The Making of Empire in Bronze Age Anatolia: Hittite Sovereign Practice, Resistance, and Negotiation 9781108491105

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THE MAKING OF EMPIRE IN BRONZE AGE ANATOLIA

In this book, Claudia Glatz reconsiders the concept of empire and the processes of imperial making and undoing of the Hittite network in Late Bronze Age Anatolia. Using an array of archaeological, iconographic, and textual sources, she offers a fresh account of one of the earliest well-attested imperialist polities of the ancient Near East. Glatz critically examines the complexity and ever-transforming nature of imperial relationships, and the practices through which Hittite elites and administrators aimed to bind disparate communities and achieve a measure of sovereignty in particular places and landscapes. She also tracks the ambiguities inherent in these practices – what they did or did not achieve, how they were resisted, and how they were subtly negotiated in different regional and cultural contexts. claudia glatz is Reader in Archaeology at the University of Glasgow. She currently directs the Sirwan Regional Project, alongside a cultural heritage initiative combining archaeological practice with the creation of new museum spaces and educational resources in the Kurdish Region of Iraq. Her previous fieldwork focused on the Turkish Black Sea region in the context of the Cide Archaeological Project.

THE MAKING OF EMPIRE IN BRONZE AGE ANATOLIA HITTITE SOVEREIGN PRACTICE, RESISTANCE, AND NEGOTIATION CLAUDIA GLATZ University of Glasgow

University Printing House, Cambridge cb2 8bs, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, ny 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, vic 3207, Australia 314–321, 3rd Floor, Plot 3, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi – 110025, India 79 Anson Road, #06–04/06, Singapore 079906 Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge. It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781108491105 doi: 10.1017/9781108867436 © Cambridge University Press 2020 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2020 A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library. isbn 978-1-108-49110-5 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

For Thierry

CONTENTS

List of Figures

page ix

Acknowledgements

xi

1

1

E MP IR E I S A L W A Y S I N T H E M A K I N G

part i empire at home

45

2

PLACING EMPIRE

51

3

SO V E R E I G N P E R F O R M A N C E

10 0

part ii on empire’s edges

119

4

THE PONTIC SHATTER ZONE

125

5

NESTING FAULTS

152

6

A R R E S T IN G G E O G R A P H I E S – A M B I G U O U S E D GE S

175

part iii empire of things

195

7

DI S C I P L I N E A N D D I F F É R E N C E

197

8

PLAIN THINGS

228

9

CEASING EMPIRE

2 64

10 CONCLUDING THOUGHTS

301

Works Cited

305

Index

363

vii

FIGURES

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

The imperial networks of the Late Bronze Age Near East and East Mediterranean page 2 Map showing extent of Daesh’s control in Iraq and Syria in December 2014 and 2015 8 Salman Höyük East in Çankırı province looking north 53 Overview of settlement continuity and size distributions in the Hittite central region 58 Merchant house in the ka¯ rum settlement at Kültepe-Kanes 59 Plan of Hattusa 68 View north-west over the Lower City of Hattusa 70 Postern gate and glacis at Yerkapı 73 Südburg inscription of Suppiluliuma II 73 Settlement landscapes to the north and east of Hattusa 78 Comparative site plans of ˙Inandıktepe Level IV, Hüseyindede 80 Tepesi, Maş at Höyük, Ortaköy-Sapinuwa, and Kuş aklı-Sarissa Late Bronze Age settlement landscapes to the south of Hattusa 92 Stone-lined grain storage facility at Kaman-Kalehöyük 95 ˙Inandıktepe relief vase 105 Hüseyindede relief vase 106 Distribution of relief vases, vase fragments, and bull terracotta 107 Libation scene with beak-spouted jug, Schimmel Rhyton 108 Relief blocks from Alacahöyük showing a festive procession and offering scene 111 North Anatolian sites and Hittite toponyms 126 View south towards the Pontic mountains, Cide, Kastamonu 127 Dumanlı Kale 135 View north towards Salman Höyük East and West and the Ilgaz range 136 Plan of two consecutive temple structures, gate, underground passage, 139 and spring chamber at Oymaa˘gaç Höyük Vessels from the Kınık metal hoard on display in Kastamonu Museum 142 Okçular Kale in the Cide district of Kastamonu 145 Late Bronze Age wheel-made and painted pottery from Oymaa˘gaç Höyük 147 Late Bronze Age north-central Anatolian and Okçular ware 148 examples from Cide, Kastamonu Monumental gate at Hattusa flanked by lion sculptures 157

ix

x

LIST OF FIGURES

29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64

Late Bronze Age landscape monuments Akpınar (Sipylos) relief Hieroglyphic Luwian aedicula of great prince Kupaya at Suratkaya ˙Imamkulu relief Hanyeri relief Relief of Muwatalli II at Sirkeli 1 Hattusili III and Puduhepa’s landscape monument at Fıraktın Taş çı A and Taş çı B The Yalburt pool complex Iconographic comparison of Late Bronze Age landscape monuments Karabel A relief Satellite image of the Euphrates and adjacent regions Key sites mentioned in the text Impressions of the (a) official and (b) private seal of Arma-ziti Main sites with north-central Anatolian text and glyptic finds Anatolian tablet and sealing practice: Letter of Tudhaliya IV sent to Ugarit (RS 17.159) ‘Syrian’ tablet format at Emar, and ‘Syro-Anatolian’ or ‘Free’ tablet format at Emar Selection of seals and seal impressions from southern and south-eastern Turkey The Late Bronze Age remains at Tarsus Tablet sealed with signet ring of Taki-Sarruma Examples of Emar glyptic State-led homogenisation of life: The Park Hill Estate, Sheffield Oberstadt bowl repertoire and percentages of each bowl type in the Upper City rim sherd assemblages from Oberstadt 3 and Oberstadt 2 Distribution of pre-firing potmarks in Late Bronze Age Anatolia Summary table of pre-firing potmarks North-central Anatolian pottery types associated with feasting contexts Drinking scene and cooking pots depicted on the ˙Inandıktepe vase Ceramic inventory of Rooms 1 and 6 of a recently excavated structure on the middle plateau at Hattusa Early Iron Age sites and monuments mentioned in the text Early Iron Age pottery from Büyükkaya Early Iron Age metal workshop on Büyükkaya Karahöyük-Elbistan stele with Luwian hieroglyphic inscription Kötükale inscription ˙Ispekçür stele and inscription Relief carvings lining the interior of the Lion Gate at Arslantepe Banquet and libation scene reliefs from the Water Gate at Carchemish

158 160 161 163 164 165 166 167 169 171 172 177 178 198 202 205 207 210 211 217 223 229 240 242 244 248 249 253 268 270 272 280 282 283 285 287

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book has been a long time in the making and I would like to express my gratitude to everyone who has lent their support. I hope that those of you, whose names I fail to mention, will forgive the omission. The first seeds for this book were planted many years ago by my late father, Peter Glatz, whose free adaptations of Homeric classics brought alive, what seemed at the time, a never-ending parade of Bronze Age ruins, perfumed in oregano and thyme, rhythmically dancing in the intense heat of childhood summers spent travelling in Turkey and Greece. The book’s academic roots began to take shape at UCL’s Institute of Archaeology, where lectures and discussions during my undergraduate and Masters degrees continued to nourish this enthusiasm for the Bronze Age Mediterranean and Near East, and first raised questions about human sociality, inequality, identity, and the ways in which power is negotiated and domination resisted that have remained central to my research. An essay question on Ugarit’s relationship with the Hittites, set by Karen Wright, and a course on the Hittite empire by David Hawkins had particularly lasting effects. My PhD thesis, which forms the basis of this book, naturally developed from these interests and took shape under the thoughtful guidance of Roger Matthews. I am deeply grateful for Roger’s support then and today, and for the opportunities he has placed in my way; one could not wish for a better mentor. Cyprian Broodbank was instrumental in shaping the direction of this research during discussions at UCL and through invaluable, as well as quite literally thorny lessons about landscape and archaeological survey on the island of Kythera. As a student and later post-doctoral researcher, I also benefitted from discussions with Todd Whitelaw, Bill Sillar, Clive Orton, David Wengrow, Stephen Shennan, James Steele, Anne Kandler, and Aimée Plourde. The collaborations forged as a post-doctoral researcher at the AHRC Centre for the Evolution of Cultural Diversity, even if evolutionary archaeology was never going to be my natural theoretical habitat, proved invaluable in developing alternative and complementary perspectives on some of the things and patterns discussed in this book. With my move to the University of Glasgow, I entered into another stimulating academic environment, one in which postcolonial theory is pubchat and the periphery always takes centre stage. Peter van Dommelen, xi

xii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Michael Given, and Andrea Roppa made me feel especially welcome, and it is their work on colonial encounters, the experience of the governed, and of human-landscape interactions which allowed me to develop further my ideas on Hittite imperialism, its encounters, and their landscape-dimensions. My PhD students, Francesca Chelazzi, Angela Massafra, Elsa Perruchini, and Neil Erskine, as well as postdoctoral fellow, Daniel Calderbank, doubled as occasional guinea pigs for ideas that ended up in this book; each in turn shaped more broadly my perspectives on different aspects of material culture, commensality, landscape, and ritual through their own varied and exciting research. A Leverhulme International Academic Fellowship provided much needed time to work on the manuscript in the expansive intellectual atmosphere of the Joukowksy Institute of Archaeology and the Ancient World at Brown University. I especially enjoyed continued discussions with Peter van Dommelen, who had moved there from Glasgow, Felipe Rojas, Miriam Müller, James Osborne, Müge Durusu-Tanrıöver, a fellow Hittite enthusiast, and Jen Thum, who studies landscape monuments in Egypt. A few years later I also had the pleasure of hosting Ömür Harmanş ah for a brief visit to Glasgow, where we had the chance to exchange ideas, among many other things, about Hittite landscape monuments. Revisions to this book were completed during another sabbatical, generously funded by a British Academy Mid-Career Fellowship. The majority of research for this book took place at desks and in libraries, and I am especially grateful to the staff of the British Institute at Ankara, in particular Lutgard Vandeput and Gülgün Girdivan, for their hospitality and institutional support. It also involved time in the field. Sharon Steadman and Ron Gorny generously hosted me on the Çadır Höyük excavation project for two seasons and allowed me to experiment with their Late Bronze Age pottery, as did Nicholas Postgate at Kilise Tepe. Much of the data for, and thinking about, Chapter 4 was gathered during work on the Late Bronze Age finds from Project Paphlagonia with Roger Matthews, and during the Cide Archaeological Project, an archaeological field-survey on the central Turkish Black Sea coast that I co-directed with Bleda Düring and Tevfik Emre Şerifo˘glu. Roger Matthews, Douglas Baird, Hugh Elton, Jürgen Seeher, Andreas Schachner, Marie-Henriette Gates, Nicholas Postgate, Dirk-Paul Mielke, Rainer Czichon, Jörg Klinger, Ulf-Dietrich Schoop, David Hawkins, Dominque Beyer, Tayfun Yıldırım, Mirko Novák, and Horst Ehringhaus generously shared unpublished information about their ongoing fieldwork and granted permissions to reproduce images. Image permissions were also granted by the British Museum, the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, and the Institute for the Study of War.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Ulf-Dietrich Schoop deserves a special mention for his heroic reading of an entire first, and, therefore, very ragged draft of the book and for his invaluable observations. Michael Given also read and commented on several chapters. Ya˘gmur Heffron and Mark Weeden patiently answered numerous ‘archaeological’ questions on Hittite texts and epigraphic conventions. Two anonymous reviewers provided critical as well as extremely constructive comments that have been invaluable in revising the manuscript; revisions, which I hope ironed out some of its earlier flaws. I would also like to thank Beatrice Rehl and Matthew Rohit, CUP editors, Beth Morel, who did the copyediting, and Ayla Çevik, who worked on the index. Lorraine McEwan helped digitise seal and landscape monument illustrations. Friends, who supported and put up with me through some or all of this process, include Aphrodite Sorotou, Toby C. Wilkinson, Silvia Ferrara, Carol Bell, Birger Ekornåsvåg Helgestad, Michael Seymour, Mette Marie Hald, Karen Radner, Susanna Harris, and Rachel Opitz. My parents, Doris and Peter Glatz, I thank for their support and unfaltering encouragement of what not all would consider a wise career choice. Two wee ones, Aemilia and Raphaël, interloped and first delayed in their very own delightful ways this book’s completion. More recently, they have helped hastened it along with their delight in all things ancient (Horrible Hittites?), and through their effortless cultural multiplicity and creative hybridity that prompt constant re-thinking on how culture ‘works’. And finally, none of this would have been possible without the love and patience of my husband, Thierry Berger, who cheerfully endured the countless times that work on this book absented me, mentally or physically, from our family, and who provided encouragement when it was most needed. This book is dedicated to him. Some of the data and ideas presented here have been previously published elsewhere. Ideas which inform the overall structure of this book and the main archaeological subjects of inquiry were published in a summary article in the Journal of Anthropological Archaeology [28 (2009) 127-41]. An abbreviated section in Chapter 5 was published in the Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research [361 (2011) 33-66]. Parts of Chapter 8 have appeared in the Journal of American Archaeology [vol. 116 (2012) 5-38], the Journal of Archaeological Science [37 (2010) 1348-1358] and in the volume Evolutionary and Interpretive Archaeologies, edited by Ethan Cochrane and Andrew Gardner.

xiii

ONE

EMPIRE IS ALWAYS IN THE MAKING

To endeavour to think the state is to take the risk of taking over (or being taken over by) a thought of the state. Pierre Bourdieu (1994, 1) We have to study power outside the model of Leviathan, outside the field delineated by juridical sovereignty and the institution of the State. We have to analyze it by beginning with the techniques and tactics of domination. Michael Foucault (2003, 34) Power is constitutive of the story . . . . In history, power begins at the source. Michel-Rolph Trouillot (1995, 28)

This book is about the making of empire, in a historical sense and, more significantly, in its focus on the practices, places and things, and their evolving interconnections with people, that together produce, challenge, and, above all, continuously transform imperial networks and their constituent communities. In the chapters that follow, I will sketch – through detailed analyses of material and textual sources – a critical anthropological perspective on the Hittite imperial network of Late Bronze Age Anatolia (c. 1650–1180 BCE, Figure 1), one of the earliest archaeologically well-attested expansive polities of the ancient Near East. To do so, I will track the relationships and practices through which Hittite elites and administrators hoped to bind together disparate communities and achieve a measure of sovereignty, the ambiguities inherent in these practices, their messy results, un- and under-achievements. I will 1

2

EMPIRE IS ALWAYS IN THE MAKING

1 The imperial networks of the Late Bronze Age Near East and East Mediterranean (base map: ESRI Topographic Data (Creative Commons): World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water)

also chart the unexpected consequences of particular practices aimed to produce specific forms of power; the ways in which they became arrested by physical and mental geographies; and how they were resisted, or more subtly negotiated, by a variety of not-so-willing subjects. The study of empire and imperialism is not only a pastime for archaeological and historical scholarship. It is also a thoroughly political act, and one fundamental to recognising the making of our own imperial presents and futures. For it is comparative histories, fashioned from critical readings of textual and archaeological information, and the conceptual disentanglement of empire from civilisational origin myths that furnish us with the cognisance and vocabulary to identify, critique, and counteract current imperialist and nationalist narratives, their simple stories, and the exclusionary behaviours they normalise and provoke. This book is, therefore, also about responsibility and relevance in a present that is at the same time neo-imperial, and, in light of the failing of globalisation as a project and ideology, also neo-nationalist in character. Both discourses appropriate ancient empires and associated concepts of civilisation, and selectively distil their materialities and complicated histories into simplified, binary stories about belonging and difference. At the same time, imperialism and imperial practices of rule and exploitation continue to take on a multitude of

EMPIRE IS ALWAYS IN THE MAKING

subtle and technologically new, but also unsettlingly familiar, forms that can be recognised, resisted, and prevented only through the cognition and narration of their relational and historical complexity and precarity. PRESENTS OF I MPERIAL PASTS

After urban civilisation, empire soon dawned in the plains of southern Mesopotamia, or rather a discourse of imperial desire.1 Over the next 5000 years, empire developed as the most common model of large-scale sociopolitical organisation, shaping the lives and deaths of hundreds of millions of people.2 And although European colonial powers may be things of the past, a more diffuse empire now emanates from the ambiguous but no less imperialist practices of the United States, those of its competitors, and collectives with at least partially analogous aspirations.3 The repertoire of this new imperialism is diverse and includes aggressive foreign and economic policies, varying strategies of cultural hegemony, surveillance, and data gathering, and what has been called ‘offensive humanitarianism’.4 (Re-)emergent from these practices has been an undeclared, or even vehemently denied, empire that appears at first glance incompatible and distinct from those of eras past, but which is in reality steeped deeply in long-term imperial tradition.5 Aspects of these new, and more dissipated, forms of empire include, for instance, China’s commercialist expansionism,6 while the European Union’s eastward expansion, its responses to economic and currency crises, and the falling out of love with the European project of civilisation have also brought into sharper focus the Union’s imperial tendencies.7 More recently still, digital forms of imperialism have emerged through the cyber-based control of (mis-)information flows, 1 2

3 5

6 7

To adapt Seth Richardson’s (2012, 4) very apt term. The British empire alone held sway over 458 million people, about one fifth of the world’s population then, and a quarter of the earth’s surface (Maddison 2001, 98, 242; Osterhammel 2010, 25; see also discussion in Dietler 2005, 50). Although, as James Scott (2017) recently pointed out, until the very recent past, many more people also lived at the margins, or altogether beyond the political, administrative, or ideological grasp of state and imperial institutions. 4 E.g. Hardt and Negri (2000). Thomas (2007); Porter (2016). Stoler (2006, 126-127), but see Hobsbawm (2003, 1), who has vehemently declined the usefulness of comparing current imperialist tactics with earlier forms of empire. As Lori Katchadourian (2016, xix-xxi) observed, there is also a noticeable increase in imperial terminology in the reporting of current affairs, including the use of ancient imperial terms to describe relationships of political dependency in the present. Zielonka (2007), for instance, recently characterised the EU as a neo-medieval empire organised around a polycentric system of government with overlapping jurisdictions, ambiguous borders, and divided sovereignties that encompass, and hope to harness, a bewildering cultural and economic heterogeneity. Others have described it as a ‘cosmopolitan empire’ built on an ideology of cooperation (Beck and Grande 2007, 61-67). Okeowo (2014); Beattie (2014). For a collection of critical essays, see e.g. Behr and Stivachtis (2016).

3

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EMPIRE IS ALWAYS IN THE MAKING

and the influencing of foreign elections.8 Corporate agro-colonialism is bankrolled, alongside other forms of resource imperialism, by, for instance, European and US development aid in Africa, and in other regions of the socalled Global South.9 In 2014 erupted an imperial project that was not part of the new, comparatively subtle, and often deliberately veiled imperialist tactics of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries CE. In contrast to these more or less disguised examples of neo-imperialism, the Islamic State’s (ISIS) or Daesh’s purported caliphate, while technologically savvy and the product of hypermodernity, resonates strikingly in its discourse and practice with imperial pasts more often the prerogative of archaeology and ancient history than current affairs and political science. This included the visceral immediacy of its biopolitics of terror, the self-publicised and expertly choreographed cruelty against people, things, and their pasts,10 and the unabashed honesty of its imperial intent. Daesh’s imperial realm, however, also manifested the patchy spatial structure of early imperial networks, their mostly unwilling publics, and with them the volatility of its ancient Near Eastern precursors. The example illustrates, as starkly as no other today, the acute relevance of studying empires and imperialisms in increasingly unequal and polarised, as well as environmentally and politically precarious, local and global presents. Forged in the cauldron of the West’s more openly aggressive military assaults on Afghanistan and Iraq in the name of counterterrorism and totalitarian regime change,11 and in Syria’s civil war, Daesh’s swift advance across the region, and the paradox of its chilling brutality and bureaucratic pedantry, made it seem to western onlookers as ‘one of the strangest states ever created’.12 To the student of imperial networks, however, it is less strange than disturbingly familiar: an empire in the making. I do not seek here to ascribe Daesh’s purported caliphate to a distant, barbaric past that exists outside our modern and allegedly civilised world, even if the group’s own hypermodernist propaganda machine hails it as the return to 8

9 Uffelman (2014). Cotula (2013); GRAIN and RIAO-RDC (2015). Archaeological commentaries, thus far, have centred on the extremist group’s strategies of cultural heritage destruction as effectively mediatised, material spectacles of power (Harmanş ah 2015a, 201-202; Katchadourian 2016; Shahab and Isakhan 2018), on its political and ideological roots and motivations (De Cesari 2015; Jones 2018), and on the politics of post-conflict reconstruction (Isakhan and Meskell 2019). 11 The discourse of terrorism is, of course, itself deeply enmeshed in imperial dynamics of power and knowledge (Said 1993, 209-310; Hardt and Negri 2000, 37). While ‘terror’ during the French Revolution held connotations of justice against a government that ruled by intimidation and violence, it also soon acquired its negative meaning that became dominant in the course of the nineteenth century. Terrorists in this context were individuals or groups resisting empire, be that the British or later the United States, and that could be used to further imperial interests through scapegoating and political victimage (Blain 2015, 161-163). 12 Cockburn (2016, 385). 10

EMPIRE IS ALWAYS IN THE MAKING

a seventh century CE golden age of Islamic unity and near-global dominance. Quite the contrary, Daesh is the product of the West’s more recent colonial and post-colonial meddling in the Middle East and Asia,13 while the group’s intent on empire-making presents, much like others in the past, an almost accidental afterthought that followed in the wake of its astonishingly rapid conquest of large parts of Iraq and Syria in the spring of 2014.14 And yet, Daesh’s violent and rapid rise to, as well as subsequent fall from, power, the incipient materiality and practice of its government, its ideology, and the punctuated cartography of its domination strikingly resonate with those of much earlier imperial networks, including the Hittite empire that forms the focus of this book. Academic abstraction may seem at first glance to draw a veil over the horrors of genocide, the concerted attack on the bodies and dignity of Iraqi and Syrian girls and women, and the re-institution of slavery that the group perpetrated along with the highly mediatised destruction of the region’s ancient and Islamic cultural heritage. I would submit, however, that a comparative approach allows us to engage with both the ancient and the hypermodern more profoundly. On the one hand, and most glaringly, this crass and all too recent example reminds us of what has been largely neglected in recent scholarship of colonial and imperial networks and tacitly accepted as the unsavoury underbelly of civilisation, and the identities of those who claim descent from one such formation or another. Daesh’s unspeakable acts of violence and degradation have shocked a global audience to the core, but they are not so different from the terror and loss experienced by other colonial and imperial subjects, as Frantz Fanon in The Wretched of the Earth makes abundantly clear.15 Ancient imperial regimes did not share in the religious fervour of Daesh’s purported caliphate, but Hittite royal annals, as we shall see in Chapter 2, gleefully recount how annual military campaigns razed dozens of cities and deported hundreds of captives. Later Assyrian propaganda revelled in the specifics of bodily suffering inflicted upon Assyria’s enemies. As Ashurnasirpal II (c. 884–859 BCE), for instance, recounts: I erected a pile in front of his gate; I flayed as many nobles as had rebelled against me (and) draped their skins over the pile; some I spread out within the pile, some I erected on stakes upon the pile, (and) some I placed on stakes around the pile. I flayed many right through my land (and) draped

13 14

15

McDonald (2014). In March 2014, Daesh’s sophisticated Twitter-based media machinery crowd-tested the idea of proclaiming a caliphate by calling for it; an official declaration only followed on 29 June (Stern and Berger 2015, 157). Fanon (2001 [1961]).

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their skins over the walls. I slashed the flesh of the eunuchs (and) of the royal eunuchs who were guilty. I brought Ahi-iababa to Nineveh, flayed him, (and) draped his skin over the wall of Nineveh.16

Assyrian palace relief carvings similarly depict the torture and killing of captured enemies, while the otherwise idyllic garden banquet scene from the North Palace of Ashurbanipal (c. 668–627 BCE) at Nineveh shows the severed head of Teumman, king of Elam, hanging from a tree.17 Assyria’s imperial cruelty and propaganda, as those of other historical empires, continue to be celebrated today and not only by terror groups; most recently and strikingly, for instance, this occurred in a British Museum exhibition called ‘I am Ashurbanipal, King of the world, King of Assyria’.18 The exhibition, which dramatically displayed objects and wall reliefs from Assyria’s capital cities located in modern-day Iraq, in 2018 and 2019 coincided with Britain’s ongoing identity crisis and concomitant nostalgia for its own, and long-lost, imperial grandeur at a time when the country struggled to reach a consensus on its place and role in Europe. Fittingly, Ashurbanipal’s exhibition was sponsored by British Petroleum,19 both a type fossil of Britain’s colonial past in Iraq, and a posterchild of today’s corporate imperial manifestations. On the other hand, the analysis of Daesh’s practices of domination and political production, their material means and outcomes challenges empirically the extremist group’s discourse of supreme power that its brutal propaganda projects. Beyond the spreading of terror and the primeval responses it aimed to elicit, Daesh developed over time a rhetoric of universal control rooted in the origin myth of seventh century CE Muslim domination of a region stretching from Spain to India. Both origin myth and the group’s own discourse, however, outstretched by far their capabilities to manifest such a realm, to implement lasting government, and to persuade brutalised subjects of their legitimacy. This too was the case for ancient imperial phenomena. There is ample evidence for the ways in which Daesh sought to aggressively socialise a compliant citizenry. Most publicised among them were the stringent behavioural rules, dress codes, and educational measures, as well as the disproportionate punishments for their transgression. Out of the rubble of the major cities wrestled from the terrorist group’s grip also have begun to emerge the materialities of its imperial project, and its temporary workings. The swaths of administrative documents left in the wake of its demise in Mosul, for instance, reveal an incipient state apparatus that ‘collected taxes and 16 18 19

17 Translation by Grayson (1976, 199). Barnett (1976; pl. LXV). www.britishmuseum.org/about_us/past_exhibitions/2019/ashurbanipal.aspx; Brereton (2018). This led to protests outside the British Museum, which pointed out the multiple layers and cynical colonial nature of the exhibition and its sponsors (Shukla 2019).

EMPIRE IS ALWAYS IN THE MAKING

picked up the garbage. It ran a marriage office that oversaw medical examinations to ensure that couples could have children. It issued birth certificates . . . to babies born under the caliphate’s black flag. It even ran its own D.M.V.’20 Unlike the US invasion in 2003 and much like earlier imperial regimes, Daesh did not replace existing bureaucrats, but forced their collaboration to both keep local public services running, and apparently in some cases improve them, as well as to keep track of fines and punishments. These bureaucrats were also responsible for the extraction of tax revenue, the most significant amounts of which stemmed from local agricultural dues and the taxing of daily commerce, rather than, as had been internationally assumed, from sales in oil. The iconic emblem of its state of terror, the black flag, flew not only over its tanks and marked the sites of its atrocities, but was also transfigured into a technology of bureaucratic authority: an iconic symbol, not unlike those reproduced by the seals of ancient great kings and their administrators, that was printed on a fledgling empire’s stationery, the multitude of forms and leaflets with which it sought to reproduce itself as legitimately sovereign. From 2014 to 2017, Daesh exerted varying degrees of domination over an area roughly the size of Britain and a population of around 12 million people, nested within and bridging the national sovereignties of Iraq and Syria. It also at some stage nominally held sway over small parts of Libya, Nigeria, and the Philippines, as well as over colonies (wilayat) in 13 other countries.21 Daesh never modelled itself as a traditional nation state, but it is because of western observers’ reluctance to ascribe to it a state-like status in the Westphalian sense,22 and the international aura of legitimacy that such a recognition would have carried, that we can track from detailed diachronic maps the emergent and ever-morphing spatiality of its attempt of empire-making (Figure 2). This spatiality resembles closely what archaeologists have for some time envisioned early state and imperial territorialities to manifest themselves as,23 but generally lack the chronological resolution and material indicators to map accurately. In Daesh’s changing cartographies of power, we see islets or nodes of goodenough control enforced by violence or its very real threat, connected to each other by temporary corridors of movement and communication. Large swaths of territory and people remain outside of the reach, or interest, of central institutions – though not necessarily beyond their ideological sway or that of occasional violent forays. Daesh’s caliphate crumbled nearly as quickly as it had risen under the onslaught of a concerted military effort by Kurdish forces, the Iraqi army, and international airstrikes. The group’s territory was reduced to about 3 percent of its maximum extent by autumn 2018, followed by declarations of its 20 22

Callimachi (2018). Gilsinan (2014).

21 23

Stern and Berger (2015, 147-175); Callimachi (2018). E.g. Sinopoli (1994); A. T. Smith (2003, 78-79); Smith (2005).

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2 Map showing extent of Daesh’s control in Iraq and Syria in December 2014 and 2015 (courtesy of the Institute for the Study of War)

final defeat in March 2019.24 Those freed from its yoke, and willing to speak to the media, seemed consistent in their relief and lack of allegiance.25 24 25

McKernan (2019); although isolated cells continue to remain active at the time of writing. Cockburn (2016, 385-388).

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Thus, despite the group’s efforts to appropriate and transform the region’s political landscapes, to attempt to institute bureaucratic institutions, and to perform public services, its extreme ideologies and spectacles of brutality against people and the things and places meaningful to them had succeeded in enforcing temporary public submission and the extracting of resources, but not in the creation of the type of supportive and cohesive public that is essential to long-term political survival. All of this finds parallels in early imperial networks, including the Hittite, whose practices of landscape transformation, I will argue in Chapters 2 and 3, created spatially dispersed nodes of imperial authority, which had to be woven together by ritual, military, resource, and other forms of movement, and which, as a result, displayed a fragile, network-like spatiality. These practices reproduced – more permanently in some places and intermittently elsewhere – Hittite sovereignty and succeeded in extracting resources from local communities and institutions. In Chapter 7, I will show that Hittite imperial administrators enlisted the help of bureaucratic technologies, which were visually emblematic and distinct in their materiality from other, similar systems of record keeping and access control. Their success, however, in enchanting subjects into sanctioned behaviours was limited by their own physical and metaphysical affordances, and subject to local subversion and appropriation. In the end, as we shall see in Chapter 9, the Hittite combination of perennial performances of violence, elaborate ritualised political spectacles, and bureaucratic measures, though outlasting Daesh’s purported caliphate by several centuries in some places, also led to a radical rejection of imperial memory and materiality by the majority of the people whom it had brought under its yoke. SIMPLE STORIES

State institutions, both modern and ancient, aim to render simpler, more observable, and manageable, sometimes with disastrous outcomes, what is complex in nature and culture.26 Political ideologies too must be simple, generalised, and decontextualised in their messages of collective belonging, privilege, and alterity in order to be widely understood, and incorporated into common consciousness and discourse.27 What makes fundamentalist groups such as Daesh so appealing to those it aims to recruit is also ‘the simplification of life and thought’.28 In both its own rhetoric and in the western responses

26 27

Scott (1999); though colonial and imperial powers also thrive on the ambiguities and messiness of their political and other dominance relationships – see discussion below. 28 van Dijk (1998, 243-253). Stern and Berger (2015, 242).

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that it has elicited, ‘good and evil are brought out in stark relief’ and opposed to what is a complex and difficult present.29 This ideological and institutional strive for simplicity intersects in concrete terms with disciplines concerned with the study of the human past. Constructed from selected historical anecdotes and iconic material symbols,30 simple stories about idealised origins, utopian points of return, or, alternatively, primitive pasts to be left behind for brighter, more modern, futures, inevitably connect archaeological and historical knowledge and practice with the murky arenas of identity politics. Once unfettered from archaeological and historical context, such stories and their material emblems become symbols of community that can be put to work to elicit, as required, emotions of belonging, or fervour against those perceived as external or non-compliant. Often they appear to be top-down state or institutional phenomena, but such narratives and material symbols are also constructed from the bottom up, including the alternative identities of non-state or subaltern groupings that are nested within, or in opposition to, state authority.31 Empire in both abstract and specific historical form has been the subject of top-down as well as bottom-up political and cultural manipulations for a long time, as different symbolisms, meanings, and moral lessons become ascribed to it.32 Empire and imperialism have largely negative connotations in western political and public discourse today, resulting in a vehement disavowal by some of its continued tradition; though its practice, as discussed above, is very much alive. Nineteenth and early twentieth century colonialism and post-colonial nation-building, by contrast, had no qualms in weaving historical empires, including those of the distant past, into their founding myths and everyday ideological practice. The expatriation and appropriation of artefacts from Iraq and other regions of the Middle East, many derived from early imperial capitals, served in the construction of an origin for Europe’s notions of civilisation and progress. At the same time, the region’s contemporary residents provided a convenient, and supposedly less advanced other against which Europe could favourably differentiate itself.33 Saddam Hussein’s vigorous restoration of Mesopotamia’s ancient ruins in the second half of the twentieth century sought to harness the symbolism of Babylon’s former cultural prowess and imperial might for his own dictatorial purposes.34 Today, Bronze and Iron Age episodes of Mesopotamian imperial encroachment on the Zagros 29 30

31 33 34

Stern and Berger (2015, 242). Brown and Hamilakis (2003); for case studies of mainly nationalist intersections with archaeology, see, for instance, papers in Meskell (1998a); Boytner, Swartz Dodd, and Parker (2010); MacMillan (2008, 53-77). 32 Hamilakis (2010, 223). E.g. Lieven (2003, 3-27). Bahrani (1998); McGeough (2015). Bahrani (1998, 2003); Bernhardsson (2010); Seymour (2014, 243-244).

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mountains are treated with circumspection in the nascent, and for now mostly oral and visual, experimentations with national narratives in the Kurdish region of Iraq. In the first half of the past century, the Hittites and their imperial network too featured prominently in the construction of Turkey’s national identity. Centred on the notion of Anatolian territorial unity, this process involved the amalgamation and distillation of millennia of cultural and historical development into what might be called an Anatolian civilisational essence.35 This was first promulgated by the founder of the Turkish Republic, Kamal Atatürk, and in opposition to Pan-Turkist views, who saw their origins in Central Asia rather than Anatolia.36 Early Anatolianist narratives cast the Hittites as a Turkish ethnic group and their empire as the first instantiation of a Turkish state in Anatolia.37 A more generalised narrative of Anatolian civilisation is still today performed by state institutions and intersects with their local, regional, and national interests and activities, as well as different intellectual movements and the mass-media. The latter in particular, running the gamut, as Aslı Gür demonstrates, from dance shows to cracker commercials, and in addition to museums and other cultural institutions, provides the fuel for the nation’s daily self-talk, the ways in which citizens converse about themselves and, thus, reproduce a political community from the bottom up.38 Some pasts and material symbolism are more suited than others to producing particular national and other forms of identity and history. Their choice depends, among other things, on contemporary political climates and wider fields of cultural competition and validation. While the Bronze Age of central Anatolia was critical for the Anatolianist movement of the early twentieth century, Turkey’s Classical heritage as the place of origin of western civilisation took centre stage in the so-called Blue Anatolia movement, which was spearheaded by Turkish humanist intellectuals of the 1950s and 1960s. Other pasts, their geographies and materialities, such as that of the Iron Age kingdom of Urartu, with which both Kurds and Armenians associate themselves, are less central to Turkey’s national civilisational discourse, and how it continues to play out in the media, in textbooks, or in research funding provisions.39 The constitution of collective subjects of history, in other words, is not an act of uncovering an objective past, but a process of selection and omission in the present: subjects of history ‘do not succeed such a past: they are its contemporaries’.40

35 37 39 40

36 Gür (2010, 72-73). Özdo˘gan (1998, 116-117); Atakuman (2008). 38 Erimtan (2008). Gür (2010). Gür (2010, 81, note 34); but see Özdo˘gan (1998, 119-121) for a different view. Trouillot (1995, 16).

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It is hardly news then that archaeology and history are ‘deeply imbricated within sociopolitical realities’,41 and their reproduction. As Yannis Hamilakis, has pointed out, however, matters are not as simple as ‘the manipulation of the objective archaeological past by state mechanisms and a few nationalist archaeologists’; the connections are more complex and run much deeper.42 Archaeologists, rather than standing as mere guardians of the archaeological record, create it through particular disciplinary forms of cultural production.43 The latter are themselves socially and culturally embedded, as are the interpretations or stories composed from this so-constructed record. Archaeological and historical narratives which portray the development of early states, empires, or civilisations, individually or as part of global history, in simple terms risk, as Pierre Bourdieu in the quote at the start of the chapter fittingly observed, taking over or being taken over by the subject of investigation. This includes stories of straightforward socio-evolutionary progressions, and those that paint imperial practices of conquest and rule as resounding successes. The same is true for narratives that ponder admiringly the ruthlessness and tactical brilliance of imperialist masterminds, or that cast the conquered as ultimately benefitting from subjugation. Wittingly or not, such stories also risk pandering to the hegemonic goals of ideological simplification not only by past but, through their translation into narratives of origin and civilisation, also present political institutions and other groupings seeking affirmation through descent or analogy. There is nothing simple about the past, the developments and circumstances that produced it, its varied experiences, or how particular pasts and their immaterial and material remains reach into the present and shape current and future consciousness and action.44 The situation in the Middle East today, unlike the stories of nationhood, imperial civilisation, or Daesh’s and other totalitarian utopias, emerges from the complicated, messy realities of colonial and post-colonial national pasts on the one hand, and a multitude of factions with shifting alliances, agendas, and public support in the present on the other. Integrative complexity is a concept and tool developed in social psychology to gage the structural complexity of written and spoken statements.45 The measure of differentiation charts the degree to which problems are examined from different perspectives, how different themes, objects, or points of view are distinguished. Integration measures to what extent differentiated elements are seen as connected, or the extent to which cognitive connections are made on their basis.46 At the lower end of the scale, information processing is ‘rigid, 41 43 45 46

42 Meskell (1998b, 3). Hamilakis (2010, 223). 44 Tilley (1989); Hamilakis (1999, 2003); Díaz-Andrieu (2007). Olivier (2011). Schroder, Driver, and Streufert (1967); Baker-Brown et al. (1992). Conway, Suedfeld, and Tetlock (2018).

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all-or-nothing, routinized, and based upon only a small segment of the total information available’; at the higher end, ‘information-processing is flexible, combinatorial, probabilistic, and information-oriented’.47 Over the past decades, integrative complexity measures have been applied in the analysis of current affairs, international violence, and the success of political leaders. For instance, the method has highlighted stark differences in the integrative complexity of successful versus ultimately unsuccessful revolutionary leaders.48 It has also shown that the communications of twentieth century decision-makers and UN representatives during crises that escalated into war were significantly lower in complexity than during those that were resolved peacefully.49 Integrative complexity has also emerged as a key methodology in the prevention of radicalisation, political sectarianism, and polarisation.50 In practice, for instance, ‘this means refusing to characterise our conflict with ISIS in stark, ideological terms, an uphill battle in the current media and political climate, which tends to incentivize simple explanations . . . .’51 Because the simple stories that underwrite and drive nationalist, imperialist, and other political projects of identity must be anchored in some version of a particular past, archaeology plays a critical role in unmasking ‘the darkest side of high modernist fantasies.’52 Perhaps more importantly still it can help shape collective consciousness to understand and be comfortable with the inherent complexities of our varyingly shared and colliding pasts, and their cultural dimensions. This applies to both top-down constructions of identity and to a public’s self-talk. An analysis of 1.4 million Facebook posts and comments related to the Brexit debate, for instance, found that such ‘heritages’ were central to both pro- and anti-Brexit sentiments, highlighting ‘the centrality of narratives of origins, resistance and collapse that are played around tensions between local and global, indigenous and exogenous, insular and multicultural, civilisation and barbarism’53 to the debate. ‘To put the matter as simply as possible’, John Robb and Timothy Pauketat recently wrote, ‘large-scale, long-term patterns exist and if we do not deal with them well, others will deal with them badly.’54 It is not enough, they argue, to decry and deconstruct the self-serving metanarratives of colonialism, progressivism, civilisation, and increasingly also questions of climate change and the anthropocene, but it falls to archaeologists to provide the public with ‘other histories to think with and about’.

47 49 50 51 53

48 Suedfeld, Tetlock, and Ramirez (1977, 430). Suedfeld and Rank (1976). Suedfeld and Tetlock (1977); Suedfeld, Tetlock, and Ramirez (1977, 436-437). Liht and Savage (2013); Boyd-MacMillan et al. (2016) Houck, Repke, and Conway (2017); but see also Van Hiel and Mervielde (2003). 52 Stern and Berger (2015, 243). González-Ruibal (2013). 54 Bonacchi, Altaweel, and Krzyzanska (2018, 175). Robb and Pauketat (2013, 5).

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Historical narratives, Michel-Rolph Trouillot argued, emerge from the duality of history as both a social process and the knowledge of that process: what happened and what is said to have happened. This ties historical as well as archaeological production intimately to power; individuals and groups contribute to different degrees to historical processes on the one hand, and have differential access to the means of narrating history on the other.55 As such, any historical narrative, including those derived from the interpretation of archaeological materials, is always a ‘particular bundle of silences’, constructed from acts of selective production, recovery, and inclusion, as well as omission. The study of imperial networks outside of the logic of imperial self-narration, thus, requires a conscientious awareness of power as never external to the historical process, but as constitutive of the story and expressed in its silences.56 If the project of the study of historical empires is ‘to labor to revise what constitutes the archives of imperial pursuit, to reanimate “arrested histories”, to rethink the domains of imperial governance and the forms of knowledge that evaded and refused colonial mandates to succumb, “civilize”, and serve’,57 then we must, as Clifford Geertz already cautioned us some time ago, be weary of hyper-coherence.58 To see systemically coherent pasts reflected back at us from the archaeological record means not only validating the simplification of social and political complexities, and the tensions arising from them in the past and present, but also, and more dangerously perhaps, fostering acceptance of simple visions of the future. This includes all overly neat and generalising schemata for how humans and material culture work or act, whether borne of past disciplinary paradigms, such as processualism’s social systemics, or of new materialist ontologies, and how they collectively produce socio-political formations. This is not an argument to abandon archaeological practice and reasoning, but to embrace, and determinately look for in our records, the silences, messiness, and ambiguities, as well as the continuous transformations that result from social and cultural dialectics; to allow our primary data to surprise us; and to contradict our deeply engrained models of how states and empires, modern and ancient, ought to act, and how they are to be experienced and explained. No amount of this reflexive introspection can ultimately prevent the misinterpretation or misuse of archaeological or historical information. Somewhat pessimistically perhaps, McGuire observed a while ago that ‘the notion that archaeology can change the world, that it can alter capitalism, or in any serious way challenge it is simply absurd’.59 And yet, while narratives grounded in the archaeological record struggle with their own sets of biases of preservation, incompleteness, and cultural construction, they can bring into relief the 55 58

Trouillot (1995, 22). Geertz (1973, 17).

56 59

Trouillot (1995, 26). McGuire (1992, xv).

57

Stoler (2013, 4).

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complexity and diversity of human cultural practice, including the formation of political networks, their trajectories over time, and their experience and negotiation, in ways that are not possible to reconstruct from other forms of data. To explore, theorise, and communicate this complexity – and in this sense to construct a counter narrative60 of the Hittite imperial network – lies at the core of this book. In the chapters that follow, I will seek to contribute to the postmodern effort of deconstruction of the ideologically laden grand narratives of empire and civilisation that have dominated accounts of world history. At the same time, I aim to weave a thick and complicated story about the making and undoing of imperial ties from the places where imperial and local agendas and agencies intersect, and through the things that produce, negotiate, or withdraw from their encounter.61 IMPERIAL EXPERIMENTS

The Hittite empire is not the first nor the largest nor indeed the most long lasting of ancient Near Eastern imperial networks. For these reasons, it has been mostly neglected by comparative empire studies, which have been concerned mainly with classification, progress, and, more recently, with what might be called imperial legacies. In this evolutionary account, Sargon of Akkad (c. 2334–2297 BCE) is usually credited with the founding of the world’s first empire in what is today’s Iraq during the second half of the third millennium BCE, although short-term political unifications of some Sumerian city-states had already occurred in preceding generations. Some would even see the beginnings of empire in the relationship between the city of Uruk, its colonies, and enclaves with indigenous communities in Syria, Anatolia, and the Iranian highlands a millennium earlier.62 Debates whether or not either of these two phenomena are in fact empires, or at least partially imperial in nature, are still ongoing. Doubts have been expressed about the degree of Uruk control over local populations, and the asymmetry of the economic and cultural relationships that were forged.63 Akkadian kings certainly had imperial aspirations. As declared rulers ‘of the four world regions’,64 Akkad’s potentates were the first to imagine all-encompassing sovereignty, their claims inspiring many future generations of Mesopotamian rulers and others, including Hittite great kings, schooled in Sumerian literary traditions and the exploits of Sargonic heroes. How far reality corresponded to Akkad’s imperialist rhetoric, however, is as yet 60 61 62

Sensu Yoffee (2016). Fahrlander (2012); Geertz (1973, 20); for a return to the big picture, see e.g. Shryock and Smail (2012); Robb and Pauketat (2013, 5-6). 63 64 Algaze (1993, 2008). Stein (1999). Foster (2016, 83).

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unclear, as material evidence for empire-making in the late third millennium BCE remains limited.65 The accolade of first ‘true’ or ‘world’ empire generally goes to either the Neo-Assyrian polity (c. ninth to seventh century BCE) or Achaemenid Persia (c. mid-sixth to late fourth century BCE). Both are thought of as ‘world’66 empires because of their unprecedented geographical scale, stretching from Iran to Egypt, and from the Persian Gulf to the East Mediterranean. Assyria’s status as the first ‘true’ empire rests on its repertoire of imperial strategies. Considered relevant in particular here are the often wide-ranging structural transformations with which it turned formerly independent regions into provinces, practices of rule that resonate – albeit superficially67 – with those of ancient Rome, the arbitrary blueprint and yardstick against whose characteristics and achievements other early empires are traditionally compared and measured. In between Akkadian raider kings and the first ‘true’ empires lies the second millennium BCE, which in its second half is characterised by a series of expansive polities, that, fuelled by the competitive dynamics of a quarrelsome and self-declared brotherhood of great kings,68 constitute the first large-scale imperial networks of the ancient Near East. Archaeologically more tangible than earlier imperial aspirations, New Kingdom Egypt, Mitanni, Kassite Babylonia, Assyria, and the Hittite imperial network of Anatolia provide us with the opportunity to study, in ways currently not possible for earlier periods, the makings of early empire: the experimentations, failures, and temporary successes of deliberate imperialist strategies, their local receptions and rejections, and the often volatile historical trajectories and negotiated cultural milieus that arose from their (re-)production. Captivated by imperial narratives of might and grandeur, those who have studied the Hittite and other such imperial networks have by and large failed to acknowledge and investigate their most salient characteristic: a perpetual and precarious state of emergence, of literal and metaphorical making and remaking. Historical syntheses romanticise the nature, scale, and stability of Hittite sovereignty, while Anatolian archaeology, firmly rooted still in culture history and acculturation studies’ normative associations of people, culture, and political community, has served for over a century as Hittite imperial history’s willing handmaiden. A rigid, text-centred interpretive framework, fortified with the vocabulary and mindset of world systems thinking, generally concedes to Hittite protagonists alone agency in the making of their empire.69

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Liverani (1993a); Matthews (2003, 127). For recent discussions, see e.g. Radner (2015, 1); Katchadourian (2016, xxxi). 68 Bernbeck (2010). Cohen and Westbrook (2002); Liverani (2001b); Bryce (2003). but see Glatz and Plourde (2011); Glatz (2012); Durusu-Tanrıöver (2015); Harmanş ah (2015b).

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My aim is to reclaim this interpretive ground through an approach centred, as will be outlined in more detail below, on relational philosophies of power that allow us to conceptualise imperial entities as emergent and co-produced by the encounter of imperial and non-imperial agents, and an acknowledgement of the fundamental material constitution and arbitration of socio-political relationships. Empirically, any archaeology of the Hittite empire, however, must stand on the shoulders of generations of field research, which for the most part has been intently focused on central places and their elite quarters. A struggle, thus, ensues throughout the pages of this book to take full advantage of all scraps of information available about a past 3500 years away, yet to escape or at least temper the beguiling persuasiveness of the Hittite empire’s textual and material discourse of itself. In the attempt to read between the lines of a well-rehearsed imperial history, subsequent chapters will, thus, incorporate often overlooked local sources of evidence, and approach, in ways that might seem at times oblique, other categories of data well known to Anatolian specialists. MAKING AND REMAKING

Capturing the essence of empire and its most salient features or symptoms has been a long-term academic concern, as has the assignment of imperial status to historic, and occasionally prehistoric, political formations. Diagnostic criteria have ranged widely from collections of organisational and material characteristics compiled from cross-cultural comparisons, or lifted from ‘archetypical’ empires such as the Roman, to external ascription of imperial status, and selfidentification.70 From the vast literature on this subject emerges a general sense of what constitutes empire and imperialist behaviour. An imperial expansion reaches beyond an individual state’s territorial domain, and is motivated to varying degrees by economic incentives and the zero-sum game of international Realpolitik. Imperial expansions are effected chiefly through military or diplomatic means, and followed by varyingly intensive and deep-reaching practices of government.71 Such generic commonality, however, contrasts with the seemingly limitless diversity that characterises the physical and conceptual forms of historical empires, their constituent relationships and institutions. And thus, beyond a small club of universally recognised ancient empires, there exists little consensus about the classification of a much larger and more diverse collection of polities that display imperialist aspirations or tendencies, but which in one or 70 71

Morrison (2001); Padgen (2015). For common denominator definitions of empire, see, for instance, Doyle (1986, 19); Sinopoli (1994, 160); Pagden (1995, 13-14); Barfield (2001, 29).

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more ways diverge from the territorial, urban-centred, and agricultural models deemed typical. Among these are the horseback or shadow empires of Mongolia, the textually unattested Wari polity of Peru, and the maritime hegemonies of Phoenicia and later Portugal.72 The imperial nature of the expansive polities of the later second millennium BCE, including the Hittite, is similarly contested. This is due to the preponderance of so-called indirect practices of government in textual sources such as the use of vassal rulers and a concomitant lack in some places of deep-reaching local transformations symptomatic of provincialisation.73 Depending on disciplinary and national scholarly traditions, the Hittite political formation is referred to as a state, kingdom, great-kingdom, or empire. What this demonstrates is that empire is a construct, not derived from or reducible to a singular cultural logic, and, as a result, presents neither a preexisting ontology nor a singular subject of enquiry.74 Not only does this recognise the diversity of imperial intentions and manifestations, but, more importantly, it relieves us of the meaningless tedium of typological hairsplitting: Was it an empire or just a great-kingdom? What sort of empire was it? An inclusive minimalism also permits a critical shift in analytical emphasis. The move away from a primary concern with classification, which embodies empire with a deceptive thingness and lends an undue sense of permanence to political forms, allows us to abandon the imperial teleology of allencompassing social and cultural rupture and transformation that is often envisaged for societies incorporated into imperial networks. This book is concerned, therefore, not with imperial form, but with political production. This includes the ‘practices and strategies by which peoples try to make subjects of other peoples . . . and the complex transformations occasioned by those practices.’75 It also encompasses those that persist from non-imperial times despite imperial presence or intervention, and those that disrupt, reject, and change modes and experiences of subjection and, as a result, transform over time the nature as well as the material and spatial expressions of empire. At the most elemental level, these practices and strategies assemble, transform, or disrupt historically contingent and meaningful relationships between people, places, and things. In order for such collectives to persist, and to do so in ways that are desirable to those by whom they were created or for whom they serve, the ties that bind them together must be continuously renewed, reenacted, and reinforced. This is done, for instance, through the use, consumption, or exchange of appropriate things, of information, or divine blessings. 72 73 74

Schreiber (1992); Barfield (2001); Subrahmanyam (2001). Most recently Schuol (2014). To adapt a discussion of the state by Clifford Geertz (2004, 580).

75

Dietler (2010, 19).

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It happens through appropriate gestures, in appropriate places, and during specific occasions. Each of these elements, such as the pottery used for communal feasting and the food consumed, or the weapons wielded in armed conflict, require themselves a host of relationships and knowledge to be produced, maintained, or appropriately circulated. An existing relationship can be deliberately disrupted, or its proposition rejected, through hostile actions, non-compliance, or the deliberate forgetting of places, and the nonpractice of cultural traditions. Transformation also occurs over time through the undirected or unforeseen outcomes of relational reproduction, and through the introduction of new ties and the novel dependencies that they create. The result is a network of varyingly dense ties or relationships across space and time, in which people, places, and things become repetitively enmeshed. Imperial networks, rather than the predetermined enactments of an essentialised political form, from this perspective, emerge from the reproduction and renegotiation of these ties, and from the dialectic of relational constraint and agentive effervescence that their existence and performance create arenas for.76 This tension and the range of forms of socio-political power to which it gives rise, engender the key characteristic of historical empires: their perpetual state of flux. Imperial polities such as the Hittite are quite literally, and continuously, in the making.77 Power and its localisation in, and emergence from, relational interconnections between people, places, and things lies at the core of this predicament. As a relational effect, power is at once situational, dispersed, and polysemic, never absolute or entirely one sided, but always subject to, as well as the product of, negotiation.78 Thus, although empire, is ‘indisputably, about the effort to impose control over subject populations, and was variously repressive’, it

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In some ways this can be seen as akin to the tension between structure and agency outlined by, and given varying significance in, Pierre Bourdieu’s Outline of a Theory of Practice (1977) and Anthony Giddens’ The Constitution of Society: Outline of the Theory of Structuration (1986). However, I would argue, relational structure or rigidity in the context of early political networks is more tenuous, and the tensions with agency have greater potentiality for transformation, than in the context of long-standing social ties or deep cultural and material logics, which political production, however, also intersects with and aims to co-opt. Glatz (2009, 128). Coming at the question of empire from a somewhat different and more macroscale angle, Ann Stoler (2006, 135-136) argued against the conceptualisation of empires as neatly bounded geopolities, and characterised them instead as ‘states of becoming’ that are neither securely bounded, nor firmly entrenched, regular, or well regulated. Drawing on Stoler’s definition and Ian Hodder’s (2012) concept of material entanglements, Lori Katchadourian (2016) recently ascribed the characteristic flux of imperial sovereignties to particular human-thing collectives through which such sovereignties could be produced, but whose dependencies ultimately contributed to imperial unravelling. Gramsci (1971, 52); Foucault (1978, 92-102).

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‘occurred with differing degrees of efficacy – and, simultaneously, in a range of registers’.79 Imperial incorporation, in other words, does not and cannot, as many studies of early empires assume, transform local life abruptly or in its entirety. Neither do imperial polities strive for national ideals of neatly bounded territories and uniform cultures, as I will discuss in more detail in Chapters 4, 5, and 8. Quite to the contrary, historically well-attested empires were built not from uniformity but thrived, and continue to do so, on political and cultural diversity, and the ambiguities of their political relationships. At the same time, subordinates in even the most oppressive of situations are able to access resources, both material and non-material, to counteract, subvert, or deflect facets of their oppression.80 Many subjects are also unlikely to be either wholly submissive or insubordinate, but will be opportunistic in their response to imperial practices and pressures. As the Comaroffs observed, at ‘some times and places [colonisation] sparked open resistance, [or] peaceful collaboration’ while on other occasions, the colonial encounter was negotiated in cultural terms through ‘the assertive revitalization of “tradition”.’81 Resistance, acquiescence, and collaboration in this context are not mutually exclusive and morally opposing mindsets and behaviours, but interconnected, situational, and often place-bound82 facets of the imperial encounter and experience. As social groups, subject populations, as well as imperial agents, are internally factious, with individuals and collectives pursuing different, and sometimes opposing, agendas.83 This means that, at times, there is no straightforward distinction to be drawn between imperial and local agents, or between practices and relationships that, at the same time, can serve the imperial project and weaken its ties, as we shall see in the context of different bureaucratic spheres in Chapter 7. Imperial networks, like all relationships, are built upon, and negotiated through and in a material world of places and things. They include among many others the monumentalised cities, settlement landscapes, and ecologies that are created and destroyed by imperial regimes, defended or withheld from them. They also include the material trappings of administrative and ceremonial performances, and those which subvert, negotiate and resist them. The motivations for imperial expansion are themselves at least in part material in nature: resources, including humans, and goods to be extracted from conquered territories, as are the things and practices aimed to secure their

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80 Comaroff and Comaroff (2001, 113). Miller and Tilley (1984, 7); Casella (2001). Comaroff and Comaroff (2001, 113). This includes, for instance, the hidden and public places in which varying forms of resistance can, or submission must be, performed (Scott 1990, 192). Brumfiel and Fox (1994); Stein (2002).

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collection, transportation, storage, and redistribution. Legitimacy is negotiated through the allocation of landed property, the strategic circulation of goods of social value, and commensal generosity, while local groups may choose to participate in, or appropriate for their own purposes, such imperial paraphernalia and behaviours. Non-imperial agents, from the peasants of the metropolis to subordinated societies, and those just beyond the reach of centralised governance, use places or entire landscapes alongside specific things to resist and negotiate their imperial relationships. They too, however, may be drawn into varying degrees of imperial hegemony in Gramsci’s sense, or the imperial project at large, by the ‘particular grip that material culture gets on the bodies and minds of people’.84 This diverse and deep-rooted materiality makes imperial networks inherently archaeological subjects. Archaeology as a discipline has been instrumental in unearthing the material remnants of past empires. Curiously, however, it has been rather uninterested in the analysis of imperial relationships. Following in the wake of social evolutionism,85 archaeologies of empire in the later twentieth century concerned themselves either with its economic dimensions or with political typology, and the identification of physical proxies for different governmental regimes or styles of rule.86 Aside from social evolution’s objectionable intellectual baggage that combines the essentialism of Enlightenment philosophy and the cultural chauvinism of Europe’s colonial era,87 the key shortcomings of the diagnostic approach to empire derived from it, is the static, usually ahistoric and, thus, ultimately fictitious political shell that it (re-)constructs. The results are so-called material ground-plans of empire that are passively enacted by imperial agents and subordinates alike, and reflected by the world of things, but whose relationships, inner workings, and developmental trajectories remain largely obscure. Equally problem ridden, and just as

84 86

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85 Gosden (2004, 3). White (1949); Steward (1955); Service (1968). E.g. Smith and Montiel (2001; table 1). For binary imperial typologies see e.g. Luttwak (1976): hegemonic vs. territorial; Eisenstadt (2010): patrimonial vs. imperial-bureaucratic; Mann (1986): empires of domination vs. territorial empires; Doyle (1986): formal vs. informal; Kolata (2013, 15-23): laminar vs. viral hegemonies; also Sinopoli (1994, 163-168). This harks back to Gordon Childe’s (1950) checklist of urban civilisation: a centralised bureaucratic and economic organisation, specialised production, and the existence of permanent social and spatial hierarchies. It also builds on later, systemic approaches and a concern with the ground-plans of early states (Flannery 1999). Foundational work on the state and on empire includes Hobson (1902); Schumpeter (1918/ 19); Lenin (1939); Hegel (1956); Luxemburg (1969); Weber (1978, 920) and Mommsen (1980, 4). It is critical to keep in mind that at the time when many of these writers formed their views on empire, western colonialism was in full swing; its discourses of alterity constructed from ethnographies and archaeologies of the colonised (Chadha 2002; Routledge 2004, 8-10; Hamilakis 2005; González-Ruibal 2012, 40). These often mirror strikingly the construction of the other in early imperial contexts (Michalowksi 1986; Poo 2005; Liverani 2007, 41-44; Glatz and Casana 2016).

