inhabitants were purportedly encouraged by ʿAbdi-Aširta to assassinate their ḫazannu in order that they might align themselves with the ʿapîrû (in-né-ep-šu a-na lú.mešGAZ;

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Rib-Addu tells a similar story in EA 82, this time to his rābiṣu, Ama­nappa. 11 At the outset of this account, he reminds Amanappa that he has repeatedly informed him that all of the ʿapîrû are with, or on the side of, ʿAbdiAširta (ka-li lú.meš GAZmeš it-ti-šu; lines 8–9). In light of this reminder, he issues the following complaint: “But the ḫazannūti did not hear anything!” (ù lú.mešḫa-za-nu-tu ú-ul te9-eš-mu-na mi-im-ma; lines 10–11). Rib-Addu does not specify what the ḫazannūti were expecting to hear. However, the conclusion of this letter suggests that they were looking for their Egyptian overlord to respond in text and/or with troops to ʿAbdi-Aširta’s acts of aggression against them. 12 There, Rib-Addu asks Amanappa to tell the king to “arrive with haste” (ku-uš-da ki-ma ar-ḫi-ìš; line 52) because the land of Amurru longs day and night for the archers (kura-mu-ri ur-ra ù mu-ša tu-ba-ú-na ÉRINmeš pí-ṭá-ti; lines 48–50) 13 and is becoming “disquieted.” 14 This is the same turn of phrase that Rib-Addu employs in EA 93 to express his frustration over the fact that Amanappa did not follow through on his promise to come to Rib-Addu’s aid in a similar situation ([at]-ta-ša-aš ana-ku [\ na-]aq-ṣa-ap-ti; lines 4–5). Returning to the opening lines of EA 82, after indicating that the ḫazannūti had not heard anything, Rib-Addu goes on to report, with an air of sarcasm, that it is ʿAbdi-Aširta who is strong rather than the ḫazannūti, because the ʿapîrû have written to him (ù šap-ru a-na ša-a-šu ù ki-na-na KALAG.GA; lines 12–13). 15 lines 28–29; see also EA 74: 24–26; 75: 32–34.), Rib-Addu reports that the ḫazannūti were afraid that ʿAbdi-Aširta would do the same thing to them (lines 26–33). 11. See EA 117: 9–12 and 137: 11–14, where Rib-Addu specifically refers to the ḫazannūti as a collective. 12. In EA 126: 53–55, Rib-Addu complains to the king that he has written repeatedly for help, but word did not return to him (la-a ia-tu-ru-na a-wa-tu a-na ia-a-ši; see also EA 136: 16–23). For the use of šemû in the context of a message, see, e.g., EA 74: 49–50; 85: 15–17, 75; 90: 9–13; 92: 12–15; 100: 31–32; 102: 20–22; 136: 6–7; 137: 6–7, 38; 147: 30–36; 162: 22; 234: 10–11; 251: 14–15; 317: 10–12. 13. Compare with EA 70: 25–26. 14. Here, the verb ta-ša-aš, “to be distressed,” is glossed with the word na-aq-ṣa-pu, the N-Stem of qaṣāpu, which is related to Hebrew ‫קצף‬, “to be wroth.” For other examples in which Rib-Addu complains that his requests have fallen on deaf ears, see EA 74: 49–50; 76: 27–30 (broken); 81: 22–47; 83: 7–9, 47–51; 94: 4–14. In EA 126: 53–55, Rib-Addu complains to the king, “I have written repeatedly, but a word has not returned to me” (aš-tap-pár aš-ta-ni la-a ia-tu-ru-na a-wa-tu a-na ia-a-ši; see also EA 137: 5–6). As was observed above, EA 138: 90–93 clearly depicts what happens when the Egyptians do not come to the aid of Rib-Addu in the face of political upheaval. 15. Contrast this with Moran (1992: 152) and Rainey (2015: 486–87), who read this passage as a notice that it is the ḫazannūti who are writing to ʿAbdi-Aširta. It should be noted that in addition to the fact that this interpretation runs contrary to the concerns expressed at the conclusion of this letter, there is no evidence of such an act occurring in the

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It is true that much of the evidence regarding ʿAbdi-Aširta’s “official” status presented to this point derives from Rib-Addu. This could raise questions regarding Rib-Addu’s motivations and, more specifically, his use of language when referring to his bitter enemy. One may contend that RibAddu was more concerned with highlighting ʿAbdi-Aširta’s disloyalty than properly representing his position and/or title. Rib-Addu did not, however, shy away from accusing his fellow ḫazannūti of foul play. In EA 114, he explains in detail how “the enemies of the king” along with the king’s ḫazannūti are at war with him (a-ia-bu LUGAL NU.KUR it-ia ù lú.mešḫaza-nu-šu; lines 47–48). Similarly, in EA 118 he accuses the ḫazannūti of not listening to the rābiṣu stationed in Ṣumur (⸢la⸣-a yi-ìš-⸢mu⸣ ḫa-za-nu a-na ša-[šu]; line 54; see also EA 113; 126: 4–11; 137: 11–14; 138: 25–27). If ʿAbdiAširta was a ḫazannu, it seems that Rib-Addu could have used that to his advantage. By emphasizing the degree of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s authority, he could have highlighted the degree of his infidelity. 16 In addition to the fact that ʿAbdi-Aširta is neither referred to as a ḫazannu nor referred to himself by that title, the distinctive way in which he operated also points to his unique status. The best source for reconstructing ʿAbdi-Aširta’s “official” activities in the Egyptian administration is the aforementioned EA 62. In the following excerpt, ʿAbdi-Aširta describes how he single-handedly saved the city of Ṣumur from the onslaught of the troops of Šeḫlal, a city likely located west of Nii (see Klengel 1969: 184; Altman 1978b): There were no men in its (Ṣumur’s) midst to guard it. So I came from Irqata to assist, and I came before Ṣumur and I (delivered?) your house (?) from the hand of the troops of Šeḫlal. If I had not been dwelling in Irqata (?), if in a place—in a calm house—surely the troops of Šeḫlal would have burned in flames Ṣumur and its palace. But when I came to rest of this corpus. However, as mentioned above, there are a number of instances in which ʿAbdi-Aširta writes to the citizens of various cities, encouraging them to kill their respective ḫazannūti. Compare with EA 273, where the ʿapîrû are said to have written to the cities of Ayyaluna and Ṣarḫa. To be sure, there is at least one instance in which Rib-Addu specifically states that the ḫazannūti are at peace with Aziru (EA 126: 10–11). However, no mention of letter-writing is made in this context. In addition, in a previous letter, Rib-Addu claims that the land of Amurru is at peace with Aziru and his allies (EA 114: 6–15). This clearly runs contrary to the situation depicted in EA 82. See EA 104: 47–54 for an example of the subject of a verb not immediately preceding the verb itself. 16. See, for example, EA 289: 9–10, where ʿAbdi-Ḫeba highlights the status of his enemy Milkilu in order the underscore the gravity of his transgression: “A ḫazannu who does a deed such as this, why does the king not punish him?” (lúḫa-zi-a-nu ša e-pa-aš ip-ša anni-wa am-mi-nim LUGAL-ri la-a ša-al-šu).

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While the general theme of this passage highlights ʿAbdi-Aširta’s role as the defender of Egyptian interests, there are two related details that further illuminate the nature and extent of his activities. First, ʿAbdi-Aširta appears to have had the option of choosing where he lived. Though he was residing in Irqata at the time of the attack against Ṣumur, he reminds the king that he could have taken up residence in an alternative location that was more peaceful (lines 16–17). This stands in sharp contrast with the ḫazannūti, who lived in and were identified with a single urban center (see chap. 2 above). Apparently, his role either afforded him or was based upon a high degree of mobility. 18 Second, ʿAbdi-Aširta was neither the leader of the city in which he was residing temporarily nor the leader of the city that he delivered. With regard to Irqata, both Rib-Addu (EA 75: 25–26) and the Gublites (EA 140: 10–11; see chap. 2 above) named Aduna as its ḫazannu. Ṣumur presents a unique problem in that none of the letters in the Amarna corpus attributes a ḫazannu to it. Reference is only made to the rābiṣū who were stationed there. 19 Because it served as an important Egyptian garrison city during this period, it may not have had a ḫazannu. Instead, the rābiṣu and his staff may have administered the city. This would explain why it was ʿAbdiAširta’s responsibility to protect the harvest of Ṣumur when its resident rābiṣu was absent. 20 17. ia-nu ⸢LÚ⸣meš [i]-na lìb-bi-ši a-na na-ṣa-ri-ši ⸢ù⸣ [in]-⸢ni⸣-ri-ir a-⸢na⸣-ku iš-tu ]⸢ki⸣ ù [a-pan-ni-m]a (so Moran 1992: 134 n. 4) a-na-ku uru⸢ṣu⸣-mu-ri ki ù aš-UŠ [É]-ka ⸢iš-tu⸣ uzuŠU-ti ÉRINmeš uruše-⸢eḫ⸣-la-⸢li ki šum⸣-ma ú-ul aš-bá-ku a-na-⸢ku⸣ [i]-⸢na⸣ [uruir-qàt]⸢ki šum⸣-ma i-na a-šar É ni-iḫ aš-⸢bá-ku⸣ ù [lu-ú i-]šar-ra-pu-nim ⸢i⸣-na [IZI]temeš [uruṣu]-mu-ri ki ù É.GAL-⸢ši⸣ ÉRINmeš uruše-eḫ-la-li ki ù ⸢i⸣-nu-ma in-ni-ri-ir a-na-ku iš-tu uruir-qàt ki ù ak-šu-ud-⸢mi⸣ [a]-na-ku i-na uruṣu-mu-ri⸢ki⸣ù ia-nu LÚmeš ša aš-bu i-na É.GAL-ši ù a-nu-um-ma LÚmeš ša aš-bu-nim i-na É.GAL-ši mša-bi-DINGIR mbi-ši-TA-nu mma-a-ia mar-za-wa a-nu-um-ma 4 LÚmeš ša aš-bu-nim i-⸢na⸣ É.GAL-ši ù iq-bu-nim šu-nu a-na ia-ši še-ez-zi-bá-an-na-ši-mi iš-tu ŠU-ti ÉRINmeš uruše-eḫ-la-li ki ù ú-še-ez-zi-[bá]⸢šu⸣-nu iš-tu ŠU-ti ÉRINmeš uruše-eḫ-la-li (lines 12–32). 18. There is some evidence that ʿAbdi-Aširta took up residence in Ṣumur after the events depicted in EA 62 (see EA 84: 11–16; E. F. Morris 2005: 231–32). It is unclear, however, whether this was a long-term or a temporary arrangement. 19. See, e.g., EA 68: 19–21; 73; 106: 23–40; 118: 50–56; 155: 66–67; 157: 9–12. 20. Note, however, Rib-Addu’s statement in EA 117 that “there is not a ḫazannu in support of me (at my back) from Ṣumur (southward?)” (a-mur a-na-ku ia-nu ḫa-za-na i-na uruir-[qàt

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Both of these observations indicate that, while ʿAbdi-Aširta was neither a ḫazannu nor a šarru within the Egyptian administrative framework, 21 he was officially charged with protecting a number of distinct polities in Amurru. Though it is rare, this role is reflected in the position of a handful of other figures. The clearest examples are Yama (EA 230) and Yaḫtiru (EA 296). In his only extant correspondence with the king, Yama provides a clear and concise description of his duties. Like ʿAbdi-Aširta, he is not identified with a single urban center. Rather, he operates within a number of different, unnamed cities, all of which fell under Egyptian hegemony (lines 4–8), and were therefore identified as belonging to the Egyptian king. 22 His primary responsibility with regard to these cities was twofold. First, he was charged with protecting (naṣāru) the cities themselves (lines 14–16). Second, he was responsible for protecting (naṣāru) the ḫazannūti who governed them (lines 9–10, 17–19). As with ʿAbdi-Aširta, though the former role corresponds to the duties of the ḫazannūti, the latter role clearly sets him apart from them. 23 Yaḫtiru’s dispatch to the king indicates that he was entrusted with similar responsibilities. However, the details he provides bring his background into sharper focus. According to Yaḫtiru, his role as a servant of the Egyptians began early in his life when he was taken to Egypt. While there, he served the king and stood at the gate of his city (lines 27–29). This experience prepared him for his future duties in the southern Levant. Like ar-ki-ti-ia ìš-tu uruṣu-mu-ra; lines 9–11). It is difficult to determine if this statement implies that a ḫazannu was actually in operation there. If this was indeed the case, it may have been one of the men who were residing in the palace of Ṣumur when it was delivered by ʿAbdiAširta. However, Maya is exempt from this possibility because he is elsewhere explicitly referred to as a rābiṣu (EA 216: 13; 217: 16; 218: 14; 292: 33; 300: 26; 328: 24; 337: 26, 29). It is more likely that these local leaders were either helping their rābiṣu defend Ṣumur or meeting with him for administrative reasons. Elsewhere, the sons of Arzawa are linked with the sons of Labʾayu as being enemies of the king (EA 289: 5–10). This is the only reference to Šab-Ilu and Bišitanu in the entire corpus. 21. Contra E. F. Morris 2005: 224; Murnane 1990: 4–8, 14. If this reconstruction is accepted, it further militates against the claim that the Egyptian king would only accept letters from the “legitimate rulers” of his vassal city-states. 22. “Look, I am your servant in the place where I am. Look, the places where I am are your cities—all of them—(and) I am your servant” (a-mur-mi a-na-ku ÌR-ka i-na aš-ri ša i-ba-ša-ti7 a-mur aš-ra-nu ša i-ba-ša- ti7 URUdidli.ḫa.a-ka gáb-bu a-na-ku ÌR-te-ka). 23. Because of the apparently unique role of this figure, Naʾaman (1990: 401) proposes that the name Yama in this context is a misspelling through metathesis of the name Maya, a known Egyptian rābiṣu (EA 216: 13–14; 217: 16–17; 300: 26; 328: 24; 337: 26–27). However, as Moran points out, this would be the only example of a text written by an Egyptian rābiṣu in cuneiform (Moran 1992: 291 n. 1; see also Hess 1993: 81). In addition, the claim that Maya is protecting a ḫazunnu contradicts the claim of Ḫiziru, himself a ḫazunnu, that he has been charged with the task of guarding Maya (EA 337: 24–30).

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Yama, he was charged with “guarding the city gate” (a-na-ṣa-ru KÁ.GAL, lines 31–32) of several distinct political entities. Of these cities, Yaḫtiru specifically names Gaza (uruaz-za-ti; line 32) and Joppa (uruia-pu; line 33). 24 Accordingly, the range of his responsibilities ran along the Via Maris, from Gaza in the south, up the Mediterranean coast to Joppa in the north. 25 Thus, the naming of Gaza and Joppa may have served as a merism, 26 indicating that his duties were not limited to protecting these two cities alone but included the protection of all Egyptian interests located between them. 27 In this way, he was expected to guard one of the core networks of Egyptian interest in the southern Levant. In ʿAbdi-Aširta, Yama, and Yaḫtiru, we see the potential of a third, unidentified administrative post that the Egyptians used to manage their interests in the Levant. In addition to the urban-centered ḫazannūti, the Egyptians appear to have forged relationships with local figures who were not identified with or bound to a single urban center. On a preliminary level, this may indicate that these men were affiliated with populations that 24. Contrast Yaḫtiru’s direct involvement at Joppa with the indirect involvement of Adda-danu, the ḫazannu of Gezer, who dispatched men “to serve in Joppa and guard the house \ granary of the king” (ur-ra-di i-na uruia-pu ù a-na na-ṣa-ri È-ti \ šu-nu-ti LUGAL; EA 294: 20–22). For the reading of šu-nu-ti “granary,” see Moran 1992: 337 n. 2. 25. Note, however, that Naʾaman suggests that Yaḫtiru was the ruler of Tianna, which he identifies with Ashdod (2005c: 162). 26. See Fleming 2004: 202. 27. According to Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman (2004: 292–93), it is likely that this tablet was dispatched from Ashdod, which is located between Gaza and Joppa. Compare this with the merism represented in the reference to “all of Israel (. . .) from Dan to Beersheba” in Judg 20:1; 1 Sam 3:20; 2 Sam 3:10; 17:11; 24:2, 15; 1 Kgs 4:25. The legitimacy of viewing this statement as a merism is strengthened by the poetic imagery and features employed throughout this letter. Note especially lines 11–16 where Yaḫtiru writes, “I looked this way and I looked that way, and there was no light. Then I looked toward the king, my lord, and there was light.” See also lines 17–22, where he appears to integrate a piece of wisdom literature to emphasize his point. Yaḫtiru’s knowledge of poetic imagery and wisdom may stem from his time as a guard and a servant in the Egyptian court. It should be noted that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba also rejects the title of ḫazannu for the Egyptian title wʿw “soldier” in EA 285: 5–6; 287: 69–70; 288: 9–10. He justifies this decision by arguing in a number of places that his position was dependent not on his heritage, but on his being installed upon the throne by the king of Egypt (EA 286: 9–13; 287: 25–28; 288: 13–15). However, the very act of referring to the “house of his father” (EA 286: 13; 288: 15) indicates that his family had been ruling in Jerusalem before he was placed upon the throne. In addition, he fulfills many of the traditional roles of a ḫazannu by sending tribute (EA 288: 11–12), protecting the land, and providing intelligence (EA 286–290). The possible reasons for ʿAbdi-Ḫeba adopting such a title are many (see chap. 1 above). Nevertheless, in spite of his terminological hair-splitting, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba functioned, for all intents and purposes, as a ḫazannu. Thus, he did not hold the same position as ʿAbdi-Aširta, Yama, and Yaḫtiru.

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also did not primarily identify themselves with an urban center, such as the Sutû and the ʿapîrû. This corresponds to Singer’s suggestion that ʿAbdiAširta may have originated from the latter group (Singer 1991: 143; see also Klengel 1969: 247; Altman 1978: 5), a suggestion that is supported by the fact that Rib-Addu refers to ʿAbdi-Aširta as an ʿapiru on multiple occasions (EA 74: 19–21; 90: 24–25; 91: 3–5; 94: 67–70). 28 Though this identification may have been intended as a pejorative, based on his reading of EA 74: 23–29 Moran regards it as credible (Moran 1992: 144 n. 8; see chap. 4 above). It seems probable, therefore, that ʿAbdi-Aširta was affiliated with the ʿapirû on some level and may even have held a high degree of status among them and ability to persuade. I will return to these observations in greater detail below. At this point, however, it is sufficient to say that the Egyptians would have benefited from forging administrative relationships with these types of individuals in their attempt to safeguard their interests. As is attested in the Egyptians’ numerous confrontations with the Shasu/Sutû, 29 the ʿapîrû, and the Taryanu people, 30 these populations posed a particularly menacing threat throughout the region. As Bunimovitz (1994b: 198) points out, the “Amarna letters indicate that despite the Egyptian consolidation in Canaan, bands of ʿapirū were active not only on the fringes of the settled land, but also in the coastal plain, the Shephelah, and the northern valleys.” Before drawing any conclusions from these observations, however, we must take a closer look 28. Compare this identification with EA 74: 23–30, where the Ammiyites are “like the ʿapîrû.” In EA 366, Šuwardata also refers to an unnamed individual as an ʿapîrû—someone who rose up against him and whom he eventually killed. 29. The Egyptians’ first recorded conflict with the Shasu during the New Kingdom is found in the autobiographical text of Ahmose Pennekhbet. According to that text, the Egyptians fought and took prisoners from among the Shasu during the reign of Thutmose II (Urk. IV 36: 12–14). After Thutmose II, these people turn up again in the booty list of Amenhotep II (see the Karnak stele [Urk. IV 1315: 5–17] and Memphite stele [Urk. IV 1306: 6–10; ANET 245–47]), and the annals of Thutmose III (Giveon 1971: 15–17, 22–23; Astour 1979) and Seti I (KRI I 9: 3–5). Though the topographical list of Amenhotep III locates the “land” of the Shasu (tꜢ šꜢsw) in the Transjordan, the Egyptians encountered them throughout Syria–Palestine. 30. In addition to the numerous references to the troubles that the ʿapîrû were causing in the Amarna archive (see e.g., EA 68: 17–18; 73: 26–29, 32–33; 74: 34–36; 76: 34–37; 77: 28–29; 79: 19–20; 81: 12–13; 83: 17–18; 85: 71–73; 88: 29–34; 90: 25; 91: 4–5; 104: 51–54; 116: 37–38; 118: 37–39; 144: 24–30; 148: 45; 185: 13–15, 16–17, 21–22, 28–29, 37–38, 59; 186: 13–14, 22–23, 29–30, 61; 207: 19–21; 215: 13–15; 272: 14–17; 273: 11–14; 274: 15–16; 286: 56; 288: 36–38; 289: 44; 290: 12–13, 16–18, 23–24), there is an undated stele from Beth-Shean composed during the reign of Seti I that states that the ʿapîrû from a Mount Yarmuta together with the Taryanu people attacked the Asiatics of Rehem (KRI I 16: 2–17).

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at the land of Amurru itself. In so doing, we will better understand ʿAbdiAširta’s role in it and the influence that he had on its populations. The Extent and Political Organization of Amurru When compared with the different types of political organization that we isolated in part 1, the land of Amurru during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta is best understood as a multipolity decentralized land. 31 This is a critical observation for comprehending the nature and extent of Amurru during ʿAbdi-Aširta’s lifetime and beyond. As was indicated in the preceding discussion, the land of Amurru consisted of independent cities as well as centralized lands that were often identified with and under the authority of a local ḫazannu or king. We have already encountered three cities that were associated with this land. The first was Irqata, which also constituted a centralized land under the authority of Aduna (EA 75: 25–26; 139: 15; 140: 10–11). The second and third were Ṣumur 32 and Ullassa. A fourth polity that can be added confidently to this list is Ammiya. In EA 73, Rib-Addu accuses the land of Amurru of colluding with ʿAbdiAširta at the expense of Egyptian assets in the area ([ú]-ul i-ra-a-mu a-na mÌR-a-ši-ir-ta; line 18). One of these assets was Ammiya. According to RibAddu, ʿAbdi-Aširta wrote to the Ammiyites (LÚmeš uruam-mi-ia) saying, “Kill your lord and align yourselves with the ʿapîrû” (du-ku-mi EN-ku-nu ù in-né-ep-šu a-na lú.mešGAZ; lines 26–29; see also 74: 24–26; 75: 32–34). For this reason, Rib-Addu requests that Amanappa “come with Egyptian troops in order that they might strike the land of Amurru” (ù tu-ṣa-na qadu ÉRINmeš pí-ṭá-ti ù ti-ma-qú-tu UGU kura-mur-ri; lines 9–11). Because “the land of Amurru follows the stronger party” (kura-mur-ri i-nu-ma a-šar da-an-ni ti-la-ku-na; lines 15–16), the mere word of their approach would have been enough to persuade the rebellious elements of this population to “abandon their cities and desert” (lines 11–14) and for the Ammiyites to reject ʿAbdi-Aširta’s proposal. This information not only directly associates Ammiya with the land of Amurru 33 but identifies it as an independent political unit under the authority of a local leader that functioned as a centralized land (EA 139: 14; 140: 11). Singer (1991: 143; see also Goren 2003) includes Ardata in the list of polities located in the land of Amurru as well. Ardata is also identified as a centralized land with Irqata and Ammiya (EA 139: 14–15; 140: 10–12; see also EA 88: 5–7), and Singer argues that it marked Amurru’s southern limit 31. Cf. Liverani 1974: 335–38; Murnane 1990: 141; Buccellati 1967: 69–71. 32. EA 103: 9–10 also includes Ṣumur and Irqata in the land of Amurru. 33. Based on his equation of Ammiya with Ampi, Singer excludes Ammiya from Amurru (Singer 1999: 144, 145 n. 11).

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(see also Steiglitz 1991: 45; Murnane 1990: 4; Goren et al. 2002: 198–99). This view largely derives from the fact that Šigata, Baṭruna, Ampi, and Bit-Arḫa, cities that are located to the south of Ardata, appear originally to have fallen within the domain of Rib-Addu. 34 Thus, Singer (1991: 144) explains ʿAbdi-Aširta’s policy in the following way: “[W]ith all or most of Amurru under his control, ʿAbdi-Aširta continued his victorious offensive southwards, into the land of Byblos.” Whether or not one accepts this boundary, it is clear that the land of Amurru consisted of multiple independent political entities, firmly placing it in the category of a multipolity decentralized land. As with a number of the multipolity decentralized lands that we studied in part 1, EA 73 demonstrates that the corporate political activities of Amurru could be identified with and defined in terms of both its leaders and its inhabitants. The collective will of its leaders is expressed in their corporate desire for the Egyptians to take action against ʿAbdi-Aširta (lines 20–25) and their collective decision to “align themselves with them” in this endeavor (ni-ti-pu-uš a-na ša-a-še; lines 22–23). Alternatively, the collective actions of Amurru’s inhabitants are recounted in Rib-Addu’s explanation of why the rebellious population will “abandon their cities and desert” at the news of approaching Egyptian troops. According to Rib-Addu, “the land of Amurru follows the stronger party” (kura-mur-ri i-nu-ma a-šar daan-ni ti-la-ku-na; lines 15–16). In this case, the actions, desires, and political will of the Amurrites and their ḫazannūti are cast as being in opposition to one another. The corporate political will of the land of Amurru is again demonstrated in EA 101. In his description of the reversal of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s fortunes, the unnamed correspondent indicates that the people of the land of Amurru acted collectively in their decision to kill ʿAbdi-Aširta: “Now, the ships of the army are not to enter the land of Amurru, for they (the inhabitants of Amurru) have killed ʿAbdi-Aširta.” 35 After restating this accusation near the end of the letter, 36 the author explains why he did not think the people had the right to dispose of him. In spite of his treacherous activities, “it was the king that placed him over them, not they (i.e., the 34. EA 71: 28–31; 74: 19–23; 76: 17–20; 78: 7–13; 79: 18–29; 81: 6–13; 87: 18–24; 88: 4–22; 90: 5–18. 35. [i-nu-m]a la-a ti-ru-bu-na ⸢giš⸣MÁmeš LÚmeš mi-ši a-na kura-mur-ri ú da-ku mÌR-aši-ir-ta (lines 3–6; see Moran 174 n. 4; contra Rainey 2015: 552–53; Rainey and Notley 2006: 80–81. 36. “Set a man in the heart of each city and do not allow a ship from the land of Amurru (to go forth?) for they have killed ʿAbdi-Aširta” (šu-ku-un 1 LÚ 1 LÚ i-na lìb-bi URU ù la-yi-di-in4 gišMÁ kura-mur-ri ù da-ku mÌR-a-ši-ir-ta; lines 27–30; see Moran 174 n. 8.

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inhabitants of the land of Amurru)” (lines 30–31). However, it seems that the Amurrites felt otherwise. Apparently, they were experiencing undue pressure from Mittani and blamed it on ʿAbdi-Aširta, who had forged a political relationship with this large polity to the north without being able to fulfill the requirements of this relationship (lines 3–10; see also EA 86; 95: 27–31; Rainey 2015: 1445). As a result, the Amurrites put him to the sword. 37 Amurru in the longue durée The depiction of the land of Amurru during the lifetime of ʿAbdiAširta closely corresponds to its portrayal four centuries earlier in the Old Babylonian letters from Mari (ca. 1795–1762 BCE). Though references to “Amurrum” in these documents are few, they provide insight into its political structure during this time and hint at the particular lifestyle associated with this term. The political constitution of Amurrum is described most clearly in A.2760: 5–17. 38 There, the writer mentions “the messengers of four kings of Amurrum” (lines 7–8) who are to be escorted to Qaṭna by envoys of that city. The notice that Amurrum had multiple kings directly coincides with its structure during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta. Its history of functioning as a multipolity decentralized land, therefore, can be traced as far back as the Old Babylonian period. With regard to the lifestyle of Amurrum’s inhabitants, Fleming (2012: 207–10) has argued convincingly that the term amurrû was probably associated with mobile pastoralists. He bases this argument on a comparison of two letters that refer to the domain of Zimri-Lim, the king of Mari. The first (A.489), which is highly damaged, refers to Zimri-Lim as “the king of the Akkadian and the Amorite.” 39 In the second, Baḫdi-Lim, one of ZimriLim’s administrators advises the king regarding the appropriate mode of 37. Based on such texts as EA 108: 30, 117: 21–28; 132: 16–18; 138: 28–34; 362: 20, there are some who argue that ʿAbdi-Aširta was killed by the Egyptian king either in Syria– Palestine or in Egypt (Altman 1979: 1–11; Schulman 1988: 78 n. 119; Bryce 1999: 184; David 2000: 60; A. James 2000: 121). However, the meaning of the statement that the king “took” (leqû) ʿAbdi-Aširta is obscure, particularly when it is compared with the description of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s death in EA 101. Whatever its nuance, it likely did not mean execution. These texts clearly demonstrate that the population of Amurru had the political power to choose who they would follow, indicating that power relations were not unilateral in Amurru during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta. 38. a-nu-um-ma DUMUmeš lúši-ip-ri ḫa-ṣú-ra-a-yi ki ù DUMUmeš ši-ip-ri ša 4 LUGAL a-[m]u-[u]r-ri-i mi-šar-li-im ú-ša-ra-kum [DUM]Umeš ši-ip-ri šu-nu-ti a-na qa-at ia-si-imdda-gan DUMU ši-ip-ri ša iš-ḫi- dIŠKUR qa-ṭá-na-yi ki pí-qí-sú-nu-ti-ma a-na qa-ṭá-nimki a-na ṣe-er iš-ḫi- dIŠKUR li-ir-di-šu-nu-ti. 39. LUGAL ak-ka-d[i-i]m ù a-m[u-u]r-ri-im. See Charpin and Durand 1985: 323 n. 131.

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transportation for one who has consolidated his authority over a diverse population: “[My lord] must honor the head of his kingship. [Just as] you are the king of the Ḫana, [so] you are secondly the king of the Akkadian. [My lord] must not (therefore) ride a horse. My lord must (rather) ride [on] a litter and mules if he is to honor the head of his kingship.” 40 Analyzing these texts in parallel, Fleming observed that the term “Amorite” in the first parallels “Ḫana” in the second. As he has argued elsewhere (Fleming 2004: 85–89, 148–52), the term “Ḫana” designates pastoralists who often spend a majority of their time at a distance from settled centers. Thus, Fleming cautiously concluded that, “if the pairing of the Akkadian and Ḫana does indeed match that of Akkadian and Amorite, this may strengthen the association of the word amurrû with mobile pastoralists” (Fleming 2010: 7; see also 2004: 40–41). This association finds support in A.2730, where the land of Amurru along with the lands of Yamḫad and Qaṭna are listed as the pasturelands of the binū yamina, 41 one of the two major tribal divisions that constituted Zimri-Lim’s kingdom (see chap. 4 above). 42 The mountainous region of Western Syria where the land of Amurru was located is favorable to this type of lifestyle (Khazanov 1984: 53; Finkelstein 1995a: 353). It must be emphasized, however, that though the inhabitants of Amurrum /Amurru may have been identified as mobile pastoralists, this did not preclude them from being affiliated with those elements of the population who were settled, including those who lived in the urban centers from which the four kings referred to in A.2730 administered their authority. As was the case with Mari (see chap. 4 above), it would have been “impossible to disentangle the nomadic population from the social fabric 40. ARM VI 76: 19–24; [be-lí q]a-qa-ad šar-ru-ti-š[u l]i-ka-bi-it [ki-ma] LUGAL ḫanameš at-ta [ù š]a-ni-iš LUGAL ak-ka-di-im at-ta [be-lí] i-na ANŠE.KUR.RAhá la i-ra-ka-ab [i-na] gišnu-ba-lim ù anše.háku-da-ni-ma [b]e-[lí] li-ir-ka-am-ma qa-qa-ad šar-ru-ti-šu. See Charpin and Durand 1986: 143–45; Durand 1998: 485–88; Fleming 2004: 156–59. 41. A.2730: 30–38; ù aš-šum ma-at i-da-ma-ra-aṣki ša iš-pu-ra-kum um-ma-mi i-na ma-tim še-ti du-up-pí-ir ke-em a-pu-ul-šu um-ma at-ta-ma ki-ma ma-at ia-am-ḫa-ad ki ma-at qa-ṭá-nim ù ma-at a-mu-ri-imki ni-ik-ḫu-um ša DUMUmeš ia-mi-na ù i-na ma-tim še-ti DUMUmeš ia-mi-na še-em i-ša-bi-i ù na-wa-šu-nu i-re-i-em ù iš-tu da-ar-ka-tim ni-ikḫu-um ša ḫa-nameš i-da-ma-ra-aṣ. 42. Porter concurs with this conclusion in her discussion of the Mardu/Amurru (Porter 2012: 319–20): “It is not who the Mardu are that is significant, so much as what they do—and what they do is practice a different way of life: mobile pastoralism.” She goes on to clarify that “Mardu” is not “a term meaning a profession like ‘priest’ or ‘overseer.’ ” Instead, “the Mardu are people who define themselves as mobile pastoralists—whatever they actually do and wherever they are actually located. The term says nothing about their ethnicity, political affiliation, occupation, or even point of origin, but its deployment in distinction to other mobile groups suggests that it may carry, in much the same way as Fleming (2004: 47) proposes for the name ‘Hana’ in the Mari texts, a sense of ‘our mobile groups.’ ”

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of the settled tribes-people” in Amurrum (Fleming 2010: 7). If this characteristic feature continued into the LB, Amurru would have contained a large mobile pastoralist component (Murnane 1990: 4; Klengel 1970: 200– 201) that was socially and politically integrated with the “settled” populations isolated above. There is strong evidence that this was indeed the case. As E. F. Morris (2005: 226 n. 30) points out, the fact that Mittani required Amurru to pay at least part of its tribute in wool (EA 101: 5–10) “is a testament to the predominantly pastoral nature of Amurru’s economy.” 43 Additionally, the representative collective bodies attested at Irqata and Ammiya ultimately reflect “a social system that maintained the strong corporate organization and ideology of pastoralists even as they developed increasingly powerful elites and wealthy urban centers” (Fleming 2004: 216; see also Porter 2002: 9, 27–28). In sum, it is likely that the population of Amurru continued to be mixed and integrated during the Amarna period. This type of mixed constituency helps explain the resilience (Adams 1978: 329) and the cultural continuity of Amurru. Several anthropologists and archaeologists have argued that sociopolitical continuity across space and time can be attributed to three interrelated factors that largely depend upon the integration of settled centers and pastoralist populations. The first is a community’s ability to engage in a range of subsistence strategies. This was possible in environments such as Amurru where ecological features varied widely, both requiring and allowing for “complementary and supplementary subsistence niches involving numerous permutations of synchronized seasonal and spatial patterns of exploitation” (Marfoe 1979: 5; see also Khazanov 1984: 69–70). The resulting diversity of these strategies 44 enabled greater resilience in the face of economic and/or environmental instability (Cooper 2006: 29–30; Marfoe 1979: 7–9; Adams 1972: 1–6; 1978: 334). The second factor is the capacity of a community to maintain sociopolitical ties across distance and time and in the face of external threats. As I indicated in chap.  4, tribal affiliations based on elastic and heterarchical genealogical relationships among pastoral groups enabled “them to 43. This reflects Gelb’s conclusions regarding Ebla. According to Gelb (1986: 158), the fact “that the political growth of a state may depend on wool, has not received the attention it deserves from political scientists: most have assumed that grain alone could nourish the growth of higher forms of civilization. But Ebla, as these extraordinary tablets make clear, was an empire built on the backs of simple shepherds.” 44. According to Marfoe, these strategies would have taken the form of “highland terrace agriculture, swamp drainage and cultivation, spring irrigation and orchard cultivation, lowland cereal dryfarming, vertical nomadism, and horizontal steppe pastoralism” (Marfoe 1979: 5).

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modify their social and political structures to suit the conditions in which they found themselves” (Cooper 2006: 33; see also pp. 30–32; Adams 1972: 3, 7; Khazanov 1984: 142; Schwartz 2006: 12; Porter 2012: 64). 45 This type of social structure was often manifest politically in “loosely organized confederacies of both agrarian and pastoral nomadic kin groups whose membership often transcend[ed] the boundaries of individual centers, . . . specific places of residence” (Cooper 2006: 31), and even individual leaders (Fleming 2004; Mann 1986: 63–70). Because of the flexibility of such a system, the fall of a single social unit or leader did not imply the collapse of the entire system (Kaufman 1988: 219–23; Yoffee 2005: 134–40; 1988: 11– 13). As a multipolity decentralized land, this system was the foundation of Amurru’s sociopolitical structure during both the Old Babylonian period and the Amarna period during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta. The final factor is the relative isolation of a particular community. When a polity falls outside the shadow of an imperial power, its social and political structures are able to endure without a high level of external interference (Adams 1972: 1–3; Fleming 2004: 213; Cooper 2006: 32). This dynamic, particularly as it relates to the nature of Amurru is important for comprehending ʿAbdi-Aširta’s role in the region. To be sure, Amurru was under Egyptian influence. We may recall, however, that direct imperial control was limited to the immediate network of major cities that were located along the primary routes of interest (see chap. 1 above). It was the mobile and isolated elements of the land that, operating primarily in the mountainous regions and hinterlands, were beyond the reach of direct or long-term Egyptian control (Adams 1972: 1; Salzman 1979: 441–44; Khazanov 1984: 212–13, 271). While these populations may have represented the greatest points of continuity with the populations of the past, they posed the greatest threat to Egyptian interests in the region. Managing the complex relationship between these populations, the larger urban centers, and their own imperial concerns is what probably motivated the Egyptians to appoint (EA 101: 30–31) such figures as ʿAbdi-Aširta. With these observations in mind, I now return to an evaluation of ʿAbdi-Aširta and his role, in terms of both his “official” capacity within the Egyptian administration 45. Cooper (2006: 30) makes an insightful comparison between the Khabur Plains and the Euphrates Valley. Because the Khabur Plains “had come under the control of the expanding Akkadian empire, it enjoyed increased prosperity and grew in complexity (Weiss and Courty 1993: 139–41), but this very dependence may have been what led to its downfall. When the Akkadian empire broke apart, settlement in the Khabur Plains crumbled along with it. In contrast, in the environment found in the Euphrates Valley, where settlements were largely autonomous and economically self-sufficient, their ability to both withstand stresses and encourage growth was much greater.”

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and his “unofficial” capacity as a local leader. In so doing, we will arrive at a better understanding of who this man was, the functions he served, and ultimately, the nature of Amurru during his tenure. The Role of ʿAbdi-Aširta Revisited ʿAbdi-Aširta’s “Official” Status.  In my initial investigation of the role and duties of ʿAbdi-Aširta, it became evident that he was a local military leader who was neither identified with an urban center nor numbered among the ḫazannūti. These observations led to the preliminary suggestion that, while he cooperated with the various urban-centered populations of Amurru, he was also associated with groups that were identified with a mobile or pastoralist lifestyle. This corresponds to Amurru’s historical role of playing host to a variety of identity types. In his “official” capacity, ʿAbdi-Aširta would have enhanced Egyptian authority in the region. By forging ties with both the ḫazannūti and ʿAbdi-Aširta, the Egyptians could, in theory, more effectively assert their control over the variegated populations both at the core and on the periphery of their imperial network. Though this may not have directly extended their presence into the more hostile hinterland, it would have at least influenced the populations who were dwelling there. Marfoe’s (1979) analysis of the Shihab Emirate of the 17th to 19th centuries CE in the Lebanese mountains provides further insight into this type of leadership, the source of its authority, and the role it plays in supporting larger imperial powers. As the authority of the Ottoman Empire began to wane, it successfully, though temporarily, maintained its influence in the region through the implementation of the emirate system. According to Marfoe (1979: 27), the social landscape of this region was characterized by “overlapping lineage pyramids, tied to each other by cross-kinship bonds, with the head of the most important lineages . . . at the peak.” The emir played the crucial role of fortifying the “slender network of para-political ties by bridging the diverse social networks that surrounded him” (Marfoe 1979: 29). By introducing this policy, the Ottomans were able to streamline and widen their authority over a socially and geographically diverse population through a single indigenous individual. In order for someone to be selected and confirmed as an emir, he was required to have “hereditary ties, the approval of the council, and the qualities of military leadership” (1979: 29). Though Marfoe (1979: 27) attributes the necessity of this model to the immobility of its members, the same structure could serve to unify both “immobile” and “mobile” populations who were also loosely tied to one another through “cross-kinship bonds.” This seems to be the very purpose

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of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s position. On the one hand, he was, at the very least, in communication and working in cooperation with categories of people who were not identified with an urban center, including the ʿapîrû (see, e.g., EA 71, 73, 74, 75, 76, 79, 81, 82, 91, 94). In fact, the nature of the grievance that Rib-Addu airs in EA 75 suggests that ʿAbdi-Aširta’s affiliation with and responsibility for the ʿapîrû was common knowledge. After reporting that “the ʿapîrû killed Aduna, the king of Irqata,” he complains that they keep on taking because no one confronts ʿAbdi-Aširta about the matter (LUGAL-ri EN-ia ma-⸢du ⸣-[na LUGAL] uruir-qa-⸢ta⸣ i-du-ku-⸢šu⸣ [LÚ]meš ⸢GAZ⸣.[ZA]meš [ù] ia-nu ša ⟨ya⟩-aq-⸢bi mi ⸣-[im]-ma a-na ÌR-aši-ir-ta ù ti-ìl-⸢qú-na⸣; lines 25–29). Though an affiliation with the Sutû is never explicitly mentioned, the fact that they formed a significant element of Aziru’s power base (EA 169: 25–30; see chap.  4 above) testifies to the probability that ʿAbdi-Aširta also had a relationship with them before his son rose to power. On the other hand, ʿAbdi-Aširta had the capacity to communicate with and influence the collective, representative bodies of Amurru’s urban-centered polities. In spite of this distinction, these two groups did not represent closed categories but overlapped significantly. Many of the urban-centered representative bodies were rooted in the “corporate identity and organization of pastoralists.” ʿAbdi-Aširta’s ability to gain “the approval of the council,” therefore, was probably based on his ideological ties with these councils, as well as his “qualities of military leadership,” a characteristic that is frequently underscored in the Amarna letters. Though we do not have any information about ʿAbdi-Aširta’s “hereditary ties,” the fact that his sons held a place of leadership after his demise indicates that this family was influential in the land. 46 In this way, the Egyptians probably recognized and used the local authority of ʿAbdi-Aširta in a manner that paralleled the Ottomans’ recognition and use of the authority of the emirs. 47 46. According to Singer (1999: 141), it is “most unlikely that he came from one of the royal families of the coastal cities. He rather must have attained his dominant position in one of the highland tribes.” While I agree with Singer’s identification of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s tribal affiliation, his strict division between urban centers and nonurban tribal populations is based upon the false dichotomy described above. 47. This policy may reflect the type of political structure in operation at Mari under Zimri-Lim. According to Fleming (2004: 148), Zimri-Lim “created a hybrid administration that was intended to address the specific needs of his mixed constituency.” On the one hand, he employed merḫû or “chiefs of pasture” to govern the tribal pastoralist communities whose towns were located in the upper Ḫabur. On the other hand, he recognized the authority of the sugāgū, or “local leaders,” and installed his own ḫazannūti in the urban centers that were located within his domain (see Fleming 2004: 152, 192–97). According to

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ʿAbdi-Aširta’s “Unofficial” Status.  Ironically, ʿAbdi-Aširta’s capacity to unite the disparate populations of Amurru in the service of the Egyptians was the very thing that enabled him to take action against the Egyptians in the service of the land. 48 By closely scrutinizing the reports regarding these “unofficial” activities, we gain yet another perspective on the character of ʿAbdi-Aširta and his position. What are most intriguing in this regard are the language and methods he used to consolidate the collective power of Amurru and the effect that they had on its constituents. Though the populations of Amurru recognized ʿAbdi-Aširta as a military leader, his role never extended beyond that. In contrast to the leader of a centralized land, his style of leadership did not threaten to disembed local sources of social power, authority, or identity from the members of his coalition (see chap. 3 above). Even in its most unified state, during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta, Amurru remained a multipolity decentralized land. It was his capacity to operate in this way that underscores his role as a local charismatic military leader rather than a ḫazannu or “king” (šarru). Two of the most important texts for reconstructing these methods are EA 73 and 74. As we have already witnessed, in the first of these letters, Rib-Addu accuses ʿAbdi-Aširta of repeatedly writing to the Ammiyites (yi-ìš-ta-pár a-na LÚmeš uruam-mi-ia; lines 26–27; see also EA 74: 24–26), encouraging them to kill their lord and align themselves with the ʿapîrû (lines 27–29). This is, of course, a second-hand report stemming from ʿAbdi-Aširta’s primary rival. One may therefore question its authenticity, suggesting that it was entirely fabricated by Rib-Addu. There are, however, several observations that contribute to its credibility. The first is the sheer number of complaints associated with this event that Rib-Addu levies against ʿAbid-Aširta. In addition to EA 73 and 74, ʿAbdiAširta’s dealings with the Ammiyites are also recorded in EA 75. RibAddu also complains that ʿAbdi-Aširta employed the same strategy with another population in EA 81 (lines 12–13). 49 Perhaps the most convincing piece of evidence, however, is the way in which Rib-Addu limits ʿAbdiAširta’s role in the Ammiyites’ decision. Instead of accusing ʿAbdi-Aširta this scheme, ʿAbdi-Aširta most closely resembles a meḫrum. At the same time, his role was unique in that he had access to and authority within the urban centers of the ḫazannūti. 48. Compare this with Ehud’s capacity to unite Israel against Elgon, the king of Moab, to whom Ehud was charged with taking Israelite tribute in Judges 3. 49. In this letter, Rib-Addu accuses ʿAbdi-Aširta of speaking to the citizens of either Gubla or Baṭruna saying, “Kill your lord and align yourselves with the ʿapîrû like the Amiyites” (iq-bi a-na LÚmeš [GN?] [du]-ku-mi EN-ku-nu ù in4-né-[ep-šu a-na] lú.mešGAZ ki-ma uruam-⸢mi⸣-[ia]; lines 11–13; see also EA 79: 18–26; chap. 2 above).

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of attacking the city and taking it for himself, an accusation that would have certainly supported Rib-Addu’s cause (even if it were not entirely true), he indicates that ʿAbdi-Aširta merely suggested a plan of action. Ultimately, it was the Ammiyites who, by their own volition, committed the greatest offense. In the end, Rib-Addu’s report indicates that, though Ammiya was part of Amurru, it was not under the immediate authority of ʿAbdi-Aširta. Having already accepted the authority of a “lord” (EN; EA 73: 27; 75: 34) / “king” (LUGAL; EA 140: 11), the Ammiyites could have rejected ʿAbdi-Aširta’s proposal and supported their local leader and, by association, Egyptian hegemony. The decision to join forces with ʿAbdi-Aširta was essentially in the hands of the population of the city. In addition, this decision did not involve the Ammiyites replacing their leader with ʿAbdi-Aširta. As RibAddu describes it, ʿAbdi-Aširta advised them to kill their lord in order that they might align themselves with the ʿapîrû. If Rib-Addu thought ʿAbdiAširta intended to create a unified kingdom under his authority, or wanted to charge him with this intention, one would expect him to have accused ʿAbdi-Aširta of encouraging the Ammiyites to kill their lord in order that they might align themselves with him, ʿAbdi-Aširta (*yi-eš-ta-par a-na itti-ia). By emphasizing their potential alliance with the ʿapîrû, both ʿAbdiAširta and Rib-Addu affirm Ammiya’s status as an independent polity. Even the other ḫazannūti who were threatened by ʿAbdi-Aširta’s activities did not accuse him of trying to centralize Amurru under his authority. Their real concern was that “all the lands would align themselves with the ʿapîrû.” 50 Having found success with the Ammiyites (EA 74: 23–29), ʿAbdi-Aširta is reported to have executed a similar strategy in EA 74. Instead of communicating with the collective political body of an independent city, however, Rib-Addu informs the king that ʿAbdi-Aširta repeatedly sent word to an unidentified group of “troops” (iš-tap-pa-ar mÌR-a-ši-ir-ta a-na ÉRINmeš; line 30) with the following instructions: Assemble in the temple of Ninurta, and then we will fall upon Gubla. . . . And let us drive the ḫazannūti from the heart of the lands in order that 50. According to Rib-Addu, “[T]he ḫazannūti spoke in the following way: ‘He (ʿAbdiAširta) will do the same thing to us, and all the lands will align themselves with the ʿapîrû’ ” (ki-na-na ti-iq-bu-na lú.mešḫa-za-nu-tu4 ki-na-na yi-pu-šu a-na ia-ši-nu ù ti-né-pu-šu ka-li KURmeš a-na lú.mešGAZ; EA 73: 29–33). Again, if ʿAbdi-Aširta intended to centralize his authority over the entirety of Amurru, one must ask why Rib-Addu did not report this intention accordingly. There are only two instances in which the lands are accused of aligning or potentially aligning with ʿAbdi-Aširta: EA 79: 42–44 and 84: 9–10.

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As with his interactions with the Ammiyites, the autonomy of those with whom ʿAbdi-Aširta was communicating in this context is affirmed. This is immediately indicated by the fact that they are said to have “assembled” (paḫāru) in the Temple of NIN.URTA. 52 As Fleming (2004: 207) has observed, the “puḫrum of an army . . . is often (if not always) more than a simple gathering of troops, in that it also incorporates a decision-making aspect.” This nuance is confirmed in Rib-Addu’s description of what occurred during the assembly. According to his account, “They established an oath among themselves” (ti-eš-ku-nu NAM.⟨NE⟩.RU 53 a-na be-ri-šunu; 74: 42) in order to ratify their common identity under a common objective. This act of oath-taking in the presence of a divine patron by independent groups before engaging in joint military action directly reflects the steps taken by the local leaders (sugāgū; see chap. 4 above) and elders of the Yaminite tribal confederacy during the reign of Zimri-Lim. According to ARM XXVI 24: 10–13, this collective body met at the Temple of Sîn in Ḫarran to take an oath before engaging in joint military action against the Simʾalite town of Dēr. 54 Ultimately, this practice was an important method by which the constituent members of a collective could acknowledge their corporate identity yet not threaten their status as autonomous entities. By analogy, in EA 74, the troops of Amurru took an oath in the presence of what was probably the divine patron of their coalition, thereby confirming their collective political will while at the same time affirming their auton­ omy. 55 Such an assembly was not unique to this instance. On several other occasions, ʿAbdi-Aširta is said to have “assembled all the ʿapîrû” before taking military action (EA 71: 28–31; 76: 17–20; 85: 76–82; 91: 10–25). On 51. AŠ É NIN.URTA pu-ḫu-ru-nim-mi ù ni-ma-qú-ut UGU urugub-la . . . ù nu-da-bir5

lú.mešḫa-za-nu-ta iš-tu lìb-bi KUR.KURki ù ti-né-pu-uš ka-li KUR.KURmeš.ki a-na lú.meš⸢GAZ⸣

. . . ù pa-aš-ḫu DUMUmeš ù fDUMU.MUNUSmeš a-⟨na⟩ da-ri-ti (lines 31–32, 34–38). 52. For a discussion of this place-name, see Moran 1992: 144 n. 10. 53. For a discussion of this word, see Moran 1992: 145 n. 14; 1953: 78; Falkenstein 1964: 26; Nougayrol 1947: 334 n. 8. See also Rainey 2015: 456. 54. See Fleming 2004: 200; van der Toorn 1996: 89. As discussed by Campbell and Wright (1969: 115), in the 7th-century annals of Aššurbanipal, “one finds several references to a ‘confederation’ of the god Atarsamain” (see ANET 297–301). 55. Note also the similarities in the ritual for the well-being of Ugarit (RS 1.002), which involved killing a donkey as part of the covenant-making process among the assembled participants. According to Pardee, “[T]he overall concern of this text appears to be with unity among the various social groups within the kingdom of Ugarit . . . [and] to promote communion, both between the social groups named in the text and between humans and the deities honored” (Pardee 2002: 78; for the text, see pp. 79–83).

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the basis of the action that the Ammiyites took against their lord, it is possible that they were included in this category in one or more of these letters (see EA 74: 23–29). Regardless, outside of his son Aziru (EA 124: 14–15; 132: 20–21) and those affiliated with him (EA 149: 57–63; 151: 60–68), ʿAbdiAširta is the only individual reported to have mustered military support in this way in the entire Amarna corpus. 56 The precise identity of the local deity referred to by the SumeroAkkadian logogram NIN.URTA is unknown. Naʾaman contends that it was ʿAnat (Naʾaman 2005e: 247–49). In the evidence from ancient Emar, however, NIN.URTA, the divine patron of the city, is explicitly referred to as the son of Dagan, 57 an epithet paralleling that of Baʿal (bn.dgn, “the son of Dagan”) in KTU 1.2 I 19, 35 (cf. M. S. Smith 1994: 91; Fleming 2000: 94–95). 58 In any case, NIN.URTA appears to have fallen into the category of what M. S. Smith refers to as a “second-tier” deity (Smith 2001; 2002; 2004) who was characterized by his martial activities. These defining attributes are clearly depicted in the position and role of NIN.URTA as the son of Enlil in the Sumerian Ninurta Myth Lugal-e. 59 Though it is doubtful that this logogram is referring to the Sumerian deity himself, it is likely that it was used to designate the same category of god. This identification is supported by the function of the assembly described above. As a “god of war,” he represented a suitable patron for a political coalition whose primary function was to engage in military activities with one another against a common enemy. As a “second-tier” deity, he could unite the members of this coalition without threatening the status of the divine patrons who represented the local, individual identities of the various constituents involved. In other words, in an appeal to a second-generation god of war, there was no attempt to foster a “national identity” who cut across and coopted local identities under a first-generation deity or a second-generation deity who had been elevated to the head of the divine pantheon. 60 This reconstruction explains the methods that ʿAbdi-Aširta used to communicate with the troops that supported him. The act of repeatedly writing to the troops bears witness to the fact that he was requesting their 56. In EA 124: 14–15, Rib-Addu reports that all of the cities assembled in order to take Gubla. 57. See the heirloom seal published in Dalley and Teissier 1992: 85–87, 98–100, text no. 4. 58. Hallo and Moran (1979: 72 n. 23) point out that Ninurta is identified with Gašaru at Ugarit. 59. See Jacobsen 1987: 233–72. 60. ʿAbdi-Aširta also refrains from appealing to Athirat, who was probably the divine patron of his own family, as indicated by his name. See van der Toorn 1996: 182, 318.

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participation rather than demanding it. Thus, it is likely that these troops did not fall under his direct authority. While ʿAbdi-Aširta may have had a local group of troops at his immediate disposal, only once was such a contingent referred to as “his.” In that case, they were called “his auxiliary forces” (ti-la-at-šu / til-la-at-šu; EA 71: 20, 22). Besides this example and the general reference to the “troops” in EA 74, the military force that backed ʿAbdi-Aširta is always specified as the ʿapîrû (EA 71: 28–31; 76: 17–20; 85: 76–82; 91: 10–25; see also 87: 18–24). In fact, Rib-Addu himself admits that it is only through the mighty ʿapîrû that ʿAbdi-Aširta’s auxiliary force is strong (mi-nu ti-la-at-šu ù KAL.GA i-na lúGAZ GA.KAL tilla-at-šu; EA 71: 20–22). This stands in contrast with the relationship that Biryawaza, the ḫazannu of Damascus, had with the military force that supported him. In EA 195, he identifies the troops, chariots, ʿapîrû, and Sutû at his disposal with himself, referring to each of them as “mine.” 61 In the end, as with the Ammiyites, even when they aligned themselves with ʿAbdi-Aširta, the independent identities of these forces remained intact. Though they followed his leadership, they were never reckoned as “his.” These observations indicate that the power to make political decisions and act militarily was still firmly embedded within and distributed across the traditional or local sources of authority in the land of Amurru. This approach differs significantly from that of highly centralized polities that sought to dislodge and differentiate material and ideological resources from their local contexts in order to create a “state” identity that was “not embedded in traditional-ascriptive kingship, kinship, and territorial groups” (Eisenstadt 1963: 107; see also Mann 1986: 22). As I indicated in chap. 3 and shall explore in greater detail below, this often takes shape in the appointment of a “national” administrative center, the isolation and elevation of a single leader or “king,” the formation of a standing army identified with that king, and the creation of a “national cult” (see Yoffee 2005: 15, 32, 142; Adams 1978: 333; Feinman 1998: 104). By contrast, ʿAbdiAširta was able to consolidate the power of the land of Amurru without impinging upon the independence of the various political units that constituted it (see Mann 1986: 56; Blanton 1998: 149–51). This goal is ultimately 61. “Indeed I am, together with my troops and my chariots, together with my brothers and together with my ʿapîrû and together with my Suteans, at the disposal of the archers, wherever the king, my lord, shall tell (me to go)” (a-nu-ma a-na-ku qa-du ÉRINmeš-ia ù gišGIGIRmeš-ia ù qa-du ŠEŠmeš-ia ù qa-du LÚmeš SA.GAZmeš-ia ù qa-du lú.mešsu-te-ia a-na pa-ni ÉRINmeš pí-ṭá-te a-di a-šar yi-qa-bu LUGAL be-li-ia; lines 24–32; see Moran 1992: 273).

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reflected in his resistance to any claim to sole royal legitimacy over the land of Amurru as its king. 62 ʿAbdi-Aširta’s corporate political strategy is summarized in the reason he gave for driving the ḫazannūti out of the land cited in the above passage from EA 74. By uniting in this way, “the sons and daughters” of the members of the coalition would be “at peace forever” (lines 37–38). The peace referred to in this statement is likely freedom from the imperial yoke of the Egyptians. 63 In other words, ʿAbdi-Aširta is not seeking to establish an independent kingdom called Amurru or his authority over it. Rather, he is making a general plea for the welfare of the various populations that constituted Amurru. Accordingly, he is appealing to persuasive sources of power embedded within a collective political structure. This may provide insight into what it means to be “like the ʿapîrû,” a comparison made by Rib-Addu with reference to the Ammiyites after they killed their ḫazannu (EA 74: 23–29; see also 90: 24–25; 91: 3–5; 94: 67–70; 366: 11–19). The members of this coalition were joined together under a common cause rather than a common centralizing force. To be sure, according to Rib-Addu’s account, ʿAbdi-Aširta did not solely rely upon the power of persuasion to gain followers. In a series of letters, Rib-Addu reports that ʿAbdi-Aširta, along with the ʿapîrû, took coercive action against several cities in order to gain their support (see esp. EA 74: 23–24; 76: 17–20; 87: 18–24; 88: 4–8, 15–22; 90: 9–19). Even in this context, however, ʿAbdi-Aširta continually strove to form diplomatic relations with the collective bodies of the cities that he was confronting. After stating that ʿAbdi-Aširta had “taken” (leqû) Baṭruna (EA 88: 16; 90: 9–19) and “seized” (ṣabātu) Bit-Arḫa (EA 79: 21), two terms that imply acts of aggression, Rib-Addu elsewhere indicates that the Baṭrunites aligned themselves with him (te-né-pu-⸢uš⸣ urubaṭ-ru-na a-na ša-šu; EA 87: 19–20) and that the BitArḫites “defected” to him (pa-aṭ-ra-⟨at⟩ .  .  . uruÉ-ar-⸢ḫa⸣; EA 83: 28–29). These two actions that underscore their own political will in the matter. 64 Although ʿAbdi-Aširta’s activities were concentrated in Amurru, it should be noted that his diplomatic relations were not limited to the 62. As Yoffee contends (2005: 25), “chiefs, lacking internally specialized enforcement machinery, avoid delegating central authority and rely on the local power of sub-chiefs, while kings (in states) systematize and segment their power so as to undermine local authority.” 63. On a number of occasions, Rib-Addu specifically contrasts alignment with the ʿapîrû with alignment with the Egyptian king (EA 70: 24–31; 73, 74, 76: 33–43). 64. See chap. 3 above. Ṣumur is also said to have aligned with ʿAbdi-Aširta in EA 84: 11–13, defected to ʿAbdi-Aširta in EA 83: 28–29, and aligned with the ʿapîrû in EA 76: 35–37.

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polities located there. In his attempt to bring the sons and daughters of Amurru “eternal peace,” he also forged political alliances with polities that were not part of the land of Amurru but would help him achieve his goal. For example, in EA 83, Rib-Addu refers to a political alliance that he formed with Yapaḫ-Ḫadda of Beirut and Zimredda of Ṣidon (lines 21–27). It is likely that the ships of the Beirutites, Tyrians, and Ṣidonians also converged in Waḫliya at his request. ʿAbdi-Aširta even forged a relationship with Mittani, one of the major regional powers located to the northeast of Amurru (EA 90: 19–22; 95: 27–31; 101: 2–11). This policy was probably motivated by the idea that Mittani’s support would have discouraged the Egyptians from taking military action against Amurru in its attempt to liberate itself from them. In the end, ʿAbdi-Aširta’s inability to fulfill his obligations to Mittani and the undue pressure this failure put on the inhabitants of Amurru led to his death (EA 101: 2–11; E. F. Morris 2005: 226; Moran 1969: 94–99; Kitchen 1962: 28). In some ironic way, however, ʿAbdi-Aširta’s being killed by the inhabitants of Amurru speaks to the achievement of at least one of his goals. Insofar as the Amurruites were able to rise up against him, they demonstrated that they were able to retain their autonomy and collective political authority. Though he himself may not have designed or envisioned such a fate, it does reflect his role as a paradigmatic charismatic military leader who had the capacity to consolidate the power of disparate peoples, polities, and lands politically and militarily (cf. van der Toorn 1996: 193–94) against a common enemy. Nevertheless, his death marked the close of an important chapter in the history of Amurru.

Phase Two: Amurru’s Band of Brothers Though ʿAbdi-Aširta died at the hands of the inhabitants of Amurru, his sons quickly returned to take up the mission of their father (EA 103: 9–10). In order to do this, they adopted three of his policies. The first of these was to confirm and/or forge diplomatic relationships with the polities and populations that occupied Amurru. Following the strategy of their father, the sons often negotiated with the representative collective bodies of individual cities. As early as EA 102, Rib-Addu reports that the chief 65 and the lords of the city of Ampi are at peace with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta. 65. Though Moran (1992: 175) reads LÚ GAL as a reference to the Egyptian rābiṣu (“magnate”), this identification is unclear. Rib-Addu appears to identify this individual with the city of Ampi and its lords. Nowhere else is a rābiṣu identified with Ampi in this way. Because Ampi was originally a dependent of Gubla, falling under the authority of Rib-Addu, he may have been the head of the assembly that forged the alliance with Aziru.

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This implied that Ampi was at war with him, making it impossible for him to travel there. 66 The list of polities in support of this band of brothers is expanded in EA 104. After informing the king that Pu-Baḫla, one of ʿAbdiAširta’s sons, had repeatedly entered Ullassa, Rib-Addu reports that Ardata, Waḫliya, and Šigata had joined the Ampiites in their support of the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta. 67 He goes on to say that the Ampiites, Šigatites, Ullassites, and Arwadites were threatening to engage in joint military action with them, putting Rib-Addu in an awful pinch. While the former threatened him by sea, the latter made their presence felt by land (lines 40–48). 68 In addition to bond with individual cities, these brothers also affirmed their bond with the ʿapîrû (EA 104: 40–52; 121: 19–23; 69 129: 88–89). In fact, they even appear to have negotiated political relationships between the ʿapîrû and the inhabitants of independent cities. In the concluding lines of EA 104, Rib-Addu notes that the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta went to Iberta with the result that it too aligned itself with the ʿapîrû. The second policy was to engage in direct military action against those polities that did not willingly join their collective. While many of the cities that were originally under Rib-Addu’s authority quickly joined forces with ʿAbdi-Aširta’s sons, many of those that had originally affiliated themselves with ʿAbdi-Aširta resisted their program, suggesting that it was at the hands of these populations in particular that ʿAbdi-Aširta fell. For example, the inhabitants of Irqata, the city in which ʿAbdi-Aširta was dwelling before he delivered Ṣumur from the troops of Šeḫlal (EA 62), articulate their opposition to the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta by informing their Egyptian overlord that 66. “And now Ampi is at war with me. Know that the ‘great one’ and the lords of the city are at peace with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta and accordingly I am unable to go” (ù a-numa uruam-pí nu-kùr-⸢tu4⸣ it-ti-ia ti-de i⟨-nu-ma⟩ LÚ.GAL ù lú.mešbe-li URU-lim šal-mu it-ti ⸢DUMU⸣meš mÌR-aš-ra-ta ù ki-na-an-na la i-li-ú a-la-kám; lines 20–25). 67. “May the king my lord know that Pu-Baḫla, the son of ʿAbdi-Aširta, has entered into Ullasssa. To them belong Ardata, Waḫliya, Ampi, Šigata. All the cities belong to them” (yi-di LUGAL-ru EN-li i-nu-ma mpu-ba-áʾ-la mDUMU ÌR-a-ši-ir-ta i-te9-ru-ub a-na uruulla-sà a-na ša-šu-nu uruar-da-ta uruya-aḫ-li-ia uruam-bi uruši-ga-ta ka-li URUmeš a-na šašu-nu; lines 6–13). 68. Compare with EA 105, where Rib-Addu likens the Ṣumurites to a bird in a trap because the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta are pressing against the city from the land while the Arwad­ ites are confronting it from the sea. In both cases, the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta are identified with a terrestrial force, suggesting that their primary base of power came from the inland regions of Amurru. 69. In this passage, Rib-Addu reports that the ʿapîrû aligned themselves with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta and an unnamed group of “men” (LÚmeš). One is left to wonder who these “men” were and how they were set apart from the ʿapîrû. Perhaps they were in some way related to the lú.mešmi-ši (“soldiers”) whom Rib-Addu elsewhere accuses of supporting ʿAbdiAširta’s sons (see EA 108: 38–39; 126: 62–66).

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“the sons of the traitor to the king (ʿAbdi-Aširta) seek our harm” (EA 100: 15–17). This opposition ultimately led to the death of their king at the hands of Aziru (EA 139: 12–17; 140: 10–11). 70 The final policy that these brothers adopted was the formation of political relationships with entities that were not part of Amurru. Though evidence for this type of alliance is rare, Rib-Addu does indicate that Ṣidon and Beirut were in league with them (EA 118), complaining that a contingent of his ḫupšū had deserted to Ṣidon, Beirut, and the sons of ʿAbdiAširta. He uses this event as evidence that all three of these groups were hostile to the king. 71 Rib-Addu also accuses them of following the practice of their father by colluding with one of the major powers in the region. This time, however, it was not with Mittani but with the Hittites (EA 126: 62–66; cf. Murnane 1990: 206), a relationship that was ultimately brought to fruition under Aziru. It is striking that the political activities of these brothers originally were defined collectively rather than in terms of a single individual. After the death of their father, there was not an immediate rise of one of the brothers to the place of spokesman or sole leader. This suggests that they were coming out of a very different tradition than the standard monarchies of the period. The original goal of maintaining this tradition is reflected in their adoption of their father’s policies. The natural result of this was that their activities in the land had a similar effect on the way they were represented and on the entities that followed their lead. As was the case with their father, the polities that aligned with them ultimately maintained their autonomy. For example, though the aforementioned military maneuvers of individual cities were taken in cooperation with ʿAbdi-Aširta’s sons, these maneuvers were identified with the individual cities themselves. As Rib-Addu indicated, their strength was rooted in the fact that all of his cities were at war against him in cooperation with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta (EA 109: 58–59), a statement that reflects his earlier explanation of ʿAbdiAširta’s strength in EA 71: 20–22. In addition, military action against Egyptian interests in the region was not associated with the brothers but with the ʿapîrû (EA 104: 40–54). 70. Ṣumur, the city that ʿAbdi-Aširta had rescued earlier (EA 62), also opposed their advance (EA 104: 31–37; 105: 8–13). 71. “But the cities have departed (see Moran 1992: 196 n. 2) to the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta and to Ṣidon and Beirut. The cities of the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta are hostile to the king and Ṣidon and Beirut do not belong to the king” ([ù] al-lu-⸢mi pa-ṭá⸣-[ru] [a]-⸢na⸣ ma-ḫar DUMUmeš [m]ÌR-a-ši-ir-ta ù [a]-na uruṣí-⟨du⟩-na ù urube-ru-ta al-lu-mi DUMUmeš mÌR-a-šiir-ta NU.KÚR a-na LUGAL ù uruṣí-du-na ù urube-ru-ta ú-ul a-na LUGAL; lines 24–32).

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At this stage, therefore, ʿAbdi-Aširta’s sons continued their father’s strategy of consolidating the power of Amurru by means of a coalition rather than trying to absorb it under the umbrella of a single centralized state. At no time during their corporate activities are they reckoned as ḫazannūti or identified with a particular urban center or centralized land. 72 In fact, as with their father, on a number of occasions they are excluded from the category of ḫazannu (EA 104: 24–26; 108: 34–37; 109: 20–21; 117: 35–38; 121: 45–51). The one thing that distinguished them from their father, however, was that they apparently did not communicate with the Egyptian king. This may suggest that, with the death of ʿAbdi-Aširta, his family ceased to function within the Egyptian administrative framework, a suggestion that is supported by the blockade against the land of Amurru mentioned in EA 101. Instead, their energies appear to have been spent trying to reassert their authority. With the emergence of Aziru as the sole leader from among his brothers, however, the situation on the ground drastically changed.

Phase Three: Amurru under Aziru Aziru’s Rise to Power Aziru’s rise to power over Amurru is best understood as a gradual process, because its trajectory and the rationale are difficult to reconstruct. During the early stages of their activities, Aziru is never isolated from among his brothers. EA 104 is the only letter that names any of the brothers during this period. In this case, however, the activities of Pu-Baḫla are mentioned, not those of Aziru. This reference, in addition to the fact that Pu-Baḫla’s death is never acknowledged, precludes the conclusion that Aziru’s future position was based on his age and rank among his brothers. The evidence suggests that these brothers originally operated as a corporate unit with collective intentions. By the time of EA 107, however, Aziru’s actions begin to be reported in parallel with and even separate from the unified actions of his brothers. 73 While he is accused of being in Damascus with his brothers in EA 107, 74 72. See, e.g., EA 118: 24–32, where the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta are set in parallel with the cities of Ṣidon and Tyre. 73. Of course, it is impossible to determine the period of time that separated the writing of EA 101 and EA 107. Nevertheless, that this period exists is significant. 74. See esp. lines 26–34. It is difficult to determine if the intentions surrounding this encounter were friendly or not. Though Aziru is later accused of playing a role in a military assault on Damascus (EA 151: 60–68; 197: 26–31), that does not eliminate the possibility that this was a diplomatic encounter. If it was not, one would expect Rib-Addu to report what occurred in greater detail.

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he is later named the sole player in forging an alliance with Yapaḫ-Ḫadda of Beirut (EA 116: 50–52; cf. EA 114: 16, 69) and negotiating peace with the Gublites (EA 136: 8–13; 138: 28–45, 90–93, 116–17). Perhaps most important, however, is the fact that the capacity to “assemble” (paḫāru) independent political entities for the purpose of taking corporate military action is finally attributed to Aziru. In EA 124, he is said to have “assembled all of the cities” in order that they might take action against Gubla. Similarly, in EA 132, he is said to have “assembled all of the ʿapîrû,” apparently for a similar purpose. As with the corporate meetings organized by Aziru’s father, the events that took place during the assemblies organized by Aziru may be reflected in EA 149. In this letter, Zimredda of Ṣidon, Aziru, and the Arwadites are said to have “exchanged oaths among themselves” before taking military action against Tyre. 75 At the same time, the purpose of these alliances was not limited to direct military action. They also led to the sharing of intelligence. Later in EA 149, Abi-Milku informs the king that the members of this coalition were able to take Ṣumur “through the instructions of Zimredda, who brought the word of the king to Aziru.” 76 Similarly, in EA 147, Abdi-Milku reports that the same Zimredda “writes daily to the rebel Aziru, the son of ʿAbdi-Aširta, about every word he has heard from Egypt.” 77 Instead of supplying intelligence to his overlord as was expected of the ḫazannūti, Zimredda supplied intelligence about his overlord to Aziru. Aziru’s capacity to glean intelligence and assemble military support in this way eventually led Rib-Addu to link the military action that was being taken against him to Aziru specifically (EA 114: 7–11; 138: 28–37). In the end, Aziru’s ability to do these things may serve as the best explanation for his eventual rise to power. In spite of Rib-Addu’s increasing recognition of Aziru’s significance, it is not entirely clear who, if anyone, was ultimately in charge of Amurru 75. “Zimredda of Ṣidon, and Aziru, the traitor of the king, and the Arwadites have exchanged oaths among themselves and have assembled their ships, their chariots, and their foot soldiers in order to seize Tyre, the maidservant of the king” (mzi-im-re-da uruṣí-du-na ù ma-zi-ra lúar-ni LUGAL ù LÚmeš uruar-wa-da it-mu-ni ù iš-ta-ni ma-mi-ta i-na be-ri-šu-nu ù ip-ḫu-ru-nim GIŠ.MÁmeš-šu-nu GIŠ.GIGIRmeš-šu-nu ÉRINmeš GÌRmeš-šu-nu a-na ṣa-ba-ti uruṣur-ri GÉME LUGAL; lines 57–63). 76. “And they seized Ṣumur through the instructions of Zimredda, who brought the word of the king to Aziru” (ù uruṣu-mu-ra ṣa-ab-du-nim i-na UZU pí mzi-im-ri-da ša ú-balim a-ma-ta5 LUGAL a-na ma-zi-ra; lines 67–70). 77. “Moreover, Zimredda, the king of Ṣidon, daily writes to the traitor Aziru, the son of ʿAbdi-Aširta, about every word that he has heard from Egypt” (ša-ni-ta5 mzi-im-ri-da ⸢LUGAL⸣ uruṣí-du-na iš-pu-ur i-na U4-mi u U4-mi-⸢ma⸣ ⸢lú⸣ar-ni ma-zi-ri DUMU ÌR-daš-ratum aš-šum gáb-bi a-ma-ta5 ša iš-te-mi iš-tu kurmi-iṣ-⸢ri⸣; lines 66–69).

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during the later stages of his tenure at Gubla. Though Rib-Addu indicates that the cities of the king were in some way affiliated with Aziru in EA 117, he earlier extended this affiliation to include his brothers as well (lines 35–40). In the very next breath, however, he expresses his concern that all the lands, including Gubla, will align with the ʿapîrû if reinforcements are not sent (lines 56–58, 94). At this point, leadership in the land of Amurru is not clearly identified with a single individual or any one group (line 63). It is not until Rib-Addu is deposed and exiled from Gubla that the Gublites unequivocally attribute the recent acts of aggression in the land to Aziru. In both of their letters to the king, they name him as the sole culprit for the murder of the kings of Irqata, Ammiya, and Ardata (EA 139: 12–17; 140: 10–13). This list of atrocities is expanded in their second missive to include the murder of a rābiṣu, the breaking into of Ṣumur and Ullassa, and the smiting of all the lands of Amqu (EA 140: 13–30). EA 140 contains another important hint that a significant shift had occurred in Aziru’s status by the time it was sent. Before listing the infidelities of Aziru, the Gublites ask the king “why he has sent to Aziru.” 78 If the event behind this query is the sending of diplomatic correspondence, as Knudtzon (1964: 591) and Moran (1992: 226) suggest in their translations, this indicates that Aziru had achieved some sort of formal recognition and status with the Egyptians at this point. An evaluation of the letters of Aziru and his court reveals that he did indeed become a ḫazannu in the Egyptian administration and the king of the land of Amurru. Aziru’s Royal Status The exact point at which Aziru was generally recognized as the sole authority over Amurru is impossible to determine with certainty. 79 This is largely because the recognition of this type of leadership derived from multiple sources. One of these sources was the imperial power under which the entity in question fell. Aziru’s appointment as a ḫazannu in the Egyptian imperial administration is specifically mentioned in EA 161. 78. mi-ni iš-ši-ir LUGAL-ru i-na ma-zi-ri (lines 8–9). 79. Based on the reference to Aziru’s trip to Egypt in EA 140, Singer (1991: 150–51) cautiously contends that Aziru’s rise to power occurred shortly after he took Ṣumur (see also Izre'el and Singer 1990). Accordingly, Aziru would have taken the throne sometime after Rib-Addu sent EA 134, as this is the first time that he refers to the fall of Ṣumur (lines 33–34) and attributes it to Aziru. The fact that Aziru did not immediately take charge of Amurru after his father’s death finds support in the claim he makes in EA 157: “[F]rom the beginning, I have desired to be a servant of the king, my lord (lúÌR LUGAL EN-ia). However, the rābiṣū (lú.mešGAL-bu-temeš) of Ṣumur did not allow me” (lines 9–12; see Murnane 1990: 141; Kestemont 1978: 28). In the end, the evidence for when Aziru rose to power is inconclusive. However, that he rose to power is indisputable.

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A large portion of this letter is devoted to Aziru’s response to charges of infidelity levied by his Egyptian overlord. Of particular concern to the king was a report that Aziru did not cater to the envoys of Egypt in the same way that he did to the messengers of Ḫatti. Due to the strained relations between these two regional powers, 80 and Amurru’s place as an important buffer between Ḫatti and Egypt’s interests in the Levant, the king viewed Aziru’s disproportionate exercise of hospitality as an ominous sign of impending treachery. In an attempt to ease the king’s mind, Aziru reminded him that the land of Amurru was his only because the king himself had “set” him “among the ḫazannūti.” 81 Moran (1992: 248 n. 6) refers to this confession as one of the more ignorationes elenchi of the Amarna letters. However, if the events surrounding Aziru’s appointment included a curse formula characteristic of vassal treaties of the day, 82 this statement would have been quite relevant, serving as much an indication that he was aware of the implications of treason as a reminder to the king of his position. In fact, the king himself articulated these implications in EA 162. Worded as though he drew them directly from an original vassal treaty drafted at the time of Aziru’s appointment, the following promise and warning were issued: Now if you perform your service for the king, your lord, what is there that the king will not do for you? If for whatever reason you prefer to do evil, and if you plot evil, treacherous things, then you, together with your entire family, shall die by the axe of the king. 83

80. See, e.g., EA 38–43. 81. an-nu-ú KUR EN-ia ù LUGAL-ru EN-ia iš-ku-na-an-ni ⸢i⸣-na lú.mešḫa-za-nu-ti (lines 51–53). This reminder did not, however, prove to be sufficient for the king. In EA 162, Aziru’s declaration that he was the servant of the king “like all the previous ḫazannūti in the heart of his city” is disputed (ÌR-ka a-na-ku ki-i gáb-bi LÚmeš ḫa-za-⸢nu⸣-temeš bá-nu-ti ša i-na lìb-bi URUki-šu; lines8–9). This statement confirms the idea that the king made Aziru a ḫazannu, a title that Aziru himself clearly accepted. The fact that this set him apart from his father is implied in ʿAbdi-Aširta’s absence from this confession. Rather than comparing his service with that of his father, a phenomenon that is not uncommon to this corpus (see, e.g., EA 55: 7–9; 118: 39–41; 253: 11–17; 317: 13–18), he appeals to unnamed ḫazzanūti who preceded him. 82. See especially the contemporary treaties between the Hittites and their vassals in Beckman 1999: 20–21, 37–38, 55–56, 61, 66, 88–89, 102–103. 83. ù šum-ma te-ip-pu-uš ÌR-tá a-na LUGAL EN-ka ù mi-na-a ša ú-ul ip-pu-ša-ak-ku LUGAL a-na kà-a-ša šum-ma aš-šum mi-im-ma tá-ra-am e-pí-ši an-mu-ut-ti ù šum-ma tá-ša-ak-kà-an an-mu-ut-ti a-⸢wa⸣-temeš sà-ar-ru-ut-ti i-na lìb-bi-ka ù i-na ḫa-⸢aṣ⸣-ṣí-in-ni ša LUGAL tá-ma-at qa-du gáb-⸢bi⸣ ki-im-ti-ka (lines 33–38). Compare this with the curse formula of the treaty between Aziru and his Hittite overlord in Beckman 1999: 40. See also pp. 17, 29, 33, 48, 52, 64, 68–69, 86, 112–13, 121–22.

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Aziru’s appointment probably occurred during one of his visits to Egypt. 84 A unique window into the ceremonial and symbolic events that probably accompanied this process is preserved in EA 51. In this highly damaged text, Addu-nirari, one of the kings of the decentralized land of Nuḫašše, recounts what took place when Thutmoses III (Manaḫpiya) installed Taku, one of Addu-nirari’s predecessors, as a king in Nuḫašše: Look: when Manaḫpiya, the king of Egypt, your ancestor appointed Taku, my ancestor, to kingship in the land of Nuḫašše, he (the king) put oil on his head and thus he said: “The one whom the king of Egypt has made for kingship.” 85

Unfortunately, the text breaks off at this point. Whether or not Addunirari referred to a similar event accompanying his own appointment is unknown. However, the fact that he is appealing to his relatively distant ancestor in this context may imply that Taku was the first of his line to rule in Nuḫašše. If this was the case, the statement that the Egyptian king “made him for kingship” should be taken literally, as Thutmoses III may have replaced a king that he deposed during his military activities in the region with Taku. As such, this type of ceremony may not have been required with the accession of every heir to the local throne, as long as that heir was viewed as legitimate. However, because Aziru was the first in his family to serve as a ḫazannu, it is likely that his appointment involved a similar invocation of kingship. 86 In either case, the implications are the same. Functioning as a ḫazannu in the Egyptian imperial administration could imply functioning as a king on the local level, particularly if the leader had authority over a centralized land. 87 84. Reference to these travels are made in EA 140: 20–23; 161: 4–6; 169; 170. See also EA 162: 42–54; 164: 18–26; 165: 14–17; 166: 12–14; 167: 11–15, 20–24; and 168: 4–12, where he either explains why he has delayed visiting the king or asks for more time before his next visit. 85. ù Ìmeš a-na SAG.DU-šu iš-ku-un-šu ù ki-a-⸢am iq-ta⸣-bi ša ⸢LUGAL kur⸣[mi-iṣ]-⸢ri⸣ a-na LUGAL-ru-tú ša i-ip-pu-⸢uš⸣-[šu] (lines 6–8). 86. A similar event is depicted in the historical introduction of the vassal treaty between Suppiluiluma I of Ḫatti and Aziru. When Aziru “came up from the gate of Egyptian territory and became a vassal” of Suppiluiluma, he is said to have “[knelt down] at the feet” of Suppiluiluma (Beckman 1999: 37). See also the Prism inscription of Tiglath-pileser I, which reads, “My hands captured all the kings of the countries of the Nairi. I had mercy on those kings and I spared their lives. (When they were brought) captive and bound into the presence of Shamash, my lord, I set them free, and I caused them to swear an oath of submission to my great gods for future days, and forevermore. Their sons, their royal offspring, I took as hostages; 1,200 horses and 2,000 cattle I laid as tribute upon them, and I sent them unto their own lands” (Luckenbill 1926: 82, §236; see also vol. 1, §§209, 223, 237, 271, 272, 278, 293). 87. This association is supported by instances in which vassals refer to other vassals and even themselves as kings in their letters to their overlord. In a particularly interesting

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This connection is confirmed in a separate letter sent to Aziru and his entourage from the members of his court who remained in Amurru during another one of Aziru’s visits to Egypt. In the opening line of this correspondence, Aziru is addressed as “the king” (LUGAL) and is subsequently referred to as “our lord” (EN-ni) no less than seven times (EA 170: 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10, 18). It is difficult to determine whether or not the recognition of Aziru’s kingship on the local level depended upon his appointment within the imperial administration. It does seem, however, that the rulers of great kingdoms liked to deal with similar political arrangements and promoted individual rule over joint or collective forms. 88 If this was the case, Egypt’s support of his authority may have been the very thing that allowed him to successfully establish the unified kingdom of Amurru. Yet another variable adding to the complexity of Aziru’s position is whether or not his peers were willing to accept his newly acquired post. While vassals commonly refer to one another in terms of kingship and kinship, this is never the case with Aziru. When he is given a title, it is restricted to “the son of ʿAbdi-Aširta” (EA 107: 26–28; 126: 34–36; 136: 8–13; 138: 28–37; 149: 35–36). Because these letters only derive from polities that Aziru was threatening, it may indicate that they were unwilling to recogdispatch to the Egyptian court in which Akizzi of Qaṭna supplies intelligence regarding the affairs of the polities surrounding him, he assures Amenhoṭep IV that the king of Nii (LUGAL kurni-i), the king of Zinzar (LUGAL kurzi-in-za-ar), the king of Tunanat (LUGAL kurtuna-na-at), and a king of Nuḫašše (LUGAL kurnu-ḫa-aš-še), perhaps Addu-nirari himself, are all his loyal servants (EA 53: 40–44). Similarly, Zimredda, the ḫazannu of Ṣidon, who is variously referred to as “Zimredda of Ṣidon” (EA 149: 57; 151: 11) and “the man of Ṣidon” (EA 154: 14) is also called “the king of Ṣidon” by Abi-Milku of Tyre (EA 147: 66–67). In EA 139 and 140, Aziru is accused of killing the king of Ammiya, the king of Ardata, and the king of Irqata, who, in EA 140 is specified as “Aduna, the king of Irqata” (ma-du-na LUGAL kurir-qata; line 10). See also EA 47: 12–21; 56: 36–42; 60: 13–29; 70: 20; 88: 46; 92: 32–34; 109: 46; 147: 67; 148: 40–41; 161: 36; 197: 14–15, 41–42. Though Naʾaman (1988: 183 n. 18) reads ʿAbdi-Tirši’s reference to himself as the “king of Ḫaṣor” (LUGAL uruḫa-ṣú-ri ki) in the formulaic opening of EA 227 as a scribal mistake based on ʿAbdi-Tirši’s address in EA 228, where he refers to himself as “the man of Ḫaṣor” (LÚ uruḫa-ṣú-ra), this is not the only instance in which a ḫazannu identifies himself as such. In EA 256, Mut-Baḫlu calls himself the “king of Piḫilu” (šàr urupí-ḫi-lì; line 8). Even the kings of Babylon (EA 8: 25) and Mitanni (EA 30: 1) refer to the Egyptian vassals as “kings” in their dispatches. According to Lorton (1974: 19), “in contrast to the Asiatics, who were accustomed to a plurality of persons designated šarru ‘king’ on their respective thrones, the Egyptians, ideally and for the most part in practice recognized only one nswt at any given time. It is thus unlikely that the Egyptians would have used nswt to translate the Akkadian term šarru ‘king,’ and still more improbable that they would have employed the plural to indicate a number of contemporary kings.” Nevertheless, they had no trouble accepting the title or referring to their contemporaries and themselves likewise (EA 1, 31). See Moran 1992: xxvii n. 73. 88. This suggestion stems from a private communication with Daniel Fleming.

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nize the authority of this hostile neophyte. Even in Rib-Addu’s final two letters, which were written during his exile in Beirut, the activities of Aziru and his brothers are often conflated, preventing an unequivocal description of what Aziru’s place and role was. In spite of this confusion, Aziru’s kingship was finally recognized on the international level. Later in his career, Aziru confirmed the concerns of his Egyptian overlord expressed in EA 162 when he transferred his loyalties to the Hittites. This event is preserved in a vassal treaty between Aziru and his Hittite overlord Suppiluliuma I. In the historical introduction to this treaty, which details the events surrounding this newly forged relationship, Suppiluliuma refers to Aziru as “the king of the land [of Amurru].” Already recognized as a king, Aziru was not appointed by Suppiluliuma to this position. With language reflecting Schloen’s patrimonial household model, he merely “[took up] Aziru (into his household) and ranked him among his (Aziru’s) brothers.” 89

Conclusion: From ʿAbdi-Aširta to Aziru and the Emergence of a Centralized Land With the elevation of Aziru, the land of Amurru assumed an entirely new political order. This transition is artfully represented in a letter from Aziru to Tutu, a high-ranking Egyptian official. In his attempt to articulate the scope of his deference to his superior, he makes the following statement: You are my father and my lord and I am your son. The lands of Amurru are your lands and my house is your house. 90

In these four lines, Aziru expresses his dependence upon Tutu in household terminology familiar to his milieu. The first two lines begin with a narrow expression of his dependence, focusing on the nature of his own subordinate relationship with Tutu. In the final two lines, his field of vision expands to include his entire household. Read in parallel, these lines equate the lands of Amurru with the House of Aziru, ultimately placing him at the head of this polity. What was once a multipolity decentralized 89. Translation from Beckman 1999: 37. Note that familial language is not reserved for vassals within the Egyptian administrative framework. Aziru refers to Tutu, a high-ranking Egyptian official, as his “father” in EA 158. 90. [a]-mur at-ta a-bi-ia ù EN-ia [ù] a-na-ku DUMU-ka KURmeš a-mu-ri [KUR]⸢meš⸣-ka ù É-ia É-ka (EA 158: 14–16).

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land, therefore, has become a centralized land under the leadership of a single individual. Both Aziru and his subordinates elsewhere confirm this equation. In EA 164, Aziru expresses his gratitude to the king for having sent a tablet to him with the following proclamation: Ḫatip has come and brought the gracious and sweet words of the king, my lord, and I am exceedingly overjoyed. My land and my brothers, the servants of the king, and the servants of Tutu, my lord, are overjoyed when the breath of the king, my lord, comes before me. 91

Not only is he overjoyed with this event, but so too is his entire house, which includes both his land and his brothers. Similarly, in EA 170, Baʿaluya and Bet-ili provide Aziru with the following report: “Here with the lands of our lord all goes very well.” 92 The identification of the land of Amurru with Aziru is finally complemented by the identification of Amurru’s cities with him as well (EA 151: 67; 161: 37). In line with my evaluation of centralized lands in chap. 3, the process of centralization that took place under Aziru is reflected in two specific events. The first was the elevation of Aziru to the position of king over the entirety of Amurru, and the second was Aziru’s establishment of a central administrative center with which he was identified and from which he governed his land. These developments are exhibited in the opening line of EA 162. There, the king of Egypt refers to Aziru as “the man of the city Amurru” (⸢LÚ⸣ urua-mu-ur-ra), the most common formula used by the Egyptians when addressing the ruler of a vassal city or centralized land. 93 The reference to Amurru as a city (URU) is difficult on two accounts. First, it is the only instance in which Amurru is preceded by the determinative URU in the entire Amarna corpus. On every other occasion, it takes the determinative KUR. 94 Second, an individual “city of Amurru” has not been identified in the archaeological record. 91. mḫa-ti-ip i-il-la-kà-am ù ú-ub-bá-la-am a-ma-temeš LUGAL EN-ia bá-nu-tam ù DÙG.GA-ta ù ḫa-ad-ia-ku ma-gal ma-gal ù KUR-ia ù ŠEŠmeš-ia lú.mešÌR ša LUGAL ENia ù lú.mešÌR mtù-u-tù EN-ia ḫa-du4-nim ⸢ma-gal⸣ ma-gal i-nu-ma i-il-la-kà-am ša-ar-ru ša LUGAL EN-ia UGU-ia (lines 4–14). 92. ù an-na-kam iš-tu KURmeš-šu ša EN-ni dan-níš šul-nu (lines 5–6). 93. See, e.g., EA 174: 3–4; 175: 3–4; 176: 9–10; 177: 2; 182: 2; 183: 3; 184: 4; 185: 3, 10–11; 186 passim; 187: 3; 191: 2; 201: 3–4; 203: 3–4; 204: 4; 220: 3; 225: 3–4; 228: 3–4; 232: 3–4; 233: 3–4; 234: 3; 241: 3–4; 298: 4–5; 299: 3–4; 319: 4–5; 320: 5–6; 321: 5–6; 322: 4–5; 329: 5–6; 363: 3–4; 367: 1; 370: 1; 378: 3–4. 94. EA 60: 8; 61: R 5; 70: 25; 73: 11, 15; 82: 48; 85: 69, 82; 91: 38; 95: 21, 28; 101: 5, 21, 29, 35; 103: 10; 114: 14; 115: 17; 117: 63; 127: 40; 142: 24; 145: 24; 156: 14; 158: 15; 162: 77; 165: 35; 166: 24; 167: 25; 178: 21; 179: 19.

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Rather than attributing this unique designation to a scribal error, R. Stieglitz (1991: 48) argues that this is a reference to the capital of Amurru. He bases this contention on the observation that “the phenomenon of calling the capital of a state as the city of that state is known from other contemporary sources.” For example, Alalakh was occasionally referred to as “the city of Mukish” (urumu-ki-iš), and Kummanni was also called “the city of Kizzuwatna” (uruki-iz-zu-wa-at-na; see Astour 1971: 13 n. 30). Even Jerusalem was known as “the city of Judah” in the Bible (ʿir yĕhûdâ; 2 Chr 25:28) and in Neo-Babylonian records (uruyāhūda; B. Mazar 1975: 15). Stieglitz also points to a number of texts from the LB and beyond that appear to refer to the capital of Amurru in a similar way. The most convincing of these is RS 1957.1. Reflecting the North Syrian scribal tradition of using both the determinative KUR and URU to designate a centralized land (Moran 1975: 151; Adamthwaite 1992: 8; Fleming 2004: 132; see chap. 3 above), it contains a reference to Šauškamuwa, the king of the land of (the city of) Amurru (LUGAL kur.urua-mur-ri), and “his palace in the land of (the city of) Amurru” (É.GAL-lim-šu ša kur.urua-mur-ri). 95 Having provided evidence that the “city of Amurru” was indeed the capital of Amurru, Stieglitz (1991: 47–48) goes on to identify Ṣumur as the most likely candidate for its location. This identification has been called into question by Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman (2003: 9), whose petrographic analysis of the Amarna letters indicates that EA 161, 164, 169, 170, and 171 were all written from Irqata, leading them to conclude that, “after consolidating his reign, Aziru transferred his capital to Irqata.” Nevertheless, the same analysis indicates that Aziru sent EA 165, 166, and 167 from Ṣumur. While he may have originally operated from Irqata (the city where ʿAbdi-Aširta was stationed in EA 62) with his brothers and son (EA 169, 170), Aziru could have taken up residence in Ṣumur after he rebuilt it (see EA 159: 11–12, 160: 24–28, 38–40; 161: 35–40). If Ṣumur was indeed the new capital of Amurru under Aziru, his choice to locate it there was significant. Not only was it strategically located near the Mediterranean Sea, but it functioned as an Egyptian garrison city before Aziru took the throne. To be sure, the infrastructure that existed there would have made it a suitable location for a new capital, particularly after it was rebuilt. What is more significant, however, is the fact that it was neither associated with a particular ḫazannu nor cast as being administered by a collective body. This suggests that it was located outside the traditional 95. Stieglitz (1991: 47) also points to Ramesses II’s account of his confrontation with the Hittites at Kadesh, which refers to pꜢ tꜢ n pꜢ ʾImr (“the land of the Amurru”) to support his argument.

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political structure and sources of authority operative in Amurru before and during the Amarna period. By selecting this type of location as opposed to a city like Ammiya or Irqata, both of which were firmly embedded in the collective tradition of Amurru, Aziru would have avoided the claims that those bodies could have made on his own authority. This falls in line with the observation of Baines and Yoffee that, when polities reorganized themselves, they would often establish a new capital, which “served to dislocate and disenfranchise old elites and bureaucratic networks.” On a more symbolic level, it would also represent monumental “changes in administrative power and purpose” (Baines and Yoffee 1998: 209; see also Blanton 1983: 83–87; Yoffee 2005: 37, 57–61). The process of centralization under Aziru can also be observed in the language used to identify the military force associated with him. 96 In the last extant letter from Rib-Addu, he provides the following description of the events that transpired in Gubla after he had taken refuge in Beirut: The rebel of the king (Rib-Addu’s brother) took the troops of Aziru and set (them) in the heart of the city. But the city saw that foreign troops were dwelling in the city . . . so they drove the troops of Aziru from the city. 97

This unique exchange represents the first stage in the formation of a professional army that was dissociated from local sources of authority (Eisenstadt 1964: 380–83; L. S. Fried 2004) and the initial resistance to this type of army from these sources. Here, rather than simply being referred to in general terms or in association with the ʿapîrû, the military force that was stationed in Gubla is identified as the “troops of Aziru.” In the eyes of the Gublites, these troops were foreign, representing a threat to their capacity to express and exert their own local and/or collective will in the context of a military confrontation. It was for this reason that they ultimately drove them away. 98 However, it is unlikely that the Gublites were able to continue to resist Aziru’s policy of centralizing and extending his authority. After the dispatch of EA 139 and 140, Gubla falls out of the written record until its re-

II 35.