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influential, has been the conceptualisation of empire as an extension of the (nation) state, and the associated assumption that cultural change and widespread homogenisation forcibly follows in the wake of empire-making.88 The solution to these analytical dead-ends is a bottom-up approach to imperial materiality that traces historically specific relationships between people, places and things. Relational materiality also presents us with a second set of catalysts for empires’ characteristic state of perpetual in the making. The continuous emergence of imperial relationships from a broadly postcolonial perspective stems from the meanings, multiple, and potentially contradictory, that things can come to embody. It rests in the transformative tensions that arise from cultural mimesis, and the formation of new and hybridising identities that seemingly reproduce, but ultimately lessen imperial bonds. More recently, a new materialism has drawn attention to the agentive potential of human and non-human collectives. Both perspectives are relevant to understanding imperial networks and their biographies. Postcolonial studies and theories have over the past decades worked to deconstruct the hegemonic narratives of colonialism and the forms of knowledge that underwrite them,89 and to emancipate and give a voice to the subaltern agents in cultural production and expression.90 Such studies have critically highlighted the ambivalences inherent in colonial rule and have traced processes of identity formation amidst the competing and contradictory senses and aspirations of belonging that are created by such encounters.91 Historical ethnographies of colonial encounters, such as Nicholas Thomas’ seminal work in the Pacific,92 demonstrated the importance of material culture as a fundamental arbitrator of such relationships. Their observations challenged traditional models of acculturation, in which subordinated groups unquestionably thirst for all things imperial and are eager to imitate metropolitan culture in all its aspects. Upon closer inspection, the colonised could be shown to make strategic and culturally reasoned selections of colonial things and behaviours, which they incorporated and translated into local practice through mixing and reinterpretation. This could take shape in ways unintended or unimagined by the colonial agents that first sought to alter indigenous behaviours through the introduction of specific things and associated practices. Adoption and appropriation also often occurred in realms and with things that both resembled and departed from already existing indigenous forms and

88 90 91 92

89 Service (1968, 193). Said (1978). Although this too can be said to impose a western logic onto the colonised (González-Ruibal 2012). Said (1978, 1993); Bhabha (1994); van Dommelen (2002); Dietler (2010). Thomas (1991, 2002).

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meanings, such as in the case of the adoption of Christian clothing by eighteenth and nineteenth century CE Tahitians and Samoans.93 Traditional Oceanic dress, with the exception of ritual occasions or individuals of exceptional social status, sees both women and men bare-chested. Accordingly, the introduction of a more modest dress code became a central concern for Christian missionaries in the islands. They encouraged especially women to wear full-body clothing, either so-called Mother Hubbard dresses or the tiputa, a Tahitian bark poncho, and attempted to socialise island women into a Christian way of life through sewing classes. While soon most Tahitians had converted to Christianity and served themselves as missionaries, Samoan women and men were less receptive, but ultimately, they too adopted the tiputa. Rather than merely taking on Christian values and behaviours, however, Thomas argued on the basis of a recorded Samoan chief’s speech that it was the health, wealth, and military prowess of the white and fully dressed colonisers that persuaded the islanders of the validity of Christianity and its dress code. Bark cloth already carried traditional symbolic and ritual meaning across Oceania as well as indexed social status. It could thus be readily woven into a wider, culturally meaningful rationalisation of Samoan cultural adoption. Objects in colonial encounters, as Thomas famously observed, thus, ‘are not what they are meant to be but what they have become’.94 This process, which affects not only the colonised but also draws the colonisers into new, shared as well as mixed social and cultural spaces and relationships,95 and in which local and imperial identities are co-produced,96 has come to be referred to as hybridisation in much of the archaeological literature.97 Well explored by now, for instance, are commensal paraphernalia and practices in local contests of value and the negotiation of identity, especially in Hellenic and Roman colonial contexts.98 The conceptual underpinnings of the concept of hybridity, however, have come under increasing scrutiny in recent years, in particular the underlying notion of an original or pure, pre-contact cultural state. This is especially relevant in scenarios, such as Late Bronze Age Anatolia and the wider ancient Near East and East Mediterranean, where culture contact and exchange was not a function of overseas colonial expansions, but took place long before any attempts were made to establish large-scale asymmetric political relationships. Questions are being raised also about who can be a hybridising agent – local, colonised, or everyone involved?99 Influenced by globalisation theories, recent studies have begun, therefore, to move the long-standing Hellenisation and Romanisation debates beyond questions of cultural origins and degrees of mixing and onto a flattened analytical plane, where the cultural push and pull 93 97

Thomas (2002, 183). van Dommelen (2006).

94

95 96 Thomas (1991, 4). Bhabha (1994). Dietler (2010). 98 99 Woolf (1998); Dietler (2010). Silliman (2015).

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of heightened external contact, and the intensified self-recognition and local cultural differentiation that results from it, can be examined.100 Chapters 7 and 8 explore Hittite imperial relationships through the analytical lenses of mimesis, hybridity, and globalised cultural contexts. Both chapters trace the appropriation, re-contextualisation, and reinterpretation of specific types of material culture and practices, and investigate how they contributed to the production as well as subversion of the associations that constituted the Hittite imperial network. Analytically, these concepts provide a useful framework to examine the widespread, locally driven adoption, production, and use of simple, plain ceramic vessels similar to those found in Hittite domestic and state-related ritual contexts. They also help to conceptualise the tensions resulting from the intersections of imperial and local administrative practices and the arenas for local action which they created. A recent ontological repositioning across the humanities and social sciences advocates a greater symmetry between humans and things in the production of past and present lifeworlds. Emphatic attention is being drawn to the mutual, complex, and ever-tightening interconnections of people and things, with the aim of relocating agency from human individuals and groups to humanmaterial collectives.101 Material things, from this perspective, exist outside of human discursive cognition and do not always, and in predictable ways, bend to the will of the human mind.102 Neither humans nor things take primacy and ‘human life is “always-already” blending with things, forming innumerable interacting hybrid units and collectives’.103 Emergence here stems from the distributive agency of human-thing assemblages or arrangements.104 While things lack the intentionality of human actors, they are thought to possess ‘efficacious powers’ or ‘distinctive capacities’, a distributive form of agency or capacity to produce effects on the world.105 This has relevance for the conceptualisation of imperial networks in two key respects. The first is the capacity of things and places to socialise humans, elicit desired behaviours, and as such to both embody in their own right and to confer authority on the humans that wield them. The second concerns the dynamic interdependencies of human-thing arrangements, their multi-temporality, and the unpredictability of their developmental trajectories. In a discipline concerned with the material past, there is little contention with the idea that things, given the right affordances or performance characteristics, allow humans to achieve their goals. Things, however, also act back;

100 101 102 105

Knappett (2017); Hodos (2017). Pivoting on the Heideggerian notion of ‘being-in-the-world’, Bruno Latour’s (2005) work on the social life of things and the philosophies of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari (1987). 103 104 Olsen (2010, 64). Olsen (2010, 129). Hamilakis and Jones (2017, 18). Bennett (2010, ix).

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they set the parameters for, guide, and restrict human existence, physically or in cognitive and experiential terms.106 The shape of a drinking vessel, such as the iconic depas cup of the Early Bronze Age East Mediterranean, a deep narrow cup with pointed base and two large handles, for instance, gives very clear, non-verbal instructions on its use. It cannot be put down while full because of its pointed base, and the disproportionally large handles on either side compel drinkers to take it and pass it around.107 In this way, depas cups socialised an Early Bronze Age public into specific drinking behaviours and forms of community. Other drinking equipment, from the long straws used to sip beer out of large jars, to dainty shallow cups (Chapters 3 and 8), required different, yet equally specific, embodied skills and knowledge to deploy in culturally and socially proficient ways. The same can be argued for seals, the quintessential administrative tool of Bronze Age palatial societies, which required expert knowledge to use, elicit compliant behaviours, and confer authority on their owners (Chapter 7). These things, therefore, not only gave specific symbolic form to particular imperial relationships, but both guided and restricted, to the best of their material and immaterial affordances, the behavioural practices that reproduced relevant portions of the imperial network. At the same time, things depend on humans for their reproduction, at least in the ways that humans want them. This entraps the former in ‘various forms of care, regulation and discipline’ in an ever-tightening web of dependencies.108 On the one hand, this implies that change in one sphere of the humanthing collective ripples across other arenas of social and cultural production. On the other, however, the depth and complexity of such interconnections also mean that profound transformations of human lifeways, productive practices, and relationships, such as those often imagined to lie in the power of early imperial regimes, are not so easily willed into existence. Karl Marx, though he did not acknowledge a vibrancy of things but rather saw them as a means to power, in an oft-quoted passage also observed that humans ‘make their own history’ just ‘not under circumstances they themselves have chosen but under the given and inherited circumstances with which they are directly confronted’.109 Early imperial regimes, such as the Hittite, as I will argue in Chapter 2, 5, and 7, had to contend, or be content, with local places and things and their deeply entrenched social and cultural meanings, while landscapes and their iconic physical features exerted their own influence over imperial imagination, determining and arresting the locales of some political practices and contests.

106 107 108

Gibson (1986 [1979], 127). Whalen (2014); Knappett (2005, 142) for a discussion of Minoan drinking cups. 109 Hodder (2012, 79). Marx (1974, 146).

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Of particular interest to the study of political phenomena and the sources of their transformation is the proposition that things possess an efficacy ‘in excess of the human meanings, designs, or purposes they express or serve’,110 and the complex knock-on effects and often unpredictable outcomes this gives rise to. Jane Bennett’s example of the large-scale power outage that paralysed much of the US East Coast for several days in 2003 and that could not be ascribed to any particular human or material culprit or fault captures very well this notion of the unpredictable and often uncontrollable congregational agency of humanthing collectives.111 In the context of the political, as Bennett notes, Hannah Arendt recognised the multiplicity of sources in the sparking of political movements through the ‘contingent coming together of a set of elements’,112 while Bruno Latour conceptualised political action as being brought about by the pressures of different ‘propositions’ and the power of specific political events, rather than merely stemming from human intentionality alone.113 Focused explicitly on the political work of things, and more specifically on how things produce sovereign authority,114 Adam T. Smith in his seminal The Political Machine recently drew attention to the fundamental material constitution of political life. Advocating for an ontological repositioning, he conceives of things as active participants ‘in the practical regimes of authorization and subjection that establish the conditions of political life . . . and guarantee its re-production’.115 Things, not humans, do the lion share of political work in Smith’s model: they ‘operate to enable and constrain social possibilities and historical trajectories’ in the realms of physical experience, social value, and ideological meaning and through the mediation of affect.116 Rather than merely reflecting ascribed meanings or intent, they have the capacity to alter or, alternatively, stabilise human practices. As such, Smith grants things the ability to socialise through cultural in- and exclusion coherent publics and construct a shared idea of polity as ‘an object of desire, of care, and of devotion’.117 More specifically concerned with sovereign production in imperial contexts, Lori Katchadourian, in a similarly foundational work, put forward a novel typology of material agents of empire. In Imperial Matter, Katchadourian carefully maps out how particular categories of things in collaboration with human agents reproduce imperial sovereignty. At the same time, she traces out the developmental trajectories of these hybrid collectives and demonstrates

110 113 114 115

111 112 Bennett (2010, 20). Bennett (2005). Arendt (2004 [1951]). Latour (1999, 281-288). ‘[A]n emergent form of authority grounded in violence that is performed and designed to generate loyalty, fear and legitimacy’ (Hansen and Stepputat 2006, 297; cf. Smith 2011, 416). 116 117 Smith (2011, 426). Smith (2015, 7). Smith (2015, 92-93).

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how, simultaneously and seemingly paradoxically, they temper and diminish the very same authority they help create. So-called delegates are the most prominent and powerful in this scheme of political things.118 Examples include Inka textiles, Roman marble, silver, and the iconic architecture of the Achaemenid columned hall.119 Katchadourian proposes that delegates, as well as proxies, which present the well-known phenomenon of material mimesis, and captives, things removed from their original cultural contexts, served as material agents of empire. Following Hodder’s Entangled,120 such things, however, also entrap humans into an ever-tightening web of procurement, construction, and care in return for their political efficacy. In this mode, termed the satrapal condition, the difficult to control and unpredictable developments of such human-thing collectives are the principal source of the precarious state of ‘potential attenuation or unravelling’ of imperial polities. A convincing case is made, for instance, that similar to Rome’s obsession with marble that caused dramatic economic overstretch, Achaemenid rulers overcommitted themselves to the construction of everlarger columned halls rather than attend to other, more pressing political and military developments.121 There can be little doubt that other such powerful or gripping materials and things created comparable, deep-reaching, and potentially fatal, for the individuals and collectives entrapped by them, webs of relationships in other times and places. Bronze may be said to have had a similarly powerful effect on the palatial polities of the East Mediterranean and the networks of exchange and interaction that arose to ensure continued supply, production, and appropriate circulation. As such, Katchadourian’s typology of political things and the developmental patterns of their assembled vibrancy provides a welcome and significant step beyond the traditional political essentialism of empire studies. Political things and the unpredictable nature of their relationships with humans and each other, however, alone cannot account for imperial histories or the experience of their encounter. The materialities of imperial networks may be violently imposing, awe inspiring, and sometimes gripping in Gosden’s sense, but the knock-on effects of their entanglements present but one catalyst in the continuous state of imperial in the making. This is because socio-political power emerges from a myriad of relational connections that can be challenged, deflected, and subverted both within the frames of reference created by imperial production and outside its logic. The mere presence of imperial things does not necessarily index imperial sovereignty. Things are, just like verbal propaganda, part of a discourse of political desire. Their presence alone, especially in isolation or in very small numbers, thus cannot be seen a priori 118 121

Katchadourian (2016, 68). Katchadourian (2016, 21-22).

119

Katchadourian (2016, 68-75).

120

Hodder (2012).

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to present confirmations of sovereign attainment, however ambiguous or attenuated, but merely of its aspiration (see also Chapter 5). The above model conceptualises political sovereignty as distributed, meaning that in the context of imperial polities, client or vassal rulers and other such agents retained a capacity for ‘everyday forms of autonomous action’.122 This includes ‘acting differently within bounds, bending rules without breaking them, keeping alive older ways of being and doing, such that they become a part of the new ways’, none of which, however and significantly, ‘necessarily amount[s] to resistance, even in its everyday hidden forms’.123 Like the primitive rebels of pre-socialist Europe,124 the differing factions of post-2003 Iraq,125 or powerful South American drug-lords,126 vassal rulers and other marginal groups are thought to be able to operate in the interstices of state sovereignty, but not fully outside of it. They therefore reproduce the political formations they are nested within. In other words, there is no real hope, place, or will built into current materialist models of the political and imperial, to deliberately and outright resist or significantly diminish sovereignty once a particular political machine has been set in motion. Although Katchadourian concedes that imperial sovereignty may well be more projected than achieved in many locales, especially those in environmentally challenging regions such as the highlands, only materials and practices of evasion and the potentialities for ambiguity and cultural negotiation inherent in mimesis are identified as subaltern options for ‘acting differently’ in what are ‘spheres of regulated autonomy’. Students of empire are cautioned not to ‘become too caught up in romantic narratives of power’s frailty’127 since ‘the only folly as great as accepting the truth of the stories sovereigns tell about themselves is dismissing those stories as false’.128 The main criticism of these otherwise critical contributions to our understanding of the material constitution of the political, and difference to how I conceptualise imperial relationships and their dynamics in this book, is the seeming inescapability granted to sovereignties that are only attenuated through their material entanglements, the success that material agents are thought to have had in convincing subjects of sovereign legitimacy, and, critically, the willingness of subalterns to comply and act merely within the bounds of their subjection, rather than to be deliberately pushing against and rejecting them. An analytical gaze fixed too firmly on authorisation and its material things and practices risks, I would suggest, misrepresenting the past as consensual and merely subtly negotiable. Smith, for instance, points out how there can be found a sublime pleasure in obedience.129 Perhaps, more tragically, a view of 122 125 127

123 124 Katchadourian (2016, 23). Katchadourian (2016, 23). Hobsbawm (1965). 126 Hansen and Stepputat (2006, 296). Humphrey (2004); Poole (2004); Buur (2005). 128 129 Katchadourian (2016, 22). Katchadourian (2016, 193). Smith (2015, 183).

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past sovereignty that is desirable to some, but rarely escapable by anyone, or only when unforeseen human-thing dynamics unravel its potency, if not normalises, then at least helps breed acquiescence to today’s simple stories of political, cultural, or other, traditional power relations and their seeming inescapability. Politics is not only shaped by consent, compliance, or negotiation in the interstices of hegemony, even if this is the ultimate aim of sovereign rhetoric and practice, but it is fundamentally also about dissent and conflict,130 and thus about human will and intent, however materially socialised and moderated. Postcolonial archaeologies too have tended to downplay not only imperial violence, but also resistance to it, instead focusing deliberately on the negotiation of ambiguous cultural boundaries and the formation of colonial identities: ‘a stress on creativity takes us away from notions such as fatal impact, domination and resistance or core and periphery emphasizing that colonial cultures were created by all who participated in them, so that all had agency and social effect’.131 As Alfredo González-Ruibal, however, pointed out, a focus on cultural production alone, just as on sovereignty, is not politically innocuous. The former inadvertently plays into the hands of neoliberal ideologies, in which an emphasis on multiculturalism and fluid identities deliberately masks marked asymmetries.132 Archaeological discourse on dissent and resistance over the past decades has been dominated by James Scott’s thesis of open resistance as a usually unsuccessful historical rarity. Drawing on his observations among Malaysian peasant groups, Scott argued that resistance in most societies is confined to what he terms the hidden transcript, covert forms of disobedience such as poaching, pilfering, tax evasion, jokes, and satire. The motivations behind such acts of insubordination are not the transformation or overthrow of the social system, as oppressed groups are thought to lack conceptual alternatives with which to replace existing social orders, even if this may, very occasionally, be the ultimate result. Instead, acts of hidden resistance are aimed at the reduction of excessive forms of economic exploitation and humiliation.133 Outright rebellion that may grow from such conditions is the result of a gross overestimation of subordinates’ power and has historically proved to be a mostly unsuccessful strategy. Scott’s forms of resistance, by and large, leave official ideologies and existing power relations, the public transcript, intact. To measure merely the success of resistance, however one wants to define it, rather misses the point when it comes to understanding the nature of specific imperial relationships and their macroscale biographies, as there can be little doubt that resistance presented an important facet, among others and not 130 132

131 Žižek (2007). Gosden (2004, 25) cited in González-Ruibal (2014, 7). 133 González-Ruibal (2014, 7). Scott (1990, 86).

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always to the exclusion of partially cooperative behaviours, in the making and undoing of early imperial networks. Even a short, critical reading of Bronze Age Near Eastern textual sources, for instance, makes it very clear that behaviours stretching the entirety of Scott’s behavioural spectrum, including frequent and outright rebellion, were enacted regularly. As I will discuss in Chapter 4, these tempestuous relationships shaped profoundly the form and development of the Hittite imperial network. González-Ruibal’s political ontology of resistance is more helpful here, as it includes not only forms of what he calls ‘resilience’, Scott’s hidden transcripts, but also rebellion and successful forms of being resistant to state power. The latter are communities that manage to carve out an alternative existence on the margins of states such as maroon, or escaped slave communities.134 To be successful, resistance does not have to result in fundamental social change, but it merely ‘must have an effect on power’ from making ‘power uncomfortable, to destabilize domination and force dominators to develop new power strategies’.135 Significantly, he argues, resistance does not only take the shape of extraordinary acts, but emerges from everyday practice, unconscious motor habits, and bodily memories, ‘a visceral resistance that is played out in the bodies, gestures, proxemics, and the making and using of things’.136 In the following chapters, I will therefore examine a series of material practices and agents that were tasked with the reproduction of the Hittite imperial network, the social arenas, geographies, and varying temporalities of their sovereign successes, limits, and failures, and to identify where and how they were transformed, challenged, and diminished, or forced to react. EMPIRE AS NETWORK

Empires, I have argued above, are arrangements ever emergent from countless encounters and exchanges between historically situated people, places, and things. They are, therefore, best conceptualised and approached in relational terms. The term network provides a convenient shorthand, as well as a flexible theoretical scaffold with which to envisage and investigate connectivity and intercedence in complex phenomena, where scaling between local contexts and macrolevel developments is critical, and where the spatial and chronological fluidity of relational production and undoing can be accommodated.137 As such, a network perspective opens up a series of overlapping and 134 136 137

135 Clastres (1989); Scott (2009). González-Ruibal (2014, 10). González-Ruibal (2014, 11-12). Ingold (2010), for instance, sees network as too static a concept, proposing ‘meshwork’ as a better term (see also discussion below). Knappett (2017, 30-31) rectifies such misconceptions and points out the limited use of struggles over nomenclature, since all networks are inherently dynamic and emergent.

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interconnected analytical planes on which constituting relationships in different spheres of sovereign production, and their intersections with the local and the everyday, can be examined.138 Network, in other words, is good to think empire, without, one hopes, being taken over – entirely at least – by imperial thought. Other analogies also potentially offer themselves. Keightley’s characterisation of the early Chinese state as more like Swiss cheese than tofu lets us savour the patchy nature of early state power.139 Ann Stoler’s imperial formations or macropolities helpfully eschew traditional typological pedantry and convey a sense of impermanence. Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s rhizome most explicitly registers the infinite number and complexity of interconnections that constitute socio-cultural networks and their continuous transformation; an incessant ‘becoming different’140 is the result of new encounters and associations of people and things within and beyond spheres of hegemony. Tim Ingold’s meshwork also captures the ‘notion of interlacing, an intricacy of pattern or circumstance, a membrane that connects’141 that characterises the complexity of human and thing relationships.142 All of these terms excel in framing some but not all aspects of imperial practices and encounters and would, thus, require similar degrees of adaptation and qualification as network.143 Important here is not the exact term, but the emphasis on the relational nature of the phenomena at hand and their resulting emergence, becoming different, or in the making. At the most basic level, the term network indexes a structural condition ‘whereby distinct points . . . are related to one another by connections . . . that are typically multiple, intersecting, and often redundant. A network exists when many nodes [people, institutions, and things] are linked to many other nodes.’144 The social and, as a result, the political are fundamentally about relationships, and relationships form ‘network structures that shape, enable, and constrain political action’.145 Explicit network applications to past political phenomena, such as states and empires, are as yet relatively limited. Network has been mainly used to describe the spatiality of early state power, and to distinguish it from those of modern nation states and their conventional cartographic representations.146 Over the past decades, however, networks have been invoked, explicitly or through other descriptors, to conceptualise and analyse both the social per se

138 140 142 143 144

139 Glatz (2009). Keightley (1980, 26) cf. Richardson (2017, 47). 141 Deleuze and Guattari (1987). Nuttall (2009, 3). Ingold (2010) following Lefebvre (1991). For the sake of prosaic variety, I shall use the terms ‘imperial network’ and ‘empire’ interchangeably in the chapters to follow. 145 146 Barney (2004, 2). Victor, Montgomery, and Lubell (2017, 3). Smith (2005).

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and its assembly,147 as well as a range of more specific relational phenomena, such as trade and exchange, craft mobility,148 diplomatic relations,149 colonisation and globalisation,150 or the formation of group identities.151 Networks have been used to describe, visualise, and analyse relationships in social landscapes and in concrete geographical contexts, as a general heuristic model,152 or through more specific frameworks, such as Actor Network Theory (ANT). The latter, which shares many parallels with Deleuze’s and Guattari’s philosophies, defines the social as a flat layer of associations or relationships that is continuously in the processes of assembling.153 Leaning on this definition and its developmental implications, although with an emphasis ultimately on human experience, I use network in a broad, discursive manner; as a framework to conceptualise, describe, and empirically trace the associations that assembled and disassembled the historical formation that we have come to refer to as the Hittite empire. Interaction, the act that instantiates and materialises the relationships that construct social and political worlds, is a profoundly spatial phenomenon. Thus, space, knowledge of it, and its production in material and symbolic terms are profoundly political in turn.154 A large portion of this book is, therefore, dedicated to the examination of Hittite sovereign practice ‘in terms of the spaces it assembles’:155 how its elites hoped to create and sustain the relationships that connected the central places of the Hittite imperial network in practice and in symbolic terms (Chapters 2 and 3), and where such ties were difficult or impossible to establish, or deliberately and inadvertently challenged or ruptured (Chapters 4–6, and 9). A flattened network perspective helps us eschew preconceived hierarchical notions of centre and periphery and to examine imperial making and undoing on the same planes of interaction in different regional settings. It also allows us to highlight more clearly how imperial production and its experience play out in local contexts of daily practice and performance, and how they causally intertwine at the large-scale and over the longer-term to produce imperial macrohistories. The following Chapter 2 will chart the profound settlement changes that the Hittite central region underwent, both just before and in the early years of Hittite political ascent. This included the deliberate dis-remembrance of old power bases and the relationships that constituted them, the creation of a newly monumentalised capital city, and of new settlement landscapes in the 147 150 153 154 155

148 149 Latour (2005). Larson (2013). Cline and Cline (2015). 151 152 Hodos (2010); Knappett (2017). Peeples (2018). Malkin (2011). Latour (2005); Michael (2017, 12). More formal toolkits such as Social Network Analysis (SNT) have also gained increasing popularity in recent years (Knappett 2011; Mills 2017). Lefebvre (1978, 1991); Foucault (1984b); discussion in Sack (1993). A. T. Smith (2003, 77).

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capital’s hinterland. David Kertzer observed that ‘through ritual aspiring political leaders struggle to assert their right to rule, incumbent power holders seek to bolster their authority, and revolutionaries try to carve out a new basis of political allegiance’; they all use rituals to ‘create political reality for the people around them.’156 Hittite sovereigns also hoped to create a new political reality by networking newly established communities of subjects through regular ritual practices that symbolically interlaced the divine, the political, and the everyday (Chapter 3). Borderlands have been relatively little theorised in explicit network terms. I defined them here as locales where relationships critical to the production and maintenance of imperial sovereignty fail to be established, or are deliberately ruptured or resisted, and where imperial attention and performance, therefore, are heightened as a result. From a network perspective, borderlands are not only phenomena of diminishing political and economic returns that skirt the edges of imperial territories, but that continue to develop throughout imperial domains. Chapters 4–6 explore borderlands as dynamic locales of contest and negotiation, where critical imperial relationships were formed and transformed in a range of ways. In some cases, the materialities of natural landscapes and the monuments inscribed in them could acquire political agency and lock mental geographies and political contests into place. In another, measures implemented to reinforce imperial sovereignty, ultimately and inadvertently, lead to the dissolution of critical network ties and postcollapse dis-remembrance (Chapter 9). Things, like places and landscapes, are critical in assembling imperial networks. Their production, use, and value and the tensions that they elicit in human cognition, affect, and behaviour form the focus of Chapters 7 and 8. Some materials, such as seals, were designed to actively instantiate imperial relationships of power and disparity. However, comparable to the effects of distance and différence in Jacque Derrida’s discussion of the signature,157 the political efficacy of seals and their impressions depended on the adequate socialisation and knowledge of subjects to understand their instructions, and on their willingness to comply with the demands of a physically remote author. This allowed for a diverse range of forms of negotiation, collaboration, and non-engagement to develop, which inevitably altered the ties of the network at large. Finally, a network perspective allows us to capture the multi-temporality of imperial relationships. Imperial networks are not only spatial and material phenomena unfolding through contemporaneous interactions. Rather people, places, and things, and the traditions and practise that connect them also reach

156

Kertzer (1988, 1-2)

157

Derrida (1982, 307-330).

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across time. Chapter 9, therefore, explores the temporal reach of the Hittite imperial network beyond its political lifetime. To sum up, imperial networks and their spheres of action and engagement158 are complex cultural and social constructs, ever in the making across varying scales and temporalities. No single philosophical perspective or theoretical framework can ever hope to adequately grasp and explain all of their facets. Neither can they be reduced to either the study of sovereignty or of resistance, of cultural hybridity and identity negotiation or brute force.159 They can, however, be brought together and conceptualised in broad as well as more specific terms as networked arrangements of people, places, and things. In the chapters that follow, I want to provide what Bruno Latour called a ‘textual account’160 of arenas of Hittite imperial reproduction and challenge that are accessible in the archaeological and textual records, and to trace, as far as possible, their long-term interconnections. A hermeneutic dialectic that tracks between these planes of interaction and their wider ties aims to ‘bring parts and whole simultaneously into view’,161 and to assemble in the processes a set of empirical perspectives on whose basis imperial networks may be further theorized. ONCE UPON A TI ME IN ANATOLIA

Before embarking on this endeavour, however, a brief introduction to Hittite history and imperial development is presented in this section. This serves to acquaint unfamiliar readers with the outlines of Hittite macrohistory according to broad disciplinary consensus. It also illustrates the pervasiveness of the imperialist narrative, the restricted range of sources it is constructed from, and the need for a new approach. The textbook story of Hittite imperial history outlined here is constructed almost exclusively from textual sources. The vast majority of relevant texts were found in the Hittite capital city, Hattusa (modern Bo˘gazköy), located c. 200 km east of the modern Turkish capital, Ankara. First ‘discovered’ by European travellers in the middle of the nineteenth century, the name of the city was confirmed through Akkadian cuneiform documents found by the German-Turkish excavations in 1906 and subsequent years. The vast majority of texts found at Hattusa, however, were written in Hittite, an Indo-European 158

159

160

The German concept of the Handlungsraum, which was only recently introduced into the English-speaking world of Near Eastern archaeology (e.g. Pollock 2013), captures this very well. ‘We cannot, do not, choose hybridity over hegemony or vice versa; or, to recall Herzfeld, resistance over colonization. Both are required to “capture the complexities and complicities involved in . . . fraught historical situation(s)”’ (Comaroff and Comaroff 2001, 113-114). 161 Latour (2005, 125-128). Geertz (1980, 103-104).

EMPIRE IS ALWAYS IN THE MAKING

language, which modern scholars first identified in the Egyptian Amarna archives,162 and that the Czech scholar Bedrˇich Hrozný deciphered in 1916. The language known as Hittite in modern literature was referred to by its speakers as nešili or nešumnili. A problem of nomenclature arose with the discovery in 1922 by Emil Forrer of a non-Indo-European language denoted as hattili or Hattian in Late Bronze Age texts alongside two additional IndoEuropean languages, Luwian (luwili) and Palaic (palaumnili) as well as Hurrian (hurlili), Akkadian (babilili), Sumerian, and, in one instance, Indo-Iranian.163 The use of the term Hittite for the main language of the archives of Bo˘gazköyHattusa, however, had been too well established for attempts to change it to the more accurate Nesite to succeed.164 To date, excavations at Hattusa, Late Bronze Age Anatolian settlements at ˙Inandıktepe, Maş at-Tapikka, Kuş aklıSarissa, Ortaköy-Sapinuwa, and Kayalıpınar (Chapter 2), as well as at Ugarit, Carchemish, and Emar in eastern Turkey and northern Syria (Chapters 6 and 7), have yielded tens of thousands of relevant cuneiform texts and text fragments, while landscape monuments across Anatolia were accompanied by carved hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions (Chapter 5). Seals also carried cuneiform and hieroglyphic inscriptions (Chapter 7). Clay tablets, seals and their impressions, and, to a much lesser extent, inscriptions carved into stone predominate the surviving text corpus of Late Bronze Age Anatolia and surrounding regions. Wooden writing boards, most likely similar to the example from the Uluburun shipwreck, which has two folding sides that were most likely filled with wax,165 and scribes specifically trained in their use, are also mentioned in Hittite texts.166 Both clay tablets and writing boards were used to send correspondence to and from Hittite state institutions and their varyingly ranked administrators.167 Important treaties, moreover, were inscribed in Hittite and Akkadian cuneiform on large metal tablets, one of which, the so-called Bronze Tablet that records the treaty between Tudhaliya IV and his cousin Kurunta of Tarhuntassa, was found deliberately buried at one of the city gates of Hattusa.168 Fragmentary lead strips suggest that the practice of letter writing in hieroglyphic Luwian, best attested for the eighth century BCE, already existed during the Late Bronze Age.169 The majority of Hittite documentary sources stem from archival contexts closely related to the state apparatus and fall within a limited set of categories consisting of predominantly cult-related texts (see Chapter 3) and, to a much

162 165 166 167

163 164 Moran (1992, xiii-xxvi). Forrer (1920). Melchert (2003b, 15). Payton (1991). Marazzi (1994); van den Hout (2010, 2011); Waal (2011) associates the wooden writing boards with the use of the Luwian hieroglyphic script rather than cuneiform. 168 169 Weeden (2014, 44). Otten (1988). Weeden (2014, 45).

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lesser extent, political texts, diplomatic and administrative correspondence, as well as historiographic works. Exceedingly rare are texts dealing explicitly with economic matters such as trade but also the ownership, distribution, and transfer of property and associated fiscal matters.170 In stark contrast to other societies of the ancient Near East, private individuals tend not to be represented in the surviving Anatolian textual record, though it is possible that such matters were recorded on wooden tablets along with other, short-term, information.171 Equally restricted are texts that allow the reconstruction of bureaucratic hierarchies and their correlation to territorial units of administration.172 Echoing these characteristics, the majority of text-based treatments of the Hittite imperial network focuses on aspects of genealogy, synchronisms and chronology, political geography, and historical narratives, or on specific, wellattested, imperial or international relationships.173 Much more limited is the literature devoted to the organisation and development of the Hittite economy,174 or the details of territorial divisions, administrative levels, and procedures of political, economic, ideological, or military control.175 As a consequence, the economic structure and processes of administration are understood in outlines only. Quantitatively significant Late Bronze Age text-finds are geographically restricted to four sites on the central Anatolian plateau: Bo˘gazköy-Hattusa, Maş at-Tapikka, Ortaköy-Sapinuwa, and Kuş aklı-Sarissa. Of these, only the archives of the capital city, Bo˘gazköy-Hattusa, have yielded substantial numbers of documents dating to the Hittite imperial phase, while the majority of tablets from the three other sites relates to the preceding, Middle Hittite, phase. Limited tablet finds or fragments were also found at Alacahöyük, ˙Inandık, Kuş aklı (Yozgat), Kayalıpınar (Sivas), and Tarsus. Additional Late Bronze Age textual evidence comes from northern Syrian sites such as Ras Shamra-Ugarit, Tell Atchana-Alalakh, Meskene-Emar, and Tell MishrifehQatna and from outside the Hittite sphere of effective control in the Levant, Mesopotamia, and Egypt. Large parts of potentially Hittite-controlled Anatolia have, thus, no textual voice of their own, whether through accidents of preservation or real absences. In terms of documentary sources, these areas are accessible, if at all, solely via central Anatolian archives or through their external connections to the wider East Mediterranean and Near East. Below is sketched out the traditional imperial story compiled from these sources. The Hittite imperial network first appeared on the international stage in a series of military campaigns in northern Syria and Mesopotamia, culminating 170 172 174 175

171 van den Hout (2007). Siegelová (1986, 13); Herbordt (2005, 26). 173 Bilgin (2018). Klengel (1999, 394-411 ) for a thematic bibliography; Bryce (2006) Riemschneider (1958); Soucˇek (1959); Diakonoff (1967); Singer (1984); Paroussis (1985) Archi (1973, 1976-77); Beckman (1995a, 1995b, 1999a); Imparati (1982); Bilgin (2018).

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in the conquest of the city of Babylon in 1595 BCE.176 Perhaps even more famously, Hittite great king Muwatalli fought Ramses II of Egypt in the battle of Qadesh and his successor, Hattusili III, was Egypt’s co-signatory in the world’s first peace treaty.177 Prior to the formation of the Hittite state around 1650 BCE, the central Anatolian plateau was divided into a series of local principalities, which were governed by kings and centred on substantial urban settlements at Kültepe, Acemhöyük, Karahöyük-Konya, and Bo˘gazköy. The populations at these centres were linguistically diverse, speaking Indo-European Hittite/Nesite, Luwian and Palaic, the unrelated native Hattian, and Akkadian in the case of resident Assyrian traders. At the same time, they shared in broadly similar material culture traditions. These polities competed with each other while being closely tied into, and benefitting economically from, the Old Assyrian trade network. Attested in cuneiform tablets from c. 1925 BCE, the trade with Assur brought large quantities of tin and fine textiles on donkeys’ backs to Anatolia in exchange for silver. Copper, wool, local textiles, and other goods circulated in inner Anatolian exchange networks.178 At present, we know very little about the processes that led to the collapse of either the Old Assyrian trade or its Anatolian host cities. Assyrian letters and Hittite retrospections suggest an increasingly volatile political climate and all major Middle Bronze Age settlements show signs of widespread destruction in the second half of the eighteenth century BCE, whose cause(s), however, remain as yet elusive (for more detail, see Chapter 2). Similarly obscure are the developments that led to Hittite state formation in the mid-seventeenth century BCE and what motivated Hittite expansionism. Alfred Goetze, for instance, envisaged Hittite imperialism to be a quasiinnate drive connected with Indo-European migrations in earlier centuries.179 Heinrich Otten, inspired by a passage in the Telipinu Proclamation, ‘he made them [the lands] borderlands of the sea’, proposed that the attainment of maritime borders was a ‘natural’ goal of the Hittite state.180 In a later comment, Goetze reverted to a more economic explanation for the conquest of northern Syria and the strategic advantages which the domination of this crucial hub of East Mediterranean commerce entailed.181

176

177 178 180

For detailed outlines, see Klengel (1999) and Bryce (2006). Dates in this volume are given according to the Middle Chronology to keep within broad disciplinary consensus (Beckman 2000; Mielke 2006c) and the results of the most recent dendrochronology and radiocarbon sequencing (Manning et al. 2016). Alternative dates are 1651 BCE (Long Chronology), 1531 BCE (Short Chronology), and 1499 BCE (Ultra-short Chronology). A copy of the peace treaty between Hattusili III and Ramses II hangs on the wall of the United Nations headquarters in New York. 179 For more detail see e.g. Dercksen (2001); Barjamovic (2011). Goetze (1928, 13). 181 Otten (1963a). Goetze (1975).

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table 1 Hittite king-list with approximate dates BCE Hittite king

Approximate reign (BCE)

Huzziya Labarna Hattusili I Mursili I Hantili I Zidanta I Ammuna Huzziya I Telipinu Alluwamna Hantili II Tahurwaili Zidanza II Huzziya II Muwatalli I Tudhaliya I Arnuwanda I Tudhaliya II/III Suppiluliuma I Arnuwanda II Mursili II Muwatalli II Mursili III/Urhi-Tesub Hattusili III Tudhaliya IV Arnuwanda III Suppiluliuma II

1650–1620 1620–1590

1525–1500

1420s–1390s 1390s–1370s 1370s–1350s 1350–1322 1322 1321–1295 1295–1272 1272–1267 1267–1237 1237–1209 1209–1207 1207–1190

J. G. Macqueen182 cited economic motives, such as a shortage of tin following the collapse of the Old Assyrian merchant network for the incorporation of Syria, while military conquest for Oliver Gurney presented ‘. . . an ideology in its own right, a true sport of kings’.183 Later systemic perspectives saw the Hittite empire rise out of a phase of intense inter-polity conflict in central Anatolia,184 or as a reaction to the wider geopolitical situation.185 Early Hittite kings, Hattusili I and Mursili I, of the Old Hittite Period (Table 1) claim, or are reported by their successors, to have expanded their realm from the capital, Hattusa, into the surrounding regions of central Anatolia, and to have mounted military expeditions into the west of Turkey, Syria, and Mesopotamia. The primary motivation behind these campaigns, it would seem, was not empire-making per se, but the prestige and riches that 182 185

Macqueen (1986, 41-43). Bryce (2006, 49-50).

183

Gurney (1979, 163).

184

Gorny (1995, 71).

EMPIRE IS ALWAYS IN THE MAKING

followed in the wake of military victory. Literacy, in the form of cuneiform writing, administrative procedures, and Mesopotamian literary traditions were introduced to central Anatolia as a result of these early campaigns. Following the murder of Mursili I upon his return from Babylon, factional competition is presented by later sources to have led to a phase of internal unrest that Telipinu claims to have brought to an end through successful military campaigns and succession and administrative reforms in the final quarter of the sixteenth century BCE.186 Archaeological evidence from the capital city and its extended hinterland, as we shall see in Chapter 2, however, suggests that the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries BCE present, rather than a phase of decline, a period of vigorous, if in some places short-lived, imperial production. The following fifteenth and the first half of the fourteenth century BCE, which is also referred to as the Middle Hittite Period, is similarly portrayed in later Hittite sources as a phase of political weakness and military conflicts, in particular with the so-called Kaska people to the north and north-east of the Hittite central region (Chapter 4), but also with emergent powers in Upper Mesopotamia and in the west of Turkey.187 With Suppiluliuma I begins what is referred to as the Hittite Empire Period. According to his son, Mursili II, the former embarked on an extensive programme of military campaigns in Anatolia and Syria as soon as he ascended the throne in the mid-fourteenth century BCE, defeating former rival Mitanni, incorporating its north-Syrian vassals, and conquering Qadesh, one of Egypt’s northern dependencies. Following his military victories and a series of voluntary submissions by north-Syrian principalities such as Ugarit, Suppiluliuma put in place a series of measures to ensure continued Hittite control over this strategic and economically lucrative region. This involved the establishment of bureaucratic outposts in the form of two viceregal seats at Carchemish and Aleppo and the conclusion of detailed vassal treaties and dynastic marriages with important Syrian polities, guaranteeing the regular flow of rich tribute payments to Hattusa (Chapters 6 and 7).188 A plague epidemic appears to have raged in Anatolia during the final years of Suppiluliuma’s reign and into the early part of that of Mursili II. Internally, Mursili faced a series of revolts and upheavals, including unrest in the northern 186 187 188

Proclamation of Telipinu, translated by Hoffmann (1984). The king of Arzawa stood in independent correspondence with Amenophis III of Egypt: Amarna letters EA 31 and EA 32 (Moran 1992, 101-103). Ugarit, for instance, was required to deliver annual tribute of altogether c. 560 shekels (c. 6.2 kg) of gold, gold bowls, large numbers of garments, and purple-dyed wool to the Hittite court. Ugarit’s neighbour, Amurru, had to supply 300 shekels, c. 3.6 kg of gold. On Hittite metrology, see e.g. Nougayrol (1956, 40-44); van den Hout (1990, 525-527 ); Beckman (1999b, 151-154); Bryce (2006, 51).

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borderlands. To the west of the central plateau, he struggled to defeat the governor of Kalasma, who had rebelled against Hittite rule and had begun to attack Hittite territory. He defeated and subsequently split the powerful Arzawa alliance located on the west coast of Turkey, while both Egypt and the Middle Assyrian polity were testing Hittite power in central Syria and along the Euphrates (Chapter 6).189 Mursili’s successor, Muwatalli II, is best known for moving the Hittite court from Hattusa to the as-yet-unlocated city of Tarhuntassa in Cilicia190 and for the power-struggle with Egypt that culminated in the battle of Qadesh in 1275 BCE and what appears to have been a narrow victory for the Hittite army. All the while Assyria grew stronger in the Euphrates region. In the west, Muwatalli concluded a treaty with Alaksandu of Wilusa, possibly the city of Troy. In central Anatolia, Muwatalli had left his brother, Hattusili, in charge of the volatile northern border region, where the latter had begun to build his own power base. Muwatalli’s son, Urhi-Tesub/Mursili III, appears to have moved the capital back to Hattusa, before his uncle, Hattusili, took him prisoner and exiled him to Syria, resulting in a civil war.191 Shortly after this coup, Hattusili installed another viceregal seat at Tarhuntassa, on whose throne he placed his nephew and son of Urhi-Tesub/Mursili III, Kurunta. Hattusili III concluded a peace treaty with Ramses II, which was sealed by a dynastic marriage and consolidated through intensive diplomatic exchanges, involving the Hittite queen Puduhepa in a prominent and largely independent role.192 The following phase involved the new Hittite great king, Tudhaliya IV, in the mediation of conflict among Hattusa’s most important Syrian vassal states and an attempt to engage in diplomatic relations with Assyria, which had begun to claim regions to the west of the Euphrates (Chapter 6).193 A lengthy Luwian hieroglyphic inscription at Yalburt details Tudhaliya’s victorious military campaigns in western Anatolia, in particular the Lukka Lands (Classical Lycia),194 while the landscape monument of his southern rival, Kurunta, indicates a vigorous territorial contest over the south-central Anatolian plateau (Chapter 5), and an increasing diversification of political power in Anatolia (Chapter 9). The urban monuments of the last Hittite ruler, Suppiluliuma II, detail military victories in central and south-western Turkey as well as a campaign and treaty with Alasiya, most likely the island of Cyprus.195 At the same time, reports from the Levantine coast suggest an increasingly unstable maritime environment and the destruction of critical north-Syrian trading centres. The disintegration of Hittite power marks the end of the Bronze Age in Anatolia 189 192 195

190 191 Klengel (2011, 39). Dinçol et al. (2000). Bryce (2006, 284-290). 193 194 Klengel (2011, 41). Harrak (1987, 132-287). Hawkins (1995a). But see Oreshko (2012), who assigns the Südburg inscription to Suppiluliuma I.

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around 1200–1180 BCE. Deep-reaching social transformation followed in the central regions of the Hittite imperial network, while other regions formerly under Hittite sway underwent rather different developments, including dynastic continuity and political re-invention (Chapter 9). MATERIAL DI ALECTICS O F IMPERI AL MAKING AND UNDOING

The dialectics of imperial in the making lie at the core of the present work. Moving from the Hittite central region to its nested borderlands and from a landscape scale of analysis to one focused on the varying political capabilities and trajectories of things, the following chapters analyse the tensions of Hittite political production and its negotiation and resistance in different social and cultural arenas. Examined will be places, landscapes, and things as well as their practices that were either invented or appropriated to instantiate and perform the Hittite imperial network, alongside the opportunities they offered for local action, cooperation, and rejection. In Part I, I argue that imperial networks are not born hundreds or thousands of kilometres from their capital city, but at its very threshold and the landscapes that surround it. Doing away with traditional centre-periphery dichotomies, Chapters 2 and 3 examine Hittite practices of empire-making in what is generally considered to be its political heartland. The analyses presented in this section suggest that rather than the well-integrated nation-like state from which Hittite imperial ventures were launched, the central Anatolian plateau was the first and ongoing target of its imperialism as well as the region most profoundly transformed by it. Chapter 2 approaches this process from a landscape perspective, tracing continuities and ruptures in Anatolia’s longterm settlement traditions and the more and less successful practices of an emergent centralising state to de-place the spatial logic of preceding centuries and the communities and political regimes they instantiated. The transformation of physical space is a powerful technique of political production, which results in potentially wide-ranging rifts in regional social and economic practices and their networked relationships. New and old Anatolian communities, therefore, had to be repeatedly socialised in the hope that they might accept as legitimate the new regime’s claim to sovereignty. Chapter 3 examines Hittite ritual as a performance of state, its material agents, and the significance of royal movement in the production and integration of central Anatolia’s new political landscapes. Part II moves the focus of investigation to a series of topographically transitional and politically contested landscapes. The distribution and development of these borderzones sketch a picture of Hittite sovereignty that remained contested, often uncomfortably close to the imperial heartland and throughout its lifehistory, such as in the case of the Black Sea region examined

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in Chapters 4. The emergent picture is also at odds with both modern notions of territoriality, where states are neatly bounded geographical entities with clearly defined, linear borders, and official Hittite ideological and legal notions of sovereignty and its limits. Chapter 5 further argues that the Hittite imperial network was not only surrounded by such borderlands, but dissected along a series of contemporary political faults, which were materially produced and challenged by rock reliefs and other landscape monuments. Chapter 6 examines the tensions between imperial rhetoric, the arresting symbolism of natural boundary markers, and the political ambiguities of routine border practice along its most distant edges in eastern Anatolia and northern Syria. Chapters in Part III focus on the capabilities of things to produce and negotiate imperial relationships, and engage with a series of long-standing questions concerning the impetus, directionality, and mechanisms of culture change within and beyond networks of imperial authority. Chapter 7 examines the practices and materials through which imperial agents sought to assert non-violent authority and how the same technologies created social and cultural spaces for collaboration, resistance, and rejection. Chapter 8 focuses on a category of things that was, as I shall argue, only indirectly implicated in Hittite empire-making: the plain and visually standardising ceramic vessels that furnished Hittite households as well as state institutions. Taking another critical look at traditional assumptions that link craft specialisation and efficiency theories with the symbolism of plainness and notions of state control, I propose in this chapter a consumption-oriented explanation centred not on imperial intent or influence but on the commensal fashions of an increasingly globalising East Mediterranean and Near Eastern interaction sphere. What comes after political collapse, what is abandoned, and what continues to be reproduced in the generations that follow illuminate critical facets of imperial practice and structure on the one hand, and spotlight decisions and processes that contributed to political disintegration on the other. Around 1200–1180 BCE, many of the palatial societies of the East Mediterranean and Near East witnessed social upheaval and destruction. The political superstructure of the Hittite empire too came to its end at this time, along with its major central Anatolian cities and some of its most important Levantine dependencies. Chapter 9 re-examines Hittite imperial decline and collapse in the light of two regional post-collapse communities and their divergent engagement with, and rejection of, its material and ideological heritage. Chapter 10 synthesises the central conclusions to be drawn from the analyses of preceding chapters with regards to the Hittite case study and early imperial networks more broadly. It then returns to the issue of imperial self-narration and the wider societal implications of its scholarly and popular reproduction: the telling of simple stories about the past.

EMPIRE IS ALWAYS IN THE MAKING

At the beginning of this chapter, I proposed that the study of empire is in itself a political act and so in this book I want to tell the complicated, messy, and ever-emergent story of the Hittite imperial network and, wherever possible, of those that cooperated with it, negotiated its relationships, or outright rejected its hegemony and in so doing forged its particular historical form.

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PART I

EMPIRE AT HOME

[T]he land was small. But on whatever campaign he [Labarna] went, he held the lands of the enemy in subjection by his might. He kept devastating the lands, and he deprived the lands of power; and he made them boundaries of the sea. But when he returned from the field, each of his sons went to the various lands (to govern them). Hupisna, Tuwanuwa, Nenassa, Landa, Zallara, Parsuhanta, Lusna – these (were the) lands they governed. Proclamation of Telipinu1

The study of imperial networks has focused for the most part on the expansion of one society, or rather some of its governmental institutions, beyond a central heartland, on the ways and means by which new territories and their inhabitants are coerced and persuaded into an expanded political community, and on the economic and cultural practices that sustained it. Referred to as cores, central regions, heartlands, or power areas,2 imperial centres are widely acknowledged as critical to the imperial project. There is also a broad consensus in empire studies that such heartlands too had to be conquered and united.3 This process and its outcomes, however, are generally imagined as stateformation: the creation, prior to imperial expansion, of a culturally coherent and ideologically consenting public that is qualitatively distinct from other imperial zones. Drawing on comparisons between Inka, Aztec, and Roman expansions, Alan Covey, for instance, suggested that ‘rapid [imperial] growth is 1 3

Translation by Hoffmann (1984, §§1-4, i 2-12). Adams (1979).

2

Münkler (2007, 23).

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most successful in cases where a centralized state government had already coalesced in the heartland of the emerging empire’.4 Imperial heartlands ought then to be easily recognisable and distinguishable such as in the case of, for instance, the nineteenth and twentieth century CE nation states from which emanated European overseas colonial ventures. Such distinctions, however, quickly blur when the distribution of imperial practices and the nature of resulting relational networks are considered. This includes, for instance, the application of violence and the differential access to rights that produced not only overseas colonial milieus, but to varying degrees informed also experiences of empire at home. This was the case especially, but not exclusively, for rural populations and cultural minorities. The lines between nationalism and colonialism, moreover, were blurred legally and in practice with Algeria considered part of France, or Angola and Mozambique as Portuguese provinces.5 In other words, ‘terms like metropole and colony, core and periphery presume to make clear what is not’ and place in opposition what might instead be better understood as ‘contemporary zones of imperial duress’.6 These zones, I will argue in the following chapters, are not connected hierarchically, but produced on a flattened, networked plane of interrelations, which intertwines ‘centre’ and ‘periphery’ in both experience and development. In discourse, and more indirectly in representation, many early empires, including the Hittite, aspired to quasi-national concepts of territoriality and identity. When tracing the practices and relationships through which imperial elites sought to materialise such ambitions, however, emerging topographies of power quickly render inadequate here too, and more starkly perhaps than in later colonial situations, binary distinctions between an imperial core and its peripheries, alongside notions of temporal and geographical linearity in imperial progress. My contention in the following two chapters, thus, will be that empire not only starts at home, but that due to the relational nature of power, and the nature of the networked ties of people, places, and things that underwrite it, it must continue to be (re-)produced, and is subject to challenge and transformation, even as imperial gaze wanders further afield. This is not restricted to the ways in which imperial ideologies are materialised and imperial achievements celebrated, or how empire comes to pervade the mindsets and practices of metropolitan populations;7 but more literally sees the centre as the first as well as ongoing arena of intensive imperial production.

4 5 7

Covey (2006, 5); although he also noted earlier that some groups located close to the capital of Cusco resisted incorporation into the Inka state until quite late (Covey 2003, 339). 6 Cooper (2002, 139). Stoler (2013, 19; original emphasis). See, for instance, Hall and Rose (2007) for insights into the pervasiveness of imperial thought and practice on the British empire’s metropolitan society.

EMPIRE AT HOME

The Hittite central region was known in the Late Bronze Age as ‘the Land of the City Hattusa’ (KUR URUHatti) and was located on the north-central Anatolian high plateau, an orogenic plateau c. 300 by 400 km in size that ranges in elevation between 600 and 1200 m above sea level. This intermontane plateau forms a topographic highland zone with geographical, ecological, and resource challenges and opportunities distinct from surrounding Mediterranean coastal basins and the Mesopotamian plains.8 At the same time, it presents a lowland region with comparatively abundant agricultural resources and opportunities for demographic aggregation relative to the dramatic, rugged mountains of the Pontic and Taurus chains that frame it to the north and south. A diverse range of landscape types characterise this central region, which in geological terms is formed by Upper Cretaceous metamorphic and plutonic rocks.9 Gentle hills and fertile agricultural land dominate areas to the east of the bend of the Kızılırmak river, the Hittite Maraššantiya. Hattusa, the Hittite capital city, was located here alongside numerous other Late Bronze Age settlements. The regions to the south and west of the Kızılırmak present a series of large inland basins, including the Tuz Gölü (Salt Lake) and the Konya plain, both starkly contrasting in their flat and steppe-like character with more northerly landscapes. The region today has a continental, semi-arid climate with hot, dry summers and cold, snowy winters which are broadly comparable to climatic conditions during the second millennium BCE.10 Shorter-term fluctuations of mean temperatures and rainfall, which ranges around 400 mm on the northern plateau and decreases southwards, however, occurred throughout the Holocene. Annual weather conditions, which determine agricultural productivity, also could be highly variable. Late Bronze Age agricultural regimes relied on rainfed agriculture,11 centred on resilient and versatile barley and a number of localised wheat varieties and pulses.12 A number of dams and reservoirs attest to a central preoccupation with the capture and storage of water,13 while centralised granaries, as will be discussed in Chapter 2, held large quantities of grain.14

8

9 11

12 13 14

For a recent discussion of agricultural challenges, see Roberts (2017). This makes the Hittite central region more comparable, in broad terms at least, to the landscapes that shaped imperial formations in highland Iran (Potts 1999, 10-42), the eastern Taurus (Zimansky 1985, 12-31), or the Andes (D’Altroy 1992). 10 Okay (2008). van Zeist and Bottema (1991); Roberts (2017). With the potential exception of parts of the Konya plain/Çarş amba river area (Baird 2001b). Small-scale irrigation of fields and gardens is also attested in the immediate vicinity of Hattusa (Schachner 2017b). Dörfler et al. (2011, 106-108). Emre (1993); see also dams and spring monuments in Ehringhaus (2005); Hüser (2004); Çınaro˘glu and Genç (2004b). Neef (2001); Dörfler et al. (2011) for an archaeobotanical summary on other attested crops; Hoffner (1974) for a comprehensive treatment of relevant textual evidence.

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Unlike today, however, large parts of the central plateau would have been covered by dense woodlands during the mid-Holocene,15 whose retreat can be directly correlated with the rise and expansion of state economies. Pollen records from lake core sediments indicate the onset of a period of dramatic deforestation and resulting environmental degradation from the sixteenth century BCE,16 with some evidence for large-scale anthropogenic landscape modifications already during the third millennium.17 The onset of this socalled Beyş ehir Occupation Phase roughly corresponds to Hittite political ascendancy and associated economic strategies such as large-scale forest clearings to create more fields and vineyards, the higher-altitude cultivation of nuts, as well as extensive logging for construction timber and the expansion of Anatolia’s pastoral economies into upland areas.18 Movement across the central Anatolian plateau was relatively unrestricted in topographic terms. The Kızılırmak can be forded with relative ease along most of its course, with riverine traffic possible on some stretches.19 The remnants of the more impressive volcanoes of the southern plateau were also circumvented with relative speed, although snow cover during the winter months, as Hittite texts inform us, would have slowed down or disrupted communications.20 Western Anatolia and the Aegean coast could be reached with ease via a northern route through the Phrygian highlands and the Eskiş ehir plain, or from Akş ehir to Afyon and along the Meander river valley. Travel to the north, south, and also east, by contrast, was less easily accomplished due to the rugged peaks of the Pontic and the Taurus ranges, which reach up to 4000 m in places. Movement through them was channelled into a small number of strategic thoroughfares, such as the three passes that led across the eastern part of the central Taurus and provided access to the Hittite empire’s east Anatolian and north-Syrian dependencies (see Chapters 6 and 7).21 The significance of these passages is reflected in Hittite storytelling, where a Hittite military expedition required divine intervention in the form of a bull to push a mountain – the Taurus most likely – aside to provide a path for its army: [Beh]ind them he came a bull, and its horns were a little bit bent. I ask [him]: ‘Why are its horns bent?’ and he said: ‘. . . Whenever I went on campaigns/trips, the mountain was difficult for us. But his bul[l] was [strong]. And when it came, it lifted that mountain and [m]oved it, so that we reached (?) the sea. That is why its horns are bent.’22

15 16

17 19 21 22

Altın, Barak, and Altın (2012). Zohary (1973, 31, 118-123); van Zeist and Bottema (1991, 27-28); Dörfler et al. (2011, 101103); by contrast, a marine core taken off the coast of Samsun would suggest the onset of deforestation around 3000 BCE (Shumilovskikh et al. 2012, 188-189). 18 Roberts et al. (2001, 733). Eastwood, Roberts, and Lamb (1998); Roberts (2017). 20 Hoffner (2009, 81-84). Hoffner (2009, 124; 335); Weeden (2014, 34). Barjamovic (2011, 215-216) for a full discussion of possible routes. Translations by Hoffner (2003a, 184-185) and Otten (1963a, lines 15-21).

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Official Hittite identity was tightly bound to the Land of the City of Hattusa.23 Hittite royal titulary expressed and perpetuated this geographical connection over several centuries. Rather than adopting more boastful titles of global dominion, Hittite rulers continued to refer to themselves as ‘Great King, King of the Land of the City of Hattusa’ (LUGAL.GAL LUGAL KUR URUHatti).24 More broadly, being Hittite was defined in official sources in relation to both a geographically specific and a more general and ontologically unstable ‘other’. Instructions for Hittite officials, for instance, talk of a ‘stranger’ (LÚarahzenaš), a term etymologically related to the word for frontier (i/arha),25 which is a concept mutable in geographical, temporal, and ideational terms. In the Hittite law code, by contrast, distinctions were made between persons from different geopolitical entities, such as a ‘man of the Land of Hatti’ (LÚ KURURUHatti) and persons from, for instance, Luwiya.26 Noteworthy in this context is that the so-called Upper and Lower Lands, which stretched east of Hattusa until the Kelkit Çay and south into the Konya plain, developed in Hittite textual sources into extensions of the Land of Hatti in political, legal, and ideological terms in the course of the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE.27 This suggests a shift in the mental geography of Hittite central institutions that may be read as indicative of a successful, quasinational widening of the very core of the Hittite imperial network. Alternately, it can be interpreted as a hopeful projection of such an aspiration, whose process of becoming was tempered by continuous negotiation in a range of political and cultural spheres of interaction, and that was, as a result, always less profoundly and securely realised in practice: less a formed state than

23

24

25 26 27

None of the preserved textual sources point to the use of ethnic criteria, which might be expected to manifest themselves in distinctive material signals, as indicators of group membership or grounds for exclusion. E.g. Apology of Hattusili III, translation by Otten (1981, 4-5); or the Deeds of Suppiluliuma, translation by Güterbock (1956, 59); Tudhaliya IV adopts the Akkadian title ‘King of the Universe’ in response to Assyrian and Kassite claims (Liverani 2001b, 23). See Klinger (2010, 231) for a discussion of Hittite identity based on textual sources. Hoffner (1997, 180-181, §§19-23). Earlier sources only use two toponyms, the Land of Hatti and Luwiya, the latter of which may have included part of the southern plateau (Yakubovich 2014, 107-111; 2010). For broad treatments of Hittite historical geography, see Garstang and Gurney (1959); Forlanini and Marazzi (1986); Gurney (1992); Hawkins (1998); Weeden and Ullmann (2017). The finer details of Late Bronze Age Anatolian political geography are much less clear and the correlation of settlements mentioned in the texts with archaeological sites remains difficult with the exception of a handful of large and extensively excavated sites with rich textual finds. The Hittite capital city, Hattusa, and the cities of Carchemish, Ugarit, and Emar present the main anchor points for an otherwise floating historical geography. The central Anatolian sites of Maş at Höyük-Tapikka, Ortaköy-Sapinuwa, and Kuş aklı-Sarissa, as well as Kayalıpınar-Samuha and Melid-Arslantepe, can be identified with relative confidence. The remainder of the over 2000 toponyms known from Late Bronze Age texts (Del Monte and Tischler 1978, 1992), however, cannot as yet be located with confidence.

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an empire in the making. Historiographical texts beginning with the Annals28 and Testament of Hattusili I or the Proclamation of Telipinu, which is cited at the start of this section,29 also describe the conquest and nature of dominance over both the Land of Hatti and its satellite territories in tropes identical to those used to recount the incorporation and, inadvertently also, the temporary losses of control over, and repeated episodes of recapture, of parts of Anatolia and northern Syria that are more conventionally seen as the target of Hittite imperialism. The following two chapters, thus, examine the material and symbolic practices through which an emerging and expanding Hittite institutional apparatus sought to reproduce and perform itself in this first, central Anatolian zone of imperial duress: its successes, failures, localised reactions, and developments. This process began in the late seventeenth century BCE and reached its peak in the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries and was both imperial and nationalistic in nature. It also unfolded not before but in tandem with imperial expansions elsewhere, and continued throughout the course of the Hittite imperial network’s life history. Over the course of several centuries, Hittite schemes of settlement, resource circumscription, and ideological integration in this central region developed, adapted, and faltered, while regional autonomies waxed and waned, and imperial as well as local agendas transformed as their practices and unexpected outcomes critically, and ultimately fatally, intersected with wider geopolitical developments (see also Chapter 9).

28

Melchert (1978).

29

Hoffmann (1984).

TWO

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There is a politics of space because space is political. Henri Lefebvre (1978, 345)

Over the past half-century, debates about the nature of social power, which I have touched on in Chapter 1, have brought to the fore how temporary, fragile, and contradictory and, as a result, how continuously contested and in the making all forms and relationships of authority are. This distributed conceptualisation of authority in relational philosophies has also drawn attention to the fundamental spatiality of the social and, consequently, the inextricably political nature of space, knowledge of it, and its production in both material and symbolic terms.1 Archaeologists have long known that political regimes transform landscapes, build new cities and destroy others, or deport and resettle captive populations to make the messy social and economic relationships and practices of indigenous communities more legible to agents of state authority,2 and to align them more closely with prevalent political ideologies.3 Building new capital cities was a veritable sport of kings in the ancient Near East. Examples include the new Kassite-Babylonian capital at Dur-Kurigalzu,4 the founding of KarTukulti-Ninurta, or the renewals of the Neo-Assyrian cities of Nineveh and 1 2

Lefebvre (1978, 1991); Foucault (1984b); discussion in Sack (1993). 3 Leone and Hurry (1998); Scott (1999). A.T. Smith (2003).

4

Clayden (2017).

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Nimrud,5 as well as the foundations of Memphis, Avaris, Thebes, and Amarna in Egypt.6 Rural landscapes too were subjected to potentially dramatic and centrally orchestrated transformations such as in the course of Roman centuriation in the Levant and north Africa.7 Earlier, Neo-Assyrian strategies of agricultural colonisation and re-settlement may have been responsible for the widespread abandonment of mounded sites and the establishment of many small, dispersed sites across upper Mesopotamia and the Levant in the first half of the first millennium BCE.8 The transformation and occasional rupture of earlier spatial logics, and with them the networks of relationships that link people and things to particular places, as well as the appropriation of places with special political affordances,9 however, are not material reflections of accomplished dominion. Instead, they are the eventful performances, and later repetitive processes, through which imperial institutions seek to actualise the political landscapes, which they confidently project and lay claim over in official narratives. Settlement sites, their locations, morphologies, and spatial inter-relationships are the remnants of cumulative human practice, and the ever-tightening material and symbolic inter-dependencies that bind communities in place over the long term. In the following sections, I trace the transformations and especially the punctuated ruptures of such traditional configurations of landscape in the course of Hittite political production on the central Anatolian plateau. At the same time, a diachronic approach to imperial successes, failures, and negotiated accommodations of settlement strategies, in this and the following chapter, helps to bring to the fore the network-like spatiality, and the distributed dialectics of imperial in the making. LANDSCAPES OF OLD

Hundreds of settlement mounds, höyük (pl. höyükler) in Turkish, dot the landscapes of the central Anatolian plateau. As one travels through the dusty flatness of the Konya plain or amidst the rolling hills of the northern plateau, one quickly learns to spot these mounds from a distance and to distinguish their distinctive morphology from natural hills. Höyükler come in a range of shapes and sizes, but they often tower over the surrounding landscape. They frequently take the shape of tall, steep-sided, and truncated cones (Figure 3), 5 7

8 9

6 Harmanş ah (2012). Mumford (2010, 328-332). Caillemer and Chevallier (1957); Mattingly (1988); Potter (1990, 118-121). Andreas MüllerKarpe (2017, 18-19; Abb. 16) recently suggested that rural pathways and field boundaries visible around the city of Kuş aklı-Sarissa (see below) are signs of centralised land distributions comparable to Roman centuriation. Wilkinson (2000b, 236; 2003, 128-135); Wilkinson and Barbanes (2000). Often a combination of strategic geographical location and significant symbolic or mnemonic associations.

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3 Salman Höyük East in Çankırı province looking north

while others form large, elevated sprawls with flat tops, their sides jagged with erosion gullies.10 Mounded sites aggrade over many generations of habitation and are the product of a series of specific cultural choices and the long-term, cumulative material and symbolic dependencies they assemble. One such choice, though not exclusive or applicable at all times, is the practice of agriculture.11 A second lies at the heart of mound-formation processes: the use of mudbrick or similar materials to construct houses and other buildings. Once erected, mudbrick structures decay comparatively rapidly and require continuous repair and replacement.12 Over generations, this leads to the characteristic build-up of often complexly intertwined stratigraphies as structures are pulled down, the mudbrick rubble is flattened, foundations are dug into older deposits, and stones and timbers are re-used in new structures. Early mound settlements such as the Neolithic sites of Aş ıklı Höyük and Çatalhöyük also attest to a remarkable degree of continuity in the spatial organisation of sequential settlements, individual houses, and even interior features,13 which points to a keen awareness by resident communities of ancestral practices and a desire to quite literally align themselves with them.14 10 11 12 13 14

For an extended discussion of site morphology, see Casana (2007, 2012). Sherratt (1997, 276). General estimates of the average rebuilding phases for mudbrick architecture vary from 15 (Braidwood 1957) to 50 years (Woolley 1934, 225). Düring (2005); at Çatalhöyük, the degree of replication lessens in later levels (Hodder 2014, 15). For a discussion of mounded sites in Turkey, see e.g. Steadman (2009).

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Such precise continuities cease after the Neolithic and many Early Bronze Age mound sequences are in fact characterised by rapid changes in architectural plans.15 There can be little doubt, however, that Bronze Age höyük-dwellers were aware of preceding episodes of human occupation and had a sense of deep history and tradition of place, however subconscious or naturalised this may have been in daily life. Another choice was to live in often tightly clustered, nucleated communities. If ‘dispersion enshrines an idea of individuality’, as Brian Roberts observed, ‘then nucleations derive from a blending of factors to which the term communality may be applied’.16 This communality of nucleated settlement profoundly structured the social lives and economic activities of their inhabitants, ranging from the routine practices surrounding food production to community organisation, the distribution and legal ownership of resources, and decision-making powers. In concert, these initial choices and the rapid coagulation of interdependencies that they brought about bound höyük-dwellers in place and led to the characteristic long-term persistence of mounded sites. The deep-rooted notions of place and nucleated communality, which höyük settlements represented and actively reproduced, can be traced well into the period of Hittite political ascent.17 A handful of Hittite cadastral texts, for instance, identifies fields through the description of nearby landscape and architectural features. All fields mentioned were located either alongside rivers, canals, and ponds; on routes or paths to other towns and villages; or on the borders between two settlements. None of the fields described lies adjacent to or between houses, implying the concentration of living spaces away from agricultural zones (Table 2).18 A passage in the Hittite law code, which sketches the spatiality of legal accountability of Anatolian communities, affirms that Hittite institutions too envisaged settlement communities as spatially concentrated: If a man is found killed on another person’s property, if he is a free man, (the property owner) shall give his property, house, and 60 shekels of silver . . . . But if (the place where the dead body was found) is not (private property), but uncultivated open country, they shall measure 3 DANNA’s in all 15 17

18

16 Bachhuber (2015, 27-29). Roberts (1996, 35). Höyük-based settlements are not the only attested form of prehistoric and Bronze Age settlement in Anatolia (Glatz, Düring, and Wilkinson 2015), an issue I will return to in Chapter 4. We also ought to acknowledge here the ‘tyranny of the tell’ in the survey record (Wilkinson, Ur, and Casana 2003, 100), even if there can be little doubt about the preponderance of höyük-settlements during most of the Bronze Age in Anatolia (Glatz 2009) and the wider Near East (Wilkinson 2003, 210-220). This pattern echoes other second millennium BCE social geographies such as at Middle Bronze Age Kültepe-Kanes (Dercksen 2004, 138); seventeenth century BCE Tell AtchanaAlalakh (Magness-Gardiner 1994, 40; Lauinger 2015); and Yorgun Tepe-Nuzi in northern Iraq (Zaccagnini 1979).

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table 2 Location of fields in relation to other landmarks in Hittite cadastral texts (translation by Soucˇek 1959) Field type/location

Number of mentions

Interior of river (?) Field of the river Field of the riverbank Field of the canal Field of the pond Field of the river of (from?) another town Field of the town X Field behind vineyard Field on the border to another town Field on the path to another town Field with path leading through Field of the (wood-decorated) gate Field of the path/way Property of meadow Barren land Field of the valley Field down towards (a settlement) Field of the mountain Field of the rock Field of the community Field of the god No indication/tablet illegible or broken Total number of fields

3 13 1 1 1 1 1 1 7 10 1 3 1 3 1 1 1 5 1 5 4 85 150

directions, and whatever town/village is determined (to lie within that radius), he shall take those very (inhabitants of the town/village). If there is no town/ village, (the heir of the deceased) shall forfeit (his claim).19

This radius of three DANNA (c. 4.5 km) of legal responsibility corresponds rather well with cross-cultural averages of daily traveling distances for sedentary farming communities to surrounding fields20 and with the archaeologically 19

20

cf. Bryce (2002, 81, note 20; my emphasis); Hoffner (1997, 20). The DANNA is a measure of length, whose metric value depends on the interpretation of the gipeššar, which Otten (1939) equated with the AMMATU or ell (~ 50 cm). Melchert (1980) later suggested that 30 AMMATU or gipeššar make up one IKU, one hundred of which represent a DANNA (van den Hout 1990, 518, 521). According to this line of argument, one DANNA amounts to c. 1500 m and the three DANNAs mentioned in §IV/§6 in the Hittite law code are the equivalent of approximately 4.5 km. Chisholm (1968, 131); archaeological evidence in the form of so-called linear hollow-ways, which characteristically fan out from mounded sites in northern Iraq and Syria have been interpreted as the remnants of long-term movement between settled and agricultural zone (Wilkinson and Tucker 1995; Wilkinson 2003, 111-120); the ‘corona’ of fields and gardens, which framed typical Mesopotamian settlements (Oppenheim 1969, 6).

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observed minimum distance of c. 10 km between Late Bronze Age Anatolian settlements.21 Hittite symbolic geography similarly pivots on a dualism that juxtaposes a clearly defined settled and civilised space with the varying degrees of wilderness that stretched out from it.22 Settlements were designated with the logogram URU or the Hittite word happira-.23 Semantically opposed to such settled places was the gimra-/gimmara-, a ‘steppe’ or ‘wilderness’ in which travellers were robbed or killed, where potentially polluting rituals and military encounters took place, and where social norms and rules were suspended.24 Anatolian settlement communities were referred to as the ‘people of the town/village’ (LÚMEŠ URULIM) in Hittite sources and are described as organised in patriarchal households (É).25 They were represented and governed by the ‘men of the town/village’ (LÚMAŠKIM.URUKI) or a council of elders (LÚ.MEŠ ŠU.GI, Hittite miyahwanteš).26 The Hittite state conceded a relative degree of autonomy to these traditional institutions and the communality from which they drew their authority.27 Officials, for instance, were instructed to consult the council of elders and other community representatives in juridical matters where communal law rather than the official law code was to be employed.28 In The Production of Space, Henri Lefebvre, made the simple yet compelling point that ‘what came earlier continues to underpin what follows’.29 In the mid-second millennium BCE it was the höyük-landscapes of central Anatolia, and the capacity for local agency residing in the deeply place-bound communality of its inhabitants, which formed the socio-spatial preconditions that Hittite sovereign ambition had to contend with. Any attempts to modify this central Anatolian settlement landscape in order to instantiate and represent a 21

22 23

24 25

26

27 28

29

This was recorded by Tuba Ökse (2000, 2001) during a surface survey in Sivas province. Most Late Bronze Age settlements are located c. 15–20 km from their nearest neighbours, while c. 50 km lie between higher-order sites. Beckman (1999a, 165). The original meaning of happira- was ‘place of trade’. Hittite texts mention around 2000 such places, but we know little about their actual or relative dimensions and internal spatial organisation as the determinative URU and the Hittite happira- identify human settlements regardless of scale (Del Monte and Tischler 1978, 1992). Beckman (1999a). Klengel (1986, 24-30); Diakonoff (1967, 353-356). Hittite state economy too relied on the household as the principal unit of production, which was based on family units or could be artificially assembled from captives of war. Klengel (1965); see also Yoffee (2005); Michalowksi (2013); Culberston (2016, 199-200) for broad parallels in the participatory assemblies and local courts of late third and second millennium BCE Mesopotamia. Diakonoff (1967, 351-353). Diakonoff (1967, 352-353); the question of whether early Hittite sovereigns were elected by, and answerable to, an assembly of nobles, the panku- or tuliya-, also has been subject to extensive debate (e.g. Beckman 1982). Lefebvre (1991, 228).

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new regime’s agenda would have to either co-opt or displace the patterned practices and relationships of place that for so long had constituted it, along with the memories it embodied, and the distributed forms of authority it sustained. Across Anatolia, settlement numbers diminished from over 1500 recorded sites with evidence for occupation during the third millennium BCE to about 600 during the early second millennium.30 With it decreased settled area, even when weighted against the length of each period, and population density, which declined by about one third and in some areas by nearly two thirds. Only in the lowest settlement tier do we find an increase in site numbers. Intimately connected with this fundamental change in Anatolia’s settlement landscapes is a development towards socially more complex and hierarchically structured communities from the late third millennium BCE onwards. Early signs and catalysts for this development include intensified interregional trade and an increase in the production and circulation of metals, as well as a proliferation of widely shared feasting paraphernalia.31 Regional centres in western Anatolia such as Troy II and Demircihöyük show signs of incipient monumentality, attempts to circumscribe internal space and demarcate settlement communities through perimeter or defensive walls. On the central Anatolian plateau, the ostentatious funerary displays of Alacahöyük with their emblematic metal standards, drinking equipment, and evidence for funerary feasting witness the experimentation of nascent elites in the material production of social distinction.32 Though by no means a reliable historical source, it is nonetheless interesting that a passage in the Akkadian King of Battle narrative and a later text reporting an Anatolian rebellion both hint at the existence of centralised polities in Anatolia at the close of the third millennium BCE.33 A sequence of monumental megaron structures at Kültepe in southern Cappadocia,34 which yielded over one thousand sealed bullae, Mesopotamian-style cylinder seals, and evidence for trade connections with the Levant,35 suggests a nascent form of centralisation. Clearly identifiable political centres, however, can be

30

31 32 33

34 35

Glatz (2009, 132); Bachhuber (2015, 29 with further references for an EB III decline in site numbers); Wilkinson (2003) and, recently, Lawrence et al. (2016) observed a comparable trend across northern Mesopotamia and inland Syria. Şaho˘glu (2005); Çevik (2007); Düring (2011, 257-299); Schoop (2011b); Bachhuber (2015) for more detailed discussions. Whalen (2014); Bachhuber (2015, 98-99). For a translation see Westenholz (1997); Veenhof and Eidem (2008). Both texts are only preserved in second millennium BCE copies and both present instruments of Mesopotamian political production rather than reported history (Liverani 1993b, 49-50). Özgüç (1963, 35; 1986, 31-34): Levels 13-11. Kulako˘glu (2010, 41); Kulako˘glu et al. (2013, 46-49); Bachhuber (2015, 137).

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4 Overview of settlement continuity and size distributions in the Hittite central region

recognised in the archaeological record only in the early centuries of the following second millennium BCE, or Middle Bronze Age. The formation of the first centralised polities in central Anatolia was underwritten by a demographic concentration in enlarged centres, some of which reached up to 50 ha in size, a decline in medium-sized sites, and a greater dispersal of agricultural villages and hamlets. However, despite marked transformations at the regional scale, Anatolia’s emergent political landscapes remained anchored in, and drew their authority from, a persistence of place. This is especially evident at the top of regional hierarchies, whose centres were substantial settlements already during the Early Bronze Age, but cascades across all tiers (Figure 4).36 Toponymic continuity from the third millennium may also be cautiously inferred from the King of Battle narrative, where Sargon of Akkad (c. 2334–2297 BCE) is said to have defeated Nur-Dagan of Purushattum following a quarrel with Mesopotamian merchants. His grandson, Naram Sin (c. 2260–2223 BCE), is portrayed as the victor over a coalition of seventeen Anatolian kings, Pampa of Hatti and Zippani of Kanes among them. Purushattum, Hatti, and Kanes are well-attested polities on the central Anatolian plateau during the Middle Bronze Age.37

36 37

No distinction was possible on the basis of the available survey data between EBA I-II and EBA III occupations. Archi (1980a); Barjamovic (2011, 61).

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5 Merchant house in the ka¯ rum settlement at Kültepe-Kanes

The most significant of these was the principality of Kanes, whose capital at Kültepe was crowned by a sequence of palatial and other monumental structures, while at the foot of its central mound stretched out a large lower town (ka¯rum) populated by Anatolian and Mesopotamian traders and their families (Figure 5). In contrast to Kültepe’s long-term continuity of place, political significance, and inter-regional connections, the site’s monumental buildings, alongside those of other Middle Bronze Age centres, do not continue the preceding megaron tradition. Instead, the monumental structures of the Middle Bronze Age display similarities with Syria and Mesopotamia, as well as a significant degree of morphological fluidity.38 Following the destruction by fire of the first Middle Bronze Age palace on Kültepe’s citadel mound, the so-called Old Palace (Level 8), a new enlarged, and rectangular courtyard building, the Palace of Warsama (Level 7), was built to replace it.39 This intra-site mutability in monumental architecture at Kültepe contrasts with the local character and long-term continuity of central Anatolian vernacular

38 39

Schachner (2011, 61). So named because of a letter by king Anum-Hirbi of Mama to king Warsama of Kanes that was discovered in this structure (Balkan 1957).

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architecture, and suggests an ongoing experimentation with, and negotiation of, centralising authority and its material and spatial production.40 At the regional scale, inter-site differences in monumental architecture trace a fragmented political landscape, whose excavated centres include the c. 44 ha site of Acemhöyük south of the Tuz Gölü and the 39 ha site of Karahöyük located to the south of the modern city of Konya. At Acemhöyük, a substantial Early Bronze Age occupation was followed by the construction of two large palatial structures, the Sarıkaya and the Hatıpler palaces, in the second quarter of the second millennium BCE.41 Unlike at Kültepe, no lower town or merchant colony has been discovered to date, but large quantities of luxury goods and raw materials track wide-ranging trade relationships.42 Numerous clay bullae and sealings, among them the impressions of the seals of Samsi-Adad I (c. 1808–1776 BCE) of Assyria and contemporary administrators,43 leave little doubt about their use in centralised administrative practices. Acemhöyük is traditionally identified as the centre of the powerful Middle Bronze Age kingdom of Purushattum as well as one of the first cities conquered by early Hittite kings, and allegedly transformed into a local district centre.44 Karahöyük-Konya too was occupied from the Early Bronze Age and was dominated by a monumental, multi-roomed structure and a casemate fortification wall in the first half of the second millennium BCE. Copious seal finds attest to an administrative function for the monumental building, to the wider settlement’s role as a central place, and its participation in extensive inter-regional trade.45 Over 22,000 cuneiform tablets written in Old Akkadian and stored in the private archives of Assyrian merchant families have been unearthed so far in the lower town of Kültepe, the so-called ka¯ rum Kanes.46 The texts reveal in intricate detail the organisation and management of this commercial network. Indirectly they also outline in broad terms the geopolitical make-up and development of central and northern Anatolia, which was divided into several kingdoms (ma¯ tu): Kanes, Purushattum, Wahsusana to the south of the 40 41

42 44

45 46

Also Bachhuber (2012, 589). Dendrochronology suggests a date for the beams in the palace of around 1777–1774 BCE (Kuniholm et al. 2005), which makes them contemporary to ka¯ rum 1b and Level 7 at Kültepe. Manning et al. (2016: 16) propose a slightly earlier date of 1794–1785 BCE. 43 Özgüç (1966); Öztan (2007). Veenhof (1982); Karaduman (2008). Bryce (2006, map 3); Klengel (1999, Karte 3); Kawakami (2006); Kuhrt (1995) for an equation of Purushattum with Karahöyük-Konya; Barjamovic (2008, 375; 2011) for a more westerly location. Barjamovic (2011, 366-368); Alp (1968); for short summaries see Mellink (1958, 95-96; 1959, 77; 1960, 61; 1962, 75; 1963, 67; 1964, 153). Michel (2011, 314). These tablets date commercial activity at the site to between 1927 and 1719 BCE, but the vast majority of tablets were found in the earlier ka¯ rum II: Günbattı (2008); Veenhof (2003). More sporadic tablet finds also come from Bo˘gazköy and Aliş ar Höyük: Dercksen (2001); Michel (2003).

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Kızılırmak, and the land of Hattum to its north. The texts also mention the existence of subordinate or vassal rulers in strategic cities. From these accounts we can reconstruct a progressively more complex and competitive political environment, in which revolts and territorial disputes disrupted trade activities, and shifting military and political fortunes led to fluctuations in the relative prominence of local kingdoms, as well as the emergence of new powers over time. A Late Bronze Age narrative about this period, the so-called Anitta Text, for instance, suggests that Zalp(uw)a on the Black Sea coast may have been an additional political player, while the kingdom of Mama appears to have challenged Kanes’ supremacy in the south-east.47 According to the same text, a process of political unification began with the capture of Kanes by Anitta’s father, Pithana, originally from the city of Kussara located in the Anti-Taurus range.48 Anitta, in the same text, claims to have expanded Kanes’ realm by repeatedly defeating Zalp(uw)a and Hattus. He is also said to have campaigned to the south and west of Kanes, leading to the voluntary submission of the ‘great king’ of Purushattum. It is possible that the Anitta story was based on an earlier original or a Middle Bronze Age oral tradition. The text states that it originally took the form of a tablet or inscription displayed at Anitta’s, and therefore presumably also Kanes’, gates.49 The preserved text fragments, however, date to the Late Bronze Age and present a composition with evident ideological purpose and unmistakable similarity – though also differences in specific heroic activities – to later Hittite annal texts. It is not, therefore, an accurate historical account of central Anatolia during the ka¯ rum Ib period,50 but an origin myth; a rationalisation and legitimisation of Hittite power over the central Anatolian plateau through the invention of an imperialist tradition. There are reports of territorial competition and subordinate rulers in the Old Assyrian letters, and a crown prince and king with the name Anitta is attested in a cuneiform inscription on a bronze spearhead from Kültepe51 as well as in several Old Assyrian documents.52 So much appears to be historically accurate. There exists, however, no further evidence, archaeological or textual, for a successful Middle Bronze Age imperialist polity on the central Anatolian plateau, or, as I shall return to below, for the specific events of destruction and desecration described in the Anitta text. The Anitta narrative, thus, creates rather than recalls a historical

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48 49 Bryce (2006, 25; 33-34). Barjamovic (2011). Neu (1974, 13). Though it is conventionally treated in this manner, see e.g. Bryce (2006); Beal (2011, 580); Wilhelmi (2016). É.GAL A-ni-ta ru-ba¯ -im (the palace of Anitta, king), Özgüç (1999). See e.g. Kryszat (2008).

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precedent for the destruction and dis-remembrance of old and competing landscapes in Hittite political production. The Middle Bronze Age centres at Kültepe, Acemhöyük, and Karahöyük all met a violent end sometime in the eighteenth century BCE. Acemhöyük was destroyed by a massive conflagration and stood abandoned thereafter, as was Karahöyük-Konya. The chronology of these fires remains as yet unclear, and their contemporaneity and a potential common cause impossible to determine. Social unrest or warfare, however, would appear to have played at least some part. A large number of human skeletal remains from a burnt mid-to-late eighteenth century structure at Kaman-Kalehöyük, for instance, serve as a gruesome illustration of the volatile social environment of the time.53 Several of the skeletons were found in association with metal weapons, including a still-lodged spearhead.54 Whatever the exact causes and time frames involved, all of the major Middle Bronze sites on the southern and south-eastern portion of the central plateau were either abandoned following these destruction events, such as in the case of Acemhöyük and Karahöyük, or continued to be occupied for some time, but on a severely reduced scale and with little political significance. Kanes, for instance, is sporadically mentioned in Late Bronze Age sources in relation to cult inventories and singers, and once as the seat of a Hittite administrator.55 Archaeological evidence suggests a short-lived and dramatically scaled-down settlement at Kültepe in the final part of the Middle Bronze Age (ka¯ rum Ia), and no evidence for occupation during the Hittite Empire Period.56 As far as can be gleaned from textual sources, a similar fate befell the vast majority of other Middle Bronze Age centres in the region, thirty-one of which are mentioned in Old Assyrian merchant texts. Having lost their geopolitical significance, they disappeared from Late Bronze Age records,57 or rather they were remembered only as forgotten. In a landscape of millenniaold mound settlements and in light of the sharp decline in settlement numbers a few centuries earlier, Anatolia’s inhabitants would have been well accustomed to the sight of uninhabited höyükler. The burnt and abandoned ruins of monumental palaces and formerly bustling Middle Bronze Age trading centres, however, were the material witnesses of a political landscape profoundly transformed. A change that served both very practical purposes for an emergent Hittite polity, whose main centre was located on the northern plateau, and presented a significant source of ideological capital. 53 54 55 56 57

Kaman-Kalehöyük Stratum IIIc is contemporary with ka¯ rum 1b and Level 7 at Kültepe. Hunt (2006, 2007); Omura (2006, 2007, 2008). Barjamovic (2011, 230-231) with references. Kulako˘glu (1996); only during the Iron Age does Kültepe regain geopolitical significance as the seat of one of the kingdoms under the aegis of Tabal (Özgüç 1971, 77-83). Archi (1976–1977, 99-101; 1980a).

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The experience of this transformation would no doubt have been felt most keenly by those witnessing the demise of local regimes and their networked relationships, and in the following generation or two, when collective memory and affective association had not yet faded. Over the longer-term, however, these locales became places of conscious dis-remembrance. Here old rivals, the alternative, competitive, and fragmented political landscapes they represented and constituted, and the challenges that their stories posed to Hittite narratives of centralised sovereignty were actively forgotten. Ruination, actual and its aggressive or defensive threat, and the rupturing of existing spatial relationships and social networks that it implies, alongside the re-assembling of new spatial logics through deportations, re-settlements, and prescription of spatial practice, form part of the fundamental repertoire of Bronze Age as well as later empire-making, and the vocabulary of its rationalisation. A Stormgod of the Ruin Mound(s), for instance, was a witness in later Hittite vassal treaties, which no doubt served as a veiled threat to non-compliant treaty partners.58 The centrality of both ruin-making and re-building to the Hittite political project is also evident in the omnipresence, in a range of text genres, and from all phases of Hittite history, of standardised tropes of urban and ecological devastation. Hittite royal annals are in effect list-like enumerations of conquered and destroyed cities and territories (‘I/he destroyed the city/land’ or ‘I/he burnt down/set fire to the city/land’), which were deployed indiscriminately in connection with settlements of widely varying size and geopolitical significance, from the city of Babylon to villages along the Kaska border in northern Anatolia. In his Proclamation, Telipinu recalls the military achievements of Mursili I: He went to the city of Halpa, destroyed Halpa and brought Halpa's deportees (and) its goods to Hattusa. Now, later he went to Babylon, he destroyed Babylon and fought the Hurrian [troops]. Babylon's deportees (and) its goods he kept in Hat[tusa].59

Several generations later, Mursili II recounts a season of campaigning by his father, Suppiluliuma I, along the northern border of the Land of Hatti: My father [marched] away from there, as[cended] Mount Illuriya and spent the night in (the town of ) Washaya. He burned down the land of Zina . . . . From there he (went on and) spent the night in (the town of ) Kaskilussa and burned down the lands of Kaskilussa and Tarukka. From there he (went on and) spent the night in (the town of ) Hinariwanda and

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Ruined or abandoned settlements were also designated with a special logogram (URU.DU6) in Hittite texts (Beckman 1999b, 217). van den Hout (2003, 195).

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burned down the land of Hinariwanda and Iwatallissa. From there he (went on and) spent the night (in the town of ) Sapidduwa and burned down the land of Sapidduwa.60

Though not a Late Bronze Age annal text, one of the best-known narrations of city destruction and ecological ruin-making comes from the story of Anitta. Here, Anitta claims to have captured the city of Hattus, Hattusa’s Middle Bronze Age predecessor, and to have sown weeds on its ruins: P[iyusti] had [f]ortified Hattusa. So I left it alone. But subsequently, when it became most acutely beset with famine(?), their goddess Halmassuit gave it over (to me), and I took it at night by storm. In its place I sowed cress.61

The same practice is attested in the Annals of Hattusili I, who claimed the destruction of several towns located on the southern plateau, including the city of Ullamma. Another city, Sallahsuwa, is said to have burnt down its own ramparts before submitting to Hittite control,62 a potent symbol of loss of independence.63 In royal heroic tales, defeated or destroyed settlements were also occasionally dedicated to the gods, and, as a result, became taboo to humans and effectively cursed. Anitta, for instance, upon taking the cities of Harkiuna, Ullamma and Teneda . . . devoted (them) to the Stormgod of Nesa. We [all]otted (them) to the Stormgod [of Nesa(?)] (as) a de[voted thing]. Whoever after me becomes king, whoever resettles [the cities of Ullamma, Dened]a and Harkiuna, [the enemies of Nesa, let him be enemy to the Stormgod] of Nesa.64

In the fourteenth century BCE, Mursili II dedicated the northern border settlement of Timmuhala to the gods after it had repeatedly passed between Hittite and Kaska hands. In the Südburg inscription, Tarhuntassa, the temporary capital of the Hittite empire under Muwatalli II and subsequent political rival in southern Anatolia, appears to have received the same treatment by Suppiluliuma II.65 These tales of devastation by enemy forces and the long-term abandonment of cities and landscapes provide the foundation for the complementary narrative of royal creation. Hittite discourse on the (re-)fortification, (re-)settlement, and 60 61 62 63 64 65

Deeds of Suppiluliuma, translation by Hoffner (2003b, 191). Hoffner (2003c, 183; lines 43-48); Neu (1974, 13). Houwink ten Cate (1984, 54); Durnford and Akeroyd (2005); Dörfler et al. (2011, 113-114) for a palaeobotanical assessment. Postgate (1992, 76, 252); Van de Mieroop (1997, 48-49, 73). Hoffner (2003c, 183; lines 17-24). Hawkins (1995a, 23); although see Oreshko (2012) for a different translation and ascription to Suppiluliuma I.

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(re-)cultivation of destroyed and emptied landscapes foreshadows, yet also differs, from the terra nullius discourse of Iron Age rulers.66 The empty landscapes of Hittite accounts were not represented as virgin soil, but settlements and their hinterlands plunged from a state of order into chaos and destruction by the hands of Hittite enemies.67 It is the restoration of order in the form of a resumption of agricultural activities and ritual practice, rather than its creation from primordial chaos or emptiness, from which Hittite royal protagonists drew political capital (see also Chapter 3). For instance, garrisons were installed and re-captured towns and landscapes re-populated by Suppiluliuma I, Mursili II, and Hattusili III in a series of contested border regions along the northern perimeter of the Anatolian plateau. Mursili II describes how his father had . . . built fortifications behind the empty towns of the whole land which had been emptied by the enemy, he brought the inhabitants back, everyone to his own town, and they occupied their towns again.68

Hattusili III gives a similar account of his activities in the same region: The lands of Hakpis and Istahara he [Hattusili’s brother, Muwatalli II] gave me in vassalship and in Hakpis he made me king. Concerning these desolate countries, which my brother had put me in charge of – because Istar, My Lady, held me by the hand, some enemies I defeated, while others concluded peace with me. Istar, My Lady, sided with me and these desolate lands I resettled on my own and made them Hittite again.69

Mursili II in this Plague Prayers links the imperial project with the restoration of cosmic balance: [But] when my [father] took his seat in kingship, [you], the gods, my lords, stood with him. He resettled once more the [depopulated] lands. [And for you], the gods, my lords, in whatever temple there were no [furnishings], or whatever divine image had been destroyed – my father made up that which he was able to do.70

New monumental building projects, such as the construction of fortification walls or temples, form part of the same political narrative, although they are much rarer than those of destruction. Anitta, for instance, claims to have

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The concept of terra nullius is more commonly used in recent colonial discourse in the Americas or Australia, see e.g. Gosden (2004, 114-152); Zukas (2005). For examples from Assyria and Urartu, see A. T. Smith (2003, 160-164); and Harmanş ah (2013, 25-28). Or, alternatively, by divine wrath conjured by the neglect of ritual duties by royal predecessors. 69 Hoffner (2003b, 186); Güterbock (1956). van den Hout (2003, 201). Beckman (2003a, 160).

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[. . .] built various city (fortifications) at Nesa. Behind I built the temple of the Stormgod of the Sky and the temple of our goddess (Halmassuit).71

The capital city, Hattusa, is said to have been fortified twice in its history, once by Hantili I/II, who also claims to have fortified other settlements,72 and again by Suppiluliuma I in the fourteenth century BCE.73 The foundation of new settlements, as I will discuss in the following sections, is well attested in the archaeological record of Late Bronze Age central Anatolia. Intriguing then is the apparent absence in the surviving texts of a more pronounced discursive element to city or settlement founding as a political act. Arguably the most important instance of Hittite city founding, if indeed it was a new foundation, was the establishment of the hitherto unlocated city of Tarhuntassa in Cilicia as the new Hittite capital under Muwatalli II.74 Very little detail, however, is otherwise known about this fundamental shift in political and symbolic geography.75 Hattusili III,76 for instance, simply reports in his Apology, that Muwatalli at the behest of his own deity went down to the Lower Land, he left (the city of ) Hattusa behind. [. . .] He took up [the gods] of Hatti and the Manes and [c]arried them to the land of [Tarhuntassa].77

Similarly absent from Hittite annal texts, whose central purpose was the celebration of royal achievement, are other forms of landscape modifications, which are attested either in the archaeological record, in archival sources, instruction texts for government officials, or were adorned with, even if not directly celebrated by, in-situ inscriptions. Large-scale water reservoirs and dams are well documented in the vicinity of Hattusa, Alacahöyük, or Kuş aklı-Sarissa and appear to have formed integral part of Hittite city planning.78 The construction of bridges and roads is mentioned in fifteenth century BCE administrative correspondence,79 but with the exception of a flagstonepaved segment of a road, and the viaduct linking the citadel of Büyükkale with the Upper City at Hattusa, they are otherwise unattested in the archaeological 71 72 74 75 76

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Sammeltafel (CTH 11) cf. Hoffner (2003c, 183). 73 Deeds of Suppiluliuma (CTH 40, fragment 28); Klengel (1999, 68). Hoffner (2003b). Otten (1988); Dinçol et al. (2000); Bryce (2007). For a discussion of the motivations behind the move to Tarhuntassa, see e.g. Singer (2006). An earlier, reactive move is said to have occurred during the reign of Tudhaliya III, who, following the so-called concentric invasion, is reported to have moved the capital first to Sapinuwa and then to Samuha in the Upper Land (Weeden 2014, 36). van den Hout (2003). Südteiche (Seeher 2001a, 341-362; 2002, 59-70); water reservoirs in the surroundings of Hattusa (Schachner 2008, 105-106); Kuş aklı-Sarissa (Hüser 2004); Alacahöyük (Çınaro˘glu and Genç 2004b). Otten (1983a); Hoffner (2009, 230-231); bridges are also mentioned in Anatolia during the preceding Middle Bronze Age (Barjamovic 2011, 23-26).

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record.80 The production of monuments in the landscape, which will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 5, too received only scant textual mentions.81 This discrepancy between the textual and archaeological records, Hittite landscape discourse and material practice, not only underlines the importance of an integrated approach, but speaks to the multiplicity of practices through which were produced the landscapes of the Hittite empire in both material and symbolic terms. In this section, we saw that at the very beginning of this process stood the dramatic rupture of a deeply rooted logic of social and political space; a disaggregation of the relational networks that had underwritten and reproduced Anatolia’s settlement landscapes over the long-term. The source of this transformation was not necessarily Hittite political ascent, although the widespread destructions of key Middle Bronze Age centres may well have provided the catalyst and certainly the political space for Hittite expansion. Regardless of the impetus of destruction, the lack of re-occupation and re-building of devastated Middle Bronze Age centres and their monumental structures, as well as the potent symbolism of their continued and highly visible state of ruin, however, must be understood as deliberate and integral to Hittite political ideology and its spatial production. AN EXCEPTIONAL PLACE

There is one chief exception to the ruination and dis-remembrance of Middle Bronze Age regional centres: the Hittite capital city, Hattusa (Figure 6). Middle Bronze Age Hattus extended over c. 48 ha and, as far as limited archaeological investigations to date have revealed, consisted of a collection of narrow streets and houses with irregular plans in what was later to become the Lower City. Contemporary houses also stood on the rock outcrops of Büyükkale and Büyükkaya, which may have already been fortified at that time, and in the later Upper City area. Although Middle Bronze Age texts are unambiguous about the existence of a royal figure at Hattus,82 the material instantiations of such an institution in the form of monumental architecture, for instance, are as yet elusive.83 In the story of Anitta, Hattus, a rival of Kanes, is destroyed and cursed, as we have seen above.84 The interpretation of the archaeology of Hattus(a) has traditionally deferred to this narrative and assumed a gap of about one hundred 80

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Hattusa: Naumann (1971, 151); Neve (1987); Kaman-Kalehöyük: Omura (1999, 6; fig. 10). For textual mentions of paved roads see e.g. Kohlmeyer (1983, 102, 152); Beal (1992a, 69, footnote 42); Mielke (2011a, 174-175). Otten (1988); Beckman (1999b, 115). 83 See Barjamovic (2011, 294) for translated examples. Neve (1979); Schachner (2011). Neu (1974).

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6 Plan of Hattusa (modified after Seeher 2018; courtesy of Jürgen Seeher)

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years in occupation between the alleged demise of Hattus and its re-founding as the Hittite capital in the mid-seventeenth century BCE. Seal finds and radiocarbon dates from recent excavations, alongside continuity in a range of cultural practices, however, suggest that the site was still occupied well after the end of the ka¯ rum Ib settlement at Kültepe, and that there was no significant break in urban development.85 Middle Bronze Age Hattus appears to have been a predominantly Hattian or Hattian-speaking city at the time of the Old Assyrian merchant colonies. Its Late Bronze Age rulers, however, spoke IndoEuropean Hittite (or Nesite in their own terminology).86 A shift in ruling elite, rather than a rupture of place or local community, thus appears to have marked the transition from regional centre to Hittite capital city.87 The choice of early Hittite rulers to centre their growing political sphere of influence at this particular locale still remains an intriguing question. The city is neatly tucked away in the rocky folds of the Budaközü valley with access to fertile land and water. Functionalist explanations invoke the strategic safety of the location at a time of inner Anatolian competition,88 even if it proved a cumbersome, and, as some have argued, disadvantageous distance from later imperial holdings particularly in Syria (see also Chapter 9). At the same time, Hattusa’s dramatic topography, which underwrites its unique and aweinspiring urban aesthetic – a masterful blend of natural features, play on heights and vistas and monumental architecture – no doubt played a significant role in the choice and elaboration of this particular place. By far the largest settlement in the Late Bronze Age Near East, Hattusa’s c. 180 ha cityscape was encircled by an outer defensive wall in the central Anatolian casemate tradition. Located in topographically highly variable terrain, its urban landscape included a drop in elevation of over 100 m from its highest point at the southern tip of the site to the northern Lower City 85 86

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Schachner (2011). From the town of Kanes/Nesa. Hittite is one of three Indo-European languages besides Luwian and Palaic that are attested in central Anatolia in the form of mainly personal names in the letters and contracts of Assyrian merchants. Hattian is a non-Indo-European language and is probably native to Anatolia. There is much debate about how the linguistic constellation as conventionally reconstructed came to be and whether or when an IndoEuropean migration occurred (e.g. Renfrew 1987; Anthony 2007; Pringle 2012). By the Late Bronze Age only Hittite and Luwian were still spoken in Anatolia. Luwian, in the earlier part of the second millennium BCE, was geographically associated with western Anatolia and the south-western portion of the central plateau. During the Late Bronze Age, however, a Hittite-Luwian bilingualism developed on the central plateau, including increasingly also among the higher social echelons of Hittite society and state administration (Yakubovich 2010, 396-410). Alwin Kloekhorst (2019, 266-268), based on results from his linguistic analysis of the nonAssyrian personal names in Old Assyrian texts, recently proposed that it was the ruling elite of Kanes, originally from the city of Kussara, who rebuilt Hattusa, following Anitta’s alleged destruction, and subsequently moved their court there. Schachner (2011, 71).

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7 View north-west over the Lower City of Hattusa

(Figure 7). It also featured a series of prominent rock outcrops, which were used to maximum visual and defensive effect. The royal palace, for instance, was located on the rocky spur of Büyükkale, which towers over and visually controls much of the city. From it can be overseen the Lower City with its enormous temple, storage magazines and residences, the Upper City with its over thirty monumental temple structures, water and grain storage facilities, and ritual spaces, as well as large parts of the city’s surrounding landscapes. In form, visuality and experience of urban space, Hattusa, thus, differed drastically from traditional Anatolian höyük-settlements. This type of mountain settlement (Bergsiedlung)89 is not an altogether new concept in Anatolia (see Chapter 4), and Hattusa’s Middle Bronze Age predecessor, Hattus, attests to this too.90 The manner in which it was elaborated and monumentalised during the Late Bronze Age, however, marks nonetheless a stark departure 89

90

Schachner (2011); Mielke (2011a). The term was first coined by Naumann (1971, 198) and taken up by Bittel (1976, 105); Masson (1995, 63-64) and Schirmer (2002, 205) too suggest a fundamental change in settlement practice during the second millennium BCE, but Chalcolithic and Early Bronze Age settlements at Hattusa are also attested (Schoop 2005; Schachner 2012a). See also Schachner (2006, 154); Mielke (2011a).

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from earlier, and predominantly höyük-based, political centres and from the majority of contemporary towns and villages. It is this newly monumentalised and highly distinctive urban space that served to represent, manage, and above all reproduce the emergent Hittite imperial network. The manner in which natural features and monumental architecture prescribed movement through it on daily chores and during ritual performances actively interwove the new capital with a hinterland in symbolic terms, and with regards to the movement of resources (see also Chapter 3). Hattusa’s widely reproduced urban plan, however, is not a map of the Hittite capital as it was intended by its architects or experienced by its inhabitants and visitors, but a time-collapsed composite of excavated archaeological remains, which masks both the city’s development over the course of its c. 450 years of existence91 and the intimate correlation of particular building projects with strategies of Hittite imperial production that aimed to bind the city’s extended hinterland into an ever evolving political network. A combination of newly available radiocarbon dates, critical re-assessments of older archaeological evidence and their often text-driven interpretations, alongside advances in palaeography and historical prosography have significantly altered our understanding of Hattusa’s urban history over the past decades. Its development now no longer neatly maps onto mythico-historical events such as the so-called concentric invasion of enemy forces sometime in the fourteenth century BCE, a hypothetical Hittite-Assyrian contest of monumentalisation in the thirteenth century, or the city’s epic destruction by enemy forces around 1180 BCE (see also Chapter 9).92 Significantly, most major construction activities happened much earlier than previously assumed, and the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries BCE in particular have begun to emerge as an era of dramatic change and innovation, both in the city itself,93 and the wider central region. The early Hittite capital of the later seventeenth and sixteenth centuries BCE largely mapped onto its Middle Bronze Age predecessor settlement in the northern portion of the site.94 The first signs of centralisation and monumentalisation date to the early sixteenth century and include a massive grain silo complex on the south-west slope of the Lower City and the construction of a first stretch of a casemate fortification wall, the so-called posternwall.95 The first large-scale building activities in the Upper City also began in the midsixteenth century BCE with a subterranean grain silo complex and subsequent water reservoirs, which remained in use until around 1400 BCE when large

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For a discussion of the history of research at Hattusa, see e.g. Schachner (2011). 93 Seeher (2001b); Mielke, Schoop, and Seeher (2006). Schachner (2009a). 95 Schachner (2011, 68). Seeher (2006b, 74–75).

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quantities of pottery fragments and burnt organic waste were deposited in them.96 Contemporary with the water reservoirs were two identical square structures in the valley west of Sarıkale with evidence for habitation and craft production.97 The central part of the Upper City was occupied by clusters of monumental buildings, traditionally identified as temples and dated to the thirteenth century BCE or later.98 Typological considerations, building inventories including pottery, clay tablets, and glyptic, alongside dendrochronological evidence, however, would suggest that at least some of these structures, alongside Temple 1 in the Lower City, were built in the fifteenth century BCE or earlier.99 No firm date can be assigned to the construction of the fortification wall, which encircles the Upper City, although it would seem logical for it to accompany the city’s southward expansion. Once erected, this outer defensive wall, which was built on earthen ramparts, stood up to 8 m in height with towers protruding at regular 10–12 m intervals. Three monumental gates are attested in the Upper City, each adorned with stone sculptures: a divine male figure, a pair of lions, and a pair of sphinxes. A monumental stone-faced earthen rampart, Yerkapı, marks the highest point of the city. The so-called Sphinx Gate stood at the top of the rampart and above the exit of an underground tunnel or postern leading underneath the fortification wall. The defensive value of this structure has been questioned in the past and it seems plausible that it may have served primarily as a monumental stage for ritual performance (Figure 8).100 Sometime during the late thirteenth century BCE, the Upper City underwent a dramatic transformation. Many of the monumental buildings were abandoned and partly superseded by craft installations such as pottery kilns. Monumental construction in the final decades of the Late Bronze Age occurred only at Niş antepe in the form of a NA4hekur, a royal funerary monument, and at the nearby eastern ponds, where cyclopean chambers and a hieroglyphic inscription identify the last attested Hittite great king, Suppiluliuma II, as their patron (Figure 9). The western part of the Upper City, the valley of Sarıkale, which housed several structures in the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries, was no longer a built space at this time, as were parts of the Lower City.101 Büyükkale was a heavily fortified, elevated spur on the western edge of the city, which housed the royal residence and representational space (halentu) that had been built on top of earlier domestic structures in the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries BCE. This was a unique architectural context consisting of a scatter of monumental buildings, some of which had columned central 96 98 101

97 Seeher (2002, 59-66); Schoop (2006, 221; Abb. 3). Seeher (2006c). 99 100 Neve (1999, 2001). Klinger (2006); Seeher (2006a). Mielke (2009). Seeher (2001b).

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8 Postern gate and glacis at Yerkapı

9 Südburg inscription of Suppiluliuma II (Creative Commons)102

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https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hattusa_reliefs1.jpg.

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halls and were located at varying elevations, interspersed by irregular courtyards, storage magazines, and two possible cult buildings.103 The construction of Temple 1, a monumentalisation of the typical Anatolian courtyard house,104 and its massive storage magazines transformed the traditional residential character of the Lower City into a public one, whose building axes aligned with the Büyükkale palace that towered over it. Beginning in the fifteenth century BCE and coming into full effect by the fourteenth, the densely packed courtyard houses of the Lower City began to be replaced by the larger hall-house type, which catered, it has been suggested, more aptly to the representational needs of Hattusa’s emergent urban elite.105 Sometime before the official end of the Late Bronze Age, around 1200/1180 BCE, began a process of ruination and abandonment at the very heart of the Hittite empire. This process had commenced already in the later thirteenth century BCE, and by the time Hattusa experienced a major destruction event in the early twelfth century, central state administration appears to have already abandoned the city.106 As will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 9, smallscale occupation continued on the rock outcrop of Büyükkaya following Hittite political demise. Some cultural traditions such as pottery and metalworking also continued for some time, albeit in a context of dramatic social and economic transformation, after which Hattusa never again regained its former political significance. SETTLEMENTS OF NEW

For now, however, let’s return to the beginning. Not the mythical date of Hittite state-formation generally set at 1650 BCE, but the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries BCE, when the settlement at Hattusa was first transformed into an imperial capital through a programme of state-driven monumental and infrastructural building projects. This includes the conversion of Büyükkale into a monumentalised palatial space starting in the sixteenth century BCE and the construction of a first stretch of fortification wall. More significantly for our purposes here, it saw the construction of several massive underground grain storage facilities and water reservoirs. This was followed from the fifteenth century BCE with the construction of a large number of monumentalised temples in the Upper and Lower City and the introduction of new, larger house types. Hattusa was not a population centre, as both intra- and extramural domestic spaces were limited. Instead, it was the monumentalised expression of, and stage for, the ongoing performance of Hittite imperial sovereignty, which I will 103 105

Schachner (2011, 136, 140). Schachner (2011, 78-80).

104 106

Zimmer-Vorhaus (2011). Seeher (2001b); but see Müller-Karpe (2017, 150-151).

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discuss in more detail in Chapter 3.107 As such, its urban development was intimately connected with, as well as dependent on, the production of an extramural political landscape, the continued socialisation of its inhabitants, and the successful extraction of resources through this co-created network of relationships. Set against a background of declining overall settlement numbers,108 Hittite central Anatolia was quite literally founded on new settlements, often on virgin soil or on höyükler with no or limited Middle Bronze Age occupation.109 The scale and function of these newly founded sites, however, varied considerably, as did their longevity, indexing both regionally distinct practices of imperial landscape production and varied interplays with local conditions and responses (Table 3). table 3 Site-size classifications for central Anatolia Size (ha)

Classification

Possible function

Example

8 180

Small Medium Large Major

Hamlet/estate Village Town Regional centre Imperial capital

˙Inandıktepe Maş at Höyük Kuş aklı, Kayalıpınar Hattusa

See also Glatz (2009). Note: The spectrum of surveyed and excavated Late Bronze Age Anatolian sites ranges from below 0.1 ha to the 180 ha of Hattusa’s intramural space. To trace the development of particular settlement landscapes and to make comparisons between regional patterns feasible, a pooling of sites into size categories is necessary. Figures in this table are based on site-size information from the Central Anatolia Survey (Omura 2005), one of the largest and long-running surveys on the central Anatolian plateau. Clusters or peaks in the number of settlements with particular spatial dimensions were taken to indicate the different tiers of the region’s settlement hierarchy. In this case, site distributions suggest the existence of a four-tiered settlement system, corresponding broadly in economic, military, and civic terms to farmsteads, hamlets or agricultural estates, villages, towns, and major (regional) centres. Tuba Ökse (2001, 502) suggested a three-tier Late Bronze Age settlement hierarchy in the region west of the modern town of Sivas with large settlements ranging around 20 ha, medium sites around 7.5 ha, and small sites or villages around 1–2 ha. This classification, although similar to that outlined here, does not account for the large number of sites below 1 ha detected by surveys across Anatolia.

107

108

See also Wirth (1997, 4). Hattusa appears to have housed relatively few people permanently. Estimating past population levels is notoriously difficult and a number of figures have been proposed for Hattusa in the past. The first proposal by Spengler of around 10,000 inhabitants during the imperial phase was refuted by Bittel, who revised the number to c. 15,000– 20,000 people on the basis of analogy with the ‘crammed conditions’ of settlement in modern Anatolian mountain villages/towns (Bittel and Naumann 1952, 26). Mora’s (1977) archaeological and textual investigation of the habitation space excavated within the city walls confirmed Bittel’s estimate of around 15,000–20,000 persons for the maximum extent of the city during the imperial phase, which is still generally accepted (Czichon 2000, 271). Only at some distance (more than 5 km) are larger contemporary settlements attested (Schachner 2017b). 109 Glatz (2009, 131-132). Mielke (2011a, 153) briefly touches on this.

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The Land Behind Hattusa Hattusa’s massive fortification walls did not contain all of the capital’s urban space, which blended gradually into the surrounding countryside.110 Recent geophysical prospections, for instance, identified large-scale hydraulic infrastructure including dams and artificial ponds outside the city wall.111 Additional structures were also detected near the cemetery at Osmankayası, which was in use in the early part of the Late Bronze Age, and near the rock sanctuary of Yazılıkaya,112 which formed a major focus for extra-mural ritual activity.113 At the same time, the Hittite capital lacked a defined outer town and was instead surrounded by a scatter of farmsteads and small villages, lookouts, and defensive outposts.114 Hattusa’s extended northern hinterland too was devoid of large-scale settlements, but during the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries BCE it was colonised by a series of small and medium-sized sites. The foundations of these settlements coincided with early Hittite experimentation with centralised land-redistribution strategies, a means of projecting territorial sovereignty. The material culture that these sites were furnished with, and the practices which they informed, aimed to weave these new rural communities into the Hittite empire’s emergent political fabric. In concert, this produced a multi-layered network of social, material, and symbolic associations that through regular performances bound, or rather continuously re-connected, the capital to its hinterland, and the vital resources it held. Excavations in the Upper City at Hattusa have unearthed to date a total of ninety-one so-called landgrant documents (Landschenkungsurkunden):115 distinctive pillow-shaped cuneiform texts (see also Chapter 7), which recorded, among other matters, royal donations in the form of agricultural estates granted in acknowledgement of services rendered. These services were often military in nature, but not exclusively so.116 The earliest attested landgrants were authenticated with so-called anonymous Labarna seals and date to the reign of king Telipinu, although some may have been issued earlier.117 This places the beginning of this practice in the last quarter of the sixteenth and its apex in the fifteenth century BCE, and thus, roughly contemporary with the first phase of expansion and monumentalisation at Hattusa.