96. Compare with El’s reference to the army of Kirta as “your host”(ṣbʾuk) in KTU 1.14

97. la-qí lúar-ni ⸢LUGAL⸣ [ÉRIN]⸢meš⸣ ma-zi-ri ša-ka-an a-na ⸢lìb⸣-[bi ] ⸢URU⸣[ki] ù ti-mu-ru URU⸢ki⸣ [i]nu-⸢ma ÉRIN⸣meš ša-nu a-ša-bu a-na URUki . . . ù ti-⸢dab⸣-bi-ru ÉRINmeš ma-zi-ri iš-⸢tu⸣ URUki (EA 138: 59–62, 69–70). 98. See also EA 140, where the Gublites report that Aziru sent “his men” to seize the lands of Amqu (lines 28–29). In EA 197, Biryawaza of Damascus tells the king that Arsawuya, the ḫazannu of Ruḫizzi, “went to Ki[ssa], took Aziru’s troops, and captured Šaddu” (lines 27–29).

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emergence in P. Anastasi I of the late 13th century and a few economic texts from Ugarit dated to the rule of Ammurapi. 99 This suggests that Gubla was unable to reassert its independence until the latter stages of Amurru’s history. The strategies of political consolidation that Aziru employed stand in sharp contrast to those used by his father. ʿAbdi-Aširta sought to maintain the decentralized structure of Amurru by affirming the traditional sources of authority among the independent polities that constituted it. In this way, he functioned as a charismatic military leader. By contrast, the evidence strongly suggests that Aziru made efforts to centralize Amurru at the expense of its traditional sources of authority. As a result, Aziru was able to consolidate his power over the first centralized land of Amurru, which he administered from his royal capital at Ṣumur. 99. RS 18.05 = PRU V 121; RS 18.25 = PRU V 106; RS 18.134 = PRU V 159; RS 19.182 = PRU VI 81; RS 19.28 = PRU VI 126 (see Klengel 1992: 176).

Chapter 6

The House of Labʾayu and the Land of Shechem Introduction The social and political complexity of the land of Amurru highlighted in the preceding chapter is by no means unique. The land of Shechem (kurša-ak-mi; EA 289: 23) is a suitable rival in this regard. A great deal of energy has been spent trying to reconstruct the nature and history of this polity. Its location in the central Palestinian hill country, which is viewed by many as the very place where Israel took shape, makes it likely that it would have influenced Israel’s development. Investigating the nature of the land of Shechem, therefore, represents a pivotal point in this study. On the one hand, the chapters that follow will continue along the trajectory of the preceding material. As with the study of Amurru, the analysis undertaken in part 1 provides the data and language necessary for comprehending some of Shechem’s more obscure and nuanced features. On the other hand, the conclusions that I arrive at regarding Shechem will directly inform my analysis of Israel before the monarchy, which is the subject of the 3rd and final part of this project. In this chapter, I will evaluate Shechem’s place in the Amarna letters and the relationship that Labʾayu and his sons had with it. In chap. 7, I will embark upon a longue durée analysis of the archaeological history of Tell Balâṭah, the site that has been identified with biblical Shechem, in tandem with the remaining extrabiblical references to Shechem. In light of all of the confident reconstructions of the nature of Shechem during the Amarna period in the scholarly literature, it is startling that Shechem is attested only once in the entire Amarna corpus. This sole reference is found in EA 289. The letter was sent by ʿAbdi-Ḫeba of Jerusalem, and the pertinent passage reads as follows: 21. ù lu ni-pu-uš-mi e-nu-ma 22. mla-ab-a-ya 180

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23. ù kurša-ak-mi i-din-nu 24. a-na lú.mešḫa-pí-ri ki Based on its contextual association with Labʾayu (line 22) and the determinative KUR that it takes (line 23), scholars generally agree that the land of Shechem was a large centralized land, or “territorial kingdom” governed by Labʾayu. 1 As the king of Shechem, Labʾayu had a dominion that extended as far as the Jezreel Valley to the north and the coastal plain to the west. 2 This assumed link is reflected in the work of Moran (1992: 332–33), Campbell (1965: 200), and Albright (ANET 489), 3 who all render this passage in the following way: 21. Now, shall we act like 22. Labʾayu, 23. when he was giving/who gave the land of Shechem 24. to the ʿapîrû? This translation implies that Labʾayu had the capacity to hand the land of Shechem over to the ʿapîrû and thereby confirms the conclusion that Shechem was centralized under his authority. Accordingly, Shechem represented one of the paradigmatic Canaanite polities in the central hill country, comparable to Ḫaṣor in the north and, to a lesser degree, Jerusalem in the south (see chap.  1 above). For many scholars, it was against and in contrast to these long-standing, indigenous elements that Israel ultimately defined itself and became a unique political entity. As I demonstrated in chap. 1, this view is informed by a particular understanding of the Levantine political landscape during the LB. It assumes that, while the “city-states” of the lowlands differed from their counterparts in the highlands in terms of their scope and the scale of their organization, they shared the same basic political structure. Each was ruled 1. See esp. Campbell 1965: 191–207; Ross 1967: 66; Aharoni 1967: 161–63; Rainey 1968: 7–9; 2015: 1595; Albright 1975: 116; Naʾaman 1986: 469; 2010: 93; Redford 1990: 36, 68; Zertal 1994: 51; Finkelstein 1994: 174; 1995a: 361; 2013: 16–17; Naʾaman 2005c: 150, 164, 166; 2005e: 7; Bunimovitz 1994a: 11–12; 1994b: 190; Buccellati 1967: 69–72; van der Toorn 1996: 176; Toombs 1979: 74; E. F. Morris 2005c: 150, 163; R. D. Miller 2005: 92; Rainey and Notley 2006: 83–84, 89; Grabbe 2007: 64; A. Mazar 2007c: 138–39. 2. In the words of Aharoni (1967: 163), “The territory controlled by Labʾayu, King of Shechem, was especially large in contrast to the small Canaanite principalities round about . . . and we get the impression that this . . . [was] an extensive kingdom with Shechem as its capital. . . . The principalities in the hill country were therefore much larger than those on the plains, even encompassing a number of towns and a more varied population.” Similarly, Naʾaman (1986a: 469) refers to Shechem as “a great territorial kingdom” (‫שׁכם היתה ממלכה‬ ‫)טריטוריאלית גדולה‬. 3. See also Moran 1975: 166 n. 74.

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by a king who was identified with and administered his authority from an urban center over and against the sedentary populations that fell within his domain. The above translation of EA 289: 21–24 is not, however, the only viable option. Based on the ù (“and”) that separates Labʾayu and the land of Shechem in line 23 and the apparently plural form of the verb i-din-nu (“to give”) in line 24, S. Mercer (1939: 218–19), 4 J. Knudtzon (1964: 875, 1341), and J. Garstang (1978: 255) render these lines in a way that suggests that both Labʾayu and the land of Shechem “gave” to the ʿapîrû. This grammatical ambiguity, along with the paucity of direct information regarding Shechem has led some scholars to question the accepted association between it and Labʾayu. G. E. Wright (1965: 191–92) betrays his own suspicion by observing that the “Amarna letters tell us very little directly about Shechem—it is mentioned by name only once—and even leaves a trace of doubt that Labʾayu really had his headquarters there.” 5 In spite of his skepticism, he followed the party line. The variety and the variability of sociopolitical structures attested in the Amarna archive advocates for a reevaluation of the evidence regarding Shechem, Labʾayu, and his house. The fact that there is only one reference to the land of Shechem and that there are only a handful of letters that derive from Labʾayu and his family (EA 252–56) or that refer to them (EA 237, 244–46, 249, 250, 263, 280, 287, 289) makes this process more difficult than the preceding study of Amurru and the House of ʿAbdi-Aširta. Nevertheless, any study of a polity or political figure is greatly enhanced when it is informed by the social and political milieu in which it was located. As Marfoe contends, an “analysis of sociopolitical structures over a broad range of spatial and temporal contexts helps us to frame perspectives on localized situations” (Marfoe 1979: 30). 6 This is largely because “societies tend not to be closed, discrete units but are usually better understood as tapestries of interconnected and interweaving entities, each influencing and transforming the other” (Schwartz 2006: 12). Though it was geographically removed 4. Interestingly, in his index of geographical names, Mercer lists this single reference to Shechem as “ alŠa-ak-mi” (“the city Shechem”; Mercer 1939: 899). This may be a simple case of a scribal error, or it may betray the influence that biblical studies had on his reading of these texts. To some degree, the tendency to associate Labʾayu with Shechem also seems to be influenced by the Bible. 5. For a more recent reevaluation of this association, see Adamthwaite 1992. While he also challenges conventional wisdom on this matter, most of his conclusions differ from those outlined below. For another view based on the collective description of Shechem in Judges 9, see Reviv 1966. 6. See also Stein 2002: 903–16; Feinman 1998: 101–103; Fleming 2004: 113–14.

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from Shechem, the land of Amurru’s political dynamics during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta and his sons as well as the sociopolitical tapestry of the LB Levant in general can inform our understanding of the land of Shechem and the House of Labʾayu. To be sure, there were significant differences between Shechem and Amurru that prevent the formulation of a single, categorical definition that encompasses both. However, the immediate points of continuity between these two entities and the people affiliated with them promote the viability of this approach. In addition to the designation “land” (KUR) that Amurru and Shechem have in common, Labʾayu, ʿAbdi-Aširta, and their families share several defining characteristics. Above all, they proved to be problematic figures for both their Egyptian overlord and their immediate neighbors as they sought to extend their influence over populations that were not originally under their direct authority with the help of the ʿapîrû. In order to evaluate the proposed relationship between Labʾayu and the land of Shechem properly and thereby the nature of Shechem itself, we need to determine the region in which Labʾayu and his sons operated, the nature of their expansionist interests, and the way they were viewed and referred to by their contemporaries. These data will set the stage for an informed reevaluation of EA 289: 21–24 at the conclusion of this chapter. Ultimately, I will argue that Shechem closely resembled a multipolity decentralized land that, at best, had a loose affiliation with Labʾayu. Though there were fluctuations in its political history as the second millennium unfolded, Shechem was largely defined by a strong collective political tradition throughout this period. In this way, it closely corresponded to Israel as depicted in some of the core narrative traditions in the book of Judges. Rather than representing a foil to the nature of early Israel, therefore, the land of Shechem—along with several other polities attested in the Amarna letters—provides a historical foundation for better understanding premonarchic Israel and the way it is represented in the Bible.

Locating the House of Labʾayu Looking Inward: The Origin and Role of Labʾayu and His House As with ʿAbdi-Aširta, if we are to understand who Labʾayu was, we must first determine whether we can pinpoint his office and the base of his operations. Though the technical terms used to designate an Egyptian vassal (ḫazannu and LÚ GN) are never used with reference to Labʾayu, a number of clues indicate that he filled this role. Like ʿAbdi-Aširta, Labʾayu signaled his position in Egypt’s administrative framework by referring to “my rabiṣu” in two separate letters (lúMÁŠKM-ia, EA 253: 34; lúra-bi-ṣí-ia,

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EA 254: 15; compare with EA 60: 11, 20, 24, 32). However, Labʾayu’s responsibilities are distinguished from those of ʿAbdi-Aširta in several ways. The best place to begin reconstructing the precise nature of his position is with the letters that stemmed from his hand (EA 252–54). Labʾayu’s first letter to the Egyptian king (EA 252) opens with a description of the events that had recently transpired against him. According to his account, several of his contemporaries, all of whom had previously entered into an oath of peace with him, broke their commitment and seized one of his cities. In spite of the collective military force that was confronting him, Labʾayu successfully retaliated, apprehended his aggressors, and apparently rescued his city. In an attempt to defend these acts of retribution, he carefully crafted a rhetorical question set in the context of a proverbial statement: Moreover, like an ant is struck, it is not paralyzed, but it bites the hand of the man who struck it. So too, could I show deference 7 at that time, and a second city of mine be seized? 8

The final line of this passage clearly indicates that Labʾayu’s authority extended over multiple cities that were identified as his. Recalling the fact that Aziru was referred to as “the man of (the city) Amurru” (⸢LÚ⸣ uruamu-ur-ra; EA 162: 1) and that Amurru’s cities were identified as his (EA 151: 67; 161: 37) only after he was elevated to the place of ḫazannu/šarru, we see that this is the first indication that Labʾayu functioned as a ḫazannu in the Egyptian administration and was recognized as the šarru of a centralized land on the local level. A second clue in support of this conclusion is found in EA 253. There, Labʾayu tries to convince his Egyptian overlord that he is a loyal servant by appealing to his heritage, a tactic employed by other known ḫazannūti. 9 Though the text is damaged, Labʾayu prefaces his claim that he is neither a “rebel” nor “delinquent in duty” with the following proclamation: “I am a servant of the king like my father and my grandfather, a servant of the king from before.” 10 From this statement, we can gather that Labʾayu originated from a “royal” house. In addition to having au7. See Moran 1992: 306 n. 4. 8. ša-ni-tam ki-i na-am-lu tu-um-ḫa-ṣú la-a ti-ka-pí-lu ù ta-an-šu-ku qà-ti LÚ-lì ša yi-ma-ḫa-aš-ši ki-i a-na-ku i-ša-ḫa-tu ú-ma-an-nu-tú ù ṣa-ab-ta-at-mì 2 URU-ia (lines 16–22). 9. See, e.g., EA 55: 7–9; 118: 39–41; 253: 11–17; 317: 13–18. Contrast this with the statement of Aziru in EA 162: 8–9. 10. [a]-⸢mur⸣ [a]-⸢na-ku⸣ ÌR LUGAL-ri [ki-ma a]-⸢bi⸣-ia ù [a]-⸢bi⸣ a-⸢bi⸣-ia ÌR-du ⸢ša LUGAL-ri⸣ iš-tu ⸢pa-na-nu-um⸣ (lines 11–15).

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thority for at least two generations before Labʾayu rose to power, his predecessors were also under the thumb of the Egyptians during at least part of their tenures. 11 The final letter in Labʾayu’s dossier describes one of his responsibilities as a member of Egypt’s imperial administration. In yet another attempt to demonstrate his fidelity, Labʾayu announces, “I have not held back my tribute payments” (la-a a-kal-li GU.UNḫi.a-ia; 254: 14). We will recall that paying tribute to the Egyptians was an essential duty of the ḫazannūti 12 and is reflected in the activities of Aziru after he had been appointed to that position (EA 160: 14–19; 161: 54–56). The weight of the above evidence strongly suggests that Labʾayu was a ḫazannu in the service of the Egyptians and that his dominion extended beyond the boundaries of a single city, making him the leader of a centralized land. Having discussed his role, we can now turn to the question of where Labʾayu’s administrative center was located. Unfortunately, none of the cities that were under his authority is identified by name. As I indicated in the introduction, however, scholars generally associate Labʾayu with the “land of Shechem” based on the reference to both in EA 289. This view is compatible with the evidence from the above analysis. He did rule from a single city (such as Shechem/Tell Balâṭah), and his dominion extended beyond that city (such as the land of Shechem). However, EA 255 and 256 militate against this proposal. Both of these letters derive from the hand of Mut-Baʿlu. In the first, Mut-Baʿlu specifically refers to Labʾayu as his father (m[la]-⸢ab⸣-a-ia a-bi-ia; 11. The centrality of his heritage is underscored in EA 252, where Labʾayu reports that the city that was temporarily seized by his enemies housed his god (lines 12–13). According to Labʾayu, its seizure “despoiled” his father (line 30). On the basis of these reports, we may surmise that it was his ancestral house (see Moran 1992: 306 n. 1). Whether or not it was the base of his operations, however, is impossible to determine. K. van der Toorn (1996: 176) contends that it was not. Instead, he argues that Labʾayu made Shechem the capital of his kingdom, comparing him with Abimelech of the biblical texts (cf. Reviv 1966: 252–57). Of course, there is no evidence that Abimelech ever ruled from Shechem. In fact, Judges 9 indicates that the capital was Arumah/Tormah (vv. 31, 41; see chap. 10 below). Though the city was temporarily lost to his enemies, it is possible that in its absence he could operate with authority, and even regain the city when he defeated his foes. For example, after Rib-Addu had been exiled from Gubla, he continued to correspond with the Egyptian king, and even tried to return to Gubla in order to reestablish his position there (EA 162: 7–18). Compare this with the plight of Yašdata of Taḫnaka discussed below. 12. See, e.g., EA 53: 50–51; 77: 7–15; 99: 10–20; 143: 13–17; 148: 4–8; 151: 44–48; 160: 14–19; 161: 54–56; 168: 4–12; 173: 3–16; 187: 22–24; 222: 6–11; 224: 7–13; 235 + 327: 5–11; 242: 9–11; 254: 12–15; 266: 26–33; 268: 15–20; 287: 53–59; 288: 12, 16–22; 301: 12–23; 309: 18–24; 314: 17–22; 323: 13–16; 325: 20–22; 331: 18–2; 369: 15–23; cf. Adamthwaite 1992: 12.

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line 15), establishing a familial link between the two. 13 Our knowledge of Mut-Baʿlu is significantly expanded in EA 256. There, he refers to himself as “the king of Piḫilu (Pella)” (LUGAL urupí-ḫi-lì; line 8; see also lines 29–35). This self-identification raises serious questions about Labʾayu’s association with Shechem. A plain reading of this account indicates that Mut-Baʿlu replaced his father as the king of Piḫilu upon his death, an event that is recounted in EA 245 and EA 250. 14 The Kingdom of Piḫilu was a Transjordanian polity that, at best, bordered the northeastern extreme of the land of Shechem. Accordingly, it represented a separate political entity that was distinguished from Shechem (Naʾaman 1986: 469; Finkelstein 2013: 18). 15 Even if Shechem was a centralized land administered from Piḫilu, one would expect from the analysis in chap. 3 above that it would be called “the land of Piḫilu.” Finally, if Shechem was indeed “the strongest kingdom in central Palestine,” as Naʾaman contends (Naʾaman 2005c: 163), it seems strange that Mut-Baʿlu did not operate from that city, or at least refer to himself as either the king of (the city of) Shechem (*LUGAL uruša-ak-mi ki) or the king of (the land) Shechem (*LUGAL kur.uruša-ak-mi ki / *LUGAL kurša-ak-mi ki), especially if his father had held that position before him. It seems more likely, therefore, that Labʾayu and his family operated in and around the territory associated with Piḫilu (Adamthwaite 1992: 8–12). 13. Though the initial signs of this name are effaced, scholars agree that Labʾayu should be restored. See, e.g., Mercer 1939: 662–63; Campbell 1964: 97; 1965: 205–207; Albright 1975: 116; Moran 1992: 308; Rainey 1968: 8; 2015: 1035. With a hint of irony, Campbell observes that “it is hard to imagine that Mut-Baʿlu succeeded in exonerating himself by invoking his father’s sterling record!” (Campbell 1964: 206). However, Yapḫu of Garzu does the same thing when he invokes the name of his father, Milkilu, who also had a less than sterling record (see EA 300: 15, and compare with EA 286; 289; 290). Moreover, the rebellious nature of ʿAbdi-Aširta did not deter the king of Egypt from making Aziru a ḫazannu (see chap.  5 above). We must also remember that we have very little information about the Egyptian king’s concern and/or judgment regarding these matters. At times, one gets the impression that he cared very little about these local disputes, as long as they did not threaten his interests in the region. 14. According to Finkelstein (2013: 18), “EA 250: 35–38 seems to refer to the attempt of Labayu’s sons to take over Pihilu.” However, this passage is so fragmentary that Moran (1992: 304 n. 4) advises avoiding “even a very tentative version.” The pertinent lines read as follows: m⸢mil⸣-[ki]-⸢lì⸣ a-na [šu]-⸢ri⸣-ib 2 DUMU la-ab-a-ya [i]-⸢na urupí-lì⸣ a-⸢na⸣ ḫal-lí⸢iq⸣ (lines 36–37). While the loss (ḫal-lí-⸢iq⸣) of a city (URU) appears to be in view and the sons of Labʾayu are named (2 DUMU la-ab-a-ya), it is impossible to determine how the city was lost, why the city was lost, to whom the city was lost, and wether this “loss” was literal or figurative. In addition, identifying the city in view as Piḫilu requires amending the text to ⸢pí⸣-⟨ḫi⟩-⸢lì⸣. For an entirely different reconstruction that does not involve the proposed loss of Piḫilu or any other city, see Rainey 2015: 1018–19. 15. Compare this self-reference with those found in EA 70: 20; 88: 46; 92: 32–34; 109: 46; 139: 14–15; 140: 10–12; 147: 67; 148: 40–41; 197: 14–15, 41–42; 306: 24. See also Moran 1992: xxvii.

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There is a final piece of evidence that supports this conclusion. In EA 255, Mut-Baḫlu requests that the king entrust him with the protection of the caravan trade to Mittani (Ḫanigalbat) and Babylon (Karaduniyaš) just as the king had done with his father (lines 12–25). As Horowitz (1995: 217) has observed, “Caravans passing from Egypt proper or Egyptian possessions in Canaan would hardly have traveled to Hanigalbat and Karduniash via Shechem.” Rather, the King’s Highway, along which Piḫilu was situated, via an inland route through the neighboring Jezreel Valley would have been a more reasonable course (see chap. 1 above). Petrographic analysis of the letters from Labʾayu and Mut-Baʿlu has shed little light on the matter. Beginning with the letters of Mut-Baʿlu, the location of his kingship is supported by the composition of EA 256. This tablet was made of Taqiye shale, which is “widespread around the site of Pella” (Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman 2004: 260). It also included a large quartz crystal analyzed as having derived from a druze material that is found “in the sand of the streams near Pella” (Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman 2004: 261). EA 255, however, consisted of basaltic sand. Because the “closest source to Pella for basaltic sand is the Jordan riverbed, located about 5 km away,” Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman concluded that it “cannot be considered as local per se” and that it was “sent from a different place” (2004: 261). The results from the analysis of Labʾayu’s letters follow a similar pattern, making the results inconclusive at best. Both EA 252 and EA 254 contain dolomitic sand and marl, which Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman attribute to the Moza-ʿAmminadav petrographic group (2004: 263). An analysis of Intermediate–Middle Bronze Age pottery collected from the central hill country between the Jezreel Valley and Jerusalem determined that this group was found primarily in sites situated near Jerusalem. Early Bronze I remains of this group have been discovered in sites from the Beersheba Valley to Aphek, and Iron I remains are attested at Mizpah (Tell en-Naṣbet), Khirbet Raddana, and Shiloh. While no mention is made of the rich pottery assemblage from Tell Balâṭah itself or to the two cuneiform tablets dating to approximately 1400 BCE that were also discovered there (Albright 1942b), Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman do indicate that an outcrop of Moza clay is found at Jebel Kebir, which is located 5 km to the northeast of Shechem. They therefore conclude that these tablets “can be considered a product of the Shechemite territory” (2004: 264). However, if we follow their conclusion regarding EA 255, consistency demands that such a distance should not be considered local to Tell Balâṭah per se either, which suggests that this was not the site from which these letters were sent. The third tablet in Labʾayu’s dossier, EA 253, is composed of an altogether different material, a mixture of rendzina soil and some terra rossa.

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While these two soil types “are found in various locations in the Central Hill Country, and particularly near Tell Balâṭah,” they are also found in EA 259 and EA 64, respectively (Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman 2004: 264). EA 259 derived from Baʿlu-meḫer, who was headquartered at Tell Yokneam on the western flank of the Jezreel Valley (Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman 2002a: 202; 2002b: 230–31), and EA 64, which was sent by ʿAbdi-Aširta, has been analyzed as originating “from a location in the eastern flank of the Gath territory” in the land of Amurru (Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman 2004: 285). To isolate Shechem as the only potential source of this tablet, therefore, is unwarranted. Taking all of the evidence together, we may safely conclude that, while Labʾayu’s influence may have extended into the central hill country, a direct association with Tell Balâṭah is not supported. Rather, the data signal a strong association with Piḫilu. The inconclusive results of the petrographic analysis indicate that the conclusion of Goren, Finkelstein, and Naʾaman that “there is no doubt that Shechem was the capital of Labʾayu” is based more on the history of scholarship than on any direct evidence from their study. Nevertheless, final judgment on this matter should be delayed until the remaining evidence has been analyzed. Looking Outward: The Expansionist Interests of Labʾayu and His House Isolating the region into which Labʾayu and his sons tried to expand their influence will aid us in locating the core of their kingdom, because the two locales were probably contiguous with one another. Information regarding these interests stems from the letters of Egyptian vassals who specifically refer to the direct threat posed by Labʾayu and his sons against their own assets. These letters can be divided into two categories. The first includes those that mention Labʾayu alone, and the second includes those that refer to the sons of Labʾayu. A close evaluation of these documents indicates that Labʾayu and his sons were primarily interested in the Jezreel Valley. The first category of letters, which consists of only two, stems from the court of Biridiya, the ḫazzanu of Megiddo (EA 244, 245). 16 In EA 244, Biridiya informs the king that Labʾayu and his forces besieged Megiddo with the result that its inhabitants were prevented from leaving the city gate (lines 15–16) and harvesting the land (lines 13–14). 17 Allegedly, the im16. EA 237 also appears to mention Labʾayu in the context of war. However, the passage is too fragmentary to glean any decisive information from it. 17. Compare with the similar situation at Gubla (EA 81) and Ṣumur (EA 105; 116) when their inhabitants faced hostilities from the ʿapîrû, ʿAbdi-Aširta, and his sons.

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petus for Labʾayu’s aggression was his discovery that the Egyptian archers had left Megiddo and did not return (lines 8–10, 17–18). Labʾayu viewed this reduction in military support as an opportunity to take the city for himself (lines 27–29, 39–43). 18 In spite of this threat, EA 245 details what appears to have been a sharp turn of events in the region. Some time after Labʾayu’s aggression against Megiddo, a coalition of leaders, whom Biridiya refers to as “my brothers,” 19 joined with one another for the purpose of confronting Labʾayu. 20 According to Biridiya, he intended to deliver Labʾayu to Egypt to stand trial before the king if his coalition had the fortune of capturing him (lines 3–7). However, Biridiya was unable to arrive at the scene of the decisive battle before the other members of this coalition struck Labʾayu down (lines 13–14), putting an end to his aggression in this region. In addition to these important details, EA 245 makes reference to two other individuals who are relevant to this study. The first of these is Yašdata. Though Biridiya praises Yašdata for fighting with him against Labʾayu as a member of the anti-Labʾayu coalition (lines 15–18), he does not specify Yašdata’s place of origin. However, in EA 248, Yašdata informs the king that the Taḫnakites (⸢LÚmeš⸣ uruta-aḫ-[na]-⸢ka⸣), or the inhabitants of biblical Taanach, stole his belongings, slaughtered his oxen, and drove him away (lines 10–17). 21 As a result, he took refuge with Biridiya in Megiddo (lines 18–20). Reading EA 245 and 248 together, we may conclude with Naʾaman that Yašdata’s original seat of authority was Taḫnaka, another important city in the Jezreel Valley (Naʾaman 2005e: 238; 2005c: 164; 2005g: 210; see also chap. 3 above). The second individual named in EA 245 is Baʿlu-meḫer. Due to the paucity of information in this letter and the brevity of Baʿlu-meḫer’s own correspondence (EA 257–59), little is known about him. Nevertheless, petrographic analysis of his letters tentatively locates the base of his operations at Tell Yokneam. This important LB site was situated at the base of Mt.  Carmel overlooking the Jezreel Valley (Goren 2002a: 202; 2002b: 18. One is left to wonder whether these hostilities were in any way related to “hostilities of the ʿapîrû in the land” that Biridiya mentions in EA 243. 19. ŠEŠḫi.a-ia, line 2; See Moran 1992: 300 n. 7. 20. According to EA 237, after this coalition “captured Labʾayu,” they also captured several cities that the king of Egypt had charged the addressee to protect (lines 2, 5–8). 21. “Everything that the king my lord gave to his servant has been confiscated; the Taḫnakites set out and slaughtered my oxen and drove me away” (gáb-bi mi-im-mì ša yi-iddin LUGAL-⸢ru⸣ ⸢EN⸣-ia a-⸢na⸣ ÌR-[šu] ⸢nam⸣-šu-mi ⸢LÚmeš⸣ uruta-aḫ-[na]-⸢ka⸣ [u] na-akšu-mì GU4meš-ia ù du-ub-bu-ru-ni; see CAD N/1 221.

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230–31; 2004: 252; 284–85; Finkelstein 2013: 18). 22 EA 245 also makes it clear that Baʿlu-meḫer had entered into a political alliance with Labʾayu. In the second half this letter, Biridiya accuses Šurata, the leader of Acco, of returning Labʾayu, who was being held captive in Megiddo, to his “house” in exchange for his ransom, instead of sending him to the Egyptian king as Šurata had promised he would do (lines 24–36). 23 In the lines that follow, Biridiya also charges Šurata of releasing Baʿlu-meḫer (lines 41–45). In light of this connection, it is likely that Baʿlu-meḫer was in league with Labʾayu and that both were captured at some point by the anti-Labʾayu coalition (Rainey and Notley 2006: 84; Finkelstein 2013: 18). Again, this places Labʾayu and his closest companion in the region of the Jezreel Valley, presumably flanking it to its east and to its west. There are also two letters that directly refer to the military activities of the sons of Labʾayu. The first of these derives from Biridiya. In EA 246, he notifies the king that the “two sons of Labʾayu gave their silver to the ʿapîrû and to the Sutû in order to make war against me” (lines 5′–10′). 24 Based on this report, it appears that Labʾayu’s sons continued their father’s campaign against Megiddo with the aid of the ʿapîrû and the Sutû after his demise, much in the same way that the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta adopted the policies of their father after he was killed. 25 22. See, however, Rainey (2015: 1573), who raises the possibility “that tablets EA 257– 259 may have been written in the vicinity of Jatt, situated on the eastern edge of the Sharon Plain.” 23. On the basis of EA 266, Finkelstein (2013: 19) contends that Acco was part of the anti-Labʾayu/anti-Shechem coalition. However, this letter makes no mention of Labʾayu or his sons. The correspondent, Šuwardata, names Šurata and Endaruta of Akšapa as two of the rulers who came to his aid in his war against the ʿapîrû. Šurata’s release of Labʾayu for his ransom signals that Šurata was at best ambivalent toward Labʾayu. There is no indication that Šurata was involved in the war against Labʾayu; he may have retrieved him from Megiddo because he was sending an envoy to Egypt or was going himself. 24. ù a-nu-um-ma 2 DUMU⸢meš⸣ mla-ab-a-ya ti7-id-⸢din⸣-na KÙ.BABBARmeš-šu-ni a-na lú.mešSA.GAZ u a-na LÚmeš kur ⸢su⸣-[ti] [a]-⸢na⸣ i-pé-⸢eš⸣ [nu-kúr-ti] ⸢UGU⸣-ia. See Moran 1992: 300 n. 4; Rainey 2015: 1008–9, 1563. 25. Labʾayu’s sons also continued their father’s relationship with the ʿapîrû by enlisting their support in their assault on Megiddo. As I noted in the introduction, Labʾayu himself was accused by ʿAbdi-Ḫeba of “giving” to the ʿapîrû and may be associated with the hostilities of the ʿapîrû against Megiddo mentioned in EA 243. Even during his lifetime, Labʾayu recognized that at least one of his sons was “going around with the ʿapîrû” (ú-ul i15-de i-nu-ma mDUMU.MU-ia it-ti lú.mešSA.GAZ it-ta-na-laku; EA 254: 32–35). Though he informs the king that he “did not know” that, when, or where this was occurring, Fleming has argued that this does not imply that this relationship was inherently negative. We will recall that Biryawaza named the ʿapîrû as part of his military force in the context of announcing his loyalty and readiness to fight for his Egyptian overlord (EA 195: 24–32). Even Rib-Addu employed the aid of an

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The second letter comes from a certain Baʿlu-UR.SAG (EA 250). Though Rainey has proposed identifying him with the aforementioned Baʿlu-meḫer (Rainey 1989: 570–71; 2015: 1566–67; see also Rainey and Notley 2006: 83), petrographic analysis of EA 249, one of the two letters attributed to him, purportedly locates the base of his operation in the southern Jezreel Valley, probably in the city of Rehob (Goren et al. 2002: 202; see also Moran 1992: 310; Liverani 1998: 121–22; Finkelstein 2013: 19). At the very least, his account of the activities of Labʾayu’s sons in EA 250 supports the view that he was located in the same region as Biridiya, Yašdata, and Baʿlumeḫer. In the opening lines of the body of this letter, Baʿlu-UR.SAG claims that “the two sons of Labʾayu have made their purpose the loss of the land of the king, my lord, more than the loss their father caused.” 26 He goes on to corroborate this allegation by reporting the details of an interaction that transpired between them. During this exchange, the sons of Labʾayu listed six specific geographical locations. Five of them are the names of cities that Labʾayu had conquered. They include Gittipadalla (line 12), 27 Šunama (line 43), Burquna (line 43), Ḫarabu (line 44), and Ginti-rimûna (line 46). The sixth location is the land of Gina (kurgi-na; line 17), one of the multipolity decentralized lands we encountered in chap. 3. According to Baʿlu-UR. SAG, the sons of Labʾayu were demanding that he begin hostilities against the land of Gina because their father had been killed by its inhabitants (lines 17–18). Scholars agree that the five cities in this list were located in or around the Jezreel Valley, 28 which was referred to as the land of Gina during the ʿapîrû in order to get a tablet into Ṣumur (“13 silver and one pair of mantles I gave as the wage of the ʿapîrû when he brought the tablet into Ṣumur” [13 KÙ.BABBAR 1 tapal na-al-ba-ši na-ad-na-ti ag-ru-tú lúGAZ i-nu-ma šu-ib ṭup-pí a-na uruṣu-mu-ra; EA 112: 43–47]). Labʾayu’s claim that he did “not know,” therefore, is more appropriately understood in light of the nature and lifestyle of the ʿapîrû. In the words of Fleming, “[A]s addressed by Labʾayu, the ʿapiru are a coherent population with an established relationship to himself, yet whose movements cannot be managed by the ruler they acknowledge” because of their lack of affiliation or identification with a specific urban center (Fleming 2012: 261; see chap.  4 above). Nevertheless, these notices imply an ongoing relationship between the House of Labʾayu and the ʿapîrû. 26. 2 DUMU mla-ab-a-⸢ya⸣ pa-ni-šu-ni a-na ḫal-lí-iq KUR ⸢LUGAL⸣-ri EN-ia EGIRki ša ḫu-⸢lí-iq⸣ lúa-bu-šu-[ni] (lines 6–8). 27. Because of the apparent relationship between Baʿlu-UR.SAG, Baʿlu-meḫer, and Labʾayu, this notice decreases the likelihood that the capital of Baʿlu-UR.SAG and/or Baʿlumeḫer was located at Gittipadalla. 28. Šunama is commonly identified with biblical Shunem and Burquna with modern Burkin, a town that lies 4 km southwest of biblical Beth-haggan (modern Jennin). See Naʾaman (2005f: 210) for confirmation concerning the location of Ḫarabu and Gintirimûna in this region. There is a dispute as to whether Gittipadalla should be associated

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18th  Dynasty (Naʾaman 2005e: 238–39; see chap.  3 above). Taking these observations together, we can see that the cities listed in EA 250 were probably all associated with that land. This conclusion finds support in EA 250: 46–47 where, immediately after the sons of Labʾayu remind Baʿlu-UR.SAG that their father had conquered Ginti-rimûna, they affirm that he had “cultivated the fields of the king.” 29 As Naʾaman points out, the “mention of ‘the fields of the king’ is another reference for the Egyptian lands in the Jezreel Valley during the Amarna period.” 30 Accordingly, the mention of the fields of the king is also a reference to the land of Gina. Thus, it is likely that Labʾayu was able to appropriate part of this land for himself after gaining control of Gittipadalla, Šunama, Burquna, Ḫarabu, and Ginti-rimûna. Although his offensive extended as far as Megiddo on the southwestern edge of the Jezreel Valley, he was unable to take it before the inhabitants of the land of Gina put him to the sword (nu-kur-ta5 i-na LÚmeš kurgi-na UGU da-ku-mì lúa-ba-nu; EA 250: 17–18; see also lines 21–22). Though Labʾayu was killed in this confrontation, he was not fighting alone. In addition to being in league with Baʿlu-meḫer, he was, as suggested by EA 250, probably allied with Baʿlu-UR.SAG (contra Finkelstein and Naʾaman 2005: 178), who was located on the southeastern flank of the valley. This relationship is supported by the fact that he was in communication with the sons of Labʾayu. What is more, they threatened to become his enemies if he did not aid them in their attempt to avenge their father and regain the land that had been lost when he was killed (lines 18–19). 31 The implication is that they were not his enemies at the time of this exchange. Finally, Gittipadalla, a city listed among those that Labʾayu is said to have “taken” (leqû), was under the control of Baʿlu-UR.SAG during the time of his correspondence with the sons of Labʾayu. According to Baʿlu-UR.SAG, Labʾayu’s sons were angry with him for “giving” (nadānu) Gittipadalla to the king (lines 11–14). Exactly how Baʿlu-UR.SAG came into possession of this city is not entirely clear. Perhaps it represented his share of the booty or his reward for having participated in Labʾayu’s military coalition. Though with modern Jatt or not (see Albright 1946b: 25–26; Campbell 1965: 204). Naʾaman prefers to identify Gintikirmil with Jatt. Nevertheless, he keeps Gittipadalla in this region, identifying it as the primary kingdom in the plain of Sharon (2005a: 7). 29. ù yu-pa-at-ti \ ú-⸢gár⸣-ri LUGAL (line 47; see Moran 1992: 304 n. 8). Compare this claim with the way Biridiya denounces his fellow ḫazannūti for not helping him cultivate the land around Šunama in EA 365. One is left to wonder if Labʾayu’s taking of Šunama (EA 250: 43) and his cultivation of the king’s fields (EA 250: 46–47) were in response to this situation. 30. Naʾaman 2005e: 239. 31. This plan is alluded to in EA 246 and included the help of the ʿapîrû and the Sutû.

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it is likely that Baʿlu-UR.SAG was originally affiliated with Labʾayu, his decision to give Gittipadalla to the king and the tone of his letter indicate that he switched his allegiance sometime after Labʾayu’s death. 32 This is cunningly indicated in the way the Egyptian king is referred to in Baʿlu-URSAG’s reconstruction of the dialogue between him and the sons of Labʾayu. When spoken of by Baʿlu-UR-SAG, the king is called “my lord” (EN-ia; lines 20, 49–50). When spoken of by the sons of Labʾayu, he is called “your lord” (EN-ka; lines 13, 42, 47). 33 Together, the data indicate that Labʾayu and his sons were interested in extending their influence into the land of Gina, one of the decentralized multipolity lands of the Amarna period. Again, this location casts doubt on the conventional wisdom regarding the location of their domain. 34 Returning to my preliminary suggestion, the evidence outlined above indicates that the base of their operations was in and around Piḫilu, not Shechem. The economic value of the Jezreel Valley may have motivated Labʾayu and his sons to turn their gaze westward. In addition to providing them with a large tract of arable land, it would have given them greater control of the major trade routes in the area (see esp. Adamthwaite 1992: 12–16), a desire that Mut-Baʿlu makes explicit in EA 255. In this way, the family may have sought to expand their territory and/or create a centralized land out of a decentralized land, as Aziru did. Having an ally in Baʿlu-meḫer, who was located on the opposite side of the Jezreel Valley, would have been strategically beneficial in this endeavor. At the same time, the fact that Labʾayu was aligned with Baʿlu-meḫer and appears to have been in league with Baʿlu-UR.SAG suggests an alternative or secondary motivation. As with ʿAbdi-Aširta, he may have formed a coalition of leaders who sought the 32. Compare this with EA 101 and 114, which indicate that Ṣidon and Tyre were allies, and EA 149, where Abi-Milku of Tyre complains that the ḫazannu of Ṣidon had forged an alliance against him. Note also the cities that were originally loyal to ʿAbdi-Aširta but later resisted political alignment with his sons (see chap. 5 above). 33. Interestingly, their threat of becoming Baʿlu-UR.SAG’s enemy appears to have become a reality sometime later. In the Beth-Shean stele dating to the first year of Seti I, the king of Hammath and the people of Piḫilu are said to have seized Beth-Shean and besieged Rehob (Rowe 1930: 24–29; ANET 253; Aharoni 1967: 165; KRI I 12; E. F. Morris 2005: 350, 443–44; Murnane 1990: 42–45). It is unlikely that Mut-Baḫlu was behind this attack. However, if Labʾayu’s family did retain power in Piḫilu, we may understand this as a historical feud finally coming to fruition. 34. It also sheds light on the nature of their leadership. As with ʿAbdi-Aširta and his sons, the primary stage on which the drama of Labʾayu’s activities unfolded was a decentralized mātu. In addition, Labʾayu forged political alliances with several polities and populations in the land, including the ʿapîrû, before taking action against those who resisted his program.

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peace of the sons and daughters of the land by liberating it from local leaders who were loyal to the Egyptians. 35

Looking Beyond: The Dealings of Labʾayu and His House outside the Land of Gina The texts that I have analyzed up to this point are not the only ones that refer to Labʾayu and his sons. There are several letters from the leaders of polities to the south of the land of Gina and the land of Shechem that mention them as well. These references have led scholars to conclude that Labʾayu and his family also engaged in direct military action in southern Palestine. 36 However, a close analysis of these texts indicates that they were not involved in the conflicts reported therein. Instead of implicating Labʾayu and his sons, the authors of these letters appeal to these “infamous” figures to the north in order to establish a point of comparison meant to highlight the treachery of their local opponents. These observations will provide further evidence for the claim that the interests of Labʾayu and his family were limited to the region in and around the land of Gina, and will ultimately support the view that the land of Shechem did not serve as the base of Labʾayu’s operations. Comprehending these nuances and the nature of the conflicts that arose in southern Palestine requires a brief introduction to the characters that played a leading role in the region. I begin with Milkilu and those affiliated with him. Milkilu was the ḫazannu of Gazru (biblical Gezer). His father-in-law Tagi was the ruler of Gintikirmil. While a number of scholars have argued that this city was located south of Gazru, near Carmel in the Judean hill country (Aharoni 1967: 162 n. 106; Albright 1946b; Moran 1992: 389; Rainey 1968), petrographic analysis of three tablets sent by Tagi (EA 264–66) points to the modern city of Jatt in the Sharon Plain, southwest of the Jezreel Valley, as the base of his operations. 37 Upon his death, Milkilu 35. The continuation of this policy may be reflected in the aforementioned stele from Beth-Shean dated to the first year of Seti I, where the people of Piḫilu are said to be in league with the king of Hammath in their assault against Beth-Shean and Rehob (Rowe 1930: 24– 29; ANET 253; Aharoni 1967: 165; KRI I 12; E. F. Morris 2005: 350, 343–44; Murnane 1990: 42–45). In contrast to ʿAbdi-Aširta, however, there is no evidence that Labʾayu contacted the assemblies of the cities with which he aligned himself in order to convince them to kill their respective ḫazannūti and join the ʿapîrû. Regardless of the exact nature of Labʾayu’s intentions, as with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta, Labʾayu’s sons adopted many of his policies after his demise. In addition, the manner in which Labʾayu’s authority was transferred to his sons after his death is unclear. 36. See Campbell 1965: 201; Finkelstein and Naʾaman 2005. 37. See also Horowitz 1995: 214 and n. 11. This confirms Alt’s (1926: 48 n. 3) original identification. However, the final lines of EA 290 may argue against this conclusion. In lines

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was succeeded by his son Yapaḫu. Another local leader who allied himself with Milkilu was Šuwardata (see EA 297–300, 378). Though a precise identification of his domain is lacking, there are clues that suggest that he was the leader either of Gimtu (biblical Gath) or of Qiltu (biblical Keilah, which was situated northeast of biblical Lachish). 38 The primary adversary of Milkilu and his allies was ʿAbdi-Ḫeba, the ruler of the centralized land of Jerusalem (see EA 286: 36–37; 287: 29–31; 289: 5–14; 290: 5–11). Finally, there are two noteworthy letters attributed to an individual named NIN. UR.MAḪ.MEŠ (EA 273–274). Though the location from which she operated is never specified, the three cities to which she refers have been located in southern Palestine, 39 and her knowledge of the affairs of Milkilu and his family suggest that she too was stationed in the region. 5–13, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba informs the king that Milkilu and Šuwardarta ordered/rushed/assembled (mu-ḫi-ru/pu!-ḫi-ru/mu-ʾi-ru; see Moran 1992: 334 n.  2; Rainey 2015: 1597) troops from Gazru (uruga-az-ri ki), from Gimti (urugi-im-ti ki), and from Qiltu (uruqí-il-ti ki) and conquered the land of the city of Rubute. ʿAbdi-Ḫeba summarizes and concludes this letter with the following statement: “This deed against the land was at the order of Milkilu and at the order of Šuwardatu, together with Ginti (⸢urugin8-ti ki⸣).” Though Rainey (2015: 1125) translates this final geographical location as Gimtu/Gath, it is evident from the writing that it is not the same location that is referred to in line 9 (urugi-im-ti ki = Gimtu/Gath). Rather, it is more likely that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba is referring to the city of Ginti, a location that Naʾaman elsewhere equates with Gintikirmil, the capital of Tagi (see esp.  Naʾaman 2005d: 77). This reading is confirmed by EA 289: 11–13: “Such was the deed that Milkilu and Tagi did: they took Rubutu.” This interpretation clarifies the apparent confusion regarding Šuwardata’s capital and locates Gintikirmil in southern Palestine. It would make more sense for a southern Palestinian king to join his neighbors (Milkilu of Gazru, Šuwardata of Gimtu, and the men of Qiltu) in the regional dispute described in this letter rather than a king located in the Jezreel Valley. Naʾaman himself asserts that “[t]he close connection between Shuwardata and Milkilu of Gezer and their partnership in the capture of Rubutu points to their geographical proximity” (Naʾaman 2005d: 78). By locating Tagi in this region, Naʾaman would avoid the incompatible conclusion that “their third ally, Tagu, was apparently situated far to the north” (Naʾaman 2005f: 78). 38. This association is based primarily on EA 290. Since we know that Milkilu was the leader of Gazru, this indicates that Gimtu and Qiltu fell under Šuwardata’s authority. Moran prefers to locate him in Qiltu (see Moran 1992: 384). However, the activities of Šuwardata and the Qiltuites in EA 279 and 280 militate against this association. Thus, I prefer following Naʾaman, who locates the seat of Šuwardata’s authority at Gimtu/Gath (Naʾaman 2005a: 7). See Naʾaman 2005d: 77–78, however, where he asserts that Gimtu/Gath was not the capital of Šuwardata. 39. In EA 273, she informs the king that the ʿapîrû wrote to Ayyaluna, which has been identified with biblical Aijalon, and Ṣarḫa, which has been identified with biblical Zorah (lines 18–21; see Mercer 1939: 688; Moran 1992: 391). In EA 274, she tells the king that “Ṣapuma has been taken” (lines 15–16). Based on an analysis of the clay and the script, Naʾaman follows Knudtzon in locating this town “in the Shephelah region, not far from the kingdom of Gezer” (Naʾaman 2005d: 74 n. 20). Finally, in EA 273, NIN.UR.MAḪ.MEŠ reports that the two sons of Milkilu were nearly killed (lines 22–24).

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The letters from these individuals that are of particular concern are the letters that provide reports of the military activities that were threatening their cities and allude to the strained relationships among their peers. These letters total 15 in number. 40 Of these 15, 2 do not explicitly name the aggressor. Both of these are from Šuwardata. In EA 283: 18–20, he simply states that a coalition of 30 cities (30 URUḫá.meš) began hostilities against him. Similarly, in EA 284: 6–7, he merely informs his lord that all of the lands of the king have been taken and that he is alone. Of the remaining 13 letters, 6 make reference to the ʿapîrû as being the primary culprits for the upheaval in the region. Though the ʿapîrû may have been cooperating with other cities and/or leaders, they are the only ones specifically named as the aggressors. Two of these letters come from NIN.UR.MAḪ.MEŠ (EA 273: 8–14, 16–24; 274: 10–14), one from Milkilu (EA 271: 9–16), one from Šuwardata (EA 366: 11–19), one from Yapaḫu (EA 299: 17–26), and one from ʿAbdi-Ḫeba (EA 288: 36–38). The 7 remaining letters provide details regarding internal conflicts that have arisen among the local leaders and populations of southern Palestine. In EA 279, Šuwardata asks the king for support against the citizens of Qiltu because they rebelled against him (see also EA 280). In EA 286, ʿAbdiḪeba cites Milkilu (lines 36–37) along with the ʿapîrû (line 56) as those who are responsible for the devastation of the land. Later, in EA 290, he expands this list of enemies to include Šuwadarta (lines 5–6), Tagi (lines 26–28), and the ʿapîrû (lines 12–13). Finally, in EA 298, Yapaḫu accuses his younger brother of siding with the ʿapîrû (lines 20–27). Recalling that the ʿapîrû are the only named aggressors in 4 of the 6 aforementioned letters, we should note that among this group of texts all but EA 279 associate the antagonists with the ʿapîrû. This leaves us with only 3 letters from the original 15 that cite Labʾayu and/or his sons. If they did play a direct role in the hostilities of southern Palestine, this is a small percentage of references, particularly if those hostilities were meant to extend their authority into the region. This suggests that these references should be evaluated from an entirely different angle. As I indicated above, they appear, above all, to serve a paradigmatic function. Rather than being an actual description of their involvement in the affairs of southern Palestine, the letters name Labʾayu and his sons because 40. To this number could be added EA 300, a request for Egyptian archers that appears to come from Yapaḫu. However, due to the broken nature of this text, I have chosen not to add it to this list. In addition, EA 335 appears to refer to hostilities in this region. Nevertheless, it is too fragmentary to contribute any reliable information to this analysis. It is also important to note that none of the lines that can be read or reconstructed in these letters refers to Labʾayu or his sons.

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they have become paragons of infidelity. As such, they serve as models with which the senders of the letters can compare the rebellious activities of the local leaders who are actually being implicated. EA 289 is an excellent case in point. ʿAbdi-Ḫeba opens the body of this letter with the notice that “Milkilu is not departing from the sons of Labʾayu and from the sons of Arsawa with respect to desiring the land of the king for themselves.” 41 Read in isolation, these lines suggest that Milkilu, the sons of Labʾayu, and the sons of Arsawa were in league with one another against the Egyptian king. However, several observations militate against this reading. First, though this is the only reference to the sons of Arsawa in the entire Amarna corpus, a man with the same name, Arsawa, is mentioned in EA 62. There, ʿAbdi-Aširta informs the king of his heroic rescue of four men who were dwelling in the palace at Ṣumur as it was being attacked by the troops of Šeḫlal (see chap. 5 above). One of these men was Arsawa. If this is indeed the same Arsawa, it locates him somewhere in the land of Amurru, on a latitude close to that of Kadesh. Needless to say, this is a great distance from southern Palestine. It is difficult to comprehend how or why the sons of Arsawa would be involved in the affairs of southern Palestine and in league with Milkilu. The remaining observations come from the remarks that immediately follow the above-cited passage. In lines 9–10, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba asks the king why he does not bring him, referring to Milkilu alone, to account for his deeds, particularly since he is a ḫazannu. 42 It appears, therefore, that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba is here concerned with the specific actions of Milkilu alone, using the actions of individuals who are not counted as ḫazannūti (e.g., the sons of Labʾayu and the sons of Arsawa) to underscore the infidelity of the actions of one who is a ḫazannu. This reading is confirmed by ʿAbdi-Ḫeba’s account of Milkilu’s deeds, for which he should be punished. In lines 11–14, he informs the king that Milkilu and Tagi took Rubutu. The sons of Labʾayu and the sons of Arsawa are absent from any direct involvement in this hostility. Taking all of the evidence together, we can explain in a more compelling way that the reason ʿAbdi-Ḫeba referred to the sons of Arsawa and the sons of Labʾayu was that they were commonly known as dissenters throughout the region and that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba therefore compared Milkilu to them for the purpose of highlighting Milkilu’s rebellious nature—particularly as a ḫazannu—and bolstering his own (ʿAbdi-Ḫeba’s) fidelity in the eyes of the king. 41. a-mur mmil-ki-lim la-a i-pa-aṭ-[ṭa-ar] iš-tu DUMUmeš la-ab-a-ya ù [iš-tu] DUMUmeš ar-sà-wa a-na e-ri-⸢ši⸣ KUR LUGAL-ri a-na ša-šu-nu (lines 5–8). 42. “A ḫazannu who does a deed such as this, why does the king not punish him?” (lúḫa-zi-a-nu ša e-pa-aš ip-ša an-ni-wa am-mi-nim LUGAL-ri la-a ša-al-šu).

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This literary-diplomatic technique is used again by ʿAbdi-Ḫeba in EA 287. In lines 14–16, he informs the king that the land of Gazru (kur.⸢urugaz⸣-riki), the land of Ašqaluna (kur.uruaš-qa-lu-naki), and the city of Lachish (uru⸢la⸣-[ki]-⸢ši⸣ki) gave an unnamed enemy whom Naʾaman identifies with the ʿapîrû (Naʾaman 2010: 93), “food, oil, and all [their] needs.” 43 In the lines that follow, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba compares this act of treachery with the activities of Milkilu and the sons of Labʾayu: “Consider—this deed is the deed of Milkilu and the deed of the sons of Labʾayu, who gave the land of the king to the ʿapîrû.” 44 Again, the reference to Milkilu and the sons of Labʾayu in this context is used as a rhetorical device to emphasize the rebellious nature of the acts of the land of Garzu, the land of Ašqaluna, and the city of Lachish mentioned in the preceding lines. 45 The final letter in this group comes from the court of Šuwardata (EA 280). The body of this letter opens with an account of how ʿAbdi-Ḫeba sent silver to the Qiltuites in order to gain their support in his attempt to take one of Šuwardata’s cities (lines 16–24). Šuwardata goes on to claim that he had done nothing to incite such an act of violence (lines 25–29). After relieving himself of any culpability in the matter, he makes the following comparison: “Labʾayu, who used to take our cities, is dead, but another Labʾayu is ʿAbdi-Ḫeba, and he seizes our cities.” 46 Of all the aforementioned references, this citation comes the closest to implicating Labʾayu as one who participated in direct military action against the kings of southern Palestine. However, with the paucity of information regarding any specific action taken by Labʾayu along these lines and the paradigmatic reference to the sons of Labʾayu in the above two examples, it seems more appropriate to read this example with L. E. Toombs as a rhetorical comparison between Labʾayu and ʿAbdi-Ḫeba. Accordingly, the statement “our cities” 43. EA 246: rev. 5 supports the view that the act of giving goods to the ʿapîrû implies a polity’s allegiance with them. Concerning the ʿapîrû as the most likely recipient of these goods, see EA 286: 55–56; 287: 29–31; 288: 36–38, 43–44; 290: 12–13, all of which express ʿAbdi-Ḫeba’s concern regarding the ʿapîrû. 44. [a]-mur ip-ša an-ni-ú ip-ši mmil-ki-ili ù ip-ši DUMUmeš la-ab-a-ya ša na-ad-nu KUR LUGAL-ri ⟨a-na⟩ lú.mešḫa-pí-ri (lines 29–31). 45. It is likely that Gazru’s “giving” occurred because Yapḫu’s younger brother formed an alliance with the ʿapîrû (see EA 298: 20–27; 299: 17–19). Otherwise, according to the precedent set by the letters of ʿAbdi-Ḫeba that precede this one, it seems strange that ʿAbdiḪeba would not specifically name Milkilu as the assailant. Thus, the land of Gazru probably refers to the villages under the hegemony of Gazru rather than the city of Gazru itself, where Yapaḫu, an Egyptian loyalist, was stationed. If this reading is accepted, neither Labʾayu nor Milkilu had anything to do with this act of treachery. The reason that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba mentions them is to make a paradigmatic point. 46. ša-ni-tam mla-ab-a-yu BA.UG7 ša yi-il5-te-qú URU⸢ḫi.a⸣-ni-nu ù a-nu-ma mla-ab-ayu ⸢ša-nu⸣ mÌR-ḫe-ba [ù] yi-il5-te-⸢qú⸣ URUdidli.⸢ḫi.a⸣-nu (lines 30–35).

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refers to the cities of any of the faithful vassals of Egypt, including those that Labʾayu assaulted in the land of Gina. 47 An interesting geographical reversal of this phenomenon is found in EA 250, the letter from Baʿlu-UR.SAG evaluated above. Baʿlu-UR-SAG writes (I am following Moran’s tentative translation of lines 37–39), “In order to cause the loss, with the assistance of the two of them, the rest of the land of the king, my lord, over and above what Milkilu and Labʾayu caused to be lost.” 48 Though the immediate context of this passage is fragmentary, the preceding information suggests that “the two of them” refers to the sons of Labʾayu. Read in this way, the loss of land that an unnamed individual is trying to cause with the aid of the sons of Labʾayu is compared with the loss caused by Milkilu and Labʾayu. If this reading is correct, these lines contain a paradigmatic reference to both Milkilu and Labʾayu from a ruler who was stationed in the Jezreel Valley. To be sure, Labʾayu and his sons appear to have forged relationships with at least two of the aforementioned figures. A relationship with Milkilu is mentioned in two of the letters from Labʾayu. The first is EA 253. In response to charges of rebellion and delinquency from the Egyptian throne, Labʾayu asserts that his only sin was saying, “The king treats us kindly,” when he entered Gazru (lines 18–25). 49 On the basis of this statement, Labʾayu’s entrance into Gazru (ir-ru-ba-⸢ti⸣ i-na urugaz-ri ki) should be read as a diplomatic trip rather than an “entering” motivated by hostile intentions, as E. F. Campbell (1965: 194) seems to suggest. The second reference is in EA 254. Also in response to charges of duplicity, Labʾayu claims that, if he committed a crime, it was by entering into Gazru and saying, “Everything of mine the king takes, but where is what belongs to Milkilu?” (lines 24–27). Labʾayu then goes on to assert that he knows of the actions of Milkilu against him (lines 28–29). This final line suggests that, though Labʾayu and Milkilu were in correspondence, their relationship may have been strained. Alternatively, this may have been an attempt by Labʾayu to hide the fact that he and Milkilu were sharing intelligence regarding the movements and intentions of the Egyptians in the region. 50 According to EA 147, the Egyptians frowned upon such an act. There, in an apparent 47. According to Toombs, “Labʾayu’s name had become a by-word for perfidy in the region, so that when Shuwardata wished to insult Abdu-Heba and to arouse suspicion against him, he could think of no better way than to call him ‘another Labʾayu’ ” (Toombs 1979: 74). 48. Moran 1992: 303–4; see esp. p. 304 n. 4. 49. See Moran 1992: 306–7, esp. n. 2. 50. The author of EA 249 seems to express this concern in connection with Milkilu and Labʾayu. Following Rainey’s reconstruction (2015: 1014–15), the pertinent lines read, “So

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attempt to win the support of the crown against his enemy, ʿAbdi-Milku of Tyre accused Zimredda of daily writing “to the rebel Aziru, the son of ʿAbdi-Aširta, about every word he has heard from Egypt.” 51 In a second letter, ʿAbdi-Milku claimed that Aziru’s coalition took Ṣumur “by means of the instructions of Zimredda, who brought the word of the king to Aziru.” 52 In spite of the apparent risks involved, a similar relationship existed between Labʾayu and Tagi, as attested by a clay cylinder discovered at Beth-Shean: To Labʾayu, My lord speak. Message of Tagi. To the King (of Egypt), my lord: I have listened carefully to your missive 53

Unfortunately, the message breaks off at this point. Nevertheless, it has been interpreted as a missive fulfilling two purposes. The first relates to its size. As a cylinder, it could have been surreptitiously transmitted from its addressee to its intended recipient without detection. The second relates to its content. Assuming that it was a secret message, we can plausibly conjecture that Tagi was sharing information with Labʾayu that was originally (or: only) intended for his Egyptian overlord (Horowitz 1995; 1997; E.  F. Morris 2005: 226–27 n. 31). 54 In the same way, Milkilu, Tagi’s son-in-law, may have been transmitting intelligence to Labʾayu by means of his own messenger. In fact, there is evidence that this type of clandestine diplomatic correspondence did occur between Milkilu and the sons of Labʾayu. In EA 250, Baʿlu-UR.SAG reports that “the messenger of Milkilu does not move from may a word come back to me, O king, lest Milkilu hear, and Labʾayu” ([ù ti]-tu-ra-ni LUGAL a-wa-⸢tu⸣ [la-a yi-i]š-mé mmil-li-lu [ù mla-a]b-⸢a⸣-yu; lines 15–17; see also lines 25–30). 51. ša-ni-ta5 mzi-im-ri-da LÚ uruṣí-du-na iš-pu-ur i-na U4-mi u U4-mi-⸢ma⸣ ⸢lú⸣ar-ni ma-zi-ri DUMU  ÌR-daš-ra-tum aš-šum gáb-bi a-ma-ta ša iš-te-mi iš-tu  kurmi-iṣ-⸢ri⸣ (lines 5 66–69). 52. ù uruṣu-mu-ra ṣa-ab-tù-ni7 i-na uzupí ⸢m⸣zi-im-ri-da ša ú-ba-lum a-ma-ta5 LUGAL a-na ma-zi-ra (EA 149: 67–70). 53. a-na la-ab-a-⸢ya⸣ be-li-ia qí-bí-ma ⸢um-ma⸣ ta-gi a-na LUGAL EN-li-ia iš-te-me ša-pár-ka a-na; Horowitz 1995. 54. Tagi’s reference to Labʾayu as “my lord” is perplexing. It is difficult to understand how Labʾayu could be Tagi’s “overlord,” as W. Horowitz suggests (1995: 213). It should be noted that EA 263: 33–34 also make reference to Tagi and Labʾayu in the same context. However, the lines are too broken to make any sense of this apparent association.

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the two sons of Labʾayu.” 55 For Baʿlu-UR-SAG, the only explanation for Milkilu’s messenger being in the company of the sons of Labʾayu was that Milkilu was “trying to cause the loss of the land of the king” (lines 55–56). However, the exact role that Milkilu played in pursuing this goal in the region where Baʿlu-UR.SAG was located is uncertain. The fact that Milkilu is not mentioned as a direct instigator in any of the letters that describe the conflicts in the land of Gina suggests that Milkilu was not directly involved in the military maneuvers of Labʾayu and sons. 56 The relationship between the sons of Labʾayu and Milkilu referred to in EA 250 seems to have been limited to sharing intelligence and perhaps “moral support” in their common attempt to throw off the yoke of Egyptian imperialism, with an agreement that neither would interfere with the efforts of the other in their respective regions. 57 In the end, “causing the loss of the land of the king” appears to have been a general accusation levied against any leader who threatened Egyptian interests directly or indirectly. To summarize, of the 15 letters describing the conflicts in southern Palestine, only 3 refer to Labʾayu and/or his sons (EA 280, 287, 289). This relatively low number does not correspond to the image of a family who sought to extend their authority into the region through direct military action. Instead, after evaluating these references, we see that they apparently served a paradigmatic function. From the perspective of the various authors of these letters, the true villains were, on the one hand, Milkilu, who seems to have been the leader of a southern “axis of evil” that consisted of the ʿapîrû (EA 287), Šuwardata, and Tagi (see e.g., EA 289, 290), and on the other hand, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba. By contrast, Labʾayu formed his own political coalition with Baʿlu-meḫer (EA 245) and, perhaps for a time, Baʿlu-UR.SAG (EA 250) in the land of Gina. While Labʾayu and his sons were in contact 55. ⸢ù la⸣-a yi-nam-mu-šu lúDUMU ši-ip-⸢ri⸣ [ša] mmil-ki-lì iš-⸢tu4⸣ ⸢mu⸣-ḫi 2 DUMU la-ab-a-⸢yi⸣ (lines 53–54). 56. If the attribution of EA 249 to Baʿlu-UR.SAG is accepted, Rainey’s (2015: 1012–13) reconstruction of this highly damaged text indicates that there were tensions between the Baʿlu-UR.SAG and Milkilu revolving around Milkilu’s treatment of Baʿlu-UR.SAG’s men (lines 4–17; see also Moran 302; Rainey and Notley 2006: 83). However, the nature and extent of this dispute is difficult to determine. Informed by EA 289: 18–20, I think that Baʿlu-UR.SAG may be referring to the treatment of his men who are garrisoned elsewhere. Regardless, as EA 250 demonstrates, Baʿlu-UR.SAG was more concerned with the direct threat posed by Labʾayu’s sons. 57. On at least two occasions, vassal kings call upon their distant allies for support in times of trouble. In EA 366, Šuwardata indicates that he summoned Surata of Acco and Endaruta of Akšapa to fight with him against the ʿapîrû. Likewise, in EA 250, Baʿlu-UR. SAG suggests to the king that he compel Biryawaza of Damascus to march against the sons of Labʾayu.

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with their southern neighbors, there is no indication that they engaged militarily in cooperation with or against them. Nevertheless, many of them may have been pursuing the same goal of liberation. This association and the fame or infamy coupled with it enabled their enemies to use them as points of paradigmatic reference by which they could underscore the evil deeds of their actual assailants. 58 It seems, therefore, that Labʾayu’s involvement in the south was less extensive than originally imagined. Ultimately, this corresponds to the observation that Labʾayu and his sons were based in the region of Piḫilu and interested in the land of Gina.

Looking Again: A Reevaluation of EA 289: 21–24 In the preceding section, I evaluated the references to Labʾayu and his sons that appear in texts sent from locations outside the Jezreel Valley. There remains one final reference to Labʾayu from this group, however, that needs to be reconsidered in light of the above evidence. This, of course, is the critical passage from EA 289 introduced at the outset of this chapter. I postponed my reevaluation of this text for two reasons. First, the information presented regarding the background of Labʾayu and his sons, their expansionist interests, and the way they are depicted by their enemies will aid in determining what type of relationship—if any—existed between Labʾayu and the land of Shechem. Second, EA 289: 21–24 presents its own unique set of questions. As I indicated in the introduction, the phrase under discussion is commonly, though not universally, read in the following way: 21. ù lu ni-pu-uš-mi e-nu-ma Now, shall we do like 22. mla-ab-a-ya Labʾayu (who) gave/when he was giving 23. ù kurša-ak-mi i-din-nu ⟨⟨and⟩⟩ the land of Shechem lú.meš   k i ḫa-pí-ri to the ʿapîrû? 24. a-na There are four critical issues that must be addressed before we can reconsider the historical implications of this text: a.  The function of enūma in line 21. b.  The subject or subjects of the verb i-din-nu in line 23. c.  The function of ù in line 23. d.  The way that this passage is related to its larger context. 58. This motif of paradigmatic comparison is reminiscent of the references to Jeroboam I throughout the book of Kings as the comparative representative of a sinful leader, and the references to David as the comparative representative of a righteous leader.

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With regard to the first point of consideration, Moran has pointed out that the meaning of enūma in the letters from Jerusalem “probably developed from the lexical overlap of kīma and enūma as conjunctions, with the former’s prepositional meaning then extending to the latter” (Moran 1975: 166 n. 74; see also Rainey 1996a: 3.31). In addition to the passage at hand, Moran lists three examples in which enūma, regularly translated as the conjunction “when,” functions as the preposition “like”: (1) EA 288: 29, enūma ʿapiri, “like an ʿapîrû”; (2) EA 288: 33, enūma eleppi, “like a ship”; (3) EA 289: 16–17, enūma āl ʿazzati, “like the city of Gaza” (see also Moran 1992: 332 nn. 6, 7). 59 Though the influence of kīma on enūma is evident in these examples, the lexical nuance of the former did not completely displace the latter. There are several cases in the letters from Jerusalem in which enūma signifies “when.” For example, in EA 286, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba informs his overlord that “When the king, my lord, set a garrison (here), Enḫamu took it” (e-nu-ma ša-ka-an LUGAL EN-ia ⸢lú⸣.mešma-ṣar-ta la-qí-mi [gáb]-⸢ba-ša⸣ me-enḫa-mu ; lines 26–28). Similarly, in lines 48–49, he writes, “When the rābiṣū came out, I said to them, ‘Lost are the lands of the king’ ” (e-nu-ma it-taṣú-ú lú⸢MÁŠKIM⸣[meš] a-qa-bi ḫal-qa-at-mi KURḫi.a LUGAL-⸢ri⸣). Finally, in EA 289, just before ʿAbdi-Ḫeba makes reference to Labʾayu and the land of Shechem, he bids his king to “[c]onsider Milkilu and Tagi, this is the deed that they did when they took Rubutu” (a-mur mmil-ki-lim ù mta-gi ip-šu ša e-pu-šu an-ni-wa e-nu-ma la-qí-ši ururu-bu-⸢tá ki⸣; lines 11–13). 60 Taking into consideration these competing examples, we see that the function of enūma in EA 289: 21 is not as straightforward as one might immediately think (see Adamthwaite 1992: 5). The weight of the evidence suggests that enūma in this context can either function as the preposition “like” or the conjunction “when.” Judgment regarding this issue must, therefore, be delayed until the larger context of the passage is analyzed. With regard to the subject or subjects of i-din-nu in line 23, it could be read as a 3rd-person masculine-singular verb plus the subjunctive -u because the word enūma in line 21 marks the beginning of a subordinate clause. 61 As such, Labʾayu would be the sole subject of the verb and kuršaak-mi its object. This reading corresponds with the above translation: “like 59. To this list should be added EA 286: 47. 60. EA 286: 22 and 288: 55 represent other potential candidates. Rainey (1996a: 3.74– 89) lists several other functions of inūma/enūma within the Amarna texts, including the introduction of temporal clauses (“when/while”). In support of this nuance, he cites EA 137: 20–30; and 74: 39–41 (1996a: 3.75). Other examples that “border on the conditional” include EA 119: 21–23; and 149: 42–45 (1996a: 3.75–76). 61. Huehnergard 2005: 183.

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Labʾayu, who gave the land of Shechem to the ʿapîrû.” However, it leaves unexplained two important features of the text. The first is the lack of the relative marker ša, “who, which,” that one would expect to introduce the relative clause “who gave the land of Shechem to the ʿapîrû.” 62 The second is the function of ù in line 23. As Adamthwaite (1992: 6) points out, the consecutive use of ù normally introduces a new line of thought or functions as a conjunctive particle. Adamthwaite (1992: 4) and Rainey (2015: 1121) follow the former option, suggesting that line  21 is a direct quotation, 63 and line 23 introduces a separate thought that describes the actions of the speakers: (Milkilu and Tagi say), “So let us do like Labʾayu!” And they (Milkilu and Tagi) have given the land of Shechem to the ʿapîrû.

In this way, Adamthwaite accounts for the final -u on i-din-nu as the marker of a 3rd masculine-plural verb. Rendering line 21 as a quotation, however, seems to stretch the evidence and, as Adamthwaite himself puts it, “takes liberties with the text” (Adamthwaite 1992: 6). 64 Following Knudtzon, Garstang, and Mercer, one could read the ù as a conjunction as well. This would mean that both Labʾayu and the land of Shechem are the subjects of the 3rd masculine-plural verb i-din-nu “to give.” Such a reading not only explains the function of the ù in line 23 but solves a number of other problems associated with the generally accepted rendering of this passage. The first of these is why “either Labʾayu or his sons [would] give up any of the territory of their capital city to the Hapiru, [if] the former sought to build an empire based on the central hill country, an empire which his sons, who followed in his mould would in no way 62. Huehnergard 2005: 185–88; see also Adamthwaite 1992: 6. See the aforementioned EA 287: 29–31 and 289: 9–10, where the relative clause is introduced with ša: “Consider: this deed is the deed of Milkili and the deed of the sons of Labʾayu who gave the land of the king to the ʿapîrû” ([a]-mur ip-ša an-ni-ú ip-ši mmil-ki-ili ù ip-ši DUMUmeš la-ab-a-ya ša na-ad-nu KUR LUGAL-ri ⟨a-na⟩ lú.mešḫa-pí-ri; EA 287: 29–31); “A ḫazannu who does a deed such as this, why does the king not punish him?” (lúḫa-zi-a-nu ša e-pa-aš ip-⸢ša⸣ an-ni-wa am-mi-nim LUGAL-ri la-a ša-al-šu; EA 289: 9–10). See also EA 285: 23; 287: 6, 19; 288: 8; 289: 12, 30; 290: 5. 63. This is explained on the basis of the final -mi attached to the verb ni-pu-uš-mi, which can function as a marker of direct speech (see GAG para. 123c.; Huehnergard 2005: 136; Rainy 2015: 1595). 64. Take note especially of Adamthwaite’s suggestion that the kurša-ak-mi is not a reference to the land of Shechem but to “the land of the sycamore,” which he understands as a reference to the Shephelah (Adamthwaite 1992: 8–12).

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want to throw away” (Adamthwaite 1992: 7). Such an act runs contrary to the goals of any leader. If, however, the land of Shechem acted in concert with Labʾayu in giving to the ʿapîrû, then Shechem did not constitute that which was given. Following the discussion in Chapter 3, this option avoids the ideological problems surrounding the transfer of land between individuals and groups. While cities were the “political tender of kings,” lands were only granted to individuals by the gods (Fleming 2004: 120, 130–32, 173). Finally, this reading explains why the land of Shechem is written kuršaak-mi. Every time ʿAbdi-Ḫeba refers to a foreign centralized land, he follows the northern scribal tradition of affixing the determinative URU to the name of the administrative center of that land (see chap.  3 above). Thus, the centralized land of Gazru is written kur.urugaz-ri ki (EA 287: 14), the centralized land of Ašqaluna is written kur.uruaš-qa-lu-naki (EA 287: 14), the centralized land of Gintikirmil is written kur.urugín-ti-ki-ir-mi-il ki (EA 289: 18), and the centralized land of Rubutu is written kur.ururu-bu-teki (EA 290: 11). If Labʾayu was indeed the leader of a centralized land known as Shechem, one would expect it to be written *kur.uruša-ak-mi. The fact that Shechem is not preceded by the determinative URU signals that it was a multipolity decentralized land acting on its own accord rather than a centralized land under the authority of Labʾayu. A possible objection to this reading is that the verb nadānu (“to give”) does not take a direct object as one might expect. However, in the words of E. Cohen (2002: 804), “Transitivity in Akkadian means the capacity, rather than the requirement, to have an object.” In support of this contention, he cites the verb nadānum as a “natural double-object verb” which, at times, takes no object at all. 65 This phenomenon is attested in the Amarna archive. In his account of how he lost Gubla, Rib-Addu levies the following accusation against his brother: “Look: that man, the culprit, did a great deed, in order to give to Aziru. Then he took the treasures and drove me away.” 66 Similarly, in EA 101, Ḫaya is reported to have made the following claim: “If we do not give to the land of Amurru, then the Tyrians, the 65. See CAD N/1 42–52. For example, ana bēl napšāte i-du-nu-uš: “they hand over (the murderer) to the owner of the killed (slave)”; KAV 2 ii 17 (Ass. Code B §2; CAD N/1 47); niē ša ana PN iṣbatūni ana māt Elamti id-di-nu-u-ni: “the people who seized PN gave to the Elamites”; Iraq 34 22: 27 (NA letter; CAD N/1 47); see also the cases of nadānum “in elliptical use” in CAD N/1 4′/p. 50. 66. a-⸢mur⸣ LÚ-lu ar-nu a-⸢na⸣ na-⸢da⸣-⟨⟨na⟩⟩-⸢ni⸣ ⟨⟨a-na⟩⟩ a-na ma-zi-ri ⸢yi-pu-uš ip⸣-ša [GAL] ù la-qí ⟨NÍG⟩.GAmeš ù ⸢yu⸣-dab-⸢bi-ra⸣-[šu]-⸢ni⸣ (EA 138: 103–6; see Moran 1992: 224 n. 24, 25).

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Ṣidonians, and the Beirutites will bring.” 67 In this case, neither nadānu nor wabālu (“to bring”) take a direct object as one might expect. 68 It is important to note that both of these examples share critical features with EA 289: 21–24. In EA 138, the one who is giving (Rib-Addu’s brother) and the recipient of the giving (Aziru) are both enemies of the letter’s author. Similarly, Labʾayu, the land of Shechem, and the ʿapîrû are the enemies of ʿAbdi-Ḫeba. In addition, Rib-Addu is describing a situation in which he has recently been assaulted militarily. So also is ʿAbdi-Ḫeba. In EA 101, those who will “bring” [something] (wabālu; no direct object present in the text) to the land of Amurru are not specific individuals but the inhabitants of Tyre, Ṣidon, and Beirut. While the citizens of these cities were acting collectively on a local level, it is clear that Tyre, Ṣidon, and Beirut did not constitute a single polity entity. Moreover, there is no indication in this letter that these cities were a politically aligned polity, and there is no indication that a political alliance motivated their common decision to give. The same could be said for the land of (the city of) Gezer, the land of (the city of) Ašqaluna, and the city of Lachish, whom ʿAbdi-Ḫeba accused of giving food, oil, and other provisions to an unnamed recipient in EA 287: 14–16. Taking our cue from EA 101 and EA 287, the announcement in EA 289 actually underscores the distinction between Labʾayu and the land of Shechem. It therefore seems more appropriate to conclude from this single reference to Shechem that Labʾayu was not its king. At most, he participated in some sort of collective political action with the Shechemites, though even this level of affiliation is not clear. The giving that occurred may have consisted of material support, as in EA 287 and EA 101, or a financial payoff, such as when the sons of Labʾayu gave their silver to the ʿapîrû and the Sutû in EA 246. Alternatively, it could simply have been an elliptical way of informing the king that Labʾayu and the land of Shechem had politically aligned themselves with the ʿapîrû. 69 Throughout his letters, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba repeatedly describes the land of the 67. šum-ma la [na-ad-nu] ⸢ni⸣-nu a-na kura-mur-⸢ri⸣ [x x] ⸢tu⸣-ba-⸢lu⸣-na [LÚmeš] ù LÚmeš [uru]ṣi-du-na ù LÚmeš ⸢uru⸣be-ru-ta (lines 20–25; see Moran 1992: 174 n. 6; contra Rainey 2015: 1445). 68. See also EA 40: 21–23; 53: 50–51; 116: 34–35; 119: 50–51; 155: 1–13; 157: 37–41; 158: 10–13; 162: 4–5; 337: 13–16. Cf. EA 75: 25–29, where the transitive verb leqû, “to take,” does not take a direct object: “The ʿapîrû killed Aduna, the king of Irqata, but there is no one who has said anything to ʿAbdi-Aširta, so they go on taking” (ma-⸢du⸣-[na] [LUGAL] uruir-qa⸢ta⸣ i-du-ku-na [LÚ]meš ⸢GAZ⸣.[ZA]⸢meš⸣ [ù] ia-nu ša ⟨ya⟩-aq-⸢bi mi⸣-[im]-ma a-na mÌR-aši-ir-ta ù ti-ìl-⸢qú-na⸣; lines 25–29). 69. A longer, related formula is commonly used in the Amarna letters to express one’s fidelity and/or allegiance to an individual or entity. It consists of the verb nadānu in combination with the noun panû, “face,” resulting in the phrase “to give one’s face.” ⸢uru⸣ṣur-ri

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king being “lost” (ḫalāqu) 70 due to shifting political allegiances. 71 In fact, twice in EA 290, he mentions that the “land of the king” (KUR LUGAL-ri) “deserted” (paṭāru) to the ʿapîrû (lines 12–13, 22–24). 72 In either case, this reconstruction suits the context of EA 289: 21–24 well. Ultimately, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba is using this passage to highlight his fidelity to the king and the devastating events that transpired because of it. Marking the beginning of a new thought with the word amur, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba launches his account in line 18: 18. a-mur kur.urugín-ti-ki-ir-mi-il ki 19. a-na mta-gi ù LÚmeš uru⸢gín⸣-t ki 20. ma-ṣar-tú i-na É-sa-a-ni i-ba-aš-ši 21. ù lu ni-pu-uš-mi e-nu-ma 22. mla-ab-a-ya 23. ù kurša-ak-mi i-din-nu 24. a-na lú.mešḫa-pí-ri ki 25. mmil-ki-lim ⸢ša⸣-par a-na ta-⸢gi⸣ 26. ù DUMUmeš   lu-ú a-mi-la-tu-nu

Consider: The land of (the city) Gintikirmilu belongs to Tagi, and the people of Ginti are garrisoned in Beth-Shean. However, were we not the ones who took action when Labʾayu and the land/inhabitants of Shechem gave to the ʿapîrû? (As a result,) Milkilm wrote to Tagi and the sons: 73 “Be Men! 74

70. EA 286: 22–23, 49, 60, 63–64; 288: 24, 52–53, 55–56. 71. EA 286: 35–36; 289: 44. 72. On only two other occasions does he mention the fate of the lands of the king. In EA 286: 36–37, he claims that “Ili-milku has destroyed all of the lands of the king” (mi-limil-ku i-ḫal-li-iq gáb-bi KUR LUGAL-ri), while in line 56 of the same letter he indicates that “the ʿapîrû have plundered the lands of the king” (lú.mešḫa-pí-ru ḫa-bat gáb-bi KURḫi.a LUGAL). 73. Moran (1992: 333), Campbell (1965: 200), and Albright (ANET 489) all restore Labʾayu in line 16 in order to make the lines read “Milkilu has written Tagi and the sons of Labʾayu.” According to Campbell, “The scribe apparently left out the name by mistake. There is little doubt what it should be. Three lines later the scribe omits the preposition before Jerusalem” (Campbell 1965: 200 n. 15). However, it is also possible that the text is referring to Tagi’s sons, to the sons of Milkilu whom NIN.UR.MAḪ.MEŠ mentions in EA 273: 22–24, or to the sons of Arsawa (see EA 289: 5–8; Rainey 2015: 1120–21). With regard to the missing “preposition before Jerusalem,” Moran (1992: 333 n. 4) indicates that a preposition is not necessary in this context. 74. For various readings of this phrase, see Moran 1992: 333 n. 3.

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Give all of the demands to the Qiltuites and let us isolate Jerusalem”

The opening lines of this passage serve as a reminder that the inhabitants of Gintikirmil—here referred to as Ginti, 75 a polity that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba indicates fell under the authority of Tagi—were stationed in Beth-Shean as a military garrison. Thus, Tagi had a presence in both the Sharon at Ginti/Gintikirmil and in the Jezreel Valley. 76 In spite of their proximity to Labʾayu, whose seat of authority was directly across the Jordan and who was engaging in military activities against the land of Gina, it was ʿAbdi-Ḫeba, his brothers (EA 288: 57–61), and/or his supporters who took action when Labʾayu and the land of Shechem conspired with the ʿapîrû. The implications of Tagi’s inactivity in spite of his geographical proximity are twofold. On the one hand, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba is accusing Tagi of passively supporting Labʾayu and the land of Shechem in their act of sedition. The affiliation between Tagi and Labʾayu is confirmed by the broken text discovered in the very location where Tagi’s people were garrisoned, suggesting that Tagi was also there. 77 On the other hand, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba is trying to demonstrate that he is the paragon of fidelity in the region. It was he who went to great lengths to suppress rebellion in the land. This was an important measure in light of Šuwardata’s accusation that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba was “the new Labʾayu” (EA 279: 30–35). As the passage unfolds, however, we learn that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba’s active fidelity caused him more harm than good. Ready to capitalize on the vulnerability of his neighbor, Milkilu regarded ʿAbdi-Ḫeba’s choice to act as the perfect opportunity to isolate him. With ʿAbdi-Ḫeba occupied in the north, Milkilu, who was stationed in Gazru, and the people of Qiltu could attack Jerusalem from his eastern and southern flanks. This strategy of joint military action closely resembles the activities of the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta and their affiliates. In EA 104, Rib-Addu reports that the Ampiites, Šigatites, Ullassites, and Arwadites were threatening him by sea while the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta made their presence felt by land (lines 40–48). 78 This strategy appears to have succeeded. In EA 288, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba likens himself to a ship 75. Naʾaman equates Ginti with Gintikirmil, the capital of Tagi (see esp. Naʾaman 2005d: 77). 76. See E. F. Morris 2005: passim. 77. Compare this scenario with Horowitz’s (1995: 213–217) explanation of how it found its way to Beth-Shean. 78. Compare with EA 105, where Rib-Addu likens the Ṣumurites to a bird in a trap because the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta are pressing against the city from the land while the Arwad­ ites are confronting it from the sea. In both cases, the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta are identified

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isolated in the heart of a violent sea 79 because he is facing hostilities “from the lands of Šeru as far as Gintikirmil.” 80 In terms of its larger sociopolitical context, this reading corresponds to the numerous examples of multipolity decentralized lands taking collective political action—even in the form of “giving”—in the Amarna archive. This policy is also reflected in the collective governing bodies of cities acting in concert with individual leaders who were not originally associated with those cities. It was the Ammiyites who killed their ḫazannu and aligned themselves with the ʿapîrû at the bidding of ʿAbdi-Aširta (EA 73: 26–29; 74: 24–26; 75: 32–34). Elsewhere, the Arwadites are accused of exchanging oaths with Zimredda of Ṣidon and Aziru and preparing their ships, chariots, and soldiers in order to engage in collective military action against Tyre (EA 149: 57–63). Finally, the Ampiites, Šigatites, Ullassites, and Arwardites took corporate political action with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta in their assault on Gubla (EA 104: 40–48). In the same way, if there was a relationship between Labʾayu and the land of Shechem, it was manifest in collective political action, not in the authority of the former over the latter. In order to comprehend better Shechem’s collective political heritage and the nature of the potential relationship between it and Labʾayu, we must turn to a broad historical analysis of Tell Balâṭah and the land of Shechem. with a terrestrial force, suggesting that their primary base of power came from the inland regions of Amurru. 79. “I am set like a ship in the heart of the sea” (ša-ak-na-ti e-nu-ma GIŠ.MÁ i-na lìb-bi A.AB.BA; lines 32–33). 80. “Enemies are against me from the lands of Šeru as far as Gintikirmil” (nu-kúr-tú a-na ia-a-ši a-di KURḫi.a še-e-ri ki a-di urugin8-ti-ki-ir-⸢mi-il⸣; lines 25–26).

Chapter 7

The Land of Shechem in the longue durée Introduction Though EA 289 is the only written record mentioning the land of Shechem to survive the LB, the action described therein was certainly not an isolated event. The decision to “give to the ʿapîrû” emerged out of a long and complex history. In order to comprehend the systemic structures that influenced this action, one must take a longue durée approach to the land of Shechem. Unfortunately, only two other documents dating to the second millennium refer to Shechem. Both of them are MB Egyptian texts, and are as brief and enigmatic as the reference in EA 289. Fortunately, Tell Balâṭah and the countryside surrounding it have produced a rich archaeological assemblage dating from the Middle Bronze IIA (ca. 2000–1750 BCE; MB IIA) to the Iron I (ca. 1200–1000/925 BCE). When this record is analyzed in tandem with the textual evidence, the distinctive contours of Shechem begin to emerge. In spite of several significant historical changes that occurred during this period, the data betray a strong continuity of tradition that ultimately supports the view that the land of Shechem was taking corporate political action as a multipolity decentralized land in its choice to give to the ʿapîrû. Before evaluating the evidence, I should highlight the inherent distinction between Tell Balâṭah, the urban center that has been identified as Shechem, and the “land of Shechem” referred to in EA 289. According to the working definition set forth in chap. 3, the latter designation refers to a region that is defined by populations who inhabited the central hill country both in and around Tell Balâṭah. Though Tell Balâṭah may have been in view, EA 289 offers no evidence that the land of Shechem was entirely defined by it. The fact that the name Shechem is identified with a settled center in the Bible has contributed to the tendency to conflate or confuse these two entities. This can lead to difficulties when one tries to reconstruct the history of the region in general. For instance, it can result in the imposition of a particular political framework on the entire “land” due to the perceived “centrality” of Tell Balâṭah. This, in turn, may contribute to 210

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a reductionistic view of what that entity represented throughout the second millennium. These problems are exacerbated if one isolates a single archaeological period and views it as characteristic of the entire history of Tell Balâṭah and the land in which it was located. It is also important to keep in mind that it is not entirely clear which of these entities derived its name from the other. The Bronze Age evidence does not make this clear, because the city that bears this name only appears in the Bible. Did the biblical city of Shechem adopt its name from the region because of its prominence therein, or did the land become known as Shechem due to its affiliation with the city? One cannot immediately assume a particular direction of dependence in this regard. As was observed in chap. 5, the city known as “Amurru” (urua-mu-ur-ra; EA 162: 1) is not attested until the “land of Amurru” was consolidated as a centralized land under the leadership of Aziru. Thus, the mulitipolity decentralized land of Amurru preceded and lent its name to Aziru’s capital. A. Ben-Tor (2006) highlights the significance of these seemingly subtle nuances in his analysis of geographical names attested in the Egyptian execration texts and their relationship to the archaeological sites with which they have been identified. Two sets of execration texts are particularly important in this regard. The first, which was published by K.  Sethe in 1926 and is currently housed in Berlin (hereafter referred to as the Berlin Group), is the oldest, corresponding to the 12th Dynasty of Egypt (ca. 1973–1759 BCE). The second, published by G. Posener in 1940 and housed in Brussels (hereafter referred to as the Brussels Group), is dated to the beginning of the 13th Dynasty (ca. 1759–1641 BCE). It is now generally agreed that the time frame separating these texts is no more than a generation. Both are dated to the latter half of the MB IIA (ca. 1850–1750 BCE; Ben-Tor 2006: 65; Redford 1992: 87–88), which corresponds to the end of the Middle Kingdom. 1 They contain the names of foreign locations and leaders written in hieratic on bowls and bound figurines. After being inscribed, they were broken or burned and deposited near tombs and ritual sites. Their purpose is usually attributed to sympathetic magic, where the actions taken against the objects were thought to translate to the actual entities listed on them (Pinch 1994: 93–94). For some time, the geographical names have been used to help reconstruct the MB political landscape of the southern Levant. However, as BenTor points out, they should not invariably be taken as the urban centers of 1. As Ben-Tor points out, this identification is important because the MB IIB period corresponds to the Second Intermediate Period, a time during which the “nature of Egyptian relations with Syria–Palestine underwent a drastic change” (Ben-Tor 2006: 65; see also n. 5).

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large centralized lands, as is commonly assumed. A classic example is the reference to Gubla in the Brussels Group. While a rich MB IIA archaeological assemblage has been discovered there, the execration texts do not identify it with an individual leader but with a clan: “the clan of Gubla” (wḥyt nt kbn, E 63; see Rainey and Notley 2006: 58). This suggests that Gubla was characterized by a corporate political identity during this period rather than a highly centralized one. As I demonstrated in chap. 2, the Amarna letters indicate that this tradition continued to impact the political scene at Gubla during the LB. Similarly, in her study of the city of Jerusalem and its relationship to the “Jerusalem” (rwšꜢmm) of the execration texts, M.  Steiner concluded that the word “need not specify a town—it could as easily indicate a region or a tribe” (Steiner 2001: 23). In other words, the city of Jerusalem may have derived its name from the tribal constituents that originally populated the region or from the name of the region itself. Steiner bases her conclusions on the fact that the only archaeological remains from Jerusalem that can be dated to the MB IIA consist of a single tomb (Prag 1991). In addition, there are only a few fragments of pottery that may be assigned to the transition between the MB IIA and IIB periods (Shiloh 1984: 12; Steiner 2001: 23; Ben-Tor 2006: 68–70). Further support for her conclusion is found in the fact that two rulers of Jerusalem (rwšꜢmm) are named in the Berlin text, 2 par­alleling the multiple rulers that it associates with Iy-ʿanaq and the Sutû, and the multiple kings of Amurru mentioned in A.2760 (see A.  Mazar 2007c: 125; chap. 5 above). Taking these observations into consideration, Ben-Tor concludes that “the Jerusalem of the Execration Texts certainly does not merit being described by such terms as a ‘fortified city-state,’ ‘site of importance,’ ‘flourishing site,’ or ‘major site’—terms that were awarded to the city by scholars such as B. Mazar (1968: 75), Aharoni (1967: 133), Maeir (2000: 49), Malamat (2000: 16), and others.” 3 Based on these insights, we may reasonably conclude that understanding the land of Shechem during the second millennium requires a detailed analysis of the archaeological evidence from Tell Balâṭah. This evidence will help clarify the difficult textual references to the land of Shechem and will ultimately contribute to a sound reconstruction of its sociopolitical history. With this end in view, I will open this study with a systematic presentation of the pertinent archaeological data, organizing them according to three historical periods, each of which attests to significant transitions 2. Their names are IyqꜢ ʿmw and Sṯʿnw; see Sethe 1928: 58. 3. Ben-Tor (2006: 70) goes on to point out that this led Mallon (1928: 4–5) and, more recently, Naʾaman (1992: 287–89) to question the identification of rwšꜢmm with Jerusalem.

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in Tell Balâṭah’s history. These periods include the MB IIA (ca. 1900–1750 BCE), the MB IIB to the MB IIC (ca. 1750–1550 BCE), and the LB to the Iron I (ca. 1550–1000/925 BCE). During this process, I will evaluate the textual references to Shechem according to the periods from which they stem. It is only after this presentation that I will provide a more comprehensive analysis of the data. To be sure, the initial survey will entail considerable detail. However, a longue durée approach toward Tell Balâṭah and the land of Shechem will prevent narrow characterizations of these entities that are rooted in a single archaeological period and a presumed political structure. In addition, it will provide a clearer depiction of the nuanced transformations that occurred within each period over time and the points of continuity that linked them.

Tell Balâṭah: The Textual and Archaeological Evidence Middle Bronze IIA Tell Balâṭah (ca. 1900–1750 BCE) Evidence for human activity at Tell Balâṭah is attested as early as the fourth millennium BCE (Campbell 2002: 11–17). 4 However, from approximately 3200 to 1900 BCE, nearly halfway into the MB IIA period (ca. 2000–1750 BCE), the site lay unoccupied. Human activity resumed in strata XXII (ca. 1900–1800 BCE) and XXI (ca. 1800–1750 BCE), reflecting the only evidence for occupation at the site during the MB IIA period. Of the 12 fields excavated, only 2 (Fields VI and IX) contain the scant remains of MB IIA activity (Campbell 2002: 17–26). They produced segments of poorly preserved walls, drainage channels, a silo (130) containing animal bones, an infant burial located under the floor of one of the two rooms that have been interpreted as a domestic structure, and two installations (968 and 977). Campbell attributes the installations located in Field VI to the first two phases of the sacred precinct or temenos that later dominated the site (Campbell 1963: 5–26; 2002: 9). 5 Perhaps the most historically significant aspect of this phase of its history, however, is not the finds themselves but the fact that they predate the construction of Wall D, the first example of any fortification at the site. Located in stratum XX, this wall is dated to 4. Campbell (2002: 11–17) isolates Field IX, Field V, and Field VI as the areas of Chalcolithic and EB I activity. 5. However, Campbell (2002: 23) goes on to say that the associated “artifacts do not suggest sacrificial, but rather domestic use; and domestic housing was constructed on top of both 968 and 977 within the period.” Nevertheless, as Porter points out, distinguishing between domestic structures and temples can be a dicey matter. “The house of the ancestor is the place where family commemorates its past, even if at the same time the house houses a house society” (Porter 2012: 189–90).

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the MB IIB (ca. 1750–1725). Campbell therefore concludes that the MB IIA settlement was unfortified (2002: 26; see also 2002: 23, 25; 1993: 1347–49). These discoveries have significant implications for the two textual references to Shechem that correspond to this period. The first of these is the Khu-Sebek stele, which is dated to the second half of the 19th century. It records the military achievements of Khu-Sebek, who served as a general in the army of Senwosret III (ca. 1836–1817 BCE). The historical inscription opens with a brief description of Egypt’s exploits in the Levant. The first two lines twice refer to the entity skmm, which has overwhelmingly been identified with šakmi of EA 289, and šĕkem of the Bible (see, e.g., Albright 1941: 18 n. 11; Aharoni 1967: 134; J. A. Wilson 1969: 230): 1. 2.

wḏꜢ ḥm.f mḥty r sḫrt mnṯw sṯt spr ḥm.f spꜢt skmm rn.s rdj ḥm.f tp nfr m wḏꜢ r ẖnw n ʿnḫ(w)-(w)ḏꜢ (w)-s(nbw) ʿḥʿḥn skmm ḫr.s ḥnʿ rṯnw ẖst

His Incarnation set out northward in order to overthrow the   nomads of Asia. His Incarnation reached a district; Shechem was its name. His Incarnation made a good beginning by proceeding to “The Abode of Life, Prosperity, and Health.” Then Shechem fell together with the vile Retjnu. 6 The text goes on to describe how, while acting as the rear-guard of the army, Khu-Sebek courageously fought against the “Asiatics” (ʿꜢmw; line 3). According to his account, at no point did he turn back before an Asiatic (ʿꜢm; line 4), and at one point he even struck one down. In spite of the archaeological remains from this period, this brief description of a battle with “Shechem” (skmm) led A. Kempinski to conclude that “the city must have been fortified at least by the time of Senusret III” (Kempinski 1992a: 172, emphasis added; see also 1983: 118). Here, Kempinski explicitly betrays his belief that skmm of the Khu-Sebek text should be identified with Tell Balâṭah. By contrast, as with the aforementioned association of rwšꜢmm with Jerusalem, Ben-Tor is skeptical of this identification. According to his own analysis, “MB IIA Tell Balâṭah . . . was a poor site, sparsely occupied, and could hardly have been the target of an Egyptian military campaign” (Ben-Tor 2006: 72; see also Helms 1989: 159). This skepticism is well founded if one limits the identification of skmm to Tell Balâṭah as Kempinski does. The archaeological remains contemporary with the stele certainly do not correspond to what B. Mazar referred 6. Photograph and line drawing in Peet 1914: pls. 1 and 2. See also Baines 1987.

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to as the capital of a “territorial and political entity in the middle of the Cisjordanian mountains” (B. Mazar 1947: 46–47). In addition, Campbell makes no mention of destruction debris discovered between strata XXII and XXI (ca. 1900–1750 BCE) and specifically indicates that “no destruction debris separated” strata XXI and XX (1750–1700 BCE; Campbell 2002: 33). If, however, the Egyptians were referring to something other than or in addition to Tell Balâṭah, this skepticism may be misplaced. A close reading of the lines that contain skmm indicates that the Egyptians used this designation to refer to the larger region in which Tell Balâṭah was probably located and not to Tell Balâṭah in particular. A number of scholars have observed that skmm is defined by the Egyptian determinative for a “foreign land” (N25). This has been used to suggest that the extent of skmm was not limited to a single city. However, the Egyptians traditionally did not use the determinative for a town or settlement (O49) with reference to foreign cities. 7 The foreign land determinative, therefore, may not be entirely indicative of a “land” as such. However, skmm is preceded by the word spꜢt, which is commonly rendered “region,” “district,” or “nome.” Falling outside Egypt itself, skmm would not have been characterized by the Egyptians as a “nome” (Hanning 2006: 2176–78), a term used for the political districts of Egypt proper. In more general terms, spꜢt is used to designate a “region” that consisted of multiple cities. It is, therefore, difficult to read in this text an explicit reference to Tell Balâṭah itself. There is another piece of evidence that comports with this conclusion. As Finkelstein (1994: 173) has pointed out, the “reference to the ‘land’ of Shechem” is set “parallel to Retenu.” He interprets this as an indication “that it was the center of a large territorial entity” (see also B. Mazar 1986: 9 n. 21). It is difficult to determine exactly what Finkelstein means by the phrase “large territorial entity.” If he is envisioning the city of “Shechem” as the center of a centralized land, the archaeological evidence from Tell Balâṭah argues against this. In any case, by calling “it . . . the center,” he is evidently reading skmm as a reference to Tell Balâṭah itself. Nevertheless, the importance of Finkelstein’s primary observation should not be overlooked. For the Egyptians, Retjnu, which also takes the “foreign land” determinative in the Khu-Sebek stele, was most often used as a reference to Syria–Palestine in general. While its borders shifted over time and, according to the perspective of the one employing the term, it generally extended 7. Compare with the reference to the domestic city in line 6, which does take the city determinative. None of the entities listed in the Brussels Group takes the O49 determinative (see Posener 1940: 64–96). During the New Kingdom, the Egyptians employed the term dmj + GN to specify “the city of GN” (Spalinger 2008: 152). However, it is important not to conflate this practice with Middle Kingdom scribal practices.

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from the Negev in the south to the Orontes River in the north. As such, it consisted of multiple, independent political units and a variety of populations attested in the execration texts and in the Amarna letters. A more appropriate reading of this parallel, then, is to see the land of Shechem as a subset of Retjnu or its eastern hill country counterpart, itself consisting of multiple polities and people groups, which, in this case, are referred to as both the “nomads of Asia” (mnṯw sṯt; line 1) and the “Asiatics” (ʿꜢmw; lines 3–4). Consequently, skmm should not be read as a reference to Tell Balâṭah but to the entire hill country in which Tell Balâṭah was situated. Furthermore, Tell Balâṭah should not be viewed as the administrative center of a centralized land known as the land of Shechem. The second MB IIA reference to Shechem (skmjmj) is found in the Brussels Group of execration texts. Following the style of this genre, line 20 of figurine no. 1 refers to “the leader of Shechem, Jbs-Hddw” (ḥqꜢ n skmjmj jbs-hddw). 8 It is difficult to determine what, if anything, this brief passage contributes to understanding the referent of the term skmm and its sociopolitical structure. The text does name a single individual as its “leader”(ḥqꜢ). Moreover, the designation ḥqꜢ is different from the term wr, “great one,” which is used twice to refer to the leader of the “tribes of Kwšw” in E 50 and 51 (wr n wḥytw nt kwšw). This distinction may indicate that the term wr implied a tribal affiliation, while the term ḥqꜢ was used for urban-centered rulers. However, such a distinction is not entirely clear. In “The Tale of Sinuhe,” also dated to the end of the Middle Kingdom, Amunnenshi, the ruler of upper Retjnu (ʿmw-nnši ḥqꜢ pw n rtnw ḥrt; Berlin 3022: 30–31) bestows his favor upon Sinuhe, not by giving him a city from which he could rule, but by making him “a leader of a tribe in the best of his hill-country” (rdj.n.f wj m ḥqꜢ wḥyt m stpw n ḫꜢst.f; Berlin 3022: 86–87). Here, leadership defined by the term ḥqꜢ is identified with authority over a “tribal” (wḥyt) constituency located in the “hill-country” (ḫꜢst) rather than the population of an urban center. With regard to the identification of Jbs-Hddw as the leader of Shechem, it is important to note that Sinuhe is depicted as one among several rulers (ḥqꜢw) who took corporate political action in the region. In the midst of his account of his life as a tribal leader, Sinuhe makes the following claim: “When the Asiatics conspired to engage in hostilities and to oppose the rulers of the hill-countries, I opposed their movements for this ruler of Retjnu made that I spend numerous years as commander of his army.” 9 From the Egyptian point of view, leadership in the Levant was a complex 8. E 6; Posener 1940: 68. 9. styw wꜢ r štm r ḫsf ḥqꜢw ḫꜢswt ḏꜢj.n.j šmwt.sn ḥqꜢ pn n rtnw dj.f jry.j rnpwt ʿšꜢ m ṯsw n mšʿ.f (Berlin 3022: 97–101).

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matter. It is therefore impossible to determine whether Jbs-Hddw was the only ḥqꜢ who operated within skmm. As was the case with the multiple leaders associated with Jerusalem, Iy-ʿanaq, and the Suteans in the Berlin Group, and Mkj (E 37, 62), Kwšw (E 50, 51), and Jʿnqj (E 36, 64) in the Brussels Group, Jbs-Hddw may have been one of a number of leaders in the region. To complicate matters further, in certain versions of the execration texts, it seems that some of the named individuals were already dead. They continued to appear in these lists in order to render their potentially troublesome spirits harmless by magic (Pinch 1994: 93). It is therefore unclear as to whether Jbs-Hddw was even alive when this text was produced. Because this text dates to the beginning of the 13th Dynasty (ca. 1750), it is likely that the Egyptian perception of the land of Shechem in this text derived from or at least was influenced by the earlier encounter recorded in the Khu-Sebek stele. While Jerusalem is attested in the Berlin Group, Shechem is not. The confrontation recorded in the Khu-Sebek stele, therefore, may be the first time in which the Egyptians encountered the entity that they referred to as skmm. In the end, there is no way of determining whether Jbs-Hddw was the only leader of skmm, what type of leader he was, or whether he was even alive at the end of the MB IIA. Moreover, in this case, skmm is not preceded by a descriptor such as spꜢt that might help clarify its nature. It is only followed by the O49 determinative, which, as I indicated above, can refer to an individual city or a larger region. Again, leaning heavily on the archaeological record, we may safely conclude that this was not a reference to the urban administrative center of a centralized land but to the central hill country in which Tell Balâṭah was located. Because Tell Balâṭah was a small, unfortified site, its function during the MB IIA is difficult to determine. Drawing on the insights of Porter, however, we know that it may have served as a location where bonds associated with a common identity among groups who spent much of the year dispersed across long distances were created and confirmed (see chap.  3 above). This was the case at Tell Banat in Syria, and, as we shall see below, Shiloh during much of the second millennium. Such a reconstruction would be especially germane if the discoveries in Field VI were indeed the remains of a cult center where such groups could confirm their common identity and purpose before a common divine patron, a phenomenon already observed in EA 74 and ARM XXVI 24. Middle Bronze IIB (ca. 1750–1650 BCE) to Middle Bronze IIC (ca. 1650–1545 BCE) Tell Balâṭah After the MB IIA, Shechem falls out of the written record until the middle of the LB. Nevertheless, the archaeological record indicates that

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this was an important period in the history of Tell Balâṭah. The MB IIB, which consisted of four discrete phases (Strata XX–XVII), was marked by the construction of the first city-wide fortification system, the development and further demarcation of the Field VI temenos, and the growth of a domestic sector. With these advancements, Tell Balâṭah transformed into a recognizable city for the first time in its history. During the century that followed, the city expanded, and its infrastructure developed and transformed to such a degree that it seems likely that it hosted a royal tradition at that time. In spite of the tangible benefits associated with this tradition, it is likely that it ultimately led to the demise of Tell Balâṭah at the end of the MB. Keeping this trajectory in mind, I will begin this section with a survey of the MB IIB and conclude with the MB IIC. The first stage of the MB IIB fortification system (Stratum XX; ca. 1750–1725 BCE) is marked by the construction of Wall D. This freestanding wall consisted of a stone foundation that supported a brick superstructure. Measuring approximately 2.65 m at its base, it resembled the MB IIA freestanding walls at Megiddo, Aphek, Gezer, and Tell Beir Mirsim (Kempinski 1992b: 127–28; G. E. Wright 1965: 62–63). The impetus for its construction may have been the increase in Egyptian activity and interest in the region attested in the Khu-Sebek stele and the execration texts. Initially, Wall D marked the perimeter of the fortification line. Later, it served as the interior line and retaining wall of the C Rampart, the second stage of the fortification system. 10 Built in the subsequent phase (stratum XIX; ca. 1725–1700 BCE), the C Rampart stood in tandem with Wall D until the end of the MB IIB (Campbell 2002: 27–29). A second important wall, Wall 900, was also constructed in Stratum XX. Rather than functioning as part of the external defense system, however, it served to demarcate the space of the temenos, separating it from the rest of the city, which grew around its eastern flank. The precise function of this temenos has been a point of debate for some time. Though the general layout of the structures that occupied it basically remained the same, the four phases of this period reflect a distinct progression of architectural features (see Campbell 2002: 63–93; Toombs et al. 1963: 5–17). 11 The area was dominated by two complexes, one located in the north of the temenos and the other in the south. The individual rooms of these complexes expanded 10. Toombs (1976: 57) characterized this “earthen embankment” as “the type usually associated with the Hyksos.” 11. Very little is known about the fourth phase (XVII) largely because the earlier excavations by G. Welter and E. Sellin removed much of the evidence. The evidence that did remain decayed before the Joint Excavation Team had a chance to examine it (Toombs et al. 1963: 15).

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and contracted over time. However, their central feature remained constant. It was the open-air square of the southern complex, which has been designated the “Great Court.” Attached to the Great Court were a number of smaller rooms and associated courts. G. E. Wright (1965: 108–9) originally argued that these Courtyard Complexes served a cultic function, basing his conclusion on a variety of observations. One of these was the conceptual configuration of the space in which they were located. Because they were set apart from the rest of the city, Wright maintained that they must have served a special and even sacred function. A second observation was that the central court maintained continuity of location, situated directly below the altars and one of the maṣṣēbôt of the clearly defined temple complexes of the subsequent MB IIC and LB periods. According to Campbell (2002: 93), continuity “of location suggests continuity of tradition and function.” This supports the contention that a sacred function defined this space during the preceding MB IIA period. Finally, though this complex neither reflects the layout of contemporary temples nor produced remains pointing to cultic activity—a problem that is attenuated by the fact that the Fortress Temple of the MB IIC period also lacked cultic artifacts—two of the courtyards (Room 2 and the Northern Court) contained bases that probably supported sacred pillars used for cultic purposes (Campbell 2002: 78, 81). The greatest opponent of G. E. Wright’s reconstruction was L.  E. Toombs (1985). Based on his evaluation of the evidence, Toombs concluded that the temenos was most likely an acropolis that contained the city’s palaces. More recently, however, Campbell (2002: 95–96) has refuted this proposal, providing a more nuanced reading of Wright’s original argument. He begins by affirming a number of Wright’s observations. He agrees that the pillar bases and associated sacred standing stones, one of the “hallmarks” of Field VI, point to a cultic function, citing instances in which freestanding pillars played a role in such MB and LB sanctuaries as Kamid el-Loz, Qaṭna, Tel Mevorakh, and Beth-Shean (G. R. H. Wright 1985: 2.138–40, 149, 151). This feature is also found in several extramural temples in the region that I will discuss below. Campbell goes on to support G. E. Wright’s contention that “hallowed space is remembered over time and through change” (Campbell 2002: 95). Finally, he argues that the Southern Complex contained too many ovens (between four and six) for it to have functioned as a royal palace. He therefore suggests that the “ovens may point to use by families at cultic festivals” (2002: 93). In addition, he indicates that the metalworking and pottery facilities unearthed in Rooms 16 and 17 of Stratum XIX are more appropriate to sacred complexes than they are to palaces. Again, he bases this judgment on comparative evidence

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from Nahariyah, Hazor, Taanach, and Tel Dan (see esp. Stager and Wolff 1981; Yadin 1972: 33–36, 85). Campbell therefore concludes that the Field VI temenos should be interpreted as a “cultic unit within a multifunctional complex” (Campbell 2002: 96), a position that represents the most cautious approach to the evidence at hand. 12 In the end, it is best to interpret the temenos as consisting of public spaces constructed for the assembly of large groups that participated in cultic practices (see van der Toorn 1996: 243–44). Domestic housing is also attested at Tell Balâṭah in Field IX and the final phase of Field XIII. Though the remains of these domiciles are scarce, they not only indicate an increase in the number of inhabitants at Tell Balâṭah, but they also shed light on the nature of the transition from the MB IIB period to MB IIC period. These residential sectors bear witness to a violent destruction that occurred at the end of the MB IIB. In addition, the erosion found there suggests a brief period of abandonment before the advent of MB IIC Tell Balâṭah (Campbell 2002: 101–3). The MB IIC period marked another monumental transition in the life of Tell Balâṭah, a transition that is again reflected in the city’s fortifications, the temenos, and its residential districts. As in the MB IIB, the security upgrades during this period occurred in two stages. The first was the construction of Wall A, which constituted a new fortified perimeter extending approximately 40 m beyond Wall D (Campbell 2002: 152), northwest of the temenos at the foot of the C Rampart System. Measuring nearly 4 m thick at its base (Campbell 2002: 105) and constructed of large boulders, some of which reached 2.2 m in length (Campbell 2002: 107), this wall not only strengthened the fortification but also substantially increased the amount of fortified space within it. In the latter phase of Stratum XVI, a number of walls were built inside Wall A, facilitating the construction of new domestic dwellings such as those found in Field III (Campbell 2002: 115–18). The widespread destruction that immediately preceded the beginning of Stratum XV (ca. 1600–1550 BCE) probably prompted the construction of a second line of defense, designated Wall B. Set 11  m from the inner face of Wall A, these two fortifications constituted a double defense system that surrounded the entire city. Access into the city was made possible through two large gate complexes, each with flanking towers and a system of orthostats comparable to those discovered at Hazor and Ebla (Campbell 2002: 110–12, 136–37; Yadin 1972: 60–61). The main gate was located on the 12. It also corresponds to the second interpretive option proposed by Toombs. Though he believes that it is less likely than his first proposal, it ranks above the possibility (3) that the entire complex constituted a temple or (4) that it served as the residence for the nobility of the city.

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northwest side of the city, just north of the temenos, and the other on its eastern perimeter. With the construction of Wall B, a well-fortified interior space was created. A number of structures flanking the Northwest Gate were discovered in this space. Together, they have been identified as the only example of a Bronze Age palace at Tell Balâṭah (Campbell 2002: 109, 119–23, 151–54; Toombs 1976: 55–59; Dever 1974). The northern wing consisted of a large central court (complex 7200) adjoined by three smaller rooms on either side. The specific function of these rooms remains a mystery. The southern wing, however, tells a different and more complex story. There, archaeologists have identified another temple complex (Temple 7300), which is adjoined to a long colonnade hall to its south. The identification of complex 7300 as a temple was based upon the discoveries within it and the features of the space that preceded the construction of Wall B. After the completion of Wall A, the space between it and wall 900, the exterior wall of the temenos, was filled in, creating a large platform on which the Fortress Temple (to be discussed below) was constructed. The area between Wall A and the Fortress Temple was originally left open. Its surface was plastered, and the “only attested architectural feature in this space was a plastered stone podium, four courses of stone high, measuring 1.15 m by 2.40 m” (Campbell 2002: 152). This podium served as the altar of an openair shrine. With the construction of Wall B, it was absorbed into what became the palace complex. The resulting structure was divided into three rooms: the eastern antechamber (Room 1), followed by the large central chamber (Room 2), and ending with a third room (Room 3) that shared its southern wall with the Northwest Gate. 13 All of these rooms were well constructed, resembling the techniques used to build the Fortress Temple. With the construction of these rooms, the altar of the original open-air shrine was absorbed into Temple 7300 and situated on the eastern wall of Room 2. Having been extended by nearly a meter in width, it was “the focal point of the central space in the complex” (Campbell 2002: 153). According to Campbell, the 7300 complex represents “the earliest known instance of a three-room temple on a central axis,” comparable with those of “the LB II Area H temple at Hazor; Syrian examples at Alalakh, Tayinat and Hama; and the Solomonic temple” (2002: 153; see also Dever 1974: 43, 48). 14 Providing further evidence for its cultic function, a number of 13. The interior dimensions of these rooms were 9 m wide by 2.8 m deep, 9 m wide by 10 m deep, and 9 m wide by 2.6 m at the west and 2 m at the east, respectively (Campbell 2002: 152). The rhomboid shape of Room 3 is attributed to the angle of the Northwest Gate’s southern wall. 14. Compare also with the 12th-century Acropolis Temple at Lachish (Ussishkin 1987: 28–43), which was constructed with “the famous and expensive [cedar] wood

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juglets used for votive purposes (Dever 1974: 50 n.  28) were discovered next to the altar. 15 This was not the only sacred space within the confines of Tell Balâṭah. As I mentioned above, the space between Wall A and Wall D was filled, covering over the remains of the MB IIB Courtyard Complexes of the temenos. The top was then plastered and served as the platform of the Fortress Temple (Campbell 2002: 145–51), the next architectural project to dominate the temenos. This temple stretched approximately 26.30 m from east to west, and 21.20 m from north to south (ca. 558 m2; Stager 1999: 229), with its entrance facing southeast. 16 It consisted of two main sections. The first was an open-air portico approximately 4.7 m deep that was flanked by two towers of disproportionate size. 17 The second was the main cella. It measured approximately 13.65 m in length and between 10.55 and 11.15 m in width. Six column bases were discovered running in two parallel lines of three down the center of the cella, indicating that it was probably covered. The materials and techniques used in the construction of the Fortress Temple (so too with Temple 7300 above) were of a distinctively high quality. Rather than using the arbitrarily shaped nari rocks that were employed in the construction of Wall A, the architects of the Fortress Temple laid its foundations with mizzi limestone, which was neatly dressed on the exterior faces. Campbell (2002: 147) explains the difference between the two stone types: “[M]izzi is harder than nari, is more difficult to quarry, can be shaped, does not crack or break as readily as the softer limestone.” 18 The construction of this temple, therefore, required a much higher level of cost and craftsmanship, an evaluation that is supported by the discovery of a number of fluted column fragments of Egyptian style associated with the temple complex (Campbell 2002: 150–51). In the forecourt of the temple, approximately 6.55 m from the entrance to the portico, stood the remains of a brick altar 4.2 m square. Though these remains are dated to the second phase of the Fortress Temple (XV), it is likely that they displaced the remnants of the altar of the first phase (XVI). In addition to Temple 7300 and the Fortress Temple, the remains of a third temple were discovered approximately 300 m outside the East Gate imported from the hills of Lebanon that was also used in Solomon’s Temple” (1987: 28). 15. Campbell also reports that “sherds of miniature votive bowls [were] found sealed on the floor in the colonnaded hall” (Campbell 2002: 153). 16. Because the building is not a perfect rectangle, the exact measurement of each side varies. For these dimensions, see Campbell 2002: 146. 17. The southern tower was 7 m wide while the northern tower was 6.2 m wide (Campbell 2002: 147). 18. Quoted from a private correspondence between Campbell and Robert Bull.

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of Tell Balâṭah, 19 situated on a low ridge of Mt. Gerizim known as Tananir (Boling 1969; 1975a; Campbell 2002: 154–61). This complex developed according to four discrete phases (Boling 1969: 100). The first phase was marked by the construction of Building B (ca. 1650–1625 BCE), which consisted of three rooms. A stone silo with a depth of approximately 2.4 m was hewn in the westernmost of these rooms. Within it were found fragments of miniature bowls and juglets, and a deposit of clay along with two flat stones that have been interpreted as equipment used by potters to prepare clay, a discovery reminiscent of the evidence for a pottery workshop in the MB IIB Courtyard Complex of the temenos. To the south of Building B was an open-air platform, at the center of which stood a base for a stone pillar. During the second phase of this structure (ca. 1625–1600 BCE), Building B was reconstructed. Campbell (2002: 156) also suggests that rooms 7–10 of Building A were built during this period. This would have located them across the open-air platform (which was later incorporated into Building A) from the three rooms of Building B. These structures were destroyed around 1600 BCE, probably at the hands of the same assailants that brought Stratum XVI of Tell Balâṭah to an end. During phases 3 (ca. 1600–1550 BCE) and 4 (ca. 1545 BCE), the foundations of Building B were abandoned, and Building A was extended across the open-air sanctuary. In total, the building measured 18 m2 with a central court, itself measuring 9 m2, surrounded on all sides by 10 rooms. A stone pedestal, which probably supported a free-standing “sacred stone,” continued to occupy the central court. Within Silo 114 of Room 2 on the north side of Building A, a number of ceramic remains were unearthed, ten of which were votive miniatures. Though the function of this structure has been debated, Campbell (2002: 161) notes that, in addition to the pillar base in the central court, the “strongest evidence of cultic use is the high proportion of miniature votive vessels in all phases of the Tananir complex and the cultic equipment noted by Welter and Sellin.” 20 This spike in monumental construction both inside and outside Tell Balâṭah was complemented by a spike in the concentration and quality of domestic housing (Campbell 2002: 161–67). As was indicated above, Field III produced three housing complexes situated on the virgin soil enclosed by Wall A. Two domestic quarters, designated Building I and Building II, were also unearthed in Field XIII, both of which demonstrated a level of preparation and quality that far surpassed the domestic housing of the 19. In total, it is located 500 m from the Fortress Temple (Campbell 2002: 154). 20. Unfortunately, the remains of this complex have now been lost. For a description of them from the original field reports of Sellin and Welter, see Boling 1969: 82–84.

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preceding periods (Campbell 2002: 162). In addition, Building II yielded a rich cache of artifacts, including two Hyksos-style scarabs (Seger 1972: 32) 21 and a number of bronze pieces. Based on these discoveries, archaeologists have concluded that Building I was a “Government Residency” (Campbell 2002: 162), and Building II was a “patrician house” (Seger 1972: 29). This picture is rounded off in Stratum XV of Field VII, which produced the first examples of domestic occupation in this area of Tell Balâṭah. The data outlined above strongly suggest that the MB IIC period was the most prosperous and organized phase in Tell Balâṭah’s history up to this point (Campbell 2002: 167). While Tell Balâṭah became an identifiable city during the MB IIB, it appears as though a royal tradition was introduced to the city during the MB IIC. This prosperity was short lived, however. The evidence reveals two devastating assaults on the city in a short period of time beginning around 1550 BCE. 22 Following its destruction, Tell Balâṭah was abandoned for nearly a century. 23 It was not until the LB was well underway that Tell Balâṭah was rebuilt. Late Bronze (ca. 1450 BCE) to Early Iron Age Tell Balâṭah Though the revival of Tell Balâṭah demonstrates the resilience of this city and those who identified with it, it hardly reached its former glory during this period. This is immediately observed in the renewed system of fortifications. Attested in Fields I, IV, and perhaps III, a new wall was constructed on the foundation of Wall B (Campbell 2002: 169, 174), the interior line of defense during the preceding period. Though this did not reduce the area of the city to its original MB IIB dimensions, which were limited by the original Wall D fortification, it did eliminate much of the domestic housing of Field III as well as the palace complex and its temple (Complex 7300) that flanked the Northwestern Gate. While there is evidence that access into the city was obtained at the same locations as the preceding period, there is no evidence that the elaborate Northwest Gate and East 21. Weinstein (1981: 8–10) lists the sites in the Levant where 38 additional MB IIB-C Hyksos scarabs inscribed with royal names were located. They include Amman (1), Kibbutz Barqai (1), Gezer (3), Jericho (3), Lachish (4), Shikmona (1), Tell Beit Mirsim (1), Tell-elʿAjjûl (18), Tell el-ʿAmr (1), Tell el-Farʿah South (1), Tell el-Farʿah North (1), Tell es-Safi (1), Tell Ḥalif (1), and Tell Jemmeh (1). 22. Zertal (1994: 50) dates the first attack to the period between 1550–1525 BCE, and the second somewhere between 1525–1504. Gonen (1992a: 59), however, locates the two attacks in closer proximity, the first occurring in 1550 and the second in 1540 (see also Campbell 2002: 160; Seger 1971: 30–32; G. E. Wright 1956: 17). 23. See Campbell 2002: 8; Gonen 1992a: 59; 1983: 61–73; Toombs and G. E. Wright 1963: 1–26, esp. the chart on p. 26.

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Gate Complexes that guarded these entry points were rebuilt. 24 A new gate tower of considerably smaller proportions, situated to the south and west of the original East Gate complex, is the only example of LB construction in these fields. While new fortifications were indeed built at the beginning of stratum XVI (ca. 1450 BCE), their presence throughout the duration of this period is not firmly established. Following Toombs (1979: 75), A. Zertal (1994: 57) contends that, though Tell Balâṭah began to prosper during the 13th–12th centuries, it was not fortified at that time. This would parallel the situation in a number of other Iron I cities in the region. 25 As Finkelstein (1994: 164) points out, “As far as we know today, most of the Iron I sites were not fortified.” 26 The traces of a fortification system detected by Campbell (2002: 173–74, 185, 199) may have lasted only until the “radical destruction” it experienced during the second half of the 14th century, never to be reconstructed during the subsequent recovery of the city. 27 With the loss of Temple 7300 and the rest of the palace complex, the temenos was the only area within the limits of the city to contain a monumental building. Constructed over the ruins of the Fortress Temple, the LB temple, designated building 7500, was a far cry from its immediate predecessor in both stature and quality (Bull 1960). We will recall that the external dimensions of the Fortress Temple were roughly 26 by 21 m. This space was divided into two rooms. The first was an open-air portico flanked by two imposing towers, and the second was the main cella, which contained six stone bases that may have held the Egyptianstyle fluted columns. By contrast, building 5700 was approximately 20 m wide and 16 m in length (Stager 1999: 230). There is no evidence of room 24. Gonen’s claim that “the Middle Bronze Age wall was restored” at Shechem (Gonen 1992b: 218) only tells part of the story. The confusion is compounded by the fact that she inserts an illustration of the MB IIC Northwest Gate complex as an illustration of the LB “City Gate at Shechem” (Gonen 1992b: 219, fig. 7.1). 25. See, for example, Ussishkin 1987: 23, who contends that “neither of the two Canaanite cities (Level VII or Level VI) from Late Bronze Age Lachish was protected by a city wall or other fortifications such as existed in the Middle Bronze Age.” See also Ray 2008: 88; Gonen 1984: 61–73. 26. See Ussishkin 1989: 29–53; Naʾaman 2005c: 152; Bunimovitz 1994a: 9; see also Bunimovitz 1995: 325–26; Finkelstein 2003a: 190 for Megiddo. Gonen lists Hazor, Tel Kinrot, Beth-Shean, Tel Regev, Tell Abu Hawam, Tell el-Farʿah North, Dabir, and “perhaps” Bethel as other LB cites that have identifiable ramparts (Gonen 1992b: 218; see n. 24 above, however). Compare, however, with Zertal’s claim that “[m]ost of the Late Bronze sites in Manasseh which continued to be occupied after the destruction at the end of the Middle Bronze Age were fortified tells” (Zertal 1994: 51). 27. If this was the case, there is evidence that the Eastern Tower may have been reconstructed (Campbell 2002: 174).

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divisions, internal colonnades, or accompanying towers. The only feature found within the structure was a podium (5802A). In addition, rather than being constructed of the higher-quality mizzi stone as the Fortress Temple was, the remains of the walls of this temple consisted of the more common and lower-quality nari stones. Finally, while there is “sound evidence for a Strata XII/XI use of this building,” there is a “less certain indication of an earlier phase belonging to Strata XIV–XIII” (Campbell 2002: 181). 28 If this was indeed the case, its construction would have occurred around 1325 BCE. In spite of its less impressive stature, the temenos did produce a number of interesting features. The most prominent of these were three maṣṣēbâ sockets in the forecourt of the temple. Two of these sockets flanked what would have originally been the entrance to the Fortress Temple. The third was centrally aligned approximately ten meters in front of its companions (Campbell 2002: 180, fig. 170; 183, fig. 174). Because of their positioning at the opening of the Fortress Temple, G. E. Wright (1965: 92–93) originally assigned them to that structure. However, a reevaluation of their position by R. Bull has determined that, while the sockets are set slightly to the left of the Fortress Temple entrance, they are calibrated with the central axis of building 7500 (Campbell 2002: 182–83). He therefore concludes that they were original to the LB phase of the temenos, not the Fortress Temple. The third maṣṣēbâ is also assigned to this period on the basis of its direct association with a LB altar located adjacent to it, 29 and its relative alignment “with the axis of the LB building, not the Fortress Temple” (Campbell 2002: 184). 30 28. In support of his cautious approach, Campbell (2002: 181) points out that there were “fragments of the flooring of the upper phase, no flooring for the lower.” In addition, the “predominant pottery form is the LB bowl; no other kinds of artifacts are preserved from the lower phase.” 29. This altar stood during the second phase of the complex (Strata XII–XI), replacing an earlier altar (Strata XIV–XIII) discovered by Selin. 30. Thus, Campbell (2002: 184) concludes that the “Late Bronze Age building” was “a sanctuary, of broad-room style.” With regard to the shift in temple orientation from the Fortress Temple to building 5700, G. E. Wright (1965: 97) has pointed out that a similar shift occurred between Alalakh VIII and VII during the 17th or early 16th century. Campbell (2002: 184) proposes several reasons why the temple alignment at Shechem shifted 5 to 6 degrees to the south: The Joint Expedition has worked with the idea that it had something to do with a change in the calendar, and the axis was shifted with the change so that the rising sun would shine directly into the cella on a particular day. The new orientation faces the rising sun approximately at the time of the winter solstice, which is probably significant. Alternatively, the orientation points to an unnamed peak on the eastern horizon, which may have been an important landmark as yet not understood.

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To summarize, the temenos of this period evolved through two distinct phases. During the first (Strata XIV–XII; ca. 1450–1325 BCE), building 7500 may or may not have been standing. In either case, the area was occupied by a freestanding pillar, two flanking maṣṣēbôt, an altar, and possibly a third maṣṣēbâ associated with it (Campbell 2002: 184). By the second phase, the broad-room sanctuary of the style attested at Megiddo, Ai, Lachish, and Hazor (cf. Bunimovitz 1995: 325) was standing, situated on the axis of the maṣṣēbôt. There is also evidence for the presence of a small sanctuary in Field IX, complete with its own maṣṣēbâ. However, the sacred function of this area appears to have ceased by Stratum XI. As in the preceding periods, the character of the city’s fortifications and temenos are reflected in its domestic quarters. According to the remains derived from Fields XIII, VII, and IX, the history of the “inner-city” (and the city at large) should be divided into two main phases. The first, represented by Strata XIV and XIII, begins with a period of resettlement and “steady recovery” (1450–1400 BCE; Campbell 2002: 185). As might be expected, the housing assigned to it is characterized by “shabby construction” (Campbell 2002: 193). The shift from Stratum XIV to Stratum XIII (1400–1325 BCE; Campbell 2002: 199–210), however, is marked by an increase in dwelling density and quality of construction. In addition, the artifacts unearthed in these houses were of a higher quality. The most notable were a bronze figurine in Field VII, a rich cache of pottery, items of copper and bronze, and a steatite scarab with a characteristic New Kingdom depiction of Horus flanked by two uraei. These artifacts suggest that this was a period of relative prosperity (Campbell 2002: 185). As was indicated above, however, this phase also ended with a violent destruction of the city, which resulted in a number of significant changes in the reorganization of space in Strata XII and XI (ca. 1325–1100 BCE). The first of these, attested in Field XIII, is the “rearrangement of space into large units.” This, according to Campbell “can be taken to mean that there were fewer people” inhabiting the site and therefore “fewer claims to accommodate” (Campbell 2002: 211). The second change derives from Field VII. There, the discovery of certain structures and installations indicates that it was converted from a domestic quarter to an area where industrial activities were undertaken. 31 The final alteration occurred in the transition from the LB to the Iron IA. During that time, a series of deep pits were dug in Fields I, VII, XIII, and even Field V, where building 5700 stood. This phase of Tell Balâṭah’s history concluded in the same way 31. Included in this evidence is the oily black soil that was found throughout Field VII, which points to the presence of an oil press (Campbell 2002: 215–21).

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that it opened, falling prey to another large-scale destruction. There is debate, however, about when this destruction occurred. While many have dated it to the close of the 12th century BCE, 32 Finkelstein (2006b: 252–53) suggests that it should be dated to the beginning of the 10th century. In either case, the site was occupied without interruption well into Israel’s emergence on the scene. EA 289 in Context The second half of the first phase of LB Tell Balâṭah (Stratum XIII; ca. 1400–1325 BCE) roughly corresponds to the Amarna period (ca. 1362– 1332 BCE). It was during this time that the “land of Shechem” appeared in EA 289. As I noted above, most scholars interpret this as a reference to a large centralized land administered from Tell Balâṭah by Labʾayu. 33 Taking a step back in time, we note that the evidence of a sharp spike in monumental construction strongly suggests an increase in political centralization at Tell Balâṭah during the MB IIC period (ca. 1650–1550 BCE). The construction of the massive city fortifications and the large Fortress Temple also point to a high level of social organization in the management of the time, energy, and resources via corvée labor and taxation that such projects would require (Campbell 2002: 167). Perhaps even more compelling is the presence of the palace complex flanking the Northwest Gate, not to mention the officials’ quarters adjoining the temenos. K. Flannery (1998: 21), relying heavily on an “extensive cross-cultural study of chiefdoms and states” by W. Sanders, remarks that, though “chiefs could organize corvée labor to build temples and other public buildings, they usually could not have their residences built for them. Kings, on the other hand, could use corvée labor to build their palaces.” The reconceptualization of sacred space with the construction of the palace complex also points to an increase in the exercise of exclusionary power at Tell Balâṭah. Before the palace complex was erected with the founding of Wall B, the space between Wall A and the northwest corner of the Fortress Temple served as an open-air sanctuary. With the construction of the palace, however, this sacred space was absorbed into it as Temple  7300, taking on a new layout as a three-room temple organized along a central axis on par with the biblical description of Solomon’s temple in Jerusalem. This evidence led Campbell to conclude that “it served as the 32. Boling 1975b: 184; Toombs 1976: 59; Stager 1999, 2003; Campbell 2002: 169. 33. Finkelstein and Naʾaman (2005c: 172) use the term “territorial state” when referring to the Shechemite entity.

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private ‘chapel’ of the city’s ruler, similar to the pattern in Alalakh, Stratum VII where a ‘chapel’ adjoins Yarim-Lim’s palace of contemporary date” (Campbell 2002: 153–54; Woolley 1955: 59–65, fig. 35). I shall return to the implications of these observations below. For now, it is sufficient to say that this evidence has led scholars to conclude that, during this time, Tell Balâṭah was the center of a “Hyksos kingdom.” This view is supported by the Hyksos-style scarabs discovered in the so-called governor’s residence of Building II and would parallel a number of other “Hyksos kingdoms” attested in the southern Levant during this period (Weinstein 1981: 8–10; Zertal 1994: 50–51). It should be noted, however, that this “royal period” was relatively short lived. Wall B and the palace complex stood for only approximately 50 years (ca. 1600–1550 BCE), showing signs of increasing weakness as the era drew to a close. 34 Because of the evidence for Hyksos domination, many scholars attribute the fall of Tell Balâṭah to the Egyptians, who were driving out the last remnants of these “foreign rulers” (ḥqꜢ ḫꜢswt) whom Ahmose had recently expelled from Egypt at the beginning of the New Kingdom. 35 Alternatively, its ruin may have resulted from internal conflicts. 36 In either case, the “period from ca. 1650 to 1550 bce at Shechem was a time of constant ferment and change” (Campbell 2002: 143). Though occupation at Tell Balâṭah was renewed by the Amarna period, the substantial monumental structures pointing to the existence of a highly organized central authority were not. 37 Nevertheless, the lack of palace complexes in most LB sites of the southern Levant (Gonen 1992b: 220) suggests that “kingship” could have been in operation even in the absence of the expected trappings. As Feinman has pointed out, the scope of a preindustrial polity is not necessarily reflected in the size of its bureaucratic organization: 34. As Campbell notes, the construction of Wall E, which cut through the palace complex, may have been a “hasty last gasp effort at defense” (2002: 141). 35. See esp. J. M. Miller and Hayes 1986: 89; E. F. Morris 2005: 35; Redford 1992: 138; Weinstein 1981: 1–23; Zertal 1994: 50–51, 53; Campbell 2002: 141, 160. 36. See Bunimovitz 1994b: 181–93; Kenyon CAH II/I: 351; Zertal 1994: 57. It is important to note that the cause of such collapses should not be over-simplified and attributed to a single factor. On this consideration, see Renfrew 1978: 203–22. 37. Perhaps the most significant of these is the palace complex, which DeMarrais contends served as “the symbolic focus of a polity” (1996: 17; see also Gonen 1992b: 219; Flannery 1998: 24–25; Cooper 1996: 33; Marfoe 1979: 16; Yoffee 2005: 39). Other features of a centralized “state,” including extravagant storage space (Yoffee 2005: 36), “vastly expensive and rare artifacts” (Yoffee 2005: 36), and royal burials (Flannery 1998: 46; Blanton 1998: 155; Finkelstein 1988b: 39), were also absent during this period.

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Chapter 7 [L]ike the Aztec state, many large preindustrial states functioned without formal, entrenched bureaucratic institutions. . . . To be more explicit, our taxonomies ought not conflate large scale with imperial bureaucratization, for in the preindustrial world it may have been easier for a small state than a very large one to centralize. (Feinman 1998: 106) 38

Returning to Labʾayu and his sons, however, this observation still does not explain why Mut-Baʿlu relocated the seat of his authority to Piḫilu if his father indeed ruled over the land of Shechem from Tell Balâṭah. This problem is compounded by the fact that the transition from Labʾayu to MutBaʿlu would have taken place during the most prosperous period of the LB Tell Balâṭah, a period for which there is no evidence of unrest or city-wide destruction. The “radical destruction by unknown agency” (Campbell 2002: 165) that did strike Tell Balâṭah during this phase of its occupation did not occur until the second half of the 14th century (ca. 1325 BCE), after the Amarna period. These observations ultimately support the conclusion that “the land of Shechem” referred to in EA 289 was not a centralized land administered from Tell Balâṭah by Labʾayu. Rather, as an entity that was not directly identified with or defined by the activities of an individual leader, it corresponded to the land of Shechem attested in the MB IIA KhuSebek stele.

The Constitution and Continuity of the Land of Shechem The Archaeology of the Land of Shechem: Continuity amid Cyclical Alterations within a Mixed Population The continuity in reference to the MB IIA land of Shechem (spꜢt skmm) in the Khu-Sebek stele and the LB land of Shechem (kuršakmi) in EA 289 is paralleled by the continuity of the central hill country throughout the second millennium. In his longue durée analysis of the region, Finkelstein observed a cyclical process involving the rise and fall of what he refers to as “Canaanite urban cultures” during the late third and second millennia BCE (see esp. Finkelstein 1988a; 1988b; 1994; see also Lemche 1985: 154–55). The end of each cycle was marked by the collapse of urbanism, a phenomenon to which both the fluctuation of settlements in the central hill country and the archaeological history of Tell Balâṭah bear witness. 39 Beginning in 38. On the nature of this phenomenon, see also Kowalewski et al. 1983; Southall 1988. Finkelstein similarly contends that “there is no correlation between the modest nature of the seat of the kings and the ability of the kingdom to expand territorially” (Finkelstein 2013: 73; see also pp. 78, 80; Porter 2012: 227–50). 39. Lemche attributes this phenomenon to the decline of Egyptian influence in the region at the end of the Middle and New Kingdoms, which “changed the economic balance

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the MB, approximately 248 settlements populated the region. 40 This corresponds to the era of increasing development at Tell Balâṭah from the MB IIA onward, culminating in its monumental, though short-lived prosperity at the end of the MB (MB IIC; ca. 1650–1550 BCE). The destruction of Tell Balâṭah, its abandonment, and its subsequent resettlement on a modest scale during the LB likewise correspond to a sharp decline in central hill country settlements (Hawkins 2008: 167–68). According to Finkelstein (1988a: 340; see also 2007: 80), between 25 and 30 sites are attested during this period, a decrease of approximately 82%. 41 The cycle turned again during the Iron I, when the number of settlements climbed to as many as 250 (Finkelstein 1988a: 341; 1988b: 39; 2007: 80; 2013: 22, 37–38). According to Finkelstein’s chronology, though Tell Balâṭah did not grow during this period, it continued to be one of the most important cities in the region. Finkelstein largely accounts for the fluctuation in population reflected in both the volume of settlements in the central hill country and the archaeological history of Tell Balâṭah on the basis of a shift in subsistence strategies and lifestyle patterns among the inhabitants of the region. According to Finkelstein (1995a: 353), the geography of the central hill country made it a hospitable place to practice pastoralism, particularly during periods of urban decline: The proximity to steppe areas on the east and south, the availability of green pasture in the dry summer, and the fact that the highlands were not densely populated and cultivated even in periods of settlement expansion made these regions ideal for pastoral activity. . . . The eastern flank of the hilly regions was especially convenient for sedentary activity of groups which originated from a pastoral background, since they could continue to practice animal husbandry alongside dry farming. 42

These factors led Finkelstein to conclude that pastoralists inhabited the region in all phases of the late third and second millennia. However, the proportion of sedentary to nonsedentary populations varied according to the volume of settlements. During the MB, those who had practiced of the society at the expense of the sedentary portion of the population” (Lemche 1985: 155). In addition to the collapse of international trade, Richard (1980: 25–26) points to climatic changes to explain this urban decline. Thompson (1978) proposes yet another alternative, laying the blame on overpopulation that led to an ecological crisis. 40. Finkelstein 1994: 153–56. See also Zertal (1994: 50), who reports that the archaeological surveys in the hill country of Manasseh to the north of Shechem isolated 135 sites with MB II pottery. 41. Similarly, Zertal reports a 77% decline in settlements in the hill country of Manasseh (Zertal 1994: 50). 42. In this way and more, the central hill country parallels the land of Amurru.

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pastoralism in the preceding era began to settle down in increasing numbers. With the turmoil that struck the region at the end of the MB, a large proportion of these sedentary populations returned to a nonsedentary lifestyle. Finally, during the Iron I, the conditions on the ground required many of these same groups to return to a sedentary lifestyle, leading to the multiplication of settlements attested during that period. This reconstruction finds support in three important archaeological phenomena. The first is the continuity of the material culture through all three periods. If one were to explain the influx in settlements by appealing to a mass migration of new populations into the region (see Redford 1992), one would expect to see significant differences in the material culture of each successive wave of settlement. As we shall see in greater detail below, however, this is not the case. 43 It is likely, therefore, that groups indigenous to and/or connected with the region were primarily involved in these waves. The notion that these populations participated in and/or transitioned to a pastoralist lifestyle during periods of urban decline is further supported by the presence of cemeteries and cultic sites that are located in “marginal areas” or “frontier zones” at a distance from urban centers (Finkel­stein 1988a: 344; 1988b: 42; Sauer 1986: 8). One such interment is situated approximately 500 m from Tell Balâṭah in a cave on the southern slope of Mt. Ebal (Gonen 1992a: 58–59). The artifacts discovered there indicate that it was in use during the Chalcolithic and EB I periods, the same time during which human activity is first attested at Tell Balâṭah. After falling into a period of disuse, cave burials resumed at the end of the MB IIC and continued through the Iron Age. According to Gonen (1992a: 59), the inhabitants of Tell Balâṭah were interring their dead in this cave at least during the LB and Iron I periods of its habitation. The fact that it was also used during Tell Balâṭah’s abandonment at the close of the MB implies that it was not dependent upon the life of the city (Campbell 2002). It served individuals who inhabited Tell Balâṭah as well as those who did not, or those who could not because it had ceased to exist. It is the latter group that constitutes Finkelstein’s pastoralist or nonsedentary contingent. This continuity of use implies continuity among the populations who were using it. As was suggested with regard to the MB IIA temenos at Tell Balâṭah, this cemetery may have served as a center of tradition and ritual, where common bonds were created and confirmed among disparate populations, 43. With regard to the transition from LB to Iron I at Tell Balâṭah, Campbell indicates that the “pottery shows development within this period, but it is development, not major change” (Campbell 2002: 231).

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some of whom inhabited Tell Balâṭah and some of whom likely spent a large portion of the year dispersed across long distances with their flocks. This function would have been particularly important for the populations involved when Tell Balâṭah was abandoned. The cultic counterparts of isolated cemeteries can be divided into two categories. The first consists of those that are “unrelated to any settlement,” and the second includes those that are “located close to permanent sites, but beyond the boundaries of their built-up areas” (Finkelstein 1988a: 343; 1988b: 41). Two sites in the central hill country, both of which are situated to the south of Tell Balâṭah, represent the former category. They include a MB site on the summit of Jebel el-Rubka (Finkelstein 1994: 167–69) and Shiloh (Finkelstein 1988a: 212–20), which, due to the lack of evidence for a residential sector from the MB to the LB, probably functioned as a “cultic temenos rather than an ordinary settlement” (1988a: 217) throughout this period. The Tananir complex discussed above falls into the second category of cult site (Finkelstein 1988a: 343–44; 1988b: 41; Boling 1975a: 43). 44 Located outside the boundaries of Tell Balâṭah, this extramural shrine corresponds to similarly situated complexes in the region that date to the LB. They include the isolated sanctuary at Deir ʿAlla, which H. Franken classified as a “shrine of wandering Bedouins” (Franken 1975a: 322; see also van der Kooij 1993), the Amman Airport temple (Campbell and G. E. Wright 1969), and the Fosse Temple, which is located just outside the built-up area of Lachish (Ussishkin 1975: 742–43; 1987). 45 Though Finkelstein (1988a: 344) does allow for the possibility that some of these sanctuaries, such as the Tananir complex and the Fosse Temple “served some of the residents of the nearby cities,” the location of these shrines along with their predominance during the LB, a period of indisputable urban decline, suggested to him that they were primarily associated with nonsedentary, pastoralist communities (1988a: 343). In the end, Finkelstein contends that the “necessity for extramural shrines is otherwise difficult to explain, especially since neither” Lachish nor Tell Balâṭah “was particularly large in size” (1988a: 344). To summarize Finkelstein’s conclusions, the central hill country played host to both sedentary and nonsedentary populations throughout 44. Though they are assigned to the subsequent Iron I period, the Bull Site in northern Samaria (A. Mazar 1982) and the cultic site on Mt. Ebal near Tell Balâṭah (Zertal 1986–87) may also represent this type of isolated sanctuary in the region. For a different interpretation of the site on Mt. Ebal, see Finkelstein 1988a: 82–85. 45. Finkelstein (1988a: 345) also indicates that the LB I sanctuary at Tel Mevorakh in the northern Sharon, which Gonen (1992b: 232) describes as a “roadside shrine for travelers passing on the nearby highway,” may be included in this category.

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the second millennium. Nevertheless, the proportion of these populations fluctuated according to the economic strategy and lifestyle that best suited the demands of each historical period. The MB was a time of increasing urbanism, which led to a decrease in pastoralism. By contrast, the LB was characterized by urban decline complemented by an increase in nonsedentary pastoralism. Finkelstein appeals to an analysis of the bone assemblages recovered at Shiloh in support of this reconstruction. In one report (Finkel­stein 1994: 170), the proportion of cattle bones to sheep and goat bones decreases from 18 : 82 in the MB to 7 : 93 in the LB. In a second report (Finkelstein 1995a: 357–58), the proportion drops from 12 : 88 in the MB to 9 : 91 in the LB. In spite of the numerical differences, in both cases, Finkelstein argues that the decrease in cattle bones during the LB reflects a change in subsistence patterns in the region. While sheep and goats were primarily used among pastoralists, cattle point to the presence of agricultural communities who used them to plow their fields. The decrease in the proportion of cattle bones, therefore, indicates a decrease in the volume of sedentary populations who used a site. Thus, it is generally agreed that, during the LB, the central hill country surrounding Tell Balâṭah consisted of a mixed population that included “some twenty-five sedentary sites, most of them to the north of Shechem, and large areas inhabited mainly by pastoralists, mainly to the south of Shechem” (Finkelstein 1994: 174). 46 While it is thought that the settlements were part of the territorial kingdom administered from Tell Balâṭah, the territory of the pastoralists was considered “no-man’s land,” free from the direct political control of any centralized authority (Naʾaman 2005c: 153; Bunimovitz 1994a: 4 n. 2; Finkel­ stein 1996d: 226). Political Integration within a Mixed Population Though I accept Finkelstein’s general description of the populations that constituted the land of Shechem, I disagree with the sharp sociopolitical distinction that he and others have drawn between them. To review, a number of scholars have relied upon Rowton’s dimorphic model to argue that relationships between “tribally organized” pastoralists and hierarchically organized “Canaanite states” were limited to the economic sphere. Any potential political affiliations that may have been forged between them are excluded from this model. Campbell and G. E. Wright (1969) anticipated this very type of dichotomy for the land of Shechem in their comparison of the 46. He finds support for this reconstruction in the Amarna letters, which, in his words, “seem to point to a significant pastoralist component, labeled Shasu . . . in the population” (2007b: 81).

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similarities in form and function of the Amman Airport temple 47 with the Tananir complex. Both of these structures consisted of several small rooms encircling a large central courtyard, each of which contained a centrally located pedestal. Because a single column could not have supported a roof, they agreed that these pedestals originally held free-standing “sacred pillars” that represented the presence of a divine patron. Due to the structures’ location outside an urban center, Campbell and Wright concluded that “the people who worshipped at them did not live close by.” Instead, “those to whom [they] belonged were nomads or semi-nomads who followed their flocks to grazing places” (Campbell and G. E. Wright 1969: 111). 48 The sacred pillar of the Tananir complex, therefore, served as the location where “covenants” or common bonds were forged before a shared divine patron between populations who were in no way politically affiliated with the highly centralized polity administered from Tell Balâṭah. As we have already observed in the preceding survey of the pertinent documents from Mari and Amarna, this dichotomy is not faithful to the textual evidence (see chaps. 4–5 above). The two major “tribal” divisions at Mari, the Yaminites and the Simʾalites, identified themselves with nonsedentary and sedentary lifestyles, relying upon herding and agriculture to maintain their social structures. In addition, both groups were fully integrated into the political system administered by Zimri-Lim. From the Amarna evidence, we need only look to the numerous occasions on which Rib-Addu cites instances of cities (URU) “aligning themselves” politically “with the ʿapîrû” (in-ni-ip-šu a-na lúGAZmeš; EA 74: 19–21; 76: 34–47; 104: 47–54; 116: 37–38; 117: 94). 49 Even the centralized land of Amurru forged a political relationship with the Sutû, a group whose mobility afforded them the capacity to sever this affiliation and abandon Amurru if Aziru did not immediately return from Egypt (EA 169: 25–30). If we take Finkelstein’s analysis of the remains at Shiloh seriously, it demonstrates that this site served a mixed population as well. During the MB IIC, the same period in which the Tananir complex was in operation, a number of monumental projects were undertaken at Shiloh, including the construction of a large defensive wall and earthen glacis and a number of earth and stone fills within the perimeter of these fortifications 47. Contrast with Herr (1983), who contends that this complex was used for funerary practices rather than ritual. 48. In their assessment, “It was there that rites of covenant renewal were periodically conducted and where inter-tribal disputes and other matters of communal policy were settled ‘before the lord’ . . . in a manner comparable to the role played by Shiloh for a certain time during the period of Israel’s Judges” (Campbell and Wright 1969: 111). 49. See also EA 73: 26–29; 81: 12–13; 144: 22–30.

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(Finkelstein 1988a: 212). Allowing for the possibility that some people may have permanently inhabited the site (in spite of the lack of evidence suggesting this), its relatively small size (17 dunams) would have limited its population to 400 in number. According to Finkelstein’s calculations, less than one-quarter of these inhabitants would have been men. For Finkelstein, the “inescapable conclusion,” therefore, “is that people from all over the region must have participated in these labors” (Finkelstein 1988a: 218). The inescapable question, however, is what types of people from all over the region participated in these labors? The answer may be found in the same faunal analysis that Finkelstein used to support his contention regarding the proportion of sedentary to nonsedentary populations in the area. While both reports testify to a higher proportion of cattle bones in the MB, this assemblage was still dominated by the remains of sheep and goats (82–88%). Following Finkelstein’s own logic, this indicates that pastoralists and agriculturalists were present during this time. It is reasonable to conclude, therefore, that both sedentary and nonsedentary populations cooperated with one another in the construction of these projects and continued to cooperate with one another in spite of the decrease in nonsedentary populations during the LB. The foregoing data indicate that Tell Balâṭah was situated in a region that supported a mixed population, consisting of groups that identified themselves with both sedentary and nonsedentary/pastoralist lifestyles. Individuals could transition along this continuum according to the demands of a specific political and/or environmental situation, particularly if the populations involved engaged in what Porter (2012: 245) refers to as “family-based economic practices, where some members are sedentary, some mobile.” This along with the comparative evidence from Shiloh and Mari indicate that at least some proportion of these two groups shared a common social, political, and even religious heritage. It is likely, therefore, that the sparsely inhabited, unfortified MB IIA Tell Balâṭah served as a common sacred site for the inhabitants of the region where cooperative, intersocial relationships could be forged among disparate populations who ran the risk of fissure and even conflict due to the nature of their lifestyles. Habitation at this site increased as the MB unfolded, and power appears to have been centralized in its final stage through the introduction of a royal tradition. While this may have caused some of the inhabitants of the region to abandon their political affiliations, an act that may have contributed to the demise of Tell Balâṭah at the end of this age, it is likely that many of the bonds between the constituents of this mixed population remained. If this was indeed the case, there are a number of striking similarities between the land of Shechem during the MB and the land of Amurru in

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the LB. First, both appear to have played host to a mixed population of sedentary and nonsedentary groups. For both, this diversity was facilitated by their similar geographies. Second, they appear to have shared a similar political trajectory, transitioning from a multipolity decentralized land into a centralized land. Third, during this transition, the administrative center of each appears to have derived its name from the land with which it was affiliated, a phenomenon that runs contrary to expectations. As was observed in chap. 3, administrative centers tended to lend their names to centralized lands. The Tananir Complex and the Collective Tradition of the Land of Shechem Even if this reconstruction of the land of Shechem and its constituents is accepted, the question still remains regarding the function of the Tananir complex. Why was it constructed during the height of Tell Balâṭah’s occupation if its use was limited to “tribally organized” populations who were not politically affiliated with the city? The answer to this question may be found in its place within the archaeological history of Tell Balâṭah and its sacred spaces. While the temenos dominated Tell Balâṭah during the MB IIA, it was not until the MB IIB that its distinctive archaeological features took shape. During this period, the layout of the Courtyard Complexes directly reflected those of the later Tananir complex. Both contained courtyards with stone pedestals that likely held “sacred pillars,” surrounded by a number of smaller rooms (Campbell and G. E. Wright 1969: 109). With the dawn of the MB IIC, the open-air altar plaza and the monumental Fortress Temple replaced the Courtyard Complexes and their characteristic pedestals. This modification of sacred space within Tell Balâṭah directly corresponded to the construction of the first stage of the Tananir complex (Building B; ca. 1650–1600 BCE). By the time the plaza altar was absorbed into the palace complex as Temple 7300, the final form of the Tananir complex (Building  A; ca. 1600–1543 BCE) was complete. After the destruction of Tell Balâṭah and the Tananir complex at the end of the MB IIC, the tradition of open-air sacred space along with standing stones or maṣṣēbôt was reestablished in the temenos of Tell Balâṭah and continued there until its destruction in the Iron Age. However, the Tananir complex was never rebuilt. According to these data, the form of sacred space within Tell Balâṭah was continuous for a long period of time, only to be interrupted during the MB IIC. Perhaps in response, this tradition continued—or was relocated— outside Tell Balâṭah in the newly constructed Tananir complex. Though Finkelstein indicates that it continued to be used after the destruction and

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subsequent abandonment of Tell Balâṭah at the end of the MB IIC (Finkelstein 1988a: 343–44; 1988b: 41), there is no evidence of this (Boling 1969: 100; 1975a: 43). This and the fact that the Tananir complex was constructed and in operation during the MB IIC period contradict his claim that isolated temples were “unknown in those periods of antiquity characterized by urban activity” (Finkelstein 1988a: 344). 50 The fact that it was in use during the height of Tell Balâṭah’s urban activity, only to be destroyed and abandoned with Tell Balâṭah at the end of the MB, suggests an important connection between these two entities and thereby raises questions regarding its social and political function. A comparison with the LB zukru festival at Emar will help answer these questions. Though it evolved over time, this annual event was defined by and centered around the populations who identified themselves with Emar. The centerpiece of the festival took place outside the city walls at a location referred to as “the gate of the sikkānu stones” (KÁ na4.mešsi-ka-na-ti), which consisted of an arrangement of standing stones reminiscent of the “sacred pillars” and maṣṣēbôt in the temenos of Tell Balâṭah and in the Tananir complex. A number of activities took place at this extramural shrine, including a sacrificial feast in which the general population participated, 51 the anointing of the upright stones with oil and blood, and the procession of Dagan, the head of the pantheon, between these stones by wagon. The king of Emar only played a role in this festival during its more elaborate version, which occurred every seven years. Even then, his role was limited to subsidizing its cost. Because of its location and the dominant role played by the general public, Fleming concluded that “the actual ideology represented in the zukru festival is decidedly collective in nature, bringing the citizenry as such to front and center and excluding any active role for either the king or any elite individual or group” (Fleming 2004: 227). As such, this “town festival represents one piece of the larger evidence for a strong collective political ideology in thirteenth-century Emar, coexisting with an emergent local monarchy under Hittite imperial sovereignty” (Fleming 2004: 227; 1992). 52 50. The same can be said for MB Shiloh. 51. This is indicated by the fact that portions of the offerings were designated for “the people,” a detail that reflects an “unusual sacred role for Emar’s citizenry” (Fleming 2000: 97). 52. A similar practice is attested in the cult inventories from Ḫattuša. According to Fleming, “[O]ne autumn rite for the storm-god had the god (that is, his temple image) carried out to the ḫuwaši stone, which was washed and anointed. The god was then set down in front of the stone, and offerings were provided. After a ritual battle between the men of Ḫatti and the men of Maša, the god was brought back to his temple for more offerings”

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A similar line of thought can be used to explain the construction and use of the MB IIC Tananir complex. As reflected most clearly in the palace complex and Temple 7300, this was the only period for which there is archaeological evidence of increasing centralization of power and the emergence of a royal tradition at Tell Balâṭah. It is plausible, therefore, that the Tananir complex was constructed outside the city’s walls in an attempt to maintain the collective political heritage that had defined Tell Balâṭah and those associated with it since its inception as a sacred site in the MB IIA. While Fleming proposes that the zukru festival reached “back to a time earlier than the construction of the city” (Fleming 2000: 138) and represented “tribal” affiliations that were not dependent on it, the opposite may be true for Tell Balâṭah. If its central temenos originally served the function of organizing and solidifying the political collective of the constituents of the land of Shechem, it would not have been necessary to construct the Tananir complex until the rise of political centralization at Tell Balâṭah during the MB IIC. However, with the restoration of the symbols of collective power in the ancient temenos during the LB, the Tananir complex, or what remained of it, became obsolete. This explanation is greatly enhanced when one considers the symbolic implications surrounding the incorporation of the open-air altar plaza into the palace complex. When compared with the less hierarchical broadroom style of the Fortress Temple (Faust 2006: 78–80), which continued to serve as the “public center for the city’s population” (Campbell 2002: 154), as well as the Courtyard Complex of the preceding MB IIB period with its adjoining rooms that were probably used “by families at cultic festivals” (2002: 93), this incorporation is an example of a “appropriation of space” for the purpose of “organizing and materializing social relationships and boundaries” (DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle 1996: 19; see also Porter 2009: 209–17) according to a more hierarchical pattern. In other words, Temple 7300 embodied the sacred space of the divine patron of the hierarchically organized political structure that had been introduced to the city. In this way, it would have reflected an attempt to disembed (Eisenstadt 1964: 376) and co-opt symbolic representations of the older corporate tradition into (Fleming 2000: 136–37). Fleming proposes a similar function for the Mesopotamian akītu festival as well (2000: 134–36). Porter (2009: 207) contends that a comparable phenomenon is attested in the ritual practices that occurred at Dēr during the reign of Zimri-Lim. According to her analysis, “[T]he performance in fact of the festival to Deritum, may be understood as not a city celebration, but as a Simalite one, where it is the descent group and its reciprocal rights and obligations that is foregrounded . . . serving to draw together the distant elements of Zimri-Lim’s polity.”

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the newly established royal tradition. 53 This would directly correspond to the motivations of Aziru in his establishment of a new administrative center at Ṣumur and his creation of a military force that was directly identified with him. 54 The MB IIC Tananir complex was not, therefore, simply the center of the collective organization of tribal groups as Campbell and G. E. Wright contend. Instead, it was the center of the collective organization of a variety of groups, sedentary and otherwise, that inhabited the region and cooperated with one another even in the face of an emerging royal tradition. 55 This capacity to “re-organize to suit new conditions, without losing the structuring principles” (Giddens 1984: 142) reflects the “series of relationships structured through kinship, descent, tradition and ritual (amongst other possibilities) that connect different elements together” (Porter 2000: 83) characteristic of integrative “tribal” networks of a mixed population. The sacred space in and around Tell Balâṭah, therefore, likely served as both the symbolic and the actual meeting place of a collective political tradition that defined both Tell Balâṭah and the land of Shechem (see Porter 2009). In the end, the archaeological evidence strongly suggests “a particular self-conception—and realization—of a communitarian, kin-based society” (Porter 2009: 209). 56 The Resilience of The Land of Shechem The archaeological evidence from Tell Balâṭah and the land of Shechem indicates that the region experienced several significant transformations from the MB to the close of the LB. What is more notable, however, 53. Such a reconstruction corresponds with Flannery’s observation that in “the ancient Near East, recognizable temple plans antedate recognizable palace plans by several millennia. The situation is thus analogous to Mesoamerica, where clear public buildings had already been built by the rank societies of the Formative period but indisputable palaces did not become common until the state had formed” (Flannery 1988: 24–25). 54. As observed by DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle (1996: 16; see also Fleming 2004: 226–27), this type of tactical manipulation of ideology “contributes to the centralization and consolidation of political power.” 55. A similar phenomenon may be attested in the LB Fosse Temple located outside Lachish. According to EA 287: 14–16, the city of Lachish is accused of giving “food, oil, and all [their] needs” to an unnamed enemy. One wonders if the collective representatives of the city made the decision to do this in the Fosse Temple. 56. Appealing to her interpretation of the material remains at Tell Chuera, Porter similarly calls into question the common archaeological model that “ideologies of kinship and descent are supposed to disappear as the state takes over” (Porter 2009: 211; see also Porter 2012).

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is the resilience and cultural continuity of the region and its populations in the face of these changes. This is yet another way in which the land of Shechem was akin to the land of Amurru. We may recall that the resilience and cultural continuity of Amurru was attributed to three related factors that largely depended upon the integration of settled centers and pastoralist populations. They included (a) the capacity of these populations to engage in a variety of economic strategies; (b) their capacity to maintain sociopolitical ties across distance, over time, and in the face of external threats; and (c) their relative isolation (see chap. 5 above). Like Amurru, the diverse geography of the land of Shechem not only allowed for but required its population to engage in a variety of subsistence strategies. The diversity of these strategies allowed for greater flexibility during periods of economic and/or environmental instability. This is reflected in the fluctuating proportions of agriculturalists to pastoralists in the region throughout the second millennium. At the same time, it was their collective political tradition, evidenced most clearly in the evolution of the sacred space in and around Tell Balâṭah, that enabled them to maintain their sociopolitical ties across distance and time, in the face of external threats and even in the context of a changing political structure. As is reflected in the Tananir complex, membership in such “loosely organized confederacies of both agrarian and pastoral nomadic kin groups . . . often transcends the boundaries of individual centers, . . . specific places of residence” (Cooper 2006: 31), and even individual leaders (Fleming 2004; Mann 1986: 63–70). This ultimately enabled “them to modify their social and political structures to suit the conditions in which they found themselves” (Cooper 2006: 33). Additional “sacred” sites, such as Shiloh and the cemetery at the base of Mt. Ebal likely contributed to the flexible and heterarchical relationships among the various groups of this mixed population. 57 Finally, the nature of Shechem’s relative isolation is best depicted in terms of its presence, or lack there of, in Egyptian documents. In my evaluation of the scope and nature of Egyptian interests in the Levant (see chap. 1 above), Shechem represented a conspicuous gap in the topographical references from the New Kingdom. During the LB, the land of Shechem is 57. Bunimovitz (1994a: 12) addresses both of these factors when he claims that, as opposed to “the urban elite,” who, in the case of Tell Balâṭah, are best identified with the so-called governor’s residences and palace complex of the MB IIC, “the rest of the population demonstrated greater resilience and reacted dynamically to the political and economic changes which took place in Palestine during the 16th–12th centuries B.C.E. by shifting back and forth along the continuum of settlement.”

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only attested in EA 289, an Akkadian text dispatched from Jerusalem. 58 Given its location, one can understand why it did not fall within the purview of Egypt’s imperial interests. First, as Horowitz pointed out, it was not situated along a major route of trade or communication (Horowitz 1995: 217). In fact, the Ephraimite hill country was “inhospitable,” holding “little attraction for the Egyptians who were basically disinclined to police it” (Redford 1990: 68, 70). There, the “woods and predators . . . made travel risky.” 59 Ultimately, “life in the highlands had some clear advantages for the local population. The social and political isolation allowed relative freedom from the great power which in many periods dominated the lowlands” (Finkelstein 1995: 353). Second, because of its natural topography, the region did not allow for the type of large-scale agricultural production that occurred in the land of Gina. Third, the devastation that Tell Balâṭah faced in the 16th century, along with its collective political tradition, may have prevented it from becoming a viable source of taxes and tribute and/ or becoming a legitimate threat to Egyptian interests in the land. In the end, these three factors enabled the land of Shechem to be extremely resilient throughout the second millennium in spite of a number of significant political, economic, and environmental changes.

Conclusion: Labʾayu and the Land of Shechem Throughout much of its history during the second millennium, the land of Shechem was a collectively organized decentralized land that consisted 58. The absence of any reference to the 16th-century assaults on Tell Balâṭah in New Kingdom documents suggests that the Egyptians did not participate in them or that these attacks did not hold enough prestige to warrant publication. As I noted above, the only reason that the Egyptians may have originally been interested in the region at the beginning of the New Kingdom was because they viewed it as the traditional home of what they perceived to be their historical foes—the “Hyksos” or “rulers of the hill-countries” (ḥqꜢ ḫꜢswt). Nevertheless, even with his incursions into the Transjordan, Ramesses II made no mention of extending his campaigns into the central highlands surrounding Shechem. Rather, he adhered to the standard imperial policy of following and fortifying the primary routes of trade and communication, none of which ran through the territory around Tell Balâṭah (see chap. 1 above). 59. Redford (1992: 271–72) contends that “it was into this inhospitable upland, where it was still possible to enjoy an existence largely free of imperial authority, that the great folk movement of the end of the LB made its dramatic ingress . . . the ‘Shasu’, came to be used of wandering groups whom we would call bedu. . . . Their lawlessness and their proclivity to make raids gave rise in Canaanite to the denominative verb šasā(h) ‘to plunder’.” As Finkel­stein (2013: 44) points out, “[I]n the time of the New Kingdom, Egyptian pharaohs refrained from penetrating into the sparse, settled, wooded, rugged, and hostile hill country.” According to Zertal (1994: 51), “[T]he policy of the first kings of the 18th Egyptian Dynasty was to create a no-man’s-land in the remote and difficult to control hill country.”

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of a variety of political entities and populations. This does not preclude the possibility that Tell Balâṭah had its own local, individual leader, council of leaders, or both during different moments in its history. In other words, Tell Balâṭah was a member and perhaps even the cultic center of the decentralized land of Shechem, operating in cooperation with and likely at times in competition with the populations affiliated with the burial at the base of Mt. Ebal and the sacred sites at Jebel el-Rubka and Shiloh. This sociopolitical background does not exclude the possibility that Labʾayu was also affiliated with the land of Shechem. The fact that Labʾayu and the land of Shechem are named as acting in concert in EA 289 suggests that he may have been, though the evidence is sparse. Nevertheless, the nature of this relationship must be understood in terms of the political structure that the land of Shechem embodied during the LB and the activities of Labʾayu and his sons. Though the exact location of Labʾayu’s patrimonial city remains uncertain, in chap. 6 I demonstrated that the focus of Labʾayu’s attention was the land of Gina. His intense interest in this region suggests that his heritage may originally have been located in or near the Jezreel Valley and perhaps even in the northern foothills of the central hill country in the land of Shechem itself. However, the fact that the actions described in EA 289 are associated but not identified with Labʾayu makes it unlikely that he moved his administrative center to Tell Balâṭah. The improbability of this scenario is enhanced by the ideological problems associated with kings giving lands (see chap.  3 above); the archaeological evidence; and the fact that MutBaḫlu, the son of Labʾayu, referred to himself as the king of Piḫilu, not the king of Shechem. It is most likely, therefore, that Labʾayu administered his authority in or around Piḫilu. Labʾayu may have intended to consolidate the power of the land of Gina and the land of Shechem against Egyptian hegemony much in the same way that ʿAbdi-Aširta tried to unify Amurru. There are significant differences between these two figures, including the fact that they appear to have held different positions within the Egyptian imperial administration. Nevertheless, their respective missions incorporated similar methods, including the formation of political alliances with polities and people groups that were located in and around their respective spheres of influence. For Labʾayu, this included relationships with Gazru, Gintikirmil, and some of the polities in and around the land of Gina. It may have also included a relationship with the land of Shechem. 60 In this way, Labʾayu is 60. Finkelstein and Naʾaman (2005) make a similar claim regarding the formation of political coalitions in the region, drawing parallels between those coalitions and the activities of the Israelite monarchy.

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best understood as a “charismatic leader” or “local strongman” who, like ʿAbdi-Aširta, had the capacity to unite disparate polities under a common cause, a role that R. de Vaux (1978: 801) hints at in his assessment of Labʾayu: “It would seem too that he did not live at Shechem; his authority was probably exercised from elsewhere by means of an agreement made with the inhabitants. The latter took care of the internal administration of the city and recognized Labʾayu’s authority as a kind of protectorate.” 61 As I indicated above, Shechem’s collective political heritage and its remote location may explain its relative absence from the Egyptian record. The lack of a centralized political structure would have hindered the effective collection of taxes and tribute valuable enough to maintain an imperial presence in the region. In addition, it would have limited the organizational capabilities that could have posed the type of threat that the Egyptians sought to eradicate. However, this picture changed dramatically during the reign of Sheshonq I. In the description of his campaign into the land preserved in the Temple of Amun at Karnak, Gibeon, Beth-horon, Zemaraim, and possibly Tirzah—all locations in the central hill country surrounding Shechem—make their first appearance in the written record. 62 Though this list of toponyms is broken, many agree that Shechem should be restored in it. 63 Whether it should be or not, the reason for this sudden appearance is clear: by the time of Sheshonq’s reign, a viable kingdom whose benefit and/ or threat to the Egyptians outweighed the cost of a campaign against it had emerged in the region. 64 Working back to the tenure of Labʾayu, then, it 61. This is similar to Bunimovitz’s claim that “it may be that the most important achievement of Labʾayu or his predecessors was the uniting of the northern central hill country—a region which was in our opinion sociopolitically fragmented—into one unit” (Bunimovitz 1994a: 12 n. 9; 1993: 146–47; 1994b: 187–93). Where I depart from Bunimovitz, however, is in his contention that Labʾayu transformed the land of Shechem into a centralized land. 62. See Aḥituv 1984: 20–21, 77, 102–103, 190; Finkelstein 2013: 41–44, 76–77. Note also that Hamath only appears in P. Anastasi I (21: 7), a literary text from the reign of Ramesses I (Aḥituv 1984: 39, 113). 63. Aharoni 1967: 286–87. 64. According to A. Mazar (2007c: 124), “Unlike any of the earlier Egyptian New Kingdom military campaigns in Canaan, Sheshonq’s list mentions sites north of Jerusalem, like Beth Horon and Gibeon. The only plausible explanation for this must be the existence of a political power in the central hill country that was significant enough in the eyes of the Egyptians to justify such an exceptional route for the campaign. The only sensible candidate for such a power is the Solomonic kingdom” (see also 2007c: 139; K. Wilson 2005). Representing the other side of the debate, Finkelstein (2013: 37–82) contends that Sheshonq’s assault was directed against an early Israelite polity administered from either Gibeon/Gibeah or Tirzah. While I absolutely agree with Finkelstein’s conclusion that Sheshonq’s campaign into the central hill country is evidence for the emergence of a “territorial polity that en-

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stands to reason that a viable “kingdom” of this type did not exist in the central hill country during the Amarna period. For the Egyptians, the cost of campaigning into the land of Shechem and maintaining its security far outweighed the benefits that would have resulted. Along with embodying similar characteristics and employing similar methods, the missions of ʿAbdi-Aširta and Labʾayu may have ended on a similar note. Both appear to have died at the hands of the people that they were trying to organize under a common cause. For ʿAbdi-Aširta, it was the inhabitants of the land of Amurru (EA 101), and for Labʾayu, it was the inhabitants of the land of Gina (EA 245 and 250). We may recall that RibAddu characterized Amurru as a land that “follows the stronger party” (EA 73: 15–16). This was materialized when its inhabitants killed ʿAbdi-Aširta because of the Hurrian threat that he appears to have created. Similarly, the sons of Labʾayu accuse the inhabitants of the land of Gina for having killed their father. Apparently, they too felt that Labʾayu was not the stronger party. Nevertheless, the sons of both of these men did not take flight from these hostile populations. Instead, they sought to reassert their authority among them through strategies similar to those employed by their fathers. dangered Egyptian interests in Canaan” (2013: 44), I do not think he can use this event to support his claim that Shechem was a territorial kingdom administered by Labʾayu. The most glaring problem with this comparison is the lack of evidence for any direct Egyptian intervention against Tell Balâṭah or the land of Shechem during the time separating KhuSebek’s assault and Sheshonq’s campaign.

Chapter 8

The Land before the Rise of Israel Introduction This chapter marks the conclusion of my study of the sociopolitical landscape in the southern Levant during the LB. It opened with an evaluation of the influences that shaped both the ancient polities of the region and modern perceptions of them. This included an analysis of the nature and scope of Egyptian imperial interests in the land, and an outline of scholarly reconstructions of the entities that populated it. Though these reconstructions differ in several of their methodologies and conclusions, they all share the fundamental belief that small “city-states” along the coast and in the valleys and larger “territorial kingdoms” in the central hill country dominated the land. In spite of this geographical divide, these polities held in common several important features. As characteristically “Canaanite,” each was defined by a particular urban center from which power was administered by a small proportion of the political elite over and against the large sedentary populations within their respective domains. 1 This limited view of power is demonstrated in the contention that “only the rulers of these political units were allowed to correspond with the Pharaoh” (Naʾaman 2005c: 148; see also 167; Finkelstein 1996d: 224; Strange 2000: 74). As for the “nonsedentary” populations, their interaction with these “city-states” and “territorial kingdoms” was limited to the economic sphere, a view that is directly influenced by Rowton’s dimorphic model of ancient societies (Malamat 1983: 20*; Finkelstein 1988a: 346; see also pp. 337, 344; 1988b: 36, 43; 1995a: 361; Bunimovitz 1994b: 201–2; 1994b: 3 n. 1; Strange 2000: 72). The underlying drive to visualize the Levantine political landscape with an “unproblematic, unitary totality” based on “comfortable theories” (Mann 1986: 2) is illustrated in the attempts of several scholars to map the political units of the region with clearly defined boundaries (Finkelstein 1996c: 229). 2 As helpful as these maps are in conceptualizing the landscape, 1. See esp. Bunimovitz, who argues that the elite political class constituted only 10– 15% of the entire population (Bunimovitz 1994a: 5). 2. Contrast with Naʾaman (2005c: 153), who contends that there “is no evidence that kings effectively dominated these sparsely inhabited areas or that the kings considered them

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as “conceptualizations” often do, they tend to overshadow and oversimplify the sociopolitical nuances and variability of the period. The intention of parts 1 and 2 has been to expose these nuances and variability by evaluating the data through a different set of theoretical lenses regarding the nature of power, the social and political makeup of ancient societies, and the processes involved in the formation of ancient “states.” In the end, I arrived at three fundamental conclusions, each one serving as the foundation of the next. The first is that social power is, in the words of Giddens (1984), a “muddled,” and “multidimensional” phenomenon. With this insight governing my investigation, I demonstrated that the polities and populations of the Levant were characterized by a variety of affiliations, constituents, and identities. As a result, they demonstrated a high level of flux and variability. Finally, I called attention to several different strategies of leadership and political unification in operation, each of which had a significant impact upon the shape of the political entities involved. The following is a summary of these observations and conclusions.

The Nature of Social Power In chap. 2, I reassessed the nature and sources of social power. Rather than being a unidirectional phenomenon administered by a small proportion of the population, a view commonly held by those who adhere to a feudal or Marxist model of ancient states, social power is best understood as a “dialectical process” (Mann 1986; Fleming 2004: 178), consisting of both “exclusionary” and “corporate” forms (Blanton et al. 1996: 6). In other words, access to social power is available to multiple social players. This insight is based upon the understanding that power is not limited to a single social sphere or type. Instead, it is distributed across multiple spheres (Mann 1986) and types (Lehman 1969) to which various populations have varying degrees of access. In addition, the social resources through which power is administered are constrained by particular sets of social rules that ultimately limit the ways in which one can legitimately exercise power (Giddens 1984: 162, 169; Wolf 1990: 587). In order to illustrate this dynamic, I highlighted several instances in which the citizens of a city articulated their collective political voice directly to their Egyptian overlord. These examples included a missive from parts of their kingdoms.” Based on this evaluation, Naʾaman rejects the method of some of his colleagues of drawing maps that cleanly divide the political units of the southern Levant as if their territories were clearly recognized and rarely debated during this period. Because of this hesitation, Naʾaman limits his own reconstruction to the Levantine polities that one can locate with confidence (Naʾaman 2005c).

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the citizens of Irqata and its elders (EA 100), 3 one from the sons of Tunip (DUMUmeš urudu-ni-ipki; EA 59: 2), and two from the Gublites (urugub-la; EA 139: 1–4; 140: 1–3). While corporate power and exclusionary power could operate in cooperation with one another, a phenomenon that appears to have characterized the political situation at Irqata when EA 100 was written, they could also compete with one another. This relational aspect helped to ensure that those with power adhered to the rules of its administration. Essentially, corporate power served as a counterbalance to exclusionary power. The background behind the Gublites’ communications with the king is particularly illuminating in this regard. I determined that the ḫupšū who were associated with Gubla were regarded as Gublites. Rather than being a politically disempowered group of economically depressed rural denizens—a generally accepted modern view reflected in the common rendering of this term as “peasants”—they played a significant role in the political scene at Gubla. On a number of occasions, Rib-Addu informed the king that the ḫupšū were asserting their political will by becoming hostile toward him (EA 77: 36–37; 81: 15; 82: 38–39) and threatening to desert (paṭāru) the city if their demands were not met (EA 114: 20–22; 125: 23–30; 134: 16–18; compare with 106: 24–25). The threat of desertion would have been particularly troublesome during the LB because of the apparent shortage of human labor at that time (Marfoe 1979; Bunimovitz 1994a). Because the ḫupšū embodied and wielded this valuable social resource, they were able to exercise a significant amount of social power through it. By the end of Rib-Addu’s tenure, the impact of their social power was fully realized. The Gublites were so dissatisfied with Rib-Addu that they banished him from their city, forcing him to take refuge with his ally Ammunira in Beirut (EA 136, 137, 138; see also EA 74: 23–29; 75: 25–34; 81: 11–13; 89: 15–29, 91). 4 It was at that point that the Gublites began representing themselves in cooperation with Ili-rapiḫ, the brother of Rib-Addu, in communicating with their Egyptian king. This, of course, was not the only occasion on which the collective will of a political entity was expressed and/ or exercised. Due largely to the dynamic and relational nature of social power, every type of political unit that I isolated and evaluated betrayed this capacity. It is to a summary of these types and their underlying structures that I now turn. 3. The opening lines of this letter read: “A tablet from Irqata. Thus say the Irqataites and their elders” (DÚB-bi uruir-qa-ta um-ma uruir-qa-ta ù lú.mešši-b⟨u⟩-ti-ši; EA 100: 1–4). 4. Compare this with the actions taken by the Taḫnakites against Yašdata in EA 248.

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Polity Types, Political Affiliations, Constituency, and Identity in the Land Earlier in this book, I noted that problems often arise when foreign terminology is imposed upon the ancient record. By paying close attention to the indigenous terms used to classify the polities of the Amarna Age Levant (Marcus 1989: 92; Hansen 2000: 166; Fleming 2004) and being attuned to the different ways in which scribes employed these classifications, I was able to highlight a variety of polity types and political affiliations in operation. The basic political unit of the southern Levant was the city (URU/ālu). Political action, particularly in the form of forging alliances, 5 was often identified with a city’s ḫazannu (see, e.g., EA 83: 23–25; 125: 39; 197: 13–16). However, the evidence also indicates that a city, the essence of which was the citizenry affiliated with it (Fleming 2004: 11), could forge political alliances (chap. 2). The first type of alliance consisted of intercity alliances, as in the case of the one forged when the citizens of uruBit-dNIN. URTA “seceded to the Qiltuites” (pa-ṭa-ra-at ⸢a⸣-šar LÚmeš uruqí-il5-ti ki; EA 290: 17–18; see also EA 101: 18–25; 104: 40–54; 114: 11–15). The second consisted of alliances with individual leaders. While some of these leaders were identified as the ḫazannu of a particular city—as in the case of the alliance forged between Zimredda, the ḫazannu of Ṣidon, and the Arwadites (LÚmeš uruar-wa-da; EA 149: 54–63; see also EA 280: 9–24)—others, including ʿAbdi-Aširta and his sons, were not (see e.g., EA 84: 11–13; 87: 19–20; 138: 44–45, 80–93). The final category of political alliances consisted of those forged between the citizens of a city and groups such as the ʿapîrû who were not identified with a particular settled center (EA 74: 19–21; 76: 34–37; 104: 47–54; 144: 22–30). As the basic political unit of the southern Levant, the city was the fundamental building block of the second type of political unit that I analyzed, the centralized mātu. This type of “land” (KUR) was defined by its status as a unified political entity administered by a single leader from its sole “royal” or administrative center (URU), from which the mātu regularly derived its name. In contrast to this type of “land,” a multipolity decentralized mātu consisted of a coalition of cities and centralized mātus that retained their independence under the authority of their respective ḫazannūti, kings, and/or collective representative bodies. This was reflected in the capacity of these units to choose whether or not they would take action in 5. In addition, I noted that dispatching letters to distinct political entities was also a specifically political act (see chaps. 2–3 above). Outside this, the forging of political alliances was the most prominent activity referred to in the corpus.

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cooperation with their fellow members, or, when necessary, take action against one another. While the corporate activities of these coalitions often consisted of engaging in joint military maneuvers against a common enemy (see, e.g., EA 160: 24–25; 161: 36–37), they were not limited to this. In one instance, the kings of the land of Canaan were called upon by the king of Mittani to provide his servant Akiya with safe passage into Egypt (EA  30). On another occasion, Biridiya of Megiddo complained that he was the only ḫazannu of the multipolity decentralized mātu Gina to supply the labor force required to cultivate the land around Šunama (EA 365). The fact that he was criticizing his fellow ḫazannūti for not reciprocating implies that, as members of the land of Gina, they were expected to do so. The concerns expressed by Biridiya call into question some of the methods used by archaeologists to calculate the size of individual polities described in chap. 1. Some have argued that a political entity needed to have authority over a certain number of hectares of urban buildup, according to a predetermined population coefficient, in order to have a population large enough to produce the agricultural surplus necessary to sustain it. In addition, if an administrative center contained “monumental architecture,” it needed to have direct access to the human power necessary to undertake these projects (Finkelstein 1996d: 225–26). Against this proposal, Naʾaman (2005c: 152) has pointed out that smaller polities could resort to hired labor when necessary. Yet another strategy used to overcome a shortage of human labor is demonstrated in Biridiya’s letter. Rather than hiring a workforce, apparently the constituents of a decentralized mātu could work together, sharing their respective resources to meet one another’s needs. 6 Both of these tactics indicate that the size of a polity cannot be based solely on what one might perceive to be its population needs, further complicating any attempt to clearly define the boundaries of these entities. In spite of the fundamental differences between centralized mātus and multipolity decentralized mātus, the populations of both could take collective political action. Like cities, as political units, lands were defined, not by geography, but by the populations that were identified with them (Fleming 2004: 116–21; Naʾaman 2005c: 158). EA 187 contains two examples of a centralized mātu taking collective political action without reference to its ḫazannu. There, ʿAbdi-Ḫeba accuses both the land of Gezer (kur.uru[g]azri ki) and the land of Ašqaluna (kur.uruaš-qa-lu-naki), along with the city of Lachish (urul[a-ki-s]i ki), of giving (i-din-nu) food, oil, and other provisions to an unnamed entity (EA 187: 14–16). The collective activity of populations identified with multipolity decentralized mātus was also demonstrated in 6. See also the discussion regarding Shiloh in chap. 7.

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the common fate of ʿAbdi-Aširta and Labʾayu. According to EA 101 and EA 250, the deaths of these men were not attributed to ḫazannūti, but to the populations of the land of Amurru and the land of Gina, respectively. Informed by this larger cultural milieu, I suggested that Tell Balâṭah also played host to a strong tradition of collective power. This tradition is manifest most clearly in the nature and layout of its sacred spaces. Even when symbols of exclusionary power were introduced to the city, co-opting some of its sacred space, this collective tradition was maintained at the MB Tananir complex. It is likely, therefore, that the actions taken by the land of Shechem in EA 289 reflect this political heritage (chap. 6), suggesting that it too functioned as a multipolity decentralized land during the LB. Cities, centralized lands, and multipolity decentralized lands were not the only entities that could take political action. The Amarna letters also attest other categories of people who were not immediately identified with a settled center doing this, often in cooperation with or even as constituents of populations that were identified with cities and lands. For one thing, the collective governing bodies of cities often forged political alliances with the ʿapîrû. This phenomenon is clearly articulated in the message sent by ʿAbdi-Aširta to the Ammiyites that Rib-Addu reproduced in EA 73. According to the latter, ʿAbdi-Aširta encouraged the Ammiyites to kill their lord in order that they might politically “align themselves” (epēšu + ana) not with himself but with the ʿapîrû. NIN.UR.MAḪ.MEŠ also reports that the ʿapîrû wrote to the Ayyalunites and Ṣaḫarites. This important notice implies that the ʿapîrû not only had the capacity and apparatus to write but that they also engaged in the political act of communicating with independent entities in the region. The Sutû are also depicted as having political ties with Biryawaza of Damascus (EA 195), and with Aziru after the land of Amurru became centralized under his authority (EA 169). These political activities and affiliations indicate that the categories “sedentary” and “nonsedentary” or “tribal” are more complex than one might be led to believe. As Fleming’s work on the textual evidence from Mari has demonstrated, a “tribe” is not necessarily a strictly bounded social or cultural entity that stands in opposition to the state (Giddens 1981: 160; Porter 2012; 2000: 82; Fleming 2004: 28). Nor are members of a tribe characteristically rural (Lapidus 1990: 26; Khazanov 1978: 124–25; Nissen 1980: 289; Kafadar 1995; Khoury and Kostiner 1990: 11; Postgate 1992: 86). As I explained in chap. 4 (see also chap. 7), the constituents of both the Yaminites and the Simʾalites, the two major “tribal” divisions at Mari, lived in urban centers and practiced mobile pastoralism. Consequently, they depended upon both agriculture and herding. In addition, as demonstrated by their obligation to pay regular taxes and provide military support,

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these two groups were fully integrated into the political organization headquartered at Mari. Thus, contrary to Rowton’s dimorphic model, the relationship between “sedentary” and “nonsedentary” populations was not limited to the economic sphere but extended to the political sphere as well. It is best, therefore, to conclude with Porter (2000: 83) that tribal identifications consisted of “a series of relationships structured through kinship, descent, tradition and ritual (amongst other possibilities) that connect different elements together,” rather than serving a purely political function that ultimately sets “tribes” apart from other contemporary polities. At the same time, a tribal affiliation constituted only one of a number of potential sources of individual and/or group identity. According to Yoffee, “[T]he lives and experiences of individuals were inscribed through their identities in gender, ethnicity, kinship, and beliefs. Social actors, however, could belong to more than one group, and so identities could be activated, negotiated, adopted, or rejected according to circumstances and structures” (Yoffee 2005: 36; see also Feinman 1998: 100–106). As a result, “on the level of individuals there are many identities and social roles that cannot be neatly separated into either the community or the state, since people can be members of both” (Yoffee 2005: 137). 7 This dynamic is illustrated in the breadth of the geography that was acknowledged as part of the range of the Yaminites (see chap. 4 above). This range crossed a number of political “boundaries,” encompassing not only the land of Mari but also the lands of Yamḫad and Qaṭna (Fleming 2004: 29, 93). 8 While those who operated in and around Yamḫad and Qaṭna certainly shared a common tribal identity as Yaminites, they did not share their political identity with other Yaminites who were affiliated with the land of Mari. A similar phenomenon probably occurred among the constituents of the land of Amurru during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta. While these constituents would have identified themselves with Amurru, or as Amurrites (see, e.g., EA 101), they would also have maintained a local identification associated with the city (URU; e.g., Ammiya) or centralized land (KUR; e.g., Irqata) with which they were affiliated and/or in which they lived, in addition to a number of other potential identities. The complexity of this situation is observed when the demands or needs of one source of identity come in conflict with another. In some instances, the demands of the wider 7. See also Marfoe (1979: 3), who makes a similar claim: “Group alignments are frequently classified by a diverse assortment of real or presumed kinship ties, by racial or linguistic groups, by sectarian or regional affiliations, or simply by ‘local customs.’ ” 8. This reference is taken from an unpublished letter, a portion of which is published in Fleming 2004: 29; see also p. 93.

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community appear to have outweighed local loyalties, as when the Ammiyites killed their ḫazannu at the behest of ʿAbdi-Aširta (EA 73: 26–29; 74: 24–26; 75: 32–34). At other times, however, the concerns of the local community outweighed the demands of the broader community. This appears to have been the case with the Irqataites after the death of ʿAbdi-Aširta. After having originally aligned themselves with ʿAbdi-Aširta (EA 62), they rejected the overtures of his sons (EA 100: 15–17). One can only speculate whether, in this rejection, the Irqataites where anticipating Aziru’s intentions to centralize Amurru as a single political unit under his authority, a step that would have significantly reduced the capacity of the Irqataites to act autonomously. Regardless, the dynamic of mixed constituency and identity clearly complicated matters for the polities of the LB Levant and continues to complicate our attempts to conceptualize them (Feinman 1998: 106).