110 112 114 115 116 117

111 For an overview, see e.g. Czichon (1997). Schachner (2008, 142–146). 113 Schachner (2017b). Bittel et al. (1975); Bryce (2002, 198). Czichon (2000, 271-273); Schachner (2017b.) Easton (1981); Klinger (2006); Rüster and Wilhelm (2012). Beal (1992b, 55-56); Riemschneider (1958). Wilhelm (2005); Foster (1985). The vast majority of landgrant documents were found at Hattusa, where they appear to have been curated in several archives. Landgrant documents excavated in the so-called Westbau and the Building D on Büyükkale were found associated with sealed bullae dating to the Hittite Empire Period (Herbordt 2005, 4; Rüster and Wilhelm 2012, 34). It is unclear whether the landgrant documents retained their legal applicability or were kept more as historic documents.

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The appropriation and re-distribution of prime agricultural land and its associated labour-power, sometimes in combination with exemptions from tax and other obligations,118 served a number of interrelated political, economic, and ideological goals and is well attested in early state and imperial networks such as third millennium BCE Mesopotamia119 and Middle Bronze Age Anatolia.120 Rather than a confirmation of sovereignty, however, landgrants are a material culture and practice of political projection; a means of actively laying claim to as yet unincorporated or disputed landscapes; an intention to instantiate rather than commemorate a new and centrally overseen spatial order. Landgrants allowed royal elites to make loyal subjects of those it provided land for, bring under cultivation previously untilled land or land in politically volatile regions, and in turn displace competing factions or resistant populations. The fact that the process was reversible, i.e. that land once granted could be removed from the possession of an individual and reassigned to another, provided continued motivation for grantees to continue to remain loyal.121 At the same time, the parcelling out of spatially discontiguous property in the form of fields, orchards, pastures, and attached labour served to prevent individual landholders from becoming too powerful.122 A royal landgrant document, for instance, bestowed a certain Tiwatapara an economic unit consisting of one IKU123 meadow as cattle pasture near the settlement of Parkalla, and a three-and-a-half IKU vineyard and fruit trees near a different village or town called Hanzusra.124 State-held land under the authority of a palace or temple125 was similarly scattered throughout the Hittite central region and possibly also in other, newly acquired territories.126 The granting of land also provided the basis for an intensified agricultural production in less densely settled regions and an opportunity for the state to appropriate part of its produce. Unless an individual or institution was explicitly exempt from taxation payments, a fixed amount of annual produce, the details of which were laid out in the law code,127 would – in theory 118 120 122 124 125

126

119 Beckman (1995b). Kuhrt (1995, 55). 121 Dercksen (2004, 150–154); Veenhof and Eidem (2008, 148). Easton (1981, 9). 123 Beckman (1995b, 538); Bryce (2002, 75). 1 IKU = c. 60 m (Melchert 1980, 50). Riemschneider (1958, 353); Bryce (2002, 75). Beckman (1995b, 540); Imparati (1982). The Houses of Hattusa (É URUHatti) in other cities, which could themselves be recipients of landgrants much like the estates of high-ranking individuals as discussed above, are likely dependencies of the royal palace. Temples and other cult institutions such as the hekur monuments (É NA4hekur) or ‘rock crest houses’, which appear to have fulfilled a range of functions also owned considerable land-holdings and were involved in the exploitation of the rural economy as well as its administration (Mielke 2011a). 127 Soucˇek (1959); Paroussis (1985, 65). Hoffner (1997).

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10 Settlement landscapes to the north and east of Hattusa

at least – make its way into state-controlled storage facilities at regional administrative centres and collection points such as the so-called seal houses (see below). A portion of this taxed produce would then move from the seal house to the capital city. Once at Hattusa, this agricultural surplus not only filled the monumental grain silos and fed the participants of large-scale festivities, but this process of surplus extraction was also explicitly celebrated in these spectacles of state (Chapter 3). Extensive archaeological survey in Hattusa’s northern hinterland, the modern Turkish province of Çorum, has, to date, identified about eighty sites with evidence for occupation during the second millennium BCE (Figure 10). Nineteen of these sites can be dated more closely to the first half of the Late Bronze Age.128 Of these, four are larger towns and include the excavated sites of Alacahöyük and Eskiyapar, the former of which was first monumentalised as a Hittite cult centre during the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries BCE.129 A similarly small number of surveyed sites fall into the village category, while 128

129

For a recent report see Sipahi and Yıldırım (2012); they insist that no Empire Period sites lie in this part of Çorum province (Sipahi and Yıldırım 2000, 34; Yıldırım and Sipahi 2004, 310). In light of a recent lowering of the dates of ˙Inandıktepe, however, the results of the Çorum survey are also likely to require future reconsideration. For the older palace, see Naumann (1971, 403-404; fig. 537); Mielke (2011a, 165).

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the vast majority measure below 1 ha in size,130 and, thus represent farmsteads, hamlets, or agricultural estates such as those excavated at ˙Inandıktepe and Yörüklü-Hüseyindede. ˙Inandıktepe measures about 1 ha in size and is located atop an elongated natural spur overlooking the modern Ankara-Çankırı road on the northern fringes of the central Anatolian plateau c. 115 km northwest of Hattusa.131 Excavations in the 1960s identified three Late Bronze Age building phases (V–III). Level V consists of the foundations of a series of small structures built on virgin soil.132 Level IV, the main occupation phase, features a building of moderate dimensions (c. 2000 m2) consisting of a series of small rooms clustered around one, possibly two, courtyards on the summit of the natural hill (Figure 11).133 Several of the northern rooms served as storage areas with large pithoi, smaller jars, and collections of serving vessels. A food-processing area may have been located close to the courtyard.134 The structure’s inventory also included a clay model, two ceramic bulls, which are generally interpreted as the bulls Hurri and Seri of the Hittite stormgod, and a large relief vase depicting a religious festival (for a more detailed discussion of the vase, see Chapters 3 and 8). The original excavation report dated this building, which is described as a monumental temple, to the time of Hattusili I, the mid-late seventeenth century BCE.135 Dirk-Paul Mielke, however, proposed a convincing re-interpretation of the site as an agricultural estate of the later sixteenth century BCE based on the structure’s modest architectural dimensions, its ceramic repertoire, and the by-now commonly agreed time frame for landgrants with anonymous Labarna seals.136 The landgrant document found at the site contained a gift by Tuttulla, the governor of the city of Hanhana,137 to his son-in-law Zida.138 A break on the tablet prevents us from knowing the nature of this gift, but in the light of comparable documents, land or a landed property – including ˙Inandıktepe itself – seems highly likely.139 Level IV at ˙Inandıktepe and the contemporary nearby settlement at Termehöyük, whose details remain as yet unpublished, were destroyed by

130 131 132 133 135 137

138

Project Paphlagonia (Glatz, Matthews, and Schachner 2009) identified twenty-nine and Sipahi and Yıldırım added another six sites. Özgüç (1988). Özgüç (1988, 76); the pottery from Level V was dated to the Old Hittite Period by the excavator, but no pottery or plans are published. 134 For a reconstructed plan, see Mielke (2006c, 257). Mielke (2006c, 257). 136 Balkan (1973); Easton (1981); Özgüç (1988, 110). Mielke (2006c). The location of Hanhana is still uncertain; Forlanini (2008) suggested an identification with Alacahöyük, but most would place it farther north (Corti 2017). A local candidate near ˙Inandık is the c. 6 ha mound of Maltepe to the north of ˙Inandık (Matthews and Glatz 2009b, 68-69). 139 Balkan (1973, 48). Wilhelm (2005).

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11 Comparative site plans of Maş at-Tapikka (modified after Mielke 2011b, fig. 48.6), ˙Inandıktepe (modified after Mielke 2006c, Abb.1), Hüseyindede Tepesi (modified after Yıldırım 2009, fig. 3), Ortaköy-Sapinuwa (modified after Mielke 2011b, fig. 48.3), and Kuş aklı-Sarissa (modified after Mielke 2011a, fig. 3)

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fire. This was followed at I˙nandıktepe by a small-scale and short-lived re-settlement in Level III.140 Significantly, the site remained unoccupied during the Hittite Empire Period. Yörüklü-Hüseyindede Tepesi is a roughly contemporary settlement, whose size, architecture, and ceramic inventory as well as occupation history suggest a function similar to that of ˙Inandıktepe. Hüseyindede is a new foundation with a single phase of occupation in the early part of the Late Bronze Age. The site was destroyed by fire and abandoned sometime before the Hittite Empire Period. It is located at the southern tip of a natural elevation, c. 44 km northwest of Hattusa. Rescue excavations starting in 1998 have revealed a cluster of multi-roomed houses and hearths on either side of a street.141 A larger, rectangular freestanding structure with smaller rooms along its western and southern side (Building I) at the settlement’s eastern edge differs in architectural terms from ˙Inandıktepe. The ceramic inventory of Room 1, a storage room, however, compares well with the ˙Inandık repertoire, as does the presence of two relief vases.142 The excavators, although conscious of the lack of architectural affinity between Building I and standard Hittite temples, interpreted the structure as a provincial temple or shrine based on the presence of the two cult vases, and parallels with ˙Inandıktepe.143 As state institutions, Hittite temples were fundamentally linked to the central political apparatus, and although religious institutions were generally on the receiving end of tax revenues and corvée services, they also performed important roles in the political administration and economic organisation of their surrounding hinterlands.144 A rural temple, especially a new foundation on virgin soil, would certainly fit within the model of agricultural colonisation and intensification that I propose here. In the absence of clear evidence for a temple institution, however, Hüseyindede too would seem most plausibly explained as a rural estate analogous to ˙Inandık. The presence of cult vases at Hüseyindede as well as at ˙Inandıktepe, and the nature of the depicted activities, which I will return to in more detail in the following Chapter 3, present us with very clear evidence for the practices and ritual paraphernalia with which the Hittite state apparatus sought to enmesh these newly established estates into a wider political community. Several more sites in the northern hinterland of Hattusa share a comparable occupation history, and commonality in function. Fatmaören Höyü˘gü, which is also located in the same region north-west of Hattusa, shares many similarities with Hüseyindede in terms of its location on a natural elevation, and its small-scale, single-period occupation dating to the first part of the Late Bronze 140 141 144

Özgüç (1988, 69, 74, 110) compares house plan and urban layout to that of Alacahöyük III a/b. 142 143 Yıldırım (2009, 237). Sipahi (2000); Yıldırım (2000). Yıldırım (2009, 237). Klengel (1975); Imparati (1982).

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Age. Excavations to date have uncovered one large, elongated structure at the site. The multi-period mound of Boyalı Höyük just to the east of Fatmaören too yielded evidence for occupation during the early part of the Late Bronze Age. Superimposed on an Early Bronze Age layer, the mound was dominated by a single large structure, Building A, of which some forty rooms have been excavated to date. Besides kitchen and workshop areas, over half of these rooms appear to have served as storage magazines. One in situ jar contained large quantities of grain. Other finds include fragments of relief vessels, the broken head of a human figurine, figurative rhyta, and numerous spindle whorls and loom weights. The complex also met a violent end and remained unoccupied during the second half of the Late Bronze Age.145 To the west of the Kızılırmak, surveys suggest a steady decline in absolute site numbers during the second millennium BCE, but also point to settlement continuity from the Middle to the Late Bronze Age.146 The largest Late Bronze Age sites west of the river range between 4 and 5 ha in size, indicating the absence of higher-order provincial centres. The largest recorded site to the north of Ankara with just under 3 ha is Bitik. While little can be said about the site’s Late Bronze Age occupation, the presence of a relief vase comparable to those of ˙Inandık and Hüseyindede suggests a roughly contemporary occupation and demarcates the westward reach of one of Hattusa’s earliest attempts to produce this new political landscape. The success of this new practice, however, appears to have been relatively short-lived. Following an initial flurry of new foundations, all the sites excavated to date to the north and north-west of the capital met a violent end sometime in the late sixteenth or fifteenth century BCE. The causes of their destructions are as yet unclear, but subsequent site abandonment or significantly reduced re-occupations clearly register a drastic social, and perhaps also political, change. Surveys in Çorum province, for instance, have yielded so far very little evidence for settlements dating to the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE. This does not mean that the northern hinterland of Hattusa was entirely devoid of settlement in this later phase. For one, there are significant difficulties in determining site chronologies from ceramic surface data147 and Alacahöyük, which lies just to the north of the capital, flourished as a cult centre during the Hittite Empire Period. But both the short-lived burst of small-scale settlements founded on virgin soil from the later sixteenth century BCE and their destruction and abandonment before the apex of Hittite imperial power suggest that the patterns we observed here bear witness to an early, and ultimately unsuccessful, spatial practice of Hittite political

145 147

146 For a detailed summary, see Sipahi (2006). Glatz (2007). Schoop (2006); Glatz, Matthews, and Schachner (2009).

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production that may also be reflected in a subsequent decline in royal landgrants. An invasion or conflict scenario involving the so-called Kaska, who Hittite textual sources place on the northern fringes of the central plateau from the fifteenth century BCE onwards (see Chapter 4), lends itself as an easy explanation for site destruction and abandonment. And it is likely that Hittite-Kaska hostilities may have caused some of these destructions, ˙Inandıktepe VI and its subsequent re-use is a plausible candidate.148 The Kaska conflict alone, however, cannot adequately explain the demise of a settlement practice originating in Hittite state policy. Hittite settlements were frequently captured and repeatedly destroyed by enemy forces, in particular those of strategic importance to state authority. But as the Hittite textual sources insist, and we have seen above, great pains were taken to re-capture, re-build, and re-settle such places. One of the regions most affected by the Kaska conflict, the Devrez river valley, which is located to the north of ˙Inandıktepe, for instance, sees an increase in settlement numbers, including a string of fortresses from the fifteenth century BCE.149 The diminishing importance of landgranting as a practice of state in central Anatolia may be read as a result of a shift in priority as Hittite institutional gaze became increasingly fixed on regions to the south and south-east, and on the administration of its new and more distant imperial holdings.150 The destruction, but especially the permanent abandonment of northern estates, however, also point to a local element of resistance, and to the intermittent failure of Hittite practices of sovereignty to produce docile subjects over the long-term in its northern hinterland. This tension, as I shall argue in Chapter 4, continues into the second half of the Late Bronze Age, and finds reflection in the performance of the Hittite empire’s northern borderlands, and in particular in the placement of new settlements and fortresses and their spatial relationships with earlier settlement locales.

A New Order in the East The landscapes to the north-east and east of Hattusa, the eastern Land of Hatti and the Upper Land, also underwent a spatial re-organisation in the course of the Late Bronze Age. Unlike the region to the north of Hattusa, however, the most noticeable changes in the east transformed the top end of regional settlement hierarchies through the foundation, either on virgin soil or at locales 148 150

149 Glatz and Matthews (2005). Glatz, Matthews, and Schachner (2009). Though there is as yet no positive evidence to this effect, it is of course possible that landgrants continued to be issued in later periods but on media other than clay, such as wooden tablets.

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of limited previous political importance, of monumentalised central places from the late sixteenth century BCE. Shortly thereafter, a preoccupation with the instruction of official personnel and administrative correspondence emerged in the Hittite textual record. A continuous stream of letters sent between Hattusa and its regional officials,151 and a series of instruction texts,152 sketch out the principles of provincial administration and the practicalities of their implementation in an attempt to create a dense and multi-layered network of administrative interconnections and oversight that was centred firmly on the capital as the main connective node. From these and other contemporary texts we learn that several institutions and officials, some older and some newly created, operated in this region at overlapping spatial scales and within partially nested spheres of administrative and military authority.153 The lack of clarity concerning the relationships of administrative units and the mandates of dignitaries overseeing, for instance, districts (telipuri-) and lands (utne/KUR),154 implies a significant degree of ambiguity and fluidity in institutional geographies and spheres of effective authority. This registers, on the one hand, Hattusa’s ongoing struggle to adapt – as best as it could – to an ever-emergent geopolitical situation and to its internal power struggles, whose proponents sought to take advantage of the former. At the same time, ambiguity and uncertainty over provincial bureaucratic remits may have served the assertion of imperial, as opposed to more national notions of authority and community, and facilitated the extraction of resources that such authority primarily seeks. One of the oldest administrative offices attested in Hittite sources is the LÚ AGRIG, a steward or overseer,155 who was responsible for the collection of agricultural produce and its storage in granaries, the local redistribution of food and labour, as well as the furnishing of major cult festivals (see also Chapter 3).156 Stationed in provincial towns, AGRIG officials operated on the equivalent of a district-level spatial scale, but answered directly to the Hittite great king.157 The Proclamation of Telipinu provides glimpses of an extensive network of at least sixty towns with so-called seal houses,158 thirtyfour towns with ‘storehouses for mixed fodder’159 located in the Upper Land,

151 153 155

156 158

152 For recent discussions see Hoffner (2009) and Weeden (2014). Miller (2013, 15-23). 154 Beckman (1995b, 540); Siegelová (2001). Singer (1984, 118; note 131). The office is mentioned in the Palace Chronicle, the Proclamation of Telipinu and the ˙Inandık tablet (Singer 1984, 97-98). Another type of official, LÚMAŠKIM.URUKI, was responsible for the overseeing or inspecting of a range of differently sized settlements (Siegelová 2001, 195, note 16; Mielke 2011a, 185). 157 Güterbock (1961). Singer (1984, 106, 118). 159 ŠU-ŠI [URUDIDLI.HI.A ŠA ÉHI.]A NA4KIŠIB. URUDIDLI.HI.A É NA4KIŠIB imiulaš.

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along the northern ranges of the Anti-Taurus160 and on the south-central plateau.161 Sites from the immediate hinterland of Hattusa, by contrast, are absent from the preserved portions of the text.162 Other types of storehouses,163 including granaries, wine cellars, arsenals, and storehouses for fodder, textiles, and jewellery also existed outside the central plateau.164 A seal house in Kizzuwatna containing iron artefacts, for instance, is mentioned in an official letter to Tukulti-Ninurta of Assyria.165 Overlapping with the administrative sphere of the LÚAGRIG, but spatially more expansive, was the office of the BĒL MADGALTI, the frontier governor.166 This was a role equivalent to a provincial governor and associated specifically with contested borderzones.167 The BĒL MADGALTI’s remit included the settling of tax issues and local legal matters; the management and re-distribution of seeds, state-owned land, and plough animals; the resettlement of towns with deportee populations; and associated matters related to prisoners of war, fugitives, and hostages, alongside the conduct of military operations and peace negotiations.168 The role of the BĒL MADGALTI overlapped with that of the UGULA NIMGIR. The latter was responsible for troop movements and operations. A not dissimilar military post, albeit at a potentially much larger spatial scale and the prerogative of members of the royal family, was that of the GAL MEŠEDI, the Chief of the Bodyguards. A GAL MEŠEDI could hold sway over one or more, usually unstable or threatened, provinces.169 Provincial palaces stood at the top of regional administrative hierarchies. As physical places, these palaces outside the capital city served as royal residences during religious festivals and military campaigns, including as wintering spots. As institutions, they functioned as regional administrative centres, whose duties included the distribution of royal land and the supervision of its satisfactory operation,170 the collection of taxes in the form of goods and labour, as well as the provision of armaments, and the re-direction of tax income to the capital, where records of regional tax receipts were kept.171 Textual sources, however, also mention local potentates in charge of central Anatolian cities (EN/BĒLURU). These were nested – to varying degrees – within or lay at times beyond central Hittite sovereignty. A local king, for instance, is attested at the city of Sarissa, which is most plausibly located at the 160 162 165 168 169

170

161 Sukziya, Samuha, Marista, Kussara, and Hurma. Parsuhanda and the river Hulaya. 163 NA4 164 Singer (1984, 103-104). É KIŠIB. Singer (1984, 103-104). 166 167 Klengel (1999, 245). Beal (1992b, 426-436). Beckman (1995b, 540). von Schuler (1965); Miller (2013). Goetze (1933, 152-155); in the thirteenth century BCE, king Muwatalli II appointed his brother, the later Hattusili III, as governor of the Upper Land while holding the position of GAL MEŠEDI (Bryce 2006, 247). 171 Soucˇek (1959); Paroussis (1985). Siegelová (2001, 196).

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site of Kuş aklı and discussed below.172 Later in the thirteenth century BCE, Hattusili (later III) was first made governor of the Upper Land and then king in the north, before claiming the central Hittite throne for himself.173 A king of Tumana to the north-west of Hattusa is also attested in Empire Period texts.174 Particularly well attested with regards to provincial administration is the town of Tapikka, which was home to both a LÚAGRIG and a BĒL MADGALTI and oversaw thirty-seven smaller settlements.175 The personnel stationed at Tapikka were the source and recipients of extensive royal correspondence on the management of what had become a contested borderzone in the course of the fifteenth century BCE.176 Tapikka can be identified with some confidence with the c. 8 ha large mound of Maş at Höyük located 116 km to the north-east of Hattusa.177 Material evidence for the elaboration and integration of Maş at Höyük into a centralising administrative network comes from Level III in the form of a monumental building. The construction of the large courtyard structure utilised techniques and materials comparable to those of Hattusa’s monumental buildings and involved the razing to the ground of the preceding domestic buildings. Revealed during excavations were forty-five red-painted basement and ground floor rooms arranged around a large central colonnaded courtyard, which compares well with other central Anatolian palatial structures.178 Most of the rooms were regularised storage magazines whose finds included tablet archives and jars sealed with clay bullae.179 The palaeography of the texts date Level III to the fifteenth and fourteenth centuries BCE as do two seal-impressions of Tudhaliya II/III.180 A monumental temple is mentioned in the excavation report, but no plan or inventory provided.181 The citadel and the lower slopes of the Level III settlement were surrounded by an inward-sloping 3 m high stone retaining wall,182 which was, however, not built in the casemate style characteristic of Hattusa’s defences. The subsequent Level II also featured a monumental building, albeit not as impressive as the preceding edifice. Cuneiform documents from this level were written in the Middle Hittite ductus and a bulla with the seal of Suppiluliuma I provides a date in the mid-fourteenth century BCE.183 The architecture of the following Empire Period Level I is less substantial still and cuneiform texts are few. These as well as a handful of Late Helladic IIIB pottery fragments184 date

172 174 177 179 181 183

173 Wilhelm (1997, 10); Siegelová (2001, 195). Bryce (2006, 284-291); Bilgin (2018, 82). 175 176 Cammarosano and Marizza (2015). Alp (1991, 6-8). Hoffner (2009). 178 Ökse (2000); but Özgüç (1978) calculated 15–16 ha. Mielke (2011a, 165). 180 Özgüç (1978). Alp (1991, 109). 182 Özgüç (1982, 81-83), cf. Mielke (2011a, 165). Özgüç (1982, 151). 184 Özgüç (1978, 64-65; 1982, 80-81). Özgüç (1978, 66; 1982, 77; 2002b, 169).

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this phase to the thirteenth BCE, after which the höyük remained unoccupied until the eighth century BCE. The correspondence of state officials from Tapikka indicates the presence of a higher-ranking provincial authority in the region, a regional palace located in the town of Sapinuwa.185 This was most likely the site of Ortaköy, located about 45 km to the north-west of Maş at Höyük.186 Morphologically, Ortaköy is an unusual Late Bronze Age settlement. About 9 ha187 in size, it is a flat site situated in the middle of an agricultural plain in a tributary valley of the Çekerek river. Ortaköy is a new foundation, whose occupation can be dated to the fifteenth and fourteenth centuries BCE based on the historical context and the palaeographic characteristics of the over 3500 cuneiform tablets found at the site (Figure 11). The excavated portions of Ortaköy include two monumental edifices as well as several smaller buildings. Building A is a large, rectangular structure with an irregular outer façade and differently sized rooms clustering around a central courtyard.188 It was surrounded by a stone pavement and accessed via an entrance ramp. An upper storey housed the cuneiform archive, which consisted mainly of texts related to the Hittite state cult. The texts also indicate that Hittite kings and queens resided at Sapinuwa for seemingly extended periods of time. A second large structure, Building B, was located about 100 m to the east and functioned as a storage facility with numerous pithoi and other storage vessels found in magazine rooms.189 A smaller building may have had a religious function,190 while the entrance of another smaller structure was flanked by an orthostat depicting a male warrior figure.191 To the north of the valley and across a deeply incised stream, storage pits and a large platform were found.192 The site was destroyed in the fourteenth century BCE and lay abandoned thereafter. Several large, fortified, and newly founded Late Bronze Age sites have been recorded in the eastern perimeters of the Upper Land, pointing here too at dramatic transformation of settlement landscapes. Their relationship with Hittite central power, however, would appear to be more complex and variable over time. They include in particular the excavated site of Kuş aklı

185 187

188 190

186 Alp (1991, 37). Ünal (1998); Süel (2002). Limited publications and uncertainties about the actual dimensions of the site impede an effective comparison with other Late Bronze Age settlements. The excavators suggested a settlement area of 900 ha (Süel 2002, 156). This would outsize the imperial capital (180 ha) more than five times, and in the absence of any supporting evidence, this seems unlikely. Recent suggestions of a settlement area of around 9 ha seem much more realistic (Mielke 2011b, 1037-1039); Gates (1996, 297-298 ) also suggested 8.5 ha. 189 Mielke (2011a, 165–166); Süel (2002, 158–162 ). Süel (2002, 162–163). 191 192 Süel (2008, 22–32). Süel (2005). Süel (2008, 13-21).

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in Sivas province, which will be discussed in detail below, as well as neighbouring Asa˘gı Kalaca (26 ha), Sur Tepesi, and Kahvepınar Göktin Kale.193 Excavations and geophysical prospections at Kuş aklı have brought to light the remains of a large, c. 18 ha intramural Late Bronze Age city (Figure 11). This was a planned settlement founded on virgin soil in the last quarter of the sixteenth century BCE (Level I).194 The settlement was surrounded by a 1.5 km long fortification wall of the casemate type and had four major gateways, whose axes aligned with intramural monumental structures. In its heyday from the late sixteenth to the early fourteenth century BCE, Kuş aklı was dominated by a massive temple structure, Building C, and a series of other public buildings, which stood on or near a prominent natural hill. Building C included a brewery, a cuneiform tablet archive, sacred areas, and various storerooms with large quantities of pottery and grain. A somewhat smaller structure, Building E, is contemporary with Building C in its first building phase and post-dates it in a second phase of occupation. During its intermittent abandonment, the location of Building E appears to have been filled with the remnants of a feast, probably related to activities in Building C (see Chapter 8).195 In addition to dramatic earthquake damage, which partly cracked and shifted building foundations in the late fifteenth or early fourteenth century BCE, the city experienced a violent episode of destruction shortly before the mid-fourteenth century.196 Following this destruction event, Building C was left in ruins, while the north-west slope of the acropolis was turned into a settlement area that remained occupied into the first half of the thirteenth century BCE. The newly built houses correspond to an early form of the socalled hall-house type, known from Hattusa and other central Anatolian sites.197 In contrast to Building C, Temple 1 on the northern terrace was rebuilt and remained in use until the final demise of the city sometime in the late thirteenth century BCE. There are also traces of a later monumental structure, Building F, on the acropolis. Texts from Building A, a house on the acropolis, attest to the continued significance of Sarissa and the so-called huwaši-sanctuary outside the city as a cult centre in the late thirteenth century BCE,198 while an expansion of the city to a massive 46 ha has also been suggested for this late phase.199 Other archaeological evidence, however, points to relative decline in

193 194 195 197 199

Engin (2017). Dendrochronology dates 1525+4/–7 and 1523 +4/–7 BCE (Mielke 2006c, 266-269). 196 Arnhold (2009); von den Driesch (2009, 249). Müller-Karpe (2017, 60–61). 198 Mielke (2006b, 169-170). Wilhelm (1997, 10-15); Miller (1999). Müller-Karpe (2017).

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institutional power or interest as the city’s water reservoirs, and a grain silo complex fell out of use.200 Kuş aklı can be convincingly identified as the city of Sarissa mentioned in Hittite texts.201 Sarissa’s relationship with Hattusa, as far as can be reconstructed from textual sources, was close with regards to the conduct of state rituals. Sarissa was the location of the Hittite spring festival in which the Hittite great king participated while residing in a local palace.202 At the same time, a ‘storehouse of the city of Hattusa in the city of Sarissa’ is mentioned in fifteenth century BCE landgrant documents,203 implying a reverse movement of goods used and consumed in ritual contexts from the capital to Sarissa. Unlike in the case of Tapikka, relatively little is otherwise known about the city’s administration, which may be to do with Sarissa’s at times ambiguous political status.204 The city, for instance, is not listed among the AGRIG towns205 nor apparently was it home to another type of Hittite regional official, while a cache of bullae from a basement room in Temple 1 included several sealing fragments of a local king with the name Ma/izitima in Old and Middle Hittite glyptic styles. Whether this local king represents the region’s original political configuration or a later symptom of the centrifugal dynamics of provincial governance is difficult to say at present. A local king in charge of a flourishing city and important centre of the Hittite state cult, in which Hattusa even sponsored a storehouse, nonetheless reinforces my contention in this chapter that empire-making was a non-linear and ongoing process even at home. It provides a tentative glimpse of the ambiguous fluidity of Hittite sovereignty and those of local potentates, the latter of which was instantiated and negotiated, as it would appear in this case, primarily through regular royal presence and ritual performance rather than administrative oversight or military means. To the north-west, the Late Bronze Age settlement system was centred around the major sites of Kayalıpınar and Kalkankaya, both above 25 ha in size (Figure 10).206 Kayalıpınar is located in a narrow plain along the northern bank of the Kızılırmak, which is protected in the north and south by mountain chains.207 The site has been subject to repeated archaeological surveys,208 the latest of which yielded a Middle Hittite cuneiform tablet, a ritual text concerned with the festival of the goddess Istar, in which the Hittite king 200 201 202 204

205 207 208

Hüser (2004, 116-117). The existence of an outer town beyond the reservoirs to the north-west of the fortified city has been proposed (Müller-Karpe 2002b, 177). 203 Wilhelm (1997, 9-15). Wilhelm (2005). Based on several mentions in Kuş aklı texts of the palace of the as yet unlocated site of Sulupas(s)i, a subordinate status for Sarissa has been suggested (Siegelová 2001, 197). There is, however, as yet no definitive evidence to support this. 206 Hoffmann (1984, 41-45); Singer (1984). Ökse (2000, 2001). Müller-Karpe (2000a). Ökse (1994); Yakar and Gürsan-Salzmann (1979; fig. 1: no. 52).

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participated. The mention of the Istar cult, the site’s location close to a navigable stretch of the Kızılırmak, and its size and relative vicinity to Kuş aklı-Sarissa, have prompted a tentative identification with Hittite Samuha, the capital of the Upper Land.209 During the Middle Bronze Age, Samuha was a stopover on the road between Assur and Kanes and may have evolved into a trade colony in its own right over time. We also know that at the time of Tudhaliya II/III, Samuha housed a royal residence or provincial palace.210 Muwatalli II mentions Samuha in relation to cult activities in the early thirteenth century BCE.211 The archaeology uncovered at Kayalıpınar also suggests an important regional centre complete with monumental structures and evidence for the participation of its inhabitants in a wider sphere of Hittite administrative practice. The site’s architectural plan, by contrast, points to a more idiosyncratic and, thus, seemingly local character. Geophysical surveys and excavations since 2005 have to date uncovered six occupation phases on the south-eastern mound.212 Two partially excavated structures of Level 5 yielded several fragments of Old Assyrian cuneiform tablets and sealed clay bullae with Mesopotamian and local stamp seals with parallels at the Sarıkaya Palace at Acemhöyük.213 The next building phase (Level 4), of which only basement levels survive, dates to the Old Hittite Period. The summit of the mound was now dominated by two monumental structures. Building A on the southern edge overlooked the Kızılırmak and formed an irregular rectangle (c. 43  20m) with a total of eighteen varyingly sized rooms. The building was accessed from the south, while the northern façade was clad in limestone orthostats with figurative reliefs.214 Building B, which is orientated perpendicular to Building A, also had a roughly rectangular ground plan. Its preserved basement level was subdivided into twenty narrow rooms, probably storage magazines. While evidently of official character, neither structure finds easy architectural comparanda with palatial or temple architecture elsewhere on the central plateau. Building A has nonetheless been interpreted as a palatial complex and Building B as a royal seal house.215 Both structures were destroyed by fire, with signs of an earthquake. Middle Hittite ritual texts, letters, and clay sealings were found in the destruction debris, including several anonymous Tawananna seals. A complete seal impression of Tudhaliya I/II and Nikalmati date this event to the late fifteenth century BCE.

209 211 213 215

210 Müller-Karpe (2000a, 364). Barjamovic (2011, 152-154). 212 Lebrun (1976, 217-218). www.uni-marburg.de/fb06/vfg/forschung/kayalipinar. 214 Müller-Karpe (2006); Rieken (2009, 119-120). Müller-Karpe (2017). Müller-Karpe (2017); Mühlenbruch (2014, 291).

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Rebuilt in Level 3, a second destruction event, which, however, saw the buildings emptied of their content beforehand, is dated to the first half of the fourteenth century by a seal impression of Kantuzzili, a GAL MEŠEDI, alongside cuneiform documents in the Middle Hittite ductus.216 The mound’s summit was subsequently levelled and a new set of badly preserved monumental structures put in place in the thirteenth century BCE, whose layout, while referencing some of the preceding architectural features, differed from those of earlier phases. While a firm conclusion will require further details to be published about these buildings, a change in monumental architecture seems most plausibly explained by a shift in the locus of political authority at the site, the new structures materialising either greater local autonomy or hoping to effect imperial integration. In summary, the region to the east and north-east of Hattusa saw the founding on virgin soil or the monumentalisation of previously less significant settlements from the later sixteenth century BCE onwards. All of these sites are claimed in Hittite texts as integral to the Hittite imperial network’s politico-ritual ecology (see Chapter 3). Some, especially those geographically closer to Hattusa, housed one or more Hittite administrative institutions and their officials, ranging from storehouses and their overseers to military commanders and regional palaces. At others, such as at Kuş aklı-Sarissa, and despite apparently strong cultic connections, incorporation into Hattusa’s day-to-day administrative sphere is less evident. There is also no clear correlation of urban and architectural comparability and the intensity of central Hittite oversight. At Kuş aklı, for instance, monumental instantiations of state institutions match closely the architectural schemes of the capital city and its aesthetics of place, while other sites with more intensive administrative links appear more idiosyncratic. We can, thus, draw no straightforward conclusions about effective Hittite sovereignty over the more distant areas of the Upper Land, its nature, and means of production, although we can safely say that it fluctuated significantly over time. Even if interpretation at the current state of knowledge remains tenuous, the acknowledgement of difference and diversity, geographically and through time, is analytically critical. Cultural difference, just as with similarity, as I will be arguing in more detail in Chapters 4, 7, and 8, is never accidental but an active and meaningful choice through which social and political communality, cooperation, and rejection are expressed. The sites discussed in this section all reach the apex of their monumental splendour in the fifteenth and early fourteenth centuries BCE. Maş at Höyük’s official architecture steadily diminished in grandeur in each consecutive layer,

216

Müller-Karpe (2017).

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Ortaköy-Sapinuwa is destroyed and abandoned in the fourteenth century, the acropolis of Kuş aklı was crowned by a ruined Building C in the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries, while Kayalıpınar shows signs of an architectural rupture in the thirteenth century BCE. Hittite settlement and administrative order in the eastern Land of Hatti and the Upper Land was thus, much like its agricultural colonisation of the landscapes to the north of Hattusa a little earlier, of temporary success only and in relative decline during the phase of maximum Hittite imperial reach.

Hattusa’s Southern Hinterlands The landscapes to the south and south-east of Hattusa experienced transformations that echo both the northern and eastern trends observed above. Fewer excavations in this region, however, mean that we must rely more heavily on survey results and the diminished chronological control this entails (Figure 12). To the north of Kerkenes Da˘g, only few sites have been recorded with Late Bronze Age surface material,217 and only Kuş aklı Höyük-Yozgat, a c. 10 ha site, has been more intensively explored. The site is strategically located along a major communication route leading south-east from Hattusa and shows traces of a Late Bronze Age fortification system and gate structure on the surface. Recent work at the site recorded text fragments dated to the fourteenth and

12 Late Bronze Age settlement landscapes to the south of Hattusa 217

Summers et al. (1995); www.kerkenes.metu.edu.tr.

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thirteenth centuries BCE, and a geophysical survey indicates the presence of several large, multi-roomed structures on the mound’s terrace,218 suggesting a district-level centre about a day’s march from Hattusa. One of the better explored settlements in this region is Aliş ar Höyük in the Kanak Su basin. A steep-sided, cone-shaped mound with a lower town, Aliş ar measured c. 18 ha at its maximum, Middle Bronze Age, extent.219 Several Old Assyrian cuneiform tablets, which mention the name of Anitta and the city of Amkuwa, make its identification with Hittite Ankuwa plausible.220 During the Middle Bronze Age, Amkuwa participated in the Old Assyrian trade network and acted as a rebellious subordinate to Hattus during the ka¯rum 1b phase.221 In Late Bronze Age texts, the settlement hosted the cult of the Hattian goddess, Kattaha, which evolved from local deity to a major figure in the Hittite state pantheon. Ankuwa was home to a LÚAGRIG at the time of Hattusili I,222 regularly hosted royal visits in the course of cult festivities, and is mentioned as a wintering spot for the Hittite army.223 Following the destruction of Aliş ar’s Middle Bronze Age settlement, a subsequent occupation includes a sizeable structure, the so-called Mansion. Ronald Gorny dated the Mansion to the mid-seventeenth century BCE based in part on the presence of fragments of relief vases and so-called Goldglimmerware.224 Relief vases, as we have seen above, however, are no longer associated with the early Old Hittite Period and gold mica washes are found throughout the first half of the Late Bronze Age.225 The Mansion may, thus, present a sixteenth or even fifteenth century BCE agricultural estate similar to that of ˙Inandık or Hüseyindede in the north. Unlike the northern sites, however, Aliş ar, following the destruction of the Mansion, shows signs of reoccupation in the thirteenth century BCE, including an unfinished monumental gate structure.226 Survey in the vicinity of Aliş ar identified two additional Late Bronze Age centres at Çadır and Salur Höyük as well as a scatter of smaller farmsteads and hamlets.227 Excavations at Çadır Höyük point to substantial late Middle and

218 219 220

221 223 225 227

Mazzoni, D’Agostino, and Orsi (2010); Mazzoni and Pecchioli Daddi 2015. Gorny (1995, 74). Dercksen (2001); Gelb (1935) for a discussion and translation of the Middle Bronze Age texts from Aliş ar. For the identification of Aliş ar with Ankuwa see Gorny (1995); Crasso (2005, 2008); Forlanini (2008); Barjamovic (2011, 314). 222 Larsen (1972). Singer (1984, 99-102). 224 Houwink ten Cate (1986, 108); Gorny (1995, 69-71). Gorny (1995, 78). 226 Mielke (2006c); Schoop (2011a, 260-262). Gorny (1993; 1995, 80-81). The Aliş ar Regional Project comprised extensive reconnaissance and the re-survey of sites discovered by von der Osten (1927, 1929a, 1929b, 1930, 1933) as well as intensive fieldwalking within the catchment areas of larger sites and the Gelingüllü dam (Branting 1996, 151-154; fig. 1-5).

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Late Bronze Age occupations, including a possible silo associated with the so-called Hittite House. Çadır was occupied until the end of the Late Bronze Age and into the Early Iron Age (see Chapter 9).228 Moving further south-west, survey and excavations suggest a political downscaling from the preceding period inside the Kızılırmak bend. Local centres appear much diminished in occupation and function, and new, and similarly modest, regional foci develop at sites with seemingly no Middle Bronze Age predecessors. Yassıhöyük, may have acted as a regional centre,229 alongside Suluca Karahöyük and Topaklı as well as Gubat Sehri. No Middle Bronze Age materials are reported from Gubat Sehri, while about half of the larger Late Bronze Age settlements in the wider region also appear to be new foundations. A trend towards new foundations is also noticeable in the third settlement tier, indicating that new villages or small towns were established in the Late Bronze Age. Surveys in Kırıkkale province have traced a shift of settlement locales from the plain to its hilly fringes during the Late Bronze Age,230 while KamanKalehöyük, the only substantially excavated site in the region, appears to have performed the role of a central storage facility during the first half of the Late Bronze Age. Kaman-Kalehöyük housed a substantial Middle Bronze Age settlement that was destroyed in a severe conflagration in the middle of the eighteenth century BCE (see also above). The earliest post-destruction occupation can be dated on the basis of seal finds to the seventeenth and sixteenth centuries BCE.231 Cut into the Middle Bronze Age burnt horizon were a series of stone-lined round structures, one of which measured up to 15 m in diameter. Smaller, similar structures yielded large quantities of charred wheat, suggesting they functioned as silos (Figure 13). Numerous sealed clay bullae dating to the early fourteenth century BCE were found thrown into the largest structure after it had ceased its original function.232 Limited glyptic and architectural evidence for the second half of the Late Bronze Age,233 by contrast, suggest a decline of the site’s administrative significance during the Hittite Empire Period, a development broadly comparable to the northern and eastern regions of the central plateau.

228 229 230 232 233

Gorny (2006, 37). Omura (2003, 54); excavations at the site have yielded a Late Bronze Age seal, although other Late Bronze Age finds are as yet limited (Omura 2016). 231 Matsumura and Weeden (2017). Matsumura and Weeden (2017, 113). Fairbairn and Omura (2005); Omura (2011). Glyptic evidence of the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE have been found so far only in Iron Age pit contexts (Weeden and Matsumura 2017, 113). See Takashi et al. (2002) and Weeden (2013, 2014) for a discussion of the limited architectural evidence for the second half of the Late Bronze Age.

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13 Stone-lined grain storage facility at Kaman-Kalehöyük

Trans-Marassantiya A similar development to that of Kaman-Kalehöyük appears to also characterise the large and strategically located site of Büklükale, which guarded an important Kızılırmak crossing. Here too excavations revealed monumental architecture, a fortification wall, and an associated building dating to between the twentieth and the early sixteenth centuries BCE.234 Glyptic and artefacts from inside the structure confirm its occupation from the ka¯rum II into the Old Hittite Period.235 More ephemeral architectural remains are reported for the later phases of the Late Bronze Age, while seals and a small number of cuneiform tablets suggest some activity at the site during the fifteenth to the thirteenth century BCE.236 Hittite textual sources from the very beginning lay vehement claim over the region to the south of the Kızılırmak, both through narratives of conquest and in administrative contexts. At the time of Hattusili I, for instance, AGRIG officials are mentioned at Parsuhanda and near the Hulaya river,237 a neighbouring region to the south. During the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE, 234 236

Matsumura (2013, 2014, 2015). Weeden and Matsumura (2017).

235

Weeden (2016). Singer (1984).

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Hittite sources treat the Lower Land as an extension of the Land of Hatti, and a treaty with Tarhuntassa too suggests that large parts of the region were under some form of Hittite control.238 At the same time, material evidence for Hittite governance is curiously scarce. Tudhaliya IV and his local rival, Kurunta, engaged in a contest of monument construction on the southern plateau in the late thirteenth century BCE that speaks, however, as I will argue in Chapter 5, more of instability than imperial sovereignty. Some of the region’s cultural traditions, such as pottery, formed broadly part of an extended north-central Anatolian cultural sphere (Chapter 8), while others, such as fortification architecture, did not (see below). Direct evidence for imperial administrative oversight in the form of seals, seal impressions, or cuneiform tablets, which are attested in abundance at major sites to the east and south-east of Hattusa, are almost entirely absent from the Lower Land and only become more numerous again at sites farther to the south in Cilicia (Chapter 7). Settlement data from the southern plateau highlights several microregional patterns that may be associated with idiosyncratic, locally driven imperial relationships. The southern plateau appears to have seen an increase in the number of settlements during the Late Bronze Age, although there is also a recognisable drop in overall settled area. This loss of settled area from the Middle to the Late Bronze Age affected the highest tier of settlements and tracks the abandonment or down-scaling of Middle Bronze Age regional centres and their replacement by smaller and often newly established Late Bronze Age sites. Unlike in some regions farther north, settlements in the south also appear to have remained in lowland plain locations.239 Recent excavations at the large mound of Ova Ören-Yassıhöyük in the centre of a fertile plain flanked by the Tuz Gölü and the Kızılırmak revealed a monumental Late Bronze Age gate structure and part of a casemate wall, suggesting a short-distance move of local power from the Middle Bronze Age centre, which was located at the nearby site of Topakhöyük.240 The site of Varavan (20 ha) appears to have taken the place of Acemhöyük. The Çarş amba alluvial fan, the hilly western fringes of the Konya plain, and the May alluvial fan seem to have experienced an increase in site numbers and

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Otten (1988); Forlanini (2017). Weeden and Matsumura (2017). Early reconnaissance surveys on the southern plateau were conducted by Mellaart (1958, 1959), French (1970, 142) and Tezcan (1958), often singlehandedly and on foot. More recent, long-term projects include the Central Anatolia Survey (Omura 2005) and the Konya Plain Survey (Baird 2002). Şenyurt (2010); Şenyurt et al. (2013, 2014).

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aggregate settlement area as well as a shift of settlement south-west and eastwards.241 Less securely traceable through surface evidence is a second settlement discontinuity during the Late Bronze Age, but it appears that several new sites, including a major regional centre (33 ha), were founded in the second half of the Late Bronze Age in this part of the south-western plateau.242 Farther to the east, the c. 6.3 ha site of Porsuk/Zeyve Höyük controlled the northern access to the Cilician Gates and was involved in the exploitation of the silver and iron ore sources at nearby Bolgarmaden.243 The site also presents a new-foundation, whose earliest occupation, Niveau VI, however, is only scantly preserved and published.244 The more extensively excavated Niveau V yielded a monumental fortification wall with stone foundations and a mudbrick superstructure, which was, however, not of the central Anatolian casemate type. An underground postern passage pierces the fortification wall in Chantier II and presents a general architectural link to north-central Anatolian centres. Radiocarbon dates suggest a construction between 1685 and 1525 BCE for this fortification system,245 while the construction of a domestic structure and storage facilities in a second excavation area (Chantier IV) has been radiocarbon dated to the late sixteenth and early fifteenth centuries BCE.246 This would bring Porsuk chronologically at least broadly in line with Hittite settlement modifications to the north and east of Hattusa, though direct evidence for institutional connections is as yet absent from the site. It is, therefore, quite possible that Porsuk was fortified against rather than by agents of the Hittite empire. The site was destroyed and abandoned in the fourteenth century BCE.247 Kınık Höyük, a 24 ha site comprising a central mound (10 ha), terrace, and lower town, is located in the foothills of the Melendiz and Hasan Da˘g mountains to the north of Porsuk. Recent excavations at the site unearthed the remnants of a Late Bronze Age fortification wall that was first built in the

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243 245 246 247

Baird (2001a, 2001b, 2002). Baird (2002). Other large Late Bronze Age sites, which are, however, less easily placed within a regional settlement development, include the site of Sulutaş in the foothills of the Takkeli Da˘g, which measures around 47 ha and would, thus, represent a major regional centre. Another 20 ha site (Kökez Höyük) is located to the north-west of Konya near Kadınhanı (e.g. Bahar and Koçak 2004; Bahar, Kara˘guz, and Koçak 1996). 244 Pelon (1992, 342). Pelon (1970, 1972, 1992); Beyer (2015). Beyer (2010, 98), though see Manning et al. (2016) for a recent re-assessment. Beyer (2010, 101). The destruction of Niveau V was originally proposed for the thirteenth century BCE (Dupré 1983, 41), but a Red Lustrous Wheel-made spindle bottle found in the destruction horizon, a re-evaluation of dendrochronological dates, as well as recent radiocarbon results make a destruction in the fourteenth century more plausible (Kuniholm et al. 2005; Mielke 2006a; Beyer 2010, 2015), as does the ceramic repertoire of Niveau V (see Chapter 8). Following this destruction event, the site lay abandoned until the eleventh century BCE.

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fifteenth century BCE, but which appears to have continued to function with various modifications into the Iron Age. A survey in the vicinity also identified three Late Bronze Age settlements ranging in size between 3 and 6 ha, with no Middle Bronze Age predecessors.248 In summary, while archaeological evidence is more difficult to assemble and interpret for the southern plateau, we can constitute that here too settlement landscapes underwent a series of transformations in which local and regional power bases moved from Middle Bronze Age centres to smaller and often newly founded sites. Some of these would appear to match in overall size and, thus, perhaps also administrative scope, the regional centres of Kuş aklı and Kayalıpınar and the district centre of Maş at Höyük to the east of Hattusa. Some of these developments, especially in the western part of the region, appear to have taken place somewhat later than in the north, while excavations in the south-east at Porsuk and Kınık point towards a date more closely aligned with the main thrust of settlement modifications on the northern plateau. It remains, however, as yet unclear whether city founding and fortification here present responses to, or practices of, Hittite empire-making. MAKING NEW IMPERIAL PLACES

In this chapter, I have argued that the central Anatolian plateau was not a uniformly integrated base, or homeland, from which could be launched Hittite imperialism farther afield. Approaching Hittite political production from a landscape-scale perspective and tracking regional patterns of rupture and continuity in broadly defined categories of settlements, the preceding sections illustrate that central Anatolia formed instead the first and ongoing target of varyingly effective and enduring practices of empire-making. At the most general level, Hittite landscape practice focused on the displacement of earlier settlement landscapes, and with them of the political regimes and their networks of höyük-bound communities that they substantiated and sustained. Nested within this overarching trend, which fundamentally transformed the spatial logics of the expanded hinterlands of Hattusa, were a series of regionally specific developments, distinct in nature and with a tentative north-south temporal trajectory of transformation. None of these, however, proved sustainable over the long term. During the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries BCE, Hittite efforts focused on the colonisation of the fertile agricultural northern and north-western plateau regions with small agricultural estates. The east saw the establishment or elaboration of new administrative

248

d’Alfonso, Balza, and Mora (2010, 31-32).

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centres, some of which, however, appear to have enjoyed at least temporary autonomy. This extraordinary effort to produce the Hittite empire’s central region and the toll it took on its landscapes and resources are reflected clearly in the palynological record and the erosion episodes of the Beyş ehir Occupation Phase, (see introduction to Part I). These profound transformations in the countryside also went hand in hand with, and made possible, a first bout of monumentalisation and infrastructural expansion at the capital city, including the instalment of massive grain silos and other large-scale storage facilities. The building of new and the appropriation or forgetting of old places, and the local networks of relationships they hold in place and reproduce, alone, however, is not sufficient for the production of a lasting political community, or the development and economic survival of an institutional apparatus of state. Movement, actual and symbolic, of varying frequency and density, and over different spatial scales by people – armies, couriers, festival parties – and the things that accompany or represent them, manifest their practices, and reproduce their relationships, was the thread that could, under the right circumstances and for some time at least, weave together communities from geographically disparate locales in a pre-modern age. It is no accident that Hittite records of military and ritual travel itineraries account for the bulk of the 2000 or so attested toponyms that constitute the puzzle pieces of Hittite historical geography.249 I will argue in the following chapter that Hattusa’s political elite employed cult festivities, the centralisation of the divine and its places, as well as the ritualised travel of royal protagonists as political technologies in the hope of effecting and legitimising a new political community. The result of these efforts was a distinctive, network-like sovereign spatiality, where new places, their people, and things were connected by different forms and frequencies of interactions. This network morphed or had to adjust, as places were destroyed and abandoned, or local potentates asserted their autonomy. It also left, at any point in time, large swaths of territory in the interstices of its nodes and ties and thus, effectively beyond, if not imperial power altogether, then at least its regular oversight and practices of co-optation.

249

Del Monte and Tischler (1978); movement through the Anatolian landscape, in this case by Assyrian merchants, similarly, constitutes the basis for our understanding of the political geography of the preceding Middle Bronze Age (Barjamovic 2011).

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Let the land grow and thrive, and let the land be secure! – and when it (indeed) grows and thrives, then they perform the festival of purulli.1 Illuyanka Myth

The rupture and re-ordering of central Anatolia’s traditional communities into a new Hittite spatial logic formed the focus of the preceding chapter. The transformation of physical space alone, however, does not a polity make. A public scattered across distant locales must be socialised enough to accept as legitimate a regime’s claim to sovereignty, and to, ideally, behave and feel as a solidary community. Thus, although the threat of violence underwrites all forms of sovereign production, it is ritual, theatricality, and performance that can, in the right circumstances, establish and maintain the symbolic, social, and economic ties critical for political reproduction. They can also mould more successfully than acts of brutality alone subordinates into more or less willing subjects and legitimise the extraction of resources. The first anthropological research to focus on the political significance of ritual was Clifford Geertz’ study of the nineteenth century CE Balinese ‘theatre state’. Although his study was later criticised for its emphasis on symbolic stasis and a lack of attention to the social and political negotiations inherent in ritual practice,2 several of Geertz’ observations help bring into relief 1 2

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Translation by Beckman (2003b, A i 5-8). Gellner (1999); also discussion in Ristvet (2015, 11-14).

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the key characteristics and purpose of Hittite imperial ritual. The most significant of these is that political ritual served not only to represent the state, but to actively construct it. Ritual in other words is not commemorative or confirmative of power, but a critical mechanism in its continued making. Ritual festivities and their material paraphernalia such as those I will discuss in the sections below are hopeful gestures to bring about sovereignty where it was lacking, or to reaffirm it where it had already found a foothold, lest it quickly dissipate again. Geertz takes this a step further suggesting that in the case of the Balinese state, ‘ritual was not a device to shore up the state, but rather the state . . . was a device for the enactment of mass ritual.’3 ‘The stupendous cremations, tooth filings, temple dedications, pilgrimages, and blood sacrifices, mobilising hundreds and even thousands of people and great quantities of wealth, were not means to political ends’, but instead ‘were the ends themselves, they were what the state was for’. The Hittite empire was also in many respects a theatre state in the sense that theatricality formed a fundamental part of its raison d’être. Over half of the Late Bronze Age Anatolian cuneiform corpus centres on ritual matters and the organisation and performance of large numbers of cult festivities. Pomp, circumstance, and specially devised assemblages of things colluded in regularised ritual performances to reproduce Hittite sovereignty, and to bolster its political economy at home and in some of its more distant imperial dependencies (see also Chapters 7 and 8). The Balinese performance of state took the form of royal processions and rituals at dispersed temple locales to honour local deities and divine forces. It was the physical movement of royal actors, their delegates, and the encounters made along their progress that connected in spatial and symbolic terms the critical nodes of an enlarged political network. At the same time, these ritual practices were closely intertwined with economic transactions in the form of gifts and their redistribution.4 Hittite state festivities, too, combined ritual practice with royal movement to both weave together a new central Anatolian community and to grease the path for critical things – agricultural surplus and other tax revenues – to travel with greater ease towards the storehouses and silos of its imperial centres.

3 4

Geertz (1980, 13). Geertz (1983 [1993], 132; 1985). The political potency of ritual journeying has since been amply documented in ethnography and political sciences, and taken up by archaeological studies of early state power (e.g. Kertzer 1988; Morinis 1992; McCorriston 2011; Ristvet 2015); see Bahrani (2008, 69-70) for a discussion of ideology as a performance in the ancient Near East; Harmanş ah (2013) for a recent analysis of city founding and associated ritual performance; Ristvet (2015) for an in-depth discussion of the role of ritual and performance, including elite pilgrimage, in socio-political production in Mesopotamia.

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Like movement, material symbols too were critical to Hittite ritual. Challenging an ideological primacy, whereby rituals symbolically project or legitimise political orders, David Kertzer argued that it is through ritual that people develop their ideas about what constitutes appropriate political institutions, leaders, and relationships. This is because the experiences routinely created by political ritual, especially emotional arousal, narrow participants’ breadth of attention, discourage critical thinking, and make them suggestible and focused on a limited set of symbols:5 ‘by repetitively employing a limited pool of powerful symbols, often associated with emotional fervour, rituals are an important moulder of political beliefs . . . the more available a social scheme becomes, the more it structures future experiences.’6 Hittite political ritual, as we shall see below, enlisted the help of an assemblage of symbols, some newly invented to serve sovereign projection, others rooted in long-term tradition. In contrast to the ruptures it effected and took advantage of in central Anatolian settlement landscapes, Hittite imperial ritual also appropriated and centralised earlier Anatolian cults, their deities, and their places in order to steep its new regime in deep, local history. This resonates with Maurice Bloch’s analysis of the Madagascan circumcision ritual, which was transformed from an eighteenth century CE family occasion into a state spectacle and ritual of royal allegiance. Bloch emphasised the ambiguity and negotiated nature of state ritual, suggesting that rituals are politically effective because they fall ‘somewhere between an action and a statement’,7 – ‘a vague, weakly propositional, construction of timelessness’ which offers ‘order in exchange for submission’.8 This ambiguity allows political rituals to be used and interpreted in multiple and sometimes contradictory ways, which serves to ensnarl and enthuse a wide array of participants, and persuade internally diverse communities of the legitimacy of particular regimes.9 This perspective permits us here to envisage, without contradiction, a spatiality of Hittite ritual networks that may have included locales with shifting, equivocal, or downright opposing political affiliations, both within and beyond officially recognised borderzones, such as in the examples discussed in Chapters 2 and 4. In all of these perspectives, political ritual, rather than actualising ideological misrepresentations of a suppressive reality in the Engelian sense of a false consciousness, helps bring about ‘solidarity where consensus is lacking’, since through ‘ritual common action can be fostered without necessitating common 5

6 9

Kertzer (1988, 85); archaeologists also have long argued for the importance of the materiality of ritual practice to effectively convey and embody ideological messages (DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle 1996) as well as for the critical role of sensory and emotional experiences in this context (Hamilakis 2013). 7 8 Kertzer (1988, 42-46, 95). Bloch (1986, 10). Bloch (1986, 191). Gellner (1999, 139).