Strategies of Leadership and Political Unification and the Inevitability of Political Flux In spite of the difficulties that confronted a polity in its attempt to organize and integrate a mixed constituency that appealed to a variety of identities, a number of strategies could be used to realize this goal, if only temporarily (Feinman 1998: 132). Following my discussion in chaps. 4, 5, and 7, a centralized mātu is characterized by an increasing degree of political centralization. In an attempt to cut across sociopolitical divisions that could limit political integration (Yoffee 2005: 15; 1984: 170; Parsons 1967), the central administration engages in the process of “differentiation,” through which social resources are disembedded from their local, traditional, and/ or ascriptive contexts. By assuming these resources as its own, the central administration ultimately differentiates itself from corporate networks of power (Lehman 1969: 460), “precluding, or at least limiting, the exercise of inter-member power strategies” (Blanton 1998: 146). In so doing, it is better equipped to integrate these diverse groups within a single institutional framework (Yoffee 2005: 32–37; Mann 1986: 22; Lehman 1969: 460; Eisenstadt 1963: 107; 1964: 376), transforming sociopolitical disunity into some degree of unity (Yoffee 2005: 133; Adams 1978: 333; Lehman 1969: 457–58). The most common signs of this process occurring in a centralized land are the isolation of a single administrative center (Eisenstadt 1964: 377; Baines and Yoffee 1998: 209; Yoffee 2005: 37, 61) and the elevation of a single leader (Blanton 1998: 147), commonly designated as a king (šarru), who was associated with and administered his authority from that center. This explains why the land of Amurru was identified

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with a single administrative center, referred to as the uruAmurru (EA 162), after Aziru had been “set among the ḫazannūti” by his Egyptian overlord (EA 161) and recognized as king (šarru) by the members of his own court (EA 170). 9 The process of differentiation at Amurru is also reflected in the changes that occurred in the militaristic sphere. After Aziru emerged as the sole leader of Amurru, he appears to have created his own “professional army” that was identified as his, and thereby under his direct authority (EA 138: 59–62, 69–70; Eisenstadt 1964: 380–83; Flannery 1972: 404; L. S. Fried 2004: 4). The nature of this affiliation was observed in the threat levied by the troops of the Sutû while Aziru was in Egypt. According to the report of Aziru’s son, the Sutû warned that they would desert Amurru if Aziru did not return safely (EA 169: 25–30). In chap. 4, I interpreted this threat as an indication that the cooperation of the Sutû was based first and foremost upon their loyalty and commitment to Aziru. In his absence, they were no longer bound to take military action on behalf of Amurru, even if his own son took his place (compare with 1 Kings 12). In this way, the king, Aziru, operating from his royal administrative center, was the personification of political centralization. These three phenomena reflect what Flannery and Rappaport refer to as the process of “linearization” and “meddling,” respectively, one of the two essential mechanisms in the strategy of differentiation. According to Flannery (1972: 413), in linearization, “lower-order controls are repeatedly or permanently bypassed by higher-order controls,” as in the case of a single king and/or administrative center taking on, or “meddling,” in the roles of the individual leaders who are distributed across multiple administrative centers. 10 The second, complementary mechanism is “promotion” (Flannery 1972) or “usurpation” (Rappaport 1969). This refers to the “promotion,” “usurpation,” and monopolization of cognitive and/or symbolic resources by the central government (see Flannery 1972: 413–16), a strategy that is often realized in the “control of access to the supernatural and the 9. As I indicated above, this process is not reflected among multipolity decentralized lands because their constituents maintained a high degree of autonomy and independence. 10. Similarly, Rappaport indicates that “meddling” occurs when one “subject[s] directly to a higher order control the variables ordinarily regulated by lower order controls” (Rappaport 1969: 24). Flannery (1972: 413) provides the following examples of this process in action : “1. the takeover of local irrigation regulated by federal agencies . . . 2. the bypassing of local headmen by the state when it makes every crime against an individual a crime against the state . . . 3. the payment of taxes by each citizen directly to the federal government, instead of the payment of tribute by local chiefs on the basis of the pooled resources of their followers.” With these examples in mind, he concludes that “linearization heavily contributes to centralization” (Flannery 1972: 413; see Blanton 1998: 137).

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promulgation of an ideological cognitive code and its accompanying rituals that mystify the underlying political inequality” (Blanton 1998: 147). 11 A likely example of promotion/usurpation is reflected in the archaeological transformations that occurred in Tell Balâṭah at the end of the MB (see chap. 7 above). With the founding of Wall B at the beginning of Stratum  XV (ca. 1600–1550 BCE), the sole example of a palace complex was created in the space between it and Wall A. This complex essentially “usurped” the open-air sanctuary at the northwest corner of the Fortress Temple, leading to the creation of Temple 7300. According to Campbell, Temple 7300 “served as the private ‘chapel’ of the city’s ruler similar to the pattern in Alalakh, Stratum VII where a ‘chapel’ adjoins Yarim-Lim’s palace of contemporary date” (2002: 153–54; Woolley 1955: 59–65, fig. 35). Whether or not one accepts the contention that it was indeed a “private chapel,” it likely represented the sacred space of the divine patron of the centralized political structure that recently had been introduced to the city (see Rappaport 1971: 29, 31; DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle 1996: 16– 17; Blanton 1998: 154; Fleming 2004: 226–27; Yoffee 2005: 33, 37). At this point, one can only wonder whether the “original” deity associated with the open-air sanctuary went through a process of “promotion” with this transition, or if a “new” national deity was introduced. In the end, the tactics involved in the process of centralization “assumed the convergence of everyone’s interest on a single, maximizing approach” (Adams 1978: 333). This was not, however, the only strategy used to integrate diverse populations under the banner of a single political entity. An alternative was demonstrated in the nature and methods of ʿAbdi-Aširta’s leadership (see chap. 5 above). As opposed to his son, ʿAbdi-Aširta consolidated the power of the land of Amurru without centralizing his authority and threatening the autonomy of its various political units (see Mann 1986: 56; Blanton 1998: 149–51, 154–56), unless of course they represented a direct threat to his program. 12 This is most apparent in the fact that he was not included in the category either of ḫazannu or of king (šarru), nor was he identified with a specific administrative center. His unique methods 11. In the words of Rappaport (1971: 33), “Sanctity has quite clearly had an important, even predominant, role to play in containing the self interested pursuits of individuals and social groups and in supporting the conventions regulating society.” Compare with Adams 1972: 11. 12. Though he relied heavily upon the power of persuasion to unite the constituents of Amurru, he did not shy away from coercive action against these same constituents when he found it necessary. We will recall that Rib-Addu reports in a series of letters that he, along with the ʿapîrû, took military action against a number of cities in order to gain their support (see esp. EA 74: 23–24; 76: 17–20; 87: 18–24; 88: 4–8, 15–22; 90: 9–19).

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are seen in the process by which he was able to unify at least a portion of Amurru’s fighting force. He began this process by communicating with his potential supporters via letter, repeatedly requesting their support rather than demanding it (EA 73; 74). The independent will of these forces implied by the nature of these letters is supported by a number of observations. First, they were never directly identified with ʿAbdi-Aširta. Rather, they appear to have retained their individual affiliations with their local communities. In theory, therefore, these communities retained the capacity to choose whether or not they would dispatch their troops in support of ʿAbdi-Aširta. As such, this sphere of power remained firmly embedded within and distributed across the local populations of Amurru. Second, those who were dispatched gathered via assembly (paḫāru), 13 an event that regularly included a corporate decision-making process (Fleming 2004: 207). In the case of EA 74, this assembly took place in the temple of NIN.URTA, an event that is paralleled in ARM XXVI 24, where the local leaders and elders of the Yaminites met at the Temple of Sîn in Ḫarran to take an oath before taking joint military action on the Simʾalite town of Dēr. Due to the fact that NIN.URTA probably referred to a secondgeneration god of war, I suggested that he (or she; so Naʾaman 2005e) was an appropriate candidate to serve as the divine patron of a decentralized political collective joining together for the purpose of taking corporate military action. As Blanton (1998: 160) indicates, a “decentralization of ritual emphasizes the commonality of all of society’s constituent elements and the mutual interdependencies of varied social sectors in the reproduction of nature and society.” Finally, in taking these actions, ʿAbdi-Aširta was never accused of trying to create a unified political entity under his direct authority. According to Rib-Addu, the only reason he gave for taking these steps was so that the “sons and daughters” of Amurru might live “at peace forever” (EA 74: 37–38). If, in fact, it was known that ʿAbdi-Aširta was trying to transform Amurru into a centralized land under his leadership, one would expect Rib-Addu to have reported this intention to the Egyptian king. This certainly would have contributed to Rib-Addu’s list of accusations and strengthened his case against his primary adversary. It was for these reasons that I identified ʿAbdi-Aširta, at least on the local level, as a charismatic military leader. 14 13. EA 74: 31–37. See also EA 71: 28–31; 76: 17–20; 85: 76–82; 91: 10–25, where he is said to have “assembled all of the ʿapîrû.” 14. This position, of course, is not always desirable for such a leader. According to EA 101, he eventually died at the hands of the people to whom he was trying to bring “eternal peace.”

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In spite of these different styles of leadership and the strategies involved in the process of fostering political unity, many of the polities examined, including the land of Amurru (chap. 5) and the land of Shechem (chaps. 6–7) were characterized by political flux, moving along a spectrum of centralization as corporate and exclusionary forms of power cooperated with and struggled against one another. Observing a similar phenomenon in his study of the polities of southern Syria, Marfoe (1979: 19–20) argues that the full integration of marginal social groups relying on a broad pattern of shifting subsistence strategies was difficult . . . because cultural identities and political affiliations under these conditions were diffuse, ambivalent, and constantly interchangeable. . . . [T]here continually existed progressively lower substrata of smaller local units, whose cohesiveness was founded on common economic, social, cultural, ethnic, ecologic, or kinship ties . . . the ideological contribution to political integration—as seen in the identification of specific leaders with specific sectarian groups— became as much fact as it was fiction. 15

This observation calls into question the linear evolutionary and neoevolutionary models of state development to which scholars often appeal when trying to reconstruct the nature of “Canaanite” polities and the other populations that surrounded them. As Mann (1986: 67) indicates, “[H]istory is not one of the evolution of social stratification or the state.” In other words, sociopolitical development did not uniformly progress “from egalitarian to rank to stratified societies or from equality to political authority to coercive state power.” Rather, an entity moving “ ‘back’ from the second ‘stage’ to the first was as frequent as from the first to second, and indeed the third stage.” Archaeological evidence from Tell Balâṭah strongly argues for this phenomenon. The type of political flux that occurred in the land of Amurru, for example, and the different strategies available to promote political unity also cast doubt on the method of using rank-size analysis of settlements to determine political integration. Returning to my discussion in chap. 1—this 15. Because of the demands deriving from the various sources of power and the fluctuations in political strategies and structures employed to negotiate these demands, I agree with Adams (1981: 133): “In political regimes as in patterns of settlement and land use, it is thus clear that stability almost always may have been the objective, but flux was the prevailing outcome. . . . [W]e must strive to avoid the impression that the individual city-states and its hinterlands, or even a group of immediately neighboring cities and towns, constitutes the elemental, seemingly ‘natural’ unit of study.” Of course, this statement should again cause one to take pause and reconsider the validity of drafting clearly defined political maps of a region, because the goal of such a task is indeed a moving target.

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method suggests that a wide distribution of small settlements in a region indicates a low level of political integration and a high proportion of autocratic political entities. By contrast, a few large urban centers surrounded by a low ratio of “rural” settlements suggests a high level of political integration and centralization (see esp.  Bunimovitz 1994b: 187–93; 1995: 323–24). Though the theoretical basis of this method makes sense, there is no evidence to suggest that such a shift in settlement patterns took place during Amurru’s transition from a multipolity decentralized land under ʿAbdi-Aširta to a centralized land under Aziru. In spite of the important role that political flux played in the region, one should not overlook the fact that a number of populations, including those affiliated with the land of Amurru (see chap. 5 above) and those affiliated with the land of Shechem (see chap. 7 above), demonstrated a high level of resilience over time. In this way, changes in political structures did not necessarily imply changes in populations and the other sources of identity by which these populations defined themselves.

Conclusion: Ethnicity or Polity? These insights prompt a reconsideration of the best way to identify the populations who were affiliated with a particular political entity, especially when the entities in question were as large and diverse as some of the lands that I have examined. The land of Canaan illustrates the difficulties involved in the process (M. S. Smith 2001: 14–18). While in some contexts “Canaan” may have been used as a geographical reference, there is great difficulty in identifying its limits because they were often based on the position and perspective of the one employing the term. Another alternative is to view the term “Canaan” as an “ethnic” category. However, this approach is also unsatisfactory. As is the case with geography, membership and/or cooperation with the land of Canaan was variable, a feature that was common to many of the decentralized lands I evaluated (Malamat 1983: 19*). The only possible way to answer this question is to return to the root of the problem. In spite of their differences, cities, centralized lands, and multipolity decentralized lands are united by an underlying principle. They are all political units. While the populations affiliated with these entities assumed the appropriate political identification, their mixed origins and lifestyles indicates that other “local” identities were at play as well, including “ethnic” identities—however one should understand this difficult term. These “local” identities could be and probably were maintained even in face of political upheaval. Consequently, as was the case for the Bit-dNIN.

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URTA-ites (see EA 290; chap. 3 above), one’s political identity did not necessarily correspond to one’s “ethnic” or local identity and could be dropped just as easily as it was adopted. In this way, one would expect difficulties in defining the parameters of a centralized or a multipolity decentralized land. As these polities were defined by a high level of flux, so also was their membership. Conversely, even during periods of stability and growth, one must wonder if all populations (particularly those that had recently been absorbed) identified ethnically with the central administration. The distinction drawn between the Yaminites and the Simʾalites of the land of Mari demonstrates that they did not. Hansen (2000: 19) summarizes this reality in the following way: A city-state is a highly institutionalized and highly centralized microstate consisting of one town (often walled) with its immediate hinterland and settled with a stratified population, of whom some are citizens, some foreigners, and, sometimes, slaves. . . . The population is ethnically affiliated with the population of neighboring city-states, but political identity is focused on the city-state itself and based on differentiation from other city-states.

Indeed, such a situation is reflected in the ritual for the well-being of Ugarit (RS 1.002), which promotes a single political identity for what appear to be multiple ethnic groups. This important distinction (along with the picture of the political landscape of the southern Levant presented up to this point) differs widely from the models that have dominated the field. All of these observations will have a significant impact on our understanding of the origins and nature of early Israel. As a political unit, early Israel displays many characteristics of the polities that populated the land during the LB. However, because of the dominant models, many of these points of continuity have gone unnoticed. It is for this reason that I now turn to part 3 of this book: “The Transition from the Late Bronze Age to the Iron I and the Rise of Early Israel.”

Chapter 9

Setting the Context of Premonarchic Israel Introduction In spite of its limitations, the Merenptah stele remains one of the most important pieces of evidence for reconstructing the early history of Israel. Originally belonging to Amenhotep III, who commissioned his scribes to engrave an account of his building achievements on its obverse, Merenptah (ca. 1213–1203 BCE), the son of Ramesses II (ca. 1279–1213 BCE), appropriated it, had a poetic description of his military victories inscribed on its reverse, and relocated it in his mortuary temple at Thebes. While a large portion of this text is dedicated to Merenptah’s victory over the Libyans during the 5th year of his reign, the concluding lines consist of a short poem extolling his triumph over some of Egypt’s neighbors to the north. This hymn of self-praise contains the earliest extrabiblical reference to an entity called “Israel”: Canaan has been plundered into every sort of woe Asheklon has been overcome Gezer has been captured Yenoam is made nonexistent Israel is laid waste—its seed is not [ysrꜢr/l fk(w) bn prt.f] Hurru has become a widow because of Egypt 1

In the various attempts to understand the meaning and implications of this reference, a host of critical questions have emerged. They include the actual meaning of the word ysryꜢr/l, the nature of the entity to which it was referring, and the area where that entity was located. Several scholars have argued that ysryꜢr/l is not the name of a people group but the name of a geographical location. Proposals for identifying this place-name include Jezreel (Margalith 1990: 229; Hjelm and Thompson 2002: 14) and Sharon/ 1. A fragmentary copy of this text was discovered in the temple at Karnak, which also houses reliefs that some argue are associated with the events portrayed in the text (see Yurco 1986; 1990; 1991; 1997: 28–42; cf. Redford 1986).

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Yesharon (Hjelm and Thompson 2002: 13). Based on the orthography of the word and its wider poetic context, however, Egyptologists overwhelmingly agree that it refers to a population (see esp. Kitchen 2004). The most critical piece of evidence in support of this conclusion comes from one of the two determinatives at the end of ysryꜢr/l. The second consists of a man and a woman seated over three short vertical strokes, clearly designating a “people.” 2 This determinative has been used to make certain claims about the sociopolitical character of the people in view as well. Early on, Albright argued that the determinative for people “proved” that Israel was “not yet settled” during Merenptah’s reign (1939: 22). However, as Hasel (2008: 53) has pointed out, this determinative is used to designate both sedentary and nonsedentary groups. On the other side of the debate, reading “seed” (prt) as “seed for planting,” some have appealed to the notice that “his seed is no longer” as evidence that at least some element of Israel was engaged in agricultural production and therefore had some affiliation with a sedentary lifestyle (Hasel 2003: 20–26). Though this was the accepted interpretation of prt by the turn of the 20th century (Spiegelberg 1896: 65; Steindorff 1896: 331; Breasted 1897: 66), others have noted that it can also mean “offspring” or “posterity.” 3 Such a reading would call into question Israel’s proposed affiliation with agricultural production and its associated lifestyle. In support of this conclusion, some have argued that the figures corresponding to Merenptah’s Israel in the Karnak temple reliefs are depicted “as a people not tied to a city-state system” (Hasel 2008: 53). Similar uncertainty has arisen around the location of Merenptah’s Israel. Based on several studies of the poetic structure of the passage in view, three primary proposals have emerged. The first, originally suggested by G.  Ahlström and D. Edelman (1985), is that “Israel” represents a territory that is set in opposition to “Canaan.” Whereas “Canaan” refers to the densely populated urban lowlands along the Mediterranean coast, “Israel” refers to the sparsely populated highlands to the east. Ahlström and 2. This same sign can serve as an ideogram for rmṯ, “people.” According to Faust (2006: 163), “[I]t seems as if today this skepticism deserves no more than a passing remark in summarizing past research, as the detailed studies conducted recently all seem to approve the accepted view of Israel as an ethnic (identity) group.” However, Faust’s confidence seems misplaced. For example, O. Goelet “doubt[s] that the Egyptians of the Ramesside period ever considered themselves an ethnic group in our sense of the term.” On the basis of this insight, he believes “that they almost certainly did not think of other people, such as those mentioned in the Merenptah stele, in those terms” (private communication). As I shall discuss below, the use of the phrase “ethnic group” when referring Israel at this point in its history is indeed problematic. 3. See, e.g., Sethe 1928: 72, 10; Urk. IV 249, 2; 362, 4; 1276, 14.

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Edelman dodge the problem of the determinative designating Israel as a “people” by claiming it was a scribal error. The second, originally proposed by Naʾaman (1994), is that “Israel” refers to a specific “ethnic group” in the Transjordan (see also Herr 1997; 1998; 1999; 2000). The final proposal, which finds the most consensus among scholars, agrees that “Israel” refers to an “ethnic group” but contends that it was located in the Palestinian central hill country (see, e.g., de Vaux 1978: 391–92; Hasel 1994: 48; 2004: 80; Hoffmeier 1997: 29; Dever 1992; 1995a; 1998; 2001; 2003). The debate revolving around these issues underscores the fact that this tantalizing discovery is just one piece of the evidence in the quest for the historical Israel. Nevertheless, it does provide a relatively firm historical date for the existence of an entity that the Egyptians referred to as “Israel.” Scholars generally date this inscription to 1207 BCE. 4 This places Israel in the region before the LB came to an end. What is more, it indicates that Israel posed a threat large enough to compel the Egyptians to engage it militarily and that this confrontation was worthy enough for the Egyptians to memorialize it in stone. With this in mind, though we have a terminal date regarding Israel’s first “appearance” in the historical record, the question remains how long it took for this entity to take shape and for it to be recognized as a threat by the Egyptians. Serious consideration of this question suggests that Israel’s presence in the land preceded the events recorded in Merenptah’s stele by some time. 5 At the very least, it confirms that some form of “Israel” emerged in the area before the close of the LB. Based on this evidence, the transition from the LB to the Iron I and the unique historical events surrounding it have become a focal point for scholarly investigation into the nature and origin of early Israel. However, these studies are heavily influenced by the commonly accepted reconstructions of the Levantine landscape that preceded the rise of Israel introduced in chap. 1 and summarized in chap. 8. In the study that follows, I will review and evaluate three of the most important phenomena that occurred during this transition, phenomena that scholars often point to as having 4. However, Hasel (2008: 53), following Kitchen, dates the stele to 1209. 5. Recent support for this comes from the proposed discovery of a reference to Israel (ʾIꜢ-šr-i-r = ʾI-šr-il/YꜢ-šr-il) in the third name ring of the Berlin Statue Pedestal Relief 21687, which dates to the reign of Ramesses II or earlier (van der Veen, Theis, and Görg 2010: 15, 18). According to the authors’ assessment, if this “name refers to biblical Israel, and if it was located in Canaan (as seems to be indicated by its association with Ashkelon and Canaan), and if the names had been copied from an earlier source (supported by the archaic orthography of all three names on the slab), this would indeed suggest that ProtoIsraelites had migrated to Canaan sometime nearer the middle of the second millennium bce” (2010: 20–21).

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influenced, contributed to, and/or marked the formation of Israel. They include (a)  the sharp increase of settlements in the central hill country; (b) the proposed policy change instituted by the Egyptians in the administration of their imperial interests in the region; and (c) the arrival of the infamous “Sea People.” After evaluating these matters, I will propose a new framework for understanding the various models of Israel’s rise that dominate the field. Finally, I will compare and contrast these models with my reconstruction of the sociopolitical landscape of the land in parts 1 and 2 of this book. In the end, I will suggest that there is more social and political continuity between Israel and the polities and populations of this landscape than is generally recognized. It will be the task of the chapters that follow to demonstrate this continuity, beginning with the nature of early Israel (chaps. 10–12) and concluding with a brief evaluation of the transition to the monarchy under David and Solomon.

The Historical Context of the Late Bronze to the Iron I Transition The Surge in Central Hill Country Settlements Scholars generally agree that the central hill country underwent a significant transformation during the Iron I. 6 Pottery analyses from extensive archaeological surveys point to a surge in settlements in the region. Following Finkelstein’s model of oscillating occupation patterns, we see that the numbers increased from 25–30 during the LB to approximately 250 during the Iron I (Finkelstein 1988a: 241; 1988b: 39; 2007a: 80; see also Stager 1985: 3). The inhabitants of these new settlements are often identified as the early Israelites or “proto-Israelites.” The transformation associated with the increase in settlements has long been associated with the collapse of the system of Canaanite city-states and kingdoms that dominated the region. 7 Scholars often appeal to a rank-size analysis of the sites involved to support this conclusion. This model suggests that a wide distribution of small settlements reflects a low level of political integration. Accordingly, the central hill country played host to a large number of autocratic/autonomous political entities (see esp. R. D. Miller 2005; Bunimovitz 1994b: 187–93; 1995: 323–24). In spite of this consensus, a debate continues to revolve around several critical issues, including the origin of this new wave 6. See, e.g., Albright 1940: 211–12; Alt 1968: 204; Noth 1935; 1953; Aharoni 1967; Kallai 1986; Finkelstein 1998a; 1988b; 1994: 150; Schloen 2002: 58; Grabbe 2007: 118–19. 7. In the words of Finkelstein (1996d: 245), the “transition from the Late Bronze to the Iron Age is characterized by a total collapse of the second millennium system and the rise of a new order.”

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of settlers, their relationship with the so-called Canaanite polities that preceded their arrival, and the fate of these polities with Israel’s appearance on the scene. The Proposed Imperial Policy of “Direct Control” Attempts to explain the sharp increase in central hill country settlements have largely revolved around two other historical phenomena that occurred during this period. The first is a proposed policy change in the way the Egyptians administered their interests in the Levant during the 19th Dynasty (ca. 1295–1186 BCE) and 20th Dynasty (ca. 1186–1069 BCE). Evidence for this change derives largely from the archaeological record. A number of sites bear witness to a rise in Egyptian-style artifacts, architecture, and burial practices. 8 Though these data have been interpreted as examples of “elite emulation” (Higginbotham 1996; 1998; 2000), most agree that they point to the implementation of a new policy of “direct Egyptian rule” through the “annexation of this vast territory” (Singer 1988: 1; see also Naʾaman 1986: 467–68; Bunimovitz 1994b: 200; Oren 1984; Faust 2006: 167). According to Killebrew’s analysis of the pottery assemblages from Tel Beth-Shean and Deir el-Balah, most examples of Egyptian-style pottery were produced locally with very little evidence of hybridization with indigenous techniques. Accordingly, Killebrew concludes that Egyptians who were living at these sites must have produced them (see also E. F. Morris 2005: 703). In addition, because it constituted between 20% and 25% of the entire assemblage at Beth-Shean and up to 50% at Deir el-Balah (Killebrew 2004: 341–42), she argues that the Egyptian presence must have been relatively large, indicating an imperial policy change that increased the number of personnel in the region (Weinstein 1981: 17–18, 20–22; 1992: 142; Naʾaman 1981a: 185; Bunimovitz 1988–89: 68; 1990: 448–49; Knapp 1989: 67; 1992: 94; Murnane 1990: 69–70; Bietak 1990: 296; Hopkins 1993: 203–204; James and McGovern 1993: 238). Bunimovitz uses this evidence to construct his “shifting frontier model.” He contends that this new policy caused the “broad frontier that characterized Palestine in the fifteenth-thirteenth centuries bce” to shrink (Bunimovitz 1994b: 200). As a result, the hill country and arid steppe were the only remaining regions in which the “unruly,” nonsedentary 8. Especially important in this regard are the anthropoid clay coffins discovered in Deir el-Balah, Tell el-Farʿah South, Lachish, and Beth-Shean. Though some have attributed these to the Philistines or Sea People, most believe they were made for military personnel who were stationed at those sites (E. F. Morris 2005: 701–2; T. Dothan 1979: 99–104; Gonen 1992a: 28–30).

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populations could take refuge from the demands of Egyptian hegemony, implying that these groups established many of the new settlements in the central hill country. He compares this policy to the one adopted by the Ottomans in the second half of the 19th century ce that resulted in “direct rule and a lessening of the power of local notables by concentrating state affairs and entrusting their implementation to government officials; the establishment of a network of military and police posts; punitive campaigns and pacification of lawless regions; and imposition of law and government rule on nomadic tribes” (Bunimovitz 1994: 200; see also Faust 2006: 167). More recently, E. F. Morris has highlighted one of the main reasons for this proposed policy shift. According to Morris, it was the result of Horemheb’s Edict, which he instituted at the close of the 18th Dynasty. This edict reversed Thutmose III’s policy of requiring local leaders to absorb the costs of royal campaigns and administrative concerns (E. F. Morris 2005: 272–75), a policy reflected in the fact that Aziru was expected to rebuild the garrison city of Ṣumur upon taking leadership in the region (EA 159: 11–12, 43–46; 160: 24–28; 161: 35–40). This resulted in Egypt’s assuming “more direct administrative and fiscal responsibility for its own undertakings” (E. F. Morris 2005: 275). Consequently, Egypt sponsored “its own buildings and installations instead of co-opting them from local governors and thereby incurring” the type of “disaffection” (2005: 395) that may be alluded to by ʿAbdi-Ḫeba in EA 285. 9 It was this policy that probably resulted “in the archaeological picture that is indeed evidenced in Nineteenth Dynasty Canaan.” With this underlying motivation in mind, I suggest that a close scrutiny of the location of Egyptian bases in the region along with Egypt’s political struggles at the end of the 19th Dynasty and into the 20th shows that this “new policy” was not as revolutionary, comprehensive, or continuous as the claim that Egypt “annexed a vast territory” may lead some to believe. Instead, it appears to reflect the situation on the ground during the 18th Dynasty (see chap.  1 above), with its impact fluctuating in strength and scope over an extended period of time. A majority of sites to which scholars point as examples of “direct Egyptian rule” were not transformed immediately. This process appears to have occurred over a period of nearly 100 years, spanning the reigns of Seti I (ca. 1294–1279 BCE), Ramesses II (ca. 1279–1213 BCE), and Merenptah (ca. 1213–1203 BCE). We will recall that the stele dating to the first year of Seti I recounts a situation in which the king of Hammath and the people 9. On the basis of line 25, in which ʿAbdi-Ḫeba informs the king that he wants the house that is now occupied by the Egyptians stationed there, Moran reconstructs lines 9–11 to read, “Accordingly, Enḫamu sent a military force here, and it has not vacated the house that I want.” Cf. Rainey 2015: 1104–5; 1589–90.

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of Piḫilu conquered Beth-Shean and were in the process of laying siege to Rehob (KRI I 12; Aharoni 1967: 165; E. F. Morris 2005: 350, 343–44). The Egyptian-style architecture, inscriptions, and other artifacts discovered at Beth-Shean indicate that it was not until Seti recaptured it that it was transformed it into the most important military base in the region (E. F. Morris 2005: 353, 371). 10 A number of other sites underwent similar transformations during the first half of the long reign of Ramesses II. In Aphek, an Egyptian-style residence was constructed over the ruins of the local ruler’s palace (Singer 1988: 2; Kochavi 1981). In Ashdod, a fragment of a doorjamb was discovered bearing an Egyptian inscription that refers to an official of Ramesses II (Singer 1988: 2). Excavations at Tel Mor unearthed “a strong Egyptian citadel in use at least from Ramses II’s reign” (Singer 1988: 2; see also M. Dothan 1977: 889). Finally, the discovery of the city gates at Joppa bearing the cartouches of Ramesses II indicates that this city was also converted during his reign (E. F. Morris 2005: 389). There are also three cities whose transformation can be attributed to the reign of Merenptah, though the evidence for this is primarily textual. The first of these is Gezer. In Merenptah’s Amada inscription, dated to his 5th year, he is ascribed the epithet “subduer of Gezer” (KRI IV 1: 9; Kitchen 1982: 34; Singer 1985: 62 n.  2; 1988: 3). In addition to Gezer, the cities of Ashkelon, in which a temple dedicated to Ptah was discovered (Singer 1988: 3), and Yenoam, the location of which has been debated (E. F. Morris 2005: 381), were subdued by Merenptah, according to his Israel stele. Because of the ephemeral nature of the last four rulers of the 19th Dynasty (Amenmesse, ca. 1203–1200 BCE; Seti II, ca. 1200–1194 BCE; Siptah, ca. 1194–1188 BCE; Tausret, ca. 1188–1186 BCE), there is very little textual or archaeological evidence pointing to their activities (E. F. Morris 2005: 381–82). Nevertheless, the cartouches of Seti II have been discovered in the administrative complexes of Tell el-Farʿah South (KRI IV 242: 10) and Haruba site A-289 (Goldwasser 1980; Oren 1987, fig. 7). In the end, Morris isolates 14–16 Egyptian administrative centers in the southern Levant during the 19th Dynasty. A majority of these were located in southern Palestine. Six were situated along the Mediterranean coast, beginning with Deir el-Balah in the south and followed to the north by Tell el-Ajjul, Gaza, Ashdod, Tel Mor, and Joppa. Five others were located inland. They included Tell el-Farʿah South, Tel Seraʾ, Tell el-Hesi, Gezer, and Aphek, which stood at the northern limit of this group. In 10. Morris also points out that “there is a great deal of archaeological evidence to indicate that Ramesses II played an active role in transforming Beth Shan into one of Egypt’s most important northern bases” (E. F. Morris 2005: 371).

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the Jezreel Valley, Beth-Shean continued to serve as an Egyptian center. Egyptian-style artifacts were also discovered at Tell es-Saʾidiyeh, located south of Beth-Shean on the eastern side of the Jordan River. Morris therefore includes it as a “possible Egyptian base.” The remaining bases were located in the northern frontier of Egypt’s imperial network. They included Byblos, Ṣumur, and perhaps Kumidi. Outside of these examples, there is no archaeological evidence for Egyptian settlement (E. F. Morris 2005: 705). In many ways, though Egyptian personnel and cultural influence did increase as the 19th Dynasty unfolded, the situation did not differ greatly from that of the 18th Dynasty (cf. Higginbotham 1996; 1998; 2000). Following my analysis in chap. 1, we see that the imperial policy of the 19th Dynasty was also defined by a “network of military and police posts” meant to secure important routes of communication and travel, exploit productive farmlands, and collect taxes and tribute. However, this network left large tracts of land outside the sphere of Egyptian influence, including the central hill country surrounding Tell Balâṭah (see Aḥituv 1978: 104–5; chaps. 6–7 above). In terms of the northern frontier of the Egyptian empire, Morris indicates (2005: 395) that “there is in fact little evidence in either the archaeological or the textual record for” a shift in policy from the 18th Dynasty. “Business seems to have been carried out, with minor adjustments, in the Nineteenth Dynasty much as it had previously” (see also E. F. Morris 2005: 272). Finally, while Morris indicates that Acco may also have served as an Egyptian administrative center during the 19th dynasty, Megiddo, which was fortified by the Egyptians during the mid- and late 18th Dynasty, did not (compare with Ussishkin 2008). The only policy change of the 19th Dynasty appears to have been limited to southern Palestine. During this period, it contained 11 Egyptian bases. By comparison, 8 bases populated the region during the Amarna period (Deir el-Balah, Tell el-Ajjul, Gaza, Tell el-Hesi, Lachish, Gezer, Joppa, and Jerusalem in the Judean hill country). To this number should also be added the known vassals who were operating in the region, including Šuwardata (EA 279–84) and NIN.UR.MAḪ.MEŠ (EA 273–74). These data ultimately support Killebrew’s conclusion that the goal of this increased presence was “not to colonize Canaan, but rather to administer the collection of tribute and to impose minimal security arrangements and a semblance of order on the fractious and quarrelsome Canaanite rulers” (Killebrew 2004: 342; emphasis mine). In this way, the Egyptians continued a policy that they had implemented during the 18th Dynasty. 11 11. Yet another point of continuity between the imperial administration of the 18th Dynasty and that of the 20th Dynasty is seen in the way Ramesses III confronted the Sea

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To be sure, the local conflicts depicted in the Amarna letters indicate that direct administration would have been more effective in securing Egyptian interests than a dependence on local rulers. This would have been particularly true for such locations as Aphek, which rebelled during the reign of Ramesses II (E. F. Morris 2005: 371), and Gezer, Ashkelon, and Yenoam, which appear to have rebelled during the reign of Merenptah. However, while direct Egyptian administration may have solidified their control in these specific locations, it is difficult, if not impossible, to determine how it affected the polities and populations on the periphery of those locations. In fact, the textual records from the 19th Dynasty indicate that “frontier people” such as the ʿapîrû, the Sutû, and the Taryanu continued to menace the “low-land city-states.” A number of the inscriptions deriving from the reign of Seti I attest this reality. In addition to his first-year stele referred to above, two other inscriptions mention different encounters with these groups. In his second Beth-Shean stele (KRI I 16: 2–17), 12 Seti receives word that the ʿapîrû from Mount Yarmuta along with the Taryanu people attacked Rehem. The final two confrontations are recorded in Seti’s Karnak relief, which most scholars believe describes at least three different campaigns (E. F. Morris 2005: 345; Murnane 1990). The first of these was an encounter with the Shasu during his campaign along the Ways of Horus (KRI I 7: 5–6; E. F. Morris 2005: 346). The second encounter occurred outside Gaza. It is described in the following way: The fallen-ones of the Shasu are plotting rebellion. Their clan leaders are united in one place, standing upon the ridges of Kharu. They have taken to confusion and quarrelling, each slaying his fellow. They disregard the edicts of the palace (KRI I 9: 3–5). . . . (As for) the hil[ls of the] rebels, none could [get pas]t them, because of the fallen-ones of the Shasu who had attacked. (KRI I 7: 1–2)

It is also important to note that Seti I was the first king to face a growing threat from the west. During his reign, Libyan tribes began making incursions into Egypt, likely motivated by famine in their own land. This People. According to E. F. Morris (2005: 696), “There is no evidence that Ramesses III bolstered his frontier with any extra Egyptian forces. The maryannu-warriors and the troops supplied by vassals would have been recruited locally, while imperial garrison troops already occupied key strategic centers in Sryia–Palestine—as had been the custom since at least the mid-Eighteenth Dynasty.” 12. While E. F. Morris (2005: 351) and Spalinger (1979: 32) attribute these events to Seti’s first campaign, Helck (1971: 203) and Aharoni (1969: 168) contend that the stele details a subsequent campaign.

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required the Egyptians to dedicate more resources to their western front, a requirement that continued to play a significant role as the New Kingdom drew to an end (van Dijk 2000: 289–90; E. F. Morris 2005: 694–95). Similar encounters with so-called fringe populations in the Levant are also attested in the inscriptions of Ramesses II. As I noted in chap. 1, Ramesses broke with the traditions of his predecessors by making incursions into Moab and Edom. On an obelisk discovered at his capital at Pi-Ramesses, he is depicted as the one “destroying the land of the Shasu,” and “plundering the mountain of Se[ʿir]” (KRI II 409: 1). Another stele discovered at Tell er-Retabah reports that he executed “a great massacre in the land of the Shasu” (KRI II 304: 14–15). Finally, in a third, fragmentary stele, he mentions Shasu prisoners (KRI II 298: 3; E. F. Morris 2005: 367–68). In fact, Morris suggests that, “based on an analogy to the Amarna Period,” Aphek may have been “seduced” to undertake its “bold” rebellion during the reign of Ramesses II “by rogue powers in the hill country, such as Shechem” (E. F. Morris 2005: 371). As I suggested above, these notices may be attributed to the increasing threat posed by these populations to Egyptian interests in the region. Unfortunately, “[N]othing is known about the situation in Canaan during the second half of Ramsses II’s long reign” (Aharoni 1967: 172; see also E. F. Morris 2005: 366; Redford 1992: 186; Kitchen 1964: 62–63). This may indicate a loosening of Egypt’s control in the region, a possibility supported by the fact that Merenptah quelled rebellions in the towns of Gezer, Ashkelon, and Yenoam and confronted “Israel” during his 5th year. Again, these confrontations parallel the situation during the 18th Dynasty. According to the annals of Amenhotep II, punitive campaigns and pacification of “lawless” regions were orchestrated at this time as well. During the campaign of Amenhotep II’s 7th year, 13 after marching north along the Via Maris, one of the primary networks of Egyptian interest, he made two raids against unnamed groups living in unidentified locations in the western Sharon. 14 The Shasu also appear in the autobiographical text of Ahmose Pennekhbet dated to the reign of Thutmose II, the topographical list of Amenhotep III, and the annals of Thutmose III. 15 13. Urk. IV 1301–5, 1310–15; ANET 245–47. 14. Urk. IV 1306: 2; ANET 245–47. 15. Thutmose II: Urk. IV 36: 12–14. Amenhotep III: Kitchen 1964: 66–67; Giveon 1964: 239–55; Redford 1992: 272–73; E. F. Morris 2005: 221 n. 12. See also P. Anastasi VI, 54–56, which refers to the “clans of the Shasu of Edom”; P. Harris I 76: 9. For a detailed study of the link between the Shasu, the lands of the Transjordan, and the proposed migration of these people into the central hill country of Palestine, see Faust 2006 and Killebrew 2005. Con-

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Confrontations and rebellions such as these should cause us to wonder whether, in addition to the demands of Horemheb’s Edict, the measures taken in the 19th and 20th Dynasties were a sign of Egypt’s strength or its weakness. Was it the intent of the Egyptians to “annex” the region or simply to protect their interests more effectively in the face of increasing external pressures from both the north and the west? Spalinger (2005: 201–2) suggests the latter: All in all, the archaeological evidence indicates that a more intense system of foreign control came to be the norm in Palestine. This could have been a result of constant external pressure from the Shasu and other “outsiders,” if not sea pirates as well. On the other hand, the city-states in Palestine may also have become harder to control owing to the military requirements for wars in Syria and defensive measures against Libya. 16 This is comparable to the policy of the Middle Assyrians during the reign of Aššurnaṣirpal II. In the face of increased resistance, they also intensified their presence along their network of imperial interests (Liverani 1988: 87; see chap. 1 above). Whether or not we read the lack of any inscriptional evidence of campaigns into the Levant during the second half of Ramesses II’s tenure as a sign of Egypt loosening its grip on its imperial interests, its capacity to control did decline significantly during the years that separated the end of Merenptah’s reign and the beginning of the reign of Ramesses III (ca. 1184–1153 BCE). According to Singer, “Egypt had serious domestic problems and dynastic quarrels” at that time. This explains the absence of any “historical records on her rule in Asia” (Singer 1988: 4; E. F. Morris 2005: 691; van Dijk 2000: 295–97). Although Ramesses III rebuilt the Egyptian temples at Beth-Shean (Singer 1988: 5), and erected a Temple to Amun at Gezer (Singer 1988: 3; E. F. Morris 2005: 704), most agree that he sponsored only one campaign into the Levant (E. F. Morris 2005: 706, 708; Faulkner 1980: 244; Bietak 1990: 302). It seems that much of his energy was spent dealing with the Sea sider also the reference to the large number of captured Shasu in the booty list of Amenhotep II. Thutmose III: Giveon 1971: 15–17, 22–23; Astour 1979: 17–34. 16. See also Bienkowski 1987: 50. This conclusion parallels Morris’s explanation of approximately ten fortified stations that dotted the 220-km route from Tajaru on the eastern delta to Gaza (2005: 29). Morris concludes that these stations were primarily intended to guard the ever-important source of water in this arid region (E. F. Morris 2005: 384): “[T] he increasingly restless and bold behavior of Shasu bedouin in the late Eighteenth and early Nineteenth Dynasties” compelled “the construction of these complexes to safeguard personnel, foodstuffs, and water sources” (2005: 385).

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People and the serious internal problems that he was facing at home. Morris (2005: 706) describes the nature of these problems in the following way: Prices experienced wild fluctuations, state-funded laborers struck for lack of payment, royal tombs were robbed, officials were fired on corruption charges, and a harem conspiracy almost led to the murder of Ramesses himself. Considering the trouble at home and the amount of government funds and resources that must have been expended in the construction of Ramesses III’s magnificent funerary temple at Medinet Habu, Egypt would likely have had a greatly diminished store of resources to invest in its northern territories. It is hardly surprising, then, that there is very little evidence that Ramesses III undertook the majority of the SyroPalestinian wars that he ‘commemorated’ on the walls of his temples.

The difficulties confronting Egypt only deepened after Ramesses  III. By the time of Ramesses VI (ca. 1143–1136 BCE), “Egypt had lost its grip not only on Canaan, but even on the Sinai Peninsula” (E. F. Morris 2005: 709). By the mid-12th century, with the exception of Tell el-Farʿah South, all of Egypt’s bases had been destroyed (E. F. Morris 2005: 714; Oren 1984: 37–56; Singer 1994: 282–338; R. D. Miller 2005: 91). While the policy change instituted by Egypt during the 19th Dynasty probably placed some pressure on the populations of the southern Levant, causing some to take refuge in the central hill country and to begin settling there, it is unlikely that it affected the region to the degree that Bunimovitz suggests. While it also likely contributed to groups forming political identities and alliances against the Egyptians (Faust 2006: 168–69), particularly in the face of what may have been perceived as a form of Egyptian “occupation” and, in some cases, all out “Egyptianization,” this phenomenon was not unknown during the Amarna period. As I suggested above, ʿAbdiAširta’s attempt to unite the land of Amurru in order that their “sons and daughters might be free forever” was probably motivated by the desire to cast off the yoke of Egyptian imperialism. The same goal may have motivated Labʾayu’s activities in and around the land of Gina. To speak of a policy of “direct control” during the 19th and 20th Dynasties, therefore, is misleading. Rather, one should understand this era as a period of fluctuating levels of control that closely corresponded to the type of imperial authority administered by Egypt during the 18th Dynasty (Aḥituv 1978). The Sea People During the ongoing excavations at Ugarit, archaeologists unearthed several letters addressed to its royal court. One of them, from an unknown correspondent, was sent to Ammurapi (ca. 1215–1185 BCE), the last king of

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Ugarit. Invoking colorful imagery, it paints an ominous picture regarding the fate of his kingdom: As for what you [Ammurapi] have written to me: “Ships of the enemy have been seen at sea!” You must remain firm. . . . Surround your towns with ramparts. Have your troops and chariots enter there, and await the enemy with great resolution. 17

These desperate words of encouragement preserve what is believed to be one of the last correspondences sent to Ugarit. Though Ugarit was a thriving urban center during the LB, by the beginning of the Iron I, it fell silent, lost from history until its chance discovery over three millennia later This brief history of Ugarit is a fitting representation of the havoc wreaked along the entire coast of the Mediterranean by waves of invaders who arrived both by sea and by land. 18 These people, whose common title “The Sea People” is an obvious misnomer, consisted of a coalition of six groups: the Denyen, the Peleset, the Shekelesh, the Sherden, the Tjekker, and the Weshesh. While the Shekelesh and Sherden are thought to have settled in Sicily and Sardinia, respectively, the Denyen, the Tjekker, and the Peleset have been identified with the Greek Danaoi, the Teucrians, and the Philistines (Gardiner 1947: 194–205; Helck 1971: 244–46; Sandars 1985: 111–13, 158, 164–66, 170; Bryce 1999: 370–72). Eventually, the Sea People who settled in the southern Levant came to be regarded as the Philistines in both biblical and extrabiblical texts, in spite of the fact that “the material culture that is defined as ‘Philistine’ was produced not only by the Peleset, but also by at least a few of their confederations in arms as well” (E. F. Morris 2005: 699; see also Lichtheim 1976: 224; Bietak 1990: 301–2). There is, however, an ongoing debate regarding the date, nature, and impact of these invasions and subsequent settlements. Though conflicts between the Egyptians and groups of Sea People are attested as early as the rule of Ramesses II (KRI II 290; 345), the first record of a major battle between them is found in its fullest form in the annals of Ramesses III recorded on the walls of Medinet Habu. According to this account, “[T]he Sea People launched a double pronged attack upon Egypt and its Syro-Palestinian territories in the eighth year of Ramessess III,” approximately 1175 BCE (E. F. Morris 2005: 695; Grabbe 2007: 89). The result of this confrontation is recorded in P. Harris I, which indicates that Ramesses III relocated 17. Nougayrol et al. 1968: 85–86, no. 23. 18. This is suggested by the scene of battle between the Egyptians and the Sea People found on the walls of Medinet Habu. It depicts women and children traveling in carts drawn by humped oxen, the origins of which have been determined to be Anatolian (E. F. Morris 2005: 695–96; Bryce 1999: 372–73; Sandars 1985: 121, 169).

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the “plentiful” prisoners that he had captured in “nḫtu-strongholds,” employing them as members of his own army. The text goes on to say that he “apportioned them all with clothing (and) grain from the treasuries (and) granaries each year” (P. Harris I 76: 8–9). Ramesses’ decision to settle his enemies in the southern Levant under his employ would not have represented a novel undertaking. Ramesses II employed Sherden forces in his assault on Kadesh during his 5th year (KRI II 11: 1–15). 19 However, Morris indicates that two factors in particular probably motivated this decision. The first had to do with an apparent decline in the population of the region. By the close of the LB, the number of people who farmed the countryside was less than half the number who operated in the area during the MB. Morris further suggests that the depopulation of the southern Levant “may have reached crisis proportions following the invasion(s) of the Sea People, which appears to have inflicted great violence and hardship on the local population,” probably causing a proportion of them to flee to safer locations in the central hill country (E. F. Morris 2005: 705). Since the southern Levant served as a “major granary” for the Egyptians (Goldwasser 1984: 87; E. F. Morris 2005: 705), they would have responded to this labor shortage by either colonizing the area themselves or finding other populations to bear the burden. Because there is no evidence of Egyptians settling outside the administrative centers discussed above, Morris argues that they opted for the latter option, employing the newly arrived Sea People, who were already equipped with their own draft animals and agricultural knowledge (2005: 705). In doing this, the Egyptians would have found a way to exploit the agricultural capacity of this important region and would have established a new source of tax revenue. The second factor that motivated Ramesses’ proposed embrace of the Sea People is associated with the aforementioned internal problems that he was facing in Egypt. By stationing the Sea People in their southern bases, the Egyptians would have avoided using their already strained resources and manpower (E. F. Morris 2005: 706). This motivation, of course, further calls into question claims of “direct Egyptian control” during the 20th Dynasty. Others, however, are suspicious of the report in P. Harris  I, arguing that it is unlikely that Ramesses would have used his enemies in such a manner (Barnett 1980: 378; Cifola 1988: 303; Bietak 1990: 298–300; Wood 1991: 46, 48, 51–52; Weinstein 1992: 146; Higginbotham 2000: 56; Stager 1995: 340–41). In support of this view, they point to several Egyptian bases 19. Ramesses III also used Sea People in his army. Morris suggests that they may have been the captives of Merenptah (E. F. Morris 2005: 699).

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of the period in which Philistine pottery is largely unattested, including Tel Seraʾ, Lachish, and Beth-Shean. It is difficult for them to understand why some sites were populated with the Sea People while others were not. They therefore conclude that the locations that do bear witness to their presence, such as Ashdod, Joppa, and Aphek, were likely taken from the Egyptians by force. In this way, the Sea People settled in this region not by the will of Ramesses, but by their own volition. The result was an uneasy coexistence in the southern Levant, with the Sea People populating the coast and the Egyptians maintaining control of their inland bases. As with its counterpart, this alternative also argues forcibly against the idea of “direct Egyptian control” during the 20th Dynasty. Yet another variable that has complicated this discussion emerged with Finkelstein’s reevaluation of the population density in the region. 20 While there was a significant decrease in the number of small- to medium-sized settlements during the Iron I (about 80%), the size of large settlements increased (Finkelstein 1996c: 231). Accordingly, the population does not appear to have changed drastically during the transition from the LB to the Iron I. In Finkelstein’s estimation, there were approximately 35,000 inhabitants during the LB and about 30,000 during the Iron I (Finkelstein 1996c: 235–36). This suggests that the proportion of new Philistine settlers was relatively small. In addition, the mixed material culture of the region indicates that the “Philistines settled among the indigenous Canaanite population, perhaps as an elite” (Grabbe 2007: 92). Ultimately, this casts doubt on the idea that the “violence and hardship” the Sea People visited on the indigenous populations compelled many to flee to the safety of the hills. Finally, there is a contingent of scholars who have disputed the generally accepted date of Philistine settlement (see esp.  Killebrew 2008). According to D. Ussishkin (2008), while Philistine pottery is attested at Tel Zafit and Tel Miqne, none has been discovered at Lachish. Due to the proximity of Tel Zafit and Tel Miqne to Lachish, Ussishkin finds it hard to believe that their pottery would not have found its way to Lachish via cultural influence and/or trade if the Philistines had been living in Tel Zafit and Tel Miqne while Lachish was still inhabited. He therefore concludes that the Philistines did not arrive at those locations until Lachish was abandoned, sometime around 1130 BCE. While it is clear that Sea People did begin harassing the Mediterranean coast as early as the reign of Ramesses II, it is unclear how, when, and whether these people began settling in the southern Levant in large numbers. While some argue that a large contingent of Philistines settled in the 20. The methods used for calculating this number are discussed in chap. 1.

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region around 1175 and continued to extend their influence as time went on, others contend that only a small number of Philistines settled in the region. For others still, this process may have occurred as late as 1130 BCE. As with the previous evaluation of the nature of Egyptian control during the 19th and 20th Dynasties, these different reconstructions make it difficult to determine the impact that the Sea People had on the land in general and on the formation of Israel in particular. What is certain, however, is that their impact was minimal during the early stages of Israel’s development. The dating of the Merenptah stele to 1207 BCE locates even the most conservative views on the Sea People’s arrival years after the confrontation between Egypt and Israel recorded therein. Nevertheless, as I shall point out in the following section, their arrival, along with the other historical phenomena outlined above, continues to play a critical role in the various reconstructions of Israel’s emergence.

The History of Scholarship: Three Models of the Emergence of Israel The history of scholarly inquiry into the origin and nature of early Israel is traditionally divided into three categories, with a fourth more recently introduced to the debate. Originally, the “conquest model” of W. F. Albright and the “peaceful infiltration model” of A. Alt (1953; 1968) and M. Noth (1960) dominated this discussion, representing the two sides of the debate. Eventually, what has been cast as the “sociologically oriented internal revolt model” of G. Mendenhall (1962) and N. Gottwald (1979; 1989) emerged on the scene. The most recent contribution has come from I. Finkestein (1988a; 1988b), which is based on his reconstruction of historical cycles of nomadization and sedentarization of indigenous elements in the land throughout the entire second millennium. Scholars have nuanced, synthesized, and rejected some of these approaches. Nevertheless, the way they are characterized in general has remained constant. Upon closer examination, however, these characterizations are unsatisfactory. As a result, many of the important points of continuity between them have been overlooked. As I shall demonstrate in the analysis that follows, scholarship has unfolded according to three overlapping phases. While each phase is distinct and may contain several different “models,” all of the phases hold a critical theme in common. At every step along the way, Israel is cast as a group of “outsiders.” Although the historical phenomena described in the first part of this chapter have contributed to this common theme, the theme stems primarily from the dominant presuppositions regarding the sociopolitical landscape of the LB

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Levant introduced in chap. 1 and summarized in chap. 8. By outlining these phases and highlighting this common thread and the presuppositions on which it is based, I will set the stage for introducing an alternative model of the origin and nature of Israel that is informed by the analysis undertaken in parts 1–2 of this book. Phase One: Israel as Geographical Outsiders The first phase of scholarship is traditionally divided into two opposing schools. The terminology used to describe them underscores the nature of this opposition. On the one hand, there is Albright’s “united conquest” model, and on the other, the “peaceful infiltration” model of Alt and Noth. As the term “united conquest” indicates, Albright’s reconstruction was highly influenced by the conquest accounts in the book of Joshua. As an archaeologist, he relied heavily upon the data from his own field research and other excavations in developing his theory. He was convinced that the external evidence confirmed the general contours of the Joshua tradition and should therefore be viewed as historically accurate. 21 In the words of Albright, “What we already know from archaeological sources is . . . enough to disprove any radical reconstruction” (Albright 1942: 95–96). However, this view did not prevent him from slightly emending the biblical account. In Albright’s opinion, it was “a serious error in method to assume that the ‘Israelites’ of the period immediately preceding the Conquest were a homogeneous body, illustrating a fixed social type of known character” as the narratives in Exodus through Joshua suggest (Albright 1942: 99). Instead, Albright argued that Israel was a mixed population, consisting of several originally distinct people groups. To be sure, Albright believed that early Israel did include a contingent that fled from an oppressive situation in Egypt. For Albright, this account was too fixed in the tradition to have been fabricated completely (see also Redmount 1998: 64). Nevertheless, Israel also included other nomadic elements, including the Negevite clans of Caleb and Kenaz, who became part of Israel during its sojourn in the Negev (Albright 1940: 195–96; 1942: 99). In spite of this emendation, Albright adhered to the tradition that Moses founded the Israelite “commonwealth” and framed its religious system. It was the force of Mosaic Yahwism that was able to bring cohesion to this originally disparate population (1940: 211; 1942: 99). Because Yahwism was introduced to this mixed population during its travels in the wilderness, Albright believed that the firm intergroup identity known as “Israel” was solidified 21. In addition to Joshua 1–12, Albright also appealed to the opening chapter of Judges and the other references to conquest scattered throughout the remaining chapters of Joshua.

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and confirmed through the creation of an integrative tribal system deriving from putative founders before it entered into Palestine. 22 As a result, the indigenous “Canaanite” inhabitants of the land were viewed as “other,” both politically and religiously (if such a distinction can be made for the ancient world). Thus, the Canaanites represented the immediate enemies of the Israelite commonwealth with whom integration was not an immediate or acceptable option. 23 This reconstruction served as the background for Albright’s contention that Israel’s entrance into the land was characterized by violence. Albright appealed to two related pieces of evidence to support this theory. According to the biblical tradition, early Israel depended upon ḥerem, or the total destruction of a city and its population, when it occupied the land (Albright 1940: 213). In Albright’s estimation, this tradition is reflected in a number of ḥerem-like destructions in the archaeological record. 24 Accordingly, Israel “proceeded without loss of time to destroy and occupy Canaanite towns all over the country” (1940: 212). He outlines the military invasion with support from the archaeological record in the following way: Bethel may have been one of the first to fall, as might be expected from its exposed situation; it was taken at some time in the thirteenth century b.c. and burned to the ground, as shown by the indications of an unusually devastating conflagration which were found in the excavation of 1934. Lachish fell about 1230 b.c. or a little later, as is proved by a hieratic inscription on a bowl which was found in 1937 in the debris of the destruction of the latest Canaanite city. Kirjath-sepher (if correctly identified with Tell Beit Mirsim) was destroyed by fire about the same time. (Albright 1940: 212)

It was this impressive act of military force that compelled Merenptah to confront Israel, an event that Albright dated to 1229 BCE, immediately after the destruction of Lachish. As a result of these conquests, the “pagan and lascivious” Canaanites were “replaced by Israel,” a population charac22. Albright recognized that this original system was subject to changes as indicated by the different tribal lists in the biblical accounts (Albright 1940: 214–15; 1942: 102; Schloen 2002: 57). 23. In the words of Albright, from “the impartial standpoint of a philosopher of history, it often seems necessary that a people of markedly inferior type should vanish before a people of superior potentialities, since there is a point beyond which racial mixture cannot go without disaster” (Albright 1940: 214). 24. Though L. Monroe’s (2007) concerns deviate significantly from Albright’s, her work on ḥerem practices in South Arabian texts and the Moabite stone reveals a common cultural practice that extended beyond the borders of biblical Israel.

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terized by its “nomadic simplicity and purity of life, its lofty monotheism, and its severe code of ethics” (1940: 214). His emphasis on the violent nature of Israel’s entrance into the land did not, however, preclude the possibility that members of the indigenous “Canaanite” population were absorbed into the Israelite commonwealth after its arrival. Accordingly, Albright argued that some of the “Hebrews from whom later Israel sprang . . . must have occupied and settled certain parts of Palestine before the Israelite invasion under Moses and Joshua” (Albright 1940: 211; emphasis added). He identified this component of early Israel with the ʿapîrû of the Amarna texts (see chap. 4 above). Though the ʿapîrû were in the land before Joshua’s invasion, Albright emphasized that they were distinct from the characteristically sedentary “Canaanites.” This was largely due to his belief that they did not identify themselves with an urban center and its affiliated political structure. The result was a certain level of antagonism between these two categories of people that is reflected in the numerous conflicts between the ʿapîrû and the “Canaanite citystates” attested in the Amarna letters. It was not until they joined forces and identified themselves with the invading Israelites of the 13th century that these ʿapîrû finally became sedentary (1940: 211). The ʿapîrû were not the only elements of the indigenous population to become part of Israel. Though Albright contended that the Israelite assault resulted in the “decimation of the Canaanites” 25 (1940: 214), he did allow for “Canaanites of miscellaneous origin,” to be included in the Israelite coalition “by treaty, conquest, or gradual absorption” (1940: 213). Albright based this argument on two observations drawn from the biblical account. First, according to the tradition, early Israel ceased the practice of ḥerem after its first wave of invasion, thereby sparing the lives of a large proportion of the Canaanite population. Second, drawing from the biblical lists of tribal genealogies, Albright took note of a number of originally “Canaanite cities,” including Shechem, Hepher, and Tirzah, that were later absorbed into Israel through their identification as Israelite clans. In spite of the absorption of these indigenous elements, both “Canaanite” and “non-Canaanite,” Albright maintained that there was a clear break between the Canaanite culture of the LB and that of Iron I Israel. Following the generally accepted reconstruction of LB Canaanite polities, Albright suggested that they were characterized by the concentration of wealth and power in the hands of a very small proportion of the population 25. This decimation was rooted in the fact that the Israelites of the conquest “were a wild folk, endowed with primitive energy and ruthless will to exist” and ultimately prevented “the complete fusion of the two kindred folk which would almost inevitably have depressed Yahwistic standards to a point where recovery was impossible” (Albright 1940: 214).

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(1940: 217). 26 To illustrate this structure and to contrast it with the nature of early Israel, Albright argued that the word ḫupšu in the Amarna letters (see chap. 2 above), which he interpreted to mean “feudal serf,” eventually came to signify “freeman” (cf. Lev 19:20) “presumably because the peasant, to whom the word was commonly applied, had ceased to be a Canaanite serf and had become a freeborn Israelite” (Albright 1940: 217). In this way, Israel instituted its own unique sociopolitical identity in spite of its original diversity once it had established itself in the land. Like Albright, Alt appealed to the general reliability of certain biblical texts in the formulation of his model. However, while Albright strove to verify specific claims in the biblical account through an appeal to the archaeological data, Alt was concerned with integrating the general contours of the biblical record with evidence from extrabiblical texts and his reconstruction of the LB sociopolitical landscape in accordance with the territorial Geschichte principle on which it was based (see chap. 1 above). Accordingly, Alt divided the LB Palestinian highlands into three geopolitical territories. The north was dominated by the Canaanite kingdom administered from Hazor, the central highlands were controlled by the large territorial kingdom administered from Shechem, and the Judean highlands were under the authority of the city-state administered from Jerusalem. Due to these groups’ location in the hill country and the proposed effects that this topography had on the development of political entities, Alt maintained that all three were “ill-organized politically, and probably still thinly populated” at the time of Israel’s appearance. This provided the most hospitable place for Israel to settle because these entities were the “least capable of resisting the advance of the Israelites, and offered them the best opportunity of settling down and gradually turning from their semi-nomadic way of life to an agricultural economy” (Alt 1968: 219–20). Informed by these territorial divisions, Alt proposed that Israel essentially consisted of three groups of tribally organized nomadic populations who emerged from the desert fringe and settled in one of the aforementioned political territories (1968: 216–17). The Galilee tribes occupied the Kingdom of Hazor, the Rachel tribes occupied the Kingdom of Shechem, and the Judahite tribes occupied the highlands south of Jerusalem. As opposed to Albright’s scheme, these tribal elements were still divided when they entered the land. This implies that the Israelite identity had not materialized fully at that time. This loose affiliation in combination with the claim that the countryside surrounding the Canaanite settlements was 26. Of course, Albright’s greatest concern was to distinguish Israelite religion from Canaanite religion; see esp. 1940: 218–20.

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sparsely populated allowed the “infiltration” process to take place “peacefully.” Nevertheless, Alt, like Albright, emphasized Israel’s distinctiveness in relation to its new Canaanite neighbors. According to Alt, the “Israelites did not adopt the urban culture of Palestine as soon as they had occupied the country, but as it were dwelt at first before the city gates” (Alt 1968: 221). Though Alt’s model emphasized the peaceful absorption of some “nonIsraelite” city-states and populations into the Israelite polity as it evolved into a kingdom, 27 conquest was still an essential feature of his model, particularly during the early phases of the settlement process. Because of Alt’s conviction that Canaanite polities where characterized by power being located in the hands of the aristocracy, each of the tribal groups that constituted Israel were compelled to confront the capital of the territorial divisions in which they settled militarily. For example, the Rachel tribes were able to occupy what Alt saw as Labʾayu’s central highland kingdom only after they conquered Shechem, and the Galilee tribes occupied the Kingdom of Hazor after the conquest of its capital (1968: 219). 28 The resulting elimination of the political elite represented an act of liberation for a large proportion of the Canaanite population living under the burden of its demands. This parallels Albright’s contention that free citizenship within Israel would have represented a welcome alternative to serfdom within the Canaanite sociopolitical structure, thereby making a large portion of the population willing participants in this novel sociopolitical identity. The only tribe that did not employ the method of limited conquest was Issachar. According to Alt, it occupied the Jezreel Valley, whose system of city-states had already been disrupted after the destruction of Shunem by Labʾayu (Alt 1968: 217–18). 29 The third figure in this phase of scholarship who has long been associated with Alt’s “peaceful infiltration” model is his student, M. Noth. To be sure, Noth added his own nuances to Alt’s model. For example, while he accepted the relatively clear process of settlement based on the historical territorial divisions described by his professor, Noth argued that the 27. See esp. 1968: 208, where Alt suggests that the Israelite “encounter with the citystates did not result in the continuation of the old form of political life under a new aristocracy, but in their absorption, and thus in the virtual destruction of independent political activity on the part of the cities.” In n. 15, Alt claims that “the aristocracy of the cities they incorporated, accustomed to war and government, sought and could find new opportunities for the exercise of the talents within the framework of a larger kingdom” (see also pp. 202–12). 28. In addition, Alt (1968: 218) points out that “the Old Testament tells of a large number of other cities in the mountains, which must have been conquered by the Israelite tribes.” 29. Alt reconstructs these historical events through his reading of Urk. IV 782: 38 and EA 250: 40–47.

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settlement process “consisted of very many different and geographically widely separated movements in population” over a longer period of time (Noth 1960: 73, 74–80). Noth linked this complex course of events with what he believed to be other large-scale migrations taking place in the wider ancient Near East (1960: 83–84). Nevertheless, Noth, like his predecessor, emphasized the “peaceful” aspect of Israel’s occupation. In fact, Noth was a vocal critic of Albright’s attempt to link the destruction of Canaanite cities to Israel. 30 According to Noth, these destruction levels resulted from internecine conflicts that he believed were reflected in the Amarna texts, and the disruptive activities of the Sea People, whose arrival in Palestine he dated to approximately 1200 BCE. For Noth, the conquest accounts in Joshua 1–12 were later etiological traditions meant to explain the destruction of the cities in question by fabricating a literary link between them and the activities of Israel when they first entered the land. 31 In this way, Noth was committed to Alt’s idea that “the Israelite tribes did not acquire their territories by warlike conquest and the destruction of Canaanite cities, but usually settled in hitherto unoccupied parts of the country” or in “settlements newly founded by themselves” (Noth 1960: 82). 32 For Noth, Israel’s peaceful arrival was aided by at least three factors. The first was based on his claim that the tribes constituting Israel populated the land over an extended period of time. This protracted process put less pressure on the indigenous Canaanite populations, minimizing the stress on the natural resources of the region and thereby reducing the threat of conflict between the two groups. The second stemmed from his idea that urban agriculturalists and seminomadic populations engaged in cooperative relationships (Noth 1960: 69–70, 72). The final factor derived from Noth’s contention that it was only when all the tribes had entered Palestine that the collective association known as “Israel” took shape as an amphictyony league (see esp. Noth 1960: 85–97). As was the case with Alt’s model, all of these factors allowed for a high level of integration between the settled Israelite tribes and their Canaan30. According to Noth, the “idea inevitably suggests itself of relating the destruction of Palestinian cities, for which there is clear evidence within the period in question, to the appearance of the Israelites in Palestine and dating that appearance accordingly. But so far there has been no absolutely certain evidence of this kind, and such evidence is in fact hardly likely to be found” (Noth 1960: 82). 31. See Noth 1960: 82 n. 2; see also 1938a. According to Albright (1940: 209), “M. Noth and K. Möhlenbrink . . . made a vigorous attack on the historical reliability of the stories of Conquest in Joshua, on various literary and aetiological grounds.” 32. See also Noth 1960: 145–46, where he characterizes the occupation as “a fundamentally peaceful process of mutual assimilation.”

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ite counterparts. For example, Noth argued that Issachar, Zebulun, and Asher fostered cooperative bonds by entering “into a feudal relationship with the city governments in the plains,” from which they likely received “a share of the profits accruing from their rich estates in return for their services” (1960: 145). In spite of his emphasis on assimilation, however, Noth, like Albright and Alt, believed there was a clear distinction between the sociopolitical structure of the tribally organized Israelites and that of the indigenous Canaanites of the urban centers. For Noth, the Israelites’ structure was “based on the equal rights” of all of its members. By contrast, the Canaanites’ structure consisted of “a ruling, property-owning aristocracy on the one hand, with a feudal lord at the summit, who called himself a king . . . and, on the other hand, a subject population devoted primarily to agricultural work” (Noth 1960: 143). Following Alt, this critical difference compelled Noth to acknowledge the likelihood of armed encounters between the egalitarian Israelites and their oppressive Canaanite neighbors (Noth 1960: 68–69, 147–53). 33 At the outset of this review, I indicated that scholarship has traditionally differentiated the foregoing models based on the method of Israelite infiltration that each emphasizes. However, this nuance is in fact a matter of degree rather than difference. Though Albright’s attention to the archaeological record led him to highlight the violent nature of Israel’s entrance into the land, he fully recognized its more “peaceful” aspects. Similarly, though both Alt and Noth accentuate the peaceful examples of Israel’s absorption and assimilation, they also concede that this process involved a violent component. 33. More recently, a few scholars have produced evidence in support of the “peaceful infiltration” model of Alt and Noth. For example, Zertal has argued that the distribution of pottery samples from archaeological surveys in the central hill country indicates an eastto-west movement of the Iron I settlements. Whereas the highest proportion of the oldest Iron I pottery types is concentrated on the eastern fringes of the hill country, the proportion of newer pottery types increases and reaches equilibrium as one moves west. For Zertal, this evidence confirms the biblical tradition that Israel entered the land from the east and gradually moved west as its constituents became more sedentary. According to Zertal (1994: 65, 67), the beginning of the Iron I settlement process should be dated to the mid-thirteenth century bce, when the first seminomadic families penetrated Cisjordan via Wadi Farʿah and Wadi Malih. . . . The evidence analyzed so far points to an external origin of the population, arriving presumably from Transjordan. Our finds corroborate the transhumance model suggested by Alt and others, with certain modifications. . . . Both archaeological and ecological data point to the Manassite desert fringe as an ideal place for the wandering of the seminomadic Israelites, who maintained close connections with their eastern homeland.

For a strong critique of Zertal’s conclusions, see Dever 1992. See also Lemaire 1982 and Aharoni 1967: 239–42 for a modified version of the Alt-Noth hypothesis.

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Because difference has been emphasized over degree, the points of continuity between these models and their implications have been neglected. Above all, they agree that Israel comprised a group of outsiders. More specifically, they hold to the idea that the original core of the Israelites consisted of geographical outsiders. As geographical outsiders who laid claim to a unique religious tradition that promoted a so-called egalitarian society, Israel is set in opposition to the dominant Canaanite sociopolitical structure that it encountered when it arrived in the land. This common conclusion is informed by a shared set of presuppositions regarding the social and political landscape of the LB Levant and the wider ancient Near East. On the one hand, indigenous Canaanite polities are thought to have embodied a feudal structure in which power was concentrated in the hands of the urban elite and administered in a unidirectional and often oppressive manner against the remaining population of “serfs” and “peasants” (i.e., the ḫupšū). This characteristically Canaanite political organization is contrasted with the more ethically oriented, egalitarian tribal structure of early Israel, which, in the words of Albright, provided the “peasant” the opportunity to become a “freeman.” On the other hand, these models envision a strict conceptual distinction between those who identified with an urban center and its associated political structures and those who did not. In other words, the urban Canaanites and tribal Israelites are cast as two entirely different elements of society that often opposed one another. Ultimately, this distinction derives from an evolutionary model of state development. If “tribal chiefdoms” always precede the formation of the “state” as a strict evolutionary model suggests, then the biblical depiction of Israel emerging as a “tribal commonwealth” is difficult to explain in the context of what is seen as a highly stratified and centralized political landscape. Thus, Israel must have entered from the outside. This is the outlook endorsed by Alt when he confidently claimed that, though Israel “did not adopt the urban culture of Palestine” immediately after occupying the land, it “is obvious that this was far from being a hindrance to the healthy development of the Israelite nation” (Alt 1968: 221, emphasis mine). 34 34. Consider also his claim that the sparsely inhabited and politically underdeveloped central hill country provided Israel “the best opportunity of settling down and gradually turning from their semi-nomadic way of life to an agricultural economy” (Alt 1968: 220). In spite of this theoretical foundation, Noth set himself apart from his counterparts in a significant way. By suggesting that the political elite of the original centers of political power would enter into a league with the new tribally organized inhabitants of the land, he is implying a completely different vision of political power in operation than his contemporaries. Rather than power being an inherently top-down phenomenon, Noth is suggesting

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Phase Two: Israel as Economic Outsiders In 1962, G. Mendenhall unveiled a new model of Israel’s emergence in an article entitled “The Hebrew Conquest of Palestine.” Though it was continuous with and built upon those that preceded it, his proposal set the agenda for a new phase of scholarship. Following Albright, Alt, and Noth, Mendenhall held that early Israel consisted of a core group of “geographical outsiders” that was made up of former “slave-labor captives [who] succeeded in escaping an intolerable situation in Egypt” (Mendenhall 1962: 73, 79). After fleeing Egypt, they defeated the kingdoms of Og and Sihon in the Transjordan and, a generation later, settled in Palestine (1962: 79–80; 82–83). Mendenhall also held that various elements of the indigenous Canaanite population were absorbed into the Israelite coalition during the settlement process. Where Mendenhall set himself apart, however, is in the weight that he gave to each of these groups. For Mendenhall, the “original” band of geographical outsiders constituted only a small proportion of what came to be known as Israel. The majority of Israel originated from the indigenous population of Palestine. This shift in perspective is largely attributed to Mendenhall’s rejection of the idea that large tribal units had the capacity to migrate into the Levant. 35 According to Mendenhall, this idea was informed by an antiquated view of nomads based on the Bedouin way of life that had been romanticized and imposed upon the evidence (1962: 68). He argued that it was inappropriate for understanding the origins of Israel because “the camel was not effectively domesticated until the Late Bronze Age or later” (1962: 68; see also Finkelstein 1988b: 36). 36 It should be noted, however, that this misperception was not as widely accepted as Mendenhall seems to imply. For example, though Albright accepted the possibility that camels were domesticated by the 13th century, he maintained that camel nomadism was not widely practiced during that the possibility of a more corporate or collective version of power in operation during this time. For example, drawing from the list of Manassite clans in Numbers 26, Noth argues that the former Canaanite city-state of Shechem “was admitted into the society of the tribe of Manasseh with the status of a Manassite clan,” thereby becoming a “minor member of the Israelite confederation.” See also his explanation of the admittance of various Canaanite cities into the tribe of Benjamin (Noth 1960: 146). Again, Noth’s amphictyony informs this reconstruction. In spite of this important nuance, based on his reading of Judges 9, Noth still argues that even with its admission into the collective, Shechem still maintained its old “Canaanite” political order (1960: 145). 35. See, most recently, Khazanov 2009: 123. 36. However, some data may suggest that the camel was domesticated earlier (Barnett 1985; Davis 1986: 141–52; Younker 1997) and that groups could penetrate into the desert even before the domestication of the camel (Betts 1989: 61–69).

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time (Albright 1942: 96). 37 He therefore postulated that the nomadic elements of early Israel who joined those fleeing Egypt in the Negev relied upon the donkey in their travels (1942: 97). 38 For Albright, the biblical portrayal of Israel’s dependence on readily available sources of water during their sojourn in the desert (Numbers 33) confirmed this picture (1940: 196; 1942: 101). In this way, Albright and Mendenhall shared a similar vision with regard to the lifestyle of these geographical outsiders. Their similarities continued in their respective descriptions of what occurred when they entered Palestine. Like Albright, Mendenhall believed that the ʿapîrû joined forces with them. However, drawing on recent scholarship regarding the ʿapîrû, Mendenhall offered a nuanced reading of this category of people. Rather than representing a nonsedentary, and therefore, non-Canaanite element of the population as Albright proposed (1940: 214), Mendenhall argued that the ʿapîrû were Canaanites who had “renounced” any affiliation with or obligation to the Canaanite societies with which they were originally affiliated. After withdrawing from these societies, they either entered into a relationship of service with other polities or joined other ʿapîrû in a quest for political independence by means of nefarious activities. This choice was motivated by the desire to escape what Mendenhall (1962: 71) viewed as the oppressive structures of the Canaanite political system. A history of flight from oppression shared by the ʿapîrû and the small group of Yahwists who entered the land facilitated their eventual identification with one another as Israel. With this background in mind, Mendenhall concluded that the phenomenon of early Israel was essentially a social revolution in which peasants struggled “against the network of interlocking Canaanite city states,” and eventually killed or deported the elite of those dominant polities (1962: 73; see also pp. 74, 76–78, 81). Though the minor group of “geographical outsiders” was unable to contribute large numbers to this rebel force, they did supply what Mendenhall viewed as the primary source of Israelite identity—namely, the veneration of Yahweh and the associated religious and ethical lifestyle (1962: 74). Pointing to Israelite law and its concern for 37. According to Albright (1942: 100), “It must never be forgotten that true camel nomadism was still unknown in the thirteenth century, since the domestication of camels was then at best only of recent date.” Under these conditions, therefore, “it was not possible for nomadic hordes to pour out of the Syrian desert or out of the Ḥejâz . . . for the simple fact that that the true desert could not sustain large numbers of tribesmen simultaneously, while long-distance treks from Yemen or Nejd were impossible without camels.” 38. He goes on to say that they were forced by emerging camel nomads to enter Palestine (Albright 1942: 97).

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“the slave . . . [and] non-citizen,” a non-feudal system of land tenure (1962: 76, 79), and the establishment of an egalitarian society that was administered by a heavenly rather than an earthly king, Mendenahll wrote that the divine patron of this core population represented a figure “attractive to all persons suffering under the burden of subjugation to a monopoly of power” (1962: 74). By affiliating themselves with Yahweh and rejecting the oppressive, highly stratified society from which they fled, this mixed group that primarily stemmed from the ʿapîrû of the Amrana texts became the “Hebrews” of the Bible. Though Mendenhall is generally viewed as the father of a “sociological model,” his main concern was emphasizing the religious and ethical nature of early Israel (1962: 73, 78, 85). Instead, it was N. Gottwald who applied a Marxist interpretation to Mendenhall’s original project. 39 In fact, this shift in perspective ultimately led Mendenhall to reject Gottwald’s approach. Nevertheless, Menhenhall’s influence is clearly seen in Gottwald’s work. He too envisioned a small core of geographical outsiders entering Canaan to find a city-state system that was marked by stark inequalities. A “considerable part” of Israel, however, consisted of “native Canaanites who revolted against their overlords and joined forces with a nuclear group of invaders and/or infiltrators from the desert” (Gottwald 1999: 210). In this statement, one can see that Gottwald’s primary concern was not the method by which this small group of geographical outsiders occupied the land but the fact that the majority of Israel consisted of disparate groups of indigenous peasant revolutionaries. Since the publication of Gottwald’s work, this model has been adapted, nuanced, and developed by a large contingent of scholars (e.g., Chaney 1983; Lemche 1985; 1991; Thompson 1992a: 129–41; 1992b; Steinberg 1995: 48–49, 53; Boling 1988: 57). Many have appealed to their archaeological expertise in support of it (e.g., Dever 1992; 1993; 1995a; 1995b; 1998; Stager 1985; Coote and Whitelam 1987; Fritz 1987; Kochavi 1985). Following Mendenhall, Stager critiqued the “geographical outsider” phase of scholarship, referring to it as a form of “desert nostalgia” (Stager 1985: 17). In his opinion, it was the same deceptive romanticism based on the practices of modern Bedouin that led to the idea that the architectural layout of the so-called four-room houses common to the central highlands were modeled after the type of mobile tents the Israelites used before they became sedentary (Fritz and Kempinski 1976; Kempinski and Fritz 1977). Anticipating my own 39. See esp. Gottwald’s (1999) concluding comments beginning on p. 700. His contention that religious symbols are abstractions of historical concerns and events betrays his Marxist leanings (see also 1999: 631–49) and conflicts with Mendenhall’s religious commitments.

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conclusions regarding some of the theoretical presuppositions underlying this phase of inquiry, Stager pointed out that this supposition derived more from “pseudo-evolutionary notions about the origin and process of early Israelite settlement—tent-dwelling nomads who gradually became sedentarized farmers—than to any evident architectural analogues” (Stager 1985: 17; see also Dever 1992). Stager added to his register of evidence against the geographical outsider model the high proportion of cattle bones in the faunal remains from the northern Negev. Associating these remains with the early Israelites, he argued that they could not have originated from the desert because such an environment would not have supported cattle. Stager therefore concluded that early Israel consisted mainly of ʿapîrû “fugitives,” “malcontents,” and “social bandits” (Stager 1985: 5). Building on this approach, Dever argued that the proto-Israelites were primarily “urban refugees, social dropouts and malcontents” who had been “displaced by the radical socio-economic and cultural upheavals” caused by the Egyptian policies of the 19th and 20th Dynasties, increased internecine warfare, and the advent of the Sea People (Dever 1995a: 211; see also Coote and Whitelam 1987: 117–38). Seeking refuge from these historical crises, these “displaced Canaanites” (Dever 1995a: 211) migrated from the urban centers of the lowlands and coastal plains to the sparsely populated central hill country, a process that Stager referred to as “ruralization” (Stager 1985: 17, 25; Dever 1995b; Coote and Whitelam 1987: 117–38). 40 In order to support this reconstruction, its proponents had to answer two critical questions. The first was whether there is any archaeological evidence linking the LB Canaanite population of the lowlands to the Iron I population of the central hill country. Several scholars have demonstrated that there is (see, e.g., Dever 1995a: 205). The cultural continuity represented in their respective settlement patterns, architecture, burial customs, ceramic assemblage, language, and script pointed to a genetic connection between them. In the words of Schloen, the continuities in the material culture with indigenous Canaanite traditions, which have always been evident, are now seen as an indication of 40. In spite of the emphasis placed on the indigenous background of early Israel, most affiliated with this phase of research have accepted the conclusion of both Mendenhall and Gottwald that a small component of this group were “geographical outsiders,” some of whom may have even fled from Egypt (Dever 1995a: 211). For example, Killebrew has recently argued that Israel consisted of a “mixed multitude” that included “the rural Canaanite population, displaced peasants and pastoralists, and lawless ʿapirū and shasu,” along with other “marginal groups” from the outside “such as fugitive or ‘runaway’ Semitic slaves from the Twentieth-Dynasty New Kingdom Egypt” (Killebrew 2006: 571; see also 2005: 149–96; Redmount 1998: 86; Grabbe 2007: 104).

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the lowland Canaanite origins of much of the highland population. This is in keeping with the widespread trend in the early Iron Age throughout the eastern Mediterranean region, from Greece to the Levant, toward ruralization and the formation of small highland agricultural communities following the breakup of the Late Bronze Age palace-based political system.

Schloen therefore concluded with Stager and Dever that “the highlands were presumably colonized for the most part by disaffected Canaanite peasants” (2002: 58; see also Coote and Whitelam 1987: 117–38). The second question was whether there is any evidence that this population actually migrated from the city-states of the western lowlands. In other words, is there anything that argues against the notion that the inhabitants of these new settlements originated from the highlands or migrated from the east? In answering this question, Stager first appealed to demographic estimates. According to his calculations, the population explosion that occurred in the highlands during the Iron I cannot be solely attributed to the natural growth of the few LB Canaanite kingdoms situated in the region (Stager 1998: 134; Schloen 2002: 58). 41 Therefore, at least some proportion of this new population must have derived from lowland sites. Stager goes on to argue that this inhospitable landscape was not open to large-scale settlement until the development of several technological innovations that he argued emerged during the early stages of the Iron I. The first of these was the invention of lime-plastered cisterns, which allowed settlers to collect the necessary water to sustain themselves and their crops in this relatively arid region. 42 The second was the development of terracing, which significantly increased the amount of land that could be claimed for agricultural production in the hilly topography. Not only did these innovations open the landscape for a much larger population to settle, but they also hint at the agricultural sophistication of these settlers, indicating that they originally came from the more agriculturally oriented lowlands (Stager 1985: 5–6, 11). In the end, this migration resulted in the Canaanite kingdoms of the hill country being “superseded . . . by the ‘segmentary’ or 41. Stager does not, however, address the fact that this so-called explosion occurred over a period of 200 years. One is therefore left to wonder what he means by “explosion.” 42. See esp. Stager 1985: 5–10; 1982: 116; Marfoe 1979: 32; de Geus 1975: 70. As Stager indicates, Albright was the first to suggest that plastered cisterns were introduced to the region during the Iron I period. According to Albright (1940: 212), “Thanks to the rapidly increasing diffusion of cisterns, which were lined with true lime plaster (previously not used), the area of settlement was vastly extended and the Israelites began cutting down forests and settling in previously inaccessible districts (cf. Josh 17:15).” Gottwald (1999: 655–60) also appealed to these technological innovations in his reconstruction.

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‘patrimonial’ state” (Fox 1977; Weber 1978: chap. 12; Rogerson 1986), which, based on Stager’s (1985: 18–25) analysis of the new settlements in the region, represented “a more egalitarian, kinship based structure.” 43 Though these scholars contend that the proto-Israelites largely stemmed from the Canaanite populations of the LB, they generally agree that an ethnic identity continuous with the Israel of both the Merenptah stele and the biblical texts developed among them (cf. Redmount 1998; Killebrew 2005; R. D. Miller 2005; Kamp and Yoffee 1980; S. Jones 1997; Dever 1993; 1995b; 2003a: 191–200; London 2003). Referring to this process as an “ethno-genesis,” A. Faust (2006) explains that this unique identity unified an originally disparate group of people because they faced a common enemy. For Faust, this enemy was first the Egyptians and later the Philistines. Certain archaeological remains have been viewed as ethnic markers of Israelite sites in the highlands. The most prominent of these are four-room houses, collared-rim jars, and the virtual absence of pig bones. Scholars also appeal to the cultural continuity in the region between the Iron I and the Iron II, when the Kingdom of Israel began to take shape. A comparison of this phase of scholarship with the first reveals that, in spite of their obvious differences, they have several features in common. The most significant of these is the view that power in the Levant was essentially a “monopoly of force” (Mendenhall 1962: 76). This is illustrated in the general acceptance of Alt’s original claim that a feudal model of authority and land tenure dominated the political landscape. According to Mendenhall (1962: 78), “[T]here can be little doubt that land was often held, and perhaps always, as a grant, one might almost say fief, from the king.” Similarly, Schloen (2002: 58) concludes that the central hill country was “colonized for the most part by disaffected Canaanite peasants,” thereby echoing Albright’s (1940: 217) understanding of the term ḫupšu. Because the urban-centered political system of the Canaanites stood in opposition to the rural, “egalitarian, kinship-based” structure of the early Israelites, 43. To be sure, Stager, among others, does not specifically attribute the process to a theological-ethical “Yahwistic revolution,” as does Mendenhall, or to a socially oriented “peasant’s revolt,” as Gottwald. As Schloen indicates, the “settlement phenomenon is too widespread to be explained by a single factor, whether religious, economic, or political, although one can speak in general terms about the collapse of Late Bonze Age political and economic structures” (Schloen 2002: 58–59). Similarly, Dever (2003: 178) suggests that this movement was not “a flight from intolerable conditions or necessarily a revolutionary Yahwistic fervor . . . but rather simply a quest for a new society and a new lifestyle. They wanted to start over. And in the end, that was revolutionary.” Ultimately, “land reform must have been the driving force behind, and the ultimate goal of the early Israelite movement” (2003: 188). In spite of these nuances, the novelty of the experiment called Israel is underscored all the same.

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all have viewed the latter as “outsiders.” 44 While many of those who have contributed to this phase recognize that a small element of Israel likely consisted of geographical outsiders, what sets their reconstruction apart is the emphasis they place on the populations that originated from within the Levant. Of course, the most prominent of these were the “malcontents,” “displaced peasants,” and “marginal groups” who were originally part of the Canaanite economic system but later opposed themselves to it by means of a new, egalitarian-oriented Israelite ethnic identity. Consequently, this phase casts these geographical insiders as economic outsiders. In the end, it is this common identity that brings coherence to the various models involved. 45 Phase Three: Israel as Political Outsiders As with the models associated with the first two phases of scholarship, the dominant model of the third draws on several methods used by those who preceded it and continues along a similar trajectory in its attempt to identify the nature and origin of early Israel. However, rather than casting Israel as geographical outsiders who infiltrated the land en masse 46 or as economic outsiders who fled from or rebelled against their former Canaanite overlords, its supporters propose that Israel largely derived from tribally organized, nonsedentary pastoralists who lived in the region long before they settled in the central hill country during the Iron I. Since his publication of The Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement in 1988, I. Finkelstein has been the strongest proponent of this reconstruction, finding support from such archaeologists as A. Mazar and Bunimovitz. Following the methodology of Alt, Finkelstein relied heavily upon a longue durée study for his analysis. Instead of combining this approach with the territorial Geschichte principle, however, he focused his attention on what he viewed as two competing political structures in the region. According to his findings, the period spanning the MB to the Iron I was characterized by the intermittent rise and fall of “Canaanite urban cultures” in 44. In the words of Steinberg (1995: 49), the “period of the formation of Israel can be understood as based on the tension between city-states and rural life, between hierarchical systems of taxation and kinship systems of social organization.” 45. More recently, Zertal has critiqued this phase of scholarship. Betraying his support for the first, he contends that “an east–west movement contradicts a model of ‘withdrawal’ from the city-states. Secondly, our finds, as well as the biblical narratives, testify to the coexistence of Canaanite and Israelite groups, based on complementary economic systems and agreements regarding water and grazing rights” (Zertal 1994: 67). 46. Finkelstein also rejects the idea that early Israel could have lived deep in the desert, because the camel had not been domesticated until after the settlement in the hill country during the Iron I (Finkelstein 1988a: 346–47; 1988b: 36).

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the central hill country (see, esp. Finkelstein 1988a; 1988b; 1994; see also Lemche 1985: 154–55; chap. 7 above). At the beginning of the MB, approximately 248 settlements were situated in the region (Finkelstein 1988a: 339–40; Naʾaman 1982: 166–69). During the LB, this number decreased by nearly 82%, with only 25–30 sites attested in the archaeological record. 47 With the advent of the Iron I, another settlement “explosion” occurred, with the number of settlements increasing to as many as 250 (Finkelstein 1988a: 341; 1988b: 39; 2007a: 80). In light of this evidence, Finkelstein concluded that “the destruction of the Late Bronze culture was not an unusual event in the history of the country.” Rather, it represented “a stage in the cyclical processes of growth and breakdown of urban systems” (Finkelstein 1994: 153). One, therefore, did not need to account for the new wave of Iron I settlements by looking outside the region (phase 1) or by pointing to a unique, revolutionary event within it (phase 2). For Finkelstein, these cycles signal a familiar transition in the subsistence patterns and sociopolitical structures among the indigenous populations. With the decline of urbanism that occurred at the end of the MB, those who were originally part of this system turned to a nonsedentary form of pastoralism. This transition is paralleled in the activities of tribal groups in modern Iraq, who “shifted their focus entirely to their flocks upon experiencing crop failure, military defeat, or loss of access to water” (Adams 1972: 6; see, however, Bunimovitz 1995: 324). During the LB, these uprooted groups “lived in a close symbiotic relationship with the remaining urban centers” (Finkelstein 1992: 68). However, this relationship was limited to the economic sphere. Though pastoralists would exchange animal products with the denizens of urban centers for surplus grain (Finkelstein 1988a: 346), they represented two distinct political systems that revolved around their respective lifestyles. Due to yet another crisis in the urban political system at the end of the LB, this “symbiotic relationship” collapsed. Because the pastoralists could no longer depend on a reliable source of grain from the urban centers with which they formerly traded, they were compelled to settle down and produce their own (Bunimovitz 1994b: 195–96). According to Finkelstein, rank-size analysis of the settlements in the region points to an influx of widely distributed, small-scale settlements during this period, indicating 47. Finkelstein 1988a: 340; 1994: 153–56; 2007a: 80. According to Zertal, the hill country of Manasseh contained 135 sites with MB II pottery. This number suffered a 77% decline during the LB, which he attributes to the New Kingdom pharaohs who sought to eliminate the Hyksos presence in the region (Finkelstein 1994: 50–53; see also Hawkins 2008: 167–68; Bunimovitz 1994b: 193).

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a decline in the number of large, integrated urban-centered polities and an increase in the number of small rural, autocratic polities (Finkelstein 1996b: 201; see chaps.  1 and 8 above). It was this group of politically independent indigenous pastoralists turned settlers that eventually consolidated to form Israel. 48 To be sure, nonsedentary pastoralists are largely invisible in the archaeological record. Nevertheless, Finkelstein appealed to a variety of data from both the Iron I and the LB to support his conclusion. For one thing, he suggested that the layout of a number of the Iron I settlements in the central hill country reflects the pastoral background of their inhabitants. Appealing to the idea that “architecture is more conservative and reflects deep-rooted traditions over a long period of time” (1988b: 42), Finkelstein argued that such sites as Izbet Sartah, Tel Beer-sheba, and Tel Esdar, 49 with their elliptical arrangement of dwellings that forms a large central courtyard, mirror the encampments of nomads during the 19th and 20th centuries, whose tents were similarly arranged in a circular fashion. Extrapolating from this evidence, Finkelstein claimed that this arrangement functioned as a protective courtyard for the flocks of their inhabitants. 50 With regard to the LB, Finkelstein found support for a strong pastoral contingent in the region in two archaeological clues (see chap. 7 above). The first is the presence of several cultic sites that were either located at a distance from the built-up area of permanent settlements or completely isolated. In connection with the first category, Finkelstein lists the Tananir Complex outside Tell Balâṭah and the Fosse Temple at Lachish (Ussishkin 1975: 742–43; 1987). With regard to the second category, he cites the Amman Airport temple (Herr: 1983), the temple at Deir ʿAlla (Franken 1975a), 48. A similar model for Mesopotamia in general was proposed by Adams (1972: 9): The very severe retrogression in Mesopotamian urban life in the late 2nd and early 1st millennia B.C. was, to judge from the archaeological surveys as well as excavations, . . . overwhelming. . . . The views expressed earlier about the continuum between the cities and their hinterlands may imply that much of the formerly urban population could have readily dispersed back into the countryside. If so, the decline in aggregate population either took place only gradually or else was more apparent than real . . . a much higher proportion of the population turned to forms of seminomadic pastoralism that left few traces for the archaeologist to recover.

49. See Finkelstein 1988a: 238–54, where he gives a detailed account of this phenomenon and the cites associated with it. 50. For a critique of this interpretation, see esp.  Dever (1992), who points out that only fragments of these “elliptical settlements” are attested in the archaeological record. Thus, Dever contends that the large portion absent from the record has been reconstructed according to Finkelstein’s fancy. If one does accept Finkelstein’s reconstruction, another plausible explanation for this arrangement is that it provided a source of protection without having to engage in the difficult and costly process of constructing a separate wall for the settlement. See Stager 1985: 17.

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the MB to LB cult site at Shiloh, and possibly the sanctuary at Tel Mevorakh. The second, related clue is the relatively large number of cemeteries not affiliated with permanent settlements. Finkelstein maintains that both of these phenomena are unknown during periods of high urban activity and therefore must have served the needs of those who did not identify themselves with or dwell in an urban center (Finkelstein 1988a: 343–44; 1988b: 41–42). He ultimately finds confirmation for this reconstruction in the Amarna letters, which, in his words, “seem to point to a significant pastoralist component, labeled Shasu . . . in the population” (Finkelstein 2007b: 81). In order to confirm this hypothesis, those who subscribe to it had to contend with two points of opposition raised by proponents of the preceding phases of scholarship. The first was the claim that the “outsider status” of this new population is demonstrated in the unique “ethnic identity” reflected in its cultural artifacts. In response, they argued that any discontinuity in the cultural repertoire of the Iron I settlers should be attributed to lifestyle and environmental factors rather than the movement of a new population into the region. 51 For example, one can account for the prevalence of collared-rim jars in sites traditionally identified as Israelite on the basis of the requirements of living in the arid environment of the central hill country. This line of reasoning is particularly apt for the numerous sites that do not contain hewed cisterns (see esp. Zertal 1988b; Finkelstein 1992: 64). With regard to the general lack of pig bones at these settlements, Finkel­stein is open to the possibility that the avoidance of pork consumption served as an ethnic marker for the members of Israel in their attempt to set themselves apart from their Philistine neighbors at a later stage in their development. However, he contends that the subsistence practices of these settlers originally caused this deficiency. If they emerged out of a pastoral background, the use of pigs, which cannot be herded over long distances, would have been limited (Finkelstein 2007b: 79, 81; 1996b: 206). Finkelstein and others have also pointed out that these “ethnic markers” are attested in settlements that are not traditionally identified as Israelite. For example, four-room houses have been unearthed in several sites identified as Canaanite in southern Palestine, including Lachish, Timnah (Tel Batash), and Tel Harassim; and in a number of Transjordanian locales (Finkelstein 1996b: 205; 2007b: 78; A. Mazar 2007b: 87). In addition, collared-rim jars “appear toward the end of the thirteenth century in such ‘Canaanite’ sites as Tel Nami, which is located south of Haifa, Aphek, and 51. See esp. Finkelstein 1988a: 338; 1988b: 37; 1996b: 204–6; 2007a; A. Mazar 2007b: 93–94.

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Beth-shean. During the early Iron Age, they were also popular in the region of Amman in Transjordan” (A. Mazar 2007b: 89; see also Finkelstein 2007b: 78). 52 The second point of opposition to be countered was the claim that the central hill country had previously been closed to the type of large-scale settlement that occurred in the Iron I because the technologies of hewing cisterns and terracing had not yet been developed. However, archaeologists have demonstrated that these innovations were already well known in the MB and perhaps even as early as the EBA (see esp.  Gophna and Porath 1972: 197; Finkelstein 2007b: 93). For Finkelstein, this meant that the “hewing and plastering of water cisterns and the construction of terraces were the result of human penetration into certain niches of the hill country rather than the one-time event that opened the way for expansion into these areas” (Finkelstein 2007b: 76). Reminding his opponents that the central hill country of the MB IIB–C contained between 200 and 250 sites (Finkelstein 1988a: 339–40; 2007b: 80; Naʾaman 1982: 166–69; Broshi and Gophna 1986), he insisted that the wave of settlement in the Iron I was not a unique event. Consequently, for Finkelstein, the search for a distinct “Israelite ethnicity” in the archaeological record ultimately derives from the biblical claim that Israel was a unique ethnic community. He is therefore highly critical of this approach, arguing that it is not only circular in nature, but that it is too bound to the biblical narrative to be historically objective. 53 There are several benefits that set this phase of scholarship apart from its counterparts. For example, by identifying the wave of hill country settlers with indigenous pastoralists, one does not have to account for the sharp decline in the population that demographic estimates indicate occurred during the transition from the MB to the LB and the sharp increase that occurred during the Iron I (Finkelstein 1988b: 41). These fluctuations 52. See also Stager 1985: 17; A. Mazar 1985: 62–68; Esse 1988: 6–8; London 1989: 37–55; 2003: 148; Ray 2008: 92. For an excellent example of how far into the rabbit hole one can take the search for ethnicity, see Mazani 2008, who apparently agrees with Bietak (2003: 101) that the presence of a four-room house in Egypt is “possible evidence for Israel in Egypt” (see also Bietak 2015). 53. See esp. Dever 1995b, and Finkelstein’s 1996b response. Bunimovitz (1994b: 193) adheres to this reconstruction according to the following terms: A theory of greater interest, which also bears a possible solution to the question of the origin of the population which settled in the central hill country in Iron Age I, suggests that the disintegration of the network of permanent Middle Bronze settlements led to the nomadization of many of their inhabitants; an additional change in the political and socio-economic conditions at the end of the Late Bronze Age created new circumstances, which brought about the resedentarization of this population.

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simply reflect the fact that pastoralist groups are largely “hidden” from the archaeological record. The resulting level of general consistency within the population reduces the need to speculate about Israel’s status as geographical outsiders 54 or economic outsiders. In addition, this approach is not at odds with the fact that a group referred to as “Israel” in the Merenptah stele had a strong enough reputation to compel the Egyptians to confront it before the close of the LB. It therefore avoids the problem of accounting for an “Israel” that existed before the settlement process in the central hill country began, which itself occurred over an extended period of time and before the invasion of the Sea People—regardless of whether one chooses to date this event early (ca. 1175 BCE) or late (ca. 1130 BCE). The importance and strength of this argument increases the further one pushes the formation of the Israelite identity back in time. As I suggested above, though Merenptah’s stele has been dated to 1207 BCE, time was required for “Israel” to become a large enough nuisance to compel the Egyptians to engage it militarily and to record that engagement. Because Finkelstein rejects the notion of a discernible Iron I Israelite ethnic identity in the central hill country, he cautiously, and, in my estimation, rightly maintains that one “cannot make an equation between Merenptah’s Israel and the entire Iron I population of the central hill country” (Finkelstein 1996b: 200). In spite of these benefits, this phase is still haunted by the same theoretical presuppositions that generally govern reconstructions of the LB Levant. 55 In particular, it is dependent upon Rowton’s hypothesis regarding the “dimorphic” relationship between urban dwellers and pastoralists. Though this model allows for a relationship between those who were identified with urban-centered Canaanite polities and those who were identified with a pastoralist lifestyle, this relationship was limited to the economic sphere. Consequently, the model argues for a strict distinction between these two categories of people. Taking on proponents of the second phase of scholarship, Bunimovitz (1994b: 195) best articulates this proposed distinction: “[C]ontrary to current hypotheses about peasant movements and revolts during the Late Bronze Age, the dichotomy epitomizing social relations in this period was not between city dwellers and peasants 54. As A. Mazar recently stated (2007b: 94), “Nothing in the archaeological findings from this period points to the foreign origin of the hill-country settlers. There are no objects or traditions that might have been brought by the settlers from outside the country, and the poor artifacts that are attested were inspired from local Canaanite ones.” 55. As their own reconstructions of the LB landscape indicate, proponents of this model envision political power as a “top-down” phenomenon that is administered from urban centers. This is specifically demonstrated in their appeal to rank-size analysis in their reconstructions, a method that I called into question in chap. 8 above.

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but between sedentary and non-sedentary sectors of the population.”  56 As Rowton’s model suggests, this dichotomy is manifest in the unique political structures of each group, which prevented full integration. As I have demonstrated throughout this book, this popular dichotomy is not faithful to the ancient data (see esp. chap. 4). This was brought to a head in chap. 7, where I concluded that Finkelstein’s markers of nonsedentary populations in the form of isolated sanctuaries and interments are unsatisfactory. On the one hand, isolated sanctuaries such as the Tananir Complex and Shiloh were in operation during the MB, one of the high points of urbanism in the region. On the other hand, the evidence suggests that these sanctuaries, along with the isolated interments, were constructed, maintained, and utilized cooperatively by a mix of “sedentary” and “nonsedentary” populations, thus reflecting the type of cooperation attested in the evidence from Mari. In the end, though Finkelstein critiques the second phase of scholarship for being overly influenced by the biblical account in its attempt to identify a body of Israelite ethnic markers, his own reconstruction appears to be influenced by the Bible as well—in this case, in the distinction it draws between sedentary Canaanites and the previously nonsedentary Israelites. As Lemche (1985: 94) points out, this dichotomy is supported by certain ethnographic schools that found it “natural to associate the two types of culture (nomadic and agricultural) with different ethnic units.” Working from this distinction, “they saw the Israelites as nomads on the one hand and the Canaanites as peasants and city dwellers on the other.” As a result, though this phase refrains from characterizing the early Israelites as geographical outsiders or economic outsiders, it still casts them as political outsiders.

Conclusion The foregoing review represents a novel way of conceiving the history of thought regarding the emergence of Israel. There are a number of benefits associated with it. First, it corrects several artificial distinctions 56. J. Portugali (1994: 216–17) explains the “evolution” of Israel’s early political structure in a similar way: “The Israelite societas,” which consisted of “small, relatively independent groups (families or tribes), loosely connected by kinship relations and by a Durkheimian mechanic solidarity,” formed symbiotic and conflict relationships with the Canaanites and Philistines. . . . The external pressure exerted on the Israelite societas, especially by the neighboring Philistines, eventually led to a chaotic state—the disintegration of the traditional Israelite structure. This apparently happened as a consequence of the Israelite community’s inability to effectively reproduce itself as a societas in face of the Philistine pressure. Several new socio-spatial configurations were formed inside the Israelite social system. . . . These were the Israelite traditional societas, Saul’s chiefdom, and David’s urban civitas. . . . David had indeed imposed upon them the Philistine urban model of a political society, and in terms of self-organization had subjugated the Israelite societas.

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that have dominated the field. In so doing, it highlights points of continuity among these models that have been overlooked. Finally, it provides a new angle from which to evaluate the motivations, assumptions, and development of each of the phases and their associated models. As I have pointed out throughout this discussion, all of these models share a number of critical dichotomies, including sedentary versus nonsedentary; state versus tribe; hierarchical versus egalitarian; and ultimately, “Canaanite” versus “Israelite.” These points of contrast have led to the conclusion that Israel was originally a group of “outsiders.” Again, these dichotomies are based on several presuppositions regarding the nature of power, the evolutionary development of the state, and the dimorphic character of ancient society. For example, the emphasis these models place on the systemic or exclusionary aspect of power sets the stage for the idea that the politically oppressed, economic outsiders of the Levant cast off the bonds of their oppressors either by affiliating themselves with a group of egalitarian-oriented geographical outsiders (phase 1) or by uniting themselves with other members of the indigenous peasant class in order to form their own “egalitarian” society (phase 2). However, as was observed in parts 1 and 2 above, “egalitarian” or corporately administered polities were not uncommon during the Amarna period and did not necessarily preclude the involvement of central administrations. As Blanton has observed, the term “egalitarian” “does not imply an absence of hierarchical control.” Instead, it denotes “any behavior that aims to establish and uphold restrictions on the exercise of exclusionary power, whatever its social setting in simpler or more complex societies” (Blanton 1998: 151; see chap. 2 above). In addition, so-called nonsedentary, pastoralist, or tribal populations are known to have engaged in political relationships with urban-centered populations and to have lived in cities (see chap. 2). These historical details stand in sharp contrast to the assumptions and conclusions of phase 3. In the opening pages of his 1962 study, Mendenhall explains one of the motivating factors for undertaking his project: “[T]he impossibility of harmonizing the accounts of modern scholars which are based upon the same evidence makes it necessary to re-examine fundamental assumptions which underlie reconstructions of early biblical history” (Mendenhall 1962: 67). 57 In many ways, the present book is a direct response to this call. A comparison of the varieties of sociopolitical experience high57. Mendenhall is only one of a number of scholars who has articulated the dangers of unexamined assumptions. According to Schloen (2002: 55), “[I]n ancient Near Eastern studies, ethnographic and historical analogies have often been selected quite casually, or, what is worse, they remain unacknowledged, even though they are implicit in every aspect of historical reconstruction, from the broadest socioeconomic studies to detailed lexicogra-

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lighted in parts 1–2 of this book with some of the core biblical depictions of early Israel ultimately suggests that, though elements of early Israel certainly consisted of geographical, economic, and political outsiders, a strong contingent was continuous with the sociopolitical entities of the LB, constituting a group of geographical, economic, and political insiders. This is particularly germane for populations that emerged in and around the land of Shechem, because they were characterized by resilience in the face of political change and historical upheaval (chap. 7). The possibility of this continuity is enhanced by my evaluation of the historical events that occurred during the transition from the LB to the Iron I. While the Egyptians did make changes in the way they administered their Levantine interests during the 19th and 20th Dynasties, the data suggest that the situation on the ground did not differ greatly from that of the 18th Dynasty. With regard to the Sea People, the earliest date for their mass arrival on the scene took place over 30 years after Israel is attested in the Merenptah stele. The debate revolving around this date, the number of Sea People, and the nature of their settlement in the region makes it difficult to determine the precise role they played, if any, in the early stages of Israel’s formation. The spike in settlements in the central hill country poses a similar problem. Dated to the Iron I period, this spike also occurred after Merenptah’s confrontation with Israel. Moreover, the Iron I spans a period of two centuries. This length of time indicates that it was not necessarily a revolutionary event but a gradual process. The implications of these observations are summarized well by Fleming: In light of this chronological debate, the Merenptah reference to Israel may become ever more deeply embedded in the Late Bronze Age, before Egypt’s departure from Canaan, before Philistine arrival, and especially before the vast expansion of highland settlements. If this is true, then the archaeological context for Israel’s first formation as a polity—capable of opposing Egypt in battle—is not the formation of rural highland peoples into “chiefdoms” or the like, which would belong to early phases of Israel’s existence and coexistence with similar groups undergoing similar social change. Rather, Israel took political form out of the Late Bronze II landscape. (Fleming 2012: 462)

In the chapters that follow, I will isolate several biblical texts describing the early phases of Israel’s formation that suggest continuity with the polities and populations of the LB Levant, particularly as they are depicted in phy.” Similarly, Giddens (1984: 179) warns that such assumptions produce “a form of reified discourse not true to the real characteristics of human agents.” See also Porter 2012.

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the Amarna corpus. To be sure, some may object to this approach by pointing to the period that separates the Amarna Age (ca. 1344–1328 BCE) and the first extrabiblical reference to Israel in the Merenptah stele (1207 BCE). Nevertheless, setting aside questions revolving around the time required for Israel to develop into an entity worthy of confrontation, all of the scholars named above agree that the Amarna archive is the most complete and direct source of textual evidence available for reconstructing the Levantine political landscape before Israel’s emergence. It is therefore a necessary tool to be used in this endeavor. Moreover, the cultural continuity in the archaeological record discussed above suggests a high level of continuity among the populations—if not polities—of the LB and Israel, further underscoring the usefulness of the Amarna texts. In the end, by relying upon my reevaluation of the sociopolitical contours of the land during the LB, one is better equipped to follow Steinberg’s (1995: 45–46) advice that “we must have knowledge of ancient social structures and institutions in order to fully comprehend the world depicted in the Hebrew Bible” and avoid “imposing contemporary Western models and attributes onto an ancient society with a social structure different from our own.”

Chapter 10

Shechem, Israel, and the Historical Memories in Judges 9: The King and the Collective Introduction Early Memories in the Bible As I noted at the outset, a large proportion of scholars have questioned the validity of using the Bible for reconstructing the early phases of Israel’s history. Many contend that it is useful only insofar as it reflects the ideological and/or theological concerns of the writers, editors, and redactors of the exilic and postexilic periods. To be sure, much of the Bible in its final form is influenced by these concerns. One must, therefore, be cautious when turning to it as a source for Israelite history. The Bible is not unique in this regard. Though they were not edited and redacted in the way that the biblical texts were, and though they were intended for more immediate purposes, most ancient texts, including the Amarna letters, reflect the biases of their authors. This can make it difficult to disentangle historical data from ideological motivations. When evaluated appropriately, however, the data in these extrabiblical sources can offer a relatively accurate account of many of the events and people depicted therein. Recently, Fleming (2012) has proposed a method of analysis that provides access to what appear to be authentic historical memories in texts of the Bible as well—in spite of the influence of the later editorial hands through which they passed. He contends that some of the nuances revolving around the political structure of Israel, including the memory of a strong collective political tradition, could not have been fabricated by a later Judean author who was removed temporally, ideologically, and geographically from Israel and whose political heritage was highly centralized under the authority of a single dynastic tradition. On the basis of these observations, Fleming concludes that many of the texts that preserve these memories accurately reflect the political organization of Israel and 303

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therefore stemmed from earlier Israelite sources (cf. Finkelstein 2013: 1–6). He goes on to support the historical credibility of these memories by pointing to parallels among the polities and populations of Mesopotamia that preceded Israel’s arrival on the scene. Parts 1–2 above set the stage for a study of the origin and nature of Israel by offering a new vision of the social and political landscape of the southern Levant during the LB. The purpose of part 3 is to highlight the points of continuity between the entities of this landscape and those identified with early Israel. Following Fleming’s approach, I do not believe that an exilic or postexilic Judean, entrenched in his own historical context and ideological concerns, could or would have fabricated these parallels. Rather, they are probably older memories and perceptions of Israel’s early history that were preserved in the earlier phases of the Bible’s literary tradition (so Finkelstein 2013: 21, 24, 35–36, 45, 47–50, 61). In order to isolate some of these early memories or preserved understandings of Israel’s formative stages, we need to highlight the critical elements of Israel’s “national history” that express the concerns of an exilic and/or postexilic Judahite context. These “national memories” constitute the “theo-ideological” core of the biblical texts that reflect the foundation of Second Temple Judahite identity and inform the overarching history of Israel as it was conceived and constructed during that time. Ultimately, they form the framework into which older memories and perceptions of historical events and social systems were set and thereby reinterpreted. As with J. Assmann’s definition of “cultural memory,” creating national memories represents the “ongoing process of shaping an identity by reconstructing its past” (Assmann 1997: 14). While many national memories were entirely fabricated at a later date, representing “historical innovations,” some probably derived from memories stemming from events rooted in history that originally applied to only a small portion of Israel’s constituents. In those cases, independent historical memories were gradually adopted, often reworked, and eventually applied to the people as a whole as national memories. As with many modern examples of this process, 1 the national memories of the Bible were developed to promote 1. The celebration of Thanksgiving in the United States is an excellent example of this. Only a very small contingent of modern Americans who participate in this holiday can claim ties to the individuals who were directly connected to that historical memory. Nevertheless, many others who represent different groups that have contributed to the shape and history of this country have adopted Thanksgiving as part of their own national identity. Thanksgiving, therefore, represents a limited historical memory converted into a national memory meant to contribute to a sense of national unity.

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the unity of a diverse population 2 whose identity was threatened by a number of existential crises. According to Assmann (1997: 14), the “proper way of dealing with the workings of cultural memory is mnemohistory.” The task of mnemohistory involves “analyzing the mythical elements in tradition and discovering their hidden agenda” (1997: 10). By undertaking this task with Israel’s national memories, we will view the characterizations of Israel that contradict or are foreign to the later Judahite agenda. Because it is difficult to believe that a later Judahite author would have concocted these conflicting reports, they will constitute a body of material that probably derived from and more closely reflect the earlier stages of Israel’s development and identity. This is not to say that these characterizations represent the type of “facts” sought by historical positivists. Much of history as it relates to the human experience is remembered history. Thus, the interpretive frameworks, experiences, and perspectives of those who are reporting events constantly influence their reports. 3 Moreover, details are often constructed in order to fill in the gaps of the remembered record, or altered in order to make an account more relevant for a contemporary audience. Nevertheless, I agree with Assmann’s contention that “the truth of memory lies in the identity that it shapes” (Assmann 1997: 14). As E. Panofsky (1962: 16) has noted, “[D]ocuments bear witness to the political, poetical, religious, philosophical, and social tendencies of the personality, period or country under investigation.” While the historicity of the older literary traditions cannot be proven, they “truthfully” identify the constituents of Israel with certain sociopolitical experiences and identities that run contrary to the national memories of the Bible. When removed from the interpretive influence of the national memories that surround them, these experiences and identities function as cultural artifacts that can refine our understanding of the origin and nature of early Israel. These cultural artifacts are particularly illuminating and pertinent to this study when they correspond to the social and political landscape of the LB Levant. In the end, they will demonstrate that a number of polities and populations that were eventually identified with Israel originally stemmed from this landscape and were prominent players within it. 2. As Hendel (2005: x) points out with reference to Ernest Renan, “[N]ational identity depends on ‘the possession in common of a rich legacy of memories,’ even as those memories are inevitably laced with the unhistorical.” 3. Assmann contends that “the past cannot be stored but always has to be ‘processed’ and mediated. This mediation depends on the semantic frames and needs of a given individual or society within a given present.” This is illustrated by the fact that “individual memories remember the same event in many different ways” (Assmann 1997: 12).

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A prime example of a national memory in the Bible is the exodus tradition. Most of the models of Israel’s emergence examined in the preceding chapter agree that if an exodus from Egypt occurred, only a small contingent of Israel participated in it. Nevertheless, in order to support and solidify a “national identity” among a people who had been divided, conquered, and subsequently exiled from their land and to establish the foundation for a “future” hope of return, this parochial memory was converted into a pan-Israelite event. The notion that all of Israel stemmed from a single set of ancestors is another national memory of the historical innovation type adopted to promote the idea of a common Israelite identity. As I have pointed out in a number of places in this study, this was a common strategy used in the ancient world to advance unity among disparate and dispersed groups of people. These founding mothers and fathers are also regarded as having led a primarily seminomadic lifestyle that was often at odds with urbancentered populations. A pertinent example of this is found in Genesis 34. There, the sons of Israel engage in direct conflict with the sons of Hamor, who are identified with Shechem. Memories such as these ultimately served to support the model of conquest found in the book of Joshua, where the twelve tribes of Israel are depicted as “outsiders” set in opposition to the indigenous, urban-centered “Canaanite” population. Though most scholars continue to adhere to the biblical distinction between the Canaanites and the Israelites, a large proportion have rejected the national memory of a pan-Israelite conquest for a number of historical and archaeological reasons. Nevertheless, one cannot underestimate the power of such a narrative in fostering unity of purpose under a common identity. An additional national memory that deeply influences one’s reading of the biblical texts is the idea that Israel was called to practice a form of monolatry and later monotheism centered around Yahweh. Insofar as these paradigms were projected upon the earliest stages of the formation of Israel’s identity, they constitute “national memories.” However, the fact that they developed at a relatively late stage in Israel’s history indicates that they were also “historical innovations.” Nevertheless, it is not difficult to comprehend why these innovations arose. On a purely sociological level, religious affiliation was and continues to be associated with personal identity. One’s national identity is therefore solidified and supported through the identification with a national god. Such a strategy is particularly powerful when an entity’s national identity is threatened by a national crisis and/or an opposing political entity that lays claim to a competing vision of or character within the divine realm.

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This phenomenon is exemplified in the conflicting depictions of Israel’s relationship with Moab found in the Bible and the 9th-century Moabite Stone. According to 2 Samuel 8, Moab was subject to David by the volition and direct intervention of Yahweh. The effects of this intervention lasted until the reign of Ahab, who received tribute from Mesha, the king of the Moabites (2  Kings 3). Mesha, however, gives a very different account of these events on his stele. According to the testimony therein, it was not by Yahweh’s directive that Moab became Israel’s vassal. Rather, it was Kemosh, the patron god of Moab, who subjected his people to a period of foreign domination on account of his anger with his “land.” The text goes on to claim that it was Kemosh, through the leadership of Mesha, who ultimately delivered the Moabites from the hand of Israel. Attributing these events to Kemosh would have played a role in sustaining Moabite identity during Israelite domination and dissuading members of this community from transferring their affiliations to an entity whose divine patron appeared more powerful, if not more real. Recognizing the concerns motivating these competing accounts, one may better understand the “religious reforms” attributed to Hezekiah during the Assyrian assault, the similar reforms associated with Josiah when the Egyptians were knocking at his door, and the claims found in Second Isaiah that were made during and/or immediately after the Babylonian Exile. In each of these cases, the national deity is elevated and emphasized at the expense of other gods in order to strengthen the national identity of a people during periods of turmoil. A final set of national memories that must be noted stem from the idea that Yahweh chose David and his heirs as the only legitimate house to rule over Israel during its formative stages and its reconstruction, and the so-called “Zion Theology” associated with this decision. As S. Niditch has pointed out, these ideas have impacted “conventional wisdom” regarding the narratives in Judges in particular. The “influential, perhaps dominant scholarly point of view suggests that the book as a whole, or significant portions, is shaped to create an image of failed leadership and political chaos in order to justify and valorize the institution of the monarchy and the Davidic dynasty in particular” (Niditch 2009: 59). 4 As a result, scholars have failed “to take into account the significance and workings of typical narrative patterns, tales of epic heroes and stories of national foundation 4. This perspective is reflected in Brettler 2002: 111–16; 1989: 395–418; Amit 1999: 61, 75, 117; Sweeney 1997: 517–29; Yee 1995: 146–70; Lasine 1984: 37–59; Cundall 1969: 178–81.

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or political creation” (Niditch 2009: 61). 5 A prime example of this, which I will evaluate in detail below, is the idea that kings did in fact function in Israel before the formation of the Israelite monarchy. All of these elements of the later Judahite rendition of Israel’s history should ultimately serve as points of contrast when we are trying to judge whether or not a text contains a memory that reflects Israel’s formative stages. Accounts of early Israel that conflict with these “national memories” and reflect elements of the sociopolitical landscape of the LB Levant should cause us to take pause and consider whether they provide relatively accurate depictions of the early phases of its development and identity. This approach is in no way novel, particularly among scholars of Israelite religion. In spite of the overwhelming number of biblical claims to the contrary, most scholars do not hesitate to affirm the points of continuity between so-called Canaanite religion and Israelite religion, concluding that they developed out of the same “cosmic pool.” 6 The question remains, however, whether there are points of continuity between the sociopolitical structures of the so-called Canaanites of the LB and the structures of the constituents of early Israel. If there are, it seems likely that Israel also emerged out of the same “sociopolitical pool.” The Centrality of Judges 9 Judges 9 is a particularly fitting place to begin this analysis. The core of this text is regarded as relatively early by even the most cautious of scholars (Levin 2000; Finkelstein 2013: 21, 26–27). This assessment is based largely on a number of social and political phenomena recorded therein that distinguish its depiction of premonarchic Israel from many of its biblical counterparts. The most striking of these is the political transition that occurs in an urban-centered polity involving several corporate decisionmaking bodies and a king. The narrative opens with Abimelech, the son of Jerubbaal, appealing to the lords of Shechem to recognize him as their sole leader. After the lords of Shechem and all of Beth-millo make him their king, the relationship between Abimelech and the Shechemites sours. As the story unfolds, the latter put their trust in the treacherous Gaʿal over and against Abimelech. This duplicity ultimately motivates Abimelech to take action. After defeating Gaʿal and the lords of Shechem, he turns his 5. Niditch goes on to assert, “[I]f assessments of the judges too often fail to take account of their roles as heroes in a traditional-style narrative framework, appropriate to a national history of early times, they are also often a bit tone-deaf to the quality of foundation narrative that shapes the final five chapters of Judges” (Niditch 2009: 67). 6. See esp. M. S. Smith 2001: 17; 2002: 6–7.

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wrath against the people of Shechem, destroying them along with their city. Finally, he approaches the Temple of El-berith, which he burns over the heads of the lords/men of the tower of Shechem who had taken refuge there. Though he finishes the job “at Shechem,” his taste for revenge is not satisfied. He immediately directs his attention toward Thebez, where he eventually meets his own fate at the hands of a millstone-slinging woman. A close study of the ways in which these events unfold and the different attitudes and identities of the players involved produces a complex sociopolitical picture of Israel during the so-called premonarchic period that conflicts with a number of the national memories of Israel outlined above. In other words, the political picture presented in Judges 9 is so foreign to what the Bible as a whole promotes regarding the premonarchic period that it seems to reflect an alternate political reality. The setting of Judges 9 is also very important. The identification of Shechem with Tell Balâṭah in the archaeological record, šakmi in EA 289, and skmjmj /skmm of the execration texts and the Khu-Sebek stele (see chap. 7 above) provides a rare opportunity to compare this text with extrabiblical evidence. Keeping in mind the rich literary history of Judges 9 and the associated difficulties with drawing direct parallels between the Bible and the archaeological record, one must be cautious when undertaking this task. Nevertheless, it can prove to be beneficial on several levels. For one thing, this comparison opens the door for an evaluation of several significant nuances within the narrative that have been overlooked, including the complex nature of the identity of Shechem and some of the strategies used to promote and secure the aforementioned political transitions. It also establishes tentative parameters for locating the events depicted in Judges 9 historically. As I noted above, there were two periods during which Tell Balâṭah lay dormant. The first was the century following its destruction at the end of the MB IIC (ca. 1550–1450 BCE), and the second was during the Iron I (ca. 1150/25 BCE). On the basis of these dates, it may be argued that, unless Judges 9 was completely fabricated, it reflects historical circumstances that date no later than 1125 BCE, situating them firmly within the early stages of Israel’s development. Recently, however, Finkelstein has called into question the reliability of this argument. According to his analysis of the pottery, the second destruction of Tell Balâṭah occurred at the beginning of the 10th century (Finkelstein 2006b: 252–53). Historically locating the events embedded in Judges 9, therefore, becomes a dicey matter on both sides. Nevertheless, this does not pose a problem for another critical observation. Regardless of whether its second destruction is dated to the end of the 12th century or the beginning of the 10th, Tell Balâṭah

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represents a historical artifact with a cultural continuity that extended as far back as the beginning of the LB. In this way, it was a “Canaanite” city that functioned in an Israelite context. The Literary History of Judges 9 In addition to reflecting a complex sociopolitical tradition, Judges  9 betrays a rich literary history. Two major schools of thought dominate this discourse. Though there is disagreement about the details, a number of scholars have noted several “logical tensions” within the text. Based on these tensions, they contend “that the Abimelech narrative comprises several units which can be regarded as older traditions” (Hentschel 2009: 55). 7 Generally speaking, these units include the Gaʿal episode (vv. 26–41), the assault on Shechem (vv. 25, 42–45), the destruction of the Tower of Shechem (vv. 46–49), and Abimelech’s demise at Thebez (vv. 50–54). 8 Jotham’s fable (vv. 7–21) is also regarded as “independent” and “original,” though some contend that it is a late addition. 9 These separate narratives were later joined to create a self-contained Abimelech cycle, to which was added an 7. Illustrating the complexity of this debate, Soggin (1981: 165) lists several problems that suggest that the “narrative was not composed straight off ” but, rather, was “the product of a number of quite complicated factors.” 8. Richter (1963: 322) contends that the chapter contains three independent traditions: Jotham’s fable (vv. 8–15), the Gaʿal narrative (vv. 26–41), and the assault on the Tower of Shechem and Thebez (vv. 46–51). These were later combined by the author of “the book of saviors” who composed vv. 1–7, 16a, 19b–21, 23–24, and 56–57. Crüsemann (1978: 19–42) suggests that the ancient core is located in vv. 23, 25, and 42–45. To this was added the episode revolving around Gaʿal (vv. 26–41), and only later were vv. 1, 2*–6*, 7–16a, 19b–21, and 56–57 introduced. More recently, Gross (2009: 485–94) has argued that the earliest narrative consisted of vv. 22*, 23b, 25, and 43–54. To this core was added the independent Gaʿal story (vv. 26–41) through the introduction of v. 42. Later, the Jotham fable (vv. 8a–15d), which he also regards as early and originally independent, was included by a redactor who integrated the entire complex by writing vv. 1–7, 15e–16c, 19b–21, 23a–24, and 56–57. Similarly, Hentschel (2009: 50–56) contends that the chapter contains several independent episodes, including Jotham’s parable (vv.  8–15a), the Gaʿal episode (vv.  26–41), which was supplemented by a later redactor (vv. 34–43aβ), the assault on Shechem (vv. 25, 42–45), the assault on the Tower of Shechem (vv. 46–49), and the attack of Thebez (vv. 50–54). To this core was added the introduction (vv. 1–3, 4–5a, 6), an independent Jotham parable (vv. 8–15a) and its later heterogeneous Deuteronomistic interpretation consisting of an enlargement (v. 15b) and two interpretations (vv. 16, 19b, 20 and 17–19a), the pan-Israelite statements in vv. 22 and 55, and the concluding theological remarks in vv. 56–57. 9. See Martin 1975: 117; Cathcart 1995: 216; Stordalen 2000: 164; Schöpflin 2004: 21– 22; Naʾaman 2011b: 15. For Soggin (1981: 173), this observation rests on two interrelated problems: “[T]he first is the relationship between Jotham’s speech as a whole and its present context; the second is the relationship between Jotham’s apologue and his speech, and therefore with the rest of the context” (see also 1981: 173–79).

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introduction (vv. 1–6), a conclusion (vv. 56–57), and the pan-Israelite notices in vv. 22 and 55. 10 By contrast, some have argued for the originality and integrity of a large portion of the chapter, including some elements of the introduction. 11 As Naʾaman sees it, “[A]n editor who either compiles different sources or extensively reworks an existing literary unit would make it as smooth as possible and avoid leaving inconsistencies in the story he edits” (Naʾaman 2011b: 4). 12 He therefore proposes “reversing the literary process.” In the old, pre-Dtr “stage of its transmission, the story was unified and coherent,” consisting of vv. 1, 2*–3, 6, 23, 25, 26–41, and 43–54. 13 It was only later that a 10. Hentschel 2009: 54–55; Schöpflin 2004: 5, 21; Soggin 1981: 180, 194; Boling 1975b: 175, 182; Martin 1975: 113, 123, 129; Moore 1976: 238. According to Naʾaman (2011b: 4), “Common to all these solutions is the assumption that a major editorial work took place at a certain stage of compilation and that the later editor combined together the different parts and created the story as it is (except for a few late editorial additions).” 11. For example, Moore contends that the text consists of two independent sources based on the “two accounts of the origin of hostilities between Abimelech and the Shechemites” (Moore 1976: 237). The first, which he attributes to E, is the largest, consisting of vv. 1–21, 22–25, 42–45, and 56–57. Of the remaining verses, he only attributes 26–29, 30–41 to J, leaving us to speculate regarding the origin of vv. 46–55. Nevertheless, he is confident that “no traces of D’s hand are discoverable in the chapter” (Moore 1976: 238). This is largely because it could not be “coerced” into D’s “pragmatism.” Accordingly, it was added to the book of Judges by a later redactor through the introduction of 8:30–32. Fritz (1982: 129–33) also sees two narratives in play. However, while the first is limited to vv. 26–41, the second consists of vv. 1–5a, 6, 23, 25, 42–45, 50–54, and 56. By contrast, Kratz (2000: 212) argues that vv. 1–3, 6, 26–41, and 50–54 constitute the core tradition, with vv. 42–49 representing a later addition. For Guillaume (2004: 640), outside the references to Jerubbaal and his 70 sons in vv. 16–19, 24, 57, the text exhibits a high level of uniformity. See also Bluedorn 2001: 182–264; de Castelbajac 2001: 169–73. Most recently, Milstein (2010) has argued for a separate Abimelech account consisting of vv. 26–54. 12. Oeste shares a similar view. As he sees it, “[I]nterpreters favouring a diachronic explanation of the tensions found in Judges 9, and between Judges 9 and the rest of the book, proceed under the assumption that differing perspectives and tensions must stem from different hands.” Pointing to the studies by Guest (1997; 1998), he concludes that this “assumption is not above challenge.” He goes on to point out that “diachronic interpreters are still left with the task of explaining how a later interpreter could justify bringing together such ‘contradictory’ perspectives” (Oeste 2011: 38; see also p. 52). Of course, texts such as Gen 6:19–20 read in parallel with Gen 7:2–3 may argue against this perspective. Nevertheless, as I shall indicate below, isolating fractures in a text based on modern perceptions of how the narrative should unfold runs the risk of overlooking and/or suppressing critical sociopolitical phenomena that would have made sense or been familiar to the ancient bearers of a tradition. In the end, I agree with Bowman, who advises that “no one method is . . . sufficient for a comprehensive interpretation of any narrative” (Bowman 2007: 18). 13. In support of the coherence of these passages, Naʾaman highlights such points of continuity as the “symmetrical way” in which the author introduces Abimelech and Gaʿal in

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post-Dtr “editor, seeking to insert his own new message into the story, . . . brought about the marked internal tensions” (Naʾaman 2011b: 4, see also pp. 13, 15–20). What ultimately differentiates those who fall in this category of scholarship is their respective views on the introductory material. S. Milstein (2010: 193–208) has proposed that Judg 8:29–9:21 is a later “revision through introduction” meant to integrate the originally independent Gideon (Judg 8:4–21) and Abimelech (Judg 9:26–54) traditions. 14 While I agree that the relationship between Gideon and Abimelech was the product of a later innovation, 15 that Judg 8:4–21 represents the oldest core of the Gideon tradition, 16 and that Judg 9:26–54 should be read as a coherent unit, I am less inclined to view the entirety of Judg 9:1–25 as stemming from a later hand, even if it does not include the “original” introduction (so Naʾaman 2011b: 5). As I shall demonstrate in greater detail below, some of the finer points of vv. 1–6 are too nuanced, detailed, and reflective of an earlier Shechemite tradition to have been “concocted” by a later author (see esp. Milstein 2010: 196–97 n. 290; Fleming 2012: 60–61; Finkelstein 2013: 21, 26–27). A banner example of this is the reference to “all Beth-millo” in v. 6. Not only is this phrase entirely absent from the narrative block that follows, but it is attested only two other times in the Bible. The first is in Jotham’s judgment in Judg 9:20, and the second is in an obscure passage in 2 Kgs 12:21 [ET 20]. The term millôʾ also appears in 2 Sam 5:9; 1 Kgs 9:15, 24; 11:27; 1 Chr 11:8; and 2 Chr 32:5. This may imply that a later Jerusalemite author who was familiar with this word and the related phrase employed it in v. 6 in order to make the story more familiar to his audience. However, in every case but Judg 9:6, bêṯ-millôʾ and millôʾ refer to an inanimate architectural feature. Drawing on the underlying root mālēʾ “to fill,” most commentators envision “an acropolis constructed artificially by filling in” (Soggin 1981: 168; vv. 1 and 26, respectively, and they way each is welcomed by the lords of Shechem (Naʾaman 2011b: 6–7). Elsewhere, he calls into question “the assumption that v. 42 was written by [the] redactor who wrote v. 42a as a continuation of the Gaʿal episode and v. 42b as a Wiederaufnahme to the end of v. 25” (Naʾaman 2011b: 8). Instead, he reads this transition as a continuous narrative. However, he does state that v. 23 was introduced by the author to “explain the chain of development in the next two passages (v. 26–41 and 42–45),” causing one to wonder if this verse should be included in the text of the original story (Naʾaman 2011b: 6). 14. Schöpflin also views vv. 26–54 as the “earliest texts” in Judges 9 with vv. 1–5a, and 6 representing a “new prelude to chap. 9” (Schöpflin 2004: 21; see also p. 5). 15. So Naʾaman 2011b: 4–5, 15–16; Hentschel 2009: 50; Gross 2009: 373–74, 485–94; Schöpflin 2004: 5. 16. So Milstein 2010: 198; Fleming 2012: 60–61.

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see also G. E. Wright 1965: 80–102; Boling 1975b: 171) 17 that may have been associated with a city’s fortification system (Burney 1918: 271–72; Moore 1976: 244). By contrast, when read in parallel with the preceding phrase, the Beth-millo of v. 6 represents a political decision-making body that assembled with the lords of Shechem, went forth, and made Abimelech king (‫)ויאספו כל־בעלי שׁכם וכל־בית מלוא וילכו וימליכו את־אבימלך למלך‬. While the inanimate nature of Beth-millo is not immediately evident in Judg 9:20, the stated recipients of Jotham’s speech remove any doubt. Jotham opens his polemic in v. 7 by addressing the lords of Shechem alone: “Listen to me, O lords of Shechem, and may God listen to you!” Beth-millo is also conspicuously absent from v. 18, where Jotham states that Abimelech was made king over the lords of Shechem alone. In v. 6, therefore, we have an entirely different vision of what Beth-millo is referring to—one that was foreign to the later author who adopted this phrase from the older narrative core and employed it in the only way that made sense to him. In other words, while the author of v. 20 was envisioning fire descending upon and coming forth from an architectural feature or inanimate object— much in the same way that fire consumed the stronghold of the Temple of El-berith in v. 49—in v. 6, Beth-millo is cast as a group of people who were associated with the Beth-millo at Shechem. Several commentators have pointed out that this feature corresponds to the archaeological record at Shechem in the changes that were made to the temenos during the MB IIC (Soggin 1981: 168–69; Boling 1975b: 171; see chap. 7 above). After the completion of Wall A, the space between it and wall 900—the exterior wall of the temenos—was filled in, covering the courtyard complexes of the preceding period. The resulting platform served as the foundation of the Fortress Temple, the palace complex that stood adjacent to the Northwest Gate, and later, Temple 7500. Thus, those associated with the Beth-millo in v. 6 may anticipate and even overlap with the lords/men of the Tower of Shechem in vv. 46–49 (cf. Burney 1918: 271– 72). Regardless, one is left to wonder how and why a later author would import a little-known architectural feature that he uniquely associated with a decision-making body into a new introduction that he intended to integrate into the original block of material that followed. Following Naʾaman, therefore, I am inclined to view v. 6 as part of the core tradition. There is also very little reason to regard vv. 1–3 as secondary, though the reference to “all the sons of Jerubbaal” in v. 2 may have been a later 17. In support of this contention, Soggin points to the excavations carried out by K. Kenyon in Jerusalem in 1961 and 1967 that unearthed an artificial filling identified by Kenyon as a millôʾ (Soggin 1974: 100–103).

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addition (Naʾaman 2011b: 15). I am suspicious, however, of entirely eliminating vv. 4–5 as Naʾaman (2011b: 15–16) and Kratz (2000: 212) do. 18 For one thing, I do not think the evidence supports the contention that the reference to Baʿal-berith in v. 4 is secondary. Baʿal-berith is attested in the narrative bridge that links Judges 8 and 9 (v. 33). Many attribute this passage to a late Dtr editor who employed “the pragmatic framework of the stories in the Book of Judges according to which the death of the deliverer brought about the return to the former forbidden cults” (Naʾaman 2011b: 16). While this does reflect the Deuteronomistic framework of the entire book, it is strikingly unique. Outside Judg 9:4, this is the only attestation of Baʿal-berith in the entire Hebrew Bible. This requires us to consider the source of this strange name. It is reasonable to view the sudden reference to El-berith at the end of Judges 9 as an inherent tension that requires an explanation based on the later integration of the Gideon-Abimelech complex. Many point to Gideon’s assault on the altar of Baʿal and his subsequent name change (“Jerubbaal”; 6:25–32) as the source of this “introductory innovation.” In other words, after identifying Gideon with Jerubbaal and explaining this “embarrassing” name through his pro-Yahweh activities, the editors introduced Baʿal to Judges 9 in the form of “Baʿal-berith” in order to “present Abimelech as a negative replica of Gideon.” As Naʾaman explains it, “Gideon began his career by removing the cult of Baʿal (symbolized by the smashing of his altar at Ophrah), whereas Abimelech left the forbidden pagan cult as it was and was even willing to receive silver for his murderous plans from the Temple of Baʿal-berith” (Naʾaman 2011b: 16; see also Assis 2005: 133–73; Bluedorn 2001: 203–206; Klein 1988: 70–79). 19 However, it was not the altar of Baʿal-berith that Gideon removed but simply the altar of Baʿal (vv. 25, 28, 30–32), along with the sacred pole adjacent to it (v. 30). Again, one is left to wonder why Baʿal-berith in particular was introduced to the narrative. In chap. 11, I will present another explanation for the divine transition from Baʿal-berith to El-berith based on historical and sociological phenomena that suggest it was an authentic historical memory that played an import role in the development of the narrative. This reading avoids having to explain the genesis of Baʿal-berith and it maintains a sensible connection with one of the central figures in Judges 9—namely, Jerub18. I. de Castelbajac (2001: 166–70) also argues for a single tradition consisting of vv. 1–5a, 6, 23, and 26–41. 19. If it was the intention of the author/editor to underscore this contrast, one wonders why Abimelech is not accused of constructing this temple and dedicating it to Baʿal.

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baal. His very name, which is undoubtedly original to the core of text, 20 signals an association with Baʿal. It is not surprising, therefore, to find a local manifestation of this deity in the narrative. As I will discuss at length in chap. 12, the local worship of a deity other than Yahweh should not immediately be regarded as a “forbidden pagan cult” (Naʾaman 2011b: 16; see also Oeste 2011: 201; Bluedorn 2001: 182–264) on the basis of one or more of the “national memories” outlined above. Accordingly, it seems best to regard Jerubbaal and Baʿal-berith as the raw materials that the later editors used to confirm the connection between Judges 9 and the Gideon complex, and to construct the pragmatic framework at the end of Judges 8. 21 A similar argument can be made for the statement that Abimelech hired “empty and reckless men” to follow him in v. 4b. While this unique characterization seems to cast Abimelech in a negative light (so Naʾaman 2011b: 17), the general theme holds critical sociopolitical implications for the story as it unfolds. 22 Verse 5 is also unique in that it is the only place in the entire chapter where Ophrah appears. This strongly suggests that it was secondarily introduced to solidify the relationship between Gideon, Jerubbaal, and Abimelech. 23 However, this does not mean that the events depicted therein 20. See esp. v. 28, where Abimelech is identified as the son of Jerubbaal (see also 2 Sam 11:21). The fact that Jerubbaal is mentioned in a list of heroes whom Yahweh sent to deliver Israel from their enemies in 1 Sam 12:11 suggests that there was a larger tradition revolving around him that has been lost. 21. The later anti-Baʿal polemic in 6:25–32 was probably facilitated, if not necessitated by the earlier link between Gideon and Jerubbaal and the originality of Jerubbaal and Baʿalberith in Judges 9. 22. Compare with Judg 11:3, where Jephthah’s band is referred to as ‫( אנשׁים ריקים‬see also 2 Sam 6:20; 2 Chr 13:7; Zeph 3:4). 23. According to Amit (1999: 231), the notice in Judg 8:27 “sets up a relation of reward and punishment between the cycle of Gideon and that of Abimelech: in view of the editing, the house of Gideon was punished in the wake of the ephod, while the murder of Gideon’s sons by Abimelech was the result of the sin of the father” (Amit 1999: 231). This would certainly alleviate the following “problem” proposed by Schöpflin: “[In vv. 26–54,] the narrator does not comment on Abimelech’s military actions; as a warrior he is not criticized at all. It is only through presenting him as beginning his career as a murderer that he loses reputation with the reader.” Schöpflin goes on to indicate that “scholars agree that” 5b “is an addition to introduce Jotham, the speaker of vv. 7b–20” (Schöpflin 2004: 7). In any case, Ophrah does play an important role in the traditions revolving around Gideon in Judges 6 and 7. It seems, therefore, that rather than being connected through the process of revision through introduction, the Gideon complex and Judges 9 were integrated through the process of revision through interpolation. This raises a number of important questions regarding the final form of these texts. At times, the attempt to isolate narrative streams involves prioritizing those streams in order to determine which was original and which were secondary. As a result, it can disregard the possibility that many of the streams may have been “original.”

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are bereft of older memories that contributed to the narrative as a whole. One should not, therefore, regard it as entirely late based on the reference to Ophrah or on some notion that it was meant to communicate the idea that the “men of Shechem were willing to nominate an abhorrent murderer as their king,” as Naʾaman suggests (2011b: 17). While Abimelech’s bloody coup may offend our modern sensibilities, eliminating one’s rivals in this way is not unique to the ancient record. 24 While a later editor may have altered the details of this event in order to make it conform to his intentions, the theme does reflect an accepted literary-historical strategy for gaining power that would have made sense to an ancient audience. Finally, though the name “Jerubbaal” plays a role in the Gideon complex, Gideon is conspicuously absent from Judges 9. It seems, therefore, that it was Jerubbaal who “migrated” into the preceding narratives. This suggests that Jerubbaal was the original linchpin that united these two traditions. 25 By identifying Jerubbaal with Gideon (6:32; 7:1; 8:29, 35; see BolThis does not, however, mean that they were originally associated with one another. Nevertheless, it does mean that their “originality” demanded that they be integrated at a later date, even if some of the details of some of these streams were significantly altered to promote the contemporary theo-ideological intentions of the author. This would mean that the redactor had several “original” stories that informed the larger narrative that he constructed based on his particular outlook. 24. In the Panamuwa inscription, Samʾal kills his rival and his “seventy brothers” (KAI 215: 3); in the Tel Dan inscription, Hazael reports that he disposed of “seventy kings” (KAI 310); and in 2 Kgs 10:6–7, Jehu disposes of Ahab’s 70 sons (see Fensham 1977: 113–15; Halpern 1978: 88–89; Soggin 1981: 168; Lemaire 1998: 11–14; Suriano 2007: 167–69). 25. This analysis still leaves us wondering why these two originally unrelated stories were integrated, particularly in a wider literary context that is characterized by a sequence of discrete narratives. One answer may lie in the immediate region in which both of these texts are set. According to the Samaria Ostraca, the clan of Abiezer, with which Gideon is identified, was located adjacent to Shechem. See esp. Niemann 2008. See also Josh 17:2, where Abiezer and Shechem are listed among the families of Manasseh. Though Gideon’s identification with the Abiezerites does not occur in the core narrative of Judg 8:4–21, the historicity of this association is enhanced by the fact that he is the only individual in the entire Bible to be identified as such. In every other instance in which Abiezer is attested, it is a personal name (2 Sam 23:27; 1 Chr 7:18; 11:28; 27:12). However, if one accepts Milstein’s contention that the original introduction of this narrative was lost, this identification is likely to have been found therein, thereby influencing and finding its place in the narrative traditions that were associated with it and/or that were constructed around it. In addition, modern Kh. el-ʿUrma, which has been identified with Arumah, the site of Abimelech’s capital, is situated approximately 8 km southeast of Shechem, “southwest of the identified villages of Abiezer (Elmatan = ʾImtin; Tawil = Till; Beʾeraim = Burin)” (Naʾaman 2001: 13). Consequently, the close and perhaps even overlapping settings of these narratives may have contributed to their later association. Naʾaman tentatively suggests that Arumah belonged to the Abizerites. He goes on to suggest that, if this was the case, then “there was original continuity between the stories of Gideon and Abimelech, the two leading figures of the

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ing 1975b: 170; Fritz 1982: 142), Abimelech, who was the son of Jerubbaal (Judg 9:1, 28; 2 Sam 11:21), was secondarily identified as the son of Gideon (8:30–32). 26 This connection was strengthened through the identification of Abimelech as the son of Gideon’s Shechemite concubine (8:30–31; see Schöpflin 2004: 5). Such a reconstruction obviates the need for a complex explanation for how and why the original introduction of Judges 9 was entirely “lost” and allows the unit to be read as a relatively coherent whole without relying heavily upon the type of “annals theory” that Soggin proposes. 27 Even if a “new introduction” was constructed, I am of the mind that older material was reused in a way that supported the intentions of subsequent editors rather than being entirely discarded. According to Fleming, where “the biblical writers worked with older material, this could be preserved and reworked by scribes no longer familiar with key aspects of that earlier society.” As a result, “elements of such older material . . . survive the transmission into later settings, because they are essential to the narrative, and the jarring contrast can point to older historical assumptions embedded in the text” (Fleming 2012: 20; see also pp. 30–33). 28 It is therefore my contention that the original core of Judges 9 consisted of vv. 1–2*, 3–5*, 6, and 25–54. With this in mind, we need to consider some of the implications of reading these verses as a unit. The first of these is that we do not have any firm data regarding the nature and background of Abimelech’s mother. As I noted above, Judg 8:30–31 identifies her as Gideon’s Shechemite concubine (‫)פילגשׁ‬. However, this notice is a later editorial addition. As such, it should not influence our interpretation of Abimelech, his intentions, or the clan of Abiezer” (Naʾaman 2011b: 13). In addition to this relationship, Milstein also notes a number of other similarities, including a common assault “on internal groups for their lapse in loyalty,” a process that, in both accounts “involves destroying the tower and killing the townspeople” (Milstein 2010: 210). 26. This connection is suggested by Milstein, who contends that “the reference to ‘the son of Jerubbaal’ in Judg 9:28 appears to have inspired a search for Abimelekh’s actual father. The author of the revision found him in Gideon, another aggressive leader whose quasi-royal ties could be used to explain Abimelekh’s rise to power” (Milstein 2010: 211). See also Becker 1990: 187–88; de Castelbajac 2001: 169–70. For arguments in favor of the idea that Gideon was, in fact, Jerubbaal, see Emerton 1976: 299–309; Halpern 1978: 82–84; Heffelfinger 2009: 285. 27. According to Soggin (1981: 164), Judges 9 is “a narrative composed on the basis of material which is like a chronicle or a set of annals.” 28. In the words of Naʾaman, it is “important to emphasize that the story of Abimelech was written long after the events it describes. In this situation, we cannot expect the story to accurately reflect the recounted events. Rather, the main outlines of the story are those that might preserve elements of the historical event” (Naʾaman 2011b: 11).

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status of his mother and her family. 29 Similarly, if Jotham’s fable (vv. 7–21) and the conclusion of Judges 9 (vv. 55–57) are indeed theologically motivated additions, we are unable to judge Abimelech’s relationship with his father or his father’s house. It is only on the basis of these later perspectives that Abimelech’s story is viewed negatively. If these elements are removed from the core of the text itself, Abimelech’s activities and motivations may be read in a very different light. Finally, Abimelech’s appeal to his mother’s brothers in vv.  1–2 does not necessarily imply that he was considered a Shechemite. Assuming that it does, 30 Milstein cites this exchange in support of her contention that vv. 1–6 portray a different vision of Abimelech than vv. 26–54, where he is clearly cast as a non-Shechemite by Gaʿal (v. 28). According to Milstein (2010: 202), his “rise to power is based solely on his kinship ties to the citizens of Shechem: ‘Remember that I am your bone and flesh’ (9:2)” (see also Oeste 2011: 202–3). It is critical to recognize, however, that this appeal to pedigree is a parenthetical statement specifically directed toward his uncles. 31 To be sure, this familiar link did contribute to his eventual rise to power. According to v. 3, the hearts of the lords of Shechem were inclined toward Abimelech on the basis of his uncles’ claim that “he is our brother.” However, this says nothing about his Shechemite heritage. What is more, the fact that Abimelech approached the members of his mother’s family rather than dealing with the lords of Shechem directly indicates that he did not have access to or authority among this representative group in the same way that his Shechemite uncles did. 32 In the end, while Abim29. See, for example, Steinberg, who constructs a negative “social-scientific criticism” of Judges 9 on this later identification. Assuming that “Abimelech’s mother was” Jerubbaal’s “secondary wife (8:31),” she contends that Abimelech did not have the proper mother to assume leadership over his father’s house (Steinberg 1995: 53, 58). In other words, because “Abimelech’s mother is on a lower rung of the socioeconomic hierarchy than Gideon’s other wives, and the story is about the legitimate kinship structure for the organization of society,” Abimelech “dies as a punishment for his attempt to rule based on bilateral kinship assumptions rather than the legitimate societal norm of kinship traced through only the father’s line” (Steinberg 1995: 58). For a similar reading, see Oeste 2011: 183–86. While this line of thought may shed light on the intentions of later editors, it does not seem to reflect the background of the historical memories preserved within the core elements of this text. 30. See also Heffelfinger 2009: 287–88; Steinberg 1995; R. R. Wilson 1977: 27–32. 31. This feature is marked by the two verbs that frame Abimelech’s instructions. The 2nd-person m.-pl. imperative ‫ּדַ ְּברּו‬, “speak,” is followed by the 2nd m. pl. waw-consecutive ‫ּו ְזכ ְַר ֶּתם‬. Consequently, ‫ ּו ְזכ ְַר ֶּתם‬adopts the imperative nuance indicating that he is requesting his uncles to remember that he is their flesh and blood, not the flesh and blood of the Shechemites per se. 32. It should also be noted that Judges 9 opens with the notice that Abimelech went to Shechem, indicating that he did not reside there.

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elech was embraced as a trustworthy figure because of his relationship with his mother’s immediate family, he was still an outsider with regard to the larger Shechemite community. This dynamic ultimately serves as a necessary prelude to the conflict that arises in v. 28. The Autobiography of Idrimi, the 15th-century king of Alalakh, provides insight into the events described in the opening of Judges 9 (see Greenstein and Marcus 1976: 64–68). After briefly referring to an intrigue that occurred in his father’s house, Idrimi claims that he took refuge with the “men of Emar, the brothers of my mother” (LÚmeš uruÉ-mar ki a-ḫatemeš ša um-mi-ya; lines 5–6). As with Abimelech, this passage is making an important distinction between familial relation and political affiliation. Though Idrimi is related to the men of Emar through his mother, he is not an Emarite. Later, Idrimi spent “seven years” with the ʿapîrû soldiers (ERÍNmeš lúSA.GAZ; lines 27–28), a category of people that many of the authors of the Amarna letters regarded as the type of “empty and reckless men” that Abimelech hired in Judg 9:4. During this time, he appears to have mustered a military force—part of which may have derived from these ʿapîrû soldiers 33—sufficient enough to return to the land with which he immediately identified himself (ma-ti-ya, “my land”; lines 35, 84) and (re)establish his authority there. In so doing, he follows the wisdom he provides at the outset of his story: “Whoever (seeks) his patrimony is a great nobleman, but whoever (remains) among the citizens of Emar is a vassal” (lines 10–12). The similar actions taken by Abimelech and Idrimi should serve as a caution for any interpretation of Abimelech’s story. Read in light of Idrimi’s Autobiography, the core of Judges 9 may actually depict a local hero who tries to avenge his father through the aid of his mother’s brothers (‫;אחי אמו‬ v. 1), the political entity with which they were affiliated, and other “reckless” elements, only to fall victim to the vicissitudes of political alignment and identity common to the period (see esp. chap. 8 above). 34 His story may also reflect the experiences and ambitions of the kaltū attested in documents from Mari. As A. Miglio has described them, the kaltū were often political refugees who had “fled their homeland under duress and taken up residence elsewhere” in order to compete for the throne (Miglio 2014: 443). Central to the identity of the kaltū was their association with a royal family. However, “Royal family-ties could only serve as a prerequisite to 33. Such a phenomenon would not have been unique to Alalakh. AT 181 is a census list of the armed ʿapîrû of Annaše, a town that well within the dominion of Alalakh (ERÍNmeš lúSA.GAZ EN gišTUKULmeš; line 1; so Rainey 1996b: 3; see D. Wiseman 1953: 71). 34. Abimelech’s “loyalty” to his father is supported by the fact that Zebul, whom Abimelech installed as governor of Shechem, is referred to as Jerubbaal’s officer in 9:28.

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being a kaltum.” In order to acquire this designation, one had “to be raised (našûm) to this status (kaltūtum) by those with the capital to do so,” a phenomenon reflected in the Shechemites’ decision to support Abimelech with funds from the Temple of Baʿal-berith. 35 To be sure, the Shechemites did eventually recognize Abimelech as their king (Judg 9:6). This choice appears to have been motivated by several factors, including a loose affiliation with Abimelech in the face of what may have been a less attractive alternative (vv. 2–3), and Abimelech’s success as a military leader (v. 5). However, there is no indication in vv. 1–6 that Shechem was the center of his authority. The fact that Abimelech was made king “by the oak of the palisade at Shechem” (v. 6) 36 seems only to reflect the requirements of an individual who sought peacefully to extend his authority over an independent entity, a requirement that is echoed in Rehoboam’s failed attempt to do this at Shechem in 1 Kings 12 (cf. 2 Sam 5:3). Judges 9 and Israel Whether one regards the core of Judges 9 as a collection of “ancient and profane accounts about Abimelech” that “circulated in the region of Shechem” (Hentschel 2009: 55) or as a largely coherent narrative with later editorial interruptions, many agree that it is “important as a historical source” (Soggin 1981: 164). 37 According to Naʾaman, “like all sources for biblical stories of the pre-monarchical and early monarchical period,” Judges 9 “suffers from grave limitations as a source for the early history of 35. Miglio 2014: 443. See also ARM XXVIII 44; A.1215; Charpin and Durand 2004: 183. Miglio goes on to compare Absalom’s flight to Geshur after murdering Amnon in 2 Samuel 13 with the plight of the kaltū. Interestingly, as was the case with Idrimi and Abimelech, the city where Absalom sought support was regarded as the homeland of his mother and her kin (2 Sam 3:3). 36. Several commentators have suggested emending muṣṣāb to maṣṣēbâ “standingstone” because it is attested elsewhere only in Isa 29:3, where it takes the nuance “palisade” or “entrenchment” (Burney 1918: 272; Soggin 1981: 169). According to Moore (1967: 243) the “word maṣṣebah, which in later times was an offence, was mutilated by an editor or scribe.” Following a suggestion from D. N. Freedman, however, Boling (1975b: 172) contends that the “meaning ‘palisade’ for mṣb (probably a reference to Shechem’s famous Temenos area) is clear from the parallelism in Isa 29:3.” The LXX rendering της στάσεως may suggest maṣṣāb, “a standing-place” or “station.” In either case, a location rather than a pillar seems to be in view. 37. Soggin goes on to suggest “that we should presuppose the basic historicity of what is narrated here” (1981: 164). In Soggin’s assessment, “there remains only the contrast between the pitched battle and the ambush, where two elements of different origin may have been combined (1981: 165).” Similarly, Moore (1895: 238) contends that “the story of Abimelech is one of the oldest in the Book of Judges, and in various ways one of the most instructive.”

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Israel.” Nevertheless, “there are indications that it might serve as a valuable source for historical research” (Naʾaman 2011b: 13). 38 As I indicated at the outset of this study, it is not my intention to prove the historicity of the details in Judges 9 or any other biblical texts that I analyze. 39 However, I do believe that they reliably reflect sociopolitical phenomena that characterized the nature and identity of early Israel. In other words, the core of Judges 9 preserves a critical understanding of what Israel looked like during its formative stages. Though most of the characters and events depicted in Judges 9 are cast in a negative light, originally this text did not serve as a point of contrast with Israel. Rather, it was recognized and adopted as a fundamental part of Israel’s history and identity. This is clearly indicated by the aforementioned editorial note in v.  22, where Abimelech is said to have governed Israel for three years, and the concluding announcement that, after “the men of Israel saw that Abimelech was dead, they all went home” (v. 55). In fact, this very story plays a role in Israelite traditions stemming from the monarchy. During the plot revolving around the murder of Uriah, Joab appeals to the demise of “Abimelech, the son of Jerubbaal” at Thebez (2 Sam 11:21). The modern reader should, therefore, regard the historical artifacts in Judges 9 in the same way that the ancient tradents of the biblical texts regarded them—as part and parcel of the populations and polities that were eventually identified with Israel. 40 At the same time, when read in light of the foregoing study, the sociopolitical artifacts in Judges 9 reflect a “Canaanite” heritage as much as they do an Israelite heritage. Some have gone so far as to say that the text deals more with Canaanite traditions than those of Israel (de Castelbajac 2001: 166–73; Soggin 1981: 194; Mayes 1977: 316; Martin 1975: 10, 113–14; Malamat 38. Naʾaman goes on to describe how the “leadership of Abimelech has all the characteristics of an Iron I tribal leader” (2011b: 14). See also Oeste 2011: 191. 39. In this way, I follow Fleming’s contention that, if “we want a precise picture of the population and political players of the region during what archaeologists call the Iron Age I, Judges will not provide it. At the same time, however, its picture of separate peoples who consider themselves part of a larger association has historical value for understanding Israel under kings and may also preserve glimpses of the earlier period, fixed in the details of stories passed down for generations” (Fleming 2012: 403). According to R. D. Miller (2005: 121), some of the details in Judges 9 “may reflect matters of a much later time than 1125, and the Israelite ‘researcher’ has put them together.” At the same time, it is “possible that they contain reflections of events earlier than 1125, and the ‘researcher’ has conflated them.” 40. Following a similar interpretive model, Niditch makes the following claim: “Judges presents the traditional-style tales of Israelite heroes and the people’s foundation myths, while acknowledging these narratives as a source of identity and a critical repository of group memory” (Niditch 2009: 70).

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1971: 127–51; Würthwein 1994: 22; Moore 1895: 268). Not only was Shechem under the authority of a king; it also boasted of a collective governing body that, like the Gublites, took political action against their king. When one is sensitive to the various entities to which the name Shechem refers and to the different sacred spaces and the roles that they play in the text, the affairs in Judges 9 may even recall events that occurred in and around Tell Balâṭah at the close of the MB. These observations ultimately compel one to consider the precise nature of the Shechemite identity, the identity of Shechem, and the role that identity played in Israel, tasks that I will undertake in the chapters that follow. They will also require a reconsideration of what the term Israel referred to during the early stages of its formation. Was it an “ethnic” category as many contend, or was it primarily a political category? As I will argue at the conclusion of chap. 11, read in its entirety the evidence suggests the latter, indicating that Israel stemmed from the populations and polities of the Bronze Age.

The Mixed Political Tradition at Shechem The Collective The events depicted in Judges 9 and the sociopolitical structures associated with them parallel those of the Amarna letters so closely that one might think they derived from the same context. A comparison with the affairs surrounding the rejection of Rib-Addu by the Gublites provides an excellent case in point. Rib-Addu outlines the circumstances that led to his exile in a text composed during his stay in Beirut. According to his testimony, while on an earlier diplomatic trip, his brother incited the city against him in order to give it to the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta. 41 As a result of this treachery, Rib-Addu was unable to return to his house. 42 The details surrounding this turn of events are described in EA  138. Due to their constant conflict with Aziru, the Gublites’ resources were depleted. 43 In an attempt to alter the situation, the Gublites “moved against” (ti-na-mu-šu; line 39) Rib-Addu, an act that resulted in the death of a num41. “Accordingly, my brother made the city an enemy in order to give it to the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta” (ki-na-an-na NU.KÚR-mi ŠEŠ-ia URUki a-na na-da-ni-ši a-na DUMUmeš ÌR-aš-ra-ti; EA 137: 57–58). 42. “And I returned to my house, but he barred the house against me” (ù a-na-ku a-tuur a-na É-ia ù id-du-ul É iš-tu pa-ni-ia; EA 136: 33–35). 43. “And the Gublites said, ‘How long shall we hold (back) the son of ʿAbdi-Aširta? Our money is completely gone for the war’ ” (ù ti-mu-⸢ru LÚmeš urugubub-li⸣ a-di ma-ti nika-ši-šu DUMU mÌR-[a-ši-ir-ti] ga-mi-ir KÙ.BABBAR-pu-⟨nu⟩ ⟨⟨na⟩⟩ a-na nu-kúr-ti ; lines 36–38). For the repetition by error of -na at the end of KÙ.BABBAR-pu and the restoration of -nu, see Moran 1992: 223 n. 8; see also Rainey 2015: 706–7; 1489.

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ber of them at his hands (“and I killed them” [ù a-du-uk-šu-nu; line 39]). This display of power appears to have quelled their rebellion temporarily, affording Rib-Addu time to dispatch another request for military support to Egypt. However, the failure of the Egyptians to respond led the Gublites to proclaim, “Abandon him (the king of Egypt)! Let us align ourselves with Aziru!” (ù ti-iq-bi URUki i-⸢zi⸣-bu-šu ni-te-pu-uš-mi a-na ma-zi-ri; EA 138: 44–45; see also EA 136: 16–23). Again, Rib-Addu rejected their demands and set off to Beirut to form a military alliance with Ammunira (EA 138: 51–53; see also EA 136: 26–29). In his absence, his brother took the opportunity to capitalize on the frustration and the fatigue of the Gublites. According to Rib-Addu, he spoke and swore to the city with the result that the lords of the city aligned themselves with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta. 44 As with the brother of Rib-Addu, at the outset of Judges 9, Abimelech makes an appeal to the lords of Shechem through the members of his mother’s immediate family that puts the authority of his own “brothers” at risk. When Abimelech’s uncles meet with the lords of Shechem, a group to which they themselves may have belonged, 45 they posed the following question: “Which is better for you: for the seventy sons of Jerubbaal to govern over you, or one man?” (9:2). The nature of this inquiry is puzzling due to the paucity of information regarding Abimelech’s background, the events that led to his journey to Shechem, and his intentions. Nevertheless, the response is similar to that of the lords of Gubla. The lords of Shechem were inclined toward Abimelech and they gave him funds from the Temple of Baʿal-berith, with which he raised a personal army (9:3–4). Viewed in light of the evidence from Gubla, the use of the title “the lords of Shechem” to refer to the corporate decision-making body of Shechemites should not be regarded as “sarcastic or ironic,” as Boling suggests (1975b: 170, 284). As with the lords of Gubla, this group, which probably consisted of the “heads of household” (see Fleming 2012: 62 and 44. “And my brother spoke and swore to the city. And the lords of the city had a discussion and they aligned themselves with the sons of ʿAbdi-Aširta” (ù yi-iq-bi ŠEŠ-ia ù ⸢yi⸣it-mi a-na URUki ù ti-dáb-bi-bu ù lú.mešBE URUki [ni]-⸢te⸣-pu-šu-mi a-na DUMUmeš mÌR-ašra-⸢ti⸣; EA 138: 47–50); see Moran 1992: 224 n. 11. A similar event occurred at Urkiš during the reign of Zimri-Lim. In ARM XXVII 44–bis: 7–9, Terru, the king of Urkiš, provides Zimri-Lim with the following information: “Because I am submitted to my lord’s pleasure, the inhabitants of my town despise me and my head” (aš-šum a-na ši-ir be-lí-ia ma-aqta-ku DUMUmeš a-li-ia i-ze-ru-ni-in-ni ù qa-qa-di). On account of this disfavor, he was also forced to flee: “Now I have left the wealth [of] my house, and I have gone to Šinaḫ as a refugee” (i-na-[an-n]a du-mu-qu bi-t[i-ia] e-zi-im-ma a-na ši-na-aḫki a-na ḫa-bi-ru-tim at-ta-ṣí; ARM XXVIII 46: 4′-6′; see Fleming 2004: 197–99). 45. At the very least, Naʾaman (2011b: 6) proposes that Abimelech’s mother was a member of a “deeply entrenched aristocratic family.”

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n. 12), 46 represented an important political tradition at Shechem. Its centrality and continuity in the narrative tradition is underscored as Judges 9 unfolds. In v. 28, the lords of Shechem, along with those who were assembled with them at the temple of their god, confirm their unity by identifying themselves with Shechem’s eponymous founders and leaders. Interestingly, the authority of these ancient forefathers is also depicted as being subject to the will of a corporate governing body in Genesis 34 (vv. 20–24; Halpern 1978: 91). As I suggested in my analysis of the land of Shechem and Tell Balâṭah in chaps. 6 and 7 above, the archaeological and extrabiblical textual evidence supports the long-standing nature of this tradition. What is more, the Bible indicates that it continued to play an important role during the early stages of the monarchy (1  Kings 12). Following Giddens, I find that this “structural principle” made it “possible for discernibly similar social practices to exist across varying spans of time and space,” ultimately lending to its “systemic form” (Giddens 1984: 17). 47 In this way, the collective political activities of the Shechemites depicted in Judges 9 should not be viewed as an “egalitarian” tradition that was introduced to the land with the rise of early Israel or a literary trope invented by a late Judean author. Instead, they were a very real sociopolitical structure associated with this polity that extended as far back as the Bronze Age. The cultural continuity in the material evidence from Tell Balâṭah and the lack of evidence in the archaeological record of its destruction between 1550/45 and 1125 BCE, at the earliest, 48 support this conclusion. The King This collective form of governance is not the only parallel to be drawn between Judges 9 and the political landscape of the southern Levant. After the lords of Shechem aligned themselves with Abimelech (cf. EA 138: 44–45) and underwrote his military expenses, he delivered a decisive blow against his “brothers.” It was only after he orchestrated this successful coup d’état that the lords of Shechem, together with all Beth-millo, assembled at the oak of the palisade to confirm his authority over them (Judg 9:6). 49 This sequence of events indicates that Abimelech’s capacity as a military leader played a role equal to if not greater than the blood relationship with his 46. According to Rainey and Notley (2006: 140), they were “the elders of Shechem.” 47. Giddens goes on to explain that institutions “by definition are the more enduring feature of social life. In speaking of the structural properties of social systems I mean their institutionalized features, giving ‘solidity’ across time and space” (Giddens 1984: 24). 48. As I indicated above, Finkelstein dates this destruction to the beginning of the 10th century (Finkelstein 2006b: 252–53). 49. For an explanation of the sacred function of this oak, see Naʾaman 2011b: 6.

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uncles in the decision of the Shechemites to recognize him as their king. 50 Such a dynamic points to the complexity of his rise to power. The primary distinction that anthropologists make between a chief and a king is that the position of chief is attributed to “ascribed rank” based on lineage, while the position of king is based on “achieved rank,” which is often related to one’s prowess in military endeavors (R. D. Miller 2005: 6–7; see also Flannery 1972: 402–4). 51 In this text, both factors are at play, each setting the stage for the material that follows. 52 In order for Abimelech to rule over Shechem, the populations identified with Shechem were required to confer authority upon him locally, in what appears to have been a cultic context (Judg 9:6). However, the details in vv. 26–54 clearly indicate that Shechem was not the administrative center of his kingdom. Abimelech appointed (v. 28) Zebul to serve as the governor of Shechem (‫ ;שׂר־העיר‬9:30; Martin 1975: 113), while he, Abimelech, administered his domain, which appears to have extended over other urban centers, including Thebez (9:50–54; Heffelfinger 2009: 289; Halpern 1978: 80, 89; Moore 1976: 253), from Tormah//Arumah (vv. 31, 41). 53 In other words, though Shechem fell under Abimelech’s authority, he was not simply the “king of Shechem.” Rather, he was the king of a larger territorial entity 50. A similar narrative tradition is associated with Saul, whose authority was ratified by the Israelite collective after he defeated the Ammonites in 1 Samuel 11. 51. Even if all of the events in Judg 9:5 are regarded as secondary, the notice that Abimelech hired men to follow him in v. 4 still plays an important role. In order to persuade the rest of the Shechemite population that he had “achieved” the rank of king, he would first have to demonstrate that he had the military might to back that rank. Following my analysis of “kingship” in the Amarna letters and the events depicted in the Autobiography of Idrimi, I see this power as being manifest in an army, the members of which identified with a leader whose authority transcended that of their local identities and affiliations. Such was the nature of David’s original army of “distressed,” “indebted,” and “bitter” men (1 Sam 22:2), who ultimately supported David’s successful bid for the throne. 52. According to Milstein (2010: 205), “Abimelekh’s ‘right’ to rule is newly presented in the context of Gideon’s impromptu dynasty” described in Judg 8:29–31. By underscoring the distinction between “ascribed rank” and “achieved rank,” however, we are able to isolate an important link between the introductory material of Judges 9 and that which follows. While Abimelech’s capacity to gain followers is based on his lineage (ascribed rank), which was originally associated with Jerubbaal, his coronation is based upon his capacity as a military leader (achieved rank). In this way, his exploits in v. 5 provide a suitable background to his coronation in v. 6 and his activities as king in the subsequent material. 53. According to Halpern (1978: 89 n. 25), “The similarity of ʾalep and taw in the late paleo-Hebrew script, and in pre-exilic cursive . . . make likely an original identity of the words in point” (see also Steinberg 1995: 54–56; contra Boling 1975b: 178; Heffelfinger 2009: 291). One wonders if this was the city with which Jerubbaal was originally affiliated and the location from which he departed in his initial journey to Shechem (Judg 9:1; see n. 26 above).

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administered from Tormah//Arumah that included but was not limited to Shechem. A similar process may be reflected in Rehoboam’s failed attempt to become Israel’s king in 1 Kings 12. Though he had already replaced Solomon as king in Jerusalem (vv. 6, 12, 13, 15, 18, 23, and 27), he was required to travel to Shechem in order for the Israelite assembly to ratify his authority over Israel (vv. 1, 3). Had he found success in this endeavor, he would have been the king of both Judah and Israel, just as his grandfather David “was king . . . over all Israel and Judah” (2 Sam 5:5). 54 Abimelech’s decision to administer his authority from a city other than Shechem is reminiscent of one of the strategies employed by Aziru as he centralized his own power over the formerly independent units that constituted Amurru. Returning to my analysis in chap. 5, we may recall that Aziru chose to locate his capital in Ṣumur. It is likely that this decision was motivated by the fact that Ṣumur was neither associated with a particular ḫazannu nor cast as being administered by a collective body. It was therefore detached from the traditional political structures and sources of authority operative in Amurru before and during the Amarna period. By taking this step, he would have reduced the impact of the claims that those bodies could have made on his own authority. Similarly, by locating his capital in Tormah//Arumah, Abimelech distanced the organs of his administration from the collective organization at Shechem. An analogous explanation can be given for Abimelech’s decision to install Zebul as the governor of Shechem. As we shall see in greater detail in chap.  11, Zebul was not considered a Shechemite. Instead, he was an 54. This dynamic is also reflected in David’s rise to power. It was only after the people of Judah anointed him as their king in Hebron (2 Sam 2:4) that “the elders of Israel came to the king at Hebron” to make a covenant with him before Yahweh and anoint him king over Israel (2 Sam 5:3; see Tadmor 1982: 240). David’s royal domain, which he administered from Hebron and later Jerusalem, included both Judah and Israel. Similarly, after the death of Saul, Ishbaal was made king over Gilead, the Ashurites, Jezreel, Ephraim, Benjamin, and all Israel (2 Sam 2:9). Here again, Ishbaal administered his authority over several distinct entities, some of which eventually abandoned Ishbaal and the House of Saul in its weakness. According to 2 Sam 4:2–7, the Beerothites, a division of Benjamin, abandoned Ishbaal (v. 3) and eventually killed him (vv. 4–7). There are a number of important observations to be drawn from this account. First, the fact that the Beerothites are reckoned as a subunit of the Benjaminites, who also had the capacity to make independent political decisions, underscores the sociopolitical complexity underlying the larger tribal divisions of Israel. Second, the Beerothites’ rejection of their king corresponds to the Shechemites’ rejection of Abimelech. The events in 2 Samuel 4 support the contention that Abimelech’s domain consisted of multiple units that could turn on their king. Third and finally, the events in Judges 9 and 2 Samuel 4 are reminiscent of the decision made by the citizens of uruBit-dNIN.URTA, a city originally under the authority of Rib-Addu, to secede from Jerusalem and align themselves with the Qiltuites (EA 290: 15–18).

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“autonomous elite,” whose “existence, recruitment, and legitimacy” did not “depend finally on the political establishment” that defined Shechem. Thus, he was free “to create, promulgate, and refine . . . new ideologies” that would have reflected Abimelech’s own goals (Machinist 1986: 183). In other words, as an appointed “outsider,” Zebul’s allegiance would have been oriented toward Abimelech rather than Shechem’s collective governing body. According to the events that unfold in vv. 30–41, this was indeed the case, thus confirming the efficacy of Abimelech’s strategy. 55 In the end, all of these features indicate that Abimelech’s kingdom, as it is depicted in this textual tradition, was structured according to the principles of the centralized lands attested in the Amarna letters. 56 It is important to note that the transition to monarchy in Judges 9 occurred without any apparent conflict. As Halpern points out, when compared to the opposition posed by the religious establishment at the formation of the Israelite monarchy under Saul (1 Sam 8:4–22; 12:1–25), this “contrary tradition is . . . somewhat jarring,” particularly during “the supposedly pre-monarchical period of the Judges” (Halpern 1978: 81). 57 However, if we read this tradition within the limits of the text itself, it may be more enlightening than jarring. In spite of the secondary editorial remark that Abimelech ruled over Israel in v. 22 (‫ )וישׂר אבימלך על־ישׂראל‬and the reference to the men of Israel in v. 55, the events and characters in Judges 9 are limited to a handful of entities located in the central hill country. The larger tribal divisions and other important cultic centers of the Israelite confederacy are entirely absent. Judges 9, therefore, represents not the “political history of the confederacy” (Halpern 1978: 83) but the memory 55. In the end, though Abimelech is never specifically referred to as a king in vv. 26– 54, these features cast doubt on Schöpflin’s contention that this component of the narrative “did not . . . present Abimelech as a king” (Schöpflin 2004: 21; see also Milstein 2010: 4–5). On the contrary, these strategies of kingship are predicated upon vv. 1–4 and 6, which detail the process involved in Abimelech’s rise to power. 56. See chap.  3; contra Martin’s claim that this structure stood in contrast to the “model of the Canaanite city-state system where each city was an independent political unit, the ruler of which was generally given the title ‘king’ ” (Martin 1975: 113). This sequence of events may indicate that Abimelech first established his authority at Tormah//Arumah and was later recognized as king over Shechem. A similar sequence of events is involved in David’s coronation. He is first recognized as king of Judah and then given the same title over all of Israel (see esp. 2 Sam 5:3). In 1 Kings 12, Rehoboam goes through a similar process. Though he apparently inherited his father’s right to the throne in Jerusalem (vv. 6, 13, 15–16), he was required to go to Shechem in order for the Israelite assembly to ratify his authority over Israel. Of course, Rehoboam did not have the same success as his grandfather (v. 16). 57. The novelty of Abimelech’s coronation is compounded by the fact that it lacks several elements that were central to the elevation of Saul and David, including being anointed by a prophetic figure who was in communication with Yahweh (see Oeste 2011: 188–89).

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of a single constituent that was considered, at one point or another, part of that confederacy. Thus, the author of Judges 9 envisioned the existence of a monarchy within Israel before the creation of the Israelite monarchy. Consequently, a categorical distinction must be drawn between the “Israelite monarchy” and monarchies that participated in the Israelite collective during the so-called premonarchic period of the Judges. 58 The differences between a centralized land and a multipolity decentralized land are instructive in this regard. While a centralized land was defined by a single ruler who administered his authority over multiple dependents from a single urban center, a multipolity decentralized land consisted of independent polities, some of which were defined by an urban-centered king. For example, after the death of ʿAbdi-Aširta, Amurru became a centralized land under the leadership of his son Aziru. However, during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta, the polities that later fell under Aziru’s authority, including Ammiya (EA 73: 26–29; 74: 24–26; 75: 32–34) and Irqata (EA 75: 25–26; 139: 15; 140: 10–11), retained their independence and unique political structures. Based on this model, “premonarchic Israel” closely resembled a multipolity decentralized land. 59 The popular rather than geographical character underlying the Akkadian term mātu in political contexts is underscored by the fact that it is replaced by the collective Hebrew term ʾîš (“men/people”) in biblical texts, resulting in the designation ʾîš yiśrāʾēl (“the men/people of Israel,” ‫)אישׁ ישׂראל‬. 60 During this stage of its development, Israel was neither defined by a single urban center nor a centralized monarchy but by a collection of independent populations—a structure that is reflected in the designation given to Israel in the Merenptah stele. Nevertheless, some of these populations could have identified themselves with an urban center ruled by a king. This important nuance suggests that we should not be surprised by Abimelech’s kingship. Rather, his example should encourage us to look for more instances of Israelites functioning as kings before Israel 58. As Steinberg (1995: 48–49) points out, “The reader must continually ask what size group is being referred to when the name ‘Israel’ appears in a text in Judges. We must be careful not to assume automatically that every reference to ‘Israel’ should be read as including the twelve-tribe system that the biblical text defines as normative.” This is because these texts “convey information about individuals who were originally unconnected to each other and who are different personality types” (see also Hayes and J. M. Miller 1977: 299–308). 59. See Steinberg 1995: 46. 60. See, e.g., Judg 7:8, 23; 8:22; 9:55; 20:11, 17, 20, 22, 33, 36, 38, 39, 41, 42, 48; 21:1; 1 Sam 7:11; 8:22. See also Tadmor 1982: 242–43; Fleming 2012: 155. Even with the formation of the monarchy, the collective body of Israel is often referred to by this term when taking corporate political action (see, e.g., 1 Sam 11:15; 2 Sam 15:13; 16:15, 18; 17:14, 24; 19:42–44; 20:1–2; see Fleming 2012: 100–105).

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became a centralized land under Saul, David, and Solomon. In addition to Abimelech, the most likely candidates to have held this distinction are Gideon and Jephthah.

Kingdoms in Israel before the Kingdom of Israel Gideon Gideon is often held as a paragon of fidelity to the Israelite confederacy and its divine king because he refused to accept the offer of kingship after his valiant victory over the Midianites (8: 22–23). According to Noth (1960: 165), this decision “certainly reflects an attitude that was current among the tribes of Israel before the rise of the monarchy, since only this kind of outlook can explain the historical fact that the idea of monarchy became effective so late and went so much against the grain of Israel.” 61 On the basis of a number of notices and events in the core tradition of Judges 8 that seem to attribute the qualities of kingship to Gideon, however, several scholars have questioned the “authenticity” of this refusal, viewing it instead as a later editorial addition or theocratic correction (Martin 1975: 108–9; Burney 1918: 183) or an acceptance speech “couched in the form of a pious refusal with the motive of expressing piety and of gaining favor of his would-be subjects” (G. Davies 1963: 154). 62 The most convincing body of evidence in support of this reading comes from the second half of Judges 8. After routing the Midianite army and capturing Zebah and Zalmunna (8:12), Gideon interrogates them about the fate of his brothers who had fallen during the battle at Tabor. In response, they liken both Gideon and his kin to “the sons of a king” (8:18). By associating and/or identifying them with royalty, this response probably served to glorify their own achievements as kings before being killed themselves (8:18; G. Davies 1963: 156; Halpern 1978: 86; Amit 1999: 236; Heffelfinger 2009: 285; Oeste 2011: 59). Rather than immediately avenging the death of his brothers with his own hand, however, Gideon orders his 61. J. Bright (2000: 180, and n. 88) follows Noth, asserting that he flatly refused kingship “in language thoroughly expressive of the spirit of early Israel.” See also Steinberg 1995: 53; Soggin 1981: 194; Crüsemann 1978: 42; Boling 1975b: 159–60. 62. Heffelfinger proposes a similar reading, suggesting that the “refusal” “may be read as an acceptance speech in which Gideon claims the rulership for himself and his sons while identifying his rule with that of the deity” (Heffelfinger 2009: 286; see also Olson 1998: 810). Halpern proposes a different interpretation. Though Gideon rejects the crown, he “appropriates authority. His authority devolves, however, not as the imperium of a king . . . but as the authority of a priest, directly from god. . . . There can be little doubt that the establishment at Ophrah of Gideon’s ephod represented the establishment of an hereditary hierocracy over the northern confederate tribes” (Halpern 1978: 84–85).

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oldest son, Jether, to execute their fate. As Halpern has observed, when this account is read in the context of 1 Sam 15:32–33 and 1 Kgs 20:30–42, where the dynasties of Saul and Ahab are forfeited on account of their failure to put to death their own royal captives, there is an implicit dynastic concern in this demand (Halpern 1978: 85–86). Gideon’s action served as a symbolic statement through which he attempted to designate Jether as his legitimate heir, an attempt that was ultimately thwarted by Jether’s failure to fulfill his duty (Judg 8:20). Nevertheless, the response that this failure invokes in Zebah and Zalmunna ultimately serves to underscore Gideon’s equality with them: “You arise and kill us, for as is a man, so is his strength” (8:21). As Amit observes, “They saw Gideon as a king (8:18), their match in strength (8:21)” (Amit 1999: 236). After disposing his royal enemies, Gideon takes “the crescents that were upon the necks of their camels” (v. 21; see also v. 26), thereby appropriating these symbols of kingship for himself (G.  Davies 1963: 157; Heffelfinger 2009: 285–86; Oeste 2011: 59–62). A number of scholars regard the narrative block that follows (Judg 8:22–27) as a separate unit, if not a later addition (Milstein 2010: 9–11; Amit 1999: 223–35). Nevertheless, it too contains features that reflect Gideon’s royal status. If these features did not stem from authentic historical memories, they do suggest that the authors of this passage were responding to the royal tone of the earlier narrative. In other words, they recognized the sense and significance of these critical nuances and developed them in their own addition. Thus, it is only after the sequence of “royal activities” depicted in vv. 18–21 that the men of Israel ask Gideon to establish a royal dynasty over them (v. 23). Though Gideon refuses their offer, he continues to operate in a fashion that is characteristic of a king. 63 To begin with, he requests each of the men of Israel assembled before him to donate a gold earring from the spoils of the Midianites (8:24). According to Heffelfinger’s analysis, this request is indicative of “a new paramount rising as a successful war hero who demonstrates charismatic gifts and is able successfully to request tribute from the populace” (Heffelfinger 2009: 287). 64 With this gift, Gideon fashions an ephod and erects it “in his town in Ophrah” (8:27). In undertaking this act, he appears to have established a “royal sanctuary” that foreshadowed the sanctuary of David and Solomon (Stade 1880: 190). G. Davies has therefore 63. Though Milstein contends that this passage was not part of the original narrative, she accounts for neither its appearance nor its origins. 64. See also Oeste (2011: 60), who points out that “kings were often entitled to a special portion of the plunder (Judg 5:30; 1 Sam 30:19–20; 2 Sam 12:30; 1 Chr 20:2), though this phenomenon is not restricted to kings (cf. 1 Sam 30:22; Isa 33:23; Ps 68:13).”

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suggested that Gideon, “like Saul and David sought to show his royal position by the possession of an ephod” (G. Davies 1963: 157; see also Heffelfinger 2009: 286–87; Oeste 2011: 60). In any case, Gideon’s possession and control of this sacred center underscored his elevated status. 65 The weight of this evidence suggests that Gideon operated in a manner reminiscent of a king or ḫazannu of the Amarna Age. 66 At the same time, like Labʾayu and ʿAbdi-Aširta, he is remembered for having taken up leadership within a larger political collective or multipolity decentralized mātu/ʾîš whose members retained their autonomy. 67 According to this reconstruction, Gideon’s royal status does not invalidate his refusal of kingship over Israel. Seeing his royal activities both in the defeat of the Midianites and the treatment of their kings may have stimulated “Israel’s” request to extend his authority. While Gideon refused to rule over Israel as a centralized mātu/ʾîš, he continued to administer his own local polity. 68 In the end, Gideon’s “kingship would follow the pattern of the city kingships familiar among the Canaanites in the Amarna Age, and so quite different . . . from the kind of kingship contemplated” in 1 Samuel (G. Davies 1963: 152 n. 7). Albright (1940: 218) attempted to explain this parallel in a manner that supported his “conquest model,” suggesting that Ophrah was situated “on the periphery of Manasseh, i.e., in territory which had probably been Hebrew even before the conquest, and had remained peculiarly exposed to Canaanite influence.” While in some regards this may have been the case, these parallels reflect a level of sociopolitical continuity between the entities of the LB Levant and some of the groups that were considered part of early Israel. 65. Oeste suggests that this was an attempt by Gideon to centralize worship, a strategy that “helped kings to secure sacral legitimacy” (Oeste 2011: 61). 66. To this list of evidence, Oeste (2011: 61–62) adds the notice that Gideon took many wives (Judg 8:30) and a concubine (8:31), the “regal overtones” that the narrative uses to describe Gideon’s household; and the claim that Gideon fathered 70 sons, “a frequent motif associated with kings” that underscores his virility (see de Vaux 1961: 115–17). With regard to the second point, Oeste recognizes that the “repeated references to Gideon’s household here may be gratuitous. However, the references become more understandable if the narrative seeks to highlight Gideon as the founder of a dynasty whose actions influenced later generations” (Oeste 2011: 62). 67. According to the various traditions, these members included Manasseh, Asher, Zebulun, Naphtali, Abiezer, and Ephraim (Judg 6:11, 34–35; 7:23–24; 8:1). 68. Interestingly, the Midianites are depicted in a similar way. Rather than being centralized under the authority of a single king, this tribally defined entity included at least two kings operating in cooperation. In this way, it too corresponds to a multipolity decentralized land.

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Jephthah There are several points of continuity between Jephthah’s rise to power and Abimelech’s. These suggest that Jephthah’s role more closely corresponded to that of a king than the other heroes in the book of Judges. There are three bodies of evidence that support this conclusion. They include the negotiations that occur between Jephthah and the elders of the Gileadites (Judg 11:5–10), the events revolving around his “coronation” (11:11), and the language he uses in the missive he dispatches to the king of the Ammonites (11:12). In a manner reminiscent of Abimelech and Idrimi, Jephthah begins his career as an outcast (Soggin 1981: 208). Having been expelled from his “father’s house,” he is depicted as gallivanting with a group of “empty men” (‫ ;אנשׁים ריקים‬cf. Judg 9:4: ‫)אנשׁים ריקים ופחזים‬. 69 In spite of his status as an “outsider,” his reputation as a military leader did not go unnoticed. When the elders of Gilead 70 were faced with a threat that they could not resist, they turned to Jephthah with his band of ʿapirū-like soldiers and requested his help, thereby duplicating a tactic reported by a number of ḫazzanūti in the Amarna letters. As with Abimelech, Jephthah’s rise to power involved two elements and appears to have been associated to some degree with his military prowess (Martin 1975: 138). During their negotiations, the elders of Gilead originally offered Jephthah the title qāṣîn, “commander” (Judg 11:6). After Jephthah calls their intentions into question (v. 7), however, they sweeten the deal, offering the following clarification: “We have turned unto you so that you might go with us and do battle against the Ammonites and be for us a head for all the Gileadites” (v. 8). As Soggin (1981: 208) has pointed out, while the term qāṣîn has a temporary military nuance, the title rōʾš, “head,” is associated with a long-term political position. 71 To be sure, in 69. A similar motif is employed in stories revolving around David’s early career and in the Autobiography of Idrimi. In the case of David, who was a member of Saul’s “royal household,” the hostilities that he faced from Saul and his supporters forced him to flee his “father’s house” and take refuge in the wilderness with a band of “distressed,” “indebted,” and “bitter” men, whom Naʾaman likens to the ʿapîrû (see esp. 1 Samuel 22). Likewise, Idrimi fled his “father’s house” on account of the hostilities he faced and took refuge in the land of the ʿapîrû soldiers (see Soggin 1981: 204–5 n. 1). Though the reason given for Jephthah’s exile in Judg 11:2 was probably fabricated (Soggin 1981: 204), it depicts a similar fate. 70. Martin notes that the transference of action “that was originally ascribed to Jephthah’s brothers” to the elders of Gilead “could be explained in terms of corporate responsibility” (Martin 1975: 138). 71. Similarly, Martin (1975: 138) observes that “Jephthah is installed as both civilian leader and military commander.” Soggin explains this exchange in the following terms: “Part of any negotiation is to ask for a great deal and to offer very little. So first of all the

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the ceremonies associated with Jephthah’s appointment (v. 11), he is made both “head” and “commander” over Gilead (‫)לראשׁ ולקצין‬. However, in his brief acceptance speech at the end of these negotiations, Jephthah makes an implicit distinction between these two titles, suggesting that the first was dependent upon the second: “If you bring me back to fight with the Ammonites, and Yahweh gives them to me, then I shall be your head” (v. 9). As we have already observed, Abimelech’s elevation follows a similar sequence of events. His role as king (Judg 9:6) appears to have been contingent upon his success as a military leader (vv. 4–5). Though the description of Jephthah’s appointment is limited to a single verse, it contains a number of significant details. First, it occurs at a cultic center before Yahweh. This sacred location calls to mind the setting of Abimelech’s confirmation in Judg 9:6, the coronation of Saul in 1 Sam 10:17–24, and Israel’s approval of David’s kingship in 2 Sam 5:3. Second, those involved in the proceedings were not limited to the corporate representative body of elders but included the “people” (‫ )העם‬as well, a category that may stand behind the reference to “the entirety of the Beth-Millo” in Judg 9:6 (cf. 1 Sam 1:17). The third and final detail ultimately sets Abimelech and Jephthah apart from the rest of the leaders in Judges. In every other case, the text indicates that it was Yahweh who bestowed authority upon his chosen leader. In the case of Abimelech and Jephthah, however, the collective bodies of the political entities involved took on this role (see Soggin 1981: 206). Thus, in Judges 11, Yahweh was “relegated to the position of confirming . . . the selection of the highest leadership” (Boling 1975b: 198). As with Gideon, the term “king” (‫ )מלך‬is never used with reference to Jephthah. However, his interaction with his Ammonite counterpart lends support to his royal status Judg 11:12–28). Though most of this diplomatic exchange is viewed as a later interpolation based on the parallel passages in Numbers 20–21 and Deuteronomy 2 (see esp. Soggin 1981: 211; Van Seters 1972), there is good reason to believe that Judg 11:12 and 28 belong to the original narrative. 72 Verse 12 records the brief dispatch sent by Jephthah to the Ammonite king. In it, he poses the following question: “What is there between you and me that you have come to me to fight against my land?” (‫)מה־לי ולך כי־באת אלי להלחם בארצי‬. By means of this short phrase, Jephthah not only equates himself with his royal enemy and identifies himself elders offer him a temporary military command, which applies during the state of war; then they offer him a position which seems also to be political and not to be limited in time” (Soggin 1981: 208). 72. According to Soggin (1981: 211), it is “by no means strange that Jephthah should have tried to prevent a war through timely treaties.” Judg 11:12 and 28 would have provided a fitting framework in which to set Israel’s “historical” exploits in the Transjordan.

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with the impending threat, but he also identifies the entire land of Gilead as his possession (‫“ ;בארצי‬against my land”). The only other occasions on which such an identification occurs in a political context are when it issues from the mouth of a king (Gen 20:15; 1 Kgs 11:21) or a queen (1 Kgs 10:6//2 Chr 9:5). 73 Otherwise, this distinction is reserved for Yahweh. 74 Such a relationship calls to mind the way Aziru identified himself with the land of Amurru after it was centralized under his authority. Unlike his father, who referred to Amurru in general terms (EA 60: 8–9; 61: rev. 3–6; see also 74: 37–38), Aziru specifically calls it “my land” (EA 164: 8; see also 158: 14–16). This identification is confirmed in EA 170, where Baʿaluya and Bet-ili, the brothers or servants of Aziru, provide him with the following report: “Here in the lands of our lord all goes very well” (lines 5–6; see chap. 6 above). Like Jephthah, Abimelech, and even David, Aziru’s ability to do this was based to some degree on his association with the “reckless” and “discontent” ʿapîrû (see Naʾaman 2010: 92–97). Following the pattern of Judges 8 and 9, the historical memories or preserved understandings of Israel’s early history recorded in Judges 11 do not reflect the entirety of Israel but only one of its constituents. The only point at which another element of Israel is introduced into the narrative is in Judges 12, where the men of Ephraim are called to arms (v. 1). In this context, however, the unique identities of these two groups are underscored. In v. 2, Jephthah refers to the Gileadites as “my people,” thereby distinguishing them from the Ephraimites on the basis of his authority over them. As with the conflicts that occurred among the members of the multipolity decentralized lands of Amurru, Gina, Garu, and, perhaps most importantly, Canaan (see chaps.  3–4 above), 75 this distinction is further underscored by the fact that Gilead and Ephraim are remembered for having engaged in conflict rather than cooperation. 76 One can therefore accept the “royal” 73. The same pattern is also seen in references to “your land” (2 Sam 24:13; 1 Kgs 11:22; Ezek 32:8; 1 Kgs 8:36; Isa 8:8; 14:20; Ps 85:1; 2 Chr 6:27). 74. Isa 14:25; Jer 2:7; 16:18; Ezek 26:5; 38:16; Joel 1:6; 3:2. D. Block arrived at a similar conclusion in his analysis of this passage: “Indeed, he acts remarkably kinglike, dispatching envoys (malʾākîm), negotiating directly with the king of Ammon, dealing with the conflicting issues as if they were personal between him and the Ammonite king, and claiming the land as his own. The opening rhetorical question his ambassadors ask of the enemy, ‘What do you have against us?’ . . . certainly creates the impression that he perceives himself as an equal” (Block 1999: 358). 75. Note also the brief reference to Jair the Gileadite, who is said to have stood at the head of a collective of 30 leaders, all of whom were associated with cities (Judg 10:3–5). 76. It is difficult to imagine the details of this story deriving from a period during or after the Israelite monarchy, particularly since Gilead, which had a checkered history with Israel, is depicted inflicting significant punishment on Ephraim.