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belief ’.10 To best achieve this, Bloch argued, ritual and everyday reality must interlace and overlap to a significant degree.11 Particularly potent, therefore, are rituals that entwine centralising institutions with the reproduction of life. In the context of Hittite Anatolia, the natural reproductive cycle was the fulcrum or potentiality with which existential necessity could be transmuted into imperial sovereignty. Through ritual performance, universal reproductive time was appropriated into the Hittite empire’s official festive calendar, tax collection rationalised, and symbolically significant places turned into centres of state cult. The cycle of agricultural production and the fertility of the land, of animals and humans formed the fundamental structuring logic of Hittite cosmology, whose descent into chaos, infertility, and starvation was prevented by regular and appropriate ritual practice. Hittite mythology is very clear on the centrality of cult practice in maintaining Anatolia’s lifecycle and how neglected gods, in this case the god Telipinu, might disappear disgruntled, and bring devastating infertility to the land: Mist seized the windows. Smoke [seized] the house. In the fireplace the logs were stifled. [At the altars] the gods were stifled. In the sheep pen the sheep were stifled. In the cattle barn the cattle were stifled. The mother sheep rejected her lamb. The cow rejected her calf. Telipinu too went away and removed grain, animal fecundity, luxuriance, growth, and abundance to the steppe, to the meadow. Telipinu too went into the moor and blended with the moor. Over him the halenzuplant grew. Therefore barley (and) wheat no longer ripen. Cattle, sheep, and humans no longer become pregnant. And those (already) pregnant cannot give birth. The mountains and the trees dried up, so that the shoots do not come (forth). The pastures and the springs dried up, so that famine broke out in the land. Humans and gods are dying of hunger. The Great Sun God made a feast and invited the Thousand Gods. They ate but couldn’t get enough. They drank but couldn't quench their thirst.12

The accumulation of agricultural surplus allowed past societies to buffer against such devastating risks. At the same time, surplus extraction and centralised management presented critical opportunities for aspiring elites to accumulate material wealth as well as to develop bureaucratic skills and recognition.13 The storage of large quantities of cereals and other products is archaeologically

10 11 13

Bloch (1977); Kertzer (1988, 78-79, 96); Žižek (1989, 1994); Eagleton (1991). 12 Bloch (1986). The Disappearance of Telipinu, translation by Hoffner (1991, 15). There is a long-standing debate in archaeology about the precise role of agricultural surplus production in processes of social stratification (since Halstead and O’Shea 1982). Its importance for the production of early agricultural states, remains, however, undisputed (most recently, Scott 2017).

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attested in the storerooms and underground silo complexes of Hattusa,14 Kuş aklı,15 and Kaman-Kalehöyük.16 The most impressive silo at Hattusa, which has been radiocarbon dated to the later sixteenth century BCE,17 is a monumental structure with 32 storerooms and a total extent of half a hectare, capable of storing between 7000 and 9000 cubic metres of grain. An additional underground silo of the sixteenth to fifteenth centuries BCE has been excavated near the southern ponds of the Upper City;18 82 regularised storeroom compartments at basement level around Temple 1 in the Lower City could have added up to as many as 200 storerooms over two storeys. Several largescale, stone-lined silo pits were located on the mountainous outcrop of Büyükkaya.19 In total, about 30,000 people could have been fed for a year by the grain stored in these structures, about double the number of Hattusa’s likely inhabitants.20 Agricultural surplus, even with the sophisticated storage methods documented at Hattusa,21 however, only lasted a limited period of time and, lest it was to be lost altogether, had to be regularly converted into social capital – a feat most readily achieved through ritualised acts of generosity.22 In the case of the Hittite central region, textual sources demonstrate Hittite institutional concern with the performance of regular and extensive rituals, including commensal feasting and other forms of resource redistribution in a wide range of central Anatolian towns and villages as well as at the capital.23 Detailed taxation records, so ubiquitous in other ancient Near Eastern societies, are almost entirely absent from Late Bronze Age Anatolia. This may be an accident of preservation or the artefact of scribal practice, such as the use of wooden wax-boards. Alternately, however, their absence could reflect the centrality of state ritual in the circumscription of central Anatolian resources. If the latter was the case, then it would seem no accident that the extensive ration lists accompanying the instructions for Hittite state festivals provide us with the most detailed insights into what the Hittite state hoped to sequester, who was expected to supply it, and who benefited from it.24 With a small number of fragmentary exceptions, the majority of Hittite festival texts date to the second half of the Late Bronze Age and are therefore discussed later in this chapter.25 Early Hittite strategies of ritual production are manifested in a distinctive assemblage of cult objects, which combine 14 17 20 22 23

24

15 16 Seeher (2000). Mielke (2001). Omura (2001, 11-27; 2002, 6-19). 18 19 Seeher (2006b). Seeher (2002, 66). Seeher (2018, 83). 21 Mielke (2001, 241); Seeher (2000). Seeher (2000). Hayden and Villeneuve (2011). I thank Mark Weeden for pointing out the critical epistemological difference between the existence of festival texts and the historicity of any ritual performances in the manner in which they are described in such texts. 25 Hazenbos (2003); van den Hout (2009, 45). Taracha (2009, 59-60).

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innovation with long-established religious symbolism, depict in detail festive praxis and early sovereign power, as well as trace in their geographical distribution the outlines of a prospective Hittite political community. ASSEMBLING HITTITE IMPERIAL RI TUAL

The most iconic as well as newly invented ritual paraphernalia of the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries BCE were the so-called relief vases: large, sometimes four-handled jars with flaring necks, egg-shaped bodies, and pointed bases with varyingly extensive and colourfully painted relief decorations (Figure 14). Similar to the Uruk-Warka vase,26 central Anatolian relief vases featured in as well as represented and perpetuated the cult festivities they depicted. Their bright polychrome visuality and 14 ˙Inandıktepe relief vase (photo by Carole Raddato the significant amounts of liquid that on Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons)28 these vessels, which in mundane contexts were associated, among other uses, with the production of beer,27 were able to hold, would have made them the centrepieces of cult acts and associated feasting. Their rounded bases demanded them to be held upright while full, either by a pot stand, for which direct evidence is however currently lacking, or by cult participants, forcing a very direct and bodily engagement with the object and its depictive content. The vases’ decorative panels projected as well as instantiated Hittite kingship, its idealised social context, and divine relationships. The largest and most complete relief vase comes from the late sixteenth century BCE estate of ˙Inandıktepe29 on the northern fringes of the central 26 27 28

29

Bahrani (2002). Müller-Karpe (1988, 83; 2002a, 261); Mielke (2006b, 95); Schoop (2011a, 249). https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_˙Inandık_vase,_a_Hittite_four-handled_ large_terracota_vase_with_scenes_in_relief_depicting_a_sacred_wedding_ceremony,_mid_ 17th_century,_found_in_˙Inandıktepe,_Museum_of_Anatolian_Civilizations,_Ankara_( 26167755270).jpg. Özgüç (1988).

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Anatolian plateau (Chapter 2). It is highly likely that the festivities depicted on the vase also took place at this site. The 82 cm tall vessel, which was found in one of the estate’s storerooms, portrays across four registers an elaborate festive occasion in full progress. This includes processions of musicians and acrobats in the top register, food and drink being prepared at the bottom as well as a sexual act, alongside several offering and drinking scenes in front of altars, which are led – for the first time in central Anatolian iconography – by a royal male figure.30 Two more intact relief vases were found at Hüseyindede to the south of ˙Inandıktepe. One of the Hüseyindede vessels depicts festival scenes in four panels similar to the ˙Inandık vase (Figure 15); the other features a single decorative panel of dancers, musicians, and a bull with leaping acrobats.31 Finds of similar vessels and fragments at 15 Hüseyindede relief vase (photo by Klaus-Peter 32 Hattusa, Alacahöyük, Eskiyapar, Bitik, Simon on Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons) Kabaklı, Aliş ar Höyük, KamanKalehöyük, Karahöyük-Elbistan, Maş at Höyük, and Mülkbükü33 sketch out a geography of early Hittite ritual intervention and economic integration (Figure 16). The presence at ˙Inandıktepe of a landgrant document34 alongside evidence for substantial storage facilities allows us to tentatively associate the royal ritual depicted on the vase with the requisition of agricultural surplus from this and other, often newly established estates in Hattusa’s extended northern hinterland. The tablet moreover provides an indirect link with the AGRIG system of royal storehouses, which Hittite sources suggest served as hubs for the collection and redistribution of taxed surplus at sites across the central Anatolian plateau and beyond. We might also speculate that early Hittite rulers, much like their later counterparts,

30 32 33 34

31 Schachner (2012b, 136). Sipahi (2000). https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:CorumMuseumVaseHüseyindede.jpg. von der Osten (1937, 111-124); Arık (1944); Özgüç and Özgüç (1949); Koş ay (1951); Boehmer (1983); Özgüç (1982, 1988); Omura (1996); Özsait and Özsait (1998); Sipahi (2006). Balkan (1973).

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16 Distribution of relief vases, vase fragments, and bull terracotta (base map: ESRI Topographic Data (Creative Commons): World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water)

took part in regular cult travel, and thus participated in the festivities at ˙Inandık and Hüseyindede that were portrayed on, and instructed by, the relief vases. The same depictions also instantiated a timeless royal presence and authority at these rural locales. Other cult equipment found at ˙Inandık includes a ceramic model of a structure with a seated figure against the back wall and bull-shaped ceramic vessels probably representing Hurri and Seri, the bulls of the Stormgod.35 Similar bull vessels are attested at Hattusa, Kuş aklı-Sarissa, Kayalıpınar, and Oymaa˘gaç Höyük.36 Like relief vases, bull terracotta were an invention of the Late Bronze Age. At the same time, they are associated with a long Anatolian tradition of specialised zoomorphic cult vessels referred to as BIBRU in the texts, and of head-shaped cups or animal ‘necks’ (GÚ), which were used to ritually ‘drink (to) the gods’.37 Metal examples for these vessels, for instance, include bull-headed cups from a hoard find at Kınık-Kastamonu

35 36 37

Özgüç (1988; pl. I, 60-62). Özgüç (2002a); Mielke (2006b); Mühlenbruch (2014, 117-120); Czichon et al. (2016). For a recent discussion of this practice, see Heffron (2014); Güterbock (1998, 205) for a different interpretation.

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17 Libation scene with beak-spouted jug, Schimmel Rhyton (after Boehmer 1983; Creative Commons)38

(see Chapter 4),39 two unprovenanced sliver cups in the shape of the forepart of a stag and a bull now in the Metropolitan Museum’s Schimmel collection,40 as well as a fist-shaped silver cup at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.41 Two beak-spouted jugs, the most widely attested Late Bronze Age ritual equipment, were also among the ˙Inandık inventory.42 Made from fine clay and usually red-slipped and highly polished, beak-spouted jugs were one of the most elaborate vessel forms in the north-central Anatolian ceramic repertoire, their sharp edges and knob-like decorations indicating a strong connection to metal work.43 Beak-spouted jugs are frequently depicted as libation vessels. The frieze around the rim of the Schimmel Collection’s stag-vessel, for instance, shows a seated female holding a small cup to her lips and a standing male figure pouring a libation from a beak-spouted jug (Figure 17).44 The frieze on the rim of the fist-shaped silver cup depicts a libation scene also involving a beak-spouted jug and an altar with a loaf of bread, three stacked objects (cups?), and possibly a napkin,45 while the rock relief at Fıraktın shows a seated deity holding a small cup and queen Puduhepa pouring the libation (see Chapter 5).46 A similar offering and drinking scene is depicted on the Alacahöyük orthostat wall, only the recipient is a male god and the Hittite king pours the libation.47 This specialised cult assemblage intermeshed ritual familiarity with targeted, royal innovation. Its material and visual properties – from the lack of stable bases to the location of openings and the angles of spouts – actively socialised as well as standardised the bodily movements of ritual participants and, thus, the

38 40 42 43 45 46

39 www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/327399. Emre and Çınaro˘glu (1993). 41 Muscarella (1974). Güterbock and Kendall (1995). Özgüç (1988, E2, E3, pl. 23); the archaeological finds contexts of beak-spouted vessels would equally suggest a restricted, ritual function (Schoop 2011a, 251-252). 44 Fischer (1963, 36-41). Muscarella (1974). Güterbock and Kendall (1995; figs. 3.5, 3.7); Gilibert (2011, 116-117). 47 Ehringhaus (2005; fig. 112). Bittel (1976, 186-200; figs. 209-228).

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conduct of political ritual across central Anatolian settlements. The efficacy of these things in the reproduction of this particular sphere of the Hittite imperial network, however, was ultimately limited. Not only do the material elements of this early Hittite ritual assemblage either disappear or drastically decline in popularity from the fifteenth century BCE,48 but many of the newly established rural sites in Hattusa’s hinterland, which it sought to integrate, were destroyed and abandoned. Roughly at the same time, landgrants, a key mechanism through which early Hittite kings hoped to expand their territorial hold in central Anatolia and to consolidate their elite supporter-base, were abandoned as a political technology. FESTI VE MOVES

Ritual, however, by no means lost its critical role in Hittite political practice in the second half of the Late Bronze Age. The increase in surviving texts dealing with ritual activities, by contrast, tracks either a drastic increase in ritual activities, or heightened state interest, interference, and appropriating of ritual. Attested in the Anatolian textual record of this period are over 165 official cult festivities,49 most of which clustered in the spring and autumn and, thus, aimed to harness central Anatolia’s reproductive calendar. Among the most important Hittite state festivities were the KI.LAM festival and the later Reisefeste (travel festivals), the AN.TAH.ŠUM,50 which was performed in spring, and the ˘ nuntarriyašhaš-festival performed in the autumn.51 They presented grand occasions of royal display and commensal generosity: the AN.TAH.ŠUM, which is ˘ outlined in Table 4, for instance, is described in cuneiform instructions as lasting a grand total of 40 days. The text underscores that the performativity of movement as well as its puncture by specific, place-bound ritual actions, and commensal consumption events, were critical to Hittite theatres of state.52 The central objective of this extensive investment in state ritual was, thus, to anchor the Hittite political network in place as well as in deep time. The latter was achieved through the appropriation of local deities and associated cult practices predating Hittite empire-making, in particular Palaic and Hattian gods, songs,

48 49

50 52

Schoop (2011a, 251-252). Bryce (2002, 188); the number of Hittite texts associated with ritual is vast and no attempt is made here to present a complete picture of Hittite ritual and festival practice. The aim is to draw out a series of pertinent characteristics of the political intent and efficacy of these practices. 51 Güterbock (1960). Nakamura (2002). This was a rather widespread practice among the rulers of the ancient Near East. Mesopotamian rulers of the Ur III period, for instance, are also known to have celebrated festivals in cities and villages in their provinces, collecting revenues and monitoring labourers at the same time (Beld 2002).

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table 4 Summary of activities associated with the AN.TAH.ŠUM festival (translation ˘ by Güterbock 1960) Day

Activity

Location

1

King and queen travel to Tahurpa, sacrifices for sun goddess Arinna, local sun goddess Tahurpistanu, horse-god Pirwa, and Amamma. Race at Tippuna. King and queen return to Hattusa, cleansing in tarnu-house. Divine fleece (kursa) is brought from Arinna to Hattusa.

Hattusa Tahurpa

2 3 4 5 6

7 8 9 10 11 12

13–17

18 19 20 21 22 23–31

Kursa moves from Hattusa to Tawiniya. Sacrifice for Zababa at Hattusa. Kursa stays at Hiyasna overnight and returns to Hattusa. Cult of stormgod of Zippalanda. Kursa is brought to the temple of Nisaba/Halki, goddess of grain. Opening of the storage jar/container ‘on the right side of’ the stormgod of Zippalanda. Great assembly in the halentu. 3-day sacrificial festival and feasting. King travels to Arinna and visits sacred groves on the way. King spends the night in Arinna. Queen sleeps in the palace at Hattusa. King takes the AN.TAH.ŠUM plant in Arinna. ˘ H.ŠUM plant in Hattusa. Queen takes the AN.TA King returns to Hattusa. ˘ Great assembly in the halentu. Chief of palace attendants carries the year to the House of the Dead, king follows him. King initiates a horse race. Start of the festivities in the temple of Ziparwa. Opening of the grain storage jar/container of the Stormgod of Hatti. Animal sacrifices (10 sheep) in the temple of Arinna. Festivities, libations, and sacrificial acts for a series of divinities in which the royal couple and prince participated, including the sun goddess of the earth, the Palaic stormgod Ziparwa, Zababa, the god of war, and the divinity Hannu. King celebrates the stormgod Pihasassi in the Pure Temple. Queen celebrates the sun goddess of Arinna in the halentu. Day of the meat offerings. King initiates horse race. More libations for Pihasassi and the sun goddess of Arinna. Holy ablution, animal sacrifices. Festival in the temple of the stormgod of Halab and other divinities. King and queen go to the temple of Askasipa. Start of festivities for Istar/Sauska of Hattarina. Festivities for lesser gods in subsequent days.

Tippuna Hattusa Arinna Hattusa Tawiniya Hattusa Hiyasna Hattusa Hattusa

Hattusa Arinna Arinna Hattusa Hattusa Hattusa

Hattusa

Hattusa

Hattusa Hattusa Hattusa Hattusa Hattusa

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table 4 (continued) Day

Activity

Location

32–34

Cult-travel from temple of Taurisa to the Mt. Piskurunuwa. The king spends the night in Haitta, then king and queen scale the mountain and celebrate the sun goddess of Arinna. Queen sacrifices to Arinna in Harranassa. Sacrificial animals are herded to Zippalanda. Sacrifice at Zippalanda. Mount Taha is scaled. Festivities move to Ankuwa, great assembly at the halentu. King performs the rain festival.

Haitta Mt. Piskurunuwa

35 36 37 38

Harranassa Zippalanda Zippalanda Mt. Taha Ankuwa

18 Relief blocks from Alacahöyük showing a festive procession and offering scene

and rites.53 The importance of surplus and its centralisation is illuminated in the passage where ‘the storage vessel of the right side of the Stormgod of Zippalanda’ was ritually opened.54 Other festive activities and participants included divine veneration, animal sacrifice, libation, and ritual cleansing, musicians, acrobats, races, and staged battles.55 Many of these acts and participants are depicted on the ˙Inandık vase or the Alaca reliefs (Figure 18). King, queen, and members of the royal family as well as livestock and significant things moved between Hattusa, other Anatolian settlements, and extraurban cult locales during these occasions. Rituals were sometimes performed simultaneously in different places, reinforcing their symbolic interlinking. By harmonising ritual time, space was collapsed, and the Hittite political network and its constituent community imagined and reproduced. On days eight to ten of the AN.TAH.ŠUM festival, for instance, activities were spread across three ˘ different locales and took place in part concurrently at Hattusa and Arinna.56 . . . the king and queen (?) go into the temple of the Sun-god(dess) . . . goes to Arinna. Great assembly in [Mat]illa. But for sleeping [the king] goes to Arinna, while the queen goes (back) to Hattusa into the Queen’s 53 56

54 55 Taracha (2009). Güterbock (1956, 85). Popko (2009, 13, 92-95). Various localisations have been suggested for the cult city of Arinna; for a recent summary, see Kryszeń (2016; map 1). The city must have been located in proximity to Hattusa for the above travel and ritual actions to take place within the short time frames described in the texts. This makes Alacahöyük a good candidate.

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Palace. Next day the king takes the AN.TAH.ŠUM plant in Arinna, while the queen takes the AN.TAH.ŠUM plant˘ in the Queen’s Palace at ˘ Hattusa. Great assembly in the Queen’s Palace. Next day the king comes (back) from Arinna to Hattusa. Great assembly in the halentu.57

Scale and frequency of festival occasions varied, ranging from the annual performance of the AN.TAH.ŠUM and KI.LAM to festivals such as the ˘ ‘Great Festival for Telipinu’, attested in Old and Middle Hittite sources, at the towns of Hanhana and Kasha to the north of Hattusa.58 The festival was performed every nine years by the crown prince (DUMU.LUGAL) and involved the presence of the governor of Hanhana, and the movement of 1000 sheep and 50 oxen. As part of the festivities, livestock was apparently herded from Hanhana to a different settlement, Taniskuriya, where they were sacrificed at the sacred stone of Telipinu. On the fourth day, the statue of the god Telipinu was moved from Hanhana to Kasha, while later cult activities are described as taking place simultaneously in the Hanhana temple and in Kasha. Material symbols, on which participants’ emotions and attention could be focused, also moved during other festivities. During the AN.TAH.ŠUM, for ˘ instance, a ‘divine fleece’ (kursa) travelled from Hattusa to Arinna and back.59 Hittite rituals are described in the festival texts as taking place not only at shrines and temples inside settlements, but also at special locales in the landscape. This included built structures, such as ‘stone-houses’, the mausolea of Hittite rulers, or ‘eternal peaks’ (NA4hekur SAG.UŠ), cult places for deceased royal personages.60 Libations and other ritual acts were performed in sacred groves,61 at springs, and at so-called huwaši-stones, prominent geological features such as boulders and rock outcrops.62 The sacred spring at Suppitassu, a round pond located in the uplands above the city of Kuş aklıSarissa, for instance, was visited during the spring festival of Sarissa in which the Hittite king participated.63 Other sacred pools are attested at Eflatun Pınar64 and Yalburt65 on the south-western limits of the central Anatolian plateau and the monumentalised southern ponds at Hattusa. Rituals were also conducted on mountains. The royal couple, for instance, was instructed to ascend Mt. Piskurunuwa on day thirty-four of the AN.TAH.ŠUM,66 and in doing so to ˘ recruit the mountain and its sacred forces, along with those of other naturally 57 58 60 61 63 65 66

Passage from the AN.TAH.ŠUM Festival, translation by Güterbock (1960, 85) and with ˘ adjustments by Kryszeń (2016, 45). 59 Jacob-Rost (1983). Güterbock (1960, 81-82, 85); Kryszeń (2016, 16). An example of a hekur may be the structure at Gavur Kalesi to the south-west of Hattusa; see e.g. Taracha (2009, 165); Lumsden (2002); van den Hout (2002, 89-91). 62 Nakamura (2002, 69) cf. Kryszeń (2016, 49). Bryce (2002, 156). 64 Wilhelm (2015). Börker-Klähn and Börker (1975). Hawkins (2000); Harmanş ah (2015b, 75-80). Kryszeń (2016, 223); Güterbock (1960, 84-87).

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wondrous67 and meaningful places in the Anatolian landscape, into the Hittite political project. The Hittite state apparatus also kept a close eye on regional and local cults, which were not directly associated with the state or visited during royal festivals. A collection of late thirteenth century BCE cuneiform texts inventories in meticulous detail the things, people, festive practices, and logistical obligations of non-royal cults in the Hittite central region as well as in an extended area to the west and south. These so-called cult inventories are among the most detailed administrative documents of Late Bronze Age central Anatolia.68 The texts are usually attributed to the reigns of Hattusili III and Tudhaliya IV and interpreted as evidence for an extensive cult reform, through which especially Tudhaliya brought local cults under tighter central control and introduced the state’s standard spring and autumn festivals at locations where they had not previously been practiced.69 Michele Cammarosano, however, argued convincingly for a long-term royal practice of recording and reviving local, non-royal cults from at least the fifteenth century BCE.70 The existing texts, in this scenario, present merely the latest, non-discarded records of a regularised central oversight of politically potent, and thus potentially subversive, locales and practices. The significance of this so laboriously reproduced ritual geography finds self-conscious reflection in the naming of the main gates of the capital after key cult destinations such as Zippalanda and Tawiniya. The roads emanating from Hattusa, too, referenced important stopover locations on cultic journeys or their end-points, such as in the case of the ‘Tippuwa-road’ or the ‘road of the Stormgod of Nerik’.71 The spatial reach of most royal festive travel and thus its efficacy as a practice of political production, however, was comparatively restricted and focused on a radius of about one day’s travel from Hattusa.72 Key cult itineraries here included centres such as Arinna, Tahurpa, and Tawiniya and the smaller towns clustered around them. Some of the cities that formed part of the Hittite festival circuit such as Hanhana, Katapa, and Zippalanda lay up to a two day’s march from the capital. Texts mentioning trips of two to three days or more from Hattusa are mainly military in nature, while ritual practices in locales such as Ankuwa, Hattena, Sappinuwa, or Durmitta took on a more local character. Even farther afield and in some cases frequently beyond Hittite sovereign reach, lay the cult centres of Nerik,

67 68 69 70 72

A fitting term, which I borrow from Ömür Harmanş ah (2015b); see also Chapter 4. van den Hout (2009). Hazenbos (2003); Pecchioli Daddi (2006, 125); Cammarosano (2018). 71 Cammarosano (2012). Schachner (2017b, 46). As recently proposed by Kryszeń (2016).

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Tapikka, Samuha, and Sarissa, whose festival texts, however, suggest royal participation. Overall, the ritual geography of the Reisefeste maps remarkably well onto the regions of central Anatolia, whose settlement landscapes underwent the most dramatic and, as I have argued in Chapter 2, centrally orchestrated transformations in the early era of Hittite empire-making. This too, however, appears to have been only a temporary solution, as ritual travel underwent a significant spatial and symbolic transformation during the later Empire Period, when local cults acquired Stellvertreter institutions (‘houses’) in the capital city, suggesting either a shift in royal focus away from the central Anatolian plateau or, more in line with the archaeological evidence discussed in the preceding chapter, a weakening of imperial ties and greater local autonomy in the central region. GIVE AND TAKE

These so-called houses instead of their home cities were increasingly visited during official rituals by the Hittite king. A series of more homogenous later temples in the Upper City of Hattusa may have housed these Stellvertreter cults,73 although other locations have also been suggested.74 What did not change, however, was the centrality of surplus, its ritual circumscription, and its conversion into social capital during festival proceedings. In what Brian Hayden described as tributary feasts, the ‘goal . . . is to amass as much surplus as possible, and to sequester as large a proportion of it as possible for elite use . . . .’75 A passage from the KI.LAM festival, a fertility-related festival held over three days at Hattusa and at the nearby city of Arinna, describes how a series of AGRIG officials stood next to piles of produce that had been brought to Hattusa from their respective home cities, while the king walked past each AGRIG and their surplus and a libation ritual was performed.76 Hosting a feast not only demonstrated the extent of the social network of the host and their economic prowess, but also socially indebted participants. Social balance could be resorted either through the hosting of an equivalent feast or, in the case of elite or state-sponsored events, with loyalty and subservience.77 Hittite festival practice involved divine sacrifice, the pouring of offerings, the sharing of food and drink with the gods, and communal feasting: ‘They break thick bread. They fill the rhytons. They eat. They drink.’78 The ‘great assembly’ at the KI.LAM festival, for instance, took place

73 75 77 78

74 Schachner (2011, 180-181). Singer (1984, 122); Hazenbos (2003). 76 Hayden (2001, 58). Güterbock (1961, 89); Singer (1983, 62-63). Hayden (2001); Cook and Glowacki (2003). CTH 506 (cult inventory text), translation by Hazenbos (2003, 29).

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in a ceremonial tent in or near Hattusa and also involved the drinking of/to around forty deities as well as elements of feasting.79 Extensive ration lists enumerate the staggering quantities of food and drink to be distributed to the participating dignitaries during the KI.LAM festival as well as the garments and ornaments worn by participating officials.80 For the 3-day festivity at Hattusa, for instance, this included c. 160 sheep, around 3 kg of bread, and 2 vessels with beer-wine for each festival participant.81 The so-called cult inventories also provide detailed information about the types and quantities of food and drink required for the hosting of festivities at regional temples and other places of worship. The foodstuffs mentioned in these texts include a wide variety of bread loaves, pots filled with soup, vessels containing beer-wine, fruit, and cheese. Sheep and, less frequently, oxen and rams served as sacrificial animals and as food for festival participants.82 Archaeological evidence for one or more feasting events dating to the late fifteenth and early fourteenth centuries BCE have been excavated in the abandoned Building E at Kuş aklı.83 At Hattusa, the material remnants of a drinking ritual in the form of large numbers of miniatures, drinking bowls, some serving equipment, and an arm-shaped libation vessel were found deposited in a water-basin on the citadel at Büyükkale.84 More abundant in the archaeological record than evidence for feasting events per se are the plain and simple-looking ceramic furnishings of large-scale consumption events.85 These were stored in the basements and pantries of temples and elite households and I will return to them in more detail in Chapter 8 in the context of an ongoing debate about the relationship between Hittite state institutions and an apparent homogenisation and simplification of the north-central Anatolian ceramic repertoire. For now, I want to focus on Hittite state festivities as political technologies and on the locales and opportunities for resistance and negotiation that their very practice created. The identification in the archaeological record of acts of resistance is often challenging, not because alternative ideologies and practices were less material, but because archaeological data is slotted more easily into text-derived imperial narratives, whose versions of history have been normalised and have come to be accepted as more plausible by scholarly acquiescence. The recognition of alternatives and the often deliberate ambiguity and the many possible registers in the material culture of dissent require multiple angles of enquiry and contextual information, and these are difficult to retrieve from

79 82 83 85

80 81 Singer (1983). Singer (1983, 141). Singer (1983, 159-162). E.g. CTH 525.3, CTH 525 (cult inventory texts), translation by Hazenbos (2003, 36-40, 43-51). 84 Arnhold (2009, 9); von den Driesch (2009, 149). Neve (1982, 128-129). Glatz (2015c).

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most excavation reports. Thus, there is currently little by way of direct evidence for the expression of opposition during Hittite cult festivities. Hittite appropriation of earlier Hattian traditions and their translation into central state festivities as well as a long-term concern with the overseeing of local, non-royal cults, however, suggest a keen awareness of the opportunities for dissent and re-interpretation that ritual provides. Resistance emerges more clearly from the economic and social ties that Hittite state ritual relied on for its supplies and which it sought to legitimise. The circumscription of surplus is in itself an arena in which both political power is performed and relationships of domination are negotiated. Tax collection in the central region of the Hittite empire appears to have been in the hands of a local body, the ‘men of the town/district’,86 while regional collection points were tied into the central administrative system through the presence of magistrates or inspectors such as the AGRIGs,87 who oversaw local resource redistribution, the stocking of state-owned storehouses, and the forwarding of goods and produce to the capital. We have no accounts of the encounters of tax collectors, farmers, and other citizens in Hittite Anatolia, but examples from other places and periods suggest that despite neat systems for calculating and record keeping of taxation payments, such as those set out in the Hittite law code,88 the act of extraction would have been ‘a morass of disagreements, partial payments, negotiations, claims and counter claims’.89 A passage in the Proclamation of Telipinu also points to a central system struggling with corruption in the sixteenth century BCE. In the text, Telipinu recounts how AGRIG officials were not sealing the grain in their storehouses with the royal seal, thus seemingly filling their own coffers at the expense of the state.90 The letters from Maş at-Tapikka, likewise, shine a light on long-winded, individual negotiations over tax reductions.91 The vassal kingdom of Ugarit, too, engaged in a number of classic delaying tactics regarding Hittite requests for grain shipments and other goods,92 and many pleading letters were sent from other Late Bronze Age Levantine polities to their Egyptian overlord at the time of annual tribute collection. Peasant strategies of tax evasion and defiance attested in a range of ethnographic and historical settings include secret harvesting, opening of unauthorised fields, interplanting of tithable and non-tithable crops, and ensuring that the taxed crop was of poor quality.93 Much of the grain recovered from Late Bronze Age storage complexes, such as the sixteenth century BCE postern silos 86 87 89 91 92

Hoffner (2009, 193); Otten (1963b; 1983b, 48-52). 88 Singer (1984, 87-88); Mielke (2011a, 186). Hoffner (1997). 90 Given (2004, 31, 37-38); also Wolf (1966, 49). Singer (1984, 104-105). HKM 52, translation by Hoffner (2009, 190-194); HKM 80, translation by Hoffner (2009, 238-240). 93 Glatz (2013). Scott (1987).

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at Hattusa94 and the grain stored in fifteenth century BCE contexts at Kuş aklı, shows signs of agricultural neglect, for example, small grain size and large quantities of weed seeds. That small grain size and weeds were not the result of ignorance or inadequate agricultural techniques is shown by a contemporary find of high-quality emmer in Building C.95 This then suggests farming for the purpose of meeting taxation payments and a form of low-level resistance or resilience against the demands of the state, which was no doubt palpable also in the context of state-sponsored ritual commensality. PERFORMING EMPIRE AT HOME

The creation of the Hittite political centre was an ongoing process. On the one hand, this involved the strategic forgetting of older political landscapes and the rupture of habitual memories and practices96 as well as the creation of a series of new spatial orders in different parts of the central Anatolian plateau on the other. The settlement changes that we see in the northern hinterland of Hattusa can be associated with the colonisation of an agricultural hinterland by small estates either in the hands of individuals closely connected with the state or run by state institutions. To the east and south of Hattusa, new centres were created to tap more effectively into existing settlement systems and their resources. The imagination of polity, where face-to-face interactions between its members are not possible, as Benedict Anderson famously argued, requires the creation of a shared sense of community.97 In the absence of print media and widespread literacy, the exertion of sovereignty and the production of community required the creation or adaptation of a shared cultural logic, a symbolic thread capable of overcoming geographical, social, and cultural distance and interconnecting place-bound practices of agricultural production, surplus circumscription, and ritual consumption. Ritual practice and an assemblage of distinctive material symbols, I have argued here, formed the most important mechanism through which the Hittite imperial network sought to reproduce itself on the central Anatolian plateau. The adoption, adaptation, and aggrandisement of local gods and ritual practices by the Hittite state helped rationalise and weave together this new political reality. One might call these processes ‘territorial state-formation’; after all, they involved the integration of a region, formerly ruled by independent and competing smaller polities, which shared cultural connections but were rather diverse in their ethno-linguistic make-up, into a larger, and, in its aspirations at least, centrally controlled and administrated polity. The rhetoric with which 94 96

Dörfler et al. (2011, 106-110). Sensu Connerton (1989, 94-104).

95

Pasternak (1998, 164-163). 97 Anderson (2006).

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this unification was advanced, however, was in part at least distinctly imperialist in nature. This and the extended chronology of its implementation, local negotiation, and the often temporary nature of its successes all lead me to treat the central Anatolian plateau not as a territorial state from which Hittite outward expansion occurred, but as an ongoing object of its imperialist desires and practices. The development of this central region, as I will discuss in subsequent chapters, moreover, overlapped with and was transformed by encounters and processes taking shape at varying distances from the central Anatolian plateau. As a result, the spatial and ideational structure of the ‘Land of Hatti’ and Hittite hegemony over it remained in flux throughout the Late Bronze Age and especially in its nested borderlands, whose discourse and practice form the focus of the chapters in the following Part II.

PART II

ON EMPIRE’S EDGES

[But] you, [O gods], my [lords], safeguarded my father. [. . .] And because Hattusa [had been burned down(?)] by the enemy, and the enemy had taken [borderlands] of Hatti, [my father repeatedly attacked the enemy lands] and repeatedly defeated them. He took back the borderlands of Hatti which [the enemy had taken]. He [settled] them anew (with Hittites). Furthermore, [he conquered] additional foreign lands [during] his reign. Plague Prayer of Mursili II1 The state, through its policies, actions, and customs, thus performs itself as sovereign – and this is particularly visible at borders when the self-evidence of the state’s control over populations, territory, political economy, belonging, and culture is so clearly in question. Salter (2011, 66)

Over the past two centuries, the West engaged vigorously in boundarymaking. First to divvy up amongst itself a world of colonial territories and then to piece together the new spatial orders of two post-war Europes and the gradually post-colonial worlds it had dragged along into its disputes. Boundary officials across the globe took great pains in making manifest the ideal, Westphalian sovereign state by giving physical form to linear cartographic representations and their descriptions in political treaties.2 In Political Frontiers and Boundary Making, a British imperial manual, Thomas Holditch described the challenges and the materialities of this enterprise:

1

Translation by Beckman (2003a).

2

Jones (1945).

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It is the crux of all boundary-making. Any political administrator can define a paper boundary, given the necessary topographical and ethnographical data, but it falls to the demarcator to do the real spade work of boundary construction; to determine the sites for pillars and artificial boundary marks and fit the line to the conformation of the land. It is in this process that disputes usually arise, and weak elements in the treaties or agreements are apt to be discovered.3

Territoriality, much like empire itself as discussed in Chapter 1, is a cultural construct: the product of a social context that allows central institutions and other forms of human organisation to define and perform themselves4 for different audiences, and on different discursive and practical planes.5 Political institutions narrate their limits as neat and linear in the hope of separating successfully and in some cases, such as the Iron Curtain, Israel’s concrete wall, or the US-Mexican border fence, absolutely,6 two or more publics ideologically and bureaucratically. Hittite treaties and edicts too speak of ‘lands’ (KUR, utne) and chart in some detail the course of political boundaries through the assignment of settlements, mountains, rivers, and other landmarks to either side of imaginary lines: His frontiers were established as follows: In the direction of the Land of Pitassa, his frontier is Mount Hawa, the kantanna of the city Zarniya, and the city of Sanantarwa, but the kantanna of Zarniya belongs to the land of the Hulaya River, while Sanantarwa belongs to the Land of Pitassa. Previously in the direction of the Land of Pitassa, his frontier was the city of Nahhanta. My father pushed back his frontier, and on my father’s treaty tablet the sinkholes of the city of Arimmatta are made the frontier. Now I, My Majesty, have re-established the earlier frontier for him. In the direction of the Land of Pitassa, in the direction of the border district of the city of Arimmatta, his frontier is the cities of Nahhanta and Hautassa, but Nahhanta and Hautassa belong to the land of the Hulaya River. . . .7

In order to re-draw the boundary between the vassal states of Ugarit and Siyannu, a Hittite uriyannu-official in northern Syria, much like Thomas Holdich above, also ‘erected landmarks on the border between them’.8 These political ideals, modern and ancient, however, are created for metropolitan consumption and rarely map onto, succeed in, or even attempt to bend 3 4 5 6 7 8

Holdich (1916, 208). Sack (1986, 30); also Hinsley (1986, 26); Van Valkenburgh and Osborne (2012) for an archaeological discussion of territoriality. Liverani (2001b). Weizman (2007); McGuire (2013); McWilliams (2013); though only the greatest dilettantes of history hope to achieve splendid isolation in this manner. Treaty between Tudhaliya IV and Kurunta of Tarhuntassa, translation by Beckman (1999b, 114). Liverani (2001b, 48).

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the realities of borderlands to their will: the landscapes, places, and communities, where spheres of sovereign authority fizzle out, overlap, compete, and are rejected. As Kent Lightfoot and Antoinette Martinez showed in their seminal studies of the encounter of Russian traders, Christian missionaries, and natives on the colonial frontier of nineteenth century CE California,9 borders are geographically fuzzy social creations with heterogeneous and culturally ambiguous demographics.10 Early imperial polities were certainly aware of this and sought to take advantage of the varying political, legal, and social ambiguities and exceptions that such zones entailed. Rome’s various limites of fortresses and walls, rather than attempts to prevent interaction, intervened in politically liminal landscapes with the aim of structuring borderland relationships and to draw economic advantage through trade and its taxation as well as the regularised raiding for slaves, livestock, and other coveted resources.11 The following three chapters envision borderlands as the emergent and, therefore, ever-morphing outcomes of three intersecting domains of ideological and material production. The first is the invention of alterity that any imagination of a coherent political community requires. The second concerns the material production and performance of borders through displays of official violence, rituals, and monument-making, which together define the terms and rules of respective in- and exclusion.12 They interlace with a third, local arena of habitual practice, the material traditions and daily routines of borderland communities and the social and cultural networks that emerge from their encounter with the human and material agents of empire. Early imperial networks, from Bronze Age Mesopotamia13 to imperial China14 and the Andes,15 produced themselves through a discourse of geographical and cultural distinction. Such narratives of alterity were predicated on topographic and environmental differences, associated modes of subsistence and social organisation, and the potential obstacles they posed to the exertion of bureaucratised, centralising control.16 Highland people such as the Kaska of northern Anatolia that form the focus of Chapter 4, steppe nomads, and marsh or rainforest dwellers served across different cultural and historical contexts as the distant, dangerous, and uncivilised others that imperial heroes kept at bay. 9 10 11

12 13 14 16

Lightfoot and Martinez (1995); Lightfoot (2005). Donaldson and Williams (2008) for a boundary-making and international law perspective. Lattimore (1962); Whittaker (1994, 98-131). Violence, from military campaigning and crossborder raiding as well as the liberties taken with individuals of lower social rank or lacking in protection, receives often limited consideration in borderland studies (Ferguson and Whitehead 1992). Baud and van Schendel (1997). Michalowksi (1986, 145); Glatz and Casana (2016, 131-132). 15 Lattimore (1962); Oakes (2005). Lau (2013). Scott (2001, 2009); Clastres (1989).

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Boundary negotiations with more similar others – urban groupings, agricultural societies, or political peers such as those featuring in Chapter 6 – were rationalised through discourses of legality and transgression, as in the famous case of the rivalling Mesopotamian cities of Umma and Lagash, whose border conflict is detailed on the Stele of Vultures.17 Alterity and sense of self were reproduced and reinforced in metropolitan settings through storytelling, commemorative ceremonies, and re-enactment rituals. Among these are narratives of fictitious border monuments such as the Wall of the Prince in the Egyptian story of Sinuhe18 and Sulgi’s so-called Amorite wall,19 or the mock battles fought between (the always victorious) Hittite troops and the ‘men of Masa’, a west Anatolian kingdom, during the annual autumn festival.20 In the borderzone itself, imperial networks sought to instantiate themselves through actual monument construction, such as those discussed in Chapters 4 and 5, and through the conspicuous, routine performance of sovereign authority ranging from military drills and patrols to the daily ritual of sealing and unsealing a settlement’s gates. Borderland communities were shaped by the interplay of such centrally structured border practices, local cultural traditions, and the mix of cooperation and subversive liberties that only those operating at or beyond the perimeters of imperial orthodoxies and military reach could afford to take. Unsurprisingly then, historical borderland processes have proved difficult to control or predict, making zones of political liminality, where the densities of ties between people, places, and things with the capacities to reproduce specific hegemonies wear thin, crucibles of transformation not only in cultural terms but also with regards to the political structures they defined.21 In keeping with postcolonial approaches’ concern with cultural specificity and context, recent borderland studies have focused on individual zones of encounter located along the outer edges of imperial networks or the ‘final frontiers’ of colonial missions. Political entities including modern nation states,22 however, are not only enclosed by borderlands but are also dissected by multiple and geographically nested as well as temporally overlapping political and military faults. Highland Andean imperialism, for instance, produced a distinctive vertical spatiality of colonial settlements in different lowland ecological and resource niches, referred to as the ‘vertical archipelago’.23 Discontinuous territorialities are also a feature of our globalised present, where

17 20 21 22 23

18 19 Cooper (1983, 28-29, 36). Hoffmeier (2006). Postgate (1992, 43). Bryce (2002, 191). Lightfoot and Martinez (1995); Baud and van Schendel (1997, 211-212); Cusick (1998); Glatz and Matthews (2005); Parker and Rodseth (2005); Durusu-Tanrıöver (2015). Baars and Schlottmann (2014) for a discussion of Germany’s ‘phantom’ borders. Murra (1980).

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political and social communities can no longer be thought of as ‘naturally’ territorialised in specific geopolitical, national spaces.24 In the Hittite imperial network too, the logistical realities of governance, regional diversity in community organisation, land-tenure, and understandings of territoriality co-produced political spatialities more distributed and discontinuous than those conjured in official discourse.25 As a result, Hittite imperial authority found its limits not only at the outer-most geographical edges of its military or political influence. Instead, its spheres of sovereignty were shaped and constrained by multiple, spatially nested political and military faults, where processes of boundary negotiations, from resistance to accommodated coexistence, continued to unfold even as imperial warlords set their sights on more distant lands and began to perform new borders elsewhere. Attempting to draw the boundaries of the Hittite empire in absolute terms, therefore, would constitute a hopelessly anachronistic and ultimately misleading undertaking. The aim of the following three chapters is instead to examine the imagination and performance of structurally distinctive, nested, and temporally overlapping borderlands and their wider impact on the making and undoing of the Hittite imperial network. This includes, first, the Hittite empire’s geographically closest and most contested border region, which was borne from resistance against Hittite empire-making in the transitional highland-lowland landscapes of the Pontic zone from the fifteenth century BCE. The second case study examines landscape monuments as a political practice of border negotiation from the fourteenth century BCE, while a third and final scenario sketches the tensions between political imagination, natural boundary markers, and borderland practice along the Euphrates river in the thirteenth and early twelfth centuries BCE.

24

25

Mitchell (1991, 2006); Gupta and Ferguson (1992); Appadurai (1996, 46-47); A. T. Smith (2003); Antonsich (2009); Diener and Hagen (2010); MacLeavy and Harrison (2010, 10371038). See Ristvet (2008) and Casana (2013) for discussions of these phenomena in the early and later second millennium BCE Jazirah and Levant.

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THE PONTIC SHATTER ZONE

T

he rolling hills and upland plateaus through which the Kızılımak and its tributaries meander find their northern limits in the rugged mountains of the Pontic range. The landscapes that divide and bind the relative lowland environments and lifeways afforded by the central Anatolian plateau with the Pontic highlands are geologically dramatic and shaped by the North Anatolian Fault Zone, an intercontinental strike-slip fault along which the Anatolian Plate moves westwards under frequent and often severe earthquakes.1 Across the landscapes that connect the Hittite central region with the Pontic zone, we can trace, both in texts and archaeology, the emergence and development of a dynamic and structurally transformative political and cultural borderland. Here, Hittite institutional authority, northern communities under Hittite rule, and a series of loosely associated groups that are referred to collectively as Kaska (LÚ.MEŠ URUKaška) in Hittite texts, found themselves at times violently pitched against each other and coalescing in volatile, temporary alliances at others (Figure 19). The Kaska borderlands, unlike other imperial edges that were acquired through expansion, were driven into and partially developed within formerly Hittite controlled territories. The central protagonists of this process, according to Hittite sources, were groups of bellicose tribes with few signs of permanent political centralisation. On occasion, some of these Kaska appear to have joined

1

Marsh et al. (2009).

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19 North Anatolian sites and Hittite toponyms

the Hittite imperial project as herders, spies, and mercenaries. Others, or at other times the same groups, resisted, largely successfully, Hittite infrastructural power. The Kaska, thus, present textbook examples of what Pierre Clastres described as a ‘society against the state’.2 Societies against the state deliberately and actively resist both internal hierarchisation and external political control. They either emerge as a result of state formation or come into historical focus when defying imperial expansion and incorporation. Often such societies against the state occupy ecologically marginal zones such as highland regions, desert and marsh environments, or remote islands that pose too great a cost and yield too little economic return to conquer and subsequently attempt to govern.3 The Anatolian Pontic zone – mountainous, rugged and densely forested – presents one of many Eurasian highland shatter zones that throughout history have come to accommodate societies that resisted the state in eventful and mundane acts of refusal or continuous low-grade aggression, but also, and more importantly perhaps, in structural terms through alternative and autonomous daily practice (Figure 20). Imperial networks, from the Hittite to the Ottoman, struggled for millennia to establish sovereignty over, or to keep at bay, the Pontic zone’s unruly inhabitants,4 and, in the Hittite case at least, to prevent state refugees from joining them. 2 4

3 Clastres (1989). Scott (2009, 7). Matthews and Glatz (2009a); Düring and Glatz (2015b).

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20 View south towards the Pontic mountains, Cide, Kastamonu

A large variety of Hittite text-genres, annals, treaties, letters, rituals, prayers, and divination texts, all concern themselves with the Kaska. They lament Kaska raiding and plundering of northern settlements and cult centres and recount the military, administrative, and diplomatic strategies employed to establish more peaceful relations with some Kaska, to keep hostile groups out and recapture lost settlements and landscapes. No other borderzone or geopolitical situation preoccupied the Hittite imperial consciousness and imagination in quite the same manner. This official narrative of incessant strife has been eagerly perpetuated and embellished in modern histories of the Hittite empire, which cast northern Anatolia and the Kaska as Hatti’s barbarian frontier. With no written records of their own, the Kaska are, thus, among the earliest ‘people without history’,5 whose perspective and active shaping of the imperial encounter beyond aggressive confrontations receives little consideration in Hittite textbook history. Limited archaeological research in the Pontic region means that Kaska groups and their identities have been approached almost exclusively through readings of Hittite texts. The same is true for the spectrum and modes of 5

Wolf (2010 [1982]).

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interaction between Kaska, representatives of the Hittite imperial network, and the communities of central Anatolia’s northern regions, who may or may not have self-identified as Hittite, but who found themselves more tightly ensnared in its imperial network. Early studies saw in the Kaska of the Hittite texts ethnically distinct invaders that began to displace communities with central Anatolian cultural connections from the Pontic zone sometime during the mid-second millennium BCE.6 Others envisaged them as autochthonous groups, who were gradually pushed towards the economic and environmental margins of the central Anatolian plateau.7 Recent studies are more critical of the Hittite empire’s discourse of alterity and adversity, though their models of Kaska genesis, too, are problematic. Still approaching the subject from a predominantly textual perspective, the Kaska have in recent years come to be conceptualised as a purely social and, therefore, culturally indistinguishable phenomenon: sociopolitical dissidents akin to the Hapiru of Levantine sources.8 Rather than foreign invaders, the Kaska now emerge in opposition to, and are therefore the product of, Hittite practices of statehood. The geography of the borderland itself becomes the result of a deliberate exercise in imperial self-limitation in a zone of rapidly diminishing economic returns.9 There can be little doubt that the Hittite-Kaska borderlands encompassed and attracted socio-political dissidents and refugees from regions under firmer Hittite control. Indeed, this is mentioned in Hittite texts and attested in comparative contexts such as the Zomia shatter zone of South East Asia and African highland borderlands.10 However, to suggest, in the absence of systematic archaeological research or textual sources of their own, that all Kaska were culturally indistinct from ‘Hittite’ populations is an argument ex silentio that is theoretically flawed: all forms of identity are constituted through material practice. In the light of recent archaeological finds, which I will discuss below, such arguments are also empirically untenable. In other words, both old and new solutions to Kaska identity are borne of a culture historical frame of reference that lacks the conceptual tools to envisage the complex and seemingly paradoxical interplay of identity and its material constitution with the broad range and often ambiguous mix of situational behaviours common to shatter zone and imperial encounters.11 Such a rigid approach to culture also inadvertently perpetuates two common imperial expectations. The first is that cultural homogeneity is the goal or at least the inevitable consequence of political sovereignty and, second, that all regions, including borderlands and the communities within them, partake 6 9 11

7 8 von Schuler (1965); Klinger (2005, 451). Singer (2007b). Gereçek (2012, 345). 10 Zimansky (2007). Scott (2009, 328); González-Ruibal (2014, 45). e.g. Leach (1970, 1-3); Lightfoot and Martinez (1995).

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equally and enthusiastically – either originally or as a result of their inevitable acculturation – in the production of hegemonic culture (also Chapter 8). In order to tackle the Kaska question as well as to begin to formulate a more nuanced story of Hatti’s northern borderlands and its wider significance in the dialectic of imperial becoming, we must look for avenues of investigation that move beyond binary conceptualisations of cultural sameness or difference, and track more subtle as well as long-term variations in assemblages previously organised in broad-brush cultural classifications. The aim here is not to isolate different ethnic groups, but to gain a better understanding of the formation and transformation of borderland communities and the social and cultural arenas in which their relationships with the Hittite imperial network and its human and material agents were negotiated. PERFORMING HATTI’S NORTH ERN BORDER S

Imperial Discourse The purpose of Hittite historiographical texts and other royal genres dealing with the Kaska from the fifteenth to the thirteenth century BCE, after which they cease to be mentioned along with any signs of conflict in the north,12 was the discursive creation of the Hittite empire’s northern border in a manner palpable to the imperial centre and its governing elite. Much of the information provided in these texts, therefore, is to be read as literary tropes – strategic misrepresentations of the balance of power in the borderzone, or, at the very least, deliberately vague and selective accounts of events.13 Hittite official memory of the first half of the second millennium BCE was one dominated by conflict between central Anatolia and the Black Sea region. The inhabitants of the Pontic zone, however, were not explicitly characterised as different in social or cultural terms.14 Zalp(uw)a, a Middle Bronze Age political centre on the Black Sea coast and an important adversary of the central Anatolian hero of the Anitta story, appears to share significant cultural connections with the cities of the central plateau, including the worship of the same gods.15 There is also no mention of the Kaska in the letters of Old 12

13 14 15

Egyptian reports of the battle of Qadesh mention Kaska (Keshkesh) as among the Hittite troops; Kaska/Kasku are also mentioned in an inscription of Tiglath Pileser I (1114–1076 BCE), although it is unclear whether the latter refers to inhabitants of the Pontic zone (Bryce 2006, 235, 354). For detailed re-evaluations of these texts, see Gereçek (2012). Although the peculiar habits described in the story of the Queen of Kanes could be interpreted in this manner (Klinger 2010). Anitta Text, translation by Neu (1974, 13).

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Assyrian traders, who were active in the eastern portion of the Pontic zone during the twentieth and nineteenth centuries BCE, nor are they present in Old Hittite sources. This may be read either as accentuating Kaska alterity or implying cultural homeostasis. The first is embraced by those favouring a dramatic and relatively sudden rift in the socio-cultural geographies of northern Anatolia caused by a Kaska migration sometime in the middle of the second millennium BCE; the second underwrites interpretations of the Kaska as a mere social phenomenon, perhaps even an invention of the Hittite state’s propaganda machine. Old and Middle Hittite texts mark out the southernmost landscapes of the Pontic region, from the Devrez valley to potentially the Kızılırmak delta, as objects of early imperial desire and the targets of a series of measures to instantiate sovereignty over them. A rebellion at Zalp(uw)a and a subsequent Hittite military campaign are reported in the Annals of Hattusili I,16 while Nerik and other northern towns featured prominently in cult-related texts and formed part of the royal couple’s annual itinerary of cult festivities (Chapter 3).17 A series of landgrant documents dating from just before and during the reign of Telipinu include property given to loyal officials in areas located to the north of the Kızılırmak bend.18 This is the same region, where there is evidence for the establishment of agricultural colonies closely tied in material terms to the Hittite political realm (Chapter 2). The Kaska make their first appearance in Hittite textual sources in the later fifteenth century BCE. Right from the start, they are portrayed as hostile assailants of territories to the east and north of Hattusa.19 The Annals of Tudhaliya I/II recount how the Kaska had invaded Hittite territory while the king was away on campaign in western Turkey and the repeated military retaliations in often difficult and mountainous terrain that followed: While I Tudhaliya, the Great King, was in the country Assuwa, in order to fight, Kaska troops in my back began hostilities and entered the Land of Hatti and destroyed the Land. As soon as I, Tudhaliya, Great King, arrived at Hattusa, the troops of the enemy fled; so I pursued him [the enemy] and went into the Kaska Land in order to fight. The whole Kaska Land engaged and set up camp opposite me in Tiwara. Behind the camp, I took the forest, in front of him however the river flows. However, I, Tudhaliya, Great King, went against him in battle and the Gods gave him to me, the Sungod of Arinna, the protector of Hatti, Zababa, Istar, the Moon God, Lelwani, and I attacked the Kaska camp. Then I went also into the countries, and which mountains and fortresses were difficult, 16 18 19

17 Bryce (2009, 785-786). Klinger (2009). Balkan (1973); Wilhelm (2005); Rüster and Wilhelm (2012, 58): several landgrant documents were also issued in northern towns, especially at Hanhana. Klinger (2005); although empire period accounts imply an earlier start of the conflict.

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I struck them. In the year after, however, I went again, in order to fight, and the Gods ran ahead of me and I struck the Land of the Kaska.20

A generation later, during the reign of Arnuwanda I and his successors, Hittite sources imply the loss of large swaths of territory in the north and east. A lengthy prayer of Arnuwanda and Asmunikal offers a description of Kaska raiding and ransacking at this time, which is, however, also formulaic and, thus, unlikely to be an accurate account of historic events: . . . the temples which you, O gods, had in these lands, the Kaska-men have destroyed and they have smashed your images, O gods. They plundered silver and gold, rhyta and cups of silver, gold and copper, your objects of bronze, and your garments, and they divided them up among themselves. They divided up the priests, the holy priests, the priestesses, the anointed ones, the musicians, the singers, the cooks, the bakers, the ploughmen, and the gardeners, and they made them their servants. They divided up your cattle and your sheep; they shared your fallow lands, the source of the offering bread, and the vineyards, the source of the libations, and the Kaska-men took them for themselves. . . . [We shall keep] calling out to you the names of the innocent lands – Kastama, Taggasta, Serissa, Tastaressa, Takkupsa, Kamama, Zalpuwa, Nerik.21

Royal annals of the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE report nearannual military campaigns in the north, invariably the result of Kaska transgressions that forced the hand of the Hittite king to engage in military action.22 A major concern was the recapture of captives, stolen property, as well as land and settlements. Mursili II, for instance, reports: . . . the civilian captives, cattle, sheep and go[ods] which [the enemy held], he [Suppiluliuma I] took away from him and ga[ve] them back [to the Hittites].23

Hittite rulers of the Empire Period also claim to have engaged in extensive programmes to rebuild, fortify, and settle the northern borderlands, mostly with deportees, and to return emptied landscapes to their preceding state of agricultural productivity: . . . while the enemy of the land of Durmitta began to raid [T]uhuppiya. [. . .] the land of Ippassana, however, was uninhabited, [so the enemy 20 21 22 23

Annals of Tudhaliya I/II, translation in German by Carruba (1977, 161), author’s translation into English. Prayer of Arnuwanda and Asmunikal, translation by Singer (2002, 40-43). Kaska military encounters are mentioned in the Annals of Tudhaliya I/II, the Annals of Arnuwanda I, the Deeds of Suppiluliuma I, the Annals of Mursili II and the Apology of Hattusili III. Deeds of Suppiluliuma I, translation by Hoffner (2003b, 188).

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troops] penetrated as far as the land of Suwadara. Both the cities of [Hakpis] and Istahara, however, escaped [but since the land] was cut off, they did not till their fields for ten years.24

Hattusili III also claims to have restored the cult of the city of Nerik, whose loss is lamented by Arnuwanda and Asmunikal: The city of Nerik was like a stone (or: a shell) in the sea, it was under deep water. I brought the city of Nerik up like a stone out of deep water. I picked it up for the sake of the Stormgod of Nerik, your son. I resettled the land of Nerik and I rebuilt the city of Nerik.25

Contrary to both Arnuwanda/Asmunikal’s and Hattusili’s accounts, however, Hittite ritual, administrative and historiographical texts suggest that northern cults continued to be practiced at Nerik and other ritual centres after their alleged loss to the Kaska.26 Archaeological evidence from Oymaa˘gaç Höyük, the most likely candidate for the city of Nerik, also suggests continuity in cult depositions even during phases with limited architectural evidence (see below). Nerik was one of the locales where celebrations of the Hittite purulli-festival were held. The festival involved the enactment of the myth of Illuyanka, the serpent, who is defeated by the weathergod with human help, and whose story and performance were important to the reproduction of Hittite sovereign legitimacy. Both Nerik’s alleged loss to the Kaska enemy and its long-awaited restoration, thus, conferred significant ideological and political capital on Hittite empire-builders. On the one hand, the creation of a dangerous northern frontier provided rulers of the fifteenth century BCE with a barbarous other against which could be contrasted and, as a result, consolidated an emergent Hittite political community. On the other, it helped to make a legitimate great king of a usurper in the thirteenth century BCE. Other text genres shed a more nuanced light on specific Hittite border strategies and the ambiguities they produced. In the fifteenth and fourteenth centuries BCE, Hittite attention was focused primarily on the eastern Land of Hatti and the Upper Land.27 This part of the Kaska borderland had become the administrative prerogative of the BĒL MADGALTI, the frontier governor, whose responsibilities were set out in the Instructions for Borderguards and closely supervised from Hattusa through regular correspondence.28 The BĒL MADGALTI’s duties included, among others, the raising and deployment of

24 25 27 28

Apology of Hattusili, translation by van den Hout (2003). 26 Apology of Hattusili, translation by van den Hout (2003). Klinger (2009). Gereçek (2012). This is especially well documented in the archives at Tapikka, the site of Maş at Höyük, see Alp (1991) and Hoffner (2009).

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troops, the staffing and maintenance of watchtowers, and the scouting of Hittite territory for enemies.29 The daily performance of these duties presents part of the regularised enactment of the imperial frontier, whose official discourse centred on keeping the Kaska out and local populations safe and locked into Hatti’s imperial network. A complementary political measure, aimed at curbing the frequency of Kaska border transgressions, consisted of a series of treaties, which were concluded between agents of the Hittite state and Kaska representatives.30 These accords also involved a performative element of near-submission in the form of the swearing of oaths on the part of the Kaska. They had to agree to the supply of troops or labour, the provision of hostages, and the extradition of fugitives of the Hittite state. The thus pacified Kaska were to be deployed to fight other hostile Kaska and were expected to report on their movements as well as to herd and protect Hittite flocks. In return, they were granted special grazing rights in Hittite-controlled parts of the borderzone. The treaties, however, proved ultimately ineffective in the absence of permanent Kaska leadership, which could be held accountable by Hittite officials and which possessed the authority to compel compliance from their communities. Later texts, mainly annal reports of military campaigns, suggest the escalation of the Hittite-Kaska conflict and the widening of the geographical scope of borderland hostilities westwards in the thirteenth century BCE. Though modes of engagement underwent a series of transformations in the course of the Hittite-Kaska conflict, Hittite ideological boundary maintenance remained remarkably consistent in its insistence on Kaska alterity. This includes the routine portrayal of the Kaska as the aggressor or transgressor in prayers, campaign reports, and treaties as well as the maintenance of clear distinctions between the two interacting groups. Still in the thirteenth century BCE, two centuries into the start of recorded hostilities and interactions, Hattusili III, despite relying on Kaska support in his usurpation of the Hittite throne, drew a very clear distinction between Hittites and Kaska in his decree for the town of Tiliura. Included in this decree were a number of measures aimed to regulate Hittite-Kaska interactions and restrict Kaska access to the town.31 A Kaska man, even when married to a woman from the town, was not allowed to spend the night inside the city walls; no Kaska slaves or even Kaska charioteers associated with local officials were allowed to enter the city. Kaska legal matters were to be adjudicated outside the town, and local farmers and herders were not permitted to call upon the Kaska.32

29 30 31

Miller (2013); HKM 17 and HKM 46, translation by Hoffner (2009, 124, 174). Translations by von Schuler (1965, 109-141); Klinger (2005); Gereçek (2012). 32 Tiliura Decree, translation by von Schuler (1965, 45-48). von Schuler (1965, 146-147).

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The markers of Kaska otherness are less easily identified in the written sources. Most clearly accentuated are Kaska socio-political organisation and divergent subsistence practices. Hittite sources present Kaska socio-political organisation as clearly different from their own, the former lacking for the most part a form of centralised leadership approximate to a royal sovereign. At least one exception to this general pattern is mentioned by Mursili II in his annals, which may suggest the temporary centralisation of decision making among the Kaska as a response to intensified Hittite contact and conflict: Pihhuniya, Mursili reports, ‘. . . did not rule in the Kaskan manner. But suddenly, where in the Kaskan town the rule of a single man was not (customary), Pihhuniya ruled in the manner of a king’.33 In a prayer to the sun-goddess Arinna, Mursili characterised the Kaska as “swineherds and weavers of linen.”34 Traditionally, this is read as a derogatory ethnic slight,35 while Ilgi Gereçek recently suggested that the passage merely recounts the tasks of allied Kaska in the service of the Hittite state cult.36 Elsewhere, Roger Matthews and I have interpreted the text as a deliberate, though not necessarily derogatory, underscoring of aspects of Kaska subsistence practice that differed from their Hittite contemporaries in the light of the Pontic region’s environmental predisposition towards, as well as famed history for, both flax production and pig rearing, while other aspects of the Kaska economy were similar to those of central Anatolia’s inhabitants.37 The Hittite state claims to have materialised this northern border through the fortification of border settlements and the construction of watchtowers as well as the demographic bolstering of the borderzone through deportee resettlements. The following brief overview of the results of surveys and excavations in the Pontic zone serves to demarcate in broad terms the spatial framework of Hittite border production and to pinpoint key arenas of borderland interactions.

Material Patterns One of the official borders of the Hittite empire was located c. 150 km northwest of Hattusa. It takes the form of a string of six heavily fortified sites at c. 15 to 25 km distances along the Devrez Çay in Karabük and Çankırı provinces, whose surface collections show close affinities with Late Bronze Age central Anatolian ceramic traditions.38 The geographical location of the sites near strategic trans-regional east-west corridors of movement and their wider 33 34 36 38

Annals of Mursili II, translation by Goetze (1933). 35 Mursili’s Prayer to Arinna, translation by Singer (2002, 52-53). E.g. Singer (2002, 49). 37 Gereçek (2012, 41-42). Glatz and Matthews (2005, 57-58, 95). Glatz, Matthews, and Schachner (2009).

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21 Dumanlı Kale (modified after Glatz, Matthews, and Schachner 2009; figs 4.8 and 4.9; courtesy of Roger Matthews)

settlement context sketch out a militarised borderzone comparable to what Sonia Alconini in her study of the Inka empire described as a ‘soft military perimeter’: self-contained outposts in strategic locations to ward off sporadic threats from ‘fragmented nuisance groups’.39 The linear arrangement of the fortified sites, the scarcity of Late Bronze Age sites to their north, and a relatively dense settlement landscape to the south, moreover, provide a robust material foundation for the identification of this region as one of the central theatres of the Hittite-Kaska encounter.40 The most impressive of the fortified sites is Dumanlı Kale, which is perched atop a naturally protected spur overlooking the confluence of the Devrez Çay with a smaller tributary near the modern village of Orta in Çankırı province. Dumanlı Kale is protected by stonewalls which measure c. 150 m in length and stand in places up to 5 m in height. The site measures about 3 ha intramural and is internally dissected by stone architectural elements (Figure 21).41 The ceramic finds from the site are recognisably north-central Anatolian in style (see Chapter 8 for a detailed discussion) and date to the Middle and Late Bronze Ages. By contrast, the construction technique of the outer fortification wall is not of the casemate type characteristic of Hittite centres. Instead, its 39 40

41

Alconini (2005, 140-141). The precise geography of this borderzone forms part of the ongoing honing of Hittite historical geography. Traditionally, the entire central Anatolian Black Sea region has been imagined as the stage for the Hittite-Kaska drama (most recently Corti 2017). This follows the close match between Strabo’s (7.3.40) Blaënï and Domanitis with the northernmost Hittite provinces of Pala and Tumana and the identification of the Dahara river with the Gökırmak, which would place much of the conflict described in the texts as far north as central Kastamonu and southern Sinop (e.g. Güterbock 1961; Houwink ten Cate 1967). A number of philologists, however, have brought the main contact zone closer to the Hittite central region through the equation of the Dahara river with the Devrez Çay, located to the south of the Ilgaz mountains (Forlanini 1977; Forlanini and Marazzi 1986). Glatz, Matthews, and Schachner (2009, 118; figs. 4.7-4.11).

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22 View north towards Salman Höyük East and West and the Ilgaz range

segmented façade, which is built from large, unworked blocks of local basalt, compares best with the fortifications of the roughly contemporary Troy VI.42 An at least partially contemporary, unfortified settlement was located only 500 m from Dumanlı Kale. We see a similar pattern emerge a few kilometres to the north-east near the town of Ilgaz, where two imposing sites, Salman Höyük East and West, control the crossroads between a major east-west communication corridor and the road leading up into the Ilgaz massif towards Kastamonu and ultimately the Black Sea (Figure 22). Salman West is a low mound, whose morphology and traces of in situ masonry suggest a well-fortified site of Late Bronze Age date. The multi-period Salman East provides evidence for the importance of this location from the Early Bronze Age to the Byzantine period.43 Of the sixteen recorded höyük sites in Paphlagonia, only two show signs of Late Bronze Age fortifications.44 This suggests a deliberate exclusion of traditional centres, whose populations would have been characterised if not by mixed cultural traditions then certainly by fluid political allegiances, from the 42 44

43 Matthews (2010). Glatz, Matthews, and Schachner (2009, 117-118; figs. 4.3-4.6). PS016, PS050, PS057, PS122, PS218, Çivi 05S01 (Glatz, Matthews, and Schachner 2009; table 4.2; fig. 4.1).

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production of this imperial perimeter. At the same time, the placement of some of the fortified sites close to traditional settlement sites would have drawn their communities into very immediate visual, material, and personal interactions with both the human and material agents of the Hittite imperial network, reinforcing, or attempting to reinforce, desired behaviours. To the north of the Devrez-Kızılırmak line, recognisable Late Bronze Age material culture, and especially pottery, diminishes rapidly. Thus far, no sites with ceramic assemblages typical of Hittite centres have been recorded in Samsun, Sinop, large parts of Amasya, and, with one exception, in Kastamonu province.45 Central Kastamonu, though numbers also declined dramatically from the Middle Bronze Age, yielded a small scatter of settlement sites dating primarily to the early part of the Late Bronze Age ceramic sequence, from the later seventeenth to early sixteenth century BCE. Pottery typical of the middle part of the sequence, from the sixteenth to fifteenth century, is found in small quantities at six sites in the more open inland valleys of the region.46 Thus far, north-central Anatolian pottery has been reported from only one coastal location, a small natural hill in Okçular valley, northern Kastamonu, whose locally produced assemblage of invertedrim and carinated bowls and a funnel-necked jar also falls roughly into the fifteenth century BCE.47 Tentatively, then, we might imagine Hittite agricultural colonies reaching as far as central Kastamonu in the sixteenth and fifteenth centuries BCE, while the location and mixed material at Okçular points towards a place of encounter, perhaps associated with Black Sea trade. With the exception of several metal vessels found as part of a hoard at Kınık, which I will discuss in more detail below, however, there is currently no archaeological evidence for a north-central Anatolian presence north of the Devrez-Kızılırmak line during the Hittite Empire Period. To the south of the perimeter of fortified strongholds along the Devrez Çay, surface survey located over twenty further second millennium BCE sites, including the regional centre of Maltepe. Especially the larger settlements show signs of continued occupation from the Middle to the Late Bronze Age, indexing a strong local settlement tradition and sense of place among the region’s inhabitants. In stark contrast to the rest of northern Anatolia and most other parts of the Near East, the number of settlement sites increased by almost 40 percent, rising from fourteen in the Middle Bronze Age to twenty settlements dating to the sixteenth to the fifteenth centuries BCE. Aggregate settlement area increased by about one third in the later period. This increase is carried by small settlements of between one to two hectares in size,48 which, 45 46 48

For a detailed summary and bibliography, see Glatz (2017). 47 Kuzucuo˘glu et al. (1997, 288). Glatz (2015a, 2015b). Matthews and Glatz (2009c, 241; fig. 8.3).

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like I˙nandıktepe, likely present Hittite agricultural estates; royal gifts to bring the region under more intensive Hittite control. As discussed in Chapter 2, ˙Inandıktepe, along with other, similar estates north of Hattusa, was destroyed and abandoned sometime in the first half of the Late Bronze Age. Settlement numbers shrink to nine sites during the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE, the period of heightened Kaska conflict. East along the Devrez-Kızılırmak line, regional data is less detailed, but excavations at the site of Oymaa˘gaç Höyük49 have begun to shed increasing light on the north-eastern stretch of the Hittite-Kaska borderlands. Here, two consecutive monumental structures, whose scale and shape are characteristic of Hittite temple architecture, not only present the northern-most examples of such structures, but in concert with the site’s landscape location and overall morphology foreshadow by a century or so the creation of other, similar regional centres in the Upper Land. Oymaa˘gaç Höyük is located a few kilometres north of the modern town of Vezirköprü and is situated amidst a large, fertile plain (Figure 23). It controls a Kızılırmak crossing and communication route leading northwards to the Gökırmak confluence and towards the Black Sea coast.50 The site was first recorded by Bahadır Alkım, and soon after Ali Dinçol and Jak Yakar suggested the, by now commonly accepted, identification of the site with the Hittite cult centre of Nerik.51 Oymaa˘gaç consists of a c. 2 ha central settlement, which was built on the slopes of a natural hill. The existence of a lower town is as yet uncertain.52 Geophysical prospections identified the outlines of two monumental structures, similar to the temples at Hattusa and Kuş aklı, on the summit of the central hill as well as the remains of a casemate fortification wall. Excavations have since begun to unearth the remains of the two monumental structures, which are separated by a 50 cm thick destruction horizon. The earliest second millennium BCE features excavated to date include a silo and the remnants of a burnt mudbrick structure dating to the Middle to Late Bronze Age transition. The Oymaa˘gaç silo is the earliest attested largescale storage facility of this type in Anatolia, although its morphology does not appear to have formed the blueprint for later silo structures at Hattusa and other Hittite centres.53 Finds of human remains in contemporary contexts may indicate a violent end to this first Late Bronze Age phase of activity at the site. 49 51

52 53

50 Czichon (2009); Czichon et al. (2012). Czichon, Flender, and Klinger (2006). Yakar and Dinçol (1974). This identification finds broad consensus today: see e.g. Forlanini (1977, 201); Czichon and Klinger (2005). Alkım (1973 64-65) and Yakar (1980, 82) first reported a monumental postern gate. Systematic archaeological work began in 2005 under the aegis of the Oymaa˘gaç-Nerik-Forschungsprojekt: Czichon and Klinger (2005); Czichon et al. (2012); Czichon et al. (2016). Hnila in Czichon et al. (2016, 15). With a possible exception at Alacahöyük, see Richter in Czichon et al. (2016, 27).

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23 Plan of two consecutive temple structures, gate, underground passage, and spring chamber at Oymaa˘gaç Höyük (modified after Czichon et al. 2019; Abb. 3; courtesy of the Oymaa˘gaç-Nerik Project)

The first monumental structure, together with the fortification wall, gate, and postern passage – each a hallmark of Hittite urbanism – dates to the seventeenth to sixteenth centuries BCE. This phase came to an end in a conflagration sometime in the fifteenth or fourteenth century BCE, followed by a c. 150-year period of very minor activity at the site. A series of what the excavators call ‘cult depositions’, ceramic assemblages consisting of mostly bowls and miniature vessels, may be contemporary with the older monumental structure or present a continuity in cult practice in the ruined

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edifice.54 The subsequent structure, whose inventory of characteristic bullfigurines and miniature cups leaves little doubt about its ritual function, dates to the mid-late thirteenth century BCE. It too fell victim to a massive conflagration, the source of which is as yet uncertain.55 Unlike in Çankırı province above, extensive site reconnaissance in the vicinity of Oymaa˘gaç revealed neither Middle nor Late Bronze Age sites.56 Late Bronze Age settlements are also absent across Samsun and Sinop provinces, while sites become more numerous in Amasya.57 Similar to the Devrez river defences, a string of settlements with recognisable Late Bronze Age north-central Anatolian pottery lines the Çekerek-Yeş ilırmak confluence. The southern-most extension of this line of sites is Maş at Höyük, the Hittite border town of Tapikka discussed in detail in Chapter 2. To the west of this line, numerous Late Bronze Age settlements dot the landscapes of the Upper Land and the eastern Land of Hatti. No sites with ceramic traditions comparable to those of Hittite centres were found north of the Kelkit river.58 Surveys in Bayburt, Erzurum, and Erzincan provinces have noted a sharp drop in site numbers from the Early and Middle Bronze Ages to the Late Bronze Age, which was characterised by the production and use of the so-called Küme-B-1 handmade tradition.59 Late Bronze Age levels at Sos Höyük consist of pits and fire installations for pottery or lime production,60 as well as butchering and food preparation,61 but show no signs of permanent occupation. A similar picture has emerged at the site of Pulur,62 while the appearance of large-scale burial displays63 may point to a relative degree of mobility among eastern Anatolia’s Late Bronze Age inhabitants. Hittite sources refer to these eastern communities as Azzi and Hayasa and repeatedly differentiate themselves from them on the basis of sexual norms and marriage practices.64 Like the Kaska, the Azzi and Hayasa are said to have held sway over several formidably fortified strongholds,65 from whence they threatened the

54 55 56 57 58 59

60 62 65

Hnila in Czichon et al. (2016, 15). A text fragment from the time of Suppiluliuma II; see Klinger in Czichon et al. (2016, 56). Czichon, Flender, and Klinger (2006). For summaries, see Dönmez (2002); Dönmez and Yurtsever Beyazıt (2008). E.g. Yakar (1992). Güneri (1988); Sagona (1999); Sagona and Sagona (2001); Sagona and Sagona (2004, 239241); Ceylan (2005); Yakar (1992, 512-513) proposed an ethnic identification of the Küme-B1 pottery with the Azzi-Hayasa. Reasons for this identification are the proposed similarities between the north-central Anatolian tradition and the handmade Küme-B ware, which is found at sites between Erzurum and Hasankale, including Sos Höyük and Eskiş ehir Tepe. 61 Sagona et al. (1997, 183); Sagona (2012, 256). Sagona (1999, 153). 63 64 Sagona (1999, 153). Also Yakar (1992, 511). Beckman (1999b, 31-32). Ura, Dukkama, and Arpisa, the latter of which is described as located in the sea (or another body of water) in the Annals of Mursili II, translation by Goetze (1933, 132-137).

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Hittite Upper Land and other areas under Hittite control from at least the fifteenth to the later fourteenth century BCE.66 BORDERLAND PRACTICE AND IDENTITY

Hittite sources clearly demonstrate that Hittite-Kaska encounters were frequent and regular and that they ranged from the short-term movement of people, livestock, and things in the context of warfare and raiding to more peaceful forms of social and economic exchange. Competition over pastures and livestock appears to have been a key motivator for both hostile border transgressions and cooperation. Hittite treaties offered grazing rights to pacified Kaska groups in Hittite-held parts of the borderzone. Some Kaska were permitted to conduct trade with Hittite towns, albeit in a highly regulated manner. There is, however, no specific information on what was being traded. A hint of Hittite interest in Kaska military equipment comes from an inventory text mentioning Kaska quivers.67 More hypothetically, we might infer from Mursili II’s plague prayer that flaxseed or oil and linen and perhaps also pigs were among the goods exchanged. Pigs did not form an important component of the central Anatolian diet, but were sacrificed in Hittite rituals.68 Both Middle and Late Bronze Age Anatolian textile industries centred on wool and woollen textiles.69 Flax seeds are rare at Late Bronze Age sites,70 while texts mention the importation of linen garments into the Hittite realm.71 Black Sea marine resources, such as the shrimps mentioned in Old Assyrian texts,72 and metals from the ore-rich Pontic mountains may also have been among the goods moving southwards. There is as yet no conclusive archaeological evidence for mining at the Küre copper mines in Kastamonu, although metalworking installations are attested at late third to early second millennium BCE sites nearby at Kınık73 and at Boyabat-Kovuklukaya in the Sinop hinterland.74 Lead isotope analyses of artefacts from central and west Anatolian sites also point to the export of Küre copper during the Bronze Age and a second millennium BCE exploitation of copper deposits in the ÇorumMerzifon region.75 Weaponry and metal drinking paraphernalia would seem to be among the few imperial things appreciated by Pontic shatter zone dwellers. The finds contexts of these artefacts, however, make it difficult to draw conclusions about their respective biographies. A small bronze sword comes from 66 68 71 72 73

67 Klengel (1999, 188). Lorenz and Schrakamp (2011, 138); also Gereçek (2012). 69 70 Collins (2006). E.g. Michel (2014). Riehl and Nesbitt (2003, 301-307). Baccelli, Bellucci, and Vigo (2015); a trend already begun in the Middle Bronze Age. Old Assyrian texts mention the transport of lapis lazuli and shrimps to and from trade locations on the central plateau (Dercksen 2001, 59-60; Gelb 1935, Aliş ar Texts 5 and 6; kt n/k 10:5). 74 75 Çınaro˘glu and Genç (2004a; 2005). Dönmez (2004). Sayre et al. (2001).

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Mızrak/Buz Ma˘garası in Pınarbaş ı in northern Kastamonu.76 The sword is generally dated to the fifteenth century BCE based on similarities with a sword from Hattusa, which carries an inscription mentioning Tudhaliya I/II.77 Some objects, which were discovered as part of an eclectic hoard of bronze vessels, figurines, and instruments at Kınık 24 Vessels from the Kınık metal hoard on display in (Figure 24), can be dated with certainty Kastamonu Museum to the Late Bronze Age. Among these is a silver bowl with an engraved Luwian hieroglyphic inscription, which can be dated to the fourteenth to thirteenth century BCE on palaeographic grounds.78 The decorative hunting scene on a second bowl also fits well into the Late Bronze Age north-central Anatolian iconographic tradition, as does a large, bull-headed drinking vessel.79 Other finds, including a small metal warrior figurine, however, appear to be much later in date, putting into question the integrity of the hoard and when and how it came to be deposited. There is as yet no convincing archaeological evidence for a Late Bronze Age occupation at Kınık. Excavations following the discovery of the hoard revealed an Early Bronze Age metalworking area, including crucibles and slag as well as evidence for pottery production and storage. A wall feature was dated to the early second millennium BCE and an Iron Age occupation level was also identified by the excavators.80 Recently published ceramic illustrations confirm a primarily Early Bronze and Iron Age dating of these deposits, with sparse indications of an early second millennium BCE presence.81 People and the labour power they provide were central to the functioning of early political networks. Borderlands offer opportunities both to acquire new subjects and to lose old ones. Kaska prisoners of war, both men and women, are mentioned in Hittite correspondence along with their ransom sums. A Maş at text refers to Kaska prisoners as ‘blind men’ (LÚ.MEŠ IGI.NU.GÁL), who were put to work in Hittite mills.82 Kaska treaties also talk of the provision of hostages, possibly the children of Kaska leaders,83 while

76 77

78 80 82

Harris (1992, 35, 41; 1993, 25). Conventionally, the Bo˘gazköy sword is thought to be of Mycenaean or west Anatolian origin (Ünal 1999). There is, however, no convincing need to identify either sword as Mycenaean in origin (Taracha 2003). 79 Hawkins (1993a). Emre and Çınaro˘glu (1993). 81 Gates (1997); Bilgen (1999); Çınaro˘glu and Genç (2004a; 2005). Genç (2008). 83 HKM 58 and 59, translation by Hoffner (2009, 208). Gereçek (2012, 88).

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another text mentions refugee craftspeople.84 The Kaska too held Hittite hostages and harboured fugitives of the state. Such fugitives were both a common occurrence and a major concern for early states. The Instruction for Borderguards, for instance, sets out procedures for how to deal with the fields of a runaway land tenant.85 A text from Maş at Höyük talks of missing servants,86 while another reports the defection of a certain Marruwa, the ruler of the formerly Hittite-controlled city Himmuwa,87 and his recapture by the Hittite military.88 Hittite vassal and parity treaties, including those concluded with the Kaska, also contained clauses for the treatment and return of such fugitives.89 From these processes, shifting and overlapping sovereignties had begun to emerge, whose discontinuous spatialities are sketched out by Mursili II in the Deeds of Suppiluliuma: And because all Kaska-land was at peace, some of the Hittite people had inns behind Kaska towns, (while) some had again gone to the town.90

To this already fluid demographic situation were added, from the fifteenth century BCE, thousands of civilian captives of war (NAM.RA.MEŠ), deported from elsewhere in Anatolia and Syria in the wake of Hittite military campaigns. NAM.RA.MEŠ were settled, according to Hittite annal texts, in the central region as agricultural workers as well as in border settlements and landscapes described as empty because of the Kaska conflict.91 In light of this demographic fluidity, the question poses itself again whether the Kaska label defined a distinct, self-recognising community or presents merely an imperial fabrication, a catchall for those it found itself in frequent interactions with but that remained stubbornly beyond effective control. Literacy, its absence or the absence of indigenous written documents, among the vast majority of peoples in the ancient world has lent universality and permanence to the labels with which imperial powers described their enemies and their colonised: the Gutians of early Mesopotamia’s encounter with the Zagros, the Lybian desert dwellers on Egypt’s western edges, the Miao highlanders of imperial China, and the barbaroi of the Classical Greek world.92

84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92

CTH 138.2.A: KUB 31.105, translation by (Gereçek 2012). CTH 261.I. paragraph 47, translation by Miller (2013, 231). HKM 74, translation by Hoffner (2009, 235). The Prayer of Arnuwanda and Asmunikal lists Himmuwa among the towns captured by the Kaska (Singer 2002). HKM 17, translation by Hoffner (2009, 119). Snell (2001) for a wider Near Eastern perspective; for Hittite treaties and diplomatic texts, see Beckman (1999b). Hoffner (2003b, 189). One Maş at Letter (HKM 10) mentions 300 re-constituted families of captives to be resettled in a town whose previous inhabitants had been removed (Hoffner 2009, 112–113). Poo (2005, 37-67).

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At the same time, however, such labelling and the treatment accorded to those defined in this manner spur self-recognition and group consolidation.93 Thus, I would argue, the Kaska label captured, by this name or another, a diversifying but self-recognising community or communities, whose identity became more explicitly associated with an opposition to the Hittite imperial network and its agents over the course of two centuries of conflict and interaction. Social and cultural identities, however, are not principally ideational but fundamentally constructed through material things and ways of doing. As such, Kaska communities must be expected to distinguish themselves culturally from those who identified and were recognised by others as Hittite, even if deliberate identity signalling would have been situational as well as embedded within longer-term processes of bi- or multi-lateral cultural exchanges and ongoing – and thus ever morphing – strategic mimeses and less conscious blending of practices. Ethnographic observations suggest that borderland dwellers can adopt radically different cultural identities, complete with code-switching and subsistence practices, depending on the social situations they find themselves in and the socio-economic advantages to be gained.94 However, although dress, mannerisms, and even language can be manipulated in such a manner, other aspects of culturally embedded ways of doing are less easily and deliberately changed as they are enabled and constrained in non-arbitrary, material ways.95 Cycles of cultural and social reproduction rely on the teaching and learning of particular ways of doing, often through non-discursive, embodied experiences as well as their discursive rationalisations in culture-specific frameworks of meaning. Resulting communities of material practice96 have been shown to share strong social identities and specific technological styles that persist even if the form or style of artefacts changes or is adopted from elsewhere (see also Chapter 8). If we take a longer-term perspective, evidence for such distinctive communities of practice in the Pontic zone can be traced in settlement preferences and architectural styles as well as ceramic traditions from at least the third millennium BCE onwards. These point to micro-regional variability on the one hand and long-lived technological and stylistic traditions that defy conventional chronological frameworks on the other. Topographically and ecologically, we can divide the Central Turkish Black Sea region into two broad zones: the hilly inland landscapes and plains to the south of the Devrez-Kızılırmak line, which provide very similar opportunities for settlement and agricultural intensification to the Hittite central region, and 93 95 96

94 Weik (2014, 296). Leach (1970). Jones (1997); Webmoor (2007); Robb (2010); Fowler (2013). Lave and Wenger (1991); Wenger (1998).

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25 Okçular Kale in the Cide district of Kastamonu (modified after Glatz 2015a; figs. 7.1 and 7.5)

the rugged and densely forested mountain landscapes to the north that lack extensive agricultural land. Early and Middle Bronze Age höyükler and associated cemeteries concentrate in the inland landscapes of Eskiş ehir,97 Karabük, Çankırı,98 and Amasya as well as the coastal plains of Samsun province.99 Bronze Age sites diminish rapidly to the north and into the more mountainous and forested regions of Kastamonu and Sinop. Here, true höyük sites are rare, and they are entirely absent in much of the coastal western and central parts of the Pontic.100 Flat Bronze Age sites are often located on top of, or are associated with, natural hills or show a preference for terraces overlooking valley floors.101 The site of Kınık, for instance, was located on a natural hill;102 the roughly contemporary site of Boyabat-Kovuklukaya was located on top of a natural rock outcrop.103 Likewise, the only evidence for a Late Bronze Age presence along the Black Sea coast so far comes from a surface scatter of northcentral Anatolian-style pottery on a natural hill near the rock outcrop of Okçular Kale in the Cide district of Kastamonu (Figure 25).104 97 100 101 103

98 99 Efe (1997). Burney (1956); Matthews and Glatz (2009a). Dönmez (2002). Marro, Özdo˘gan, and Tibet (1996, 273); Glatz, Düring, and Wilkinson (2015); Alex Bauer pers. com. December 2012. 102 Marro, Özdo˘gan, and Tibet (1996, 273, 279). Çınaro˘glu and Genç (2004a; 2005). 104 Dönmez (2004, 36-37). Glatz (2015a).

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It is likely that some höyükler have fallen victim to taphonomic processes in what are highly active mountain landscapes.105 The most convincing explanations for their general scarcity in the northern parts of the Black Sea region, however, are the settlement and architectural traditions of local prehistoric and Bronze Age communities. Some of these hills and rock outcrops may look deceptively like höyükler, and, thus, perhaps represent deliberate references to this iconic form of settlement. Such hilltop sites, however, usually lack the long-term occupation or the use of mudbrick architecture of mounded sites and are therefore, and significantly, the products of different communities of settlement practice. The latter diverge in preferences, knowledge, and skills with regards to building materials and construction methods as well as sense of place and permanence, community organisation, and, potentially, subsistence practices (Chapter 2). Evidence from excavated late third to early second millennium BCE sites confirm the use of a diverse range of construction methods including plastered timber in the cave of Yassıkaya106 and dry-stone slabs at BoyabatKovuklukaya.107 Early Bronze Age houses at Oymaa˘gaç Höyük also point to a wider Pontic tradition of dry-stone domestic architecture.108 The Early Bronze Age fortified structure at Ahlatlıbel was built of local limestone,109 while seven sites with Early Bronze Age occupation in Çankırı province were also protected by dry-stone fortification walls.110 The monumental basalt fortifications at Dumanlı Kale, thus, appear to suggest the long-term continuity of a local cultural tradition, blended with influences from western Anatolia.111 Tentative evidence for cultural continuity of Early Bronze Age ceramic traditions or, in the very least, the existence of distinctive, non-Hittite, Late Bronze Age traditions comes from the sixteenth to fifteenth century BCE Quadratgebäude located in the Upper City of Hattusa, where a handmade spouted jug can be compared to Early Bronze Age pottery types from northwestern Anatolia.112 Other finds from the same context include bronze weapons as well as oyster and marine snail shells.113 Hermann Genz also suggested that the handmade vessels found in the Early Iron Age (1200/1180–800 BCE) village on Büyükkaya at Bo˘gazköy and other central Anatolian sites appear to resonate with Early Bronze Age traditions.114 Recent finds from Oymaa˘gaç Höyük corroborate the existence of localised Late Bronze Age cultural traditions. The pottery in question comes from 105 107 108 109 110 111 114

106 Düring and Glatz (2015a). Efe (2004, 28). Efe (2004); Dönmez (2004, 37; figs. 4-8). Although mud-brick is also attested; see Hnila in Czichon et al. (2016). Düring (2011, 249). Çivi 05S01, Dumanlı 03S04, PS016, PS050, PS057, PS122, PS218 (Matthews 2009b, 87-88). 112 113 Matthews (2010, 144). Seeher (2004, 65). Seeher (2010, 222). Genz (2004, 37); see also Chapter 9.

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147

2 6 Late Bronze Age wheel-made and painted pottery from Oymaa˘gaç Höyük (modified after Czichon et al. 2019; Abb. 21; courtesy of the Oymaa˘gaç-Nerik Project)

the earliest Late Bronze Age levels and differs radically in formal and stylistic terms from the north-central Anatolian ceramic tradition. At the same time, it shares with the latter several key technological characteristics (Figure 26).115 115

Mielke in Czichon et al. (2016; Abb. 22).

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27 Late Bronze Age north-central Anatolian and Okçular ware examples from Cide, Kastamonu (modified after Glatz 2015a; figs. 7.4 and 7.7)

This new Pontic pottery is of high quality and produced on the wheel, with brown or brown-washed surfaces. Unlike the plain, buff-coloured wares of north-central Anatolia, however, the majority of recovered fragments are decorated with geometric motifs in red or reddish-brown, especially on the upper bodies of jugs, bowls, and closed jars. The facetted rims and painted decoration suggest that this wheel-made Late Bronze Age tradition was the predecessor of the painted handmade pottery that characterised the Early Iron Age village on Büyükkaya and a number of other northern sites, including a pit horizon at Oymaa˘gaç.116 Further to the north-west, the Cide Archaeological Project identified, in addition to wheel-made north-central Anatolian-style pottery, a distinctive and hitherto un-recorded ceramic tradition in the upland valley of Okçular, which overlooks the Black Sea coast (Figure 27).117 All of the Okçular ware fragments recorded were handmade and heavily tempered with small to large angular and sub-angular crushed calcite, not dissimilar to the fabric of the Middle Bronze Age cooking pot with impressed band and the Chalcolithic pottery from the same site. The predominance of often-coarse mineral temper 116

Czichon et al. (2016; Abb. 22).

117

Glatz (2015a).

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echoes with the region’s Early Bronze Age traditions as well, which differ in this technological trait from other parts of the Black Sea coast and areas further inland.118 It also, however, differs from local prehistoric and Early Bronze Age traditions in terms of firing, surface colours, and the formal types represented. Despite its coarse character, most sherds are very hard fired in both oxidising and reduced atmospheres. Surfaces range from reddish-brown to bright red. Among the diagnostic pieces are a grooved rim bowl, a small S-shaped bowl or cup, a large jar with everting rim, and a smaller jar with rounded and slightly everted rim. Hemispherical bowls and hole-mouth jars with simple, rounded, and everting rims are among the earliest ceramic shapes attested in Anatolia. By contrast, the grooved rim bowl is a much more unusual shape, which is not found in earlier assemblages in the region and also does not form part of the north-central Anatolian repertoire. The newly discovered pottery at Oymaa˘gaç and Cide’s Okçular ware both present plausible candidates for the material culture traditions of Pontic communities, which the Hittites might have described as Kaska. No doubt more such traditions will come to light in future surveys and excavations in the more remote parts of the Pontic region, which will allow us to define in more detail, and with more confidence than is currently possible, the nature and development of Bronze Age Pontic culture(s). However, the very existence of such distinct traditions lends support to the hypothesis that there indeed existed during the Late Bronze Age communities in the Pontic region that shared material identities distinct from those of the Hittite south, and possibly from each other. The specific behaviours and mannerisms, which their making and using engendered, moreover, may be argued to present, as Alfredo Gonzáles-Ruibal has done in a comparable context, a form of resistance to centralising powers.119 We can also begin to tease from the available evidence instances of cultural blending and the emergence of localised aesthetics, divergent from the fashions of Hittite centres to the south; the development, in other words, of third, hybridized cultural spaces and practices.120 This includes the combination of north Anatolian and Pontic dry-stone traditions with west-Anatolian fortification architecture at Dumanlı, as well as the adoption of wheel-forming and perhaps firing practices to produce local, painted wares at Oymaa˘gaç, or, alternatively, the adoption by Hittite-trained potters of painted decorative styles and associated vessel types into their repertoires.121 The architectural characteristics of the monumental buildings and fortification wall at Late Bronze Age Oymaa˘gaç Höyük, alongside a significant portion of its ceramic record, would seem to firmly tie the site to the north-central 118 121

119 120 Glatz (2015b). González-Ruibal (2014, 38-40). Bhabha (1994). Only a detailed, comparative chaîne opératoire analysis will be able to answer this question.

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Anatolian cultural sphere and Hittite state production more specifically. The monumental structures were built using a composite construction method reserved for Hittite monumental architecture that combines blocks of mudbricks interspersed with wooden beams filled with limestone pieces or mudbrick.122 The Oymaa˘gaç structures also conform to the standard thickness of walls of central Anatolian monumental buildings.123 At the same time, however, there are a number of idiosyncrasies in the later of the two monumental structures that speak to a distinctly local cultural trajectory. Although the building shares numerous similarities with central Anatolian structures normally identified as temples, it is unusual for the thirteenth century BCE. Empire period temples at Hattusa have a smooth, rectangular outer plan, while the offset façade of the later Oymaa˘gaç temple corresponds more closely with the earliest generation of monumental temples at the capital, suggesting a local, archaising architectural aesthetic. Also unusual is the use of the casemate construction technique for the monumental building itself, a practice normally reserved for fortification walls, as is the combination of an access ramp and a columned hall.124 Similarly idiosyncratic is the development of the north-central Anatolianstyle ceramic assemblage, which mirrors closely assemblages at Hittite centres in its earlier occupation phase. However, the pottery from later, thirteenthtwelfth century BCE contexts presents only a small fraction and skewed functional distribution of contemporary southern repertoires. In particular, the Oymaa˘gaç assemblage is dominated by what is generally referred to as ‘miniature vessels’, small shallow cups and juglets with pointed bases, and other cult-related libation equipment, suggesting a highly specialised functional scope. Especially underrepresented are handmade plates, which account for up to 20 percent of other Hittite assemblages.125 The latter are thought to be primarily used for the baking of flat bread,126 and their near absence at Oymaa˘gaç might suggest differences in culinary practices. Another local peculiarity consists of vessels with horizontal fenestrations, whose function is as yet unknown, but would also seem to point towards a local, ritual purpose.127 MAKING HITTITES AND KASKA

The Hittite imperial encounter created the Kaska in the way that Hittite imperial propaganda needed them: to bring into sharper focus what it meant to be Hittite. The inhabitants of the Pontic shatter zone, the Kaska and, to a lesser extent, the Azzi and Hayasa, were tools of Hittite empire-making, a

122 124 125 127

123 Seeher (2007). Hnila in Czichon et al. (2016, 16). Neve (1992, 26); Hnila in Czichon et al. (2016, 14). 126 Mielke in Czichon et al. (2016; Abb. 22). Schoop (2011a). Mielke in Czichon et al. (2016).

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means of self-definition and differentiation. Paul Zimansky is also right, when he writes that ‘the Kaska start behaving like Kaska’ – i.e. became a society against the state – ‘when the Hittites start governing like Hittites’,128 or rather build and perform a series of varyingly militarised borderzones to the north and east of their central region to manifest a desirous discourse of hegemony over a socially and topographically frictious region. However, there is also increasing evidence for centuries, if not millennia, of distinct and diverse local cultural practices in the Pontic highlands, ranging from settlement preferences and construction techniques to ceramic traditions, which underwrote and reproduced in their daily, material expressions and experiences, one or more distinct non- or counter-imperial identity or identities. As might be expected from prolonged borderland interactions,129 recent findings also allow us to identify a series of processes of cultural amalgamation and the development of distinctive borderland practices and fashions that differed from those of Hittite centres farther to the south. Approaching the Hittite-Kaska question from this perspective complicates what was to begin with a rather simple and familiar story of empire and alterity, in- and outside. Yet it approximates more accurately the cultural and spatial mixtures and ambiguities typically associated with the edges of political networks, where relationships of sovereignty dissipate and are routinely ruptured. At the same time, the Pontic borderlands and their sustained discourse and practice over several centuries had deep-reaching consequences for the macroscale developments of the Hittite imperial network. On the one hand, it forced a partial retreat of Hittite sovereignty from a region of key cultic significance. On the other hand, Hatti’s imperial elite saw itself locked into the long-term expenditure of significant resources for the materialisation and daily performance of its northern and eastern frontiers, ‘the way the Hittites wanted them’ or at least could content themselves with. This includes the construction and maintenance of fortified strongholds and civilian settlements, daily border patrols, and more occasional acts of cross-border violence, each of which presents time, energy, and resources not allocated to other imperial projects. These may in part explain Hittite reliance on landscape monument construction, a comparatively cost-effective technology of political production, in territorial negotiations elsewhere in Anatolia that will be discussed in the following Chapter 5. Already a region whose populations were difficult to hold on to, its partial re-settlement with deportees further attenuated the Pontic borderlands’ socio-political cohesion. This, I shall argue in Chapter 9, though not necessarily a primary catalyst in Hittite demise, underwrote to a significant degree the drastic cultural transformations that took shape on the north-central Anatolian plateau in the wake of political collapse.

128

Zimansky (2007, 162, 164).

129

van Dommelen (2006, 108, 118-120); Dietler (2010).

FIVE

NESTING FAULTS

Art, it is said, is not a mirror, but a hammer: it does not reflect, it shapes. Leon Trotsky (2005 [1924], 120)

During the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE the Hittite imperial network expanded into northern Syria and for some time at least appears to have consolidated its influence in western and southern Turkey. While its military and political reach was expanding outwards and the Kaska situation in the north continued to draw attention and resources, Hittite rulers, their rivals, local potentates, and potential subordinates began to carve their images and names into topographically liminal landscapes along the western, southern, and eastern edges of the central Anatolian plateau and away from major population centres. A novel political technology in Anatolia, landscape monuments interpolate local socio-geological planes of action and their temporalities with those of imperial production. Ömür Harmanş ah persuasively argued that the carving of landscape monuments in geologically wondrous and locally meaningful locales was an attempt to capture and mould the memories and symbolisms of specific places and to transform them into imperial messages of power.1 At the same time, monument production in a series of borderlands and by a diverse range 1

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Harmanş ah (2015b, 33); also Lumsden (2002) for Gavur Kalesi; on the cultural significance of ‘natural places’, see Bradley (2000).

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of patrons with varying relationships to the Hittite imperial apparatus maps out a wider arena of shared political practice, whose materiality does not reflect hegemony, imperial or otherwise, but sovereign desire. Landscape monuments are one of the hammers in Bronze Age political toolkits that were deployed in the hope of chiselling out new spheres of authority where they were previously lacking, tenuous, or claimed by others.2 This chapter charts the main arenas of Late Bronze Age landscape monument construction. It examines the processes that the competitive engagement with this new technology set in motion, and how its particular material media constrained geographies of contest and locked this sphere of political production into particular places. HONEST SIGNALS OF SOVEREIGN DESIRE

Landscape monuments developed as a new political technology in the wider Near East during the second half of the Bronze Age and in the context of the challenges posed by enlarged political spaces and intersecting hegemonic claims.3 Inscribed stone stelae for cult purposes, commemorations of military victories, or the marking of property boundaries were carved in southern Mesopotamia as early as the Uruk period (c. 4000–3100 BCE). With few exceptions, however, Sumerian and later Akkadian stelae were erected within temple compounds or were otherwise associated with settlement contexts. The first direct sovereign claims over particular landscapes were carved by local potentates into the rock faces of the western Zagros mountains during the late third and early second millennia BCE, a phase of heightened Mesopotamian imperial interest in the Zagros piedmonts and of local political formation.4 Following their adoption in Late Bronze Age Anatolia, political landscape monuments also proliferated during the New Kingdom phase of Egyptian expansionism into the Levant and Nubia. Ramses II (c. 1279–1213 BCE) in particular engaged vigorously in landscape monument construction. A few kilometres north of Beirut, for instance, he carved an inscription into the rock of the awe-inspiring Nahr el-Kalb gorge5 and in doing so projected Egypt’s imperial claim over the southern Levant. Iron Age imperial powers continued the tradition of landscape monument construction, such as at the Tigris source,6 where they marked the end points of military campaigns and celebrated the enlargement of Assyrian territory.7 The association of landscape monuments with predominantly mountain landscapes in a wider sense is not accidental, but hinged on their particular physical affordances and constraints. On the one hand, mountain regions

2 4

Glatz (2009); Glatz and Plourde (2011). 5 Glatz (2014a). Faulkner (1975, 226).

3

Glatz and Plourde (2011); Glatz (2014a, 2014b). 6 7 Harmanş ah (2007). Shafer (1998, 5).

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provide suitable rock faces for monument carving; on the other, they oppose expanding polities with a highly frictious environment, which historically has resulted in the ascription of borderland or buffer zone status to many mountain regions from the Andes to the Hindu Kush and Kashmir.8 Equally pivotal for the development of Anatolian landscape monuments were the specific socio-cultural characteristics of participating groups and target audiences, which shared a series of general traits with the hierarchical, centralised Hittite model of state and its culturally sanctioned and therefore legible modes of production. In concert, the materiality of mountains and the characteristics of monument builders and their audiences provided the landscapes framing the central Anatolian plateau and the rock faces of specific locales and thoroughfares with political potential.9 Once established, landscape monuments, contrary to their expansive intent, however, locked political competition into place. Anatolian landscape monuments, based on the religious subject matter of some carvings and their frequent association with springs or watercourses, have invited interpretations focussed on their cultic significance.10 A small number of monuments, including Gavur Kalesi,11 Eflatun Pınar,12 and Fasıllar,13 were purely figurative in nature and may have served a somewhat different purpose altogether, more closely associated with the building of community rather than competition and differentiation.14 Others have stressed political motives as the primary catalysts for monument construction, with the reliefs of Karabel, Hatip, Sirkeli, and Hamite thought to function as border and way markers.15 Influenced by Assyrian explanations of monument purpose, Anatolian landscape monuments too are traditionally seen as expressions and commemorations of Hittite sovereignty over the central Anatolian plateau and its peripheral territories.16 This, however, overlooks both the wide range of attested monument patrons that include Hittite great kings, princes, local rulers, and non-royal protagonists17 and the distributed political discourse which they instantiate. 8 9

10 11 12 13 15 16 17

Ives (2001, 9-10); Núñez, Arenas, and Sánchez (2017). This dovetails with Bauer and Kosiba’s (2016, 115) observation that political action is often less an ‘ontological property of a conscious goal-oriented agent or a broad assemblage of things’ but more ‘a potentiality that emerges in politically-inflected and contingent associations of people, organisms, and things.’ Bittel (1976, 193-195); Kühne (2001); Bonatz (2007); Harmanş ah (2015b). Kohlmeyer (1983, 47-48); Ehringhaus (2005, 13-14); for a different version, see Lumsden (2002, 120-121). Bittel (1976, 124-125); Börker-Klähn and Börker (1975); Kohlmeyer (1983, 103); BörkerKlähn (1993); Ehringhaus (2005, 53-57). 14 Ehringhaus (2005, 57). Glatz and Plourde (2011). Börker-Klähn (1982); Hawkins (1998); Ehringhaus (2005, 106-108). Kohlmeyer (1983); Emre (2002); Ehringhaus (2005); Bonatz (2007); Seeher (2009, 2012). Glatz (2009); Seeher (2009, 121, 123) also mentions it in passing.

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Constructing or carving a monument is an honest signal of social and economic strength, qualities indexed by the amount of brute and expert labour, raw materials, and other resources assembled and expended on the project.18 Although Hittite texts are largely silent on the matter, other ancient Near Eastern sources show that political elites were not only aware of the economics and logistics of monument construction such as city walls or ziggurats, but that they saw them as fundamentally connected to the projection and reproduction of social power.19 Size here mattered in that it could send an easily legible signal of economic wealth and political importance.20 The majority of Anatolian monuments, by contrast, are comparatively modest in size, ranging from life-size depictions of human actors to about half that, a characteristic they share with landscape monuments in other parts of the Near East as well as the region’s wider tradition of representational stone carving.21 As in other regions, Anatolian landscape monuments were also often difficult to access, visually and physically, and were either located high above access routes or intimately folded into natural rock formations. This ‘intimacy and rawness’ to Harmanş ah ‘awkwardly contrasts with their iconographic and epigraphic contents’ of royal grandeur and manhood,22 and has led some to question their efficacy in the production of political power. Visual dominance and accessibility, however, mainly tally with modern concepts of power and phenomenological as well as GIS-led approaches to landscape,23 and need not exhaust ancient notions of what contexts of spatial and social in- or exclusion imbue things with the capacity to effect political outcomes. Landscape monuments spoke to the ability of their patrons to access and deploy expert stonemasons, scribes, architects, and, in some cases, hydraulic engineers in remote and often contested borderland locations. However, monument construction is not the prerogative only of dominant elites. They can be produced also by competitors or by those seeking advancement not in opposition to but embedded within wider sovereign spheres.24 Rather than commemorations of achieved dominion, thus, monument production is one of many practices through which political power is optimistically projected. And as with all things political, the authority gained from them is transient and subject to a number of disbanding forces, some associated with human intentionality and the competitive dynamics that flow from it, others with the nature of things and their temporality. The efficacy of monuments bearing the name of a specific person, for instance, can be seen at some level to be inherently short-lived, often already outdated at the moment of monument

18 20 23

19 Glatz and Plourde (2011). Ristvet (2007, 198-204); Potts (2014, 29-34). 21 22 Trigger (1990, 118). Glatz (2014a). Harmanş ah (2015b, 5). 24 Kosiba and Bauer (2012, 64-66). DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle (1996).

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completion, while imitation across social and cultural boundaries erodes over time the social value and political potency of the original referent. To reproduce sovereignty as we have already seen in Chapter 3, ceremonial routines must be regularly repeated and embellished, and monumental building projects must be continuously devised and enlarged. Episodes of heightened monument construction, as a result, index not periods of calm but unsettled political environments in which re-affirmative statements of strength are required. This is especially evident, as we shall see below, in the escalation of landscape monument production by Hittite great king Tudhaliya IV in the later thirteenth century BCE, who stood in a personal leadership contest with his cousin Kurunta, king of Tarhuntassa.25 Moreover, while a monument itself may faithfully approximate a patron’s socio-economic standing, its placement must be expected to be ambitious and, thus, geopolitically ambiguous. Examining the spatial distribution of Vijayanagara-style monuments in medieval India, Kathleen Morrison and Mark Lycett, for instance, have shown that, rather than a reflection of achieved central control, monumental display was a means of claiming universal authority when political reality was much more complex and authority more widely distributed among rivalling factions.26 There exists, thus, a strategic slippage between the authenticity of monumental display as genuine indicators of socio-political strength and the possibility to use such symbols to produce authority where it is either absent or contested. CARVING OUT ANATOLIA’S CENTRAL BORDERLANDS

A total of about thirty carved monuments can be assigned a date in the Late Bronze Age based on their stylistic and iconographic characteristics or accompanying hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions.27 The practice of urban or nearurban relief carvings developed from the fifteenth to fourteenth centuries BCE onwards at a number of central Anatolian sites, where gate sculptures and relief orthostats structured access to, and circulation within, their respective urban landscapes (Figure 28).28 In addition to the monumental sculptures guarding the entrance gates of the capital city, stone carvings such as stelae and orthostats were unearthed in or near temples and houses in the Upper City29 and the palatial citadel.30 They include a stele depicting Tudhaliya IV in the guise of a warrior31 and the 25 27

28 31

26 Bryce (2006, 319-321). Morrison and Lycett (1994, 344-346). In a Neo-Assyrian text, king Shalmaneser III (c. 859–824 BCE) claims to have carved his relief next to that of Anumhirbe of Mama in the Atalur mountain, which is thought to be located in Turkey (Börker-Klähn 1982, 87-88). 29 30 Beckman (1999a). Neve (1999, 2001). Emre (2002, 219). Neve (1992, 35-36); Ehringhaus (2005, 33).

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28 Monumental gate at Hattusa flanked by lion sculptures

hieroglyphic inscriptions of Suppiluliuma II detailing a series of military campaigns at the Südburg32 and at Niş antaş .33 The multiple rock reliefs commissioned by Tudhaliya IV at the nearby site of Yazılıkaya formed part of a sacred complex blending together landscape and built environment.34 Two large relief orthostats, one showing a male warrior/god and fragments of hieroglyphic inscriptions, formed part of a monumental building entrance at Ortaköy-Sapinuwa,35 and excavations at Kayalıpınar also yielded a stone carving of a seated deity as part of an architectural relief.36 Similar stone stelae were found at Tell Atchana-Alalakh37 and Ça˘gdın in eastern Turkey.38 If we exclude monuments with doubtful Late Bronze Age dates, stone carvings that were found displaced from their original locations of display, those now lost or unidentifiable, as well as those in urban contexts, we are left with fifteen Late Bronze Age landscape monuments to whom a patron can be ascribed, eighteen, if we include the three monuments of the late thirteenth or early twelfth century king Hartapu (Figure 29). Of these, six landscape monuments can be securely associated with Hittite great kings through their accompanying Luwian inscriptions. Five rock carvings identify princes as their patrons, one speaks of a ‘great prince’, and a further example appears to depict an official. Five reliefs depict kings, one a vassal in coastal western Turkey, the other a more powerful rival to the main Hittite lineage on the south-central plateau and Cilicia, and a further three belong to Hartapu, whose reign appears 32

33 36

Oreshko (2012) recently proposed a re-dating of the Südburg inscription to Suppiluliuma I. Much remains uncertain about this inscription, which, if correctly dated to Suppiluliuma I, would make it the first attested hieroglyphic Luwian inscription, though not a landscape monument as such. The text is carved inside a constructed stone vault and inside the urban space of the capital city (see Figure 9). 34 35 Hawkins (1995a). Bittel et al. (1975). Süel and Süel (2004). 37 38 Müller-Karpe (2006). Bittel (1976, 231). Bittel (1976, 207).

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29 Late Bronze Age landscape monuments (base map: ESRI Topographic Data (Creative Commons): World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water)

to span the decline and fall of the Hittite imperial network or follows shortly thereafter.39 Unlike urban stone carvings, landscape monuments only developed in the late fourteenth century BCE. The first to carve their names and images into the living rocks of western and eastern Anatolia’s mountain ranges were local potentates and what appear to be Hittite officials (Table 5).40 Only a generation later did Hittite royalty appropriate, first tentatively and then ever more vigorously, this new technology of political contest. Choice of royal monument locations, though occasionally new and outward looking, for the most part respond to earlier, non-royal markings of place.

Monumental Beginnings The earliest carvings in the landscape attribute patronage to a certain Ku(wa) lanamuwa, who claimed the title of prince. A Ku(wa)lanamuwa is mentioned in a fragmentary passage of the Annals of Mursili II, where he acts as a dignitary in southeast Anatolia in the period following the death of Suppiluliuma I.41 39 41

Hawkins (1992); recently also Oreshko (2017). Goetze (1933, 26-27); Kohlmeyer (1983, 31-32).

40

Glatz and Plourde (2011).

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table 5 Approximate chronology of Anatolian landscape monument construction

Years 1339 1306 1282 1250 1220 1215 Great Kings Mursili II Muwatalli II Hattusili III Tudhaliya IV Arnuwanda III Sirkeli 1 Fıraktın Yazılıkaya/ Hattusa Delihasanlı Yalburt Emirgazi Eflatun Pınar (?)1 Karakuyu Officials Taşçı A Princes İmamkulu2 Hanyeri B4 Hanyeri A2 …. Hamite4 … Akpınar 12 Great Prince Suratkaya3 Kings Sirkeli 25, Hatip Karabel A Years 1339 1306 1282 1250 1220 1215

BC E Suppiluliuma II Hattusa

BC E

1

No inscription but usually assumed to date to Tudhaliya IV on the basis of art historical considerations. Inscriptions of Prince Ku(wa)lanamuwa. This name is mentioned in the Annals of Mursili II (Goetze 1933, 26-27). 3 Zeichengruppe 5: ‘great prince Kupaya’. It has been suggested that Kupaya is the same person as Kupanta-Kuruntiya, the adopted nephew of Mursili II and later king of Mira (Herbordt 2001). 4 Hawkins (2000, 39; Anm. 16) has suggested that the prince Tarhuntabiyammi of the Hanyeri relief and the prince Tarhuntabiya of Hamite may be brought in connection. A Tarhuntabiya is mentioned in the Ulmi-Tesub Treaty, dating to the reign of Hattusili III or Tudhaliya IV (van den Hout 1995). It follows that the son of Tarhuntabiyammi, who is portrayed in the Hamite relief, was a contemporary of the last Hittite great kings. 5 Hieroglyphic inscription destroyed. Ehringhaus (2005, 100-102) proposed an identification with Kurunta of Tarhuntassa. 2

A sealed bulla of another Ku(wa)lanamuwa, who was very likely a contemporary of Tudhaliya IV, was found in the Niş antepe archives. The latter Ku (wa)lanamuwa, however, carried the title of REGIO.DOMINUS rather than REX.FILIUS,42 which favours the earlier syncretism. One or more43 prince(s) Ku(wa)lanamuwa carved their names and images into the rocks of both western Turkey and the upland Develi plain and Zamantı Su valley, a mountain landscape on the eastern edges of the central Anatolian plateau. In doing so, Ku(wa)lanamuwa initiated cross-generational tournaments of monument construction in which a diverse range of imperial and non-imperial actors 42 43

Herbordt (2005, 14; table 4); Hawkins (2005, 261; nos. 192-193). Some have expressed doubts about whether the reliefs are the product of one or more prince Ku(wa)lanamuwa (Ehringhaus 2005, 87), but there is no reason why an active ‘field’ agent of empire such as the individual named in Mursili II’s account could not have carved his name in both eastern and western Anatolia.