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status of Jephthah on the basis of the fact that his authority did not extend over the entirety of Israel. Rather, it was limited to his own local polity centered at Mizpah, representing a monarchy within Israel during the premonarchic period. During his tenure, Israel retained its status as a political coalition on par with a multipolity decentralized mātu, or, in the parlance of the Hebrew Bible, ʾîš. Thus, the examples of Abimelech, Gideon, and Jephthah are not surprising. The incorporation of participating realms that could be called kingdoms under the banner of Israel is expected from the LB evidence.

Conclusion: Corporate and Exclusionary Power in Judges 9 and Early Israel Whether or not Gubla fell under the immediate authority of Aziru with the decision of its lords to align with him is difficult to determine (see chap. 2 above). However, the final outcome of this decision closely corresponds to the events that occurred after the lords of Shechem made Abimelech their king. It did not take long for both sets of lords to reject their respective leaders. In fact, the motivations behind this common decision are strikingly similar. According to Rib-Addu, after the Gublites aligned themselves with Aziru, his brother “took the troops of Aziru and set (them) in the heart of the city. However, the city saw that foreign troops were dwelling in the city . . . so they drove the troops of Aziru from the city.” 77 In a similar fashion, it was an appeal to identity that sparked the direct Shechemite revolt against Abimelech. During the corporate Shechemite festival held at the temple of their god (v. 28), Gaʿal, the son of Ebed, called the identity of Abimelech and his governor into question: “Who is Abimelech, and who is Shechem that we should serve him? Did not the son of Jerubbaal and Zebul his officer serve the men of Hamor, father of Shechem? Why should we serve him?”  78 As with Aziru, the only recourse that Abimelech had in the face of such rejection was direct confrontation (see EA 139–140). I will return to the details of this conflict later. At this point, it is important to underscore the fact that the constituents of early Israel practiced 77. la-qí lúar-ni ⸢LUGAL⸣ [ÉRIN]⸢meš⸣ ma-zi-ri ša-ka-an a-na ⸢lìb⸣-[bi] ⸢URU⸣[ki] ù timu-ru URU⸢ki⸣ [i]-nu-⸢ma ÉRIN⸣meš ša-nu a-ša-bu a-na URUki . . . ù ti-⸢dab⸣-bi-ru ÉRINmeš a-zi-ri iš-⸢tu⸣ URUki (EA 138: 59–62, 69–70). 78. This situation reflects Yoffee’s (2005: 143) claim that “stretching the resources of the city-states resulted in resistance on the part of the local rulers and traditional elite, who, in the end, were able to resist the demands of the central administration and bring it down. The collapse of the Akkadian state can therefore be ascribed to the failure of Sargon and his descendants to integrate the traditional leadership of the city-states into the new venture of the territorial state and its imperial ambitions.”

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both “corporate” and “exclusionary” forms of power. While the former is reflected in the political actions taken by the Shechemites and the Gileadites, the latter is reflected in the kingship of Abimelech and the probable royal status of Gideon and Jephthah. As with the LB polities of the southern Levant, these two sources of power operated in cooperation with one another, in conflict with one another, and, at times, in isolation from one another. The capacity to recognize these different types of political authority leans heavily on the identification of early Israel as a political entity resembling a multipolity decentralized land (mātu//ʾîš). While it was never centralized under the power of a single king, its independent constituents could be. In the end, the core elements of Judges 9—which revolve around a political entity that flourished at the end of the MB and, after its revival in the LB, operated without interruption into the Iron I—in no way reflect the memories of geographical outsiders, economic outsiders, or political outsiders. Nevertheless, they were adopted and retained as a fundamental part of Israel’s early history. Halpern has pointed out that scholars “have held that the account deals fundamentally with Canaanite, rather than Israelite, concepts and traditions” (Halpern 1978: 79; see also Mayes 1977: 316; Malamat 1971: 147–51). While I agree that Judges 9 does reflect the type of “Canaanite” concepts and traditions attested in the Amarna letters, there is no reason to distinguish them from the concepts and traditions of Israel. I will return to this line of thought at the conclusion of chap. 11. However, the aforementioned appeal to identity in v. 28 suggests that we first should determine the precise nature of the Shechemite identity and the identity of Shechem in order to gain an even more robust understanding of the dynamics involved in this text.

Chapter 11

Shechem, Israel, and the Historical Memories in Judges 9: The Shechemite Identity, the Identity of Shechem, and Identity in Israel Introduction Determining the nature of the Shechemite identity and the identity of Shechem is a complex matter. For one thing, the core of Judges 9 introduces several categories of people that are all identified with Shechem. Three of them we encountered in chap. 10 above. They included the maternal family of Abimelech, the lords of Shechem, and the entirety of BethMillo. Three additional groups are named as the narrative unfolds. The first is Gaʿal the son of Ebed and his “brothers” (9:26); the second consists of the individuals who are identified with the urban center (‫ )העיר‬that fell under Zebul’s immediate authority (vv. 31, 42–45); and the third is referred to as lords of the tower of Shechem (‫ ;בעלי מגדל־שׁכם‬vv. 46–47), a group that seems to be associated with the men of the tower of Shechem (‫אנשׁי מגדל־‬ ‫ )שׁכם‬mentioned in v. 49. A fourth group is introduced at the conclusion of Judges 9 as well. It includes the men, the women, and the lords who are affiliated with Thebez (‫ ;כל־האנשׁים והנשׁים וכל בעלי העיר‬v. 51). Though it is likely that these populations overlapped to some degree, the specific role that each plays in the narrative sheds light on the perceived social structure of Shechem. For example, while some appear to be identified with the city center, others appear to operate at a distance from it. In order for us to develop a more comprehensive understanding of the Shechemite identity, therefore, we need to evaluate the nature and activities of these groups. In addition to highlighting the various populations that comprised the Shechemite identity, Judges 9 also identifies several physical entities associated with Shechem, indicating that this name was not limited to a single urban center. Rather, it appears to have referred to a city, a cultic center, and a wider population that may have been dispersed throughout the land 337

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and in additional settlements. A close analysis of these features suggests that the Shechem of Judges 9 closely corresponds to the archaeological evidence from Tell Balâṭah and the extrabiblical references to the land of Shechem analyzed in chaps. 6–7. It appears, therefore, that the depiction of Shechem in Judges 9 is continuous with the Shechem of the LB and may even recall or reflect events that occurred at Tell Balâṭah at the end of the MB. As I noted at the outset of chap. 10, this should not come as a surprise. According to the competing chronologies of the archaeological record at Tell Balâṭah, scholars date its second catastrophic destruction to either the second half of the 12th century or the beginning of the 10th. In either case, this “Canaanite” city, which was rebuilt a century after its first destruction at the end of the MB (ca. 1550/1545 BCE), continued to operate without interruption into the formative stages of Israel’s development, locating it firmly within an Israelite context. With this in mind, I can reasonably suggest that some of the more significant historical memories and social structures associated with Shechem continued to play a role in the collective consciousness and organization of the populations associated with it during the early stages of Israel’s development. If these populations later identified themselves as members of the Israelite collective, it is likely that their memories, traditions, and social structures were adopted as fundamental features of Israel’s early history and identity, even if some of them conflicted with and were foreign to the ideologies and perceptions of the later Judahite authors and editors of the Bible. 1 In other words, though the memories recorded in Judges 9 are concerned primarily with the Shechemites and their king, and though they deviate from the national memories that I outlined in the preceding chapter, their inclusion in the wider literary tradition in a pan-Israelite context (see esp. Judg 9:22 and 55) strongly suggests that they reflect the characteristics of at least some of Israel’s constituents during the early phases of its development. 1. R. D. Miller makes a similar argument for the continuity between the inhabitants of the Iron I highlands and Iron II Israel and Judah. As I discussed in chap. 9, the “Merenptah Stele is direct positive evidence that the term ‘Israel’ was used for some entity in the highlands of Palestine in the parlance of Late Bronze IIb sources.” Based on this datum, Miller contends that “it makes no difference what the Iron I highlanders called themselves: they were the direct antecedents of Iron II Israel” (R. D. Miller 2005: 2). However, he takes issue with using the term “proto-Israel” to define this population: “Since the Merenptah Stele records that the name of this community, or at least part of it, was Israel, once archaeology has established the continuity to Iron II, there is no reason to retain the prefix ‘Proto-’ ” (2005: 2). Similarly, the LB populations that were organized enough to be mentioned by name in the confrontation recorded on Merenptah’s stele should not be regarded as “proto-Israel” but as Israel proper.

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In this regard, it is important to recall that a number of these features, including the Shechemite collective and its king, are not unique to Judges 9. Thus, the negotiations between Jephthah and the elders of Gilead indicate that collective governance, which was common during the LB (see chap.  2 above), was not foreign to premonarchic Israel. In addition, the core memories revolving around Jephthah and Gideon strongly suggest that Abimelech was not the only king among the Israelites before the establishment of the Israelite monarchy. Again, these observations demand that we rethink conventional wisdom regarding the nature of Israel, the nature of Israel’s constituents, and the sources from which the depictions of early Israel were drawn. In this chapter, I will continue this process by examining the way that identity played a role at Shechem, and the historical memories associated with it ultimately contributed to the formation of Israel’s identity and its history. This task will be aided by an exploration of the preservative role of place. By the end, I will suggest that memories revolving around Shechem and its destruction at the end of the MB persisted in the collective consciousness of groups that were eventually identified with Israel because the remnants of this momentous event remained visible in the familiar landscape over time.

The Scope and Limitations of the Shechemite Identity The scope and limitations of the Shechemite identity are portrayed most explicitly in the events that revolve around the collective assembly described in Judg 9:27–29. The festivities commence with a group of people going forth into the field to harvest their grapes in preparation for a celebration. They then enter the house of their god (‫)בית אלהיהם‬, where they eat, drink, and eventually deride Abimelech. While the context indicates that Gaʿal, his kinsmen, and the lords of Shechem all participated in this corporate event, 2 it is likely that the wider population that constituted “the city” (‫ )העיר‬over which Zebul served as governor was also present. After Zebul learned of the deceit that was taking place in the assembly, he informed Abimelech that Gaʿal and his kinsmen were stirring up the city against him (‫ ;והנם צרים את־העיר עליך‬9:31). The nature of this report indicates that Zebul was not primarily concerned with the lords of Shechem but with the population of the city under his authority. In response to this report, Abimelech took up arms against the lords of Shechem, who 2. See the notice in v. 26 that the lords of Shechem put their trust in Gaʿal, a statement that is immediately followed by the general statement that “they” went forth into the field in v. 27. In addition, it is Gaʿal who gives the speech against Abimelech in vv. 28–29. Finally, Gaʿal and his kinsmen are named as the source of Zebul’s concerns in vv. 30–31.

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followed Gaʿal into battle. While their defeat outside the city walls (vv. 39– 41) marks the end of their role in the narrative, it does not mark the end of Abimelech’s punishment of the parties involved. On the following morning, he set an ambush against the inhabitants of the city who had gone out into the field a second time (‫ ;ויהי ממחרת ויצא העם השׂדה‬v. 42). 3 After liquidating them, he fought against the city all day, eventually destroying it and all who remained there. 4 The distinction that the narrative draws between the general population of the city and the lords of Shechem is paralleled in the portrayal of Abimelech’s subsequent assault on Thebez. In v. 51, all the men and women and all the lords of the city took refuge in the tower of Thebez. In both cases, it appears that the lords of Shechem constituted a distinct representative subset of the general population, much in the same way that the lords of Gubla represented the Gublites (EA 139, 140), the elders of Irqata represented the Irqataites (EA 100), and the sons of Tunip represented the Tunipites (EA 59; see chap. 2 above). 5 It is not entirely clear, however, that all the lords of Shechem permanently lived in the city. According to v. 25, out of their hostility toward Abimelech, some of their number set ambushes on the tops of the mountains in order to rob all who passed along the way. As with the rebellious behavior that occurred during the Shechemite assembly, this act of defiance was reported to the king. In this case, however, he refrained from taking immediate action. Many have taken note of this discrepancy, concluding that it marks two distinct narrative traditions at play. There is, however, another viable explanation about why these two events elicited such different reactions. Abimelech’s failure to act in the first instance may have 3. On the peculiar notice that the people of the city departed the safety of their city on the morning after the lords suffered a great defeat, Soggin (1981: 192) suggests that “the risk of the ruination of the crop and therefore famine . . . was certainly a greater danger than the uncertain perils of war.” Moore offers an alternative reading, proposing that the people of the city set out on “a predatory excursion” that included the same type of “robbing and plundering on the highways” mentioned in v. 25 (Moore 1895: 263). When Abimelech heard of their plan, he moved quickly to stop it. 4. This mixed assembly, consisting of Gaʿal, his brothers, the lords of Shechem, and the city in general reflects the constituents of the regular festival depicted in Judges 21. Not only were the “elders of the congregation” present, but so too were the “daughters of Shiloh” who went forth from Shiloh in order to dance in the dances (v. 21). 5. In v. 33, as Zebul advises Abimelech on the course of action to take against his enemies, he refers to the people who will fight with Gaʿal as the people/troops (‫)העם אשׁר־אתו‬. However, in the depiction of the events as they unfold, it is the lords of Shechem who go out, with Gaʿal at their head (v. 39). As I noted in chap. 2, the “difference between ‘elder’ terminology and the adjectival form of town . . . names (LÚmeš GN ‘the GN-ites’)” such as the Gublites (LÚmeš Gubla) encountered above, “is that the former emphasizes the representative nature of the group, as a subset of the whole population” (Fleming 2004: 191).

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been due to the fact that the lords of Shechem were not operating from a single center but were dispersed across multiple hilltops (‫)על ראשׁי ההרים‬. If this was the case, the lords constituted a variety of Shechemite leaders, both urban-centered and not, who were located throughout the region. 6 Because they did not permanently reside in a single location, they posed the same type of problem for Abimelech that the elusive ʿapîrû did for the Amarna Age ḫazannūti. It was not until they assembled in the same place that Abimelech could take decisive action against them. Support for the dispersed residence of at least some of the leaders of the Shechemites is found in the identity and portrayal of Gaʿal and his “brothers.” In v. 26, we are informed that they “came and passed through Shechem” (‫)ויבא געלי בן־עבד ואחיו ויעברו בשׁכם‬. One can only speculate regarding the location they departed from and the lifestyle they led that required them to take this journey. Nevertheless, the text clearly indicates that they did not permanently dwell in Shechem. In fact, the use of the verb ʿābar followed by the phrase biškĕm suggests that this engagement was intended to be temporary, probably for the purpose of participating in the aforementioned Shechemite assembly. 7 Such an assembly reflects the type of “regular festival” in which Elkanah and his family took part in 1 Samuel. 8 As with Gaʿal and his followers, Elkanah was required to depart from his town in the hills of Zuph in order to participate in the cultic activities at Shiloh (1 Sam 1:19; 2:11; see also 7:17; 8:4; 15:34; 16:13; 19:18, 22). These encounters correspond to the type of assemblies common among populations that were separated by distance for the purpose of confirming their common identity (see chaps. 3 and 6 above). It should not be surprising, therefore, that similar events are understood to have occurred among the constituents of early Israel in the biblical texts. That the Shechemite assembly served a similar function is supported by the speech that Gaʿal makes in Judg 9:28 (see Stager 1999: 239–40, 245). There, he commonly identifies himself along with all who are with him as Shechemites (Soggin 1981: 185). This critical notice argues against Naʾaman’s recent claim that Gaʿal was not a Shechemite but an independent leader of a band of ʿapîrû who forged an agreement with the Shechemites. According to Naʾaman, this “agreement served the needs of both sides: the band obtained shelter in a safe place and a secure basis for its operation,” and “the Shechemites obtained an armed force . . . and a cheap menial force for field work” 6. As Naʾaman points out, the “lords” of an entity could stem from urban societies and rural societies (Naʾaman 2010: 91). 7. See also Gen 41:46; Exod 12:12; Num 33:8; Josh 18:9; 1 Sam 9:4; 2 Sam 2:15; 20:14; Isa 8:21. 8. See also Judg 21:25.

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(Naʾaman 2011b: 7). In support of this reading, he points to the agreement David and his own “band” of ʿapîrû-like “refugees of mixed origin and character” (Naʾaman 2010: 87; see 1 Sam 22:2) made with the lords of Keilah (1 Sam 23:1–12). However, there is no indication that David identified himself as a Keilahite during his brief stay there. 9 Moreover, the fact that the “lords of Keilah” (‫ )בעלי קעילה‬were prepared to surrender David into the hand of Saul suggests that his influence among them was limited. 10 Though Gaʿal and his followers may reflect the characteristics of an ʿapîrû band, a feature that would support my reading of EA 289 and the independent role of the Shechemites in “giving to the ʿapîrû” (see chap. 6 above), 11 they are clearly identified as members of the Shechemite collective. 12 Whether or not Gaʿal was considered a “lord of Shechem” is a different matter. However, his status and influence among them suggests that he may have been. An instructive point of contrast to this situation is the way in which the Shechemite identity is limited as v. 28 unfolds. In spite of the fact that the Shechemites acknowledged the kingship of Abimelech and the authority of Zebul, they, like the troops of Aziru in EA 138, were cast as outsiders (see chap.  10 above). 13 This would explain why neither Abimelech nor Zebul was present at the assembly. The role that identity plays in this passage and the way that Abimelech responds to Gaʿal’s bid for leadership ultimately reflects Giddens’s claim that in “class-divided societies traditional practices and kinship relations, even tribal identifications, remain very prominent.” 9. See also story of Sheba (2 Samuel 20), specifically identified as a Becherite of the tribe of Benjamin (v. 1), who took refuge in Abel-beth-maacah, located on the northern periphery of Israel, while Joab pursued him and his supporters. Cf. EA 185. 10. In this way, the status of David parallels that of Abimelech, who could only appeal to the lords of Shechem through his mother’s kin (see chap. 10 above). Contrast this with the fact that the lords of Shechem rally around Gaʿal against Abimelech. 11. In this case, the ʿapîrû in question would have been Shechemites who were supported by their fellow Shechemites. The references to ʿapîrû in terms of their place of origin in such texts as AT 181 support this conclusion. The men who appear on this tablet are defined by the opening line as “Soldiers, ʿapîrû, owners of weapons” or “ʿapîrû soldiers, armed” (ERÍNmeš lúSA.GAZ EN gišTukulmeš; line 1; so Rainey 1996b: 3; see D. Wiseman 1953: 71). The lion’s share of the names that follow are identified with their place of origin. These place-names include both cities (URU) and at least one land (KUR). 12. Naʾaman accounts for this “difficulty” by suggesting that it is a “ruse of the author who put in Gaal’s mouth the words of a drunken person” (Naʾaman 2011b: 7). This explanation, however, leaves one with more questions than answers. One wonders if this indicates that ʿapîrû could maintain a connection with their local heritage (even if they were employed by other political entities), as they do in AT 181. 13. A similar problem is articulated in the Autobiography of Idrimi. In the opening lines of this text, Idrimi makes the following claim: “Whoever [seeks] his patrimony is a great nobleman, but whoever [remains] among the citizens of Emar,” whom he earlier defines as his “mother’s brothers,” “is a slave” (lines 10–12).

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As a result, “the state is unable to penetrate deeply into localized customs, and sheer military power is one of the principle foundations upon which government officialdom is able to ‘contain’ outlying regions” (Giddens 1984: 183). In Judges 9, “kinship relations” clearly trumped loyalty to the throne. The only recourse that Abimelech had in the face of these ties was to take military action. These events illustrate the complex nature of identity and political affiliation in Judges 9 and ultimately correspond to my judgment regarding the nature of Shechem during the Bronze Age. After a detailed evaluation of the archaeological evidence from Tell Balâṭah and the extrabiblical references to Shechem in the textual record, I concluded that this entity consisted of a mixed population that included both sedentary and nonsedentary elements (see chap. 7 above). Judges 9 casts those who are identified as Shechemites in similar terms. While a contingent of this population lived in the city, there were also those who lived at a distance from it. In spite of the differences in residence, and perhaps even lifestyle, they were all considered members of the same political organization. By contrast, the king of Shechem and his governor who lived in the city were not identified as Shechemites. The fact that the there is no evidence that the population affiliated with Tell Balâṭah was interrupted during the transition from the LB to the Iron I strongly suggests that the sociopolitical organization of the Shechemites recorded in Judges 9 is conterminous with earlier phases of its history, reflecting a sociopolitical structure that formed the core of the Shechemite identity. As the Shechemites began participating in the Israelite collective, these structures and the memories associated with them were adopted as part of the larger identity and history of early Israel. In the end, it seems unlikely that a later author would have the capacity to fabricate these nuanced parallels.

The Identity of Shechem The complexities revolving around the Shechemite identity promote a reevaluation of the identity of “Shechem” as well. Scholars generally identify biblical Shechem with the urban center of Tell Balâṭah (see chap. 7). However, there is evidence to suggest that this name was used more broadly in Judges 9. As I demonstrated above, the Shechemites were not limited to those who resided in the urban center where Abimelech’s confirmation occurred and over which Zebul served as governor. This category also referred to a wider sociopolitical entity that consisted of dispersed populations. 14 14. This may be reflected in the Samaria Ostraca, where Shechem is used to refer to a “clan” (Niemann 2008: 256–57, 260). The same designation is applied to Shechem in Josh 17:2.

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This closely corresponds to the land of Amurru, which consisted of the residents of such cities as Irqata, Ammiya, and Ṣumur, as well as a large contingent of ʿapîrû and Sutû. Shechem, therefore, did not simply refer to a “city” but to a “land” as well. This feature is confirmed in EA 289. There the determinative KUR precedes the reference to Shechem, thus defining it as a “land” (kurša-ak-mi; line 23). As with the land of Amurru during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta, the challenges of maintaining a common identity and taking collective political action in the face of geographical dispersion were overcome by assembling at a cultic center. For the Amurrites, this occurred at the Temple of NIN.URTA (EA 74: 31–32). For the Shechemites, it is remembered to have occurred at the oak of the palisade that was in Shechem (‫ ;אלון מצב אשׁר בשׁכם‬Judg 9:6) and, later, at the temple of their god (‫ ;בית אלהיהם‬9:27). This broad identification does not exclude the possibility that the name “Shechem” was also associated with a city. A similar phenomenon is seen in the different entities to which the name “Dan” referred. On the one hand, it was connected to the broad sociopolitical entity of the Danites, which included populations that inhabited the cities of Zorah and Eshtaol (Judg 18:2, 8, 11). On the other hand, Dan was adopted as the name of the city that the Danites established over the ruins of Laish (Judg 18:29). 15 A similar dynamic appears to have occurred with the naming of the city of Amurru (urua-mu-ur-ra; EA 162) after Aziru centralized the land of Amurru (kuramu-ur-ra) under his authority (see chap. 5 above). Though Shechem is never directly identified with a city (‫ )עיר‬in the same way that Dan is, 16 its connection to one is clearly indicated in the initial phases of the conflict depicted in Judg 9:34–49. The first phase (vv. 34–41) opens with the notice that Abimelech and his forces lay in wait against Shechem in four companies. This statement could be taken as a 15. Hebron exhibits a similar feature. While it is clearly regarded as a settled center in 2 Sam 5:5, where it is set in parallel with Jerusalem (“At Hebron he [David] was king over Judah seven years and six months and at Jerusalem he was king over all Israel and Judah thirty three years”), 2 Sam 2:3 portrays Hebron as a larger entity that included multiple cities: “David went up, along with the men who were with him—every man and his house— and they settled in the cities of Hebron” (‫)בערי חברון‬. One wonders if this implies that David was the king of Judah, Israel (2 Sam 5:5), and Hebron much in the same way that Abimelech is cast as having authority over multiple entities. Additionally, 1 Sam 15:5 makes reference to ‫עיר עמלק‬, a city identified with a group (the Amalekites) that is known to have inhabited a wide geographical region (Judg 12:15; 1 Sam 27:8). 16. For example, Zebul is not referred to as the ruler of the city of Shechem (*‫)שׂר־שׁכם‬ but simply as the ruler of the city (‫ ;שׂר־העיר‬v. 30). Contrast this with instances in which cities are specifically named (*X ‫שׁם העיר‬: Gen 4:17; 19:22; 26:33; Judg 1:17; 1:23; 18:29; 1 Kgs 16:24; see also the construction *X ‫ שׁם עירו‬Gen 36:32, 35, 39; 1 Chr 1:43, 46, 50).

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general reference to the Shechemite assembly or the people of the land of Shechem. 17 However, the conflict that ensues is clearly set in and around an urban center. While standing at the gate of the city (v. 35), Gaʿal sees Abimelech and his troops arise from their positions and descend toward him. In response, Gaʿal and the lords of Shechem depart from the safety of the city walls to engage in battle, a decision that ultimately leads to the demise of the latter and the exile of the former. The second phase of the battle (vv. 42–45) moves from the fields surrounding the city to the city itself. After fighting against it all day, we are told that Abimelech destroyed it along with its inhabitants (v. 45). It is during the third phase of battle (vv. 46–49), however, that the scope of Shechem is expanded again. After learning that the city had been destroyed, the lords of the tower of Shechem fled to the chamber of the Temple of El-berith (‫ ;ויבאו אל־צריח בית אל ברית‬v. 46), where they also met their fate. As I indicated in chap. 10, scholars continue to debate the contents of the original “core” of this story. Nevertheless, as the text now stands, it reads as a continuous narrative that would have made sense to its ancient audience (Campbell 1983: 269–70; contra Boling 1975b: 180). 18 This observation led Soggin (1981: 192–93; see also pp. 165, 194; Naʾaman 2011b) to conclude that the name “Shechem” was “connected with two places, with the capital of the city-state of the same name, and the Tower.” 19 He goes on to suggest that the tower of Shechem lay outside the walls of Tell Balâṭah, pointing to Tell Ṣōfar (Soggin 1981: 193; 1967) or the structure on Mount Ebal as the best candidates for its location (Soggin 1984: 282; 1988: 116–17; see also Naʾaman 2011b: 8–11; 1986b; de Moor 1990: 181). 20 Based on his own reconstruction of this conflict, E. F. Campbell arrives at a different conclusion. Following his analysis of the topography surrounding Shechem as it relates to the description of what Gaʿal saw as he stood at the city gate in v. 37, he suggests that Abimelech’s assault originated on Shechem’s eastern flank (Campbell 1983: 265–68; contra Soggin 1981: 189–90). Accordingly, he identifies the gate at which Gaʿal stood and the gate of the city mentioned in v. 44 with the less fortified East Gate 17. This is particularly the case when this notice is read in parallel with v. 28. 18. According to Martin (1975: 127), “[A] better solution is to regard vv. 46–9 as the narration of an event which took place during the final siege of the city.” 19. See also Moore 1895: 264–65. Of course, Soggin’s insight implies a connection with a third category. While he refers to this as “the city-state of the same name,” it is more appropriate to understand it as the population of the centralized land of Shechem. 20. Similarly, Moore contends that it was “an unwalled town in the neighborhood of Shechem, though not immediately adjacent to it. It owed its name to a tower which stood there, and was the site of the temple of El-berith” (Moore 1895: 264).

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of Tell Balâṭah. Moving to a linguistic analysis, Campbell contends that nāgîd is used throughout this text to report a message across a distance. However, the use of the root šmʿ in v. 46 suggests that a great distance was not involved, indicating that the “sound of fighting on the lower east side of Shechem could reach people in the western precinct and send them running for safety” (see also G. E. Wright 1965: 128). Campbell therefore concludes that the name “Shechem” was connected to both the cultic site or temenos of the western precinct and the city that grew up around it to its east. This historical reconstruction finds textual support in the subsequent depiction of the fall of Thebez. According to v. 50, Abimelech “encamped against Thebez and captured it” (‫)ויחן בתבץ וילכדה‬. This did not, however, mark the end of the conflict. It was only after the city was taken that the men, women, and lords of the city took refuge in the “strong tower that was in the midst of the city” (‫ומגדל־עז היה בתוך־העיר וינסו ׁשמה כל־האנׁשים‬ ‫ ;והנׁשים וכל בעלי העיר‬v. 51). 21 The plausibility of Campbell’s suggestion in light of the expectations of an ancient audience should cause us to pause and consider the way in which cultic centers and their affiliated cities were related to one another and the way that this relationship may have contributed to a shared identity.

The temenos and the Town Shechem is not the only example of a temenos and a town that appear to be identified by the same name. Shiloh seems to have shared this distinction as well. While Shiloh was the cultic center of the Israelite assembly in Judges 21 and 1 Samuel, a city was associated with it as well. This is most clearly demonstrated in the events that occurred after the Philistines defeated the Israelite coalition and commandeered the ark in 1 Samuel 4. In a manner reminiscent of the battle of Marathon, a man of Benjamin fled from the line of battle to Shiloh in order to report the news of the loss of the ark. According to the text, he entered the city to give his report, with the result that “the entire city cried out” (‫;והאישׁ בא להגיד בעיר ותזעק כל־העיר‬ 1 Sam 4:13). However, as with the lords of the tower of Shechem, it was not until Eli heard the cry of the city (‫ ;וישׁמע עלי את־קול‬4:14) that he learned there was trouble (cf. Judg 9:46). It appears, therefore, that Eli was sitting at the gate of the temenos, a feature reflecting the “high places of the gates”

11:21.

21. This tower is also remembered to have been associated with the city wall in 2 Sam

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in 2 Kgs 23:8 (see de Vaux 1975: 401; Chambon 1993: 439), 22 rather than at the gate of the city itself, when the man finally brought him the details of Israel’s defeat (1 Sam 4:16–18). This reconstruction is reflected in the archaeological history of Shiloh. From the MB into the Iron I, the summit of the tell was occupied by the sacred precinct. While impressive public buildings were introduced to this area during the Iron I, it continued to function as a temenos (Finkelstein 1988a: 217; 232–33; 2013: 24–25). The only area where a residential sector or city may have been located is on the southern slopes of the tell. Due to the damage inflicted by later construction, however, determining the nature and date of this sector has not been possible. Nevertheless, its probable location suggests that its creation was subsequent to that of the cultic center. Finkelstein therefore concludes that, “while the question of the nature of the occupation at Shiloh must remain open for the time being, there are hints that in the Iron I, as in the Bronze Age, the principal activity at the site was connected with the cult center there” (Finkelstein 1988a: 232; contra van der Toorn 1996: 244; see also n. 39). Jer 26:6 reflects the historical memory of Shiloh’s functioning primarily as a cultic center (Finkelstein 2013: 24). In his oracle against the Temple of Yahweh and the city of Jerusalem, Jeremiah proclaims, “I will make this house like Shiloh, and I will make this city a curse for all of the nations.” Here, the temple is set in parallel with Shiloh, while the city is paralleled with a curse (see also Jer 26:9). An implicit distinction is therefore made between these two entities. When read in tandem with the evidence from 1 Samuel 4, however, there does appear to have been an urban center affiliated with Shiloh. Thus, while the temenos and the town shared a spatial relationship and perhaps even the same name, they retained their distinctive identities. A similar situation in which the close association between a town and a temenos led to their common identification is attested in several other biblical texts. The first is the rāmâ of Zuph, which is identified as the location of Samuel’s home (1 Sam 1:19; 2:11; 7:17; 8:4; 15:34). The fact that “Ramah” is always preceded by a definite article indicates that it should not be taken as the proper name of Samuel’s hometown, as it often is (McCarter 1980: 61–62, 148, 156). Rather, it was “the high place” on which Samuel’s city and the cultic center with which it was affiliated were located. This distinction is highlighted in the events surrounding Saul’s initial encounter with Samuel in 1 Samuel 9. Two locations play a central role in 22. A similar feature is attested at Tirzah (Tell el-Farʿah North), the cultic site that was operational during both the LB and the Iron I (van der Toorn 1996: 243; see chap. 12 below).

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this text. The first is the city where Saul and his servant encounter Samuel (1 Sam 9:14, 18) and later lodge for the night (vv. 25–27). The second is the assembly hall (‫ )לשׁכה‬of the high place (‫ )במה‬where Saul participates in the cultic activities administered by Samuel. While both of these locations were situated on a hill (v. 11) in the land of Zuph (v. 5), their spatial distinction is clear. When Saul and his servant met Samuel in the midst of the town, the latter was “going forth” to ascend to the high place to sacrifice (‫ ;המה באים בתוך העיר והנה שׁמואל יצא לקראתם לעלות הבמה‬v. 14; see also v. 13). After the meal, they descended from the high place and returned to the city (‫ ;וירדו מהבמה העיר‬v. 25). Whether or not the high place was an extramural temple or was situated within the city as was the temenos of Tell Balâṭah is impossible to determine. 23 Nevertheless, the city and the cultic place of assembly are depicted as two separate entities that shared the same geographical designation. A comparable example is the gibʿâ in/of Benjamin. There are several points of continuity between this site and the rāmâ of Zuph. As with the rāmâ of Zuph, the gibʿâ in/of Benjamin always takes a definite article or is in construct with a proper noun. This indicates that it should not be read as the name of a city (“Gibeah”) but as a topographical designation (“hill”). 24 However, this does not mean that the hill lacked a city or a cultic center. In fact, like the rāmâ of Zuph, both were situated on it. The former is to be identified with Gēbaʿ. 25 This was the city that stood at the center of the Israelite war with Benjamin and the events that precipitated it in Judges 19–20 (see esp. 19:15, 22; 20:10–11, 31–33). It was also the site where, according to 1 Sam 13:2–3, Jonathan defeated a garrison of Philistines who were stationed there (McCarter 1980: 225). Reading this victory notice in parallel with 1 Samuel 10, the gibʿâ in/of Benjamin should be identified with “the high place/hill (gibʿâ) of God” (‫ )גבעת האלהים‬mentioned in 1 Sam 23. In 1 Samuel 19, the place where Samuel and David lived is called Naioth on the Ramah. However, the nature and scope of this entity is not specified. 24. Contra Schniedewind, who reads rāmâ and gibʿâ in Judg 19:13 as references to cities: “Let us spend the night in Gibeah or Ramah” (Schniedewind 2006: 720). The fact that a definite article precedes both of them, however, indicates that the passage should be translated as follows: “Let us spend the night on the gibʿâ (‫ )בגבעה‬or on the rāmâ (‫)ברמה‬.” Note also that these entities are preceded by and thereby identified with the general phrase “the places” (‫ )המקמות‬rather than “the cities” (*‫)הערים‬, as one might expect if these terms were understood to refer to settled centers. 25. This city should not be confused with the gibʿâ of Saul (1 Sam 11:4; 15:34; Isa 10:29). As Schniedewind demonstrates (2006), gibʿâ in/of Benjamin is to be identified with Tell Jebal and rāmâ of Zuph with Tell el-Fûl. With regard to Gibeon, he demonstrates that it should be identified with Tell el-Jib (Schniedewind 2006: 721). McCarter, however, conflates the two (McCarter 1980: 181–82).

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10:5 (McCarter 1980: 181–82; B. Mazar 1986: 47; J. M. Miller 1975: 165). This reference clearly associates it with a cultic center. In fact, it was there that Saul met a band of prophets coming down from the shrine (‫ )במה‬in accordance with Samuel’s prediction (10:5, 10), an encounter that took place when Saul arrived at “the city” of Gēbaʿ. 26 As with the rāmâ of Zuph, the town (Gēbaʿ) and the temenos (“the high place/hill of God”) are depicted as separate entities, both of which occupied the gibʿâ in/of Benjamin. In spite of this distinction, the two entities are commonly referred to as “the gibʿâ.” This is illustrated in the events surrounding Israel’s war with Benjamin in Judges 20. 27 While the focus of the Israelite assault was clearly the city of Gēbaʿ (Judg 20:11, 19–21, 25, 29–31, 37–38, 40, 48), it is only twice referred to by that name (vv. 10, 33). 28 In every other instance, it is simply identified as “the gibʿâ” (vv. 4, 5, 9, 13, 14–15, 19–21, 25, 29–31, 34, 36–37, 43). Though the narrative never explicitly refers to a cultic center associated with the gibʿâ, it was probably in view in 20:14. After rejecting Israel’s apparent offer of peace in exchange for the wicked men who were on the gibʿâ, the Benjaminites departed their cities and assembled at the gibʿâ in order to go to war with Israel (‫ויאספו בני־בנימן מן־הערים הגבעתה לצאת‬ ‫ ;למלחמה עם־בני ישׂראל‬v. 14). Following the model of assembly found in the books of Judges and Samuel, and in EA 74 and ARM XXVI 24, this corporate meeting most likely took place at the temenos (‫ )במה‬of the gibʿâ or “the high place of God” (‫ ;גבעת האלהים‬1 Sam 10:5) from which the prophets were descending when Saul encountered them. As with the city of Gēbaʿ, however, in this context, it is simply referred to as the gibʿâ. 29 Soggin suggests that the reference to Gēbaʿ in Judg 20:10 should be corrected to read “Gibeah,” arguing that it was “a different place, even if it was phonetically similar” (Soggin 1981: 291). However, based on my contention that Gēbaʿ was a town located on the gibʿâ in/of Benjamin, where the gibʿâ of God was also situated (1 Samuel 10), a better explanation for the similarity between these two names is found in the phenomenon of 26. See also 1 Kgs 15:22. 27. Consider the different locations of the Philistine garrison as well. In 1 Sam 10:5, it is located on the high place of God (‫)תבוא גבעת האלהים אשׁר־שׁם נצבי פלשׁתים‬, while in 1 Sam 12:2–3 it is located in Gēbaʿ. When Jonathan defeated this garrison, he was stationed with his men at the gibʿâ of Benjamin (‫ ;בגבעת בנימין‬1 Sam 13:2–3). See also Judg 19:15, where the city is named as a specific element of the gibʿâ. The town and high place are also conflated in the description of Josiah’s reform, which indicates that he “brought all the priests out of the towns of Judah, and defiled the high places where the priests had made offerings, from Gēbaʿ to Beer-sheba” (2 Kgs 23:8). 28. Note the mistranslation of ‫ ֶגבַע‬as “Gibeah” in the NRSV. 29. In his survey of Judges 19–21, Schniedewind (2006: 717) does not take note of this nuance, suggesting that ‫ גבע‬and ‫ גבעה‬are used “for the same site within the same story.”

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naming, when a town develops around and/or becomes associated with a temenos. Returning to Shechem, the archaeological record at Tell Balâṭah indicates that it was the temenos that first appeared during the MB IIA. It was not until the MB IIB and C that a recognizable urban center developed on its eastern flank (see chap. 7 above). Even during these phases of its history, however, Wall 900 separated the temenos from the rest of the city, distinguishing it as a separate sacred precinct. If the original temenos was referred to by the name Shechem, it is plausible that the urban center that grew up adjacent to it adopted the same name. Similarly, it is likely that the sacred center of Shiloh lent its name to the residential sector that may have developed to its south and that the gibʿâ of God // the gibʿâ in/of Benjamin lent its name to Gēbaʿ. In terms of their spatial representation, it is likely that the town and the temenos of each site were so close that from an outsider’s perspective they were perceived as representing the same entity. However, from an insider’s perspective, they remained distinct.

Shechem, the Land of Shechem, and Tell Balâṭah in Judges 9 The foregoing analysis of the Shechemite identity and the identity of Shechem has highlighted several similarities between the depiction of Shechem in Judges 9 and my analysis of the land of Shechem and Tell Balâṭah in part 2 above. For one thing, the name “Shechem” appears to have been connected with both a cultic center and a city in Judges 9. This may echo the nature of Tell Balâṭah’s development, which began as a temenos in the MB IIA and only later grew into an urban center during the MB IIB and IIC. “Shechem” was also associated with a larger sociopolitical entity that extended beyond the walls of the temenos and the town, a phenomenon that is reflected in the earliest textual references to the land of Shechem. In both the Khu-Sebek stele and the Brussels Group of execration texts, the land of Shechem did not simply refer to the urban administrative center of a centralized land but to a general region within the central hill country in which Tell Balâṭah was located. Like the Danites, who existed as a distinct sociopolitical entity before they established the city of Dan, those who selfidentified as Shechemites probably existed before the city of Shechem took shape. In both cases, the central city and the broader sociopolitical entity are remembered as having been named after an eponymous founder (Judg 9:28; 18:29; see also Gen 33:19; Stager 1999: 239–40; Albright 1940: 279). Though the populations who identified themselves with Shechem were dispersed across the region, they regularly assembled to make col-

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lective political decisions and to take collective political action. Similarly, in my analysis of EA 289, I determined that the “land of Shechem” operated collectively and independently in “giving to the ʿapîrû.” Though it is impossible to determine the precise nature of the relationship between the ʿapîrû and the land of Shechem from the Amarna letters, the depiction of the lords of Shechem acting in a manner closely resembling the ʿapîrû in Judg 9:25 and Naʾaman’s (2011b: 7) contention that Gaʿal was the leader of a band of ʿapîrû suggest that the two groups were linked, perhaps even acting as members of the same political entity. 30 This affiliation is reminiscent of the general situation on the ground during the Amarna period. I have already pointed out that the ʿapîrû along with the Sutû were identified as members of Biryawaza’s military force who were prepared to protect Egyptian interests in the region (EA 195: 24–30). In addition, the son of Labʾayu, who may have had some type of affiliation with the land of Shechem, is also said to have participated in activities with the ʿapîrû (EA 254: 30–37). As Fleming argues, “For Labʾayu, if his son is not currently with him, he is naturally with the ʿapiru, who are understood to live or move at a distance from their king, rather like the Ḫana of ZimriLim. As addressed by Labʾayu, the ʿapiru are a coherent population with an established relationship to himself, yet whose movements cannot be managed by the ruler they acknowledge” (Fleming 2012: 261). In a similar way, Abimelech was unable to manage the movements and activities of the lords of Shechem and Gaʿal until they were assembled in the same location. The ʿapîrû also contributed to the activities of the multipolity decentralized land of Amurru. Not only did they “play a dominant role in the consolidation” of Amurru (Singer 1991: 141; EA 73: 25–29; see also EA 74: 23–29; 75: 25–34; 81: 11–13; 89; 91), but ʿAbdi-Aširta himself is referred to as anʿapîrû by Rib-Addu on several occasions (EA 90: 24–25; 91: 3–5; 94: 67–70). To be sure, ʿAbdi-Aširta’s archenemy issued this characterization, and it was probably influenced by his personal concerns and prejudices. Nevertheless, it fits the scholarly contention that ʿAbdi-Aširta originated from this group (Singer 1991: 143; see also Klengel 1969: 247; Altman 1978: 5). Though they are not identified with a fixed residence like Mari’s Ḫana (see, however, AT 181), they appear to have been integrated into the Ammurite identity and the Shechemite identity in both the Amarna letters and Judges 9 (see Fleming 2012: 264–75). 30. A similar claim could be made with regard to Jephthah and his relationship to the Gileadites. Martin suggests that those who gathered around Jephthah “may have been part of the Habiru class” (Martin 1975: 138), comparing them to the men whom Abimelech hired in Judg 9:3 (1975: 114–15).

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With these important points of continuity in mind, we may now ask whether or not one can align the destruction of the city and sacred precinct of Shechem as it is portrayed in Judges 9 with the archaeological record at Tell Balâṭah. 31 Many scholars have attempted to do this, and most point to the devastation that occurred during the last quarter of the 12th century or the beginning of the 10th as the most likely archaeological reflection of these events (see, e.g., Boling 1975b: 184–85; Martin 1975: 127; Stager 1999: 232–34; 245–46; Naʾaman 2011b: 8). However, only one known temple structure at Tell Balâṭah has been dated to that period. 32 Consequently, proponents of this theory are compelled to regard the Temple of Baʿal-berith (v. 4), the oak of the palisade at Shechem (v. 6), the “temple of their god” (v.  27), the Temple of El-berith (v.  46), and the associated tower of Shechem (vv. 47–49) as the same sacred complex (Stager 1999: 232 n. 7; 240–42; Campbell 1983: 269–70; Boling 1975b: 180–81; Martin 1975: 115; Cross 1973: 39, 49, esp. n. 23; G. E. Wright 1965: 126). 33 There are, however, two major problems with this assessment. The first is that it does not take seriously the fact that the narrative itself goes to great lengths to distinguish these sacred spaces. For example, on the face of it, the Temple of Baʿal-berith and the Temple of El-berith are associated with two different deities and are therefore reckoned as two distinct entities. 34 In addition, two separate categories of people are identified with each of these temples. While it was the lords of Shechem who had access to the resources of the Temple of Baʿal-berith, it was the lords/men of the tower of Shechem who had access to the Temple of El-berith. 35 What is more, a third group, “all Beth-millo” (see chap. 10 above), is introduced during the confirmation of Abimelech’s authority. However, this important 31. As Campbell indicates (1983: 263), “[F]ew chapters in the Bible invite so readily the interpretive task of biblical archeology as does Judges 9.” 32. This does not account for the small sanctuary in Field IX. However, the sacred function of this area ceased by Stratum XI, long before the Iron I destruction. 33. Alternatively, Soggin locates the tower of Shechem at Tell Ṣōfar (Soggin 1981: 193; see also Moore 1895: 264–65; de Castelbajac 2001: 168). 34. According to Soggin, “[I]t has been widely held that baʿal berīt and ʾēl berīt are the same deity, and that therefore we have different but similar designations for the same temple. Now, however, as long as the identity or at least the equivalence of the two terms baʿal and ʾēl in this context has not been demonstrated, we have here two different deities, and therefore two sanctuaries” (Soggin 1981: 170–71). It is important to note that the Septuagint rectifies this difference by substituting baʿal for ʾēl in v. 46. 35. According to Boling (1975b: 180), these two groups refer to the same people. Again, this does not do justice to the fact that they are identified differently. In addition, it fails to take into account the fact that Abimelech defeated the lords of Shechem before the lords of the tower of Shechem//men of the tower of Shechem are introduced.

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event occurs neither at the Temple of Baʿal-berith nor the Temple of Elberith but at the oak of the palisade, an entirely different sacred space. In the end, each of these complexes is specifically remembered as being associated with different deities, groups of people, and sociopolitical events. Recognizing these complexities, T. Lewis makes the following observation: Can two deities play the role of the patron deity or covenant partner in one locality? Probably not. . . . While it is certainly possible to have numerous deities establish covenants with the same people, it would be more likely that only one deity at a time would be seen as the patron deity. It would be difficult to imagine the populace of a city worshiping simultaneously two patron deities, each of which was viewed as a treaty partner with the city. (Lewis 1996: 415, 423)

However, it seems that this is the very thing that the tradents of this tradition are asking their ancient audiences to do. The second problem derives from the archaeological history of Tell Balâṭah. The LB temple of the temenos (building 7500) hardly represented a place of refuge in the way that its MB precursor did and in the way that most commentators envision. Not only was it one-third the size of MB Fortress Temple, but its walls were much smaller and constructed of the lower-quality nari stones. Additionally, its footprint did not include the characteristic towers that flanked the portico of its forerunner. 36 To suggest, therefore, that the migdal of Shechem should be identified with this temple does not do justice to the archaeological evidence. Moreover, it takes unnecessary liberties with the text. There is no reason to believe that the migdal of Shechem was continuous with the Temple of El-berith. The text specifically states that the lords of the migdal of Shechem went into the ṣĕrîaḥ of the Temple of El-berith (v. 46), thereby making a distinction between these two structures. Stager (1999; 2003) attempts to mitigate these problems by lowering the date of the Fortress Temple to the Iron I period, arguing that building 7500 was actually the Iron II granary that later occupied the site. In so doing, he contends that the Fortress Temple, together with its associated maṣṣēbôt, continued to dominate the temenos until its destruction, which he dates to the end of the 12th century. Thus, he identifies it with both the tower of Shechem and the Temple of El-berith in Judges 9. However, he fails to address the problem of the axial alignment that distinguishes these 36. It is therefore entirely unclear what Boling is referring to when he suggests that the ṣĕrîaḥ refers to the “tower portion” of the LB temple (Boling 1975b: 181).

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two structures. We may recall that the three maṣṣēbôt discovered in the forecourt of the temple structure were originally assigned to the Fortress Temple by G.  E. Wright (1965: 92–93). After reevaluating their position, however, Bull and Campbell determined that they together with the altar at the base of the third maṣṣēbâ were actually calibrated along the central axis of building 7500. They therefore concluded that these features were original to the less impressive temple of the LB, not its MB predecessor (see chap. 6 above). 37 In the end, it seems that the MB IIC offers a more appropriate archaeological context for mapping some of the events depicted in Judges 9 and accounting for all of the sacred spaces mentioned therein. During the first phase of this period, the temenos consisted of two sacred spaces, the Fortress Temple and the open-air shrine that was situated on the plastered fill near Wall  A. These two sites are reasonable candidates for the locations of the events that occurred during the opening scene of Judges 9. While the Fortress Temple should be identified with the Temple of Baʿal-berith, Abimelech’s confirmation would have taken place in the open-air sanctuary of the palisade on which the oak at Shechem stood (Boling 1975b: 171–72; Campbell 1983: 264). This distinction accounts for the different locations named in the text and for the various populations involved in these events. While the underwriting of Abimelech’s military expenses fell solely to the care of the lords of Shechem, who are identified with the Temple of Baʿal-berith, the confirmation of Abimelech, a much more important political event in the lives of the Shechemites, included the wider population. Consequently, a sacred space that represented both the breadth of this population and the appropriate place for such a political transition to occur would seem to be in view. The second phase of the MB IIC marked an important shift in the layout of the temenos. With the construction of Wall B along the interior line of Wall A, the open-air sanctuary and its associated altar were absorbed into the well-fortified interior space between these two walls. The result was the creation of a new three-room temple (Temple 7300) situated along a central axis like the biblical depiction of the Solomonic temple in Jerusalem that was part of the “palace complex” flanking the Northwest Gate. After being extended by nearly a meter, the altar that previously stood on the palisade became the focus of the central space in this new temple. In my analysis of this architectural transition in chap. 7, I claimed that the resulting reconceptualization of sacred space held important symbolic 37. Stager also does not address the fact that the site lay dormant for nearly a century after the city (along with the Fortress Temple) was destroyed at the end of the MB IIC.

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implications that probably reflected a shift in the political structure at Tell Balâṭah. Read in light of the spike in monumental architecture that occurred during the MB IIC, it suggests an increase in the exercise of exclusionary power and the probable introduction of a royal tradition that paralleled the other “Hyksos kingdoms” attested in the southern Levant during this period (Weinstein 1981: 8–10; Zertal 1994: 50–51). Accordingly, while the broad-room style Fortress Temple continued to serve as the collective assembly place for the general population of the city (Campbell 2002: 154; Blanton 1998: 160), Temple 7300 represented the sacred space of the divine patron associated with the recently introduced, hierarchically organized political structure. 38 In other words, this “appropriation of space” for the purpose of “organizing and materializing social relationships and boundaries” (DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle 1996: 19) reflected a move to disembed (Eisenstadt 1964: 376) and co-opt the symbolic representation of the older corporate tradition into the newly established royal tradition. This reconstruction fits with the way Judges 9 unfolds. As I have suggested at a number of points in this analysis, Abimelech employed several strategies to reduce the power of the Shechemite collective and maximize his own as king (Blanton 1998: 147) through the process of differentiation, linearization, and meddling (Flannery 1972; Rappaport 1969). First, he disembedded military power from the Shechemite collective by raising his own army, a strategy reflected in his hiring of “empty and worthless men” in v. 4, and in Gaʿal’s identification of the army he confronted in v. 29 as Abimelech’s (‫ ;צבאך‬Eisenstadt 1964: 380–83; L. S. Fried 2004: 4). 39 Second, he administered his authority from Tormah/Arumah, a site that was isolated from the corporate political center of the Shechemites (Eisenstadt 1964: 377; Baines and Yoffee 1998: 209; Yoffee 2005: 37, 61). Finally, he appointed his own “foreign” governor over the city of Shechem, a policy that corresponds to Yoffee’s (2005: 25) claim that “chiefs, lacking internally specialized enforcement machinery, avoid delegating central authority and rely on the local power of sub-chiefs, while kings (in states) systematize and segment their power so as to undermine local authority.” 40 38. According to Campbell, “It served as the private ‘chapel’ of the city’s ruler, similar to the pattern in Alalakh, Stratum VII where a ‘chapel’ adjoins Yarim-Lim’s palace of contemporary date” (Campbell 2002: 153–54; Woolley 1955: 59–65, fig. 35). 39. Compare this with way Gideon’s army is identified in Judg 8:6. Aziru also employed this tactic in his own rise to power (EA 138: 59–62, 69–70). 40. This situation also parallels the strategies employed by other Near Eastern kings, extending as far back as Sargon. According to Yoffee (2005: 142), in order to “administer the new territorial state, Sargon appointed royal officials who served alongside the local

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Following this trend, we may plausibly conclude that Abimelech was cast as introducing a sacred space dedicated to the divine patron of his newly created centralized political structure at the very place where he was given authority by the Shechemite collective (see Rappaport 1971: 29, 31; DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle 1996: 16–17; Blanton 1998: 154; Fleming 2004: 226–27; Yoffee 2005: 33, 37). The evidence in Judges 9 supports such a reconstruction. With the corporate decision to make Abimelech king at the oak of the palisade in Shechem, this sacred space, along with its sociopolitical function, completely disappear from the text. However, after Abimelech’s authority is established, the Temple of El-berith is introduced. Such a transition should be read as an act of promotion or usurpation, through which “an ideological cognitive code and its accompanying rituals that mystify the underlying political inequality” is promulgated by the centralized authority (Blanton 1998: 147). This would have served to promote Abimelech’s position in at least two ways. First, it would have co-opted an important symbolic feature of the Shechemite identity and authority on behalf of the throne (Yoffee 2005: 33, 37). Second, it would have introduced a divine patron that represented an important counterpart and contrast to the patron of the lords of Shechem. While Baʿal did serve as the king of the pantheon in the mythology of Ugarit, he remained a second-generation god of war with respect to El. As van der Toorn points out, access to firstgeneration deities such as El was usually limited to the representative of a centralized political entity: It seems that only kings could boast a private devotion to the highest gods. Since royal worship was never strictly a private matter, however, the kings who professed such devotion thereby made a political statement as well. They claimed to be superior to normal human beings to the point where they could freely communicate with the highest-ranking deities. (van der Toorn 1996: 81)

A comparison of the Ugaritic texts Aqhat and Kirta supports van der Toorn’s claim. In the first, Danel, who was a member of the Harnemite collective (KTU 1.17 V 4–8; 1.19 I 19–25), is only able to gain access to El through Baʿal in his request for a child (KTU 1.17 I). By contrast, Kirta, whose authority as king is confirmed by his epithet “the servant of El” (ʿbd ʾil, KTU 1.14 III 49, 51), was contacted directly by El in the face of a similar problem (KTU 1.14 I–III). In this same way, the introduction of the firstgeneration god El served to underscore Abimelech’s role as king over the rulers of the conquered city-states. These new officials were charged with breaking down the boundaries between city-states and furnishing material support to the army.”

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land of Shechem and against the Shechemite collective (Rappaport 1971: 29, 39; Blanton 1998: 146–47, 160; Yoffee 2005: 34, 39). 41 Based on this reconstruction, I propose that the Temple of El-berith should be read as the text portrays it—a separate sacred space distinguished from the Temple of Baʿal-berith. If this is indeed the case, it can only be identified with Temple 7300 of the MB IIC. Its location adjacent to the well-fortified Northwest Gate also reflects its place in Judges 9, where it is associated with, though not the same thing as the migdal of Shechem. One can envision the lords/men of the tower of Shechem fleeing the Northwest Gate complex, or the migdal of Shechem, and seeking asylum in the Temple 7300 complex. Not only would this have been a well-fortified position due to its location between Wall A and Wall B, but it may also have represented a symbolic appeal to the divine patron of the king who was assaulting his house. If the text envisions the battle beginning at the inferior East Gate as Campbell suggests, this would have been the last remaining stronghold on the temenos after the city fell. In addition, it would help explain why the difficult term ṣĕrîaḥ is used to describe the architectural feature in which the lords/men of the tower of Shechem took refuge. While most commentators follow the Septuagint translation ὀχύρωμα, “fortress” (G. E. Wright 1965: 125–28; Boling 1975b: 181; Soggin 1981: 191), Nabatean inscriptions from Petra suggest a more nuanced reading. While this term is twice used to designate burial chambers within a rock-cut tomb, the third usage refers to a chamber dedicated to cult (Milik 1959: 555–62; Stager 1999: 243). Though Temple 7300 was not hewn in rock, its position between Wall A and Wall B did make it a cult “chamber.” This reconstruction leaves one temple complex for which one must account, namely, “the temple of their god” where the Shechemites assembled in v. 27. Its function and its place in the narrative sequence of Judges 9 offer insight into its identity. Above, I indicated that this assembly corresponded to the function and nature of the Israelite assembly at Shiloh and other similar collective gatherings throughout the ancient Near East. Involving a variety of groups that resided near the place of assembly and at a distance from it, it was meant to confirm the common identity of a diverse and dispersed population. According to my analysis in chap. 7, the Tananir complex served this very function. As such, it was particularly important 41. This reconstruction may help to explain the curious introduction of the lords/men of the tower of Shechem. Set in contrast to the lords of Shechem, who were connected to the Temple of Baʿal-berith, these lords’/men’s affiliation with the Temple of El-berith suggests that they represented a category of people who were associated with the administration of Abimelech’s authority at Shechem.

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during the MB IIC, when Temple 7300 and its associated royal ideology were introduced to the city. Again, the parallels with Judges 9 are striking. It was not until after Abimelech’s coronation that this temple is introduced to the narrative, replacing the place of corporate assembly at the oak of the palisade, which had been co-opted by the king. Any attempt to correlate textual representations of history with the archaeological record must do justice to both sources of data. In some cases, this may require the rejection of such correlations. My analysis of the details in Judges 9 and their relationship to the archaeological history of Tell Balâṭah may be a case in point. In other instances, however, such an approach has the potential to evoke new questions. The parallels between the sacred centers mentioned in Judges 9 and those of the MB IIC Tell Balâṭah raise the possibility that certain memories from that period, including a significant political transition at Shechem and its subsequent demise, are preserved in Judges 9. This would challenge conventional wisdom regarding the long-term preservation of history in literature. If scholarship is to maintain the dialogue between text and artifact, we need to foster new methods for comprehending what might contribute to this process. In this case, the role of place in the preservation of memories should be considered. As E. Casey points out, one cannot reduce the act of remembering to a “temporal phenomenon,” because remembering is embodied, and to be “embodied is ipso facto to assume a particular perspective and position; it is to have not just a point of view but a place in which we are situated.” In other words, it is “to occupy a portion of space from out of which we both undergo given experiences and remember them” (Casey 2000: 182). 42 In the words of P. Nora (1989: 9, 12), “Memory takes root in the concrete.” Consequently, “lieux de mémoire are fundamentally remains, the ultimate embodiments of a memorial consciousness.” D. Pi­ oske (2015: 3–4) therefore contends that the “value of place for the historian of antiquity resides in a location’s capacity to conserve and persist.” Indeed, “certain locations call to mind memories related to what once transpired within them.”  43 42. Casey goes on to explain that to be “disembodied is not only to be deprived of place, unplaced; it is to be denied the basic stance on which every experience and its memory depend. As embodied existence opens onto place, indeed takes place in place and nowhere else, so our memory of what we experience in place is likewise place-specific: it is bound to place as to its own basis.” 43. Even Finkelstein and Silberman (2001: 91) agree that “there is no reason why the conquest narrative of the book of Joshua cannot also include folk memories and legends.” With regard to the destruction of Hazor, Ben-Tor and Rubiato (1999: 38–39) ask a related question: “Was the vivid memory of the fierce conflagration transmitted orally, from one

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Casey also argues that one cannot reduce place to a “spatial site” or simple “distances between ‘positions’ which are established on its surface and which exist strictly in relations to one another,” as has been the tradition since the close of the 17th century, “when space, and place along with it, became geometrized.” Rather, place includes that which resides within it and “what we might remember about it” (Casey 2000: 185; see also p. 210). While sites are empty, places contain distinguishing characteristics and “points of attachment onto which” we “hang our memories” (Casey 2000: 186; see also pp. 189–90, 194–95, 197–98, 200, 205–6). While sites disperse, places maintain, allowing the memorial consciousness of a community to transcend time. Casey attributes the preservative power of place to two related features. The first is its “sustaining character.” Place “does more than make possible various pursuits and projects of ours,” writes Casey; “it sustains them by serving as their continuing durable ground” (2000: 189). Place provides perimeter and field where memory is contained. As “a keeper of memories,” place is “one of the main ways by which the past comes to be secured in the present” (Casey 2000: 213). The second feature is the “inherent emotionality” of place. “The power of . . . places to act on us, to inspire (or repel) us, and thus to be remembered vividly is a function of . . . emotionality—but only as it finds adequate expression in [its] features” (Casey 2000: 199; see also pp. 207–8). 44 Ultimately, Casey concludes that an event that “is contained in place is on its way to being well remembered. What is remembered is well grounded if it is remembered as being in a particular place—a place that may well take precedence over the time of its occurrence” (2000: 214–215). With regard to Shechem, one can envision memories revolving around the catastrophic destruction of a group’s primary urban center, and source of identity remaining embedded in its collective consciousness for generations if there were tangible reminders of this event in the form of monumental walls and towers that continued, to some degree, to lie in ruins and mark the landscape. These artifacts would have served as constant reminders of the event. They also may have served as souvenirs of the city’s appearance before its destruction and what was lost generation to the next, until it was recorded centuries later in the Book of Joshua?” BenTor (2013: 30–31) later concludes that “[s]uch an unusual fire is certainly something to be remembered for generations and could explain the reference to Hazor as the only site set on fire by the Israelites.” 44. Casey refers to this phenomenon as visibility. “Places possess us—in perception, as in memory—by their radiant visibility insinuating themselves into our lives, seizing and surrounding us, even taking us over as we sink into their presence” (Casey 2000: 200).

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as a result. They even may have aided the tradents of these memories in recalling the general contours of the affairs that led to the city’s demise, serving as catalysts for subsequent narrative traditions. 45 This is not to say that the details of the story as we now have them directly reflect the events as they occurred. Details are modified, and contemporary social and political concerns certainly inform successive versions. However, by the time these versions emerged at the end of the 7th century or later, the material vehicles for the original memories would no longer have been accessible to those who bore them. It seems highly unlikely, therefore, that the scribes who produced them could have manufactured such a historically compelling account. As for those traditions that were included in the Bible, many of the communities that bore them—including the Shechemites—stemmed from the southern Levant. Though they were not “originally” Israelites, their eventual identification with Israel would have involved the adoption and adaptation of their memories, traditions, and narratives into Israel’s corporate history and identity in a way that reflects the adoption and adaptation of the so-called Canaanite pantheon (see Bloch-Smith 2003: 404–5, 420–24).

Conclusion: Judges 9—A Canaanite or an Israelite Narrative? Soggin concludes his commentary of Judges 9 with the following assessment: “Thus ended a Canaanite city-state whose attitude to the invaders had been ambivalent if not downright amicable; it was finished, but would soon rise again as an Israelite city” (Soggin 1981: 194). The parallels that I have drawn between the polities and populations of the Bronze Age Levant, Judges 9, and other biblical texts that describe the character of early Israel raise the question of whether Judges 9 should be considered a Canaanite or an Israelite text. At the same time, they require consideration of exactly what is meant by the two terms “Israel” and “Canaan,” which the Bible and scholarship largely set in opposition to one another. As was mentioned above, Judges 9 is fully integrated within and recognized as an integral part of Israel’s early history. Though it relates to only a contingent of what later became part of the Israelite state, this feature is not unique. 45. In fact, it may even shed light on Boling’s claim that the three phases of battle depicted in Judg 9:34–49 represent at least two separate confrontations (Boling 1975b: 181; see also Moore 1895: 237–38). According to the archaeological data, Tell Balâṭah was itself assaulted twice, once in 1550 BCE and again in 1545 BCE. The data may even support the view that these attacks did not take place at the hands of the Egyptians but stemmed from internecine warfare.

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While the Gideon cycle makes reference to Manasseh, Asher, Zebulon, Naphtali, Abiezer, and Ephraim (Judg 6:11, 34–35; 7:23–24; 8:1), the ancient core of this complex is concerned only with Gideon and his force of 300 men. Similarly, Judges 10–12 records the history of the Gileadites under the leadership of Jephthah. The only occasion on which another traditional member of the larger Israelite collective plays a role is with the introduction of the Ephraimites in Judges 12. In this case, however, the Gileadites and Ephraimites do battle against one another. Thus, the core traditions in the book of Judges are not as much about Israel as they are about the individual polities and people groups that came to be identified with Israel. These observations raise two critical issues. The first concerns the problem of constructing the history of a political entity. At what point does an element of a larger polity, such as the Shechemites or the Gileadites, become identified with the polity itself, and how do the histories of those independent elements contribute to its larger history? To be sure, the nature and exploits of the individual colonies are regarded as part of the history of the United States even before they united to form a single political entity under that title. Similarly, the battle of the Alamo is regarded as an important piece of this history, even though it led to Texas becoming an independent nation, only later to join the United States. What is perhaps most important about these two examples is that they represent the identity of the United States, rather than its national history per se. In the same way, the stories of the individual polities in Judges are regarded as important pieces of Israel’s identity. Insofar as Israel did not become a centralized land until the introduction of the monarchy, Judges does not record its national history. Nevertheless, it provides important glimpses into the nature of premonarchic Israel. With all of the negative rhetoric against Canaan throughout the Bible, it is hard to believe that texts reflecting traditions that sharply conflicted with those of the Israelite collective would have been adopted as part of its identity. The second and perhaps more pressing issue is how we are to regard Israel during the so-called premonarchic period. In recent studies of early Israel, “ethnicity” has become the primary category for isolating the members of this group (see esp. Faust 2006; Killebrew 2005; Bloch-Smith 2003). As we saw in chap. 9 above, however, identifying ethnic markers on the basis of material culture is highly problematic. 46 This difficulty is exacerbated by the fact that ethnicity is “a very flexible category, one which 46. For example, while Killebrew (2005: 13) recognizes “close material-cultural connections” between the inhabitants of the central hill country and those of the Transjordan during the Iron I (2005: 165–66), she limits the constituents of “Israel” to the central hill country. See also Finkelstein 1988a: 65; 1996b: 198–212. According to Porter (2012: 80),

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contains a minimum of assumptions and can subsume a variety of sociocultural groupings,” among which “both major and minor difference in social and economic organization existed” (Kamp and Yoffee 1980: 88). It has become common, therefore, to dispute “the very existence of ethnic groups in the form of bounded, monolithic, territorially based entities” (S. Jones 2008: 327; see also A. Jones 2002; Maceachern 1998; Hall 1997; Thomas 1996). Taking this suspicion seriously, Fleming doubts the value of using “ethnicity” for identifying early Israel, indicating that “the entire discussion of ethnicity for the southern Levant before the 9th century is fraught with assumptions about identity that the evidence cannot sustain” (Fleming 2012: 254). 47 He therefore contends that the parameters of group identity can only be defined through written records (2012: 240–46). However, “in order to avoid circular reasoning about the Bible’s historical relevance, even the basic assignment of a name to any polity or people . . . depends on non-biblical writing” (2012: 241). The only extrabiblical reference to Israel before the period of the monarchy is inscribed on the late 13th-century Merenptah stele. This text is significant for several reasons. On the one hand, it locates Israel in the region before the spike in central hill country settlements that are identified with the appearance of Israel and before the large-scale arrival of the Sea People (see chap. 9 above). 48 On the other hand, it sheds light on the nature of [T]he question of the material manifestations of identity is a vexed one, as every archaeologist will acknowledge. . . . There is no one-to-one relationship between artifact and sociopolitical organization, or between artifact and identity, let alone artifact and culture; people can adopt a new material repertoire while remaining ideologically or politically the same, just as people may maintain their traditional material repertoire while profoundly altering the way they think and behave.

See also Whitelam 1994: 64. 47. Fleming goes on to suggest that there is “far too little evidence to conclude that an Israelite name bound all the other named groups under one ‘ethnic’ identity, or that some other category such as ‘Hebrew’ served such a purpose. Equally, it is unlikely that all these peoples understood themselves to be ‘Canaanite’ in the way that Egypt identified the peoples of the Levant who submitted to their rule (cf. Killebrew 2005: 32, 51). In the early Iron Age, the region was indeed inhabited by a ‘motley crew,’ but this was not simply the raw material for eventual Israelite ethnicity” (Fleming 2012: 254). For an extended and illuminating discussion of this problem, see the entirety of Fleming’s chap. 18. 48. According to Fleming (2012: 243), [O]ne important implication of the Egyptian text must be that there was an entity called Israel in the Iron Age I, between Merenptah and the ninth-century references. It would not have disappeared, only to reemerge centuries later under the same name, in the same general location, also as a polity. . . . The strongest confirmation that something called ‘Israel’ preceded the Iron II kingdom is the Merenptah stele, even though its application to the larger unity of regions or peoples could have arrived only with the emergence of the monarchy. The name ‘Israel’ itself, and

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Israel as it was perceived by the Egyptians. Set in parallel with Ashkelon, Gezer, and Yenoam, all four of these entities are implicitly defined by their capacity to engage in battle with the Egyptians. As such, “[T]he Merenptah stele treats all of them as polities, regardless of their particular social characters” (Fleming 2012: 407). To be sure, Israel is differentiated from its counterparts in this text. While the latter are classified as cities, Israel is identified as a “people” that was not defined by a single urban center. However, this distinction does not set Israel in opposition to the political landscape of the southern Levant during the LB. In addition to cities, the land also hosted urban-centered centralized lands and multipolity decentralized lands. Because the latter consisted of populations that derived from a variety of backgrounds, lifestyles, locations, and “ethnicities,” and because they retained their independence and unique political structures, they were not identified with a single urban center (see chap. 3 above). As a collective of similar style, premonarchic Israel is best understood as a political entity that was made up of a variety of populations who maintained their own variegated identities and local political structures rather than a fixed “ethnic” group. 49 While some of these populations appear to have resisted exclusionary forms of power on a local level, others, such as the Shechemites under the authority of Abimelech, the Gileadites under the authority of Jephthah, and the followers of Gideon, integrated this form of power into their political structures. In addition, while some of these constituents were associated with urban centers, others were not. In fact, several cities and cultic centers, including Kedesh (Judges 4), Succoth (Judges 8), Shechem (Judges 9), Shiloh (Judg 21:19; 1 Samuel), and Bethel (Judges 20–21), served as places of assembly where the constituents of Israel confirmed their common political identity and purpose. In spite of their immediate differences, they all, at one point or another, identified themselves as part the larger political collective referred to as “Israel.” This picture of Israel corresponds to Hasel’s contention that the determinative “distinguishing” Israel in the Merenptah stele “says nothing concerning whether this people is settled or seminomadic. Groups that had this designation included those who were sedentary and those who were not” (Hasel 2008: 53–54). its choice for that kingdom, did not originate with monarchy. It evoked a people without kings and a past not defined by kings, even if Israel was just one group that gave its name to a larger association.

49. Similarly, Fleming (2012: 20) prefers “to treat Israel as a social group . . . that acted politically, especially in the sense of a unified social body in conduct of war and peace under coherent leadership.” He therefore concludes that “early Israel is best pursued as a polity, not an ethnicity.”

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With this in mind, I find it increasingly unclear what is to be made of the claim that Judges 9 is a Canaanite rather than an Israelite text, particularly since the term “Canaan” is absent from it. While the land of Canaan could refer to a multipolity decentralized land in the Amarna letters (chap. 3 above), there is no evidence that the land of Shechem was a member of this land during the Amarna period (EA 289) or during the period represented in Judges 9. At the same time, from the Egyptian perspective, Canaan referred to the geographical region in the Levant that contained their imperial interests (see chap. 7 above; Grabbe 2007: 20–21). In answer to the question of why “toponyms in Canaan [are] introduced while none are detailed for Harru” in the final hymn of the Merenptah stele (Hoffmeier 1997: 28), Hasel points out that “Canaan and Hurru were synonymous terms denoting the geographical region of Palestine” (Hasel 2004: 79; see also Stolz 1988: 541; Singer 1994: 289). 50 In the words of Kitchen, Hurru was “a poetic synonym for Canaan” (Kitchen 1997: 74). 51 Reproducing the text with this nuance in mind is instructive: Canaan has been plundered into every sort of woe Asheklon has been overcome Gezer has been captured Yenoam is made nonexistent Israel is laid waste—its seed is not Hurru has become a widow because of Egypt

Read in this way, Israel is reckoned as a sociopolitical entity within Canaan// Hurru, along with Ashkelon, Gezer, and Yenoam (see Hasel 2004: 80–81; Kitchen 1997: 74; Ahlström and Edelman 1985). 52 These considerations ultimately indicate that the answer to our original question is extremely complicated. Insofar as Canaan refers to a political entity, Judges 9 should not be regarded as Canaanite. Because it is primarily concerned with events that occurred in the land of Shechem, it is a Shechemite text. Insofar as Canaan is used as a regional term, Shechem, like the Israel of the Merenptah stele, should be considered part of this 50. Contra Ahlström and Edelman 1985: 59–61; and Hjelm and Thompson 2002: 3–18; who argue that “Israel” is the highland counterpart to “Canaan.” 51. See also Rainey and Notley 2006: 99. Papyrus Anastasi IIIA, 8: 5–6, which makes mention of “Canaanite slaves from Hurru,” indicates that this relationship was not limited to poetic parallelism (P. Anastasi IV, 16: 4). 52. Stager himself claims that “the Egyptians regarded Israel as a different kind of polity from the other three, although all were apparently equal adversaries, if not part of an anti-Egyptian Canaanite coalition” (Stager 1998: 91).

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category. 53 With regard to the sociopolitical structure of Shechem depicted in Judges 9, it should be regarded as both Canaanite and Israelite. Finally, with regard to its place in the history of tradition, it should be regarded as Israelite. In the end, outside of instances in which these two designations are specifically set in opposition to one another, the categories of Canaanite and Israelite largely overlapped with one another. In chap. 12, I will highlight more generally texts that support the idea that premonarchic Israel was a political entity that closely reflected a multipolity decentralized land rather than an ethnic designation. I will then consider the problems associated with this structure and the methods of unity used to overcome them. In the conclusion that follows, I will demonstrate that this fundamental characteristic of early Israel continued to play a role even with the formation of the monarchy. 53. Such a distinction is even applied to Shiloh. In Judg 21:12, the “camp at Shiloh” is located “in the land of Canaan” (‫)המחנה שׁלה אשׁר בארץ כנען‬. Surely this does not make it “Canaanite” in the traditional sense of the word.

Chapter 12

Reflections of the Multipolity Decentralized Nature of Early Israel Introduction In chap. 3, I identified a form of political organization attested in the Amarna letters that scholarship has overlooked—namely, the multipolity decentralized land (mātu). One of the reasons for this disparity is that it is classified with the same determinative as centralized lands (KUR). Consequently, the distinction between these two entities is not immediately apparent. There are, however, several features that set it apart from its political analogues. As opposed to the city (URU) and the centralized land, a multipolity decentralized land was not governed by a ḫazannu, a king, or a corporate decision-making body from a single royal city or administrative center. Instead, it consisted of a variety of polities and people groups that retained their autonomy. This was largely because the local political structures and identities of these constituents were preserved rather than co-opted by and absorbed into the organs of a centralized government that tried to level these differences in order to reduce the influence of any traditional sources of power (see chap. 3 above). The capacity of these groups to choose for themselves whether or not they would participate in a common cause with their confederates is indicative of this independence. There are also examples of constituent groups disregarding the concerns of their allies and even taking action against them. 1 In the end, these dynamics make 1. Take, for example, the land of Gina. A large proportion of the members of this multipolity decentralized land agreed to unite with one another in an anti-Labʾayu coalition. They included uruMegiddo, uruTaḫnaka, uruŠunama, uruBurquna, and uruḪarabu. The equality among the leaders of these polities is underscored by the fact that Biridiya, the ḫazannu of Megiddo, refers to them as “my brothers” (EA 245: 2). In spite of their common goal, however, they ultimately failed to cooperate fully with one another. Though Biridiya had hoped to capture Labʾayu in order that he might stand trial before his Egyptian overlord (EA 245: 3–7), the other members of the coalition killed him before Biridiya could arrive on the scene (EA 245: 13–14). This dynamic is illustrated again in a separate complaint levied by Biridiya that he was the only ḫazannu within the land of Gina to provide the necessary labor to cultivate the fields around Šunama (EA 365).

366

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it difficult to define the parameters of individual multipolity decentralized lands. Nevertheless, they played an important role in the political landscape of the period. In order to minimize the risk of internal conflict within a decentralized land, specific strategies of leadership and unity were required. The model of leadership that ʿAbdi-Aširta employed in his attempt to organize and consolidate the land of Amurru is a fitting example (see chap. 5 above). In contrast to the roles of the kings of centralized lands, ʿAbdi-Aširta’s role never extended beyond that of a military leader, and he is never depicted as trying to disembed the sources of military, political, economic, and/ or symbolic power from their traditional spheres. Rather, he regularly affirmed the local identity, authority, and autonomy of the Amurrites (see esp. EA 73; 74; 75; 81)—though he did threaten and even resorted to violence if an affiliate refused his diplomatic overtures (EA 76: 17–20; 88: 4–8). At the same time, it is likely that oath-taking in the presence of a divine patron by the members of a decentralized land played a role in fostering their collective identity. This is implied in EA 74, where Rib-Addu reproduces ʿAbdi-Aširta’s request for the troops of Amurru to “assemble in the Temple of NIN.URTA” before their assault on Gubla (lines 30–32). 2 ARM XXVI 24 also depicts this type of assembly. There, the confederate chiefs of the binū yamina are said to have gathered at the Temple of Sîn at Ḫarran in order to take an oath in preparation for their joint military action against Dēr (van der Toorn 1996: 89; Fleming 2004: 200). 3 In all of these examples, the general concern is the affirmation of local autonomy within the larger framework of a loose, though unifying political identity. These characteristics correspond to the nature of premonarchic Israel as it is depicted in Judges and 1 Samuel. It, too, was a political coalition consisting of various populations and polities that preserved their individual identities and sociopolitical structures. Such an arrangement allowed them to retain their autonomy and ultimately to choose whether or not they would participate in the corporate actions of their fellow members. As with Amurru, this form of organization depended upon a specific type of military leadership and upon the formation of a common identity associated with the divine patron of the collective. Building on the preceding analysis, 2. Though this is the only example involving the members of a multipolity decentralized land, a similar exchange is reported in EA 149, where Zimredda the ḫazannu of Ṣidon, Aziru, and the Arwadites (LÚmeš uruar-wa-da; line 59) “exchanged oaths with one another” (iš-ta-ni ma-mi-ta i-na be-ri-šu-nu; line 60) and organized “their ships, their chariots, and their soldiers” in order to take Gubla. 3. Note also the references to a “confederation of the god Atarsamain” in the annals of Ashurbanipal (Campbell and G. E. Wright 1969: 115; ANET 297–301).

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I will explore in this chapter a number of texts that attribute these features to premonarchic Israel. In so doing, I hope to shed light on several aspects of early Israel that largely have gone unnoticed because they conflict with the ideological framework in which they are set in the Bible and with the modern reconstructions of early Israel that dominate the field. Ultimately, this will pave the way for a better understanding of the complexity of the Israelite coalition and the strategies used to unite its constituents both before and after the formation of the monarchy.

Israel’s Mixed Constituency: Tribal (Highlanders) versus Urban (Lowlanders) In addition to the proposed differences in their political structures, their primary places of residence constitute one of the markers to which scholars commonly point in their attempt to distinguish Canaanites from Israelites. While the former are generally identified with urban centers, the latter are perceived as having been primarily rural. 4 This distinction holds true whether early Israel is believed to have consisted of geographical outsiders or to have taken shape among populations indigenous to the region. The influence of this view is observed in the way scholars treat the enigmatic word pĕrāzôn in Judg 5:7 and 11. 5 Several contend that it is a collective term denoting “unwalled villages” and/or “their inhabitants.” 6 A comparison with the related, though “later” (M. S. Smith 2012: 204) words pĕrāzôt and pĕrāzî supports this reading. 7 While the former is associated 4. According to Ray (2008: 92), the Israelites appear as pastoralists with little need to become the new inhabitants of conquered towns. Therefore, in many cases, these sites were quickly reinhabited by the Canaanites. Judges presents a rather slow process of land possession. During this time, the Israelites remained pastoralists for the most part. . . . It seems that it was for the most part during the Iron Age IA that the Israelites appeared in the archaeological record in a tangible way, when they began to settle down.

See also A. Mazar 2007b: 92, 97–98; Mazani 2008: 103. This characteristic stems from a more basic distinction, which casts the Israelites as a tribally organized, egalitarian society and sets them in opposition to their hierarchically organized Canaanite counterparts. See chap. 9 above for a review of scholarship on this matter and chaps. 10–11 for my response. 5. Burney (1918: 129) proposed emending pĕrāzôn in v. 11 to zĕrôʿô, “his arm,” suggesting it is a description of Yahweh’s “might exhibited in the deliverance of His people.” Moore (1976: 144) has gone so far as to suggest that the word “must be given up, a step which, in the unintelligible and indubitably corrupt text there, we need not hesitate to take.” 6. Burney 1918: 115; Keil and Delitzsch 1950: 311; Moore 1976: 143; Robertson 1990: 230; Stager 1988: 225; M. S. Smith 2012: 204. Support for this reading may be found in the targumic and Syriac versions, which have emended pĕrāzôn to read pĕrāzôt, “villages” (Soggin 1981: 86). 7. Note also the masculine-plural variant pĕrôzîm in Esth 9:19.

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with a land (‫ )ארץ פרזות‬whose residents live in security without walls, bars, or gates (Ezek 38:11), 8 the latter are the denizens of these cities (‫;מערי הפרזי‬ Deut 3:5) 9 or villages (‫ ;כפר הפרזי‬1 Sam 6:18), 10 which are also set in opposition to fortified cities. 11 Others have suggested that pĕrāzôn in Judges 5 denotes “warriors” (Albright 1968: 49 n. 101; Boling 1975b: 109; Craigie 1972b: 350; Coogan 1978: 147; Hendel 1987: 164 n. 70). According to Craigie, “[T]he translation ‘the victories of Yahweh, the victories of his warriors in Israel’ ” for v. 11 “suits well the military atmosphere of the Song as a whole.” In support of his reading, he appeals to the Arabic word baraza, “which can have the verbal sense of ‘going into battle’,” the LXXb, which reads δυναστων, “mighty ones, rulers,” 12 and Hab 3:14, which uses the related term pĕrāzô in the context of war. Recognizing the nuance of the passage from Habakkuk, however, Keil and Delitzsch (1949: 110–11) find it best to blend the proposed meanings of pĕrāzôt, pĕrāzî, and pĕrāzô. They suggest that pĕrāzôn refers to “hordes, or 8. Also citing Zech 2:8, Keil and Delitzsch (1950: 311) define pĕrāzôt as “the open flat country, as distinguished from the towns surrounded by walls.” See also Esth 9:19. In both of these cases, however, any comparison with fortified cities is not as apparent. In Esther, the ‫ יהודים הפרוזים הישׁבים בערי הפרזות‬refer to those Jews in Persia who were not living in the capital Susa. While this does indicate that they were dependent cities, it says nothing about the nature of their fortification. In Zechariah, Jerusalem’s status as a pĕrāzôt is associated with the multitude of people and beasts dwelling in it. In the verse that follows, Yahweh declares that it will not be an unfortified city because he will be a wall of fire surrounding it. 9. So Weinfeld 1991: 179, “the cities of the open country dwellers”; Driver 1902: 48, “country-folk”; Keil and Delitzsch 1949: 300, “ ‘towns of the inhabitants of the flat country,’ i.e. unfortified upon hamlets and villages in Bashan.” 10. McCarter 1980: 128, “peasant villages”; Keil and Delitzsch 1950b: 67, “the village of the inhabitants.” 11. In support of this interpretation, Naʾaman (1991) compares the pĕrāzôn to the ālāni puruzi he sees in EA 137. There are, however, two difficulties with this reading. The first is that the Akkadian lexicon does not support it. Outside this proposed reading, “puruzu” is never attested. The second is that the word in question is immediately preceded by the singular determinative URU rather than the plural URU.MEŠ. It is more appropriate, therefore, to follow Moran’s (1992: 219, 220–21 n.13) rendering of the passage, identifying it as the proper name of a city rather than a reference to a category of cities: “When the cities became hostile, uruBurusilim became hostile” (i-nu-ma NA.KAR5-ra-at URUki.didli urubu-rusi-lim NA.KÚR.RU). 12. Craigie 1972b: 350 n. 4. Other Hebrew words rendered in this way include ‫גדול‬, ‫שׂר‬, ‫גבור‬, and ‫( חזק‬TDNT 2.286). This translation follows the targum, which reads ‫ניברי‬, “warriors, heroes,” and the Vulgate, which reads bellatorum eius, “his warriors” (Hendel 1987: 164 n. 70; Roberts 1991: 143–44). Albright (1968: 49 n. 101) also reads “warriors” on the basis of the Egyptian word prṯ in P. Anastasi I, 23: 4. However, several scholars have pointed out that this proposed cognate is suspect (see Stager 1988: 224; M. S. Smith 2014: 436).

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hostile companies” that stem from “the population settled upon the open country, the villagers and peasantry.” 13 Based on this evidence, I consider it best to accept the association between the pĕrāzôn, the inhabitants of unwalled villages, and some type of fighting force, rendering it as M. S. Smith (2013: 437) does, “village militia.” 14 With the number of LB (Gonen 1992b: 218–19; 1984: 64–65) and Iron I (A. Mazar 1992: 285–88) settlements and cities that were not fortified, it is difficult to imagine that none of the Israelites who took up arms in Judges 5 lived in them. Where this interpretation becomes problematic, however, is when it is used to support the idea that Judges 5 paints a picture of an Israelite coalition consisting solely of “rough-and-ready clansmen” or “tribal villagers from the central and northern highlands,” who “march down from the hills to confront the Canaanites in their fortified strongholds” situated in the plains (Stager 1988: 224). 15 This reading runs contrary to the nature of the “cities” and “village” of the pĕrāzî in 1 Samuel 6 and Deuteronomy 3. In these passages, they are identified with the Philistines and the Kingdom of Og. Accordingly, though some of the early Israelites inhabited unwalled cities, that does not necessarily imply that they were unaffiliated with urban-centered polities. C. Meyers and E. Meyers (1987: 154) envision a similar sociopolitical structure in the reference to pĕrāzôt in Zech 2:8. Appealing to Frick (1977: 93), they contend that “urban centers were surrounded by such agricultural settlements whose inhabitants contributed to the urban economy . . . that is, they were politically subsidiary but economically independent units relating to Jerusalem as capital city.” As Moore (1976: 143) sees it, the cessation (ḥdl) of the pĕrāzôn in Judg 5:7 implies that their inhabitants “deserted their villages for the protection of the walled towns” with which they were politically aligned. 16 13. P. O. Robertson (1990: 230) takes a similar approach: “The hoard-like character of the enemy in Habakkuk is represented by the term perāzāw.” See also Freedman 1975: 13; R. L. Smith 1984: 113; Andersen 2001: 338. 14. As M. S. Smith points out, “Stager and Albright each capture one side of the term: village warriors, operating in the form of militia, may be involved. . . . This feature best fits an Iron I context prior to the sorts of standing armies described for Israelite kings” (M. S. Smith 2014: 436–37). In the note that follows, Smith suggests that this “may explain how the collective noun loses its association with village militia in a passage such as Habakkuk 3:14” (Smith 2014: 437 n. 124). 15. Robertson (1990: 230) takes this reading a step further, suggesting that “the use of related terms points to the multitudes who lived in tents on open plains, in distinction from the more restricted number who lived in walled cities.” 16. According to Keil and Delitzsch (1950: 310–11, 315–16) and Burney (1918: 115), the inhabitants of these lowland villages took flight into the mountains when their villages “ceased.”

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These observations indicate that the alternative readings outlined above stem from the assumption that the constituents of early Israel were not associated with urban centers or the polities that were administered from them, an assumption that is apparently informed by the fact that the primary players in Judges 5 are defined tribally. In my discussion of the lifestyles of the binū yamina and the binū simʾal in chap. 3, however, I pointed out that this dichotomy is not indicative of tribally organized populations in the ancient Near East. 17 While binū yamina and the binū simʾal included mobile pastoralists, some of their number also lived in cities. Regardless of their place of residence, they were fully integrated into the urban-centered polity administered from Mari. 18 A second presupposition that informs the alternative readings is that the early Israelites should be identified with the inhabitants of the “unwalled” settlements that took root in the central hill country during the Iron I. There are several problems with this view as well. The first, and most obvious, is that Israel is attested in the written record before the appearance of these settlements (see chap. 9 above). The second is that it is likely that the inhabitants of Tell Balâṭah/Shechem, the most important city in the region, were identified with early Israel. In addition to the evidence from Judges 9 (see chaps. 10–11 above), the fact that Shechem is remembered to have played a critical role in the formative stages of the monarchy (1 Kings 12), only to drop out of the rest of the biblical witness entirely, increases the likelihood of this association. The Shechemites were not the only tribally defined population 19 whose constituents were identified with one or more cities. The Danites resided in the cities of Zorah and Eshtaol (Judg 18:2, 8, 11) and later built the city of Dan over the ruins of Laish (Judg 18:29). In preparation for their conflict with Israel, the Benjaminites left their towns, which probably included the fortified city of Jabesh-gilead (Judg 21:9–12; see also 1 Sam 11:1), and assembled in the fortified city of Gēbaʿ on the gibʿâ of Benjamin. To this list of urban centers that played a role in the narratives of early Israel should be added Thebez, which contained a fortified tower (Judg 9:51) and, according to 2 Sam 11:21, a wall (‫ ;)חומה‬Khirbet Qedish in Naphtali (Aharoni 1967: 204; Kochavi 1963: 165–72), which functioned as the place of assembly for Israel in Judg 4:10; Arumah, which served as Abimelech’s capital in 17. See also chaps. 6 and 11. 18. Note the similar structure attested in Judg 4:17, which states that there was “peace between King Jabin of Hazor and the house of Heber the Kenite” (‫כי שׁלום בין יבין מלך־חצור‬ ‫)ובין בית חבר הקיני‬. 19. See also Josh 17:2.

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Judges 9 and, according to R. D. Miller, was fortified (2005: 120); and Shiloh, which was also fortified (2005: 77). 20 There is evidence that Judges 5 also includes a “lowland” city in the list of populations that were expected to participate in the Israelite coalition. In v. 23, Meroz, which Kochavi locates approximately 13 km from Taa­nach in the Jezreel Valley (Kochavi 1965: 94; see also Naʾaman 1990: 425), 21 and its inhabitants are cursed for not “coming to Yahweh’s aid . . . among the warriors.” Meroz’s status as a city is indicated by the fact that it is referred to in the feminine (“curse bitterly her inhabitants,” ‫)ארו ארור ישׁביה‬, the gender of the Hebrew word for “city” (‫)עיר‬. 22 It is thereby distinguished from her tribal counterparts, which are referred to in the masculine. 23 Nevertheless, the speaker clearly imagined that its citizens would join these larger tribal divisions in their war against their common enemies. 24 A similar expectation is recorded in Judges 8. After crossing the Jordan in pursuit of the kings of Midian, Gideon approaches Succoth and Penuel in search of provisions for himself and his men. The distinctive way in which these sites are represented in the textual and archaeological record suggests that they embodied two very different entities in the region. Though both are referred to as “cities” (8:16–17), Succoth, which has been identified with Tell Deir ʿAlla, appears to have functioned primarily as “an undefended temple mound without sizable village occupation” (Boling 1975b: 155; see also Franken 1969: 4–8, 19–21). Its lack of fortification is reflected in the biblical record. As opposed to Penuel, which, like Shechem and Thebez, possessed a migdal, Succoth has no such architectural feature 287.

20. For a discussion of the nature of Shiloh, see chap. 11 above; see also A. Mazar 1992:

21. According to Naʾaman, Meroz “may have been destroyed at that time as a punishment for disloyalty, as Migdal Penuel was destroyed by Gideon in the time of the war against the Midianites, thus disappearing from the scene; and its location was not remembered by later generations” (Naʾaman 1990: 425–26). 22. Soggin 1981: 91. See also Boling 1975b: 118, who introduces Meroz as a town but also suggests it may have been a clan. 23. Contra J. L. Wright (2011: 517–18, 528), who counts Meroz as a tribe. 24. See Schloen 1993: 20 n. 4. Martin (1975: 74–75) suggests “that Meroz was probably a Canaanite settlement which had some kind of treaty relationship with one of the Israelite tribes involved in battle. At any rate, it was expected that Meroz would have helped the Israelites in some such way as cutting off the flight of Sisera’s forces or providing sustenance for the pursuers.” Both Alt (1940–41: 244–47) and Gottwald (1979: 512–13, 529, 573, 581) proposed a similar reconstruction. Again, if as a political entity Meroz was “expected” to participate with Israel, it would have been considered “Israelite,” even if on some level it was also considered Canaanite. Thus, Moore (1895: 161–62) recognizes Meroz as an “Israelite village.” However, he contends that it was “a mere hamlet which lay in line of Sisera’s flight.”

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associated with it. Thus, while Penuel 25 is depicted as a fortified city, Succoth resembles an isolated place of assembly or “rural rallying point” on par with the Amman Airport structure discussed in chap. 6 above (Boling 1975b: 155; Franken 1975a: 322). Several important nuances in Judges 8 hint at this distinction. They include Gideon’s motivation for interrogating the young man that he apprehended regarding the exact number of people at Succoth before he took action, the mixed constituency and number of leaders at Succoth, and the fact that Gideon’s aggression was limited to the people at Succoth while the architecture of Penuel also fell prey to his assault. In spite of these differences, Gideon anticipated that the populations assembled at Succoth and the inhabitants of the fortified city of Penuel would support his cause against the Midianite kings, confirming the view that they were both “very much within the Yahwist confederation” (Boling 1975b: 155). However, their failure to respond to Gideon’s request resulted in the type of aggression faced by the cities of Amurru that did not support ʿAbdi-Aširta. On the basis of this evidence, the aforementioned distinction between Canaanites and Israelites is unconvincing. While Israel surely included rural denizens of unwalled settlements like those established in the central hill country during the two centuries spanning the Iron I, urban-centered populations and those in the unfortified settlements affiliated with them were also members of this coalition. Recalling the proposed royalty of Abimelech, Gideon, and Jephthah (see chap. 10 above), Judges 5 even suggests that some of the constituents of the Israelite coalition were led by royal figures. In v. 10, riders on tawny asses are called to sing of the victories of Yahweh. In both the Bible and the literature of the wider ancient Near East, this distinction is often reserved for kings. 26 Even if this phrase simply refers to the wealthy members of the population as opposed to the poor who walk along the road (Moore 1895: 148; Burney 1918: 123; Gaster 1969: 418–19; Boling 1975b: 110), it hardly depicts a monolithic egalitarian rural society whose members did not have access to or deal in luxury goods (contra Faust 2006; A. Mazar 2007b: 92). 27 25. According to Boling (1975b: 155), its “location is probably at Tulul edh-Dhahab, on the bend in the Jabboq that nearly encircles it, not far from Succoth, known to be occupied and easily defensible early in the Iron Age.” 26. See especially A.3236.11; A.2988+A.3008.16; 2 Kgs 4:22–24; Zech 9:9. See also 1 Kgs 1:33, 38, 44; 2 Sam 18:9, where the term pirdâ is used, and Isa 21:7 for the term ḥamôr. 27. In fact, some have suggested that this “text connects the battle with the control of traffic through the plain of Jezreel, a control which was impossible to apply while the region was still in the hands of the city-states” (Soggin 1981: 97–98). Any concern over these trade routes would imply that at least some of the members of Israel were concerned with

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This form of mixed constituency should not come as a surprise. It directly corresponds to the nature of Amurru while it was a multipolity decentralized land during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta and a centralized land under the leadership of Aziru. In addition, it reflects the makeup of the binū yamina and the binū simʾal and their relationship to the Kingdom of Mari under the authority of Zimri-Lim (Fleming 2004: 46, 92). Throughout the ancient Near East, the situation “was not simply one of peasants in the countryside and elites in the cities.” Instead, “rural elites, traditional leaders of kin-group or rural gentry, had roles in urban-based politicalreligious ceremonies,” and “local assemblies were constituted by community members and traditional leaders, often those who still maintained ties to the countryside” (Yoffee 2005: 61; see also Schloen 2001). 28

The Mixed Identity of Early Israel and Its Variability and Conflict The independent origins, lifestyles, and local affiliations of those who participated in the Israelite collective were rooted in and supported by their unique identities. Yoffee describes this phenomenon and its implications in the following way: An examination of social power . . . shows that the lives and experiences of individuals were inscribed through their identities in gender, ethnicity, kinship, and beliefs. Social actors, however, could belong to more than one group, and so identities could be activated, negotiated, adopted, or rejected according to circumstances and structures. .  .  . [O]n the level of individuals there are many identities and social roles that cannot be neatly separated into either the community or the state, since people can be members of both. (Yoffee 2005: 36, 137; see also Porter 2000: 82–83)

We have already seen this dynamic in operation in the confrontation between Gideon and the people of Succoth and Penuel in Judges 8, in the interactions among those affiliated with Shechem in Judges 9, and in the conflict between the Gileadites and Ephraimites in Judges 12. In Judges 5, several of the named tribal divisions are identified with specific lifestyles such goods. In this regard, it should be noted that the pĕrāzôt referred to in Ezekiel and Zechariah are not characterized as being bereft of material goods. Rather, in Zechariah, Jerusalem is full of people and livestock, and in Ezekiel, the land of pĕrāzôt is a place from which large quantities of spoil can be taken. 28. As appealing as it may be, neither Judges 5 nor the other core traditions in the book promote the “contrast between the urban élite and the rural population” as Stager suggests (1988: 224).

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and economic activities, indicating that these also played a role in defining their identities. For example, Dan, who sojourned on ships, and Asher, who remained at the seashore and its inlets, are associated with maritime activities (5:17). Stager (1988: 221–34) has suggested that these activities and their economic implications played a leading role in their decision to refrain from participating with the rest of Israel on this occasion. Perhaps the most intriguing note regarding identity, however, is found in the description of Ephraim in Judg 5:14. There it is identified with Ama­ lek: “From Ephraim, their root is in Amalek” (‫)מני אפרים שׁרשׁם בעמלק‬. Though this connection finds support in Judg 12:15, which locates “the hill of the Amalekites” in Ephraim (see Schloen 1993: 27), some have rejected it. On the basis of the LXXA, they argue for the originality of ʿmq, “valley” (BDB 771; Burney 1918: 132–33; Moore 1976: 152; Soggin 1981: 88–89), suggesting that the lamed was a later, anti-Samaritan scribal addition meant to associate the Samaritans (here referred to as Ephraim) negatively with the Amalekites (Tournay 1964: 504–36; de Moor 1993: 484–86; Weitzman 1999: 454). 29 For de Moor, it is unlikely that a constituent of Amalek would have been included within the Israelite coalition since the Amalekites are cast as the enemies of Israel in several other texts in Judges, specifically, 3:13, 6:3, 7:12, and 10:12 (de Moor 1993: 486). 30 In response, M. S. Smith points out that inserting a lamed to create ʿmlq would read against the immediate context of Judges 5, where Ephraim is cast in a positive light (M. S. Smith 2001: 145). 31 Bearing this observation in mind, Smith suggests that one should attribute the later negative outlook “to some kernel of tradition that recalls the tensions between the Israelite highlanders and the southern caravaner groups.” Ephraim is depicted as a threat in Judges 8 and an enemy in Judges 12 (see Fleming 2012: 66–67). Nevertheless, such “a record of conflict does not undermine the evidence for positive relations” as well (M. S. Smith 2001: 275 n. 68; see also pp. 145–46). Rather, it demonstrates both the complex nature of relationships in the Israelite collective and the role that identity plays and the implications it holds for the formation and definition of any political entity. Israel consisted of a variety of independent 29. However, the LXXB and the Vulgate support the MT. 30. Note also the negative attitude toward Amalek in Exod 17:8–16 and Deut 25:27–28, both of which are later traditions. 31. See also Edelman 1986: 72. Another interesting example of identity at work is found in Gideon’s attempt to prevent direct confrontation with the Ephraimites in Judg 8:1–2. There, he defers to the might of Ephraim by comparing it to that of his own people. Rather than referring to himself as a Manassite, however, he identifies himself as an Abi­ ezerite, a clan within Manasseh.

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groups. Some probably overlapped with each other, and it appears that some overlapped with traditional enemies. As with the polities of the LB Levant (see esp. chap. 8 above), this state of affairs ultimately resulted in a high level of flux and even conflict among its constituents. Israel in Flux One of the most striking features of the political relationships that were forged among the polities of the LB Levant was that they were often very fickle. According to Redmount’s analysis of the period, “[A]lliances and allegiances, local and international, constantly shifted, as the military might of empires ebbed and flowed” (Redmount 1998: 80). This is illustrated in the sheer number of instances in which a ḫazannu reports that a city that had previously fallen under his authority aligned itself with 32 or deserted to 33 another political entity. According to ʿAbdi-Ḫeba’s account, the city Bit-dNIN.URTA, which had formerly been part of the centralized land of Jerusalem, “seceded to the city of the Qiltuites” (pa-ṭa-ra-at [a]šar LÚmeš uruqí-il-ti ki; EA 290: 17–18) in the face of the hostilities posed by Milkilu and Šuwardata. Similarly, in EA 197, Biryawaza reports that the city of Yanuamma defected from his domain at the bidding of Biridašwa, the ḫazannu of Aštartu (ù yi-⟨⟨MAŠ⟩⟩-na-mu-uš uruya-nu-am-ma UGUia; line 8). The relationship between Ṣidon and Tyre offers another case in point. In EA 114, these two polities act in cooperation by assembling their ships in Waḫliya in support of the blockade against Gubla (lines 11–13; see also EA 105: 83–87; 114: 55–59; 101). However, in EA 149, Abi-Milku of Tyre informs the Egyptian king that Zimredda of Ṣidon, Aziru, and the Arwadites (LÚmeš uruar-wa-da; line 59) “exchanged oaths with one another” (iš-ta-ni ma-mi-ta i-na be-ri-šu-nu; line 60) and prepared “their ships, their chariots, and their soldiers” in order to take his city. Here, a former ally became Abi-Milku’s enemy. This example illustrates the role of oath-taking, probably before a divine patron, in the formation of political alliances before engaging in joint political action. In spite of any penalties that would have fallen upon the individual or entity that broke such an oath, however, those involved appear to have taken the liberty of changing sides when it suited their interests. 32. See, e.g., EA 73: 26–29; 74: 19–21; 76: 34–37; 81: 12–13; 84: 11–13; 87: 19–20; 88: 29–34; 104: 51–54; 116: 37–38; 117: 94; 138: 93; 144: 24–30. For other instances in which a land or lands align themselves with another political entity, see EA 73: 32–33; 74: 34–36; 76: 34–37; 77: 28–29; 79: 19–20, 42–44; 84: 9–10; 85: 71–73. 33. See, e.g., EA 83: 28–29. For other instances in which a land or lands desert to another political entity, see EA 272: 14–17; 273: 11–14; 286: 35; 289: 44; 290: 12–13, 23–24.

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As a decentralized political entity, premonarchic Israel was not immune to such variability. In Judges 5, the list of entities associated with Israel is not limited to those who fought in common but also refers to those who were expected to participate but chose to remain aloof. Included in this latter category are the tribal divisions of Reuben, Gilead, Dan, and Asher (vv. 15–17), and the city of Meroz (v. 23). Meroz is particularly interesting in this context because it is cursed for not having responded to the call to arms, a consequence that parallels the following decree issued by Samsi-Addu: “The king is going on a campaign. All (men) down to the youngest are to be used (as soldiers). The administrator whose troops have not all been used, who exempts (even) a single man, shall be cursed.” 34 Though I will explore the implications of this notice in greater detail below, one may attribute the curse of Meroz to the fact that it had taken an oath of fidelity with the other constituents of Israel as a means of confirming its Israelite identity. In this instance, however, its more basic identity as an independent city appears to have prevailed. 35 Ultimately, Meroz’s decision to transfer its allegiance during a tense political situation calls to mind the decision of the citizens of Bit-dNIN.URTA. Another curious feature of Judges 5 is the fact that the entities affiliated with Israel deviate from the standard list of 12 tribes that dominates the later biblical tradition (Grabbe 2007: 106). Not only are the tribes of Judah and Manasseh absent, but a certain Machir, which may have been a smaller sociopolitical unit associated with Manasseh and related to Gilead, 36 is identified as having sent commanders (‫ ;מחקקים‬5:14). In spite of these deviations, Judges 5 represents the most complete list of those who were reckoned, at one point or another, as members of the Israelite collective. In Judges 4, Barak only summons Zebulon and Naphtali to Kadesh (4:10). In Judges 6 and 8, this register is expanded to include Manasseh and Asher as those who are remembered for having supported Gideon. Even in Judges 20, where Israel takes up arms against the Benjaminites, the specific participants are not listed. The text only refers to all of the Israelites from Dan to Beer-sheba and the land of Gilead (20:1). 34. ARM I 68. 35. It is difficult to know why Meroz is the only member who is cursed by Yahweh for not responding to the call. Perhaps it is because it is not remembered in the Bible’s later renditions of Israel’s early history (see Fleming 2012: 66; Naʾaman 1990: 425–26). 36. See, esp. 2 Sam 9:4, where Mephibosheth, the son of Jonathan, is said to have been living in “the house of Machir, the son of Ammiel” (‫)בית מכיר בן־עמיאל‬. See also Gen 50:25; Num 26:29; 27:1; 32:39–40; 36:1; Josh 13:31; 17:1, 3; 1 Chr 2:21, 23; 7:14–17; Burney 1918: 134; Rainey and Notley 2006: 151–52.

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These observations prompt a reconsideration of what exactly is being referred to by the name “Israel” during the premonarchic period. Does the absence of Judah in the core traditions of Judges suggest that it was a Canaanite polity during Israel’s formative stages? Does the failure of Reuben, Gilead, Dan, Asher, and Meroz to participate in the coalition in Judges 5 suggest that they transferred their allegiances during this confrontation and thereby temporarily disassociated themselves from Israel? 37 If one were to examine the book of Judges in isolation, what exactly would the parameters of early Israel be? The difficulties involved in answering these questions are exacerbated when we consider the frequency with which these elements engaged in conflict against one another. Israel in Conflict As we have already observed, the decision of those assembled at Succoth and those living in Penuel to refuse aid to Gideon resulted in their common demise at his hands. The question remains, however, why they declined to help him. According to v. 6, these two populations recognized that Gideon had already won the war against the Midianites for Israel, having taken away the “hand” (‫ )כף‬or power 38 of Zebah and Zalmunna. Their refusal, therefore, probably reveals the underlying motivation for Gideon’s final pursuit. It does not appear to have been on behalf of the Israelite coalition but for the purpose of executing vengeance against Zebah and Zalmunna for having killed his brothers (Judg 8:18–19). For Soggin, Gideon’s dispute with these Midianite kings had become a “blood vendetta” (Soggin 1981: 156; see also Boling 1975b: 157). 39 In this way, Gideon’s objective extended beyond the interests and concerns of the Israelite collective. As a “family feud,” it did not provide sufficient reason for the citizens of Penuel and those gathered at Succoth to offer their support. Thus, differences in identity led to an “internal” dispute. Similar tensions are reflected in the narrowly avoided conflict between the Ephraimites and the Abiezerites in the opening of Judges 8, in the war between the Ephraimites and the Gileadites in Judges 12, and in the dis37. The fact that Reuben, Gilead, Dan, and Asher were not subjected to a curse in the way that Meroz was raises a number questions. Were they exempt from this consequence because of their relative distance from the site of the battle? Or did the tone and nature of their excuses for not participating mitigate their culpability? Perhaps both of these factors allowed them to maintain their Israelite identity without directly taking part in this confrontation. 38. See also Judg 8:15; compare with Judg 6:13–14; 1 Sam 4:3; 2 Sam 14:16; 19:9; 22:1; 2 Kgs 16:7; 20:6; Isa 38:6; Jer 12:7; 15:21; Mic 4:10; Ps 71:4; 2 Chr 30:6; 32:11. 39. Contrast this reading with Martin (1975: 104), who suggests that the “chief men of Succoth do not expect Gideon to be victorious.”

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pute between the Danites and the house of Micah in Judges 18. Perhaps the most intriguing conflict to have occurred during Israel’s formative stages, however, was the war between the Israelites and the Benjaminites in Judges 20. In the preceding chapter, I examined some of the geographical details of this conflict, concluding that it was centered around the city of Gēbaʿ on the gibʿâ of Benjamin. Returning briefly to that discussion, I suggested that a cultic center served as the corporate meeting place for the assembly of the Benjaminites when they gathered from their various towns in Judg 20:14 (cf. v. 5). As with the assembly that occurred in EA 74 and ARM XXVI 24, this was a critical event. In addition to mustering as many able bodies as possible to confront the Israelite coalition, it hosted a corporate political decision-making body consisting of discrete sociopolitical units and their representatives that were identified with the larger category of Benjaminites. The idea that this assembly incorporated a mixed constituency finds support in 2 Sam 4:2–7. There, the Beerothites, a division of the Benjaminites, turned against Ishbaal, himself a Benjaminite, and killed him. 40 At the same time, the independent entities that identified themselves as Israelites assembled before Yahweh at Mizpah (Judg 20:1) and later at Bethel (20:18, 26). While the text continues to refer to them as “brothers” (20:13), the resulting opposition between these two discrete identity groups indicates that they represented two distinct political units that engaged in battle against one another. 41 Though the literary relationship between Judges 19 and 20 is unclear, it is interesting to note the change in language that occurs between them. While Judges 19 attributes the brutality committed against Levite’s concubine to the “men of the city” (‫ ;אנשׁי העיר‬19:22), in chap. 20, the Levite accuses “the lords of the hill” of rising up against him (‫ ;בעלי הגבעה‬20:5). By means of this slight shift in terminology, the crime is converted from a local incident into a “national” affair sanctioned by the collective leadership of the Benjaminites. This ultimately became the justification for the Israelite collective to confront its Benjaminite counterpart. 42 Though the 40. In this way, Benjamin also took the form of a multipolity decentralized land, though on a smaller scale than Israel. See also 2 Sam 20:1, where Sheba is identified as a Bichrite of the tribe of Benjamin. Compare this with the reference to Machir in Judges 5 and 2 Sam 9:5 and the place of the Abiezerites in Manasseh. 41. This is not only reflected in the battle that ensues but in the way in which the two units are distinguished in the events that precede it. According to Judg 20:11, “[A]ll the men of Israel assembled against” the Benjaminites “as one.” The absence of Benjamin did not affect Israel’s coherence or status as a distinct political unit. 42. Such a reading would explain why there is “utter disproportion between the crime and the punishment” that follows (Soggin 1981: 281; see also Bleek 1878: 201).

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Israelites originally tried to avoid war by proposing terms of peace, the Benjaminite collective rejected them, choosing instead to engage in armed conflict to resolve their differences. A comparable situation was presented to Abimelech in Judges 9. Because the corporate body of the Shechemites was gathered in a single location to celebrate its annual festival, Abimelech was afforded the opportunity to pose a similar option. Of course, the Shechemites chose to fight rather than submit, confirming Gaʿal as their new leader (cf. Judg 9:26, 39; Boling 1975b: 176–77, 185; Martin 1975: 124–25). As in Judges 20, this decision was countered with a fierce and devastating response. In fact, Abimelech’s assault did not culminate in the destruction of the city of Shechem and its cultic center. After destroying both, he turned his fury toward Thebez in an apparent attempt to root out all who identified themselves with the Shechemite polity that had recently been reconfigured under the leadership of Gaʿal. Similarly, after taking the gibʿâ, the Israelite coalition pursued the Benjaminites as far as Gidom (20:45), setting the cities that remained to them on fire (v. 48). 43 If the Benjaminites of the Bible were indeed related to the binū yamina known from the Mari archive, as Fleming contends (2012: 144–61), this may help explain why this conflict tradition was retained in Judges. In chap. 4 above, I discussed the close association between the word amurrû and mobile pastoralists. As Fleming has pointed out, the terms Amorite and Ḫana appear to have referred to the same entity in the two descriptions of the range of Zimri-Lim’s authority (see A.489 and ARM IV 76: 19–24; Fleming 2010: 7; see also 2004: 40–41). In support of this contention, I noted that A.2730 lists the land of Amurru as part of the geographical range of the binū yamina. In addition to verifying the idea that mobile pastoralists constituted an important part of Amurru’s population, 44 it indicates that the binū yamina were also affiliated with that land. Though the final stages of the LB land of Amurru remain “shrouded in the mist” (Singer 1991: 176), there is evidence that it was working in co­ operation with its northern counterpart, Ugarit, in the face of the threat posed by the approaching Sea People. In addition to sharing intelligence about their common enemy (RS 20.162: 8–11; 20–23), Šaušgamuwa (ca. 1235–?), one of the last kings of Amurru, 45 sent his ships to Ugarit in sup43. By analogy, one wonders if the events behind this narrative included the pursuit of Shechemite forces who called Thebez home. 44. This view is further supported by the role that the Sutû played in Aziru’s kingdom (EA 169: 25–30). 45. Though Singer originally listed Šaušgamuwa as Amurru’s last king, he has recently discovered evidence that a certain Muḫḫaza followed him on the throne in the late 13th century BCE (Singer 2010: 271–77).

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port of its navy (RS 20.162: 25–26). In spite of their cooperation, both appear to have fallen to the Sea People by the end of the 13th century. 46 As a mobile component of Amurru’s population, the binū yamina would have had the capacity to migrate elsewhere and thereby avoid some of the turmoil. This, in combination with their capacity to maintain sociopolitical ties across space, would have contributed significantly to their resilience over time. This appears to have been the very strategy articulated by the Sutû to the son of Aziru in the face of the threat posed by the kings of Nuḫašše in EA 169, and undertaken by the Danites in their search for a new territory in Judges 18. One suitable place for the binū yamina to migrate during this tumultuous period would have been the sparsely populated hill country south of Shechem, the geographical location of the biblical Benjaminites. As “outsiders” from the north who maintained their unique collective identity, the Benjaminites would have been distinguished from those components of Israel who were already embedded in the land. Consequently, they may have been perceived as a threat, at least temporarily. Though their relationship is remembered as having been inimical, these enemies eventually became allied members of Israel. In the end, the variability and conflict among the constituents of early Israel make it difficult to define this entity before the formation of the monarchy and to contrast it with another entity such as Canaan, which is equally difficult to define. As with the constituents of the multipolity decentralized lands of the LB, the polities and populations that were part of Israel maintained a high level of autonomy. The fact that the “cultural identities and political affiliations . . . were diffuse, ambivalent, and constantly interchangeable” made “full integration .  .  . difficult to achieve” (Marfoe 1979: 19). Most of the constituents of early Israel, not to mention the groups identified with those constituents “had choices available to them in their allegiances” (Mann 1986: 39) because “there continually existed progressively lower substrata of smaller local units, whose cohesiveness was founded on common economic, social, cultural, ethnic, ecologic, or kinship ties” (Marfoe 1979: 19–20). 47 As we have seen, those choices 46. In addition to the Sea People, the Assyrians also raided Amurru. However, according to Singer (1991: 174), Amurru probably “continued to exist after the Assyrian raids in Syria, and its end must be associated, like that of Ugarit, with the invasion of the Sea Peoples.” 47. Porter (2000: 82–83) observes a similar problem in tribal studies: I suggest that at least one of the misapprehensions in tribal studies is in endeavoring to isolate a social or cultural entity that is bounded in some way (see also Braun and Plog 1984: 505). By this I mean attributing quite literally an edge, some way to delineate one group from another, a point at which this tribe stops and the next one begins. . . . Only nation-states are bounded in the sense that anthropologists have searched for so assiduously (Giddens 1981: 160). Instead, Giddens’s use of tribal society, as a ‘loosely organized intersocietal system’ (1981: 162), points to a

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did not always result in the confirmation of a common Israelite identity. Rather, the concerns and demands of local identities at times superseded the demands of the larger collective. If ethnicity did play a role among the constituents of Israel, therefore, it appears to have been on a local level. Thus, the evidence again suggests that it is best to define Israel as a political entity closely resembling a multipolity decentralized land.

Strategies of Consolidation in Early Israel In spite of the drawbacks associated with a decentralized political structure, there were several benefits associated with it. Most importantly, it allowed for traditional sources of power to remain embedded in their local contexts, preventing them from being co-opted by a centralized administration. The question, therefore, is not simply how Israel was able to foster a single political identity out of a mixed constituency but how it did this in a way that allowed these constituents to preserve their autonomy. Two strategies in particular played a role in this process. They are (a) limited unity under the divine patronage of Yahweh, and (b) the limitations that were placed upon leadership. Limited Unity in Early Israel: The People of Yahweh Many of the models regarding the emergence of Israel outlined in chap. 9 are informed by the idea that Yahweh was the primary if not the only deity venerated by the Israelites. This unique feature of Israelite religion was yet another thing that set them apart from their Canaanite counterparts (see esp. Albright 1940: 214; 1942: 115–19; Noth 1960: 141–44; Mendenhall 1962: 84; Isserlin 1957: 135; Cross 1971: 12). Not only did the Canaanites recognize different gods, but they venerated a variety of them. While it is true that the Bible promotes this distinctive quality of Israelite religion, many agree that it was a later theological development that is reflected in such texts as the Deuteronomistic framework that surrounds the core narratives of Judges. Read independently, these traditions tell a different story. While Yahweh played an important role in defining the identity of Israel, its constituents maintained affiliations with other deities that circumscribed their identities on a local level. Understanding this dynamic will enable us to comprehend better the role of Yahweh in fostering unity among the disparate elements of Israel. more fruitful way to conceptualize and consequently investigate the subject. . . . The fact that no group is bounded by a single set of relationships, but consists rather of a series of relationships structured through kinship, descent, tradition and ritual (amongst other possibilities) that connect different elements together, may be regarded as a web of integrative structures that form a tribal system or network.”

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It will also provide a new avenue from which to approach the question of whether or not Yahweh was the original divine patron of the collective. Based on his reading of the name “Isra-El,” M. S. Smith (2002: 32) contends that it was ʾEl, not Yahweh, who originally filled this position (see also Cross 1973). Recently, however, Fleming (2012: 64–65) has called this conclusion into question through his reading of Judges 5, which both he and Smith regard as one of the oldest texts in the Bible. Fleming begins by pointing out that the name “Israel” is limited to the opening section of the composition (Judg 5:2–3, 5, 7, 8–9, 11), suggesting that these verses were later additions. He goes on to propose the idea that, if the entity “the people of Yahweh” in v. 13 introduces the “battle list” of vv. 14–18, which he and others agree constitutes one of the core passages of the song (Fleming 2012: 65 n. 15), “then a different name” for the collective “is offered in the earliest text, one defined by the god who leads the fight” (2012: 233). 48 He therefore concludes that “we cannot assume the peoples listed in Judg 5:14–18 were associated under the name ‘Israel’ ” (2012: 233). Rather, they were first and foremost the people of Yahweh (‫)עם יהוה‬. Ultimately, the evidence presented is not definitive. For one thing, El could be a general reference to any “god.” In addition, M. S. Smith (2009) contends that the references to “the people of Yahweh,” upon which Fleming’s interpretation is dependent, should be removed from the original text of Judges 5. Of course, if this were the case, there would be no way to identify the political coalition outside of its individual actors. At the same time, if one accepts Fleming’s reading, it is difficult to account for how the “people of Yahweh” were identified with “Israel” and when that identification occurred. 49 In the end, it is difficult to align “Israelite” identification with group veneration of Yahweh in definitively early biblical texts. Understanding that the evidence is limited, that the relationship between “the people of Yahweh” and “Israel” is unclear, and that we may never arrive at a firm solution, I propose an entirely different way of approaching the evidence that takes into account the social and political structure of Israel when we try to determine the identity of its divine patron. The evidence does indicate that El along with a number of other deities were venerated among the early Israelites, whoever they may have been. However, Yahweh’s status as an “outsider” and a second-tier god of war made 48. See also Exod 15:16 and Fleming 2012: 248. 49. According to Fleming (2012: 233), although “the name ‘Israel’ is known from Merenptah in the late thirteenth century, we do not know that this consisted of separate associated peoples as described in the Bible. It is possible that the name ‘Israel’ only became attached to a permanent political association at or near the time when this association was led by kings.”

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him the most suitable patron for a political entity that corresponded to a multipolity decentralized land. Identity in the Divine As in the modern world, individuals in the ancient world laid claim to a variety of nested identities. In the ancient Near East, these identities were often connected to an individual’s or a group’s affiliation with the divine and the dead (see van der Toorn 1996; Blanton 1998: 168; Feinman 1998: 106–7, 132; Yoffee 2005: 36; Porter 2012). Family religion represented the most basic form of this phenomenon (see Cross 1973: 3–12). For example, in Babylon and Ugarit, family religion revolved around two central features, the worship of personal gods and the veneration of ancestors. With regard to the former, “[T]he individual define[d] his identity in part by his personal god or gods.” It was through the worship of these gods that “families asserted the local dimension of their identity” (van der Toorn 1996: 66). The transmission of personal gods across generations and the implications it held for one’s identity are reflected in the Old Babylonian evidence in the transfer of seals from father to son, 50 the address formulae in personal letters, 51 and the continuation of a theophoric element in personal names through successive generations of a single family. 52 The importance of the veneration of one’s ancestors in delineating one’s identity is attested in the function of the Akkadian kispu festival. This regular gathering consisted of a sacrificial meal that was shared among the members of an immediate or extended family for the purpose of honoring the dead and thereby maintaining and affirming their common identity (Malamat 1989: 96–104; van der Toorn 1996: 48–65; Porter 2012: 272). In addition to the veneration of personal gods and ancestors, residence, profession, social standing, and larger sociopolitical affiliations also played a role in defining one’s identity and, therefore, one’s identification with the divine realm (van der Toorn 1996: 78–93; Schloen 2001). These variables ultimately resulted in a single individual patronizing multiple deities. For example, while Hammurabi, the king of Babylon, recognized Marduk, the divine patron of Babylon, as “his god,” he also venerated Sîn, the patron deity of his family (van der Toorn 1996: 86). Similarly, in a letter to his son, Yarim-Lim, the king of Aleppo, addresses him “in the name of Adad, the god of Aleppo, and in the name of the god of your father” (ARM X 156: 50. “The seals are statements of family identity rather than an individual identity; therefore, their transmission from father to son need not cause surprise. . . . [T]he seal of the father was a visible legitimation of the authority of his successor” (van der Toorn 1996: 72). 51. See esp. van der Toorn 1996: 70–73. 52. See esp. van der Toorn 1996: 79.

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10–11). What we see in the divine affiliations of both of these rulers “is an alliance of their native religious loyalties with the religious responsibilities and duties which their political office entails” (van der Toorn 1996: 89). 53 In other words, both the familial affiliations of these men and their sociopolitical affiliations demanded the recognition of distinct divine patrons. However, this dynamic did not pose a problem of piety for the individuals involved. 54 Personal Names in Israel A similar trend is exhibited in the diversity of identities among the members of early Israel and the ways in which these identities were associated with different divine figures. This is immediately apparent in the proper names of people and geographical locations that are remembered as having played a critical role in the early history of Israel. Names are a particularly important source for understanding the religious diversity of the early Israelites because they “have a life of their own. They are usually left unchanged, even when the narratives in which they occur have been submitted to substantial revision” (van der Toorn 1996: 237; see also Cross 1971: 4–5). 1 Samuel 10 offers an excellent example of the diversity of Israel’s religious heritage. After anointing Saul at the opening of the chapter, Samuel gives him instructions regarding his return home. Part of his journey will involve an encounter with three men, “going up unto the god(s) at Bethel (the house of El)” (‫ ;אנשׁים עלים אל־האלהים בית־אל‬v. 3). 55 The articles that these men are bearing when Saul meets them betray their cultic intentions: three kids, three loaves of bread, and a skin of wine (see also McCarter 1980: 181). Accordingly, they appear to have been on their way to offer sacrifices and pour libations to a manifestation of El at his “house.” 56 The local character of this event is underscored by the context in which it is set. It 53. According to Grabbe (2007: 159), in “the ancient Near East we can perhaps talk about three spheres of religion: the cult of the ruler, the national cult or cult of the national god (which might be the same as the ruler cult but not necessarily), and local or family ‘popular’ cults.” 54. Similarly, Lewy (1934) demonstrated that Amorite populations who were affiliated with Assyrian merchant colonies venerated Aššur, the patron deity of the Assyrians; Ilabrat, the “god of your fathers” (ʾil abīka); and Ištar, who is referred to as “the god of our fathers” (i-li a-ba-e-ni; see also Garelli 1958; de Vaux 1969). 55. Contrast with the more general term “House of God” (‫ )בית אלהים‬in Judg 17:5 (see van der Toorn 1996: 247). 56. Other toponyms that point to the popularity of El within Israel include Irpeel (Josh 18:27); Jabneel (Josh 19:33); Jezreel (Josh 19:18), Jiphtah-el (Josh 19:14), and Penuel (Judg 8:8); see van der Toorn 1996: 240, 257–258; see also Judg 17:5.

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occurs immediately after the communal sacrificial meal administered by Samuel in the sanctuary on the ramâ of Zuph (1 Samuel 9) and is followed by Saul’s rendezvous with a band of prophets coming down from the shrine of the “high place of the god(s)” (‫ )גבעת האלהים‬on the gibʿâ in/of Benjamin (1 Sam 10:5). In every case, it appears that local assemblies associated with the divine patrons with whom the immediate populations of these assemblies identified are in view (van der Toorn 1996: 214–18). Local devotion to El among the constituents of Israel is supported by the genealogy of Samuel recorded in 1 Samuel 1. There, Samuel shares the theophoric element El with his father, Elkanah, “El has created,” and his great-grandfather Elihu, “He is El” (v. 1). 57 The name Elkanah is particularly illuminating in this context. In the literature from Ugarit, this epithet is reserved for El. 58 This strongly suggests that the theophoric element shared by the members of Samuel’s family was not simply a generic reference to a “god” but a reference to the head of the so-called Canaanite pantheon. 59 The fact that the divine name El was maintained over multiple generations within Samuel’s family underscores his centrality within it and the role he played in the formation of the family’s identity. It appears, therefore, that at least some of the early Israelites identified themselves on a local level through their veneration of El (see M. S. Smith 2001: 139–42; 2002: 32–43). 60 The variety of toponyms that include a theophoric element other than El bears witness to the fact that he was not the only deity venerated on a local level among the Israelites. For example, individuals who identified themselves as Beth-Shemeshites (1 Sam 6:14, 18) and with the geographical entity of the same name (1 Sam 6:9, 12–13, 15, 19–20) 61 prob57. Pointing to several examples from Amorite personal names, Seow (1989: 22) argues that the name of Samuel’s grandfather, Yeroham, is a hypocoristic of yrḥmʾl, a name that also bears the divine element El. 58. See KTU 1.16 V; KAI 26 A III 18; Gen 14:19; Cross 1971: 15–16; Seow 1989: 19–21; M. S. Smith 2001: 135, 137. 59. Though he focuses on the patriarchal narratives, Cross arrives at the same conclusion, arguing that, “if we are to identify” such names as “ʾēl ʿôlām with the head of the Canaanite pantheon ʾEl, we must do so on the basis of evidence that ʿôlām is a characteristic appellation of ʾEl and that ʿôlām is not better applied to another deity” (Cross 1971: 50). He therefore concludes that “the epithets ʾēl ʿôlām, ʾēl qōnê ʾārṣ, ʾēl ʾēlohê yiśrāʾēl, and ʾēl [baʿl?] bērīt are epithets of El preserved in the Patriarchal tradition” (1971: 60; see also van der Toorn 1996: 238). 60. Other personal names that contain the theophoric element El include Othniel (Judg 1:13–14; 3:9–11); Eleazer (1 Sam 7:1), Abiel (1 Sam 9:1), and Eliab (1 Sam 16:6). Note also the Temple of El-berith in Judges 9. 61. See also Josh 15:10; 19:22, 38; 21:16; Judg 1:33; 1 Kgs 4:9; 2 Kgs 14:11, 13; Jer 43:14; 1 Chr 6:59; 2 Chr 25:21, 23; 28:18.

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ably demonstrated that identification through the veneration of the sungod Šamaš (Ugaritic Šapšu). Similarly, those who were associated with Beth-lehem may have patronized the god Laḫmu (van der Toorn 1996: 237). Finally, those affiliated with the city Baʿal-Tamar, which served as a rallying point for Israel during the military ruse it orchestrated against the Benjaminites (Judg 20:33), may have confirmed this affiliation through their recognition of a local manifestation of Baʿal (see B. Mazar 1986: 48; M. S. Smith 2002: 43–47, 65–79; van der Toorn 1996: 241; Zevit 2001: 648– 49). 62 Even when a theophoric element is absent from a place-name, the prominence of local shrines affiliated with a number of Israelite cities indicates that resident deities were patronized in those locations. This is especially evident in the “high place of the gods” (‫ )גבעת האלהים‬situated on the gibʿâ in/of Benjamin (see chap. 11 above). It is reasonable to conclude, therefore, that each “Israelite settlement of some size had a deity to protect it; the god in question was venerated by the local population in the—usually modest—local Bamah (sanctuary)” (van der Toorn 1996: 236; see also pp. 246–65). Other divine names are also attested in the personal names of the early Israelites. Perhaps the most (in)famous of these is Jerubbaal. As I indicated in chap. 10, this character, original to the core narrative of Judges 9, was later identified with Gideon for the purpose of integrating two originally independent narratives. The apparent embarrassment that arose on account of Gideon’s association with Baʿal compelled a later editor to construct a pro-Yahwistic etiological explanation of his “new name.” 63 However, the same type of revision did not occur with Shamgar ben-ʿAnath, another figure who is remembered for having delivered Israel from its enemies (Judg 3:31; 5:6). The attestation of the name Shamgar in the texts 62. See also Baʿal Gad (Josh 11:17; 12:7; 13:5), Baʿal Hazor (2 Sam 13:23), Baʿal Hermon (Deut 3:9; Judg 3:3), Beth Baʿal Maʾon (Josh 13:17; KAI 181: 30), Baʿal Perazim (2 Sam 5:20), and Baʿal Peor (Num 25:3, 5; Deut 4:3). To this list may be added Kiriath-jearim, which Seow (1989: 9) contends was also known by the name “(Mount) Baʿalah.” According to van der Toorn, the optional variant Beth-baal-meon for Baal-meon (Num 32:34; Josh 13:17; 1 Chr 5:8; KAI 181: 9) suggests that the Baʿal toponyms are short for bet-Baʿal names, which means that they imply the presence of a house (that is, once again, a temple) for a god referred to as Baʿal. . . . [T]he religious milieu from which many proto-Israelites sprang favours the understanding of Baʿal as a proper name. The Baal toponyms refer to a local manifestation of the storm god Baal. (van der Toorn 1996: 240)

Baʿal also played an important role among the Shechemites, as can be seen in the leading role of the Temple of Baʿal-berith and those associated with it (see chap. 10 above). 63. Two of Saul’s sons, Eshbaʿal (1 Chr 8:33; 9:39) and Meribbaʿal (1 Chr 8:34; 9:40), also bear names containing the element Baʿal.

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from Nuzi indicates that it was probably Hurrian in origin (Maisler 1934: 192–94; Feiler 1939: 219; Boling 1975b: 89), deriving from the solar-god Shimige, who is described as the family god of Akizzi, the ḫazannu of Qaṭna, in EA 55: 53–66 (see Hess 2003: 29; Guillaume 2004: 29; DDD 1462–64). While it has long been argued that the title “son of ʿAnath” identified him with the town Beth-ʿAnath in Galilee (Albright 1921: 55–62; Josh 19:38; Judg 1:33), an inscription from the Wadi Hammâmaât dated to the 3rd year of Ramesses IV offers a tantalizing alternative. Following Helck (1971: 487), we can alternatively say that this text refers to “the ʿprw of the troop of ʿAn[ath], eight hundred men” (see also Hess 2003: 27–29). This evidence in combination with arrowheads dated to the 12th century discovered west of Bethlehem at El-Ḥadr bearing the same cognomen (bn ʿnt; Milik and Cross 1954: 5–15; Cross 1980: 4, 6–7) 64 suggest that Shamgar may have been a Hurrian mercenary who was identified with Shimige on the basis of his heritage, as well as ʿAnath, a goddess characterized by her warlike qualities (see Craigie 1972a: 239–40; Hess 2004), because of his occupation as a professional soldier. 65 In spite of these affiliations, he is depicted as fighting on behalf of Israel. Because of this, he is recognized as an Israelite. 66 Here we may postulate three levels of identity associated with Shamgar ben-ʿAnath and, therefore, three levels of divine affiliation in operation. In sum, “[T]he onomastic evidence from early Israel suggests a pattern of religion which is both localist and family- or clan-oriented” (van der Toorn 1996: 241; see also p. 254). 67 The most prominent gods at the center of these religious practices were El and Baʿal (van der Toorn 1996: 238; M. S. Smith 2002: 30), though Šamaš and Laḫmu may also have been venerated. 68 In addition, the name of Shamgar ben-ʿAnath indicates that 64. This name also appears in a number of Ugaritic lists (PRU II 43: 12; 61: 6). Unfortunately, their context does not aid in determining the significance of these references (Craigie 1972a). See also the list of late Iron I–early Iron II arrowheads that bear the divine names bʿl (11×), mlk (2×), ʾl (2×), rm (2×), rpʾ (1×), šlm (1×), lbʾt (1×), and the element ywḫnn (1×), which has been interpreted as Yahwistic (Hess 2003: 38–40). 65. According to Cross (1980: 7), “In military families, names bearing—as an element—the epithet or proper name of the war goddess were no doubt deemed fitting if not phylactic.” 66. Soggin suggests that Judg 3:31 depicts “a Canaanite allied with Israel against the Philistines” (Soggin 1981: 59). 67. This conclusion is supported by the archaeological evidence, “which conveys the image of a religion practices at a local level by relatively small communities” (van der Toorn 1996: 242). 68. Smith also cautiously suggests that Asherah may have been worshiped as a major deity in Israel, citing Gen 49:25 and Judg 6:25–26 in support of this (M. S. Smith 2002: 30). See the analysis in de Moor 1990: 13–34. As van der Toorn points out, “When the places which bear names of these types are plotted on the map, they nearly all prove to be situated

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at least one of Israel’s early heroes is characterized as venerating Shimige and ʿAnath. What is striking in this context is the lack of toponyms that bear witness to the veneration of Yahweh and the relatively few instances in which Yahweh is found in the personal names among the Israelites in Judges and 1 Samuel. 69 Van der Toorn (1996: 241) takes this “as a reflection of the relative unimportance of the worship of Yahweh among the early Israelites.” While this may be true on the level of local religion, it seems to disregard the essential role that Yahweh played in defining and circumscribing the Israelite collective. Before addressing this issue, however, I will highlight two other pieces of evidence that indicate that the members of early Israel were defined on a number of levels by a variety of religious expressions. Veneration of the Dead and Images of the Gods in Early Israel When removed from the interpretive frameworks that represent later theo-ideological developments in the Bible, a host of textual details indicate that divine images and the veneration of the dead not only played a role in the religious practices of the early Israelites but were acceptable and even expected features of those practices. They are so integral to the texts in which they are set that they clearly depict a world with which their ancient audiences would have been familiar.  70 In many ways, any unfamiliar tone is introduced with the later condemnation of these features. The veneration of ancestors is reflected most evidently in the communal celebration of kispu-like festivals. A classic example comes from 1 Samuel 9. There, Samuel is depicted as returning to his hometown on the rāmâ of Zuph in order to preside over a communal meal with his people (‫)עם‬ or clan (Halpern 1981: 194–98; van der Toorn 1996: 254). Van der Toorn interprets this as a monthly kispu festival held in honor of a common ancestor (1996: 214–17), whom one might surmise was Zuph, the last individual named in Samuel’s genealogy (1 Sam 1:1), and the name of the land where the festival was apparently held (‫ ;בארץ צוף‬1 Sam 9:5). 71 In support in the hill country, which confirms their analysis as predominantly, or even specifically, Israelite names” (van der Toorn 1996: 239). 69. These names include Jonathan (Judg 18:30; 1 Sam), Joash (Judg 6:11, 29, 31; 7:14; 8:13, 29, 32), and Micah (Judg 17:1, 4). 70. According to van der Toorn, the later “declaration of innocence” regarding the feeding of the dead in Deut 26:14 “derives its sense from the practices it prohibits: feeding the dead with portions taken from the daily food of the living was a familiar custom to the audience of the Deuteronomists” (van der Toorn 1996: 209). 71. For Grabbe (2007: 160), a “cult of the dead was evidently a widespread phenomenon in ancient Israel, attested both from the text and archaeology (Bloch-Smith 1992;

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of this reading, one can point to both the ḥōdēš festival held at Saul’s table in 1 Samuel 20 and Jonathan’s excuse for David’s absence from it (Malamat 1968: 173 n. 29; 1989: 105; van der Toorn 1996: 211–14). 72 Ultimately, these local religious practices served “to reaffirm household solidarity and its multigenerational continuity” (Blanton 1998: 168). 73 The role that teraphim and ephods play in a number of biblical texts further betrays the presence of local cultic practices among the early Israelites. While there is debate surrounding the specific nature of these objects, it is generally agreed that they served important cultic functions. Teraphim appear to have been used as household idols (McCarter 1980: 326; van der Toorn 1996: 218–25) 74 that may have taken the form of “ancestor statuettes” (van der Toorn 1996: 250; see also Grabbe 2007: 160). Though ephods are often associated with priestly vestments, 75 they are also depicted as divine images. This is most clearly illustrated in the size of the ephod that Gideon forged in Judges 8. Weighing approximately 1,700 shekels, it probably was “an image of the god” that “became a snare to Gideon and his family” (Judg 8:27; Halpern 1978: 84–87; van der Toorn 1996: 250–53). 76 The significance of these objects is hinted at in the events behind the confrontation between the Danites and the house of Micah recorded in Judges 17–18. The narrative opens with the notice that Micah made an ephod (‫ )אפוד‬and teraphim (‫ )תרפים‬for the local shrine (‫ )בית אלהים‬connected with his household (Judg 17:5). During their quest for a new territory, the men of Dan encountered the house of Micah. While there, they asked the man whom Micah employed as a priest in his shrine (17:13) to “inquire of Grabbe 1995: 141–45). .  .  . How widespread this cult was in Palestine is debatable, but it certainly existed, even in Jerusalem.” 72. In 1 Sam 20:29, Jonathan informs his father that David requested to be excused from the festivities not only because his family was holding their own sacrifice in his home town but because his brother had commanded him to be there. 73. Note also Saul’s encounter with the recently deceased Samuel via the medium of Endor in 1 Samuel 28. When she sees Samuel “coming up from the earth,” she explicitly refers to him as a “god” (‫ ;אלהים ראיתי עלים מן־הארץ‬28:13). Though later tradition has condemned this unnamed woman for her willingness and ability to contact the dead, the immediate context of the passage suggests that the practice was widespread and generally accepted in Israel. 74. The same identification occurs in Genesis 31. After realizing that his teraphim had been stolen (v. 17) and his daughters had taken flight with Jacob, Laban set out after them. When he finally overtook them, he asked Jacob, “Why did you steal my gods?” (v. 30). See also Judg 18:24 and 1 Samuel 19. 75. See, e.g., Exod 25:7; 28; 29:5; 35:9, 27; 39; Lev 8:27; 1 Sam 2:18, 28; 1 Chr 15:27; note the connection with the Egyptian word jfd, “cloth” (CDME 17; The Eloquent Peasant 7.7). 76. Note also the parallel with teraphim in Hos 3:4. Boling, however, reads this as well as the ephod in Judges 17–18 as references to a priestly vestment (Boling 1975b: 256).

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the god(s)” regarding the success of their mission (‫ ;שׁאל־נא באלהים‬18:5). Having achieved their goal, because they were told they would succeed (18:6), they returned to Micah’s house and asked his priest to depart with them in order to serve as their own. He eventually accepted their attractive offer, bringing with him the image of the ephod, the teraphim, and the cast idol that were in Micah’s shrine (‫;את־פסל האפוד ואת־התרפים ואת־המסכה‬ 18:18–20). After learning of their loss, Micah and the men of his neighborhood pursued the Danites. After overtaking them, Micah specifically accused them of taking “my gods that I made” (‫ ;את־אלהי אשׁר־עׂשיתי‬18:24). This account is comparable to the plight of Akizzi, the ḫazannu of Qaṭna, recorded in EA 55, and that of Labʾayu described in EA 252. After reporting the theft of his image of Shimige by the king of Ḫatti to his Egyptian overlord and reminding him of the difficulties involved in the fabrication of divine images (lines 58–59), Akizzi requests a gift of gold in order that he might replace what was lost (lines 62–64). This exchange suggests that Micah was concerned with the financial hit that the theft of his images would have incurred (EA 55: 56–57), not to mention the way it would have affected his prestige as the bearer of these objects. While this motive probably played a role in Micah’s pursuit of the Danites, Akizzi’s identification of his lost image also sheds light on the function and significance of Micah’s images. According to Akizzi, Shimige was the god of his father (DINGIR a-bi-ia; lines 53, 56, 59, 63), implying that it was also his god on the basis of his heritage (van der Toorn 1996: 175–76). Labʾayu refers to this dynamic in even clearer terms (van der Toorn 1996: 176). In expressing his discontent over the king’s command to “guard the men who seized the city” (lines 6–7), Labʾayu reminds him that they not only seized his city but “my god” as well. He goes on to specify the impact of this crime on his local identity by calling his enemies “the despoilers of my father” (šu-ṣú-mì a-bi-ia; line 30). 77 Though Micah’s father is nowhere mentioned in Judges 17–18, the similar reference that he makes to “my gods that I made” (Judg 18:24) supports the contention that these images were associated with local cult practices and served as symbols of his family and/or clan identity (van der Toorn 1996: 251). 78 77. As Moran suggests, by “taking the statue or image of the family god, Labʾayu’s enemies had violated his family” (Moran 1992: 306). 78. The fact that he underwrote their expenses suggests that it “was a source of prestige among his fellow citizens” (van der Toorn 1996: 251). This is reflected in the prestige that is attributed to the makers of the original image of Shimige (EA 55: 53–55) and the prestige that would be conferred upon the current king if he fulfilled Akizzi’s request for gold (EA 55: 64–66). In any case, “[T]he presence of a full-fledged divine image and the services

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Regardless of the historicity of the details of these stories and references, their reception as authentic elements of Israel’s past reveals that family religion played a central role among the early Israelites. Consisting of both the veneration of the dead and the recognition of personal gods, it was vital to the formation and maintenance of their local identities. 79 As we saw in the proposed kispu festival administered by Samuel and the importance of Micah’s shrine and cultic artifacts, the “god was the patron of the leading family and, by extension, of the local clan and the settlement.” Thus, “[a]llegiance to the clan god was concomitant with membership in the clan” (van der Toorn 1996: 254–55). 80 What is striking about this feature of early Israelite religion is that Yahweh does not appear to have played a role in it (van der Toorn 1996: 255). Rather, the gods of the so-called Canaanite pantheon, such as El and Baʿal, along with venerated ancestors, stood at the center of these practices. At the very least, this evidence dismantles any view that the Israelites were distinct from Canaanites on the level of local religion. As Smith points out, “Israelite and Canaanite cultures shared a great deal in common, and religion was no exception” (M. S. Smith 2002: 31; 2004; see also Cross 1971; van der Toorn 1996: 244–46; Day 2000). 81 With this nuance in mind, we must consider the precise role that Yahweh played in unifying the polities and populations of the Israelite collective. The Role of Yahweh among the Constituents of Early Israel Above, I indicated that the relative rarity of toponyms and personal names bearing the theophoric element “Yahweh” led van der Toorn to conclude that the worship of Yahweh was “unimportant” among the early Israelites. He goes on to claim that the “settlers of the central hill country of a professional priest conferred regional importance upon the shrine” (van der Toorn 1996: 219). 79. For archaeological evidence in support of domestic cultic activity during this period and later, see Callaway 1985: 42; Yadin 1972: 132–34; Ben-Tor 1979; Yassine 1984; Loud 1948: 44–46; Shiloh 1979: 1949; Holladay 1987: 252–53; Ussishkin 1989; van der Toorn 1996: 245–46; Zevit 2001: 202–5, 241, 652–58. 80. The importance of this phenomenon can be seen in the priest’s decision to defect from Micah’s house in order to be a “priest to a tribe and clan in Israel” rather than simply “a priest to the house of one person” (Judg 18:19). 81. This phenomenon may help to explain Yahweh’s role in the Balaam oracles of Numbers 22–24. On a number of occasions, these oracles report that it was El who delivered Israel from Egypt (Num 23:22; 24:8). Yahweh plays only a secondary role, abiding with Israel as their god against the inhabitants of Canaan (23:21) and planting their dwellings like aloe in the land (24:6). At first glance, these oracles appear to conflict with the traditional notions of Israelite religion. If, however, on the basis of the inscriptions found at Deir ʿAlla, these texts are read as the autonomous production of a Transjordanian tribe who was also a member of the Israelite collective, such an evaluation may not be appropriate.

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lived in self-contained and largely self-sufficient communities; they did not look beyond the borders of their cluster of hamlets, their town or their village for their worship” (van der Toorn 1996: 254). While this was probably true on a local level where there is no direct evidence that the veneration of Yahweh occurred, the identification of Israel as “the people of Yahweh” in Judges 5 (see also Exodus 15; Num 11:29; 21:29; 1 Sam 2:24; 2 Sam 1:12; Jer 48:46) and the role that he played in the Israelite assemblies throughout the books of Judges and 1 Samuel does suggest that Yahweh was central to an individual’s identity as an Israelite. In this regard, an analogy should be sought with the way local religion signified an individual’s identity as a member of a particular family or clan. Just as “allegiance to the clan god was concomitant with membership in the clan,” allegiance to the collective god was concomitant with membership in the collective. In the case of Israel, membership was marked by a group’s allegiance to Yahweh. As a parallel example to the aforementioned decree issued by Samsi-Addu, failure to fulfill one’s duties as an Israelite could result in a divine curse similar to the one articulated against Meroz in Judges 5 and manifested in Israel’s assault on the Benjaminites. However, an individual’s identity as a constituent of Israel did not conflict with his or her identity as a member of a tribe, clan, or family or the divine symbolism associated with those affiliations. As was illustrated in the different divine commitments to which both Hammurabi and Yarim-Lim appealed, multiple sources of identity could coexist because they operated on distinct levels—some on a local level and the others on a wider political level. This reconstruction corresponds with Alt’s (1968: 74–75) suggestion that, though “Yahweh [was] the God of Israel . . . this [did] not mean, according to the concepts of the ancient world, that the tribes, in their narrower sphere, might not worship other gods” (1968: 74). In support of this conclusion, he points to the Pylaeic-Delphic amphictyony in ancient Greece (Alt 1968: 75): “They worshipped in common only Demeter at Anthela and the Delphic Apollo—and the carrying out of these cults was in fact the basis of the existence of the amphictyony; but there is no suggestion that on this account members of the confederation, i.e., individual tribes, were forbidden to practice their own tribal cults.” 82 Yahweh, therefore, served to bind a variety of disparate groups, who could be defined by their identification with a family, clan, tribe, urban center, profession, and/ or centralized land under the umbrella of a larger decentralized political 82. He goes on to state that, even “the Israelite tradition as it stands, which goes so far towards eliminating every trace of such a distinction, occasionally reveals something of how the national religion of Yahweh was practiced as one cult among many” (Alt 1968: 75).

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identity called Israel (Cross 1973: 72). 83 This ultimately explains why the worship of Yahweh was largely restricted to the collective.

The Nature of the Israelite Collective under Yahweh and the Limitations Placed on Leadership According to the core narratives in Judges and 1 Samuel, premonarchic Israel was a coalition of independent entities who united for the chief purpose of supporting one another against a common enemy (Finkelstein 1988a: 351; Cross 2000: 11–12; Fleming 2012: 233). Consequently, the heroes of the collective are remembered primarily for their military prowess, and the scope of their authority was generally limited to the militaristic sphere. 84 Other social spheres and local affairs fell outside the purview of the collective and its leadership. Though economics may have partially motivated the conflict recorded in Judges 5, there is no indication that economic regulation was a concern of the collective. As can be seen in the dispute between the house of Micah and the Danites, judicial matters were also left in the hands of individual communities. 85 Finally, the events recorded in Judges 9 indicate that internal political disputes were also matters of local concern. As is reflected in the refusal of those assembled at Succoth and the citizens of Penuel to aid Gideon in his pursuit of the Midianite kings, even “international” disputes ceased to be the concern of the collective once the threat to it had been eradicated. Ultimately, these limitations allowed for decision-making bodies and sources of authority 83. Such a role conforms to Mann’s conclusion that the problems that arise when multiple identities constitute a single political entity “can be overcome with the aid of transcendent, sacred authority, authority that cuts through and across the ‘secular’ reach of economic, military and, political power institutions” (Mann 1996: 22). 84. These leaders often emerged with the rise of a new threat, and a single threat could result in the emergence of multiple leaders, as was the case with the dual leadership of Deborah and Barak in Judges 4 and 5, and in the reference to the election of new leaders in Judg 5:8. Though this passage states that Israel “chose new gods” (‫)יבחר אלהים חדשׁים‬, Smith argues that reading this phrase as a notice of apostasy within Israel (Coogan 1978: 147; Cathcart 1977: 111–12; Gordon 2007: 4–5) or a later Deutronomistic addition (Görg 1993: 32) “does not fit the context of the verse, which concerns leadership” (M. S. Smith 2010: 95–96 n. 20). It is therefore best to follow Cross, who reads instead, “[T]hey chose new leaders,” on the basis of a “confusion of the familiar ‫אלים‬, ‫‘ אילם‬chiefs’ and ‫‘ אלים‬gods’ ” (Cross 1973: 122–23 n. 34; see also Exod 15:15; Ps 45:7; Job 41:17; Ezek 17:12; 32:21). 85. This series of events illustrates Flannery’s contention that the “state attempts to maintain a monopoly of force, and is characterized by true law; almost any crime may be considered a crime against the state, in which case punishment is meted out by the state according to codified procedures, rather than being the responsibility of the offended party or his kin, as in simpler societies” (Flannery 1973: 404).

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to remain intact on a local level, preventing any of the affiliate members of Israel from impinging upon them. Even within the militaristic sphere, the authority of the collective and its leaders was limited. Rather than having the capacity to conscript an armed force, they depended upon various means of mustering support. This often took the form of calling an assembly that included the leaders and/or elders of the various constituents and that met at one of a number of regional shrines 86 for the purpose of confirming their common Israelite identity before Yahweh in preparation for taking joint military action (Cross 2000: 12). 87 This directly corresponds to the steps taken by the local leaders (sugāgū) and elders of the Yaminite tribal confederacy during the reign of Zimri-Lim. As I indicated in chap. 4, this collective body as­sembled at the Temple of Sîn to take an oath before engaging in collective military action against the Simʾalite town of Dēr. It also reflects the intentions of the troops that ʿAbdi-Aširta was accused of assembling in the Temple of NIN.URTA (EA 74) and the methods by which ʿAbdi-Aširta mustered his supporters. Even during the early phases of his authority, Saul depended on messages sent throughout Israel to assemble troops rather than on a professional army that was directly identified with him (1 Sam 11:5–7). 88 This ultimately left the decision to participate in the hands of the leaders and/or collective decision-making bodies of the individual constituents. Influence over these local militias, therefore, remained embedded in these 86. According to the archaeological record, the main options for an Israelite place of assembly in the central hill country would have been Tell Balâṭah until its destruction at the end of the 12th century or beginning of the 10th, Shiloh (see Alt 1968: 75), and Tirzah (Tell el-Farʿah North), all of which were continuous with the LB. To be sure, other cult centers that betray features of collective gathering were introduced in the Iron I, such as the Bull Site situated between Dothan and Tirzah (A. Mazar 1982; 1988; Zwickel 1984; Zevit 2001: 176–80) and possibly the structure on Mt. Ebal (Zertal 1985b; 1986; 1987; 1988b; Kempinski 1986; Finkelstein 1998: 82–85; Soggin 1988; Zevit 2001: 196–201, 302–3). 87. In fact, in Judg 20:1–2, no mention of individual leadership is made. Rather, all Israel went forth and assembled (‫ )ותקהל העדה‬as one man, from Dan to Beer-Sheba, in the presence of Yahweh at Mizpah (‫ )אל־יהוה המצפה‬before their assault on Benjamin. 88. Though Saul is said to have been anointed king over Israel at this point, his role more closely reflects that of a military leader because he is found returning from his own fields in this passage. For Mann, this type of leadership is indicative of “rank societies” as opposed to “stratified societies.” Leaders of rank societies are characterized by the fact that “they did not embody clear coercive rights or the ability to expropriate. . . . Even chiefs produced or herded, combining manual and managerial economic functions. They had a particular difficulty in persuading or coercing others to work for them” (Mann 1986: 59). Note also that Saul is never referred to by the title “king” (‫ )מלך‬in this passage. See also Judg 6:35, where Gideon also sends messengers throughout Manasseh and to Asher, Zebulon, and Naphtali.

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traditional sources of authority. 89 In other words, the “power of war chiefs” in Israel was “limited in time and scope, precisely so that military authority would not become institutionalized” (Mann 1986: 56; see also Blanton 1998: 151). 90 A similar concern may be reflected in the locations where the Israelites assembled before taking collective political action. As opposed to meeting at a single, centralized shrine, these assemblies are depicted as having met in a variety of places, including Kedesh (Judg 4:9–10), Mizpah (Judges 11; 20:1, 5, 8; 21:1, 5, 8; 1 Samuel 7; 10:17), Bethel (Judges 20, 21), and Shiloh (Judg 21:19; 1 Samuel). 91 By decentralizing the veneration of Yahweh, Israel significantly reduced the risk of the officiates at these locations of institutionalizing their authority and monopolizing access to the divine patron of the collective. Such a “decentralization of ritual emphasizes the commonality of all of society’s constituent elements and the mutual interdependence of various social sectors in the reproduction of nature and society” (Blanton 1998: 160). 92 In fact, a number of these cultic sites may have functioned as centers of worship for other deities who were venerated by the local 89. To be sure, there were severe penalties for those who were reckoned part of Israel if they failed to respond. However, those penalties were directly associated with the members’ identification with Yahweh and the curse formula that probably accompanied it. Thus, it was the messenger of Yahweh who proclaimed a curse upon Meroz for its failure to aid the people of Yahweh (Judg 5:3). In addition, it was the fear of Yahweh that compelled all of Israel to respond positively to Saul’s summons (1 Sam 11:7; see also Judg 21:8–10). This ultimately confirmed Yahweh’s place at the head of the coalition. 90. In connection with this, the Israelite army is never identified with a single individual. Rather, it is referred to as “the people/army of Yahweh” (‫ ;עם־יהוה‬Judg 5:11, 13) or “the people/army of god” (‫ ;עם האלהים‬Judg 20:2). Compare with the ‫ עם־כמושׁ‬in Num 21:29 and Jer 48:46. This should be contrasted with such instances as 2 Sam 15:16–18 where “the king and all of his house” engage in battle. 91. Finkelstein (1988a: 351) arrives at a similar conclusion: As the Israelites became stronger and consolidated into tribal units, they also established interregional institutions, the most important being cultic centers such as Shiloh. The need to join forces in the face of common adversaries—especially to facilitate expansion into additional areas and to defend against other expanding entities, mainly the Philistines—gradually created a sense of national, religious and ethnic awareness among the Israelite population.

92. Blanton goes on to distinguish himself from such scholars as “Rappaport (1971), Bloch (1974; 1977), and the Marxists” by emphasizing the fact that he does not make the assumption that ritual is always a primitive form of government that serves only the interests of exclusionary political strategy. Where corporate political strategies are found in archaic states, ritual may serve in part to sanctify and culturally reinforce, through numinous experience, the propositions of the egalitarian cognitive code. .  .  . [T]he social analyst should make no a priori assumptions about the role of ritual or religion in politics and should remain aware of its possible role in corporate political economy. . . . Ritual also may serve to reinforce their roles in society as functional parts of an integrated social system. (Blanton 1998: 164; see also Bell 1992; Fleming 2004: 227)

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populations, only later to serve as sites where the Israelite could assemble as well. As I indicated above, it is likely that Bethel was originally a local shrine devoted to El that later became an Israelite center due to its prominence in the region. The same may be said for Shiloh (see esp. Judg 18:31), 93 a site whose archaeological record is continuous with the Bronze Age. This would certainly fit the profile of Yahweh as a god of “foreign” origins, who was later introduced to the region as the patron of Israel, a topic to which I shall return below. Though Shiloh appears to have played a leading role among the Israelite shrines during the tenure of Samuel, certain hints regarding the layout of the sanctuary in 1  Samuel 1 support Israel’s corporate cognitive code (Blanton 1998: 160). Rather than betraying a sequence of rooms hierarchically arranged along a central axis like the Solomonic temple, it appears to have consisted of a single room to which all members of the collective, including women, had access. This would explain Hannah’s capacity to present herself before Yahweh and Eli’s ability to see her praying, even though he was seated at the doorpost of the temple (1 Sam 1:9). Again, when evaluating the “historicity” of this evidence, we must remember that these details, which would have sounded strange to those familiar with the temple in Jerusalem, would have made sense to an audience of a different period and context. In the end, this “religiously centered” collective “provided people who lived in similar conditions over a broad region with a sense of collective normative identity and an ability to cooperate that was not intense in its power of mobilization” (Mann 1986: 21). In other words, “Corporate regulation inhibit[ed] the potential for exclusionary control of objective and symbolic sources of power” (Blanton 1998: 156). Yahweh was an excellent candidate to serve as the divine patron of Israel, since it was a loosely organized collective. Above, I indicated that Yahweh may have originated from a region outside Palestine. In the topographical list of Amenhotep III, six names are mentioned in connection with the phrase tꜢ šꜢsw, “the land of the Shasu” (see chap. 1 above). Four of these names firmly locate the Shasu in the regions of Moab and Edom. 94 They “include Seʿir (Edom), Laban (probably Libona, south of Amman), Samʾath (cf. the Shimʾethites, a clan of the Kenites: 1 Chron. 2:55), and Wrbr (probably the Wady Hasa)” (Redford 1992: 272). A fifth includes the 93. According to Seow, the cult of Shiloh betrays characteristics and language reflective of the worship of El (Seow 1989: 11–54). In his estimation, the annual pilgrimage that Elkanah made with his family to Shiloh “was not strictly a national pilgrimage but an annual sacrifice of the clan or family” (1989: 23). 94. See also P. Anastasi VI, 54–56, which refers to the “clans of the Shasu of Edom”; P. Harris I, 76: 9.

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name yhwꜢ (tꜢ šꜢsw yhwꜢ ), which has been read as a reference to Yahweh. 95 If this reading is correct, which Redford believes “it undoubtedly is,” it provides “a most precious indication of the whereabouts during the late fifteenth century of an enclave revering this god” (Redford 1992: 273). This early location of Yahweh finds support in a number of the oldest traditions preserved in the Bible, which indicate that he originated in the southern sites of Seʿir, Teman, Sinai, and Edom (Deut 33:2; Judg 5:4–5; Ps 68:9, 18; Hab 3:3). 96 In fact, the early 8th-century inscriptions from Kuntillet ʿAjrud, which refer to “Yahweh of Teman” (yhwh tmn/tymn), bear independent witness to this tradition. 97 In addition to his “foreign” origins, early depictions of Yahweh primarily characterize him as a god of war (see esp. Mettinger 1990: 410; DDD 916–17; M. S. Smith 2001: 146). 98 The most explicit and perhaps surprising articulation of this is found in Exod 15:3, where Yahweh is referred to as “a man of war” (‫)יהוה אישׁ מלחמה יהוה שׁמו‬. In this way, he corresponded to the “second-tier” deities of the divine pantheons of the surrounding religious traditions (Smith 2001). Smith therefore concludes that Yahweh originally “was not the presider god, but one of his sons” (Smith 2001: 49; see also pp. 67–68). All of these characteristics suited the requirements of a decentralized political collective such as Israel quite well. As a second-tier god of war of foreign origins, he could have been introduced to the local pantheon(s) 99 and places of worship without impinging upon or posing a threat to the 95. Another text, dating to the reign of Ramesses II, also makes mention of the tꜢ šꜢsw yhwꜢ in the context of a reference to Seir (see Fairman 1939: 141). 96. See Cross 1973: 101–5; Axelsson 1987: 56–65; Knauf 1988: 43–63; van der Toorn 1996: 281–86; Blum 1998; M. S. Smith 2001: 140; 2002: 82; 2012: 5–11. 97. See Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 210–28; Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 285–86, 293–96. 98. Beyond the clearest example found in Judges 5, there are a number of phrases within Judges and 1 Samuel that illustrate this characterization. Examples include: “Yahweh gave (the enemy) into their hands” (Judg 1:2, 4; 3:28; 4:7, 9, 14; 6:1; 7:2, 7, 9, 14; 8:3, 6; 11:9, 21, 32; 12:3; 20:28; 1 Sam 14:10, 12); “the Spirit of Yahweh descended upon PN and he became chief and he led the people to war” (Judg 3:10; 6:34; 11:29; 13:25; 14:6, 19; 15:14; 1 Sam 16:13); “Yahweh is marching before you” (Judg 4:14; 5:23); “on that day Yahweh humbled (the enemy) before Israel,” (Judg 4:23); “Yahweh routed the Benjaminites before Israel” (Judg 20:35). See also Oded 1992: 15; Dobbs-Allsopp 1993: 61. 99. Baʿal of the Ugaritic pantheon, who is referred to as “the son of Dagan,” may have had a similar background (bn.dgn; KTU 1.2 II 18–19, 35, 37; 1.5 VI 23–24; 1.6 I 6, 52; 1.10 III 12, 14; 1.12 I 39). According to Smith, what “is clear from the Ugaritic texts and later sources is that Baal Haddu stands outside the immediate family of El” (M. S. Smith 2001: 64). The second detail that supports the view that Baʿal was originally an “outsider” is the fact that he usurps Athtar’s position as the original divine warrior and provider of water within the divine family at Ugarit (M. S. Smith 1994: 316). This takes place after Baʿal becomes king

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roles and authority of the local gods with whom the various members of the coalition identified. By extension, then, the roles and authority of those members would have remained embedded in their local contexts. As a second-tier god of war, Yahweh influenced only matters having to do with the Israelites’ participation in armed conflicts as the “people of Yahweh.” Many other important divine characteristics were not attributed to him. For example, the earliest memories of Yahweh do not depict him as administering justice or engaging in direct acts of creation. 100 These characteristics were usually reserved for deities belonging to the first tier of the pantheon, such as El. It is likely, therefore, that these attributes continued to be associated with the deities that the constituents of Israel venerated locally. As a result, the authority to intercede in these “local” affairs remained embedded in local contexts. This evaluation corresponds to Blanton’s contention that “the potential for monopoly control of supernatural forces . . . can be limited by extending important ritual practices to households of all social statuses” (Blanton 1988: 160). By patronizing a deity that had not been co-opted by a single individual or governing body, each of Israel’s affiliates preserved its independence and autonomy. In this way, the purpose of the Israelite collective was directly reflected in the nature of Yahweh, and the nature of leadership in the collective corresponded to Yahweh’s role over it.

Conclusion: Reflections on the Multipolity Decentralized mātu Israel These features of early Israel and its relationship to Yahweh again call to mind the methods used by ʿAbdi-Aširta to consolidate the power of Amurru while still allowing it to retain its status as a multipolity decentralized land. As with the leaders of early Israel, ʿAbdi-Aširta never extended his authority beyond the militaristic sphere. In both cases, the limitations placed on this type of authority did not pose a threat to the traditional sources of power, authority, or identity of the members of the coalition. over the pantheon after defeating Yamm, who had legitimately held that position previously (see Benz 2013). 100. The only instance in which the capacity to judge is attributed to Yahweh in Judges is found in the second extended message of Jephthah to the Ammonite king. In Judg 11:27, he concludes this letter with the following announcement: “May Yahweh judge today between the Israelites and the Ammonites” (‫)ישׁפט יהוה השׁפט היום בין בני ישׂראל ובין בני עמון‬. However, most scholars have judged this passage to be a Deuteronomistic addition (see, e.g., Soggin 1981: 211). Yahweh’s intervention in the plight of Hannah in 1 Samuel 1–2 may be read as an example of Yahweh’s engaging in acts of creation paralleling those of El in the Kirta epic. However, a better parallel is found in the mediation of Baʿal in Danil’s request for a child in the tale of Aqhat.

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As was observed in chap. 5, ʿAbdi-Aširta is neither accused of creating a centralized polity under his authority as its ḫazannu or king, nor does he betray signs of intending to do so. Instead, he encourages the Amurrites to drive the ḫazannūti from the land in order that they might align themselves with the ʿapirū. The ultimate goal of this plan closely corresponds to what the Bible represents as the goal of the Israelite collective—to create peace for their sons and daughters (EA 74: 31–34, 63–64). These intentions are underscored by the fact that neither the constituents of Amurru nor those of Israel were conscripted into a professional army directly identified with a single leader. Rather, their participation was requested via message. To be sure, on occasion, ʿAbdi-Aširta did lead his collective against those who resisted his requests. I want to emphasize, however, that these requests were probably based on collective decisions. The idea that ʿAbdi-Aširta was not the only voice in this process is reflected in the textual record. According to my analysis in chap. 5, it appears that the members of the Ammurite coalition ultimately turned against him. This is the very type of variability and internal dispute that characterized Israel, even during the monarchy. ʿAbdi-Aširta and the leaders of Israel as they are represented in the Bible also appear to have appealed to a very similar ideological foundation in support of their shared political identity and agenda. As I have pointed out throughout this book, in EA 74 ʿAbdi-Aširta instructs the militia of Amurru to assemble at the sanctuary of NIN.URTA before taking military action against Gubla (lines 31–32). As with Yahweh, there is evidence to suggest that NIN.URTA was a second-tier god of war. In this capacity, he would have been a suitable patron to lead the Amurrite coalition into battle without impinging upon the local interests of its members. Because of these strategies of limited leadership, Amurru was able to maintain its status as a multipolity decentralized land. Similarly, by employing many of the same tactics of unity and limited leadership, the various polities and populations of early Israel—which represented a variety of sociopolitical types and identities whose relationships with one another were varied and at times belligerent—were able to maintain a political organization that very much resembled a multipolity decentralized land. However, like Amurru, Israel eventually succumbed to the benefits and pressures of centralization. As I shall demonstrate in the conclusion that follows, in spite of this significant transition, the constituents of the Israelite monarchy held fast to the values of decentralization, in spite of their inherent drawbacks.

Conclusion

From Decentralization to Centralization and Back: Israel’s Return to Its Roots Introduction Attempts to understand the origins and nature of early Israel have resulted in an ongoing debate that has produced a range of models. Though these models approach and interpret the data in a variety of ways, they all arrive at the same basic conclusion. Israel is thought to have consisted primarily of a group of outsiders. In general, this judgment stems from several presuppositions that inform the commonly accepted reconstructions of the social and political landscape of the LB Levant. The most prominent of these is the view that power is a resource in itself that was administered by a small cadre of the political elite over and against a large population of “peasants”; the belief that polities largely develop according to a linear evolutionary or neoevolutionary trajectory; and the idea that the relationship between urban-centered populations and nonsedentary pastoralists was limited to the economic sphere and was tenuous at best. These presuppositions have resulted in several critical dichotomies that are thought to have characterized the southern Levant before and after Israel’s arrival on the scene. They include sedentary versus nonsedentary, state versus tribe, and hierarchical versus egalitarian. Ultimately, these opposing pairs correspond to the later biblical distinction made between the Canaanites and the Israelites, a distinction that scholars have relied upon, both implicitly and explicitly, to confirm their own competing models. In chap. 9, I organized and evaluated these models according to three distinct phases of scholarship in order to highlight the different versions of Israel’s “outsider status” that each one promotes. According to the third phase, a majority of early Israel consisted of tribally organized, nonsedentary pastoralists who began settling in the central hill country after the decline of Canaanite urban centers. Because of the differences associated with their respective lifestyles, these proto-Israelites were not integrated 401

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into the Canaanite political system. They are therefore regarded as having been political outsiders. The second phase of scholarship also associates early Israel with the settlement surge in the central hill country during the Iron I. The proposed factors that contributed to this surge, however, are very different. Rather than consisting of pastoralists, a large proportion of the proto-Israelites were economically disenfranchised Canaanite peasants who, on account of several new technological innovations, were able to flee to the hill country and establish a new Israelite society structured on egalitarian principles. In this way, Israel is viewed as having consisted of economic outsiders. Even the first phase of scholarship, which generally casts Israel as geographical outsiders, is dependent upon these presuppositions. Whether the Israelites primarily occupied the land by force or through a process of peaceful infiltration, the generally accepted political landscape of the LB Levant, populated by city-states in the lowlands and territorial kingdoms in the highlands, facilitated this event. By proposing a new vision of this landscape (parts 1–2) and comparing it with the historical memories and preserved understandings of the early phases of Israel’s development (part 3), I raised new possibilities for comprehending the origins and nature of Israel before the formation of the monarchy. For example, in chap. 2, I pointed out that Blanton corrects a serious misconception regarding the nature of “egalitarian” political structures. In his words, the term egalitarian “does not imply an absence of hierarchical control.” Rather, it is characterized by “any behavior that aims to establish and uphold restrictions on the exercise of exclusionary power, whatever its social setting in simpler or more complex societies” (Blanton 1998: 151). Allowing this definition to inform my reading of the Amarna letters, I isolated several “egalitarian polities” in operation during the LB (see esp. chaps. 2–3). Based on this contextual evidence, we do not need to view the “egalitarian character” of Israel as revolutionary or novel. It was simply a continuation of specific strategies and “cultural practices” that “prevent[ed] unacceptable degrees of accumulation of power or wealth in the hands of specific persons or groups” (Blanton 1998: 151; see also Mann 1986: 68–69). This very form of egalitarianism is reflected in Judges 9. As with a majority of the polities attested in the Amarna letters, Shechem fell under the authority of a king. However, the members of the Shechemite collective had the capacity to restrict his power. For one thing, Abimelech’s position was dependent upon their authorization (Judg 9:4, 6). Much like the Gublites (see esp. EA 138), the Ammiyites (EA 74 and 75), the Taḫnakites (EA 248), and the Bit-dNIN.URTA-ites (EA 290), the Shechemites retained the capacity to reject the authority of their leader. Jephthah is another lo-

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cal leader whose power was dependent upon the collective leadership of the Gileadites (Tadmor 1982: 240). Nevertheless, he too appears to have functioned as a king. The remaining figure whose activities betray his royal status is Gideon. Unlike the situation for his counterparts, however, his influence was not circumscribed by a corporate cognitive code—at least, there is no indication in the text that it was. 1 We may speculate, therefore, that he represented another form of power that was in operation among the constituents of Israel during its formative stages, a type more on par with what scholars generally regard as indicative of Canaanite kingship. These examples indicate that the independent political units that were identified with premonarchic Israel were remembered and/or understood to have embodied a range of polity types that were continuous with those of their LB predecessors. In chaps. 4–5, I presented evidence for the claim that groups who were identified tribally and/or with a pastoralist lifestyle did not necessarily represent a less “developed” form of sociopolitical organization that operated on the margins of the dominant urban-centered society. Instead, these groups were often identified with and made significant contributions to these polities. 2 Again, Judges 9 reflects this phenomenon. It portrays a setting in which tribally defined populations, some of whom were dispersed and may have led a pastoralist lifestyle, were fully integrated with and played a critical role in a political entity that was associated with an urban center. Though the city of Shechem stood at the center of the Shechemites’ choice to confirm and subsequently reject Abimelech’s authority, the common identity that allowed the people to make these decisions was not defined by it. Rather, their identity stemmed from the eponymous founder of this group (9:28). In other words, one’s permanent place of residence had no bearing on this identification (see chap.  11 above). This is illustrated in the role that Gaʿal plays in the narrative. Though he and his kin are depicted as having to “cross over” (ʿābar; 9:26) to Shechem to participate in the Shechemite assembly, it was he who appealed to their shared 1. The only resistance he faced was from the denizens of Penuel and those assembled at Succoth in Judges 8. Though these two Transjordanian entities may have identified themselves with Israel, as members of a multipolity decentralized land, this identification allowed them to retain their independence on a local level (see chap. 12 above). 2. Even if one accepts that a proportion of Israel stemmed from tribally organized pastoralists, this does not imply that they were entirely politically independent. Rather, they may have represented important elements of the various urban-centered polities in the region. This suggests that another likely explanation for their decision to settle may revolve around the sharp decline of Egyptian imperialism in the region during the Iron I and the relative security and support that resulted from the emergence of an Israelite political identity.

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identity. In this encounter, therefore, we observe an array of populations, urban-centered and not, participating in the Shechemite political decisionmaking process. Both of these critical observations call into question the claim that Israel primarily consisted of geographical, economic, and/or political outsiders. As I discussed in chap. 10, the national memories that inform the later ideological framework of the Bible endorse the very dichotomies and ideologies that are embedded within the modern models of Israel’s earliest history. In addition to promoting the idea that Israel was a united family that took the promised land by force and treaty after a prolonged exodus from Egypt, the Bible goes to great lengths to distinguish the tribally organized, largely nonsedentary, egalitarian Israelites from their urbancentered, hierarchically organized Canaanite counterparts. When removed from the influence of this paradigm, however, the core historical memories and preserved understandings offer an alternative vision of the early Israelites. This significantly reduces the possibility that later Judahite scribes fabricated them. Though these ancient traditions were probably foreign to those scribes, they were maintained because they corresponded to the expectations of those who originally bore them. In the end, the points of continuity with the polities and populations of the LB further indicate that they provide a genuine portrayal of the social and political dynamics involved in Israel’s formative stages. This is particularly the case for Judges 9. For one thing, this text revolves around a historical site that not only played a commanding role in the central hill country during both the MB and LB but continued to function without interruption well into the age of the Israelites. In addition, it retains and reproduces several social and political phenomena that appear to reflect the nature of Shechem long before that era. Taking these observations together, we might best conclude that a contingent of the early Israelites stemmed from the Shechemite polity. Rather than being “outsiders,” they were fully integrated into the so-called Canaanite economic and political fabric of the region. Consequently, a significant component of the people who were subsequently identified with Israel were geographical, economic, and political insiders, heirs to the populations, polities, and political affiliations of the LB Levant. This ultimately helps to explain the attestation of an organized political entity referred to as “Israel” in the Merenptah stele well before the wave of Iron I settlements in the central hill country and the mass arrival of the Sea People on the coast (see chap. 9 above). 3 3. As often occurs in the history of scholarship, this conclusion only serves to confirm, albeit in modified form, Alt’s closing query in his discussion of Israel’s settlement process:

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The points of continuity between the early Israelites and their LB predecessors are not limited to parallels on the local level. They are also reflected in the large-scale sociopolitical similarities between Israel and the multipolity decentralized lands of the Levant. As with this type of political organization, Israel was a decentralized political collective consisting of a variety of polities and people groups. Though these entities shared a common Israelite identity, they maintained a high level of autonomy through a number of strategies, including the limited concern of the collective, the limitations placed upon leadership within the collective, and the role of the divine among its constituents. Ultimately, these strategies allowed them to preserve their individual theopolitical commitments and the identities associated with them on the local level (chap. 12). In this way, under the leadership of a figure such as Deborah, the constitution of early Israel closely corresponded to that of Amurru during the tenure of ʿAbdi-Aširta, and to that of the land of Shechem while Labʾayu was in operation. As I pointed out throughout this book, ʿAbdi-Aširta strove to unite several distinct political units under a common purpose as the land of Amurru. As with the depictions of premonarchic Israel preserved in Judges 5 and elsewhere, this purpose appears to have revolved around defense against a common enemy and involved a commitment to the divine patron of the collective. In spite of their shared identity as constituents of the land of Amurru, however, each unit retained its independent political structure and cultural identity. As with Israel, this structure was supported by the limited concern of the collective, the limitations placed on leadership over the collective, and the role of the divine among its constituents. If Shechem was indeed in league with Labʾayu and his kingdom during the Amarna Age, it represents another political relationship that foreshadowed the nature of premonarchic Israel. This example is particularly germane for a number of reasons. First, the land of Shechem, with all of its social and political complexities appears to have maintained its capacity to make independent decisions even while it was operating in cooperation with Labʾayu. We will recall from my analysis of EA 289 in chap.  6 that ʿAbdi-Ḫeba accuses Labʾayu and the land of Shechem of giving to the ʿapîrû (mla-ab-a-ya ù kurša-ak-mi i-din-nu a-na lú.mešḫa-pí-ri ki; lines 22–24). While this may have been a coordinated political action, Labʾayu and the land of Shechem are regarded as distinct entities, much in the same way that the If the areas settled by the Israelite tribes correspond on the whole to the territories we found united as large states under Egyptian domination, then we might suppose that during the Egyptian period of the country’s history it was perhaps the Israelites who ruled or at least shared political power in these areas. Are they perhaps to be equated . . . with the ḫabiru who appear at the time of Amenophis III and IV as the strongest military support for the anti-Egyptian powers in the mountains of Palestine? (Alt 1968: 220)

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constituents of Israel are regarded in Judges 5. In other words, the political relationship that the Shechemites forged with Labʾayu reflects the type of intermember relationships that were characteristic of Israel during its formative stages. The locations with which the Shechemites and Labʾayu were associated are also significant. Situated in the central hill country in and around Tell Balâṭah, the Shechemites occupied one of the chief locations that came to be known as Israel. In fact, as I shall discuss below, biblical Shechem continued to play a critical role during the formative stages of the monarchy, only to drop out of the historical record after the ties between Israel and Judah were severed. 4 Though the center of Labʾayu’s kingdom is never specified, in EA 256 Labʾayu’s son identifies himself as the king of Piḫilu, a city that is situated to the east of the Jordan. If Labʾayu stemmed from or was associated with the same region as the evidence seems to suggest, this may reflect the type of Transjordanian relationship that Israel is envisioned to have fostered during the early stages of its history (see esp. Judges 8 and 12; Fleming 2012: 114–32). Though these relationships continued into the formation of the monarchy, by the time of Ezekiel, the notion of a Transjordanian Israel was no longer part of the national vision (Ezek 47:18). Nevertheless, these formative memories were not discarded. This study should have a significant impact on understanding how Israel transitioned from a decentralized polity to a monarchy under the House of David and the eventual division that occurred between Israel and its Jerusalem-centered counterpart as it is depicted in 1 Kings 12. Though there were benefits to maintaining a political structure that allowed its constituents a high level of independence, it had its drawbacks (see esp. chaps.  3 and 8). The most apparent of these was the amount of conflict and flux that characterized Israel and the multipolity decentralized lands of the LB (see chaps. 3, 5, and 12 above). In order to avoid the drawbacks of decentralization, the Bible indicates that David and Solomon introduced several strategies to increase the level of centralization within Israel, many of which directly reflect those used by Aziru to centralize Amurru under his authority. In spite of the efficacy and benefits of these tactics, the structure that defined premonarchic Israel and its forerunners continued to play a significant role during this period of transition. The clearest example of this is recorded in 1 Kings 12. There, Rehoboam, who had already been recognized as the king of the Jerusalem-centered polity in place of Solomon, 5 4. After 1 Kings 12, Shechem only appears in Jer 41:5; Hos 6:9; Ps 60:6; 108:7; 1 Chr 6:67; and 2 Chr 7:28; 10:1. 5. See 1 Kgs 12:6, 12, 13, 15, 18, 23, and 27. In addition, rather than referring to the Israelites as “his people,” the text simply calls them “the people” (‫)העם‬. As I shall point out below, the same process is recorded for his grandfather David.

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travels to Shechem in order that the collective body of Israelites who had assembled there might confirm his authority as the king of Israel (v. 3). In many ways, this parallels the activities of Abimelech, who is cast as doing the same thing before the collective assembly at Shechem in Judg 9:4 and 6. In spite of Rehoboam’s lineage, however, the Israelites rejected his bid for the throne, referring to his house in “foreign” terms (v. 16; cf. Judg 9:28; see chap. 10 above). This collective decision was largely based on his unwillingness to reduce the burden created by the strategies of centralization that his predecessors had instituted (9:4, 14), and it set the stage for the continuation of a political entity that allowed for and even encouraged frequent political transitions. In this concluding chapter qua postscript, I briefly review the evidence for Israel’s decentralized heritage in the establishment of David’s House and in some of the tactics that David and Solomon used to centralize their authority over Israel. As we shall see, one of the most significant strategies was the elevation of Yahweh to the head of the pantheon and as the “national deity” over the House of David, a feat that was accomplished through Yahweh’s introduction to Jerusalem, the construction of his shrine adjacent to the royal residence, and the attribution of several new divine characteristics to him. I will conclude by highlighting the response of the Israelites to these strategies as it is recorded in 1 Kings 12. Perhaps the most significant and misunderstood of these is Jeroboam’s decision to fashion two golden calves to represent Yahweh and his subsequent decision to install them in Dan and Bethel. In spite of how later traditions have interpreted this action, Jeroboam was not engaging in an act of religious heresy. Rather, he was making a political statement that harked back to the earliest values of the Israelite collective. In this way, 1 Kings 12 represents a defining moment in the struggle between the forces of centralization and the forces of decentralization in Israel, a phenomenon that is in no way novel to this entity, period, or region.

Israel’s Collective Heritage and the Introduction of the Monarchy Though Saul is remembered as the first king of Israel, it is not until the establishment of the Davidic Dynasty under David and Solomon that the characteristic marks of centralization begin to appear in a significant way in the biblical texts. There is, however, a modern debate over whether the political innovations attributed to David and Solomon reflect historical events or the imagination of later Judahite authors who sought to glorify the achievements of their founding fathers. Those who argue for the latter

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alternative base their conclusions on two critical ideas. The first revolves around the relative chronology of the period in view. According to the Conventional Chronology or High Chronology, 6 the Iron IIA spans from approximately 1000 to 925/900 b.c.e., the period of the so-called united monarchy (Finkelstein 2011: 50; see also A. Mazar 2008). These dates locate several archaeological achievements in the region during the reign of Solomon. Accordingly, proponents of the Conventional Chronology believe that they confirm the biblical claims regarding his building activities. However, a number of scholars are suspicious of this conclusion. They contend that the Conventional Chronology is based more upon claims within the Bible and certain theological concerns than a systematic evaluation of the evidence gleaned from pottery remains and radiocarbon dating. Developing what is referred to as the Low Chronology, several archaeologists propose that the Iron IIA began around 930/920 b.c.e. and ended in the second half of the 9th century. By lowering the dates of the aforementioned construction projects, this new scheme calls into question the achievements attributed to Solomon and the scope, nature, and reality 7 of the united monarchy (see Hendel 2005: 76–80). In spite of the evidence provided by both schools of thought, establishing a firm date for the beginning of the Iron IIA throughout the region remains a complicated matter. By extension, so also does the task of attributing certain archaeological structures to specific kings. Megiddo is an excellent case in point. According to 1 Kgs 9:15, Solomon conscripted labor to construct Megiddo’s wall. For proponents of the Conventional Chronology, this project is reflected in a number of Iron IIA structures attested there. 8 Based on their analysis of the pottery throughout the region, however, proponents of the Low Chronology have arrived at a different conclusion. During excavations at Jezreel in the 1990s, a royal enclosure that was probably destroyed “soon after the end of the Omride dynasty in ca. 840/830 b.c.e.” was unearthed (A. Mazar 2007c: 119). A similar type of pottery that was discovered in the destruction layer of this site was also found at Megiddo in the very structures that were thought to have been built during Solomon’s reign. Accordingly, they contend that these palaces 6. According to this system, the Iron I is dated to ca. 1200–1000 b.c.e., the Iron IIA to ca. 1000–925/900, the period of the so-called united monarchy, and the Iron IIB to 900–700 (A. Mazar 2008; Finkelstein 2011: 50). 7. For Finkelstein (2013: 9), “[I]t is clear today that the biblical idea of a great united monarchy is a literary construct that represents the territorial ideology, kinship concepts, and theological ideas of late monarchic, Judahite authors.” 8. See, e.g., Yadin 1980.

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should “probably” be dated to the 9th century and attributed to the Omride Dynasty, not to Solomon (Finkelstein 2011: 51). 9 In response, some have pointed out that this conclusion disregards other significant pieces of evidence and may, therefore, betray the ideological motivations of its supporters. According to A. Mazar, “[S]imilar pottery was found at Jezreel also in the construction fills below the foundation of the royal enclosure, probably associated with an earlier town or village” (A. Mazar 2007c: 119). This suggests that the same repertoire of pottery was in use during both the 10th and 9th centuries. He therefore concludes that the palace structures at Megiddo were built “during, and remained in use throughout the time frame represented by this particular pottery, that is, either the tenth or ninth centuries, or both.” Consequently, these “buildings could have been built either by Solomon or by Omri or Ahab” (2007c: 120). On the basis of this type of evidence, Mazar proposed a Modified Conventional Chronology, which locates the Iron IIA between ca. 980 and 840/830 b.c.e. Ultimately, this allows for “sufficient time in the tenth century b.c.e. for Iron Age IIA to be correlated with the Davidic/Solomonic era” (Mazar 2007c: 121). 10 To confuse matters further, radiocarbon dating indicates that the transition from the Iron I to the Iron IIA in the land was not a uniform process. As Finkelstein points out, sites such as Megiddo experienced violent destruction at the beginning of the 10th century, thereby marking its transition to the Iron IIA. At the same time “late Iron I strata” from other cities in the region lasted into “the second half of the tenth century.” He therefore concludes that “the transition between the two pottery traditions—of the late Iron I and the early Iron IIA—was gradual and took place over several decades” (Finkelstein 2011: 51; see also 2013: 32–36). In addition, the range of dates that mark this transition at specific sites is often very wide (see 9. In support of this proposal, Finkelstein (2007a: 113) has also pointed out that the ashlar blocks “uncovered in the foundations of one of the so-called Solomonic palaces at Megiddo preserve distinctive masons’ marks on their surfaces.” These “marks have been found only in one other building in Israel, namely, the ninth-century palace of Omri and Ahab at Samaria.” He therefore concludes that the “stories of Solomon’s cities of chariots and horsemen must reflect a memory of the great horse-breeding and training facilities of the Northern Kingdom in eighth-century b.c.e. Megiddo” (2007a: 115). See also Ussishkin 1980. 10. For a similar conclusion regarding Arad XII, see A. Mazar 2007c: 1997; Cahill 2003. According to Cahill, “Finkelstein cannot rationally maintain that the ceramic assemblage from Arad XII dates to the tenth century b.c.e. but that all comparable assemblages date to the ninth century b.c.e.” (Cahill 2003: 66). Dever has also provided evidence for “Solomonic defenses at Gezer” (Dever 1986).

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esp. A. Mazar 2008). 11 Based on this irregularity, one should not rule out the possibility that at least some large-scale construction projects did occur in Israel during Solomon’s tenure, supporting the biblical claim that the kingdom of David and Solomon extended well beyond the traditional borders of Judah and that they took important steps to centralize their authority over it. 12 Indeed, given that Israel originally consisted of an array of polities and populations, such efforts at consolidation make sense. We should not, therefore, expect to see characteristic “ethnic” markers of the Israelite monarchy at this stage of its development. As with any kingdom, distinct “ethnic groups” could be absorbed into the “national identity” of a single polity with very little effect on local manifestations of their local identities. 13 The second source of scholarly suspicion regarding the Davidic monarchy stems from the idea that Jerusalem was too small, too isolated, and did not contain the necessary administrative apparatus to serve as its capital during the tenure of David and Solomon. For these scholars, the relatively small size of Jerusalem, 14 the low level of population density in it and 11. As with radiocarbon dating, there are limitations associated with using pottery to date certain sites. Ray (2008: 89) provides an excellent example of this: One problem is Kochavi’s high date of ca. 1275 for the destruction of Canaanite Hazor. This is based on a comparison of the ceramics at Hazor with those from Aphek and elsewhere (Beck and Kochavi 1985: 38). The absence of certain very late local Late Bronze Age IIB ceramics seems to indicate a gap in occupation for at least the last part of this period at Hazor. This was pointed out earlier by Tufnell (1961: 157) and Kenyon (1973: 538). However, a recent find at the site, an inscribed fragment of an Egyptian monument of Prahotep, the vizier of Ramesses II, during his 4th decade, indicates that Hazor was still in existence at this time (Kitchen 2003a: 24–27).

Contrast with Finkelstein 1988a: 317. 12. Of course, the most compelling piece of evidence for this is the reference to the House of David in the 9th-century Tel Dan inscription. Based on this evidence, even Finkel­ stein concedes that “David and Solomon are historical figures—the founders of a dynasty based in the Judahite city of Jerusalem” and that “many of the David stories in the books of Samuel . . . contain genuine, early historical memories” (Finkelstein 2007a: 108, 114–15). 13. As I have already pointed out above, “[T]here is no reason to assume that cultural or economic boundaries should necessarily conform with the political boundaries of the state” (Feinman 1998: 101). 14. According to Finkelstein (2013: 43), it is likely that Jerusalem was not the capital of a territorial kingdom during the 10th century because “it was no more than a small, poor highlands settlement without monumental construction.” However, he seems to contradict himself in this regard when he discusses “the early days of the northern kingdom at the late tenth and early ninth centuries” (2013: 73). In his estimation, it was ruled from Tirzah, which “was a relatively small, sparsely built, unfortified settlement” during this period (2013: 73; see also p. 78). From A. Mazar’s point of view, the area of the eastern ridge of Jerusalem “is about twelve hectares (ca. thirty acres), a large area for any Iron Age city in Israel or Judah” (A. Mazar 2007c: 125). Even Lehmann, who contends that it is not “reasonable any longer to claim that the united monarchy ruled over most of Palestine and Syria”

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in the surrounding Judean hill country, 15 and the lack of any “meaningful scribal activity” 16 make it “extremely difficult to envision a great empire ruled from the marginal region of the southern highlands.” Finkelstein therefore concludes that “tenth-century Jerusalem . . . was no more than a small, remote highlands village, and not the exquisitely decorated capital of a great empire” (Finkelstein 2007a: 112–13; cf. Grabbe 2007: 112; Leh­ mann 2003: 156). This judgment falls in line with several synchronic studies that “have noted that when a large number of populations are examined, a strong relationship is found between increases in societal scale and more hierarchical organizational forms (vertical complexity)” (Feinman 1998: 105). Rather than going into the complexities of this debate, which are far from finding resolution, I suggest viewing the evidence from a different angle. The expectations for Jerusalem and the surrounding hill country betray a number of assumptions regarding state formation and the nature of ancient kingdoms that leave little room for alternative possibilities. 17 Countering this tendency, Feinman contends that “many large preindustrial states functioned without formal, entrenched bureaucratic institutions” through the implementation of specific organizational strategies. He goes on to explain that the “formation of more egalitarian horizontal subcomponents (e.g., larger household groupings, non-hierarchical social groupings) often can diminish scalar stresses on vertical decision-making structures.” Such an approach allows the central administration to rely more heavily on the decision-making bodies of horizontal subcomponents, and thereby, spend fewer resources on developing vertical decision-making structures and administrative apparatus. This phenomenon explains (Lehmann 2003: 156), recognizes that “tenth-century b.c.e. Jerusalem was fortified with an impressive defense, the stepped structure” (2003: 162; see also p. 135). 15. Lehmann estimates that between 3,000 and 10,000 people inhabited Judah during the 10th century. Based on these numbers, he concludes that “it is doubtful that” they “could have subjugated all of Palestine, not to speak of Syria as well” (Lehmann 2003: 157; see also Finkelstein 2013: 43). However, A. Mazar arrives at a very different number, concluding that an “average estimation of approximately twenty thousand people in Judah during the tenth century appears to be realistic” (A. Mazar 2007c: 134). 16. Finkelstein 2007a: 112; see also p. 117; Grabbe 2007: 116. However, as A.  Mazar points out, “[T]he Northern Kingdom of Israel, the existence of which is undisputable in the ninth century b.c.e., certainly has not yielded a large number of ninth-century inscriptions either” (A. Mazar 2007c: 135). The recent discovery of the Ophel inscription near the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, which dates to the early Iron IIA, has further complicated this debate (see E. Mazar, Ben-Shlomo, and Aḥituv 2013). 17. Finkelstein’s reference to the biblical depiction of the “united monarchy” as an “empire” is an excellent example of this.