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participated, who translated this new genre of display and ideological production into other landscape contexts and for both imperial and counter-imperial purposes. In the west, a Ku(wa)lanamuwa carved his name into the north-east side of the Manisa Da˘g about 40 km north of ˙Izmir, a key communication route along the Gediz Nehri or Hermos that connects west-central Anatolia with the Mediterranean. Carved around 150 m above the valley floor, the monument complex at Akpınar (Sipylos) includes a rock-cut niche framing a large figure modelled almost in the round. Many travellers and scholars beginning with Pausanias have described and interpreted the 4.3 metre tall sculpture, which is extremely weathered and therefore difficult to date (Figure 30). Identifications have ranged from mother goddess to a 44 30 Akpınar (Sipylos) relief (French postcard c. 1900, standing or seated male. To the right of Creative Commons) the figure and outside the niche that frames it are carved two hieroglyphic inscriptions, one in relief (Akpınar 1) and the other with shallow incisions (Akpınar 2). The inscriptions would seem to post-date the carving of the large figure, while their placement close to the figurative carving presents an intentional association with, and simultaneous appropriation of, this imposing figure and the place it marks. Akpınar 1 reads ‘Ku(wa)lanamuwa, Prince’ (EXCERCITUS-mu REX FILIUS);45 the graffito of Akpınar 2 farther to the right and below Akpınar 1 represents two names, one of which can be read as ‘Zuwanza’, whose unusual combination of titles, EUNUCHUS2 FLUMEN.DOMINUS-i(a), however, suggests a post-empire date.46 A roughly contemporary but wholly different collection of rock inscriptions is also located in the south-west of Turkey. The rock outcrop of Suratkaya is located between the important Anadolu Geçidi and Yaylacıkır Beleni passes in the Latmos mountain range. Altogether six groups of hieroglyphs have been recorded on the smooth vertical surface (c. 3.70  12 m), which is protected by 44 45

Kohlmeyer (1983, 28-29); Ehringhaus (2005, 85-87) for detailed discussions. 46 Kohlmeyer (1983, 31-32). Kohlmeyer (1983, 32-33); Oreshko (2013, 370).

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31 Hieroglyphic Luwian aedicula of great prince Kupaya at Suratkaya (modified after Ehringhaus 2005; Abb. 169; courtesy of the Sirkeli Project and Horst Ehringhaus)

an overhanging rock. Unlike the relief carvings of Ku(wa)lanamuwa and later local and Hittite imperial agents, however, all six sign groups at Suratkaya consist of shallow scratchings of individual names and titles.47 Of these, a ‘Man of Mira’, three princes, and another named person, Kuwalaya, can be identified.48 Five are heavily weathered and, therefore, difficult to read.49 Sign group two was recently characterised by Rostislav Oreshko as the ‘most informal inscription found so far in Bronze Age Anatolia’ and read as ‘Lah(h)a, prince. I wrote (myself ) / I am the “writer”’ (la-ha REX.FIL[IUS] ˹a˺-[w]a / i-ma p[u]-pa-[t]á).50 Sign group five (Figure 31) is best preserved and presents the aedicula or cartouche of great prince Kupaya (MAGNUS.REX.FILIUS ku-pa-i(a) MAGNUS.REX.FILIUS), for whom Susanne Herbordt proposed a syncretism with the prince and later king of Mira, Kupanta-Kuruntiya.51 Kupanta-Kuruntiya had been appointed by

47

48 51

Oreshko (2013); for a recent discussion of these carvings as graffiti, see Harmanş ah (2018); though they are still elite renderings of names and titles, counter-monuments against Hittite power, but not in the more general, socially rebellious sense of modern graffiti. On diverse methods and skills of rendering Late Bronze Age landscape monuments, see also Glatz and Plourde (2011). 49 50 Herbordt (2001). Peschlow-Bindokat (2001). Oreshko (2013, 353). Herbordt (2001, 374-376).

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Mursili II in the wake of the rebellion of his uncle, Mashuiluwa, and subsequent removal from the throne of Mira-Kuwaliya.52 Oreshko, however, suggested that the personal name should be read as Kukunni instead, a name attested in a treaty of Muwatalli II with Alaksandu of Wilusa.53 The carvings of these princes of Mira and other local agents scraping their names on the Suratkaya rock are marking their presence in a personal and intimate manner in a remote, geologically peculiar landscape whose long-term ritual significance can be traced from numerous Neolithic and Chalcolithic rock paintings to the remains of a Byzantine church.54 By scratching royal titles alongside personal names, however, they become implicated in political production, in this case of a local, Miran, and therefore non- and counter-imperial authority.55 In the east, Ku(wa)lanamuwa’s monument making spatially arrested landscape monument construction for several generations in a series of strategic as well as remote upland landscapes. The first of Ku(wa)lanamuwa’s monuments, ˙Imamkulu, was carved on the flattened oval surface of a free-standing rock amidst a field of boulders and near a spring at c. 1500 m above sea level.56 The relief is placed where the Zamantı Su valley ascends towards the Gezbel pass (1990 m) over the Bey Da˘gı mountain range. The pass presents a critical communication corridor that connects the central Anatolian plateau with Cilicia, eastern Anatolia, and the Levant. It was accessible year-round and presents an easier and shorter route than alternatives, such as the Cilician Gates. Depicted on the far left of the rock relief is a striding male warrior figure who is carrying a bow and spear and who is identified as ‘Prince Ku(wa) lanamuwa’ (REX FILIUS EXERCITUS-mu REX FILIUS) by the accompanying Luwian hieroglyphic inscription (Figure 32). To the right and in a somewhat higher register we see the stormgod, who is about to ascend a bulldrawn cart, which is in turn lifted up by a procession of mountain gods with bowed heads and figures often referred to as demons. Opposing them is an anthropomorphic figure, possibly clad in a mantle, raising their arms. Descending wavy lines may be symbolising the flow of water.57 The figure stands above a stylised tree, while a bird is flying from what appears to be a female goddess towards the storm god.58 ˙Imamkulu stands in direct relation to the relief of Hanyeri, which is located c. 8 km south of ˙Imamkulu on the southern side of the Gezbel pass. The function of the two reliefs is, thus, rather unambiguously related to the 52 54 55 56 58

53 Herbordt (2001, 375-376); Bryce (2006). Oreshko (2013, 357). Peschlow-Bindokat (2009); Harmanş ah (2018). Glatz and Plourde (2011); contra Peschlow-Bindokat (2001, 366): ‘Direkter politischer Einfluß des hethitischen Großkönigs wird hier greifbar.’ 57 Ullmann (2010, 265; note 601). Harmanş ah (2015b, 106). Ehringhaus (2005, 71-76).

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32 ˙Imamkulu relief (photo by Klaus-Peter Simons, Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons)59

guarding and control of movement across the pass. Hanyeri (Figure 33) is cut approximately 4 m above the modern road into a limestone rock face, 250 m below the summit. Much more physically imposing than ˙Imamkulu, the Hanyeri relief depicts a 2 m high central standing male warrior figure carrying a bow and spear as well as a sword fastened in his belt. As with ˙Imamkulu, the figure is identified as ‘Ku(wa)lanamuwa, Prince’ by an accompanying hieroglyphic inscription.60 Opposite, a smaller bull figure stands with his hind legs on what is conventionally referred to as an altar and on the shoulder of a mountain god with his front legs. The first line of the accompanying inscription identifies the bull as the ‘King of the Mountain, Sarruma’ (REX MONS DEUS SARMA).61 To the right of the warrior figure, a second, later inscription was placed there by ‘Prince Tarhuntabiyammi’ (REX FILIUS TONITRUS.DARE?-mi 59 60 61

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Imamkulu6.jpg. Kohlmeyer (1983, 87); Hawkins (2000, 39; no. 15; 2005, 260-261; nos. 186-190). Ehringhaus (2005, 78); Harmanş ah (2015b, 110) assigns Ku(wa)lanamuwa an identity as a Kizzuwatnean prince on the basis of the mention of Sarruma, an important deity in Kizzuwatnean cult. Sarruma, however, was equally venerated in the Hittite central region and the personal protective deity of Tudhaliya IV, whom he is depicted embracing in a monumental rock relief at Yazılıkaya. There is also no written evidence suggesting the existence of a Kizzuwatnean prince of this name.

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33 Hanyeri relief (photo by Klaus-Peter Simon on Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons)62

REX FILIUS).63 The inscription of Tarhuntabiyammi appears to be connected with another rock relief at Hamite, which was carved into the rock at the narrow passage, where the Ceyhan river exits the Taurus and flows into the Cilician plain. The Hamite relief consists of a 1.75 m tall male warrior figure identified by a postpositional inscription as ‘[. . .] tarhunta, Prince, Son of Tarhuntabiya, Prince’.64 A connection between Tarhuntabiya and the Tarhuntabiyammi of the Hanyeri inscription has been suggested, and a prince Tarhuntabiya is known from the Ulmi-Tesub treaty, which falls into the reign of either Hattusili III or Tudhaliya IV. The iconographic style of the male warrior at Hanyeri is also closely mirrored by that of Hamite. If these identifications are correct, a temporal gap of at least one generation would have to be assumed between the carving of the main relief and inscription at Hanyeri and the addition of the name of Tarhuntabiyammi on its right. Post-dating the Ku(wa)lanamuwa monuments, but somewhat earlier than Tarhuntabiya/mmi, the first Hittite great king, Muwatalli II, carved his inscription and image, a striding male in a long robe and round cape holding

62 63 64

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hanyeri.jpg. Kohlmeyer (1983, 87); Hawkins (2000, 39; no. 15). Hawkins (2000, 39; note 16; 2005, 273; nos. 418-420); Ehringhaus (2005, 108).

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165

a shaft, on a vertical rock face overlooking the Ceyhan river in the Cilician plain near the site of Sirkeli Höyük (Figure 34).65 A generation later and roughly contemporary with Tarhuntabiya/mmi’s relief, Hittite great king, Hattusili III, commissioned a monument at Fıraktın: a relief carved into a rock face near the confluence of the Kara Su and the Zamanti Su,66 in an attempt to appropriate both this strategic landscape and assert imperial authority over previous monument patrons in the region. Although the relief has no immediate urban or architectural context, two Late Bronze Age settlements have been reported in its 34 Relief of Muwatalli II at Sirkeli 1 (courtesy of the vicinity.67 The 7 ha höyük of Fıraktın is Sirkeli Project and Mirko Novák) located around 2 km to the north-west, and test excavations in the 1940s and 1950s produced walls made of large stones, which the excavators dated to the Late Bronze Age. Among the illustrated finds are miniature cups and juglets as well as a larger, burnished long-necked jar with rounded base, numerous metal objects, Middle and Late Bronze Age seals,68 and a Late Helladic IIIC stirrup jar.69 The monument itself consists of two offering scenes, one male and one female in a 1  3 m panel, about 1.8 m above the river (Figure 35). Depicted are a striding male god with litus and pointed hat, an altar, and a striding male warrior figure with bow on the shoulder, who is pouring a libation from a beak-spouted jug. The second scene, which is rendered in much less detail, shows a seated, cloaked figure with pointed headgear, an altar, and a second, standing cloaked figure with pointed headdress who is also pouring a libation. A separate hieroglyphic Luwian inscription about 0.5  1.5 m in length accompanies the relief.70 The relief faces north-west towards the imposing mountain of Erciyes Da˘gı. Cup marks and circular basins have been reported on a platform above the relief.71

65 66 68 70

Ehringhaus (2005, 100); a second, similar relief was carved 13 m downstream on the same rock outcrop, but has been deliberately defaced, most likely in antiquity. 67 van den Hout (1995, 11-19); Ehringhaus (2005, 59). Kohlmeyer (1983, 67). 69 Özgüç (1955). Özgüç (1955, 1948). 71 Kohlmeyer (1983, 69); Ehringhaus (2005, 61). Harmanş ah (2015b, 103).

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35 Hattusili III and Puduhepa’s landscape monument at Fıraktın (after Ehringhaus 2005; Abb. 112; courtesy of the Sirkeli Project and Horst Ehringhaus)

Luwian hieroglyphs as part of the figurative relief identify the persons involved as great king Hattusili III, queen Puduhepa, and the female goddess Hebat/Arinna. The appended inscription panel further elaborates on the queen’s identity as the ‘daughter of the Land of Kizzuwatna’. The final part of the inscription has been read in a number of ways, including as ‘beloved of the deity’72 or ‘having become god’, the latter of which would suggest a funerary monument.73 The inscription detailing the identity of the male god is mostly broken off, and interpretations naturally diverge on his identification.74 Situated 25 km upstream from Fıraktın is a roughly contemporary carving that depicts three persons, who either represent or are related to official roles. The relief of Taş çı A (Figure 36) is carved on a smoothed face of a rock outcrop through which the Şamaz Dere flows just before it converges with the Zamantı. The carvings are heavily weathered and seem to show the procession of three figures, two male and one female, with hieroglyphic inscriptions behind and above them. The female figure is identified as ‘Manaza/i, daughter of Lupaki, son (?) of the army-scribe’.75 The signs to the left have been read as ‘Zida, Body Guard’, which may be associated with the inscription on the far left that translates ’Servant of Hattusili, Great King, Hero’ and which may refer to either Zida in particular or the entire depicted group.76 David Hawkins proposed a reading of the inscription as ‘Manazi, daughter of Lupaki the Army-Scribe (son of ?) Zida the MEŠEDI-man, servant of Hattusili’.77 A scribe of the name Lupaki is known from the Hattusa archives78 and a Zida, chief of the bodyguards, was a brother of Suppiluliuma I.79 72 75 76 79

73 74 Ehringhaus (2005, 64). Kohlmeyer (1983, 68-68). Kohlmeyer (1983, 73). Bonatz (2007); also Kohlmeyer (1983, 77-78); Ehringhaus (2005, 68). 77 78 Hawkins (2005, 292-293). Ehringhaus (2005, 68). Hawkins (2005, 202-293). Herbordt (2005, 76-77).

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36 Taş çı A (after Ehringhaus 2005; Abb. 123; courtesy of the Sirkeli Project and Horst Ehnringhaus); Taş çı B (after Ehringhaus 2005; Abb. 127; courtesy of the Sirkeli Project and Horst Ehringhaus)

Several differences can be noted between the reliefs of Taş çı A and other contemporary monuments. The first and most obvious divergence lies in the subjects represented, which are persons other than rulers or divinities. Additionally, the technique of carving used for this and the neighbouring monument of Taş çı B is rudimentary and rather different from royal inscriptions, which are rendered in relief. The Taş çı carvings, thus, share a graffiti-like quality with the carvings at Akpınar, Suratkaya, and Malkaya in the west. Against a deliberately flattened background, the figures and inscription of Taş çı A are outlined through chiselled flutes of finger-width.80 The schematic character of the depictions and the arrangement of the hieroglyphic signs further provide an impression of a lack of scribal skill and knowledge on the part of the monument builders. Rather than imposed by the properties of the limestone matrix as some have suggested,81 this characteristic may be explained by the socio-political standing of the depicted persons and what was probably their more restricted access to specialist stonemasons’ techniques and skills. In this way, these carvings are likely to present the work of localised powerholders along the lines of regional governors, who appropriated for themselves imperial modes of representation. Taş çı B lies 100 m upstream and represents pictorial and hieroglyphic carvings on an individual, free-standing rock immediately on/in the river. Depicted is the upper body of a male figure in greeting position, clad in a long gown and round cap. Various scholars have identified differing numbers and types of hieroglyphic signs above and below the greeting arm, but no conclusive reading has been possible so far.82 Pits and moulds in the rocks near 80 82

Kohlmeyer (1983, 75); Hawkins (2005, 293). Kohlmeyer (1983, 75).

81

Ehringhaus (2005, 66).

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the carvings as well as the depictions of Taş çı A and B themselves have been interpreted as part of a regularly enacted cult procession.83

Gradually Going West During the final quarter of the thirteenth century BCE, a period of rapid decentralisation that led up to Hittite political collapse (Chapter 9), the geographical focus of monument production shifted to the southern and western parts of the central plateau. Of all Hittite great kings, Tudhaliya IV engaged most extensively in monumental construction and display both at home, where he commissioned an extensive programme of reliefs amidst the folds of the rock outcrop of Yazılıkaya, and along the western and, less so, the eastern perimeters of the central plateau. He was also the last Hittite ruler to invest in landscape monuments. The most impressive monument carrying Tudhaliya’s hieroglyphic aedicula was the rectangular pool complex of Yalburt, located on a remote hillside amidst the solitude of an upland pasture to the north of the modern town of Ilgin. On the inside of the pool, which measured 12.6  8.45 m,84 Tudhaliya’s military victories and other activities in the west and south-west of Anatolia are detailed (Figure 37).85 Though Tudhaliya concerns himself mainly with the Lukka Lands in the inscription, geographically the Yalburt monument marks the transition from the Hittite central region to a series of smaller yet intermittently troublesome polities scattered between the central plateau and the Arzawa-Mira-controlled regions of western Turkey. They include Arawanna, Kalasma, Kassiya, and Pitassa.86 An interesting glimpse of the region’s relationship with the Hittite empire can be gained from a lengthy episode in the Annals of Mursili II.87 Normally ruled by a council of elders, Mursili had made a certain Aparru the lord/governor of Kalasma. Aparru, however, broke his oath and unified Kalasma and reigned in it ‘like a king’. Over several seasons, Mursili and his officer fought against Aparru, who had begun to attack Hittite territory. ‘Outside the gates’ of the town of Lakku, Aparru fell in battle and the Hittite army sacked and burned the settlement, leading deportees back to Hattusa. The possibility of re-conquest and -integration into Hittite-ruled territory was seized by the governor of Pala and Tumana located in the north-west during a subsequent civil war in Kalasma. If the above geographical correlations are broadly correct, it appears that various parts of this transitional region fluctuated in and out of relatively 83 85 86 87

84 Kohlmeyer (1983, 79; fig. 31). Ehringhaus (2005, 37). Ehringhaus (2005, 70); trial trenches at the site and the adjacent hill revealed no Late Bronze Age materials (Hawkins 1995a, 66-85). Garstang and Gurney (1959; map 1); Forlanini and Marazzi (1986; TAV. XVI); Hawkins (1998; fig. 11); Klengel (1999; Karte 5); Bryce (2006; map 3). Year 21 (Goetze 1933).

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37 The Yalburt pool complex (courtesy of Roger Matthews)

shallow Hittite rule at least from the beginning of the Hittite Empire Period. Conversely, Hittite effective control or its threat seems to have been immediate enough to extract tribute in the form of troops from several of these regions. Arawanna, Kalasma, and Pitassa are listed by Egyptian sources as part of the Hittite alliance at Qadesh.88 Soldiers from Arawanna were also stationed at Nerik in the central Kaska zone.89 Recent surface survey in the immediate surroundings of Yalburt identified several Late Bronze Age settlements in the wider Ilgin area,90 while a preliminary study of the ceramic record suggests a mix of west-central Anatolian traditions, best known from Beycesultan and central Anatolian vessels related to food consumption.91 Another monument dedicated to the capture and storage of water with firm connections to a Hittite great king is located on the eastern edge of the central plateau below the Ziyarettepesi pass (1900 m) on the route from Cappadocia to eastern Anatolia.92 The drainage flow of the water through the northern 88 91 92

89 90 Klengel (1999, 216). Del Monte and Tischler (1978, 30). Harmanş ah (2015b). Durusu-Tanrıöver (2015) and Mellaart and Murray (1995, 102) postulate a cultural border for the Hittite realm in this area. Emre (1993, 1).

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Karakuyu dam wall was framed with stone slates, one of which contained an unfinished as well as a complete aedicula of Tudhaliya IV.93 To the south-east of Yalburt, a stone block with a longer hieroglyphic inscription was found near the village of Köylütoluyayla, also in association with an ancient dam construction.94 The inscription contains the edict of a great king concerning the town Tatara/ima and a prince Sauskakurunti, whose seal impressions are known from Hattusa.95 Despite the absence of a personal name in the inscription, Tudhaliya IV has been inferred as the great king issuing this edict.96 Tudhaliya also engaged in the production of other stone monuments, such as six stelae in a shape generally referred to as altars, which were found at Emirgazi on the south-central plateau.97 Tudhaliya’s projection of Hittite political hegemony over the southern plateau was met with several counterclaims. A relief carved 5 m above a set of springs at Hatip in a southern suburb of Konya depicts a male warrior in a short skirt and with a pointed-horned hat, spear, bow, and sword, who is identified by a postpositional hieroglyphic inscription as ‘Kurunta, Great King, [Hero], son of Muwatalli, Great King, Hero’ (Figure 38).98 Kurunta was Tudhaliya IV’s nephew, who had been placed on the throne of Tarhuntassa following the return of the Hittite capital to Hattusa. Much of what we know about the conflict and competition between Hattusa and Tarhuntassa at the end of the thirteenth century BCE comes from the socalled Bronze Tablet, a lengthy treaty text which was found deliberately buried near Hattusa’s monumental Sphinx Gate. The Bronze Tablet treaty sets out in some detail the border between Hatti and Tarhuntassa,99 which it places together with the associated Hulaya River Land in the area of Classical Rough Cilicia, its northern borders extending onto the Konya plain.100 The Bronze Tablet also includes a series of concessions on the part of the Hittite great king, including a political status comparable to that of the viceroys of Carchemish. Kurunta, however, confidently refers to himself as ‘great king’ in the Hatip monument. A further claimant to this title is attested in the landscape monuments of Kızılda˘g, Karada˘g, and Burunkaya. Here, Hartapu, son of Mursili (either Mursili II or Urhi-Tesub), claims the title of great king for himself.101 The latter monuments have traditionally been dated to after the fall of Hattusa, but given their close association with Tudhaliya’s Yalburt inscription, they too appear to have formed part of the intense political struggle over the southern plateau in the final decades of the Hittite imperial network. Hartapu’s monuments also suggest that Hattusa’s rivals continued the practice 93 95 97 100

94 Emre (1993, 4-5); Ehringhaus (2005, 49-50). Starke cf. Seeher (2005, 39-40). 96 Hawkins (1998, 9; note 23; 2005, 271; nos. 373-381). Hawkins (2006, 62-63). 98 99 Hawkins (1995a, 86-101; 2006, 54-62). Ehringhaus (2005, 74). Otten (1988). 101 Dinçol et al. (2000); Forlanini (2017). Otten (1988); Hawkins (1992); Singer (1996).

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171

38 Iconographic comparison of Late Bronze Age landscape monuments (after Glatz and Plourde 2011; fig. 11)

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of landscape monuments at a time when the last Hittite ruler, Suppiluliuma II, produced monuments only within the confines of the capital city.102 The kingdom of Mira, the most powerful successor state of the Arzawa confederacy broken up by Mursili II, too possessed a status if not in title then in significance and influence on par with Carchemish and Tarhuntassa during the final decades of the Hittite empire.103 The Hatip relief resembles closely that of a roughly contemporary ruler in western Anatolia on the Karabel pass, which leads from ˙Izmir south into the Meander river valley in south-west Turkey. The relief Karabel A (Figure 39) was 39 Karabel A relief (after Ehringhaus 2005; Abb. 161; courtesy of the Sirkeli Project and Horst Ehringhaus) carved into a slightly slanting, southwardfacing limestone cliff. Inside a niche, a male warrior figure is depicted. To the left of his spear is a three-line hieroglyphic inscription, reading ‘Tarkasnawa, King of < the land> Mira, [son] of Alantalli, king of the Land Mira, grandson of [. . .], king of the land Mira’.104 King Tarkasnawa of Mira was a likely contemporary and vassal of Tudhaliya IV and is known from impressions of two different seals at Hattusa as well as from a biconvex silver seal.105 A second relief, Karabel B, appears to have shown a similar figure as relief A, although only the lower third, consisting of parts of the spear and traces of hieroglyphs, one of which was the sign for king, was preserved. Relief Karabel C2 may be that of the father of Tarkasnawa,106 underscoring the long-standing tradition of landscape monuments in western Anatolia proclaiming local, nonHittite, sovereignties. DISSECTED SOVEREIGNTIES

Political monuments are not about the past, although they often masterfully deploy, manipulate, and integrate specific local memories with official versions of history. They are also not about the present, but a projection of political desire into the future, in which sovereignty, independence, or civil unity is achieved through the very process of material production. Monuments are 102 105

Hawkins (1995a). Hawkins (1998, 4, 8).

103

Dinçol et al. (2000); Bryce (2012, 22). 106 Hawkins (1998; fig. 11).

104

Hawkins (1995a).

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honest signals of social and economic strength through which their patrons hope to recruit new, or appropriate existing, ideationally significant places into their political networks. Building or carving a landscape monument and its subsequent practice, such as the performance of associated rituals and the stories told of them, hoped to transform otherwise liminal and politically frictious upland locales into foci of sovereign projection, or, in network terms, nodes on which could be centred, or at the very least claimed to be centred, sufficient relational ties between people, places and things to yield political community. Monument patronage was not an imperial prerogative, as we have seen. A multiplicity of Late Bronze Age monument builders sought to instantiate through their monumental efforts distinct, at times oppositional and at times ambiguously and subversively intersecting, political networks. As a result, the political landscapes skirting the Hittite central region to the east, south and west must be seen as contested and continuously in the making. The landscape monuments of Late Bronze Age Anatolia were hewn and scratched into rock faces or constructed in isolated landscape settings to effect authority rather than to commemorate it. As such, landscape monuments do not mark permanent borders, though it is their construction, especially repeated monument making in the same places, that (re-)produced and to an extent locked into place mental geographies and political borderlands. Choice of monument location, moreover, was not always – and especially in the early days of monument making – a matter of imperial strategy, with Hittite greatkings seemingly responding to earlier non-royal claims over strategic landscapes and their thoroughfares. Once adopted as a political technology by Hittite great kings and their rivals in the later thirteenth century BCE, landscape monuments became more mobile and morphologically diverse. Conceptually, however, they remained deeply connected to particular types of upland and mountain landscapes and specific features within them. Thus, we might ask to what degree the need to find the ‘right’ locale for monument construction directed and constrained both political imagination and borderland production on the ground. We might ask this of both Tudhaliya IV’s Yalburt complex, whose inscription boasts of victories much farther to the south and west, on the one hand, and the Kızıl - and Karada˘g reliefs of Hartapu on the other. The latter locales provide impressive rock outcrops, and thus possess the material affordances for an effective landscape monument; yet both volcanic massifs, while iconic, rise rather lonely from the flat plain between Konya and Karaman, and would seem to lack advantage in terms of the political space they were able to lay claim over. Many of the landscape monuments share a visual aesthetic and depictive canon. This has in the past been interpreted as the powerful influence and

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expression of Hittite imperial art,107 for instance through a central Anatolian ‘school of sculpture’108 or the existence of a limited number of monument workshops.109 As a result, all Late Bronze Age landscape monuments, regardless of their location, tend to be referred to as ‘Hittite’. This is, however, both culturally and politically incorrect. Such typological insensitivity negates a striking diversity in monument authorship and the political possibilities that emerge from it. It also glosses over the fact that Anatolian landscape monuments developed as a local and potentially counter-imperial practice that was adopted and appropriated by imperial agents over a generation later. A shared stylistic canon, overlap in depictive themes, as well as the use of Luwian hieroglyphs alongside the choice of the ‘right’ locales for such monuments attest not to Hittite imperial hegemony in either a cultural or political sense. Instead they speak of a shared concept across Late Bronze Age Anatolia of landscape monuments as a technology of political production, whose geographical and chronological distribution tracks zones of intensive negotiation. These so-defined borderlands dissected and enclosed the Hittite central region to the south, east, and west and lay nested within Hatti’s more expansive, yet equally ambiguous, outer boundaries such as the Euphrates valley, which forms the focus of the next chapter.

107

108

Emre (2002, 233), for instance, states that ‘[u]nabhängig davon, ob sie [Felsmonumente] im Kerngebiet der hethitischen Kultur oder außerhalb, etwa in Karabel, entdeckt wurden, präsentieren sie markant den Stil der hethitischen Kunst’; also Kohlmeyer (1983, 103); Hawkins (1998). 109 Ehringhaus (2005). Bittel (1976, 191).

SIX

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No-one had crossed the (river) Mala, but I the Great King Tabarna crossed it on foot, and my army crossed it [after me?] on foot. Sarrugina (=Sargon) crossed it. But although he overthrew the troops of Hahha, he did nothing to Hahha (itself ) and did not burn it down, nor did he show(?) the smoke to the Storm God of Heaven. Autobiography of Hattusili I1

The borderlands outlined thus far were located in geographical proximity to the central region of the Hittite empire and were shared with communities that Hittite sources paint as subordinate, even if ultimately difficult to control. The final liminal political zone that I want to examine here lay at a considerable distance from the Hittite central region. It developed from the tensions of Hittite, Mitanni, and Assyrian imperialist aspirations and their shifting sovereignties on the one hand, and the constraining grip which one of the region’s most symbolically laden landscape features – the Euphrates river – exerted over the mental geographies of ancient Near Eastern empire-builders on the other. The result was an interesting dissonance and profitable tension between the practice and spatial imagination of imperial sovereignty and the nature and extent of the relational networks that contributed to its reproduction.

1

Translation by Güterbock (1964, 2).

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In Egyptian and Mesopotamian imperial ideologies, the majestic river served as a proxy for, as well as access to, the Mediterranean Sea and as the symbolic boundary of their respective imaginable worlds. As such, it both challenged royal warriors to reconcile, through territorial expansion, political reality with ideologies of universal sovereignty, and offered itself as a natural boundary for the competitive parcelling out of Late Bronze Age geopolitical space.2 At the same time, the Euphrates borderland encounter, not unlike the Pontic shatter zone discussed in Chapter 4, was shaped by societies against as well as between states, who claimed the arid landscapes stretching between the Euphrates valley and its major tributaries and the urban centres and zones of intensive agricultural production which they supported. The Euphrates river, Hittite Mala, with a length of c. 2800 km, is the Middle East’s longest natural corridor of movement and communication. It connects the mountainous valleys of eastern Anatolia, where its headwaters lie in the confluence of the Kara and Murat Su, with the plains of inland Syria and Iraq. In the Bronze Age, a short overland crossing to the Levantine coast linked the Euphrates basin and its urban centres with the Mediterranean world of exchange and interaction. Further downstream lay the extensive cities of central and southern Mesopotamia and the maritime networks of the Persian Gulf. Alongside its major tributaries and the Tigris to the east, the Euphrates was the life-giver that allowed large urban centres to thrive in semi-arid steppe environments. A mighty landscape feature (Figure 40), the river varies in width between 150 and 500 metres and is flanked in places by high terraces. It flows at some 1000 cubic metres per second, discharging up to 5000–7000 cubic metres at peak periods.3 Fordable at a number of consequently strategic and historically well-attested locales, the Euphrates, nevertheless, formed a politically ambiguous and practically porous zone of intensive and profitable interaction. This chapter examines the competitive rhetoric and material media of political border construction along and beyond the river, alongside evidence for the nature of its more quotidian encounters. WAR AND PEACE

The regions to the east and south of the Taurus range were both ideologically charged and economically important to the Hittite imperial enterprise and, thus, formed a focus of military campaigns from the very beginning of Hittite political history. As early as the later seventeenth century BCE, Hattusili I is reported to have led several campaigns into eastern Anatolia and northern Syria, which at the time was ruled by a patchwork of polities including 2

Liverani (2001b, 27-30).

3

Kuzucuoğlu, Fontugne, and Mouralis (2004, 200).

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177

40 Satellite image of the Euphrates and adjacent regions (image: European Space Agency, Creative Commons)4

Alalakh, Carchemish, Urshu, Hassu, Ugarit, Emar, Ebla, and Tunip (Figure 41). These either stood under the overlordship of the kingdom of Yamhad centred at Aleppo or were otherwise closely associated with it. After defeating Alalakh, Hattusili returned to Hattusa via eastern Anatolia, allegedly attacking, burning, and plundering a series of cities north of Carchemish along the west bank of the Euphrates. A second campaign targeted, among others, the city of Hahha/Hahhum, which was an important stopover on the Old Assyrian tin and textile trade route.5 In the course of this second campaign, 4 5

www.esa.int/spaceinimages/Images/2008/02/The_Middle_East_as_seen_by_Envisat. Bryce (2006, 70-71); Barjamovic (2011, 100).

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41 Key sites mentioned in the text (base map: ESRI Topographic Data (Creative Commons): World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water)

Hattusili claims to have crossed the Euphrates ahead of his army, a deliberately symbolic act, which permitted a (favourable, of course) comparison with the deeds of the legendary King Sargon of Akkad. Hattusili’s successor, Mursili I, famously claimed the destruction of Aleppo, and with it the kingdom of Yamhad as well as that of Babylon. Overall, however, these early campaigns were not aimed at the establishment of permanent political control.6 They brought significant loot and booty, including human labour force and livestock as well as the symbolic capital of divine captives, the statues of deities from conquered cities such as that of Marduk, the tutelary deity of Babylon.7 The political opportunities brought about by the defeat of Yamhad and Babylon were seized not by Hatti, however, but by

6

7

A controversial letter appears to imply some form of political dependency of Tikunani to the east of the Euphrates (Bryce 2006, 78-79, note 76; 411; but see Miller 2001, 422; Van de Mieroop 2000). A retrospection in Mursili II’s Prayer to the Sun-goddess Arinna, translation by Beckman (1999b, 53); the inscription of Kassite king Agum-kakrime also mentions the abduction of the god Marduk (van Koppen 2017, 74).

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the kingdom of Mitanni in northern Mesopotamia and by a Kassite dynasty in Babylon. Thus, from the middle of the sixteenth century BCE, Mitanni, which remains as yet rather ill-defined in socio-political, geographical, and cultural terms, formed the major political rival of the Hittite empire in northern Syria and along the Euphrates. Mitanni’s political network extended into regions to the east of the Tigris, the Zagros foothills, and into the northern Levant and included both client states and self-governing polities without identified royal figures as well as more firmly incorporated provinces such as Halab-Aleppo.8 Prior to its defeat by Hittite king Suppiluliuma I in the later fourteenth century BCE, Mitanni’s realm of influence also included the Adana plain, the centre of the kingdom of Kizzuwatna,9 and the two most prominent political entities on either side of the Turkish Euphrates, Melid/Malatya and Isuwa (see Chapter 7).10 The historical preamble of the vassal treaty of Suppiluliuma I and Sattiwaza of Mitanni recounts Suppiluliuma’s victories over Isuwa, Armatana, the narrow stretch of land along the Euphrates to the south of the Malatya and Altınova plains and north of the territory of Carchemish,11 his crossing of the Euphrates and eastward excursion into the Land of Alzi on the Murat Su and Upper Tigris.12 Suppiluliuma I claims to have sacked Alzi’s fortresses, Kutmar and Suda, before defeating and allegedly destroying the as-yet-unidentified Mitannian capital city, Wassukanni, to the east of the river.13 Over the course of a further twelve years of campaigning, Suppiluliuma claims to have brought much of the Euphrates region and northern Syria under Hittite sovereignty by establishing his sons as the viceroy of Carchemish and high-priest of Aleppo. East of the Euphrates, Hittite victories appear to have ushered in a volatile geopolitical situation as the remnants of the Mitanni state and its divided royal lineage repeatedly shifted allegiance between the Hittite and Assyrian realms. Artatama II, the Hittite-backed usurper to the Mitanni throne, and his son, Suttarna III, both appear to have offered military support to Assyrian attacks on Mitanni cities and sent gifts to Assur.14 As a result, Hittite support shifted back to the defeated king Tusratta’s dynastic line and to his son, Kili-Tesub. KiliTesub, who adopted the throne name Sattiwaza, was married to a daughter of Suppiluliuma I. Together with the Hittite viceroy at Carchemish, Sattiwaza is reported to have crossed the Euphrates and participated in a military campaign to the east of the river.15

8 9 11 12 14

Von Dassow (2008; 2014); de Martino (2015). 10 Wiseman (1953, 31-32; Alalakh Tablet 3). Klengel (1968, 63-64, 69); Bryce (1986, 94). Del Monte and Tischler (1978, 38-39); Forlanini and Marazzi (1986, TAV. XIV). 13 Del Monte and Tischler (1978, 10); Klengel (1999; Karte 5). Klengel (1999, 157). 15 Bryce (2012, 39); Harrak (1987, 7-60). Beckman (1999b, 44-46).

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As a result of this campaign, Suppiluliuma redrew the borders of Mitanni along the Euphrates. The river’s critical role in the mental geographies of Late Bronze Age imperial aspirations is evident in the first part of the passage of the Sattiwaza Treaty. But taking account of the successful military transgression,16 Suppiluliuma places not only the west bank of the river under Hittite control, but also claims several cities on the eastern side for the Hittite viceroy at Carchemish and the newly established political entity of Astata: [I conquered the Mitanni lands . . .] . . . The Euphrates [is my frontier?] and behind me I established Mount Niblani [Lebanon] as my frontier. Any towns of [the land of Karkamiš(?)] – Murmurik, Šipri, Mazuwati, Šurun – these fortified cities of [the land of Karkamiš(?)] I gave to my son [Piyaššili]. All the cities of the land of Aštata situated on the west bank (of the Euphrates) of the land of Mitanni – Ekalte, [. . .], Aḫ una and Terqa – these cities belong to the land of Aštata. Since Piyaššili the Prince, together with Šattiwaza the Prince, crossed the Euphrates and penetrated to the city of Irrite, all the cities across (the river) that are held by Piyaš [šili], they (also) belong to Piyaššili.17

The extent of Hittite holdings east of the Euphrates are as yet unclear, but may have extended at least nominally – as by the text of the treaty – as far east as the Balikh river, a tributary of the Euphrates in the Jazira region of northern Mesopotamia.18 The Land of Astata may have extended from the eastern side of the Euphrates at Tell Munbaqa-Ekalte to Terqa, Tell Al-Asharah north of the Khabur confluence, and to Ahuna on the Balikh river north of Tell Bi’aTuttul.19 During the reign of Sattiwaza’s successor, Sattuara I, the remnants of the Mitanni state east of the Euphrates, which is known as Hanigalbat in Assyrian sources, became an equally unwilling vassal of Assyria.20 The western most provincial centre of the Middle Assyrian polity was located on the lower Khabur river at Tell Sheikh Hamad,21 and from the thirteenth century BCE, Assyria vigorously engaged in the construction of a fortified border in the Balikh, Khabur, and Upper Tigris valleys. Attested only in textual sources are Assyrian claims over regions farther to the west and along the Euphrates.22 Adad-nirari I (1295–1264 BCE) is the first Assyrian king claiming to have marched through Hanigalbat to quell a seemingly Hittite supported rebellion: 16 17 18 20 21

Liverani (2001b). Suppiluliuma and Sattiwaza Treaty, translations combined from Beckman (1999b, 45-46) and Singer (2014, 68). 19 Luciani (1999–2001, 91-94); Hawkins (1983). Cohen (2017, 306). Mitanni also rebelled against Assyria, which was at least initially supported by the Hittites (Bryce 2012, 40). 22 Kühne (2008). Hawkins (1974).

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I captured by conquest the city Taidu, his great royal city, the cities Amasaku, Kaḫ at, Šuru, Nabula, Hurra, Šuduḫ u, and Waššukanu. I took and brought to my city, Aššur, the possessions of those cities, the accumulated (wealth) of his (=Wasašatta’s) fathers, and the treasure of his palace. I conquered, burnt, (and) destroyed the city Irridu and sowed salty plants over it. The great gods gave me to rule from the city Taidu to the city Irridu, the city Eluḫ at and Mount Kašiyeri in its entirety, the fortress of the city Sudu, the fortress of the city Harranu, to the bank of the Euphrates. As for the remainder of his (=Wasašatta’s) people, I imposed upon them corvée (lit. 'hoe, spade, and basket').23

His son, Shalmaneser (1264–1233 BCE), too, talks of campaigning in the same region and the destruction of many of the same cities upstream from Carchemish.24 He also seems to have dispatched troops to Suhu and Mari on the Middle Euphrates, where he reports of Hittite fortifications along the east bank of the river.25 Conversely, a Hittite letter describes an Assyrian raid as far north as Melid/Malatya,26 while Hattusili III writes to Kadasman-Enlil II of Babylon (1263–1255 BCE) that Hittite control extended as far south as the city of Tell Bi’a-Tuttul on the confluence of the Balikh and the Euphrates. The area to the south-east appears controlled not by Assyria but by the Ahlamu (Arameans), who occupied the steppe landscapes between the major rivers.27 Following the death of Shalmaneser I, Hittite king Tudhaliya IV entered into diplomatic correspondence with Shalmaneser’s successor Tukulti-Ninurta I (c. 1233–1197 BCE). In his letter, Tudhaliya IV congratulated the new Assyrian king on his ascent to the throne, urging him to protect his frontiers – and thus seemingly acknowledges Assyrian sovereignty east of the Euphrates.28 Such diplomacy, however, went hand in hand with the construction of imperialist narratives for Tudhaliya’s and Tukulti-Ninurta’s respective home audiences, who, as Mario Liverani pointed out, had to live up to their titles of universal power, and in the Mesopotamian case that implied sovereignty over the lands stretching ‘from the Upper to the Lower Sea’.29 Commemorative inscriptions dating to the later years of Tukulti-Ninurta’s reign recount his early career and include heroic tales of ventures west, including the defeat and removal of nearly ‘28,800 people of Hatti from beyond the Euphrates’. Another adds more specific details mentioning ‘Mari, Hana, Rapiqu, and the mountains of the Ahlamu’ as the locales of his

23 25 26 27 28 29

24 Fales (2011, 9-10); Grayson (1987; A.O.76.3: 26-45). Grayson (1987; A.0.77.1: 81-85). Fales (2011, 10). Harrak (1987, 172-175); Heinhold-Krahmer (1998); for the identification with Arslantepe, see Hawkins (1993b). Luciani (1999–2001, 100). Bryce (2009, 314); Hagenbuchner (1989, 249-260; No. 191). Liverani (2001b, 26-28, 56).

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conquests. The figures, however, appear exaggerated and the occasions were either little more than border skirmishes,30 or simply invented. In light of the striking similarities of the toponyms mentioned, their sequence and the mere doubling of numbers of deportees from an earlier campaign report of Shalmaneser suggest that Assyrian influence in the region was either absent or significantly more limited than Tukulti-Ninurta claimed in his inscription.31 Unlike other deported groups, the mentioned Hittite deportees also remained unattested in Assyrian administrative records.32 Tukulti-Ninurta I also campaigned in the mountainous areas of the Land of Paphi/Papanhi between the Euphrates and the Taurus and the Land of Subari, which is located between the Tur ‘Abdin and the Upper Tigris, both of which provide access routes into Anatolia.33 Later Assyrian inscriptions mention military campaigns to Alzi,34 with Tukulti-Ninurta also leading a campaign into the Nairi lands (Nihirya), probably located to the north and north-east of modern Diyarbakır and in the Anti-Taurus highlands.35 This is a deed he boasts about in a letter to the king of Ugarit, a vassal to the Hittite empire.36 Nervous about the growing Assyrian influence in the Levant, Tudhaliya IV reminds Sausgamuwa of Amurru that ‘[n]o merchant of yours is to go to the Land of Assyria, and you must allow no merchant of Assyria to enter your land or pass through your land’.37 Hittite texts also accuse Assyria of raids on Hittite-held parts of the borderland,38 and a prayer by Tudhaliya39 asks for divine assistance against the Assyrian king. This too, however, served an internal political discourse, much like the Kaska Prayers of Arnuwanda and Asmunikkal discussed in Chapter 4, and as a justification for Hittite military campaigns. COMMUNITIES OF EXCEPTION

The archaeological landscapes of the Euphrates valley and its tributaries have been the subject of numerous rescue surveys and excavations in the wake of hydraulic dam constructions from the 1970s and into the 1990s. Most notable at the regional scale is the marked decline in settlement numbers throughout the second half of the second millennium BCE along the river. Navigable only

30 31 33

34 36 37 38

Grayson (1987, A.0.78.23: 27-30 and 69-70; A.0.78.24: 23-25). 32 Luciani (1999–2001, 102-103). Harrak (1987, 238-239). The copper mines of Ergani-Maden are frequently cited as a motivation for this expansion (Bryce 2009, 349), but as yet neither textual nor archaeometric studies have been able to confirm this. 35 Klengel (1999, 295). Singer (1985). RS 34.165, translation by Lackenbacher (1982). Tudhaliya IV and Sausgamuwa Treaty, translation by Beckman (1999b, 103-107). 39 Hagenbuchner (1989, 275-278; No. 202). Otten (1962, 76).

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to the south of the modern Iraqi city of Hı¯t, the Euphrates channelled eastwest overland movement into a series of bottlenecks at fordable crossings. Such fords are generally guarded by important and occasionally paired settlements.40 At the micro-scale, the communities, which lined the riverbanks during the later second millennium BCE, however, were characterised by diversity in terms of their scale, social organisation, political affiliations, and material expressions (see also Chapter 7). Along the upper courses of the river, the c. 4 ha site of Arslantepe, ancient Melid, appears to have served as a regional centre. Excavations at Arslantepe revealed a sequence of large gate structures, whose architectural elements find parallels on the central Anatolian plateau. The gate of Level VB (1750–1600 BCE), which was inserted into the settlement’s earthen defence system, was flanked by two bipartite quadrangular towers similar to the gate systems at Alacahöyük and Hattusa.41 A second monumental gate dating to the final centuries of the Late Bronze Age (Level IV, 1400–1200 BCE) had a different ground plan. Its tenaille architecture also finds central Anatolian comparisons, as does a gallery of false vaults reminiscent of central Anatolian posterns. At Arslantepe, however, and unlike at central Anatolian sites, the vaults were associated with water storage. The pottery from the later occupation phases also shared significant similarities with the north-central Anatolian cultural sphere (see Chapter 8).42 A handful of small Late Bronze Age sites, such as İmamoǧlu,43 Pirothöyük,44 Şemsiyetepe,45 and İmikuş ağı,46 dotted the Malatya hinterland.47 İmikuş ağı’s pottery (Level 10) in particular displays strong connections with the central Anatolian cultural sphere of the transitional Middle to Late Bronze Age in the form of signe royal stamp impressions and jars with painted geometric decorations. The neighbouring Altınova plain to the east of the Euphrates, which formed the centre of the polity of Isuwa from the fourteenth century BCE onwards, underwent a rather different development. Settlement appears to have been unusually stable with almost all Middle Bronze Age sites occupied during the Late Bronze Age,48 suggesting continuity in local settlement and land-use practices, and by extension also socio-political structures. This region experienced a slight drop in settled area during the early part of the second millennium BCE, followed by an increase during the Late Bronze Age. New settlements were established primarily in the lower tiers of the settlement

40 42 44 46 48

41 Brown and Wilkinson (2017, 129). Frangipane (2011, 985); Palmieri (1978). 43 Pecorella (1975); Manuelli (2013). Uzunoğlu (1986). 45 Karaca (1981, 1982, 1983, 1984). Darga (1980, 1981, 1982, 1983, 1985). 47 Konyar (2002, 2006). Yakar and Gürsan-Salzmann (1979); Di Noccera (2005). Whallon and Kantman (1970); Seradoğlu (1977); Whallon (1979); Özdoğan (1977).

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hierarchy with a nearly 40 percent increase in small sites or agricultural hamlets and a 60 percent increase in medium-sized villages. The region’s political centre is traditionally located at the small (c. 2.8 ha) mound of Korucutepe, about 30 km east of the modern town of Elâzığ.49 If correctly identified as the Isuwan capital, local kingship was not only shortlived, as is suggested by Hittite textual sources, but also limited in nature, lacking, for instance, architectural expression. A hypothetical exploitation of the Ergani copper mines aside, Isuwan kings appear to have been in charge of a polity of newly established agricultural hamlets and estates, whose cultural traditions incorporated some Anatolian and as well as Mesopotamian practices. Exposures of the Late Bronze Age Phases I and J recovered mainly domestic contexts. Korucutepe Phase I (c. 1600–1400 BCE) was characterised by ‘tightly packed houses and streets’,50 with some variation in house size,51 but no definitive material instantiations of central institutional power such as a palace or temple building.52 Terracing activities that began in Phase I continued on a larger scale in the following Phase J (c. 1400–1200 BCE), which in addition to domestic structures also featured a brick platform and corbelled passage as well as the remnants of substantial walls for a tower or gate.53 A subsequent building phase saw the construction of a small house on top of the brick platform as well as the downscaling of other buildings. These appear again to have been replaced by more substantial stone architecture in the following ‘Orthostat Stage’. Glyptic finds from a subsequent pit horizon confirm the existence, and indicate a likely local presence, of Isuwan royal personages as well as illustrate their close connections with the Hittite imperial administrative apparatus.54 I will return to this in the following chapter. Two further excavated sites, Norş untepe and Tepecik, in the Altınova are of a rural or non-urban character, and most likely formed part of the polity of Isuwa. Norş untepe,55 which is located in the vicinity of Korucutepe, yielded two consecutive Late Bronze Age settlement phases.56 These overlay in a terraced fashion, and often immediately, the burnt mudbrick of a substantial Early Bronze Age structure. The site’s Middle Bronze Age occupation was much less extensive and perhaps also less permanent in character.57 Three fully excavated Late Bronze Age houses, arranged around an open space, occupied 49

50 52

53 55

The initial rescue excavations took place between 1968 and 1979 (Van Loon 1978) in the wake of the Keban dam constructions. A Turkish team later re-investigated the Late Bronze Age levels between 1973 and 1975 and prior to the flooding of the site (Ertem 1974, 1988; Umurtak 1996). 51 Van Loon (1980, 275). Van Loon (1978, 275-276). Also notable in this context is the apparent absence of a Late Bronze Age fortification wall (Bier 1978; Van Loon 1980); although see Burney (1980) and Ertem (1974) for a different interpretation. 54 Van Loon (1978, 34-35). Van Loon (1978, 38-40; 1980, 276). 56 57 Korbel (1985, 12). Horizons IV and III. Horizon V.

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the central part of the mound. A general continuity characterised the architectural layout of the two Late Bronze Age occupation phases, although several new structures were built and additions to existing buildings were made in Horizon III.58 The Norş untepe houses were well built and relatively large, but essentially domestic in character. A possible silo59 together with two seal finds, a Mitanni-style cylinder seal and a north-central Anatolian biconvex seal,60 may point towards centralised administrative interests in, or oversight of, the site’s resources. The site of Tepecik also yielded a collection of domestic houses and several hieroglyphic Luwian seals.61 Downstream from Elâzığ, evidence for Late Bronze Age settlement becomes very sparse. The region to the north of the Hittite viceregal seat at Carchemish appears to have been devoid of permanent settlement altogether. This is especially the case given the recent downward revision of the construction and rebuilding of a monumental gate structure at the otherwise very small (0.8 ha) site of Tille Höyük. Tille controlled the west bank of a natural Euphrates crossing near the modern bridge of the Adıyaman-Urfa road and had been traditionally interpreted as a Late Bronze Age outpost of the Hittite empire.62 Built on top of a collection of domestic units, a monumental gate structure and the remnants of a casemate wall, both of which were destroyed in a massive conflagration (Burnt Level), were thought to be the remnants of a Hittite imperial intervention at the site. A change in pottery tradition from Middle Bronze Age handmade combed vessels to a simple, plain and wheelmade repertoire was taken to confirm this scenario.63 The date of the felling of the timber used in the construction of the gate, however, has now been dendro-14C-wiggle-matched to 1150 BCE, much later than previously assumed.64 This now serves as a cautionary tale in the use of stereotypical assumptions of early state power and its infrastructural reach and interest, which I will discuss in more detail in Chapter 8. Other major Euphrates sites such as Lidar Höyük, where a seal impression of Kuzi-Tesub dates Stratum 7 to the period following the collapse of the Hittite empire (see Chapter 9),65 Gritille, Kurban, or Samsat Höyük similarly have yielded no evidence for occupation during the second half of the Late Bronze 58 60 63 64

65

59 Korbel (1985, 47, 123). Hauptmann (1972, 107-108). 61 62 Wäfler (1974); see also Chapter 7. Esin (2001). Summers (1993, 2). See Glatz (2007, 2009) for a re-assessment of the Tille Höyük pottery as having no particular diagnostic connections with Late Bronze Age north-central Anatolia. Griggs and Manning (2009); a fragment of a Mycenaean stirrup-jar (LH IIIA2/B1) dated to around 1300 BCE and biconvex seals with Luwian hieroglyphic inscriptions (Collon 1993b; figs. 74.5-6) from insecure contexts are, thus, unrelated to any substantial architecture at the site. As Geoffrey Summers, recently wrote, ‘[no] longer can the remains of the Burnt Level be seen as the embodiment of control over a river crossing from the Hittite Empire through into the Hittite revival’ at Carchemish in the Early Iron Age (Summers 2013, 317). Müller (2003, 139).

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Age. Surface survey in the hinterland of the Early Bronze Age centre of Titriş Höyük identified two Late Bronze Age sites,66 while the Tigris-Euphrates Archaeological Reconnaissance Project recorded only one, Cısırın Höyük, which is thought to have Middle Assyrian cultural connections.67 There is also as yet no substantive evidence for large-scale Late Bronze Age levels at the site of Carchemish itself.68 In stark contrast to the region upstream from Carchemish, surveys and excavations in the wake of the Tabqa and Tishrin dam constructions identified twenty Late Bronze Age settlements dotting the course of the Middle Euphrates.69 Tell Bazi, Tell Munbaqa-Ekalte, and Meskene-Emar formed substantial, well-fortified as well as long-standing urban centres with monumental temple structures and extensive residential quarters that were rooted in the Middle Bronze Age.70 None of these sites, however, show signs of an unequivocal architectural instantiation of centralised political power in the form of a palace. This, together with evidence from written sources, suggests a cooperative model of local government distinct from the palace-focused, hierarchical political networks which dominated many areas of the east Mediterranean and Middle East during the Late Bronze Age. Among the most extensively explored Late Bronze Age settlements along the Euphrates is the site of Meskene-Emar. Emar was an important riverine harbour and transfer hub for overland trade owing to its strategic positioning at the point where the Euphrates runs closest to the Mediterranean coast.71 Emar was nominally incorporated into the Hittite-created Land of Astata following Suppiluliuma I’s victory over Mitanni and was managed directly by the viceroy at Carchemish and his administrative personnel.72 Sprawling over c. 70 ha, the site is located atop a steep-sided, terraced limestone plateau overlooking the western bank of the river. It is a naturally defensive location, protected by the Euphrates in the north and east. An artificial trench defended it to the west, while traces of a Late Bronze Age fortification wall run along the southern edge of the site. During the Late Bronze Age, the temples of Ba’al and Astarte, both of the Syrian antetemple type, crowned the topographically and visually most prominent location of Emar’s cityscape, which was otherwise dominated by domestic quarters and additional sacred structures, such as Temple M2.73 Emar is attested in Syrian textual sources from the later third millennium BCE,74 but only the most recent bout of excavations yielded evidence for an Early and Middle Bronze Age occupation at the site.75 As a result, the vast 66 68 69 71 74 75

67 Algaze et al. (1992). Algaze, Breuninger, and Knudstad (1994). Marchetti (2014); see also Chapter 7. 70 For a summary, see Brown and Wilkinson (2017). Otto (2014a). 72 73 Margueron (1996, 77). Beckman (1992). Faist and Finkbeiner (2002). Archi (1990); Mori (2003, 13); Rutz (2013, 47). Finkbeiner (1999–2000; 2001, 63-71; 80); Reculeau (2008, 136).

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majority of Emar’s material culture and urban tradition can now be understood as an unbroken sequence of local traditions rather than as an Hittite imperial imposition, which had been proposed previously.76 Emar, for instance, took part in an independent, regional ceramic tradition, which had close links to western Syria. With the exception of an increasing trend towards simple, plain forms, however, this tradition shared no connections with north-central Anatolia or Upper Mesopotamia. This is also the case for other Middle Euphrates sites such as El-Qitar, Tell Hadidi, Tell Fray, or Tell Munbaqa. Only the site’s administrative technologies and practices appear to have been the subject of strategic local cultural appropriation. A house, originally called the temple du devin (Temple M1), yielded an extensive archive of over 1700 cuneiform tablets and fragments dating to the final century of the Late Bronze Age. The texts from this archive were written on clay tablets conforming to the so-called Syro-Anatolian format and were validated with seals combining Syrian and Anatolian stylistic, morphological, and script elements.77 Other family archives, such as the legal documents kept by the Hema family and found in Area T, were also written in the Syro-Anatolian tradition. Several more houses at Emar yielded tablet collections. The format and content of Emar’s Late Bronze Age administrative technologies provide us with a rare opportunity in the context of the Hittite imperial network to explore the material culture and practice of imperial collaboration, which I will do in more detail in the following Chapter 7. Tell Munbaqa-Ekalte, like Emar, was a substantial, c. 15 ha, fortified square settlement on the east bank of the Euphrates, whose highest topographic points featured two monumental temples. Residential quarters were arranged along several broad streets and consisted of central-room houses with large central halls flanked by smaller rooms on the side.78 Cuneiform texts from the burnt Level II-Mbq-4 suggest that the settlement first flourished during the period of Mitanni overlordship,79 and that it was ruled by a mayor and a collective of elders. A palace and two royal figures are also mentioned, although their sovereignty, as at Emar, was much more circumscribed than those of other Late Bronze Age rulers. During the second half of the Late Bronze Age, Ekalte’s monumental structures, including its fortifications, were renewed and reinforced. Tell Bazi, situated on the eastern bank of the Euphrates about 60 km upstream from Emar, was a sprawling settlement as well during the Late Bronze Age.80 Here, too, a temple towered over the surrounding city atop a c. 60 m high natural hill. Among the finds from the temple were two 76 77 79

Margueron (1980); Caubet (1982, 2014). Cohen (2012); Rutz (2013) for recent discussions. 80 Czichon and Werner (2008). Otto (2006).