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the occasional “inverse relationship between system size and proportion of the population involved in administration” observed in several preindustrial polities (Feinman 1998: 105–7; see also Porter 2012: 146; Johnson 1982: 412–14). 18 As I pointed out in chap. 12, premonarchic Israel consisted of “an array of nested social groups and arrangements” (Feinman 1998: 107). According to the Bible, even after the formation of the monarchy, the local sources of authority embedded in these nested social groups continued to play an important role in the decision-making process of the state. This is immediately observed in David’s transition to power. According to 2 Samuel, his authority was dependent upon the consent of the local authorities within Israel. It was only after the people of Judah anointed him as their king in Hebron (2 Sam 2:4), that “the elders of Israel came to the king at Hebron” to make a covenant with him before Yahweh and anoint him king over Israel (2 Sam 5:3; see Tadmor 1982: 240). 19 18. Feinman points to the Aztec tributary domain, which was “large in scale with a centralized settlement pattern, but limited administrative bureaucracy” as an illustration of this phenomenon. He therefore concludes that it “may not have to be seen as ‘anomalous’ or ‘transitional’ between ideal forms (e.g., small polity v.  large bureaucratic state).” In his estimation, “many large preindustrial states functioned without formal, entrenched bureaucratic institutions, but their more fluid organizational structures had ramifications for exaction, control, and stability” (Feinman 1998: 106). Blanton (1998: 169) arrives at a similar conclusion: I suggest that corporate strategies, including semiautonomy, have been important system-shaping social processes in the evolution of many archaic states and are deserving of more analytical attention than they have received. For example, semiautonomy may provide one clue as to how some large complex systems were governed without a highly centralized state. And, owing to the partially self-governing nature of the constituent building blocks of society, the process of semiautonomy may be associated with substantial growth in the scale of society with minimal growth in the central administrative apparatus. Growth through replication of highly self-sufficient social entities implies few additional administrative costs per added unit; thus some of the scale limitations to growth inherent in more pervasively administered systems will not apply so forcefully where features of semiautonomy have been developed. (See also Cooper 2006: 33)

19. It may also be attested in the first conflict that Saul encountered after being anointed king in 1 Samuel 10. Upon receiving word of a siege against Jabesh-gilead (11:1– 2), Saul mustered a military force by dispatching a symbolic message throughout Israel. Along with the pieces of the oxen that he slaughtered on the spot, he issued the following threat: “Whoever does not come out after Saul and Samuel, so shall it be done to his oxen!” (11:7). In spite of the consequences that would fall upon those who chose not to support this campaign, the decision to do so was ultimately left in the hands of the local decisionmaking bodies of Israel. In other words, because Saul had not yet conscripted a professional army and appointed his own military leaders, the power derived through the militaristic sphere remained under the administration of local communities. Note that Saul appeals to the authority of Samuel in this process as well. A similar local decision-making process is reflected in 1 Samuel 14. In vv. 21–22, “[T]he Hebrews who previously had been with the

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On the basis of these observations, the lack of evidence pointing to a large bureaucratic state centered in Jerusalem should not be a deterrent to the idea of a “united monarchy” under the House of David. According to Carneiro, “[M]ulti-community societies appear to elaborate their social structure more slowly than do single-community societies” (Carneiro 1967: 238). Having been built on the decentralized structure of premonarchic Israel, power during the early stages of the monarchy probably remained “decentralized” to some degree. In other words, “the monopoly of wealth and power by a central figure . . . [was] limited” because power was “dispersed and [the] rule of the central figure [was] duplicated in type if not extent at many lower levels of state administration” (Fox 1977: 41–42). Consequently, regardless of whether one favors a more “minimalist” or “maximalist” view of Jerusalem, the comparative evidence suggests that the administrative apparatus centered there did not need to be large. In fact, one should not expect it to have been so. According to Stager (1985: 25), “Jerusalem was not an urban center, in the demographic sense, but rather the ‘embodiment of the sacred in society—a city upon a hill.’ Urban ideology, not demography, characterized the regal-ritual city.” This approach would have put less stress on the new central administration by reducing the need immediately to introduce vertical decision-making structures 20 and would have allowed for a smoother political transition to occur. 21 Of course, such a transition does require the introduction of new strategies at some point. Philistines and had gone up with them into the camp turned and joined the Israelites who were with Saul and Jonathan. Likewise, when all the Israelites who had gone into hiding in the hill country of Ephraim heard that the Philistines were fleeing, they too followed closely after them in the battle.” Finally, after issuing a royal decree against his son in 14:44, the people assembled with Saul voiced their opinion and ultimately convinced him to act otherwise (v. 45). It is not until 1 Sam 14:50 that one finds any indication of Saul taking steps to centralize his authority by disembedding the social resources of the militaristic sphere from their traditional sources of authority. There, we learn that he appointed Abner as the commander of his army (‫)וׁשם ׂשר־צבאו אבינר‬. 20. According to Feinman, “Other things being equal, the hegemonic integrative strategies (e.g., co-opting peripheral elite through exchange and intermarriage, military threat, frontier garrisons, occasional campaigns) involve lower costs for core elite than the construction and supply of a full-fledged governmental infrastructure in peripheral realms” (Feinman 1998: 109). 21. See Marfoe 1979: 32–34. One can compare this model with Marfoe’s evaluation of the Shihab emirate in the Lebanese mountains. According to his analysis, “[E]ach subregion [was] ruled by a hereditary chief. . . . Partly as a result of the loosening grip of the Ottoman empire at this time, this transitory unity was accomplished. . . . At its greatest extent in the 18th century, the emirate was composed of 13 traditional feudal provinces,” and “the capital of the Shihab emirate at Dayr al-Qamar was little more than a small town” (Marfoe 1979: 25–27). Drawing on this evidence, he concludes that the “centralizing tendencies”

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Given the “available textual and archaeological evidence,” I follow Schloen and others in seeing no reason “to doubt the existence of King David as the ruler of a substantial tenth-century kingdom” (Schloen 2002: 58). With this in mind, we should be able to detect strategies of centralization that were introduced during the tenures of David and Solomon. As Blanton points out, “[P]olitical actors are influenced by the prevailing social structure, and make use of it, but do not always accept the prevailing system; they may struggle against it, or even elaborate on it, in accordance with their political aims” (Blanton 1998: 140; see also Baines and Yoffee 1988). As we shall see below, however, the Israelites ultimately rejected the Jerusalem-centered monarchy on the basis of such “struggles” and “elaborations.” In the end, these dynamics too closely reflect the landscape of the LB Levant and contradict the ideology of the Davidic monarchy to have been the product late Judahite authors. Some of the ways in which the authority of David, Solomon, and Rehoboam are cast indicate that it stemmed from concerns that revolved around a long-standing political tradition that was firmly embedded in the political consciousness of the people who came to be identified with Israel. David’s Kingship in an Israelite Context The decentralized nature of premonarchic Israel posed several challenges for those who sought to establish a stable, centralized authority within it. As Marfoe points out, “[T]he full integration of marginal social groups relying on a broad pattern of shifting subsistence strategies was difficult to achieve.” This was largely “because cultural identities and political affiliations under these conditions were diffuse, ambivalent, and constantly interchangeable. . . . [T]here continually existed progressively lower substrata of smaller local units, whose cohesiveness was founded on common economic, social, cultural, ethnic, ecologic, or kinship ties” (Marfoe 1979: 19–20; see chap. 12 above). These were the very types of diffuse, ambivalent, and constantly interchangeable cultural identities and political affiliations that led to the variability and conflict among the constituents of the Israelite collective and their LB predecessors. Working forward in time, we can understand that, if these dynamics genuinely influenced the social and political makeup of premonarchic Israel, they would continue to play a role during the early stages of the monarchy. A nuanced reading of David’s bid among the ancient polities in southern Syria and perhaps even Israel “would appear to have been less in the administrative, coercive, or economic sphere than is commonly construed, and more perhaps in the ideological sphere” (Marfoe 1979: 35).

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for power and his struggle to maintain it in 2 Samuel indicates that this was indeed the case. After the demise of Saul and his household, the stage was set for David to become king over Israel. This transition is recorded in 2 Sam 5:3. The details of this short passage not only illustrate the complex nature of royal authority in Israel, but they also set the stage for the subsequent difficulties that he and his grandson Rehoboam faced in their attempt to maintain their power. According to the first half of this verse, David was already functioning as king at Hebron (see also 2 Sam 2:1–4). However, his authority over Israel had not yet been established. In order for this to occur, David was required to host the elders of Israel in his royal abode. It was only after David cut a covenant with this collective decision-making body before Yahweh that the elders anointed David king over Israel. The idea that David’s authority over Israel was contingent upon the recognition and support of the larger Israelite body is reflected in the details revolving around Absalom’s attempted revolt. From the beginning, Absalom bolstered his approval by appealing to the needs of the larger Israelite community. After wining the heart of the men of Israel by assuring all who traveled to Jerusalem to receive justice from the king that he, Absalom, would be better suited for this task (2 Sam 15:1–6), he sent messengers to all the divisions of Israel asking them to announce his kingship in Hebron, the location where Israel first recognized David’s authority (2 Sam 15:10). Though only temporary, Absalom’s conspiracy was successful. The language used to report this shift in loyalty recalls Israel’s decentralized heritage before the formation of the monarchy. In 15:13, David’s messenger reports that the heart of the ʾîš yiśrāʾēl is after Absalom. This report is confirmed in the following chapter when all the people of the ʾîš yiśrāʾēl (‫ )וכל־העם אישׁ ישׂראל‬enter Jerusalem together (2 Sam 16:15), and Hushai proclaims that “Yahweh, this people, and all of the ʾîš yiśrāʾēl have chosen” Absalom (16:18). The use of the term ʾîš yiśrāʾēl in this contest is instructive. In chap. 10 above, I proposed that the ʾîš yiśrāʾēl represented a sociopolitical equivalent of the multipolity decentralized lands of the Amarna Age. Though we are here dealing with the formative stages of the monarchy, this term seems to harken back to Israel’s decentralized roots. Aspects of Israel’s heritage are reflected again in the deliberations revolving around how finally to defeat David after his flight from Jerusalem. Ahithophel initially proposes pursuing David with a group of men of his own choosing. In response, both Absalom and all the elders of Israel agree with this course of action, indicating that that this collective body is directly involved in the decision-making process (2 Sam 17:1–4). In spite

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of finding a consensus among Israel’s elders, Absalom summons Hushai, who challenges Ahithophel’s advice by advocating a traditional muster of all Israel (17:11). Persuaded by this course of action, Absalom and all the ʾîš yiśrāʾēl agree. When read in light of the foregoing analysis, the reason for this change of heart seems apparent: “[T]he representatives of the collective Israel are . . . naturally inclined to choose the course of action that acknowledges a long-established avenue for their power” (Fleming 2012: 103). Indeed, a traditional muster allows for the “long-established” sources of power in the militaristic sphere to remain embedded in their local contexts. By contrast, the raising of a personal army by the “head of state” threatens to disembed those sources of power. Though his attempted coup ultimately fails, it appears that Absalom finds temporary success by appealing to a political structure that is embedded within Israel’s history and therefore agreeable to this important political body. Strategies of Centralization during the Early Stages of the Israelite Monarchy According to the accounts revolving around David and Solomon, 22 both men introduced several innovations during the formative stages of the Israelite monarchy. The motivation behind these measures was probably an attempt to respond to the aforementioned challenges by promoting a higher level of political integration and stability through the creation of a unifying national identity and a source of authority that transcended and even trumped the force of local ties. In order to find success in this endeavor, it was necessary for the two kings to disembed sources of social power and identity from their local contexts and absorb them into their own centralized administration, a process that I described in chaps. 3, 8, and 11. This often required the creation of institutions that were “capable of precluding, or at least limiting, the exercise of intermember power strategies” (Blanton 1998: 146; see also Lehman 1969: 455–56; Eisenstadt 1969: 13–31). One of the clearest examples of this process was David’s choice to move the center of his authority from Hebron to Jerusalem. His selection of Jerusalem is often regarded as an attempt to mediate better between the various elements of Israel by situating his capital in a more centralized location (A. Mazar 2007d: 129). While this may have influenced his decision, perhaps an even greater motivation stemmed from his desire to distance the organs of his administration from the local sources of authority 22. For treatments of the earlier material embedded in these traditions, see especially Seiler 1998 and Dietrich 2007.

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associated with Hebron. 23 This strategy directly parallels Aziru’s decision to locate his capital at Ṣumur (chap. 5) and may reflect one of the reasons why Shechem did not function as the administrative center of Abimelech’s kingdom. By establishing “a formal separation from local elites,” David detached himself from their decision-making capacity, enabling him “to require more wealth and labor to support [his] enterprise” (Yoffee 2005: 37; see also pp. 57–59). In this regard, Jerusalem would have been a suitable location for several reasons. Because it was remembered for having been under non-Israelite control (2 Sam 5:6–7), it represented a neutral site, far removed from any traditional Israelite or Judahite influence. Moreover, as a well-established center of political authority in the region, it probably contained administrative structures that would have been available to David after he conquered it (A. Mazar 2007a: 129). These structures would have streamlined any attempt to appoint royal officials (2 Sam 8:15–18; see Fleming 2012: 182) and introduce a system of taxation, corveé labor (2 Sam 20:24; see Soggin 1982), and/or military conscription (see esp. 2 Sam 23:8–39) 24—plans that may have informed his decision to take the census recalled in 2  Samuel 24. 25 Thus, David appears to have “transformed Jerusalem in order to create a new political system” that became an important symbol of Israelite identity and the primary source of its political authority (Yoffee 2005: 37; see also pp. 57–59). Solomon also took a number of steps to advance this policy. 1 Kings 4 contains a register of officials (see Mettinger 1971) whom he appointed over several social resources within Israel’s social complex (4:2–6), including the military (v.  4) and labor (v.  6; see also 5:27–30). 26 It goes on to 23. As I indicated above, David served as king at Hebron before he was recognized as the king over all of Israel. It was only after a victorious battle with his northern neighbors that he was granted this title. David’s decision to locate his capital at Jerusalem, therefore, was as much a decision to distance himself from the authority of the collective associated with Hebron as it was a concession to Israel. To be sure, this concession was limited. As I pointed out above, Shechem appears to have been the center of the Israelite collective that met in 1 Kings 12. As opposed to the initial choice of Jeroboam, however, David’s choice not to locate his capital there, which would have represented a more “central” location, was based on the same reason for relocating from Hebron. 24. As was the case with Aziru (EA 138: 59–62, 69–70; 140: 28–29; 197: 27–29; chap. 5 above), this fighting force was identified with David and defined by its service to him (2 Sam 5:6, 21; 16:13; 17:8; 19:42; 21:17). Contrast this with the early stages of Saul’s career. As with ʿAbdi-Aširta, Saul is depicted as having mustered his military support from Israel’s constituents (1 Samuel 11). 25. One wonders if the polemic against this decision stemmed from an Israelite sentiment. 26. For the lists of royal officers ascribed to David, see 2 Sam 8:16–18 and 20:23–26.

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describe a system of hierarchically organized administrative districts, each with its own royal official (vv. 7–19), 27 that Solomon established in order to maintain a regular flow of revenue to the palace (v. 7; see also 5:7–8). These tactics directly reflect the process of differentiation through linearization or meddling (see chap.  3 above). For example, Solomon’s administrative districts would have served to cut across traditional social divisions, allowing the central administration to recombine and thereby redefine the Israelites in terms of a state-centered identity (see Yoffee 2005: 15; Mann 1984: 170, 235). 28 The creation of a Jerusalem-centered council of “autonomous elites” (see 1 Kgs 12:6) to administer these districts and the social resources derived from them would ultimately have “disembedded or freed from kinship, territorial and other ascriptive units . . . major social and cultural activities, as well as certain basic resources,” including “manpower, economic resources,” and perhaps most importantly, “commitments” (Eisenstadt 1964: 376; see also Lehman 1969: 463; Yoffee 2005: 142). 29 By bypassing lower-order controls, Solomon had the capacity to consolidate the power of his administration and begin the process of redefining the ultimate source and nature of Israel’s social and political identity. While these policies appear to have been effective during the tenures of David and Solomon, the innovations that had the greatest impact were David’s introduction of Yahweh and his throne to Jerusalem (2 Sam 6:12–19), Solomon’s construction of Yahweh’s Temple adjacent to his palace (1 Kings 5–8), and their appointment of a royal priesthood (2 Sam 8:17–18; 20:25–26; 27. According to A. Mazar (2007c: 132), in the northern Shephelah, along the Sorek Valley, the cities of Beth-Shemesh and Timnah were built in the tenth century, perhaps within the framework of the emerging Israelite United Monarchy. Two short Hebrew inscriptions, one found at each of these sites in tenth-century contexts, preserve the name Hanan, which can be related to Elon Beth Hanan, a place-name mentioned in Solomon’s second administrative district, right in this region (1 Kgs 4:9). . . . In this case, the tenth-century date of the inscriptions may support the authenticity of the biblical list of Solomon’s districts.

Fleming (2012: 110) also suggests that this “list may be quite old and seems to preserve a memory of such political reality.” See also Rainey and Notley 2006: 174–79. 28. Yoffee goes on to explain that, in the development “of the earliest states, new groups were created to transform, create, and marshal the symbolic and ceremonial resources that allowed the recombination of the differentiated groups into a new social collectivity” (Yoffee 2005: 53). 29. Wolf describes a similar process involved in the development of the Merina state in Madagascar: “As the state became increasingly powerful . . . [l]ocal communities were reorganized . . . and were assigned as quasi-tenants to non-local subaltern chiefs” (Wolf 1990: 594). Ahlström views this new arrangement as a “political means of organizing the nation so that the king and the court could extract the most out of it” (Ahlström 1993: 514).

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1 Kgs 4:2, 4–5). 30 These “divinely ordained decisions” reflect the process of “promotion” (Flannery 1972) or “usurpation” (Rappaport 1969). Representing a direct counterpart to linearization/meddling, which focuses on the transformation of social and political structures in the physical realm, promotion/usurpation occurs when the central authority appropriates a cognitive code or symbolic/normative resource to serve its own agenda (Flannery 1972: 413–16). 31 In other words, it serves as an appeal to the metaphysical or ideological realm in order to explain and legitimize changes that have occurred through linearization/meddling (Mann 1986: 169). As Blanton describes this dynamic, “[E]xclusionary power is accomplished primarily through a ruler-centered subordination of the bureaucracy, but other monopolistic strategies are employed, including control of access to the supernatural and the promulgation of an ideological cognitive code and its accompanying rituals that mystify the underlying political inequality” (Blanton 1998: 147). Hence, locating Yahweh and his abode in Jerusalem represented “an exclusionary political strategy” inasmuch as it granted the king and the priesthood that he appointed direct access to Yahweh and his will. By implication, this access, and the authority associated with it, was limited to the central administration (see Blanton 1998: 160; cf. Yoffee 2005: 34–39), which in turn was legitimized by Yahweh (Flannery 1972: 407; Rappaport 1971: 29, 33). 32 30. In support of the historical authenticity of Solomon’s temple, A.  Mazar (2007c: 128) makes the following observations: “The details of construction in the biblical tradition, such as the use of large hewn stones combined with cedar wood, also fit building techniques known in the second millennium and the Iron Age. Such temple plans are unknown after the eighth century b.c.e. in the Levant and, thus, the biblical description of Jerusalem’s temple could not have been an invention of the seventh century or later.” Similarly, J. J. M. Roberts (2007: 167) points out that there “are many Near Eastern parallels to this motif, but one of the most striking is found in the Iron Age Syrian temple at ʿAin Dārā, which is contemporary with Solomon’s temple and structurally quite similar.” See also Monson 2000. 31. According to Lehman, this process results in an individual or groups gaining power via persuasion (Lehman 1969: 3–6). 32. This access is reflected in the layout of the temple. As opposed to the temple at Shiloh, which appears to have consisted of a single room to which all members of the Israelite collective had access (see chap.  12 above), Solomon’s temple was hierarchically arranged along a central axis, with heavy restrictions placed on those who could approach Yahweh’s throne room. As Yoffee (2005: 33, 37) points out, Integration can be measured in the number and nature of symbols of incorporation as well as in the tools of repression. . . . Such symbols include ritual space, temples, palaces, monuments, and artifacts that represent public identity. . . . States have the power to disembed resources from the differentiated groups for their own ends and glorification, not least because symbols of incorporation are so critical in establishing the legitimacy of societies. . . . Ceremonial buildings and artistic and literary representations linked diverse social units and their belief systems beyond roles that

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This strategy also contributes to the creation of a national identity that mitigates differences in local affiliations (Grabbe 2007: 120; DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle 1996: 18; Mann 1986: 126–27, 152–60; Adams 1972: 11). As Mann has observed, “Shared normative understandings are required for stable, efficient social cooperation,” and “ideological movements like religions are often the bearers of these” (Mann 1986: 22). As I concluded in my analysis in chap. 12, premonarchic Israelite religion was characterized by a wide range of local practices, each of which had a bearing on an individual’s identity. This meant that the Israelite collective consisted of a number of discrete and, at times, competing identity groups. With the installation of Yahweh as the divine patron of the state, these groups could find a common identity that “transcended” local differences. 33 For this strategy to be effective on the national level, however, Yahweh had to undergo a significant transformation. The Elevation of Yahweh According to my analysis of Yahweh’s role among the early Israelites in chap.  12, the “original god” (ʾēl) of “Isra-El” does not appear to have been El. Neither did paradigmatic replacement, 34 nor differentiation from El occur (Cross 1971: 71–75) with the formation of the Israelite collective. 35 were assigned by kinship and conferred honor and prestige on those conducting ceremonies and maintaining these symbols of community.

According to Eisenstadt (1964: 377), the emergence of a political or religious “center” of a society, distinct from its ascriptive components, is one of the most important break-throughs of development from the relatively closed kinshipbased primitive community. In some of the archaic societies of the ancient Near East . . . and various preliminary stages of City states, the center in these first stages of differentiation was not only structurally differentiated from the major ascriptive groups but also distinct from them, being largely identical with relatively closed but already differentiated higher-status groups.

33. The function of the National League and American League in Major League Baseball reflects the effectiveness of this strategy. During regular season play, one would be hard pressed to find someone who identified as a New York Mets fan rooting with a fan of the Philadelphia Phillies or rooting for them—unless, of course, either team was playing (or fighting against) a common enemy of the other. However, due to the fact that both of their teams are members of the National League, the common concerns that stem from that identification would cut across and level out their differences during the All-Star Game. 34. According to Alt, “the gods of the Fathers were παιδαγωγοἰ leading to the greater God, who later replaced them completely” with the formation of the Israelite league (Alt 1968: 80; see Cross 1973: 6; 71). 35. In the words of Cross, “Yahweh is recognized as originally a cultic name of ʾEl,” who later “split off from ʾEl in the radical differentiation of his cultus in the Proto-Israelite league, ultimately ousting ʾEl from his place in the divine council, and eventually condemning the ancient power to death (Psalm 82)” (Cross 1973: 71). He goes on to suggest that the

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To be sure, El was one of a number of Canaanite deities venerated among the Israelites. However, it was Yahweh, the second-tier god of war of nonCanaanite origins who was the original divine patron of their coalition. These characteristics made Yahweh a fitting patron for a decentralized political organization consisting of independent entities who aligned with one another for the chief purpose of confronting common enemies. As a second-tier god of war, he would have functioned as an apt military commander without impinging upon other social spheres and local sources of authority embedded within the individual communities of Israel. In this way, the “limited” nature of Israel’s divine patron directly reflected the limited role of human leadership within the collective. Nevertheless, the Bible does indicate that Yahweh was eventually “elevated” to the head of the Israelite pantheon as its divine king, taking on the attributes and epithets of El (see esp. M.  S. Smith 2002: 32–43) and engaging in similar activities as Baʿal when he, Baʿal, became king of the pantheon at Ugarit (Smith 2002: 80–91). A number of scholars associate this transformation and the Zion theology that grew up around it with the development of the monarchy under David and Solomon (Roberts 2002: 169; Mettinger 1982: 117). 36 This conclusion is not only supported by comparable events among emerging political entities in the ancient Near East 37 but by the ways in which the Jerusalem-centered administration would have benefited from these innovations. “popularity of the cult of ʾEl in the Semitic community in Sinai, the eastern delta of Egypt, and Seir gives some plausibility to the notion that Yahweh was an ʾEl figure” (1973: 72). 36. Smith is more cautious in his attempt to locate this phenomenon historically. In his opinion, “[I]t is difficult, if not impossible, to identify the specific socio-political forces behind the process of convergence.” Nevertheless, it is evident that the monarchy either generated or inherited (and then used) the convergence of divine imagery in order to elevate the national god. Indeed, the vast bulk of biblical texts date to the monarchic period or later, and the ascendant position of Yahweh as the national god under the monarchy would make convergence of divine imagery a powerful ideology [and] political tool. Yet, given the lack of information, the premonarchic period cannot be ruled out entirely as the older context for convergence, at least to some degree. (M. S. Smith 2002: 59; see, however, pp. 93–94)

37. For example, the Enuma Elish chronicles the process by which Marduk, the divine patron of Babylon, is elevated to the position of king over the pantheon. This process culminates in the final tablet of the text, where this second-tier god of war is granted the divine names or attributes of the other gods in the pantheon, including Enlil, the former king of the pantheon. If this text was indeed commissioned by Nebuchadnezzar I, it may reflect an attempt to bolster the legitimacy of his newly established authority centered in Babylon. Similarly, the “production of the Baal cycle may have served the function of reinforcing the kingship not only of the god Baal but also the Ugaritic dynasty” (M. S. Smith 2002: 96; 2001: 157–63).

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By declaring Yahweh king and attributing to him the qualities of a first-tier god, the monarchy would have significantly expanded the scope of his authority. No longer would his role have been limited to the militaristic sphere. Rather, he would have represented the ultimate authority over other important spheres within Israel’s social complex, spheres that had previously fallen under the authority of local deities and, by association, local leaders. Because Israel’s king was Yahweh’s divinely appointed representative, this expansion of Yahweh’s qualities would have held significant implications for the king. In addition to legitimizing his authority, it would have provided him with the necessary cognitive code and ideological foundation to expand his influence over the traditional sources of authority embedded within Israel. Following van der Toorn’s assessment, we may therefore conclude that the “introduction of a state religion” with Yahweh at the helm “did not leave the traditional forms of family religion unaffected.” Instead, it was “designed to diminish the impact of family religion.” In other words, in order to “increase their control over their subjects, the authorities tried to bring the traditional family religion” and the sources of authority and identity associated with it “within the orbit of the state cult” (van der Toorn 1996: 182). 38 In the end, the innovations attributed to David and Solomon in the divine realm reflected and reinforced the policies they advanced on the mundane level. Because the nature of Israel’s divine patron continued to reflect the role of human leadership within Israel, the elevation of Yahweh ultimately authorized the expanded the role of the king. For David and Solomon, therefore, the centralization of their authority was a theopolitical endeavor. As Adams explains, such an appeal to the divine may have 38. Van der Toorn (1996: 321; see also p. 318) therefore concludes with the following assessment: “[B]y identifying El with Yahweh they endeavored to nationalize the local religion.” As M. S. Smith indicates, the “Israelite inclusion of Yahweh into the older figure of El was not syncretistic insofar as El belonged to Israel’s original religious heritage” (Smith 2002: 43). However, by ascribing El’s attributes and the authority associated with them to Yahweh, El’s authority would have been reduced and even replaced by Yahweh’s among the Israelites. One indication that this policy attained at least some success is “the predominance of the name Yahweh as a theophoric element in Israelite personal names, in the Bible as well as in epigraphic texts, during the monarchic period (ca. 1000–550 bc). This bears testimony to the wide recognition of the pre-eminence of Yahweh among the Ephraimites and Judahites of the time” (van der Toorn 1996: 238). In this way, Alt is on the right track when he claims that the “ultimate destiny of the worship of the gods of the Fathers must be understood historically as a result of the encroachment of the national cult of Yahweh upon the local sanctuaries of the Israelite tribes in Palestine, even where this involved the assimilation of fundamentally different types of religion” (Alt 1968: 78). However, this process took much longer than Alt envisioned, and only began, in its nascent form, with the creation of the monarchy (see esp. M. S. Smith 2001).

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served to mitigate some of the more intrusive aspects of centralization by “providing the unifying force of an elevated tradition and divine purpose, without which members of the participating group would not sense their common needs and identify strongly enough to bear its periodically unequal costs” (Adams 1974: 11; see also Rappaport 1971: 29; Wolf 1990: 594; Blanton 1998: 154; Mann 1986: 21–22, 37, 126–27). This very aim may be reflected in the sudden introduction of the Temple of El-berith in Judges 9, and the demarcation of Temple 7300 at Tell Balâṭah. As was observed in chap. 11 above, however, it did not take long for the Shechemites of Judges 9, who were assembled at the temple of their god, to reject the demands of Abimelech. When read in parallel with 1 Kings 12, these historical memories may have been retained in some Israelite circles to serve as a critique of and a warning against the innovations introduced by their Judahite kings.

1 Kings 12 The Rise of the Republic The death of Solomon marked the beginning of another important transition in Israel that highlights the fact that the ideology of its collective orientation was still firmly embedded in the consciousness of its constituents. The events surrounding this transition are recorded in 1 Kings 12, where Rehoboam, Solomon’s son and successor, seeks the kingship of Israel. Though Rehoboam had already replaced his father as the king of Jerusalem (vv. 6, 12, 13, 15, 18, 23, and 27), he was required to travel to Shechem, one of the historical sites of Israel’s collective identity, in order for the Israelite assembly to ratify his authority over Israel (vv. 1, 3). 39 This event in and of itself indicates that Israel maintained a unique identity, even during its participation in the Jerusalem-centered monarchy. As with “the early David accounts of rebellions under Absalom and Sheba,” this process of collective ratification “may reflect the old character of ‘Israel’ as an identity distinct from kings, an entity to be wooed and won” (Fleming 2012: 251). 39. Compare with David’s rise to power in 2 Sam 2:4 and 5:3 and the different entities that recognized Ishbaal’s kingship in 2 Sam 2:9. In opposition to this reading, Tadmor sees “in Rehoboam’s pilgrimage to Shechem an expression of goodwill on his part, an act of appeasement in an attempt to calm the growing dissatisfaction” rather than a necessary step for having his authority over Israel confirmed (Tadmor 1982: 253). If this was indeed the case, his “goodwill” was short lived indeed. De Vries contends that “all Israel” referred to in 1 Kgs 12:1 included Judah (De Vries 1985: 158). In so doing, he overlooks the important fact that Rehoboam, like David, was the king in Jerusalem before the Israelite convention and continued to be so after Israel rejected his authority.

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As I indicated above, David underwent a similar process in his struggle for power. Unlike David’s meeting with the collective body of Israelites, however, Rehoboam’s was characterized by discontent. The concerns the people expressed revolved around the effects of the aforementioned strategies of centralization. In 1 Kgs 12:4, they complain that Solomon had made their “yoke heavy” by imposing “hard service” upon them. Though this burden explicitly refers to the system of corvée labor that Solomon instituted (4:6; 5:13–17; 9:15; 11:28), it may also reflect the demands stemming from a system of taxation (4:7, 22, 27–28) and perhaps even conscription (4:4; 9:22) that he imposed. 40 In either case, before responding to their demand that he lighten their load, Rehoboam sought the advice of his Jerusalem-centered council. Though a later author may have expounded upon the details surrounding Rehoboam’s advisory meetings in Jerusalem in order to create “a ‘wisdom’ tale written in praise of Solomon’s trusted advisers” (Cogan 2000: 351), the fact that Rehoboam is remembered for having taken this short trip in the midst of his negotiations with the Israelites highlights a defining political dynamic at work. In effect, the “autonomous elites” of the Jerusalem council are set in opposition to the local authorities that constituted the Israelite collective. At this very moment, we can observe the forces of centralization, or the state, confronting the forces of decentralization, or those of the republic. As the narrative unfolds, we learn that the former prevailed—at least temporarily. Rather than making concessions to the collective, Rehoboam followed the advice of his own council, announcing that he would increase the demands placed upon Israel (1 Kgs 12:14). It seems that this was the point of illumination for the Israelite collective. They realized that their traditional authority had been co-opted by the Jerusalem-centered administration. In many ways, Rehoboam represented the culmination of the process of differentiation through centralization initiated by David and Solomon. He had rejected the old model in favor of the new. The ideology motivating this decision had immediate consequences. Because Rehoboam and his predecessors “refuse[d] to incorporate the needs and orientations of local leadership in the formulation of political goals” and attempted “to replace the beliefs and values of peripheral groups with the beliefs and values of the central ruling elite” (Yoffee 1988b: 13; see 40. If these innovations do not reflect authentic historical memories, one wonders why they would have been fabricated, particularly since they are the very things that led to the rejection of David’s House.

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also Blanton 1998: 137–40; Rappaport 1971: 33), 41 the Israelites refused to endorse Rehoboam’s authority, forcing him to withdraw to Jerusalem. The recalled response of the Israelites to Rehoboam is instructive in this regard. According to 1 Kgs 12:16, the members of the coalition made the following declaration: What share do we have in David? We have no inheritance in the son of Jesse! To your tents, O Israel! Look now to your own house, O David!

In this slogan of the revolution that evokes the Shechemites’ reaction to Abimelech in Judg 9:28, 42 one can observe an ultimate appeal to the traditional system of organization that characterized Israel before the formation of the Jerusalem-centered monarchy. One of the consequences of centralization in the ancient world was the creation of an “ethnic” identity symbolized by the house of the ruling father into which all who fell under his authority were integrated (see Kamp and Yoffee 1980: 88; Schloen 2001). Here, the members of the Israelite coalition reject this identity. Instead of associating themselves with the single “House of David  // son of Jesse,” they return to their multiple tents in order to restore their “image” of theopolitical orthodoxy. 43 The Return to Theopolitical Orthodoxy Though the Israelites immediately selected a new king (1 Kgs 12:20), Jeroboam’s early policies confirm the confidence the people had in 41. As Yoffee (2005: 143) explains it, these events are reminiscent of the collapse of the Akkadian empire: [S]tretching the resources of the city-states resulted in resistance on the part of the local rulers and traditional elite, who, in the end, were able to resist the demands of the central administration and bring it down. The collapse of the Akkadian state can therefore be ascribed to the failure of Sargon and his descendants to integrate the traditional leadership of the city-states into the new venture of the territorial state and its imperial ambitions.

42. Sheba, the son of Bichri, makes a similar declaration in 2 Sam 20:1 with the result that all the ʾîš yiśrāʾēl withdrew from David and followed him (v. 2). Here again, a distinction is made between Israel and Judah. In spite of Israel’s rebellion, v. 2 indicates that the people of Judah continued to follow David. See Tadmor 1982: 249–50. Contrast this with the declaration made by all the tribes of Israel when they assembled in Hebron to accept David’s authority. In this case, those assembled refer to themselves as David’s “bone and flesh” (‫ ;עצמך ובׂשרך אנחנו‬2 Sam 5:1). 43. This desire to integrate through common “ethnicity” may be seen in Hammurabi and Šamši-Adad’s appeal to an Amorite heritage and Sin-kašid of Uruk’s appeal to the Amorite Amnanum (see Kamp and Yoffee 1980: 90).

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Jeroboam’s loyalty to the core values of their political organization. After being granted authority, he established his capital at Shechem (v. 25), the center of Israel’s collective assembly. He also took a number of steps to reorganize Israel’s “national” religion. After “taking counsel” (‫;ויועץ‬ v. 28), he fashioned two golden calves that represented Yahweh and installed them in Dan and Bethel (v. 29). He then sponsored the construction of several other temples of the high places (‫ )ויעׂש את־בית במות‬and appointed priests from among all of the people (‫;ויעשׂ כהנים מקצות העם‬ 12:31; cf. 13:33). As I noted above, subsequent traditions have regarded most of these decisions as heretical, representing the ultimate source of Israel’s demise. 44 However, when read in light of Israel’s sociopolitical heritage, a significantly different picture emerges. They seem to reflect an immediate attempt to repeal the policies instituted by the Jerusalem-centered monarchy. By locating his capital in Shechem, the heart of the Israelite collective, Jeroboam reversed David’s policy of distancing himself and the organs of his administration from the traditional sites and sources of collective authority and identity. 45 Moreover, in contrast to the situation at Jerusalem, 44. While Jeroboam’s calves are not specifically mentioned in the judgments directed against him, Jeroboam is condemned for making for himself other gods and cast images (‫ )אלהים אחרים ומסכות‬in 1 Kgs 14:9. According to Hjelm (2004: 68), “[T]he building of the temples . . . and the appointment of priests” is what “1 Kgs 13.32–34 declares the sin of Jeroboam’s house, which carries with it ultimate rejection of that house” (see also Hjelm 2004: 61, 66–70). She goes on to conclude that the “calf motif is only an additional characterization” (2004: 68), referring to it as a reiteration of “the Exodus golden calf episode” (2004: 67). Matthews agrees that it “could be easily removed without ‘any loss of meaning’ ” (Matthews 2009: 162). He concedes that, if “the calves are allowed to remain, then the issue stressed is not idolatry but allegiance to or recognition of foreign cults” (2009: 162). Seeing the calves as an “additional characterization” is, however, problematic. It is difficult to explain why a later editor would introduce these important details, which presumably are intended to recall the episode in Exodus 32, without specifically referring to them in his condemnation of Jeroboam—or without referring to them again. Even if there are multiple points of continuity between the Exodus account and the one in 1 Kings 12, this says nothing about their historical development (see Aberbach and Smolar 1967). Though Hjelm appeals to the work of Aberbach and Smolar in this regard, I am confident that she would not agree with their conclusion that “Jeroboam deliberately patterned his religious changes upon a well-known cult which was traced back to Aaron” (Hjelm 2004: 134). It seems best, therefore, to regard them as original to the narrative. These calves posed a problem for those who used this narrative to cast a shadow on Jeroboam’s House because they were well aware of the bovine features associated with Solomon’s temple (Jer 52:20; 1 Kgs 7:25). Rather than condemning Jeroboam for this imagery, therefore, the editor generalized the problem in 1 Kgs 14:9. 45. Contrast this with Omri’s decision to locate the seat of his authority in Samaria (see Fleming 2012: 96–97). Though Jeroboam may have later taken up residence in Tirzah

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there is no indication that a state-sponsored religion was established at Shechem. Instead, Jeroboam chose to decentralize the worship of Yahweh by installing the images associated with him in cities located at a distance from Shechem and appointing priests from among all the people. These policies would have had two complementary effects that directly conflict with the apparent intentions of the state-sponsored cult in Jerusalem. While it would have reduced the king’s access to Yahweh, at least on the symbolic-spatial level, it would have made Yahweh more available to a much wider swath of the population. The notice that Jeroboam supported “the temples of the high places” is a bit more puzzling. The fact that the deity or deities with which they were affiliated are not mentioned makes it is difficult to determine his intentions in doing this. If they were dedicated to Yahweh, this may have represented yet another attempt to grant the Israelites a higher level of access to him. However, no mention of Yahweh is made with reference to them. Instead, Yahweh is only associated with the cult centers in Dan and Bethel. These observations suggest another, more likely alternative. In chap. 12, I pointed out that local religious practices among the early Israelites often occurred on high places. These practices were directed toward a variety of deities and/or ancestors, and played a significant role in defining one’s local identity. If the high places in 1 Kgs 12:31 corresponded to these locations, this may have represented an attempt to encourage the practice of local religion and, thereby, highlight and preserve the important role that local identity and the authority associated with it played within Israel. With all of these changes, the primary intention seems to have been an effort to restore and safeguard a policy of semiautonomy among the constituents of Israel predicated on a corporate code of governance. As Blanton explains, in “this strategy, lower-order subsystems are reconfigured so as to operate more autonomously.” The “outcome of semi-autonomy is a reduced degree of centralized control in society, the opposite of Flannery’s process of linearization” (Blanton 1998: 167). If this was indeed the case, Jeroboam would have also taken steps to oppose the process of promotion/ usurpation and reject the elevated image of Yahweh sponsored by David and Solomon. His decision to associate Yahweh with the form of a calf (‫ ;עגל‬v. 28) may in fact reflect this course of action. (1 Kgs 14:17), there is no indication in the text that he resided in Penuel after rebuilding it (1 Kgs 12:25; so Cogan 2000: 357–58; contra De Vries 1985: 162). Nevertheless, in support of this general reconstruction, Finkelstein (2013: 73) suggests that Jeroboam’s apparent decision subsequently to transfer his capital to Tirzah was motivated by his desire “to avoid the traditional center of Shechem with its old feuds and deeply rooted Late Bronze—Iron  I institutions, aristocracy, and traditions.”

428

Conclusion

As Fleming has pointed out, the evidence from the ancient Near East “indicates that the younger generation of gods with bull-like power may be portrayed as either calves or adult bulls, depending on the desired nuance.” However, “there is no evidence that the specific young form of the bull is ever attributed to the older, chief of the pantheon” (Fleming 1999: 25*). In other words, El’s identity as a bull and not a calf “is inseparable from his position at the head of the gods” (1999: 23*). The implications of these observations are clear. By associating Yahweh with a calf, Jeroboam was making a critical claim regarding his identity. The divine patron of Israel was neither a first-tier god nor the chief of the pantheon. For Jeroboam and those who followed his lead, the identification between Yahweh and El that occurred in Jerusalem was a form of false religion that had devastating social and political consequences. When read in light of Israel’s political heritage as it has been presented in this book, Jeroboam’s reform should not be interpreted as an act of heresy. Instead, it was an act of extreme conservatism and theopolitical orthodoxy that stemmed from the corporate code of political values upon which the earliest form of Israel was founded. Jeroboam restored to Israel a divine patron whose authority was limited and thereby made an explicit statement regarding the scope and role of human leadership within the Israelite republic. In the words of Cross, “Jeroboam and the tribes of the North seceded in the face of Solomonic innovations and remained the center of League traditions” (Cross 1973: 74), traditions that extended as far back as the earliest memories of Israel. 46 In this instance, the powers of decentralization prevailed. However, it would not take long before the strategies of centralization would again emerge in Israel. 47 46. Similarly, Tadmor contends that “Jeroboam was opposed to the house of David not merely on the social issue—the corvée—but that his profound distaste for Jerusalem, for its cult and its prevalent traditions was rooted in an alternative religio-cultic conception. The reform that he instituted . . . was also intended to eliminate the special cultic privileges of Jerusalem and its priest. To this end, the most ancient symbols were chosen” (Tadmor 1982: 255). 47. For a brief review of this dynamic, see Fleming 2012: 295–98 and 199–200.

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Yeivin, S. 1950 The Third District in Tuthmosis III’s List of Palestino-Syrian Towns. JEA: 51–62. Yoffee, Norman 1988a The Collapse of Ancient Mesopotamian States and Civilizations. Pp. 44– 69 in The Collapse of Ancient States and Civilizations, ed. N. Yoffee and G. L. Cowgill. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. 1988b Orienting Collapse. Pp. 1–19 in The Collapse of Ancient States and Civilizations, ed. N. Yoffee and G. L. Cowgill. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. 2005 Myths of the Archaic State: Evolution of the Earliest Cities, States and Civilizations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Younger, K. L. 1999 Early Israel in Recent Biblical Scholarship. Pp. 176–206 in The Face of Old Testament Studies: A Survey of Contemporary Approaches, ed. D. W. Baker and B. T. Arnold. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Younker, R. W. 1997 Late Bronze Camel Petroglyphs in the Wadi Nasib, Sinai. Near East Archaeology Society Bulletin 42: 47–54. Yurco, F. 1986 Merenptah’s Canaanite Campaign. Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 23: 189–215. 1990 3,200-Year-Old Picture of Israelites Found in Egypt. BAR 16/5: 20–38. 1991 Can You Name the Panel with the Israelites? Yurco’s Response. BAR 17/6: 54–61, 92–93. 1997 Merenptah’s Canaanite Campaign and Israel’s Origins. Pp. 27–55 in Exodus: The Egyptian Evidence, ed. E. S. Frerichs, L. H. Lesko, and W. G. Dever. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Zertal, A. 1985a The Cult Site on Mt. Ebal. Bamaḥane 23: 25–32. [Hebrew] 1985b Has Joshua’s Altar Been Found on Mt. Ebal? BAR 11/1: 26–43. 1986 How Can Kempinski Be So Wrong? BAR 12/1: 43, 49–53. 1987 An Early IA Cultic Site on Mount Ebal: Excavation Seasons 1982–1987. TA 13–14: 105–65, pls. 5–19. 1988a A Cultic Center with a Burnt-Offering Altar from the Early Iron Age I Period at Mt Ebal. Pp. 137–53 in Wünschet Jerusalem Frieden, ed. M. Augustin and K. D. Schunk. BEATAJ 13. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. 1988b The Water Factor during the Israelite Settlement Process in Canaan. Pp. 341–52 in Society and Economy in the Eastern Mediterranean (c. 1500– 1000 B.C.): Proceedings of the International Symposium Held at the University of Haifa from the 28th of April to the 2nd of May, 1985, ed. M. Heltzer and E. Lipiński. OLA 23. Louvain: Peeters. 1991 Israel Enters Canaan: Following the Pottery Trail. BAR 17/5: 28–49, 75. 1993 The Mount Manasseh (Northern Samarian Hills) Survey. Pp. 1311–12 in vol. 4 of NEAEHL.

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Index of Authors Adams, R. M.  40, 58, 86, 94, 95, 114, 116, 118, 124, 156, 157, 164, 253, 255, 257, 294, 295, 420, 422, 423 Adamthwaite, M. R.  12, 47, 58, 59, 65, 83, 88, 177, 182, 185, 186, 193, 203, 204, 205 Aharoni, Y.  5, 6, 21, 22, 24, 26, 27, 28, 36, 99, 181, 193, 194, 212, 214, 244, 266, 269, 271, 272, 285, 371 Aḥituv, S.  24, 244, 270, 274, 411 Ahlström, G. W.  112, 113, 264, 364, 418 Albright, W. F.  12, 58, 61, 70, 122, 181, 186, 187, 192, 194, 207, 214, 264, 266, 278, 279, 280, 281, 282, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288, 291, 292, 331, 350, 369, 370, 382, 388 Alt, A.  20, 34, 35, 36, 37, 43, 194, 266, 278, 282, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287, 372, 393, 395, 404, 420 Altman, A.  12, 63, 65, 143, 147, 151, 154, 351 Amit, Y.  307, 315, 329, 330 Anbar, M.  131 Andersen, F. I.  370 Artzi, P.  65, 66, 73 Assmann, J.  304, 305 Astour, M. C.  6, 12, 25, 151, 177, 273 Axelsson, L. E.  398 Bahn, P. G.  7, 13 Baines, J.  88, 178, 214, 253, 355, 414 Barnett, R. D.  276, 287 Becker, U.  317 Beckman, G.  72, 73, 88, 92, 93, 98, 104, 172, 173, 175

477

Bell, C.  56, 57, 396 Ben-Shlomo, D.  411 Ben-Tor, A.  66, 211, 212, 214, 358, 359, 392 Benz, B. C.  114, 399 Bienkowski, P.  111, 273 Bietak, M.  267, 273, 275, 276, 297 Blanton, R. E.  11, 54, 55, 57, 66, 86, 92, 164, 178, 229, 247, 253, 254, 255, 256, 300, 355, 356, 357, 384, 390, 396, 397, 399, 402, 412, 414, 416, 419, 423, 425, 427 Bloch, M.  118, 396 Block, D.  334 Bluedorn, W.  311, 314, 315 Blum, H.  398 Boling, R.  223, 228, 233, 238, 289, 311, 313, 316, 320, 323, 325, 329, 333, 345, 352, 353, 354, 357, 360, 369, 372, 373, 378, 380, 388, 390 Bowman, R. G.  311 Braudel, F.  35 Braun, D. P.  118, 381 Brettler, M.  307 Bright, J.  329 Broshi, M.  297 Bryce, T. R.  154, 275 Buccellati, G.  124, 152, 181 Bull, R.  222, 225 Bunimovitz, S.  25, 33, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 68, 99, 116, 151, 181, 225, 227, 229, 234, 241, 244, 246, 248, 258, 266, 267, 268, 274, 293, 294, 297, 298 Burney, C. F.  313, 320, 329, 368, 370, 373, 375, 377

478

Index of Authors

Callaway, J. A.  392 Campbell, E. F.  33, 36, 58, 162, 181, 186, 192, 194, 199, 207, 213, 214, 215, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, 232, 233, 234, 235, 237, 239, 240, 255, 345, 346, 352, 354, 355, 357, 367 Carneiro, R. L.  413 Casey, E.  358, 359 Castelbajac, I. de  311, 314, 317, 321, 352 Castillo, L. J.  239, 240, 255, 355, 356, 420 Cathcart, K. J.  310, 394 Chambon, A.  347 Chaney, M. L.  289 Charpin, D.  121, 122, 128, 154, 155, 320 Chiera, C.  114 Cifola, B.  276 Cogan, M.  424, 427 Coogan, M.  369, 394 Cooper, L.  118, 156, 157, 229, 241, 412 Coote, R. B.  289, 290, 291 Craigie, P. C.  369, 388 Cross, F. M.  383, 388, 392, 394, 395, 398, 420, 428 Crüsemann, F.  310, 329 Cundall, A. E.  307 Dalley, S.  163 David, A. R.  154 Davies, G.  329, 330, 331 Davis, J. J.  287 Delitzsch, F.  368, 369, 370 DeMarrais, E.  229, 239, 240, 255, 355, 356, 420 Dever, W. G.  7, 111, 221, 222, 265, 285, 289, 290, 291, 292, 295, 297, 409 De Vries, S. J.  423, 427 Dietrich, M.  103

Dietrich, W.  416 Dijk, J. van  272, 273 Dobbs-Allsopp, F. W.  398 Dodgshon, R. A.  84 Dothan, M.  269 Dothan, T.  267 Driver, S. R.  369 Durand, J.-M.  107, 119, 121, 122, 128, 154, 155, 320 Earle, T.  239, 240, 255, 355, 356, 420 Edel, E.  35 Edelman, D.  264, 265, 364, 375 Ehmann, D.  121 Eisenstadt, S.  13, 50, 85, 86, 164, 178, 239, 253, 254, 355, 416, 418, 420 Ember, M.  112 Emerton, J. A.  317 Esse, D. L.  297 Falkenstein, A.  162 Fallers, L. A.  11 Faulkner, R. O.  273 Faust, A.  7, 23, 134, 239, 264, 267, 268, 272, 274, 292, 361, 373 Feiler, W.  388 Feinman, G. M.  13, 58, 84, 91, 95, 112, 141, 142, 164, 182, 229, 230, 252, 253, 384, 410, 411, 412, 413 Fensham, F. C.  316 Finkelstein, I.  1, 7, 9, 11, 36, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 68, 99, 111, 113, 116, 118, 123, 150, 155, 177, 181, 186, 187, 188, 190, 191, 192, 194, 215, 225, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 242, 243, 244, 246, 250, 266, 277, 278, 287, 293, 294, 295, 296, 297, 298, 299, 304, 308, 309, 312, 324, 347, 358, 361, 394, 395, 396, 408, 409, 410, 411, 427 Flannery, K. V.  13, 14, 51, 52, 62, 85, 228, 229, 240, 254, 325, 355, 394, 419, 427

Index of Authors Fleming, D.  9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 18, 49, 50, 51, 55, 61, 66, 70, 72, 78, 82, 83, 84, 87, 89, 90, 96, 97, 98, 101, 106, 108, 109, 110, 116, 119, 120, 121, 122, 124, 125, 127, 128, 129, 130, 132, 135, 136, 150, 154, 155, 156, 157, 159, 162, 163, 174, 177, 182, 190, 191, 205, 238, 239, 240, 241, 247, 249, 250, 251, 252, 255, 256, 301, 303, 304, 312, 317, 321, 323, 328, 340, 351, 356, 362, 363, 367, 374, 375, 377, 380, 383, 394, 396, 406, 416, 417, 418, 423, 426, 428 Foster, B.  52 Fowles, S. M.  118, 119 Fox, R. G.  413 Franken, H. J.  372, 373 Freedman, D. N.  320, 370 Frick, F.  370 Fried, L. S.  178, 254, 355 Fried, M.  117 Fritz, V.  289, 311, 317 Gardiner, A.  275 Garelli, P.  385 Garstang, J.  182, 204 Gaster, T.  373 Geertz, C.  86 Gelb, I. J.  26, 53, 125, 156 Gellner, E.  117 Geus, C. H. J. de  291 Giddens, A.  8, 9, 11, 13, 14, 17, 18, 44, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 92, 116, 117, 118, 240, 247, 251, 301, 324, 342, 343, 381 Giveon, R.  6, 23, 25, 112, 113, 133, 151, 272, 273 Goelet, O.  264 Goldwasser, O.  269, 276 Gonen, R.  26, 33, 224, 225, 229, 232, 233, 267, 370 Gophna, R.  297 Gordon, R. P.  394

479

Goren, Y.  26, 143, 150, 152, 153, 177, 187, 188, 189, 191 Görg, M.  6, 265, 394 Gosden, C.  13 Gottwald, N. K.  12, 52, 111, 278, 289, 290, 291, 292, 372 Grabbe, L. L.  8, 12, 13, 51, 108, 112, 181, 266, 275, 277, 290, 364, 377, 385, 389, 390, 411, 420 Grayson, A. K.  51 Greenstein, E. L.  101, 103, 107, 319 Gross, W.  310, 312 Guillaume, P.  311, 388 Hachmann, R.  26 Hall, J. M.  362 Hallo, W. W.  163 Halpern, B.  316, 317, 324, 325, 327, 329, 330, 336, 389, 390 Hansen, M. H.  9, 50, 249, 259 Harris, R.  131 Hasel, M. G.  7, 24, 112, 113, 125, 133, 264, 265, 363, 364 Hayes, J. H.  33, 229, 328 Heffelfinger, K. M.  10, 317, 318, 325, 329, 330, 331 Heimpel, W.  129 Helck, W.  6, 26, 27, 36, 73, 145, 271, 275, 388 Helms, S.  214 Heltzer, M.  126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 133 Hendel, R.  305, 369, 408 Hentschel, G.  310, 311, 312, 320 Herr, L. G.  235 Hess, R. S.  388 Higginbotham, C.  267, 270, 276 Hjelm, I.  263, 264, 364, 426 Hodder, I.  7 Hoffmeier, J. K.  7, 265, 364 Holladay, J. S.  392 Hopkins, D. C.  267 Hornung, E.  4

480

Index of Authors

Horowitz, W.  47, 88, 187, 194, 200, 208, 242 Huehnergard, J.  203, 204 Huxley, J.  116 Izre'el, S.  171 Jacobsen, T.  114, 163 James, A.  154, 267 Joannès, F.  18 Johnson, G. A.  39, 41, 112, 412 Jones, A.  362 Jones, S.  292, 362 Kafadar, C.  117, 251 Kallai, Z.  266 Kamp, K. A.  12, 13, 116, 292, 362, 425 Kaufman, H.  157 Keil, C. F.  368, 369, 370 Kempinski, A.  214, 218, 289, 395 Kenyon, K. M.  33, 229, 313, 410 Kessler, R.  36 Kestemont, G.  171 Khazanov, A. M.  116, 123, 124, 134, 155, 156, 157, 251, 287 Khoury, P.  117, 251 Killebrew, A. E.  12, 23, 26, 134, 267, 270, 272, 277, 290, 292, 361, 362 Kitchen, K. A.  7, 23, 24, 133, 166, 264, 265, 269, 272, 364, 410 Klengel, H.  143, 147, 151, 156, 351 Knapp, A. B.  267 Knauf, E. A.  398 Knudtzon, J. A.  58, 69, 171, 182, 195, 204 Kochavi, M.  269, 289, 371, 372, 410 Kostiner, J.  117, 251 Kouchoukos, N.  125 Kratz, R. G.  311, 314 Lacheman, E. R.  133 Lapidus, I.  116, 251 Lasine, S.  307

Leach, E.  117 Lehman, E. W.  50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 85, 86, 91, 247, 253, 416, 418, 419 Lehmann, G.  112, 410, 411 Lemaire, A.  285, 316 Lemche, N. P.  13, 26, 27, 67, 100, 101, 102, 103, 106, 107, 108, 112, 113, 115, 118, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 129, 230, 231, 289, 294, 299 Leonard, A.  26 Levin, C.  308 Lichtheim, M.  6, 275 Liverani, M.  12, 18, 19, 20, 25, 32, 58, 65, 74, 108, 116, 152, 191, 273 London, G.  292, 297 Loretz, O.  103 Loud, G.  392 Maceachern, S.  362 Machinist, P.  327 Maeir, A.  212 Malamat, A.  45, 212, 246, 258, 321, 336, 384, 390 Mallon, A.  212 Mann, M.  18, 19, 39, 50, 53, 54, 55, 57, 58, 85, 89, 141, 157, 164, 241, 246, 247, 253, 255, 257, 381, 394, 395, 396, 397, 402, 418, 419, 420, 423 Marcus, J.  9, 13, 57, 58, 95, 101, 103, 107, 141, 249, 319 Marfoe, L.  11, 12, 41, 43, 50, 51, 58, 66, 85, 92, 99, 116, 156, 158, 182, 229, 248, 252, 257, 291, 381, 413, 414 Margalith, O.  263 Martin, J.  310, 311, 321, 325, 327, 329, 332, 345, 351, 352, 372, 378, 380 Master, D. M.  11, 51 Matthews, V.  426 Mayes, A. D. H.  321, 336 Mazani, P.  368 Mazar, A.  14, 113, 181, 233, 244, 296, 297, 298, 368, 370, 372, 373, 395,

Index of Authors Mazar, A. (cont.) 408, 409, 410, 411, 416, 417, 418, 419 Mazar, B.  212, 214, 215, 349, 387 Mazar, E.  411 McCarter, P. K.  347, 348, 349, 369, 385, 390 McGeough, K. M.  12, 52, 53 McGovern, P. E.  267 Mendelsohn, I.  59, 63, 65 Mendenhall, G.  12, 66, 111, 122, 278, 287, 288, 289, 290, 292, 300, 382 Mercer, S. A. B.  12, 182, 186, 195, 204 Mettinger, T. N. D.  398, 417, 421 Meyers, C.  370 Meyers, E.  370 Miglio, A.  319, 320 Milik, J. T.  357, 388 Miller, J. M.  33, 229, 328, 349 Miller, R. D.  40, 41, 113, 181, 266, 274, 292, 321, 325, 338, 372 Millet-Albà, A.  120 Milstein, S. J.  311, 312, 316, 317, 318, 325, 327, 330 Möhlenbrink, K.  284 Monroe, L.  280 Moor, J. C. de  375 Moore, G. F.  311, 313, 320, 322, 325, 340, 345, 352, 360, 368, 370, 372, 373, 375 Moran, W.  4, 31, 58, 60, 63, 69, 70, 75, 77, 78, 83, 91, 98, 99, 104, 136, 144, 145, 146, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153, 162, 163, 164, 166, 168, 171, 172, 174, 177, 181, 184, 185, 186, 189, 190, 191, 192, 194, 195, 199, 201, 203, 205, 206, 207, 268, 322, 323, 369, 391 Morris, E. F.  8, 21, 23, 24, 25, 27, 28, 29, 30, 33, 98, 112, 133, 145, 148, 149, 156, 166, 181, 193, 194, 200, 208, 229, 267, 268, 269, 270, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276

481

Murnane, W. J.  25, 149, 152, 153, 156, 168, 171, 193, 194, 267, 271 Naʾaman, N.  19, 26, 28, 29, 30, 32, 34, 36, 37, 38, 39, 42, 43, 44, 45, 68, 75, 84, 96, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 113, 135, 142, 145, 149, 150, 163, 174, 177, 181, 186, 187, 188, 189, 191, 192, 194, 195, 198, 208, 212, 225, 228, 234, 243, 246, 247, 250, 256, 265, 267, 294, 297, 310, 311, 312, 313, 314, 315, 316, 317, 320, 321, 323, 324, 332, 334, 341, 342, 345, 351, 352, 369, 372, 377 Nelson, R. D.  112, 113 Niditch, S.  307, 308, 321 Nissen, H.  116, 251 Nora, P.  358 Noth, M.  27, 266, 278, 279, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287, 329, 382 Notley, R. S.  21, 28, 43, 98, 112, 113, 115, 137, 153, 181, 190, 191, 201, 212, 324, 364, 377, 418 Nougayrol, J.  162, 275 Oeste, G. K.  13, 311, 315, 318, 321, 327, 329, 330, 331 Ofer, A.  7 Olson, D.  329 Oren, E.  267, 269, 274 Panofsky, E.  305 Pardee, D.  162 Parsons, T.  85, 253 Pinch, G.  211, 217 Pioske, D.  358 Plog, S.  118, 381 Porath, Y.  297 Porter, A.  12, 50, 51, 53, 54, 56, 57, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 121, 122, 124, 125, 136, 155, 156, 157, 213, 217, 230, 236, 239, 240, 251, 252, 301, 361, 374, 381, 384, 412 Portugali, J.  299

482

Index of Authors

Posener, G.  211, 215, 216 Postgate, J. N.  117, 251 Prag, K.  212 Rainey, A. F.  21, 26, 28, 36, 43, 60, 63, 70, 75, 83, 98, 100, 101, 102, 103, 105, 106, 107, 108, 112, 113, 115, 136, 144, 145, 146, 153, 154, 162, 181, 186, 190, 191, 194, 195, 199, 201, 203, 204, 206, 207, 212, 268, 319, 322, 324, 342, 364, 377, 418 Rappaport, R. A.  118, 254, 255, 355, 356, 357, 396, 419, 423, 425 Ray, P. J.  35, 297, 368 Redford, D. B.  21, 23, 24, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 33, 111, 133, 181, 211, 229, 232, 242, 263, 272, 397, 398 Redman, C. L.  13 Redmount, C. A.  26, 112, 279, 290, 292, 376 Renan, E.  305 Renfrew, C.  7, 13, 33, 39, 229 Reviv, H.  36, 182, 185 Richard, S.  231 Richter, W.  310 Roberts, J. J. M.  369, 419, 421 Robertson, P. O.  368, 370 Rogerson, J. W.  292 Ross, J. F.  36, 181 Rowe, A.  193, 194 Rowton, M. B.  12, 13, 14, 44, 114, 115, 121, 124, 234, 246, 252, 298, 299 Rubiato, M. T.  358 Salzman, P. C.  118, 157 Sandars, N. K.  275 Sanders, W. T.  8, 228 Sandmel, S.  51 Schloen, D.  12, 50, 51, 55, 60, 64, 65, 175, 266, 280, 290, 291, 292, 300, 372, 374, 375, 384, 414, 425 Schneider, T.  6 Schniedewind, W.  348, 349

Schöpflin, K.  310, 311, 312, 315, 317, 327 Schorr, M.  130 Schulman, A. R.  154 Schwartz, G. M.  157, 182 Seger, J. D.  224 Sellin, E.  218, 223 Seow, C. L.  386, 387, 397 Service, E. R.  13, 117 Sethe, K.  211, 212, 264 Shanks, M.  7 Shiloh, Y.  392, 397 Silberman, N. A.  358 Simons, J.  22, 27 Singer, I.  24, 26, 96, 143, 151, 152, 153, 159, 171, 267, 269, 273, 274, 351, 364, 380, 381 Smith, M. S.  43, 106, 163, 258, 308, 368, 369, 370, 375, 383, 386, 387, 388, 392, 394, 398, 421, 422 Smith, R. L.  370 Soggin, A. J.  310, 311, 312, 313, 316, 317, 320, 321, 329, 332, 333, 340, 341, 345, 349, 352, 357, 360, 368, 372, 373, 375, 378, 379, 388, 395, 399, 417 Spalinger, A.  35, 112, 113, 122, 215, 271, 273 Spiegelberg, W.  264 Stager, L. E.  11, 51, 60, 111, 112, 220, 222, 225, 228, 266, 276, 289, 290, 291, 292, 295, 297, 341, 350, 352, 353, 354, 357, 364, 368, 369, 370, 374, 375, 413 Stein, G.  182 Steinberg, N.  289, 293, 302, 318, 325, 328, 329 Steindorff, G.  264 Steiner, M.  212 Stieglitz, R. R.  177 Stordalen, T.  310 Strange, J.  38, 40, 43, 44, 45, 99, 116, 246 Suriano, M.  316

Index of Authors Sweeney, M. A.  307 Szuchman, J.  119, 123 Tadmor, H.  326, 328, 403, 412, 423, 425, 428 Teissier, B.  163 Theis, C.  6, 265 Thomas, J.  362 Thompson, T. L.  231, 263, 264, 289, 364 Toombs, L. E.  33, 181, 198, 199, 218, 219, 220, 221, 224, 225, 228 Toorn, K. van der  10, 11, 162, 163, 166, 181, 185, 220, 347, 356, 367, 384, 385, 386, 387, 388, 389, 390, 391, 392, 393, 398, 422 Tournay, R.  375 Upham, S.  13 Ussishkin, D.  221, 225, 233, 270, 277, 295, 392, 409 Van Seters, J.  333 Vaux, R. de  7, 26, 244, 265, 331, 347, 385 Veen, P. van der  6, 265 Velikovski, I.  72 Wansbrough, J.  65 Ward, W. A.  113 Weber, M.  54, 57, 292 Weinfeld, M.  369 Weinstein, J. M.  6, 21, 26, 32, 33, 224, 229, 267, 276, 355 Weitzman, S.  375 Welter, G.  218, 223

483

Whitelam, K. W.  289, 290, 291, 362 Wilson, J. A.  214 Wilson, K.  244 Wilson, R. R.  318 Wiseman, D. J.  101, 103, 133, 319, 342 Wolf, E. R.  55, 58, 86, 141, 142, 247, 418, 423 Wolff, S. R.  220 Wood, B. G.  276 Woolley, L.  255, 355 Wright, G. E.  33, 36, 162, 182, 219, 224, 226, 233, 234, 235, 237, 346, 352, 354, 357, 367 Wright, G. R. H.  219 Wright, J. L.  372 Wrong, D. H.  52 Würthwein, E.  322 Yadin, Y.  220, 392, 408 Yassine, K.  392 Yee, G. A.  307 Yeivin, S.  26, 27 Yoffee, N.  11, 12, 13, 14, 66, 85, 86, 88, 92, 116, 141, 157, 164, 165, 178, 229, 252, 253, 255, 292, 335, 355, 356, 357, 362, 374, 384, 414, 417, 418, 419, 425 Younker, R.  287 Zertal, A.  7, 12, 33, 43, 181, 224, 225, 229, 231, 233, 242, 285, 293, 294, 296, 355, 395 Zevit, Z.  387, 392, 395 Zwickel, W.  395

Index of Scripture Hebrew Bible Genesis 4:17 344 6:19–20 311 7:2–3 311 14:19 386 19:22 344 20:15 334 26:33 344 31 390 33:19 350 34  306, 324 34:20–24 324 36:32 344 41:46 341 49:25 388 50:25 377 Exodus 12:12 341 15  109, 393 15:3 398 15:15 394 15:16 383 17:8–16 375 25:7 390 29:5 390 32 426 35:9 390 Leviticus 8:27 390 19:20 282 Numbers 11:29 393

Numbers (cont.) 20–21 333 21:29  393, 396 22–24 392 23:21 392 23:22 392 24:6 392 24:8 392 25:3 387 26 287 26:29 377 27:1 377 32:34 387 32:39–40 377 33 288 33:8 341 34:7–11 108 36:1 377 Deuteronomy 2 333 3 370 3:5 369 3:9 387 4:3 387 25:27–28 375 26:14 389 33:2 398 Joshua 1–12  279, 284 11:17 387 12:7 387 13:5 387 13:17 387

484

Joshua (cont.) 13:31 377 15:10 386 17:1 377 17:2  316, 343, 371 17:3 377 17:15 291 18:9 341 18:27 385 19:14 385 19:18 385 19:22 386 19:33 385 19:38 388 21:16 386 Judges 1:2 398 1:4 398 1:13–14 386 1:17 344 1:23 344 1:33  386, 388 3 160 3:3 387 3:9–11 386 3:10 398 3:13 375 3:28 398 3:31  387, 388 4  363, 377, 394 4:7 398 4:9 398 4:9–10 396 4:10  371, 377

Index of Scripture Judges (cont.) 4:14 398 4:17 371 4:23 398 5  3, 109, 369, 370, 371, 372, 373, 374, 375, 377, 378, 379, 383, 393, 394, 398, 405, 406 5:2–3 383 5:3 396 5:4–5 398 5:5 383 5:6 387 5:7  368, 370, 383 5:8 394 5:8–9 383 5:11  383, 396 5:13 383 5:14  375, 377 5:14–18 383 5:17 375 5:23 398 5:30 330 6  315, 377 6:1 398 6:3 375 6:11  331, 361, 389 6:13–14 378 6:19 389 6:25–26 388 6:25–32  314, 315 6:32 316 6:34 398 6:35 395 7 315 7:1 316 7:2 398 7:7 398 7:8 328 7:9 398 7:12 375 7:14  389, 398

Judges (cont.) 7:17 347 7:23–24  331, 361 7:31 389 8  314, 315, 329, 334, 363, 372, 373, 374, 375, 377, 378, 390, 403, 406 8:1  331, 361 8:1–2 375 8:3 398 8:4–21  312, 316 8:6  355, 398 8:8 385 8:12 329 8:13 389 8:15 378 8:16–17 372 8:18  329, 330 8:18–19 378 8:20 330 8:21 330 8:22 328 8:22–27 330 8:24 330 8:27  315, 330, 390 8:29  316, 389 8:29–31 325 8:29–9:21 312 8:30 331 8:30–31 317 8:30–32  311, 317 8:31  318, 331 8:32 389 8:35 316 9  3, 182, 185, 287, 308, 309, 310, 311, 312, 314, 315, 316, 317, 318, 319, 320, 321, 322, 323, 324, 325, 326, 327, 328, 334, 335, 336, 337,

485 Judges 9 (cont.) 338, 339, 343, 350, 351, 352, 353, 354, 355, 356, 357, 358, 360, 363, 364, 365, 371, 372, 374, 380, 386, 387, 394, 402, 403, 404, 423 9:1  317, 325 9:1–2 318 9:1–3 313 9:1–6  312, 318 9:1–25 312 9:2  313, 318, 323 9:3  318, 325, 351 9:3–4 323 9:4  314, 319, 332, 352, 402, 407 9:4–5 314 9:5 325 9:6  312, 313, 320, 324, 325, 333, 344, 352, 402, 407 9:7 313 9:7–21 318 9:14 407 9:16 314 9:18 313 9:20  312, 313 9:22  321, 338 9:25  340, 351 9:26  337, 341, 380, 403 9:26–54  312, 318 9:27  344, 352 9:27–29 339 9:28  317, 318, 319, 341, 350, 403, 407, 425 9:28–29 339 9:30–31 339 9:31  337, 339

486 Judges (cont.) 9:33 314 9:34–49 344 9:39–41 340 9:42 340 9:42–45 337 9:46  346, 352 9:46–47 337 9:46–49 313 9:50–54 325 9:51 371 9:55  321, 328, 338 9:55–57 318 10–12 361 10:3–5 334 10:5 349 10:10 349 10:12 375 11  333, 334, 396 11:2 332 11:3 315 11:5–10 332 11:6 332 11:9 398 11:11 332 11:12  332, 333 11:12–28 333 11:21 398 11:27 399 11:29 398 11:32 398 12  334, 361, 374, 375, 378, 406 12:1 334 12:2 334 12:3 398 12:15  344, 375 13:25 398 14:6 398 15:14 398 17–18  390, 391 17:1 389 17:5  385, 390 17:13 390

Index of Scripture Judges (cont.) 18  379, 381 18:2  344, 371 18:6 391 18:18–20 391 18:19 392 18:24  390, 391 18:29  344, 350, 371 18:30 389 18:31 397 19 379 19–20 348 19–21 349 19:13 348 19:15  348, 349 19:22  348, 379 20  349, 377, 379, 380, 396 20–21 363 20:1  150, 377, 396 20:1–2 395 20:2 396 20:4 349 20:5  349, 379, 396 20:8 396 20:9 349 20:10 349 20:10–11 348 20:11  328, 349 20:13  349, 379 20:14  349, 379 20:14–15 349 20:17 328 20:18 379 20:19–21 349 20:20 328 20:22 328 20:25 349 20:26 379 20:28 398 20:29–31 349 20:31–33 348 20:33  328, 349, 387 20:34 349

Judges (cont.) 20:35 398 20:36 328 20:36–37 349 20:37–38 349 20:38 328 20:39 328 20:40 349 20:41 328 20:42 328 20:43 349 20:45 380 20:48  328, 349 21  340, 346, 396 21:1  328, 396 21:5 396 21:8 396 21:8–10 396 21:9–12 371 21:12 365 21:19  363, 396 21:25 341 1 Samuel 1  386, 397 1–2 399 1:1  386, 389 1:9 397 1:17 333 1:19  341, 347 2:11  341, 347 2:18 390 2:24 393 3:20 150 4  346, 347 4:3 378 4:16–18 347 6 370 6:9 386 6:14 386 6:18 369 7 396 7:1 386 7:11 328

Index of Scripture 1 Samuel (cont.) 7:17 341 8:4  341, 347 8:4–22 327 9  347, 386, 389 9:1 386 9:4 341 9:5 389 9:14 348 10  348, 349, 385, 412 10:5  349, 386 10:17 396 10:17–24 333 11  325, 417 11:1 371 11:1–2 412 11:4 348 11:5–7 395 11:7  396, 412 11:15 328 12:1–25 327 12:2–3 349 12:11 315 13:2–3  348, 349 14 412 14:10 398 14:44 413 14:50 413 15:5 344 15:32–33 330 15:34  341, 347, 348 16:6 386 16:13  341, 398 19  348, 390 19:18 341 19:22 341 19:42–44 328 20 390 20:14 341 20:29 390 22 332 22:1 378 22:2  325, 342

1 Samuel (cont.) 23:1–12 342 27:8 344 28 390 28:1 390 30:19–20 330 30:22 330 2 Samuel 1:12 393 2:1–4 415 2:3 344 2:4  326, 412, 423 2:9  326, 423 2:15 341 3:3 320 3:10 150 4 326 4:2–7  326, 379 5:1 425 5:1–3 133 5:3  320, 326, 327, 333, 412, 415, 423 5:5  326, 344 5:6 417 5:6–7 417 5:9 312 5:20 387 5:21 417 6:12–19 418 6:20 315 8 307 8:15–18 417 8:16–18 417 8:17–18 418 9:4 377 9:5 379 11:21  315, 317, 321, 346, 371 12:30 330 13 320 13:23 387 14:16 378

487 2 Samuel (cont.) 15:1–6 415 15:2 56 15:10 415 15:13  328, 415 15:16–18 396 16:13 417 16:15  328, 415 16:18  328, 415 17:1–4 415 17:8 417 17:11  150, 416 17:14 328 18:9 373 19:9 378 19:42 417 20 342 20:1  379, 425 20:1–2 328 20:23–26 417 20:24 417 20:25–26 418 21:17 417 23:8–39 417 23:27 316 24 417 24:2 150 24:13 334 24:15 150 1 Kings 1:33 373 4 417 4:2 419 4:2–6 417 4:4 424 4:6 424 4:7 424 4:7–19 418 4:9  386, 418 4:22 424 4:25 150 4:27–28 424 5–8 418

488 1 Kings (cont.) 5:7 418 5:13–17 424 5:27–30 417 7:25 426 8:36 334 9:15  312, 408, 424 9:22 424 9:24 312 10:6 334 10:29 96 11:21 334 11:22 334 11:27 312 11:28 424 12  132, 254, 320, 324, 326, 327, 371, 406, 407, 417, 423, 426 12:1 423 12:1–16 133 12:4 424 12:6  326, 406, 418 12:12 326 12:13 326 12:14 424 12:15 326 12:16 425 12:18 326 12:20 425 12:23 326 12:25  426, 427 12:27 326 12:28 426 12:29 426 12:31  426, 427 13:32–34 426 13:33 426 14:9 426 14:17 427 15:22 349 16:24 344 20:30–42 330

Index of Scripture 2 Kings 3 307 4:22–24 373 7:6 96 10:6–7 316 12:21 312 14:11 386 14:13 386 16:7 378 20:6 378 23:8  347, 349 Isaiah 8:8 334 8:21 341 10:29 348 14:20 334 14:25 334 21:7 373 29:3 320 33:22 56 33:23 330 38:6 378 Jeremiah 2:7 334 12:7 378 15:21 378 16:18 334 26:6 347 26:9 347 41:5 406 43:14 386 48:46  393, 396 52:20 426 Ezekiel 17:12 394 26:5 334 32:8 334 32:21 394 38:11 369 38:16 334 47:18 406

Hosea 3:4 390 6:9 406 Joel 1:6 334 3:2 334 Micah 4:10 378 Habakkuk 3:3 398 3:14  369, 370 Zephaniah 3:4 315 Zechariah 2:8  369, 370 9:9 373 Psalms 9:5 56 45:7 394 50:6 56 60:6 406 68:9 398 68:13 330 71:4 378 72 56 75:8 56 82 420 85:1 334 108:7 406 Job 41:17 394 Esther 9:19  368, 369 1 Chronicles 1:43 344

Index of Scripture 1 Chronicles (cont.) 2:21 377 2:55 397 5:8 387 6:59 386 6:67 406 7:14–17 377 7:18 316 8:33 387 8:34 387 9:39 387

1 Chronicles (cont.) 9:40 387 11:8 312 11:28 316 15:27 390 20:2 330 27:12 316 2 Chronicles 6:27 334 7:28 406

489 2 Chronicles (cont.) 9:5 334 10:1 406 13:7 315 25:21 386 25:23 386 25:28 177 28:18 386 30:6 378 32:5 312 32:11 378

Index of Other Ancient Sources Akkadian Texts Alalakh Tablets (AT) 2 133 48  101, 102 154 101 181  101, 102, 130, 138, 319, 342, 351 188  101, 102, 103 Autobiography of Idrimi  101, 103, 107, 133, 319, 320, 325, 332, 342 Code of Hammurabi  52 Cuneiform Texts (CT) IV 31a  130 IV 39d  130 VIII 10b  130 VIII 14a  130 VIII 21d  131 XLV 59  130 El-Amarna (EA) 1  83, 86, 92, 93, 174 2 86 3 86 4 86 7 86 8  80, 86, 101, 104, 105, 110, 174 9  86, 102, 105 10 86 11 86 14 II  101, 110 15 86 16 86 19 86 28 86

El-Amarna (EA, cont.) 30  86, 101, 104, 110, 174, 250 31  86, 174 33  86, 103 34  86, 103 35  86, 103 36  26, 101 37 103 38  86, 103, 172 39  86, 103, 172 40  86, 172, 206 41 172 42 172 43 172 45  83, 92, 93 47 174 51  86, 98, 110, 173 52  80, 86, 107 53  32, 72, 80, 83, 86, 88, 92, 107, 110, 174, 185, 206 54 80 55  31, 61, 80, 107, 110, 172, 184, 388, 391 56 174 57 107 59  72, 86, 88, 104, 107, 108, 248, 340 60  31, 143, 144, 145, 174, 176, 184, 334 61  143, 176, 334 62  69, 93, 143, 144, 145, 147, 148, 167, 168, 177, 197, 253

490

El-Amarna (EA, cont.) 63 143 64  143, 144, 188 65  143, 144, 145 67 136 68  58, 110, 144, 145, 148, 151 69 58 70  146, 165, 174, 176, 186 71  58, 93, 135, 143, 153, 159, 162, 164, 168, 256 72 69 73  58, 79, 87, 89, 135, 136, 143, 145, 148, 151, 152, 153, 159, 160, 161, 165, 176, 209, 235, 245, 251, 253, 256, 328, 351, 367, 376 74  58, 68, 79, 87, 89, 93, 135, 136, 143, 145, 146, 151, 153, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 203, 209, 217, 235, 248, 249, 253, 255, 256, 328, 334, 344, 349, 351, 367, 376, 379, 395, 400, 402

Index of Other Ancient Sources El-Amarna (EA, cont.) 75  58, 69, 79, 87, 88, 89, 92, 96, 110, 143, 146, 148, 152, 159, 160, 161, 206, 209, 248, 253, 328, 351, 367, 402 76  58, 78, 89, 93, 135, 136, 143, 145, 146, 151, 153, 159, 162, 164, 165, 235, 249, 255, 256, 367, 376 77  32, 58, 61, 63, 89, 136, 151, 185, 248, 376 78  58, 93, 110, 143, 153 79  58, 89, 93, 136, 143, 151, 153, 159, 160, 161, 165, 376 80  58, 143 81  58, 59, 60, 62, 63, 64, 65, 79, 88, 89, 93, 110, 135, 143, 145, 146, 151, 153, 159, 160, 188, 235, 248, 351, 367, 376 82  58, 62, 110, 135, 143, 146, 147, 159, 176, 248 83  31, 58, 89, 111, 144, 146, 151, 165, 166, 249, 376 84  58, 76, 89, 143, 145, 148, 161, 165, 249, 376 85  58, 59, 60, 61, 63, 64, 65, 89, 110

El-Amarna 85 (cont.) 135, 136, 143, 146, 151, 162, 164, 176, 256, 376 86  58, 110, 154 87  58, 76, 153, 164, 165, 249, 255, 376 88  49, 58, 60, 67, 68, 69, 76, 80, 88, 89, 92, 96, 136, 143, 151, 152, 153, 165, 174, 186, 255, 367, 376 89  58, 73, 79, 80, 93, 143, 248, 351 90  58, 74, 89, 93, 110, 111, 143, 146, 151, 153, 165, 166, 255, 351 91  58, 74, 89, 135, 151, 159, 162, 164, 165, 176, 256, 351 92  31, 58, 143, 146, 174, 186 93  58, 143, 146 94  58, 143, 146, 151, 159, 165, 351 95  58, 143, 154, 166, 176 98 93 99  30, 31, 32, 75, 144, 185 100  31, 69, 70, 87, 93, 110, 144, 146, 168, 248, 253, 340 101  75, 76, 90, 153, 154, 156, 157, 166, 169, 176, 193, 205, 206, 245, 249, 251, 252, 256, 376 102  31, 58, 77, 146, 166

491

El-Amarna (EA, cont.) 103  31, 58, 69, 70, 93, 145, 152, 166, 176 104  58, 74, 78, 88, 89, 111, 136, 145, 147, 151, 167, 168, 169, 208, 209, 235, 249, 376 105  58, 60, 76, 78, 110, 145, 167, 168, 188, 208, 376 106  58, 62, 148, 248 107  58, 145, 169, 174 108  32, 58, 110, 154, 167, 169 109  58, 88, 101, 104, 110, 168, 169, 174, 186 112  32, 58, 61, 63, 110, 145, 191 113  31, 147 114  5, 58, 61, 63, 64, 65, 75, 76, 110, 147, 170, 176, 193, 248, 249, 376 115 176 116  32, 58, 60, 61, 68, 79, 89, 110, 136, 151, 170, 188, 206, 235, 376 117  31, 58, 61, 63, 79, 89, 136, 144, 146, 148, 154, 169, 171, 176, 235, 376 118  31, 58, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 67, 74, 80, 89, 111, 145, 147, 148, 151, 168, 169, 172, 184 119  58, 203, 206 121  58, 89, 167, 169

492

Index of Other Ancient Sources

El-Amarna (EA, cont.) 122  58, 113, 133 123  31, 58, 113, 144 124  58, 163, 170 125  31, 58, 61, 63, 93, 110, 248, 249 126  26, 58, 93, 110, 146, 147, 167, 168, 174 127  58, 136, 176 129  58, 93, 167 130  58, 61, 63, 64 131  58, 101, 110, 144 132  58, 135, 154, 163, 170 133 58 134  58, 61, 171, 248 136  58, 65, 146, 170, 174, 248, 322, 323 137  31, 58, 66, 101, 110, 144, 146, 147, 203, 248, 322, 369 138  58, 61, 62, 63, 66, 68, 76, 83, 92, 93, 146, 147, 154, 170, 174, 178, 205, 206, 248, 249, 254, 322, 323, 324, 335, 342, 355, 376, 402, 417, 139  66, 69, 71, 82, 83, 86, 87, 88, 92, 96, 152, 168, 171, 174, 178, 186, 248, 328, 335, 340 140  66, 69, 71, 82, 83, 86, 87, 88, 92, 96, 110, 148, 152, 161, 168, 171, 173, 174, 178,

El-Amarna 140 (cont.) 186, 248, 328, 335, 340, 417 141  31, 32, 49, 144 142  31, 49, 144, 176 143  32, 185 144  31, 32, 79, 89, 136, 144, 145, 151, 235, 249, 376 145  32, 176 147  31, 32, 87, 144, 146, 170, 174, 186, 200 148  32, 89, 101, 110, 136, 151, 174, 185, 186 149  31, 32, 74, 76, 144, 163, 170, 174, 193, 203, 209, 249, 367, 376 151  31, 32, 93, 101, 110, 144, 163, 169, 174, 176, 184, 185 153  31, 144 154  32, 174 155  148, 206 156 176 157  145, 148, 171, 206 158  175, 176, 206, 334 159  177, 268 160  32, 98, 110, 177, 185, 250, 268 161  32, 98, 110, 171, 173, 174, 176, 177, 184, 185, 250, 254, 268 162  31, 101, 107, 110, 146, 172, 173, 175, 176, 184, 185, 206, 211, 254, 344

El-Amarna (EA, cont.) 164  110, 173, 176, 177, 334 165  31, 110, 144, 173, 176, 177 166  110, 173, 176, 177 167  110, 173, 176, 177 168  32, 173, 185 169  98, 110, 132, 159, 173, 177, 235, 251, 254, 380, 381 170  110, 173, 174, 176, 177, 254, 334 171 177 173  32, 110, 185 174  110, 176 175  83, 86, 92, 110, 176 176  83, 86, 92, 110, 176 177 176 178  31, 83, 144, 176 179  74, 89, 111, 176 182 176 183 176 184 176 185  74, 89, 111, 135, 151, 176, 342 186  74, 89, 90, 111, 135, 151, 176 187  31, 32, 144, 176, 185, 250 189  31, 92, 110 191  31, 32, 145, 176 193  31, 32, 144 195  31, 48, 131, 136, 145, 164, 190, 251, 351 197  27, 49, 62, 77, 78, 83, 86, 90, 92, 110, 169, 174,

Index of Other Ancient Sources El-Amarna 197 (cont.) 178, 186, 249, 376, 417 198 49 199 32 201  31, 32, 49, 145, 176 202  31, 32 203  31, 32, 49, 145, 176 204  31, 32, 49, 145, 176 205  31, 32, 145 206  31, 32, 145 207  89, 151 209  31, 144 215  89, 151 216  32, 149 217 149 218 149 220  31, 144, 176 221  31, 144 222  32, 185 224  32, 185 225 176 226 32 227  31, 49, 87, 94, 144, 174 228  31, 49, 94, 144, 174, 176 230 149 231  31, 144 232  49, 80, 176 233  49, 80, 176 234  31, 49, 80, 146, 176 235 + 327  31, 32, 144, 185 237  182, 188, 189 238 31 241  49, 176 242  32, 49, 80, 185 243  31, 80, 144, 189, 190

El-Amarna (EA, cont.) 244  29, 32, 80, 182, 188 245  29, 31, 45, 80, 99, 182, 184, 186, 188, 189, 190, 201, 245, 366 246  182, 190, 192, 198, 206 248  45, 78, 80, 189, 248, 402 249  32, 182, 191, 199, 200, 201 250  29, 31, 99, 100, 110, 182, 186, 191, 192, 199, 200, 201, 245, 251, 283 251 146 252  182, 184, 185, 187, 391 253  172, 182, 183, 184, 187, 199 254  31, 32, 83, 182, 184, 185, 187, 190, 199, 351 255  28, 32, 182, 185, 187, 193 256  29, 31, 87, 94, 108, 110, 174, 182, 185, 186, 187, 406 257  189, 190 258  189, 190 259  188, 189, 190 263  182, 200 264 194 265 194 266  32, 185, 190, 194 267 75 268  30, 32, 185 271 196

493

El-Amarna (EA, cont.) 272  89, 136, 151, 376 273  49, 83, 89, 135, 136, 147, 151, 195, 196, 207, 270, 376 274  49, 74, 89, 151, 195, 196, 270 279  91, 195, 196, 208, 270 280  76, 91, 182, 195, 196, 198, 201, 249, 270 281  91, 270 282 270 283  196, 270 284  26, 89, 111, 196, 270 285  23, 31, 150, 204, 268 286  23, 26, 75, 89, 91, 150, 151, 186, 195, 196, 198, 203, 207, 376 287  23, 30, 32, 75, 83, 90, 91, 92, 93, 150, 182, 185, 195, 198, 198, 201, 204, 205, 206, 240 288  23, 30, 31, 32, 74, 89, 91, 110, 111, 150, 151, 185, 196, 198, 203, 204, 207, 208 289  32, 47, 83, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 147, 149, 150, 151, 180, 182, 183, 185, 186, 195, 197, 201, 202, 203, 204,

494

Index of Other Ancient Sources

El-Amarna 289 (cont.) 205, 206, 207, 210, 114, 228, 230, 242, 243, 251, 309, 342, 344, 351, 364, 376, 405 290  75, 83, 84, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 136, 150, 151, 186, 194, 195, 196, 198, 201, 204, 205, 207, 249, 259, 326, 376, 402 292  31, 32, 61, 144, 149 293  31, 75, 144 294  31, 93, 144, 150 296  93, 149 297  113, 133, 195 298  83, 176, 195, 196, 198 299  49, 176, 195, 196, 198 300  149, 186, 195, 196 301  30, 32, 185 306 186 309  30, 32, 185 314  31, 32, 49, 144, 185 315  31, 49, 144 317  146, 172, 184 318 113 319  49, 176 320 176 321  49, 75, 176 322  49, 75, 176 323  31, 32, 144, 185

El-Amarna (EA, cont.) 324 32 325  31, 32, 144, 185 326  31, 144 328  49, 149 329  49, 176 331  31, 32, 144, 185 335 196 337  32, 149, 206 362 154 363 176 364  31, 144 365  32, 99, 110, 192, 250, 366 366  31, 80, 151, 165, 196, 201 367 176 369  32, 185 370  31, 144, 176 378  176, 195 Emar VI/3 no. 446: 107–8  101 Enuma Elish  421 KAV 2 ii 17  205 Mari A. 489  154, 380 1098 134 1146  62, 115 1215 320 2730  134, 155, 380 2760  154, 212 2988+A.3008 373 3236 373 ARM I 68  377 IV 76  380 VI 15  127 VI 44  127

Mari, ARM (cont.) VI 51  128 VI 76  155 VII 133  126 VII 165  126 VII 210  127 VII 225 = 226  129 VII 227  120 VII 311  120 VIII 11  128, 131 VIII 78  130 VIII 85+  120 VIII 103  130 VIII 210  126 IX 291  127 X 156  384 XIV 104+  65. 71 XXIII 428  127, 128, 132 XXIII 429  127, 128, 132 XXIV 53–63  120 XXIV 53  120 XXIV 61  120 XXVI 5  129 XXVI 24  162, 217, 256, 349, 367, 379 XXVI 158  129 XXVI 171  129 XXVI 241  127, 131 XXVII 44-bis XXVIII 44  320 XXVIII 46  323 PBS VIII/2 223  130 Prism inscription of Tiglath-pileser I  173 YOS XIII 395  131

Texts from Ugarit KTU 1.2 I 19, 35  163

KTU (cont.) 1.2 II 18–19, 35, 36–37 398

KTU (cont.) 1.4 I 7  398 1.4 II 25  398

Index of Other Ancient Sources KTU (cont.) 1.5 VI 24  398 1.6 I 6, 52  398 1.10 III 12, 14  398 1.12 I 39  398 1.14 I–III  356 1.14 II 35  178 1.14 III 49, 51  356 1.16 V 1.16 VI 44–50  55, 56 1.17 I  356 1.17 V 4–8  356 1.17 V 6–8  56

KTU (cont.) 1.19 I 19–25  356 1.19 I 21–25  56 4.96.7 102 RS 1.002  162, 259 18.05 179 18.25 179 18.134 179 19.28 179 19.182 179 20.162 8–11, 20–23  380

495

RS (cont.) 20.162 25–26  381 20.182 A+B 6, 8  102 1957.1 177 PRU II 43  388 II 61  388 V 106  179 V 121  179 V 159  179 VI 81  179 VI 126  179

Alphabetic Inscriptions Azatiwada (KAI 26 A III) 386 Mesha (KAI 181)  307, 386, 387

Panamuwa (KAI 215)  316

Tel Dan (KAI 310)  316, 410

Egyptian Texts Ahmose Pennekhbet  Autobiography 6, 25, 151, 272 Amenhotep, son of Hapu Inscription 25 Amenhotep II Karnak stele  6, 22, 24, 25, 151, 272 Memphite stele  6, 22, 24, 25, 151, 272 Topographical list  22 Amenhotep III Topographical list  6, 23, 25, 133, 134, 151, 272, 397 Book of the Dead  6 Execration Texts  45, 66, 211, 212, 215, 216, 217, 218, 309, 350

Khu-Sebek stele  214, 215, 217, 218, 230, 309, 350 Merenptah Amada inscription  269 Stele  6, 7, 46, 263, 264, 265, 269, 271, 272, 278, 280, 292, 298, 301, 302, 328, 338, 362, 363, 364, 383, 404 Papyri P. Anastasi I  27, 179, 244, 369 P. Anastasi IIIA  364 P. Anastasi IV  364 P. Anastasi V  29 P. Anastasi VI  23, 134, 272, 397

Papyri (cont.) P. Harris I  23, 30, 134, 272, 275, 276, 397 P. Turin B  29 Ramesses II Berlin Statue Pedestal Relief 21687  6, 265 Pi-Ramesses obelisk  272 Tanis II stele  275 Tell er-Retabah stele  272 Ramesses III ​​ Annals ​​275 Seti I Annals  25, 151 Karnak relief  6, 25, 271 Topographical lists  27

496

Index of Other Ancient Sources

Seti I (cont.) Undated Beth-Shean stele  111, 112, 151, 271 Year 1 Beth-Shean stele  108, 193, 194, 268, 269, 271

Sinuhe  122, 216 Thutmose II Annals 29 Thutmose III Annals  6. 21, 25, 151, 272, 273

Thutmose III (cont.) Topographical lists  6, 21, 22, 27, 36 Thutmose IV Thebes stele  22