78

Otto (2014a; fig. 3).

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cuneiform tablets mentioning Saustatar and Artama of Mitanni,81 who appear to have interacted not with a local sovereign but with a group of elders. The presence of standardised house plans and inventories across the site and the absence of a clearly identifiable palatial structure point to a relatively flat social hierarchy and the existence of a distinctive corporate model of government at all major Middle Euphrates urban centres, at least as far south as Tell Bi’aTuttul.82 The residential quarter of Tell Bazi, the Weststadt, was destroyed by a massive conflagration that forced the site’s inhabitants to leave much of their possessions behind. The date and source of this destruction, along with others such as at Tell Hadidi, however, remain as yet unresolved.83 Dotted amongst the large urban centres of the Middle Euphrates were a series of smaller and, in some cases, also fortified sites. Some of these have yielded material culture more closely referencing the Hittite as well as Assyrian imperial realms than the region’s urban centres. They also would appear to bear witness to the ambiguous geopolitical situation along the river. Tell Shiukh Fawqani, for instance, was a small site located on the east bank of the Euphrates a few kilometres downstream from Carchemish.84 It was abandoned sometime in the fourteenth century BCE and yielded typical Middle Assyrian pottery in the subsequent layer.85 Limited evidence for a Late Bronze Age occupation also comes from Tell Aushariye and Tell Ahmar. The stronghold of Tell Faq’us was situated in sight of Emar downstream on the Euphrates, and yielded a bottle stopper with the seal impression of the hieroglyphic seal ring of a ‘great/head of the charioteers’, a Hittite high official.86 Tell Fray was another small, thirteenth century BCE fortified settlement in the floodplain southeast of Emar. Here, limited excavations exposed structures, which were originally interpreted as temples and a small palace,87 whose material culture was primarily local in character.88 A large bulla with eight impressions of the combined seal of the Hittite royal couple, Hattusili III and Puduhepa, was found in the destruction debris of Level IV.89 This and the pre-firing incisions of the scribe Simigatal in hieroglyphic Luwian on three storage vessels point to the presence of items that had passed through the Hittite administrative apparatus.90 At the same time, however, fragmentary

81 84 86 88

89 90

82 83 Sallaberger, Einwag, and Otto (2006). Otto (2014a, 54). Otto (2014b, 93-95). 85 Fales et al. (2005); Fales (2011). Capet (2005); Tenu (2009, 201-202). 87 Margueron (1982, 61); Mora (1987, 252; Group X No. 2.8). Matthiae (1980). Paulo Matthiae (1980, 48) proposed the existence of Anatolian imports in the form of handled cups, which Peter Pfälzner (1995, 203), however, pointed out also have north-Syrian predecessors. Pfälzner (1995, 204) also did not find there to be any Middle Assyrian ceramic influences. Archi (1980b, 31-32; TAV. I: 1-2); Matthiae (1980, 38). Archi (1980b, 32; TAV. I: 3-4 and II: 5-6).

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Middle Assyrian administrative and judicial tablets were also found on the pavement of a house.91 Tell al-Hajj and Sandaliye Maqbara, the latter of which is located opposite Tell Bazi, were also occupied in the Late Bronze Age, their surface collections yielding some Middle Assyrian ceramic fragments.92 Assyrian grey ware also comes from the site of Tell at-Tadayayn.93 By contrast, no Middle Assyrian ceramics have been reported from the city of Tell Bi’a-Tuttul on the Euphrates-Balikh confluence.94 To the south of the Euphrates-Khabur confluence, a Middle Assyrian cultural influence in the form of pottery and architectural practices becomes somewhat more palpable at the small and often fortified sites of Tell Qubr Abu al-Atiq95 and Khirbet ed-Diniyeh-Harradu.96 These have traditionally been interpreted as Assyrian outposts, although the range and density of Middle Assyrian material culture differs significantly at these sites and points to a range of relationships and localised processes of adoption and appropriation in the borderlands of Babylonia and the Assyrian realm.97 The sites of Sur Mur’eh, Sur Jur-eh, Glei’eh, and Tell az-Zawiyah,98 the island of Began,99 and ‘Usiyeh100 also fall into this category. A number of Late Bronze Age graves are also attested at Mari, but no architectural remains of that period have been identified.101 These patchy signs of fluctuating Assyrian presence on the Euphrates contrast with the Syrian Jazira, which was the subject of Assyrian practices of provincialisation and border construction. Surface surveys suggest a decline in settlement numbers from the third millennium BCE and a further reduction in the first half of the Late Bronze Age concentrating the region’s population in fewer, larger sites.102Assyrian imperial investment is most evident in the monumentalisation of Tell Sheikh Hamad-Dur-Katlimmu, the provincial

91 93 94 95 96 97

98 99 100 101 102

92 Matthiae (1980, 38-39). Einwag, Kohlmeyer, and Otto (1995, 105). Kohlmeyer (1984a, 193; 1984b, 112). Röllig (2008, 72); Einwag, Kohlmeyer, and Otto (1995, 103-104). Fenollós and Caramelo (2012, 56); Pfälzner (1995) for a definition of this ‘official’ repertoire. Kepinski (2012); Tenu (2015, 81). Tenu (2006, 224); Brown (2013, 100-103); the presence of so-called Assyrian administrative pottery does not necessarily equate with Assyrian control (Brown 2014, 91), let alone sovereignty. Postgate and Watson (1979, 148, 155); al-Shukri (1982, 10); Tenu (2006, 220, 224). Gawlikowski (1983–1984, 207); Young (1983, 30); Krogulska (1987, 155); but see Herles (2007, 422). al-Shukri (1982, 11); Tenu (2006, 221). Parrot (1937, 81-84); Jean-Marie (1999, 42-73). Balikh: Akkermans (1984); Lyon (2000); Wilkinson (2000a); Ristvet and Weiss (2005); Khabur surveys: Morandi Bonacossi (1996, 2008); Kühne (2009); Kulemann-Ossen (2009); Kolinski (2015, 17-18).

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administrative centre of Mitanni/Hanigalbat during the later years of Shalmaneser I.103 Also attested are construction works at Taidu and canal works along the east bank of the Khabur.104 The Upper Balikh valley too experienced a similar drop in settlement from forty to six small to mediumsized sites with definitive signs of a Middle Assyrian presence.105 This includes the fortified stronghold at Tell Sabi Abyad and Hamam et-Turkman, varyingly identified as Assyrian dunnu or ‘lordly manors’,106 which formed part of Assyrian strategies of agricultural colonisation and border construction.107 In sum, the archaeological picture of the Euphrates borderlands is one dominated by regionally idiosyncratic patterns of settlement, culture, and forms of socio-political organisation, into which the Hittite imperial apparatus sought to insert itself predominantly through bureaucratic and ritual means in cooperation with local, subordinate sovereigns or families who were aspiring to greater socio-political influence (see Chapter 7). A scatter of small, fortified sites and outposts, especially at strategic crossing points, reinforces the impression of a zone subject to both frequent cross-river interactions and the potentially hostile nature of some of these encounters. The political identities of these outposts, however, cannot be determined with any degree of confidence, with some either fluctuating between Hittite and Assyrian affiliations or deliberately ambiguous and inclusive in their material culture to facilitate economic exchange, such as in the case of Tell Fray. The latter interpretation would seem to be supported by textual sources concerned with daily borderland practice. LINEN FROM CARCH EMISH

Imperial borderland stories, in which royal heroes are always victorious and boundaries ever outwardly expanding, and which were recorded and recounted for the benefit of respective metropolitan audiences,108 can be interpolated with recent archival evidence from Emar, Tell Sheikh Hamad, Tell Chuera, and Tell Sabi Abyad. Unsurprisingly, they paint a picture of an economically vibrant and, therefore, deliberately porous and politically ambiguous border, in which local polities, while nominally under imperial authority, retained much of their previous autonomy of action and exchange networks. Two documents from the city of Emar, for instance, recount how ‘king’ Pilsu-Dagan and Emar’s troops faced, seemingly without Hittite support, a siege by the remnants of the Mitanni state. Pilsu-Dagan also appears to have 103 104 107

Kühne (2008); Cancik-Kirschbaum (1996, 19-45); Jakob (2003, 59). 105 106 Brown (2014, 91). Lyon (2000). Akkermans (2006); Kolinski (2015, 25). 108 Radner (2004, 69-71); Kolinski (2015, 14). Liverani (2001b, 56).

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issued legal documents, normally the prerogative of the chancellery at Carchemish and an indication of practical independence in the period following Suppiluliuma I and Mursili II’s Syrian campaigns and before IniTesub I of Carchemish was able to establish more effective, administrative oversight in the later thirteenth century BCE.109 The movement across the river of so-called fugitives and marauders is also attested in these documents. In the eponym year of Ina-Assur-sumi-asbat (c. 1215 BCE), a band (ERÍN.MEŠ) from Carchemish is reported to have escaped from Assyrian grasp and made its way back to Carchemish.110 The movement of official caravans, envoys, royal gifts, and merchandise formed a regular component of Euphrates borderland practice. This includes the exchange of goods in the spirit of royal gift exchange,111 such as Adadnirari’s appeal to Hattusili III for a consignment of iron,112 as well as more commercial expeditions. From the Assyrian provincial archive at DurKatlimmu, for instance, we know of a high-level Hittite caravan travelling to Assur in the eponym year of Ina-Assur-sumi-asbat.113 In the same year, merchants from Emar visited the Assyrian capital.114 A few years later, in the eponym-year of Ninu’ayu (c. 1213–1212 BCE), another Hittite diplomatic visit took place at Assur, which was joined on its return by Levantine envoys from Amurru and Sidon.115 A text from Sheikh Hamad also talks of a future shipment of linen from Carchemish, which, however, could not be consigned due to crop failure.116 A text from Assur records the delivery of textiles from the Assyrian king to a Hittite interpreter.117 A convoy from Carchemish was trading in oil and bronze utensils east of the Euphrates.118 Assyrian merchants too are attested at Carchemish and in the Land of Astata, which appear to have functioned as intermediate markets, where they exchanged Assyrian textiles and metalwork for gold, copper and tin, high-quality timber, olive oil, honey, aromatics, and linen.119 Exchanges included those that were direct as well as transactions on credit, which suggests a degree of trust and long-term familiarity.120

109 110 112

113 114 116 117 120

Cohen and d’Alfonso (2008). 111 Dur-Katlimmu no. 2 (DeZ 3439) (Cancik-Kirschbaum 1996, 94). Singer (2007a). Beckman (1999b, 148); during the Late Bronze Age, iron was cast into writing tablets, jewellery, and ceremonial weapons (Bryce 2003, 103); see Košak (1986) for iron in Hittite texts. Dur-Katlimmu no. 6 (DeZ 3320); for the reconstruction of the caravan’s itinerary, see map in Cancik-Kirschbaum (1996, 31); (Singer 2007a). 115 Dur-Katlimmu no. 13: 5; DeZ 3311. Kühne (1995, 216-219). Linen is also mentioned in Dur-Katlimmu no. 7 (DeZ 3835); for a discussion, see Singer (2007a). 118 119 Freydank (1994). Cancik-Kirschbaum (1996, 117). Faist (2001, 62-63). Faist (2001, 54).

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Up to c. 1180 BCE, trade appears to have flourished with textual sources suggesting frequent expeditions by Levantine merchants to the east of the Euphrates, crossing at Carchemish or Emar and travelling to Assur via the Balikh valley. A text from Tell Sabi Abyad, for instance, reminds the steward of the dunnu, Tammitte, to remember (under pain of death) to seal/account for all imported goods arriving with the caravans from Carchemish.121 There are also hints at cross-border military cooperation in the final decades of the Late Bronze Age. One of the last texts from Tell Sabi Abyad, dated to just before the site’s abandonment sometime between 1200–1175 BCE, refers to a military campaign led jointly by Ili-pada, the proprietor of the estate at Tell Sabi Abyad and governor of Assyria’s Hanigalbat province, and the king of Carchemish, Kuzi-Tesub. Around 1190 BCE, Ai-malik, the akil ma¯ ti of Emar, and the king of Carchemish are reported in the Sabi Abyad text as having stood in some form of conflict, propelling Assyrian troops to come to the aid of Carchemish.122 Only days later, Ili-pada appears to have been involved in the diplomatic settling of the conflict, followed by rumours of peace talks that were initiated by Emar. Between, and varyingly entangled with, the urban communities of the Euphrates and Khabur regions and the agents of more distant imperial centres were what Brian Brown called autonomous or non-state actors.123 These communities, which, like the Kaska in the north of Anatolia, inhabited zones of great political friction, were able to withstand imperial incorporation and shaped as well as benefitted from the location, spatial structure, and nature of both the northern border of Assyria along the Balikh and the Hittite imperial reach along the Euphrates. Among these groups were the remnants of the Mitanni state in the Tur Abdin mountain region, which posed a major obstacle to communication and access to the region’s resources. Another, predominantly non-state zone was the steppe region between the Balikh and the Euphrates river. According to Middle Assyrian sources, this was the domain of tribal groups referred to as Sutu/Suteans and Ahlamu/Arameans. Generally portrayed or interpreted as mobile ‘agents of instability’,124 these groups appear to have been sometimes cooperative and sometimes antagonistic, delaying messengers or envoys. In later documentation, the Suteans appear situated mostly beyond Assyrian control, although texts from Tell Chuera and Sabi Abyad suggest the conduct of diplomatic meetings between Assyrian dignitaries and Sutean leaders. A treaty, for instance, aimed to stop Suteans from aiding Assyria’s enemies.125 Overall, however, this zone of agriculturally diminishing returns and political ambiguity appears to have benefitted all involved and with 121 122 124

Akkermans and Wiggermann (2015, 120; T93–20). Akkermans and Wiggermann (2015, 120-121; T96–1, T98–119). 125 Szuchman (2007, 34). Brown (2014, 104).

123

Brown (2013).

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few signs that bellicose imperial rhetoric on either side translated into more than border skirmishes. AMBIGUITY AND TEMPORALITY

In sum, the Euphrates river was not an effective political watershed of loyalties and taxes. Instead, it offered itself as a tool for political production. At the same time, its imposing materiality and long-standing symbolism captivated imperial imagination, fixing into place what was both imaginable in cosmological terms and attainable in practice.126 Underneath this meta-layer of imperial ideology and border rhetoric, the Euphrates valley and the steppe landscapes stretching out from it formed a patchwork of local communities, whose heterarchies and decentralised organisation offered no straightforward options for incorporation into either the Hittite, Mitanni, or Assyrian networks. At the same time, these political idiosyncrasies created the ambiguous spaces in which cross-border trade could flourish and competing political networks connect outside the constraints of metropolitan ideology. In this and the two preceding chapters, I examined three borderlands of the Hittite empire and their rhetoric, performance, and practice. The aim was to trace through archaeology and text the spatialities and dynamisms of imperial edges and to document the relationships, overlaps, and discords between official performance and local practice. In concert, they highlight the multiple temporalities of Hittite imperial in the making. The Hittite empire’s borders not only skirted the geographical limits of its military or political influence, but Late Bronze Age Anatolia was also dissected by multiple, spatially as well as temporally nested and continuously evolving political faults. These were places and landscapes, where relationships, critical for imperial reproduction were not possible to establish, or where they were challenged or ruptured. Borderland processes in these regions, moreover, did not cease when imperial overlords set their sights on more distant lands and began to perform new borders. Instead, different zones of rupture and competition continued to influence both local experience and imperial biography at large. The following two chapters shift the book’s focus from landscapes and regional scales of analysis to the investigation of how specific types of things helped make and maintain the Hittite imperial network, and how their production, use, and local appropriation created social and cultural arenas in which specific aspects of the imperial network were negotiated and transformed.

126

For differences in interpretation regarding the extent of Middle Assyrian power in the Euphrates region, see e.g. Luciani (1999–2001) and Fales (2011).

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PART III

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T

hus far, I have examined Hittite imperial practices of sovereignty, their limits, and locales of contest from a predominantly regional, landscapecentred perspective. The critical centrality of things, from cult vases to newly established settlements, rock reliefs, but also of mountains and rivers, and their potentiality to reproduce, rupture, and arrest the relational ties of political networks, has already become evident. The following two chapters focus more intently on things and their political capacities. I have selected two very different categories of things and their associated practices for this purpose, both significant for the imperial project, but relatively limited in the demands that they placed on humans and the dependencies of procurement and maintenance their collectives created. This includes bureaucratic technologies associated directly with the Hittite imperial elite and its state apparatus on the one hand, and the simple, plain pottery that characteristically defined both everyday life at central Anatolian settlements and furnished large-scale state ritual, on the other. As with preceding chapters, here, too, I will seek to draw out the complicated and multifaceted affiliations with the Hittite imperial project, and the developments their production, presence, and use set in motion. Some things are created specifically to accrue, harness, and symbolise social and political authority. Many of the things that possess such capacities inspire fear, awe, or, most effectively, a combination of the two. Awe may be elicited through physical scale, such as the monumentality of imperial structures, but monumental buildings and the things that adorn them, while signals of 195

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socio-economic prowess (see Chapter 5), are awe inspiring not only because they surpass the scale of the everyday, but because of the combination of architectural ingenuity, seemingly impossible feats of engineering, cultural symbolism, and aesthetic beauty that produced them. Beyond potent symbolism and the ability to elicit emotional responses, specific physical characteristics provide access or deny it, and demand from those duly socialised particular, sanctioned behaviours. Things do not have to be monumental to captivate in this manner. The seals and other instruments of bureaucratic authority, which I will discuss in the following Chapter 7, while physically small, enchant through a combination of artistic skill and beauty, scribal knowledge, its socially restricted nature, and, in the Hittite case, a direct association with state institutions. The mere possession of seals in Late Bronze Age Anatolia and their imprinting, conferred and reproduced the authority of official office. Unlike many other material things and practices of sovereignty, such administrative technologies, moreover, had the capacity to overcome geographical and temporal distance, and with it the need for immediate personal interaction to instantiate authority. Their efficacy as political things, however, also relied on the degree to which their audiences were socialised to accurately interpret the cognitive and behavioural cues they provided, such as not to open particular sealed containers, or heed the information contained in tablets sealed by the distinctive seal impressions of Hittite great kings and high officials. The political potential of this distance between the author and the recipients of written messages and those contained by sealings, also, and inadvertently, created an arena for local collaboration, non-action, negotiation, and resistance. Other things do not themselves enchant or confer authority. This was the case for the most ubiquitous category of material culture of the Hittite imperial network: plain pottery, which I will turn to in Chapter 8. The product neither of tight state control of production for economic efficiency, nor of strategies of cultural hegemony and homogenisation, the political capacity of this category of simple things, I will argue, lay in their context of use, and the direct as well as more ambiguous associations they produced between ritual, the Hittite imperial project, and wider networks of shared behaviours.

SEVEN

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Hamlet

Without debatement further more or less, He should those bearers put to sudden death, No shriving-time allowed. Horatio How was this sealed? Hamlet Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. I had my father’s signet in my purse, Which was the model of that Danish seal, Folded the writ up in form of th’other, Subscribed it, gave’t the impression, placed it safely, The changeling never known. . . .1 Prince Arma-ziti was a well-known Hittite official and scribe stationed in Syria during the late thirteenth century BCE. Among other important assignments, Arma-ziti was involved in the re-drawing of the border between the subordinate kingdoms of Ugarit and neighbouring Siyannu, whose territorial dispute had a long history of Hittite imperial interference.2 Arma-ziti owned two seals, a small, ephemerally cut personal stamp with only his name in

1

Hamlet (Act 5, Scene 2).

2

Singer (1999, 684-685).

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42 Impressions of the (a) official and (b) private seal of Arma-ziti (after Schaeffer 1956, 33-35; 37-38; figs. 49 and 51)

hieroglyphic Luwian and a second, much larger and also better carved specimen which bore his official title (Figure 42).3 Arma-ziti’s official seal was found impressed on a tablet that recorded a dispute involving a merchant in the service of the Ugaritic queen and a customs agent, in which Arma-ziti acted as a judge.4 The second tablet also records a legal case, but one in which Arma-ziti was the defendant and condemned to pay 300 shekels to the Ugaritic king and his son.5 In this case, Arma-ziti used the smaller seal, carrying only his personal name. It was stamped twice across the space normally occupied by a rolled cylinder in the Ugaritic manner and on a local tablet format.6 Things, as Arma-ziti’s seals and their respective uses illustrate, do not only represent power, but humans also draw their authority from special types of things, which, as a result of their material characteristics and specific histories of use and meaning, have the capacity to reproduce social institutions and the essentialised roles that constitute them. Seals, their replicability, and the presumptive spatio-temporal extension of communication afforded by them formed a critical component of the automaton of Bronze Age statehood, the technologies of authority through which early states hoped to transform publics into subjects.7 Assembled with his official seal, which in text, size, and morphology confirmed his social status, scribal skills, and credentials as imperial administrator, Arma-ziti had the authority to pass binding judgement over matters concerning the royal Ugaritic household. To his personal transgressions of Ugaritic law, however – refreshingly surprising from the perspective of current political worlds – he had to answer as an individual. Imperial high office, it would seem, did not place Arma-ziti above the Ugaritic law.

3 5

4 RS 17.316 and RS 17.314 (Schaeffer 1956, 33-35; 37-38; figs. 48-51). Singer (1999, 685). 6 7 Singer (1999, 661, 685). Schaeffer (1956, 38; fig. 51). Smith (2015, 156).

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The mere possession of the right things, however, is not enough to elicit submission. Only those who can expertly manipulate the material symbols of official office may hope to wield them successfully, because things ‘require certain formalized skills to actualize their competences’.8 Human minds and bodies must be socialised in the postures, gestures, and practices that actualise the competences of such tokens of authority. The efficacy of seals rests in their ability to elicit – in non-coercive ways – desired behaviours in their recipients. Equally crucial, thus, is the disciplining of subjects to experience and execute appropriate mental and physical responses of compliance upon their use or display. The resulting docile bodies and minds, Michel Foucault argued, are political instruments in their own right.9 For Foucault, social docility or political anatomy was an invention of modernity, which gradually came to pervade all parts of life through the disciplinary institutions of education, healthcare, and the military and punitive system and their systematic ordering of space and time.10 This modern age of governmental power, which extracts time and labour rather than commodities and wealth and which operates through a ‘closely meshed grid of material coercions’, Foucault juxtaposed with earlier forms of power centred, in philosophical essence, on the existence of a sovereign and their relationship with the collective body politic.11 In the more distant past, spectacle rather than dispersed, disciplinary power was imagined to have produced political subjects. Performance and spectacle were indeed central to the reproduction of early states and empires, as I have illustrated in Chapter 3. Dispersed forms of governmental discipline and their networks of material coercions, however, are not an invention of modernity, even if surveillance was not all pervasive and capabilities for enforcement were drastically diminished.12 Seals and their impressions are the earliest materially attested technologies of such governmental discipline. They present the earliest known technique for the mechanical reproduction of a crafted image, a form of print,13 which was, thus, capable of being widely disseminated and recognised. Seal-like objects are attested in the archaeological record of the wider Middle East since the Neolithic and may have been used as personal ornaments. From the eighth millennium BCE, so-called tokens, usually made of clay, were used as a form of accounting and authentication long before the evolution of centralised political institutions.14 With the expansion of urbanism in Mesopotamia, 8 10 12

13

9 Olsen (2010, 123, original emphasis). Foucault (1991 [1975], 136). 11 Foucault (1991 [1975], 137-138). Foucault (2003, 33-34). Foucault (2003, 35-36). For an alternative philosophical perspective, Agamben (1998). Hodder (2006, 82) sees the creation of docile bodies already in the Neolithic houses at Çatalhöyük. 14 Wengrow (2014, 80-81). Schmandt-Besserat (1992a, 1992b).

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however, seals were increasingly used to mark property and authenticate goods in state-related contexts. Clay lumps or bullae with one or multiple seal impressions were attached to containers as well as to doors as a means of restricting access and validating content or origin. Throughout the Bronze Age, such practices remained closely associated with state bureaucracies, and by the second millennium BCE, sealings were applied increasingly to cuneiform tablets and other media used to record written information.15 Seals, together with cuneiform writing and earlier forms of record keeping, were, thus, co-opted by state institutions into their fledgling knowledge apparatus.16 They became the means of production, accumulation, and verification of knowledge fundamental to the creation and maintenance of disciplinary authority in geographically dispersed, specialised, and therefore weakly tied, social networks. The physical act of impressing a seal presents merely one step in a complex cognitive procedure that starts long before the physical transformation of a clay sealing or tablet. It extends the seal owner and their authority along with the information being communicated across time and space to metaphorically meet and instruct a recipient, evoking in the process ‘a web of possible relationships and consequences in the mind of the beholder’.17 The latter may include both opportunities for, and the potential consequences of, non-sanctioned behaviours towards the sealed object or agreement. Though they may be primarily agents of the state, seals draw their efficacy from a wider sphere of symbolic authorisation that interpolates political office, personal status, cultural meaning, and identity. Seals were personal ornaments, that, depending on their shape, were worn on strings, pivoting on metal rings, or worn on the finger. Often made from semi-precious stones, they formed part of the repertoire of prestige goods through which social standing was expressed and negotiated. As amulets, they fulfilled apotropaic purposes closely connected to the visual and magical qualities of the materials they were made of. Lapis lazuli, for instance, was a sought-after material in third millennium BCE Mesopotamia, appreciated for its intense blue colour and life-giving qualities that stood in symbolic dualism to the colour red.18 Several lapis lazuli cylinder seals depicting banquet scenes were found in the Royal Cemetery at Ur in association with female burials, while hunting scenes on white or red stones, including carnelian, were found in male burials.19 Despite their widespread cross-cultural expressions and broadly analogous uses, seals, therefore, must be understood as the products of very specific, historically situated cultural traditions, which prescribed appropriate physical form, determined locales of display on the body, and compelled specific embodied techniques of use. Cultural convention informed choice and symbolism of seal 15 18

Magness-Gardiner (1990). Casanova (2013, 246-247).

16 19

Foucault (2003, 33-34). Gansell (2007, 10-13).

17

Wengrow (2008, 13; 20).

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matrices, iconographic subject matters and depictive styles, the languages and scripts of potential inscriptions, as well as the media fit for impression. In sum, seals are what Alfred Gell calls technologies of enchantment: things that secure through the enthralling combination of technological and artistic expertise and through the relationships that they create and reference, the ‘acquiescence of duly socialized individuals in a network of intentionalities’,20 though their enchantment is, in any political context, underwritten by the threat of violence. To use Gell’s example, the seventeenth century CE sculptor Bernini provided, by means of his magical power over marble, a physical analogue of the less easily actualised power of Louis XIV, and in the process enhanced the king’s authority. ‘What Bernini can do to marble . . ., Louis XIV can do to you . . .’.21 But just as a marble statue of Bernini’s may instil submissive awe in those duly socialised, the absence of such instruction or of the capacity to monitor and punish transgressions drastically diminishes the benefits of more subtle practices of state-making. Put another way, the presence of seals, their impressions, and related technologies of authority, while indicative of state or imperial intervention, do not in themselves necessarily evidence either effective control or legitimate sovereignty. They do, however, always create through their very existence an opportunity for local action. Writing, Jacques Derrida argued, ‘extends the field and powers of a communication’ in a temporal and spatial sense, yet it is not an extension of oral communication. Inherent in the act of writing is a ‘force of breaking with its context’ of inscription and the presence of its author that not even the appending of a signature, or in our case a seal impression, can hope to remedy.22 Derrida’s différence, the ‘gap between a rule and its performance’, 23 as Hamlet also knew, generates a political space in which forgery, imitation, and the mimetic performances of power become possible, and subordinates are able to question and subvert its logic. The use of seals and other administrative technologies formed an integral part of Hittite imperial practice in some parts of its realm, connecting in a new bureaucratic network several distinct groups of scribal professionals and administrators in central, southern, and eastern Anatolia, the Levant, and inland Syria. The development and encounter of these distinct script communities,24 as I shall explore in the following sections, created not only spaces for imperial 20 22 23

24

21 Gell (2006 [1992], 163). Gell (2006 [1992], 173). Derrida (1982, 311, 316, 327-329). Das (2004, 227); Alison Yao (2016, 219-225) provides an interesting illustration of this phenomenon and the diverse ways in which it can be expressed in a case study from the highland margins of Han China. Here, local potentates were buried with seals, a technology of the Han state, proclaiming invented titulatures. The self-ascribed titles were of a provincial, and relatively low-ranking, nature, but by engaging with this particular semantic field of Han sovereignty, local rulers were able to forge, from a position of apparent deference, a non-imperial, local identity and produce a claim to territory. Houston, Baines, and Cooper (2003, 431); Houston (2008, 234).

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bureaucratic intervention, but also, and equally so, fertile grounds for the negotiation of imperial-local relationships, local social contest, and the formation of new, and ultimately non-imperial, identities and networks. IMPERIAL IMPRESSIONS

In Late Bronze Age Anatolia, seals as well as cuneiform, and, perhaps not quite as exclusively, hieroglyphic writing25 were the prerogative of the state. Extant evidence for seal ownership along with literacy and evidence for record keeping are almost exclusively associated with Hittite state institutions. Titles and professions of attested seal owners betray almost invariably membership of, or close association with, the royal and other elite families,26 while archaeological evidence for administrative practices is restricted to stately milieus (Figure 43). At Hattusa, early signs of administrative activities, in the form of collections of sealed bullae, were found in storage rooms associated with

43 Main sites with north-central Anatolian text and glyptic finds (base map: ESRI Topographic Data (Creative Commons): World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water)

25 26

Waal (2011) argues for a more widespread use of the hieroglyphic script on the basis of its survival beyond the demise of the Hittite state apparatus (see also Chapter 9). Herbordt (2005, 91-92; Abb. 47).

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Temple 1 in the Lower City27 and in Building D on Büyükkale.28 Later added were the Westbau archive on Niş antepe29 and several Upper City temples,30 suggesting the expansion of the Hittite bureaucratic apparatus from a relatively modest operation at the time of Suppiluliuma I and Mursili II to a much larger one a century later.31 Royal and official seals and seal impressions tie the provincial and cult centres of Alacahöyük, Eskiyapar, Ortaköy-Sapinuwa, Maş at-Tapikka, Kuş aklı-Sarissa, and Kaman-Kalehöyük into a distinctive central Anatolian network or sphere of administrative practice.32 Scribes across the central Anatolian plateau used the same script and tablet formats, composed the same types of texts, and used the same writing styles. All Anatolian texts found outside of Hattusa, moreover, make reference to the capital.33 Seal matrices account for only a very small proportion of the Anatolian glyptic corpus,34 the vast majority of which consists of impressed clay sealings and bullae.35 Sealings are clay lumps with seal impressions pressed directly onto containers made from cloth or leather,36 and onto baskets, reed work,37 bottle stoppers,38 and unfired ceramic vessels.39 Bullae are clay cones or lumps, which were originally hung from knots or strings40 and attached to tablets made of either clay or wood.41 A Late Bonze Age text fragment from Oymaa˘gaç Höyük, for instance, suggests that items received by the central authority were placed into wooden chests, which were subsequently sealed.42 Anatolian texts also mention the sealing of containers, doors, and city gates,43 practices already attested during Middle Bronze Age.44 Clay tablets themselves were rarely sealed in Anatolia. Only those directly implicated in the expansion or consolidation of the Hittite political network received such authentication. They include the landgrant documents of the fifteenth century BCE, which were impressed with anonymous royal Labarna 27 29 32 34

35

36 38 40 41

42 44

28 Boehmer and Güterbock (1987). Güterbock (1940, 1942); Neve (1982, 99-100). 30 31 Herbordt (2005). Neve (1999). van den Hout (2007, 346). 33 Herbordt (2005, 2-3). van den Hout (2009). The only attested specimen is a black steatite seal of Mursili II, which was found at Ugarit. The seal measures 5 cm in diameter and takes a planoconvex form 1.3 cm in height (Schaeffer 1956; fig. 110). Herbordt (2005, 3); this discrepancy may be explained by the high degree of mobility of small, personal items such as seals and the nature of archival practice, which results in the accumulation of sealed bullae in specific locales. Archival material was also regularly discarded (Weeden 2014, 41). 37 Herbordt (2005, 34-36). Müller-Karpe (1997, 110; Abb. 8.3-5; 1998, 103; Abb. 7). 39 Müller-Karpe (1997, 110; Abb. 8.2). Seidl (1972); Müller-Karpe (1988; Tafel 48.3-4). Herbordt (2005, 25). Herbordt (2005, 32-39; Abb. 18); more recently, Theo van den Hout suggested that the sealed bullae represent separate administrative procedures from the authentication of written documents, since the majority of sealing officials are not attested as scribes or mentioned in written documents (van den Hout 2007, 346). 43 van den Hout (2009, 47; 2010). Neve (1966, 24-25; Abb. 11); Otten (1983b, 50-52). Alp (1968); N. Özgüç (1980); Weingarten (1990, 1994).

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seals (see also Chapter 2),45 and the international correspondence, vassal treaties, and associated legal decisions of the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE that proclaimed and projected Hittite sovereignty over south-east Anatolia and northern Syria. Particularly important sealed documents, such as treaties, were sometimes also made of metal. In the case of clay tablets, only those sent to vassals and diplomatic contacts were impressed with the royal seal, while the Hittite chancellery at Hattusa filed away unsealed copies,46 underlining the role of the seal as a technology of enchantment in the public performance of imperial authority. From the later fifteenth century BCE onwards, Hittite rulers began to use personalised royal seals with their names inscribed in Luwian hieroglyphs at the centre as well as with a cuneiform text around the outer seal edge. Royal seals subsequently grew in size and developed a convex morphology which produced a distinctive, deep concave impression. Suppiluliuma I added the characteristic winged sun-disk to the royal aedicula, while so-called embracescenes involving a divine figure were introduced during Muwatalli II’s reign; Tudhaliya IV contributed a ‘Labarna’ title. For a short while, a seal in the form of a Maltese cross, whose ends carried a royal genealogy in Luwian hieroglyphs, was also in use. Tudhaliya, in addition to his round stamp, was the only Hittite ruler who also possessed a cylinder seal and who used a square stamp with the title ‘king of the universe’ borrowed from Assyrian royal titulature.47 Stamps, which are already widely attested during the Middle Bronze Age in central Anatolia, also predominate among Hittite state officials. Made of stone and metal, flat, rounded stamps were popular during the early phase of Hittite empire-making, while biconvex seals with the seal owner’s name, official title, or profession in hieroglyphic Luwian script became popular during the second half of the Late Bronze Age.48 Oval signet rings increased in popularity during the thirteenth century BCE and account for almost a quarter of sealings from the Westbau.49 Signet rings are attested at Hattusa since the Old Hittite Period, but the round, flat sealing surface and u-shaped rings of the older examples differ from the new, oval models. While the corpus of signet ring impressions from the Westbau is unique in Anatolia, oval signets, which combine the Anatolian rounded stamp with the Syrian and Mesopotamian cylinder seal tradition, were common in northern Syria.50 A small number of cylinder seals have been recovered from central Anatolian sites, but their use on documents and bullae was very limited.51 During the imperial phase, the seals of Hittite officials and members of the royal family had mostly epigraphic content in contrast to the figurative and 45 48 49

46 47 Dinçol (2002). van den Hout (2007, 341). Dinçol and Dinçol (2002). Dinçol and Dinçol (2002); Herbordt (2005, 41-42; Abb. 20-21). 50 51 Herbordt (2005, 42-44; Abb. 24). Herbordt (2005, 44-45). Beyer (2001).

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44 Anatolian tablet and sealing practice: Letter of Tudhaliya IV sent to Ugarit (RS 17.159) (after Schaeffer 1956, Planche III and IV)

ornamental representations of earlier periods and those of lower-ranking officials. A relatively narrow range of depictive themes, however, cross-cut social status and profession. Shown are mainly deities and scenes of adoration, libation, or embrace involving either a short-skirted and bow-brandishing hunter or robed male.52 Size rather than elaboration or design expressed the authority of a particular office and the status of the seal-owner who represented it (Figure 44).53 The standard cuneiform tablets in use in Hittite institutions differed morphologically from those produced by the chancelleries of its subordinate kingdoms in Syria.54 Made of two different types of clay, Anatolian tablets measured on average 25  20 cm, with the largest tablets reaching up to 40  25 cm in size. Smaller formats contained short-term information such as letters, court depositions, oracle reports, or labels; large formats recorded information to be curated for the long-term such as rituals, instruction texts, and political treaties. In addition to their large size, Anatolian tablets had a

52 53 54

Herbordt (2005, 47, 73). Herbordt (2005, 73) notes that the most elaborate seals in the form of signet rings are often associated with scribes. Waal (2015) for a comprehensive investigation of the physical characteristics of Late Bronze Age Anatolian tablet formats.

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planoconvex format. This distinctive pillow-shape first appeared in the fifteenth century BCE to record royal landgrants. The raised, obverse centre of these tablets accommodated the large, round, and usually royal stamp seal. Embedded in the core of landgrant documents was a series of strings, on whose ends the sealed bullae of witnesses were attached.55 Landgrant documents, as I have discussed in Chapter 2, were a powerful tool for the co-opting of Anatolia’s elites.56 They did so not only through the communication of the rights that they conferred, but these visually distinctive and highly tactile objects with their prominent central impressions and dangling bullae were also effective material agents of the state, whose enchanting powers required no literacy to be actualised. During the Empire Period, important political treaties were recorded on sealed metal tablets,57 of which the Bronze Tablet is the only archaeologically attested example.58 Clay copies of treaties as well as of international diplomatic correspondence had a pillow shape similar to the earlier landgrants, with the increasingly large and convex royal seals prominently impressed at the centre of the obverse.59 The majority of Anatolian tablets were vertically stanced (portrait format); small tablets with economic texts, labels, and oracle reports were very occasionally horizontally stanced (landscape format).60 Cuneiform tablets issued by the Hittite viceregal chancellery at Carchemish took a different format from those produced in central Anatolia. The Carchemish tablets were horizontally stanced, and seal impressions, usually those of cylinders, were placed at the centre of the reverse.61 Only their pillow shape referenced the central Anatolian tradition and made them stand out from other Syrian tablet formats and sealing traditions.62 Ugaritic clay tablets typically took a rectangular shape, and at c. 9  7 cm were significantly smaller than Anatolian types. At Ugarit, tablets were sealed on the top of the obverse prior to writing by rolling or occasionally stamping the seal.63 Two distinct tablet formats and scribal traditions normally described as Syrian and Syro-Hittite or Syro-Anatolian are attested at Late Bronze Age Emar (Figure 45).64 The former presents a traditional scribal template typical of the Middle Euphrates. The latter type encompassed a diverse range of practices, unified only in their distinction in terms of tablet format, legal language, and formulation from the more homogenous ‘Syrian’ category of texts and sealing practices.65

55 57 59 60 62 64 65

56 For an illustration, see Herbordt (2005; fig. 18a). van den Hout (2009). 58 Watanabe (1989). Otten (1988). The royal seal was impressed at the edge of tablets only in a very small number of cases (Herbordt 2005, 29). 61 Waal (2015, 20-39). Fleming and Démare-Lafont (2009: 23). 63 Márquez Rowe (1999, 404). Márquez Rowe (1999, 395, 406). Beyer (2001, 422). Fleming and Démare-Lafont (2009) advocate a distinction between ‘conventional’ and ‘free format’.

DISCIPLINE AND DIFFÉRENCE

45 ‘Syrian’ tablet format at Emar (after Beyer 2001; Planche 9c and 9d) (left); ‘Syro-Anatolian’ or ‘free’ tablet format at Emar (after Beyer 2001; Planche 1b and 1c) (right)

Syro-Anatolian tablets were stanced horizontally and, unlike the traditional format, they were authenticated using signet rings whose stylistic traits and subject matters combined Syrian and Anatolian features, including Luwian hieroglyphic inscriptions. By the second half of the Late Bronze Age, then, central Anatolia had developed a distinctive sealing and archival practice, whose administrative technologies possessed an idiosyncratic visuality and tactile materiality. The display of Anatolian seals or receipt of sealed containers and tablets and their handling and archiving by subordinated chancelleries would have not only conveyed imperial instruction but captivated through alterity. In the sections to follow, I examine Anatolian administrative technologies and techniques outside the Hittite central region in order to trace out the network of imperial bureaucratic intervention and to explore the ways in which those under Hittite hegemony responded and negotiated the political possibilities of différence that Hittite practices of extended communication and authorisation afforded.

Takes One to Know One Seals and seal impressions indicative of Hittite administrative involvement are exceedingly rare on the south-central Anatolian plateau and in western Turkey. A fragmentary bulla with a seal impression of a prince was found at

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Ortakaraviran Höyük,66 a biconvex hieroglyphic seal in the Ankara museum may have come from Zanapa in Konya province,67 while the impression of a seal with circular guilloche pattern comes from a Late Bronze Age destruction context at Porsuk.68 Seals and sealings from Gordion in the north-west and the adjacent cemetery span the Middle Bronze Age and Old Hittite Period, whereas later examples include a hieroglyphic stamp impression on a jar handle from Level V and an impressed bulla.69 Şarhöyük-Dorylaion near Eskiş ehir yielded a bulla with the impression of a biconvex seal of a prince.70 All this suggests limited transfer of goods or documents via Hittite state channels to or from settlements in the north-west. The limited collection of seals and seal impressions from Beycesultan does not include evidence for Hittite bureaucratic interventions,71 and a joint biconvex seal of a scribe and a female owner from Troy post-dates the fall of the Hittite empire.72 A seal stone from the acropolis of Metropolis in Ionia with a pseudo-Luwian hieroglyphic inscription73 presents a unique example of the mimetic appropriation of one of the Hittite empire’s critical technologies of state and the symbolic power of writing more generally. Indirect evidence for written documents circulating between the Hittite chancellery and its varyingly docile vassals in western Anatolia comes from a series of letters. All of these letters are preserved as clay tablet copies at Hattusa. One of the passages from the so-called Milawatta letter, which was sent from a Hittite great king, most likely Tudhaliya IV, to Tarkasnawa, king of Mira, suggests that writing in the west may have taken the form of wooden tablets.74 The letter states that following the expulsion by rebels of Walmu, the ruler of Wilusa, a Hittite official named Kulanaziti was able to rescue wooden tablets that he, Tudhaliya, had made for Walmu, and which authenticated the latter’s legitimate claim to the throne of Wilusa. Technologies of distributed authority are only as effective as their resonance with the social and cultural matrixes of the publics they mean to transform. Hittite sovereignty over western Anatolia remained tenuous throughout the Late Bronze Age, with governance firmly in the hands of local potentates and communities, whose political economies, however, were too small or lacked sufficient centralisation to warrant such procedures. All of these factors would have rendered largely ineffective, in both practical and psychological terms, the introduction of such procedures in the west.

66 67 69 71 73 74

Mellaart (1954, 240; 1959, 33); Mellaart and Murray (1995, 101, Nr. 153). 68 Mora (1987, 123, Nr. 4.5.). Pelon (1992, 330; fig. 31). 70 Güterbock (1980, 51; figs. 1 and 2); Dusinberre (2005). Darga and Starke (2003, 161). 72 Mellaart and Murray (1995, 120-124). Hawkins and Easton (1996). Schachner and Meriç (2000, 89). CTH 182, translation by Beckman, Bryce, and Cline (2011, 129); Hoffner (2009, 316).

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Into the Fold By contrast, the elites of the polities of Kizzuwatna and Isuwa to the south and east of the Taurus mountains did not only own Anatolian-style seals, but also partook in an extended north-central Anatolian sphere of administrative practice and, by extension, in the Hittite empire’s political economy (Figure 46). A large cache of Late Bronze Age seals and seal impressions was excavated at Gözlükule-Tarsus, a strategically located site on the southern exit of the Cilician Gates. Tarsus was the likely capital of the kingdom of Kizzuwatna, which veered in and out of Hittite sovereignty over the course of the early part of the Late Bronze Age, but appears a mostly compliant vassal in the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE.75 The site consists of two elevated mounds connected by a saddle. A sounding in Section A on the eastern part of the mound revealed part of a monumental structure dating to the second half of the Late Bronze Age, whose function, however, remains unclear; a neighbourhood of roughly contemporary houses was excavated in Section B. Most of the glyptic finds come from a pit dug into the destroyed remains of the East House in Section B (Figure 47).76 Hetty Goldman assumed that these seals and sealings from the pit ‘. . . must have been stored originally in the upper rooms of the substantial building, the East House, just below’ the pit.77 However the cache of seals and sealings came to be deposited or discarded in this later pit, the glyptic finds unambiguously sketch out Kizzuwatna’s political and administrative ties with the Hittite court at Hattusa from the fifteenth century BCE. The Tarsus glyptic corpus includes a total of nine seals, eight of which are of the biconvex variety, and over fifty seal impressions.78 Among the finds are an impression of the seal of Isputahsu, a possible treaty partner of Telipinu and king of Kizzuwatna, a fragment of a Hittite landgrant document, and a bulla with the imprint of the seal of the thirteenth century BCE great queen Puduhepa. Several more seals and impressions bear the official titles of princes,79 princesses,80 scribes,81 and charioteers,82 with some personal names matching officials from the Westbau archive at Hattusa.83 The most prominent of these is Sahurunuwa, a prince and ‘great/head of the scribes’,84 a ‘head of the wood-tablet scribes’, and bearer

75 76 79 81 84

Tarsus was excavated between 1934 and 1939 as well as in 1947 and 1948 (Goldman 1956). 77 78 Goldman (1956, Nr. 36.69, Plan 24). Goldman (1956, 59). Gelb (1956, 242). 80 Gelb (1956, 27, 45, 53, 54, and 59). Gelb (1956, Nr. 14 and 17). 82 83 Gelb (1956, Nr. 40). Gelb (1956, Nr. 30). Herbordt (2005, 22). Gelb (1956, Nr. 40).

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46 Selection of seals and seal impressions from southern and south-eastern Turkey: 1-2 Kilise Tepe (redrawn after Symington 2007, 441-3; figs. 1470 and 1471; courtesy of Nicholas Postgate); 3-6 Tarsus (redrawn after Gelb 1956; Nrs. 15, 1, 48, 40); 7-11 Korucutepe (redrawn after Güterbock 1973; Nrs. 2b, 3, 6, 3, 4, 5).

DISCIPLINE AND DIFFÉRENCE

47 The Late Bronze Age remains at Tarsus (modified after Goldman 1956)

of several other official titles known from the Hattusa archive, who acted as a witness in Hittite treaties.85 In the Göksu valley, the site of Kilise Tepe also yielded several Anatolian seals pointing to the presence of Hittite officials along this important thoroughfare to the Mediterranean as well as to perhaps local seal owners. Finds include an ivory stamp seal, with the owner’s name in Luwian hieroglyphs from the fifteenth to fourteenth century BCE North-West Building in Level III, and four biconvex seals, some with official titles, from the fourteenth to thirteenth century Stele Building in Level II, a local shrine.86 A much larger corpus of Late Bronze Age glyptic comes from the site of Korucutepe on the Turkish Euphrates and the likely capital of the kingdom of Isuwa. As at Tarsus, the finds point towards the active participation of Korucutepe’s elite in a widened sphere of Anatolian administrative practice during the later thirteenth century BCE. Thirteen bullae of officials and persons with royal titles were found discarded in a large pit context in area O20/21 on the south-central part of the mound, which was dug into the ephemeral domestic remains of the preceding so-called Orthostat stage.87 A contemporary pit yielded a cylinder seal of Mitannian type,88 and a flat clay 85

86 87

Herbordt (2005, 82); other stratified glyptic finds from Cilicia are rare and include a seal impression on a pottery vessel and the imprint of a fifteenth to fourteenth century BCE seal on a clay bulla from Soli Höyük (Ya˘gcı 2003, 94, 101; figs. 3-4). A further biconvex seal was found during the renewed excavations at Yumuktepe-Mersin (Sevin and Köro˘glu 2004, 75-76; fig. 3). Symington (2007); Postgate and Stone (2013, 193). 88 Van Loon (1978, 37-39), Güterbock (1973, 136). Van Loon (1978, 40; KRC 68-448).

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lump with multiple impressions of a single seal was excavated near the city wall.89 Subsequent excavations in the 1970s uncovered an additional hematite stamp seal, three biconvex seals, as well as several seal impressions that were contextually associated with a Late Bronze Age house.90 There are several royal seal owners among the Korucutepe impressions, including Ari-Sarruma, king of Isuwa.91 Hans Güterbock read the second hieroglyphic name and title on the Ari-Sarruma seal as that of Kilushepa, queen of Isuwa.92 Both Ari-Sarruma and Kilushepa are known from cuneiform sources as contemporaries of Tudhaliya IV. Ari-Sarruma was also a witness in the Ulmi-Tesub treaty with Tarhuntassa,93 while his successor, Ehli-Sarruma, may have served in the palace at Hattusa.94 Two more princes95 are attested at Korucutepe along with the stamp seal of a scribe.96 Mentioned on one of the bullae is the town Sarissa, which provides a connection with the central Anatolian cult centre of Kuş aklı-Sarissa (Chapter 2).97 At the neighbouring site of Norş untepe, one seal and one impressed bulla were found in respective Late Bronze Age and Iron Age contexts during excavations in 1969. Two seals in the local museum may also stem from the site,98 one of which belonged to Pihaziti, a scribe, whose personal name is also known from Hattusa.99 Two additional seals, one stamp and one biconvex, come from the nearby site of Tepecik.100 No stratified Late Bronze Age glyptic has been found thus far at Arslantepe, but several seals and seal impressions come from surface investigations or chance finds in the province of Malatya.101 Further downstream, glyptic finds along with evidence for Late Bronze Age settlement (Chapter 6) thin considerably and are frequently associated with Early Iron Age contexts such as at Tille102 and Lidar Höyük.103 The

89 91

92 95 96

97 99 100 102 103

90 Güterbock (1973, 135). Ertem (1988; Kat. 1, 6, 8, 9, 12-14). Güterbock (1973, 136-141; 1980, Nrs. 1-2); Güterbock read Ehli-Sarruma (Güterbock 1980, Nr. 3), Ari-Sarruma’s successor, but Hawkins (2005, 252; Nrs. 99-103) read the inscription as Ali-Sarruma, who is not a royal figure. 93 94 Güterbock (1973, 136-140). Klengel (1968, 71). Herbordt (2005, 79). Güterbock (1973, 141-142, Nos. 4 and 5). Güterbock (1973, 142, Nos. 6 and 7); Ertem (1988, 5; Kat. 1); Herbordt (2005, 77). In addition, the personal names of Lupakki and Luwa find parallels in two scribes known from Hattusa in the fourteenth century BCE. Herbordt, however, argued against an identification with the Korucutepe seal owners due to the Late Bronze Age II finds context of the Korucutepe material. 98 Ertem (1988; Kat. 14). Wäfler (1974, 100-101). Wäfler (1974, 100; Tafel 80.1); Mora (1987, 183, Nr. 6.11); Hawkins (2005, 268, Nos. 312-316). 101 Esin (1971, 123-124); Mora (1987, 94, Nr. 1.8; 330, Nr. 2.18). Mora (1987). Collon (1993a, 173, 177; Figs. 5 and 6); Summers (2013). Sürenhagen (1986). In the same building two pithoi and a limestone figure with incised marks resembling the Luwian hieroglyphic sign ‘king’ were also found (Littauer, Crouwel, and Hauptmann 1991, 351). Tilbeş ar also yielded a few relevant glyptic finds (Mora 1987, 139, Nr. 3.3., 176, 180, Nr. 4.7. and 6.2., p. 258, Nr. 1.4.), as did Kavuş an Höyük on the Tigris (d’Alfonso 2010).

DISCIPLINE AND DIFFÉRENCE

renewed excavations at Carchemish, however, recently brought to light around 250 bullae from a Late Bronze Age II stratum in the Lower Palace area, pointing towards on-site archival activity. As yet only published in preliminary format, about half of the discarded bullae carry the seal impressions of 32 officials, whose names and titles are written in hieroglyphic Luwian, while the other half were blank or broken sealings with no impressions.104 Although finds numbers are relatively modest and from often problematic pit contexts, Hattusa’s vassal kingdoms in Cilicia and along the Turkish Euphrates actively participated in a wider network of Hittite bureaucratic practice. The scatter of mainly thirteenth century BCE stamp and biconvex seals across the region suggests the presence of imperial and perhaps also local personnel trained in Hittite administrative procedures, as well as the socialisation of indigenous royalty to respond appropriately to Hattusa’s technologies of state. This apparent enchantment differs from the responses that Hittite correspondence and administrative intervention elicited from societies with long-established and highly localised administrative practices in northern Syria.

Unimpressed Hittite hegemony over northern Syria presents a classic example of the graded genres of rule that are characteristic of imperial networks,105 in which the form and extent of oversight and the social loci of its encounter varied significantly along with the effective autonomies of subordinates and their cultural receptivity. Initially, the Hittite empire interleaved itself in inner Syrian politics through the conclusion of vassal treaties, often consolidated through dynastic marriages, with the small but in some cases economically powerful polities of Ugarit, Amurru, Nuhasse, Halab, and Tunip. These treaties stipulated the amount of tribute payable and forbade the conduct of independent foreign affairs in return for Hittite protection. Suppiluliuma I, upon his military victories in Syria, also installed Hittite princes at Aleppo and Carchemish,106 the latter of which became increasingly central to the quotidian management of Syrian vassals following Mursili II’s reign.107 Carchemish’s royal dynasty also

104

105 106 107

Beke (2017); previously only three securely attributed Anatolian-style seals were known from Carchemish (Mora 1987, Nr. 2.5., 144, Nr. 4.3., 267, Nr. 3.5.). Two additional biconvex seals come from the nearby first millennium BCE cemeteries of Deve Höyük (Mora 1987, 1.17., 315, 1.56.). Stoler (2006). Bryce (2006) for a historical overview; Beckman (1999b) for the treaty texts. d’Alfonso (2011, 165-166).

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entertained close commercial links with the trading entrepôt of Ugarit, which maintained a permanent diplomatic base at Carchemish.108 Carchemish in the later thirteenth century BCE began to carve out a hegemonic sphere of its own with the newly created kingdom of Astata, Siyannu, and possibly also Aleppo and the Hittite governor at Mukis under its direct authority. Hattusa, officially at least, remained in receipt of all of Syria’s tribute payments,109 but intervened only in important political and judicial matters, which were communicated through sealed cuneiform tablets and delivered by emissaries. The direct and personal encounter with the Hittite empire’s bureaucratic machine involved mostly lower-ranking and often itinerant officials or ‘princes’, who gathered military intelligence, had administrative oversight of some political entities, and acted as witnesses or judges in legal cases.110 In contrast to large parts of Anatolia during the Late Bronze Age, all major Syrian principalities had developed long-standing local administrative traditions with distinctive materialities in terms of tablet format and glyptic styles, specific chaînes opératoires, and contexts of seal use. The first archaeologically attested use of seals in northern Syria dates to the final quarter of the third millennium BCE, where cylinder seals with figurative and geometric patterns dominate the archaeological record. Only the seals of palace officials, which were used to seal containers and doors, in, for instance, the storerooms of Palace G at Ebla, carried cuneiform inscriptions stating title, genealogy, or divine patron.111 In the early second millennium, in addition to their earlier functions, seals were increasingly used to authenticate written documents, and by the Late Bronze Age, some scribal traditions, such as at Ugarit, sealed only cuneiform tablets,112 which differs markedly from contemporary Anatolian practice. At Middle Bronze Age Mari, mainly economic texts were sealed frequently using the royal seal. At Alalakh and later Ugarit, a smaller number of economic texts were authenticated in this manner, the focus shifting to legal documents instead. In the archives of Alalakh Level VII (1720–1650 BCE), the majority of sealed texts were documents confirming the claims of members of the royal household over property and labour.113 The royal seal of Yamhad, Alalakh’s overlord at the time, sealed documents concerning local land-tenure practices.114 In Level VI, local royal seals authenticated legal decisions about land and livestock, while Alalakh’s Mitanni overlord intervened only as mediator in local disputes.115 For the period of Hittite overlordship, only about ten seals and impressions are attested, two of which belonged to a prince and 108 110 112 115

109 Singer (1999, 653-660). Singer (1999). 111 Beckman (1992, 48); d’Alfonso (2011). Mazzoni (1984); d’Alfonso (2011, 174). 113 114 Magness-Gardiner (1990, 63-64). Collon (1975, 206). Gaal (1976). Magness-Gardiner (1990, 70-71).

DISCIPLINE AND DIFFÉRENCE

palace official.116 The site also yielded two Hittite language cuneiform tablets,117 though little more can be said about indigenous or imperial administrative practices at Alalakh for the time being. The city of Ugarit, by contrast, yielded large collections of cuneiform tablets from several palatial and private archives covering the period from c. 1330 to 1180 BCE. About sixty texts provide us with evidence for direct Hittite administrative interference, either by the chancellery at Hattusa or the viceroy of Carchemish and his officials. A small number of international texts, letters in particular, were kept in the archives of officials, such as in Urtenu’s residence.118 The majority of documents charting Ugarit’s official relationship with the Hittite empire, however, were stored in the Southern Palace Archive on an upper storey and physically clearly removed from the kingdom’s domestic administration, whose documents were curated in the Central Archive.119 Morphologically, the majority of the clay tablets produced by the Hattusa chancellery take the characteristic planoconvex format, which would have clearly stood out from local texts through their substantially larger size, weight, and deep, large, and round seal impressions at the centre of the obverse. Texts authenticated by Hittite royal seals include Ugarit’s vassal treaties, diplomatic letters, edicts, and legal decisions, which set out tribute requirements, regulated Ugarit’s territorial disputes, the conduct of foreign merchants, as well as royal divorce proceedings. A few tablets carry stamp seal impressions not at the centre but on a protrusion on the top left corner. This includes the only document found at Ugarit which was written in Hittite, a late thirteenth century BCE legal document attesting the receipt of silver from the sa¯ kinu of Ugarit, a royal administrator, by a Hittite tax collector.120 Hittite tablets at Ugarit were sealed by a range of royal seals,121 a wellattested Anatolian and Ugaritic practice, as was the use of official duplicates. A large, biconvex chlorite seal carrying the digraphic aedicula of Hittite great king Mursili II122 was originally interpreted by Claude Schaeffer to imply the existence of a Hittite chancellery at Ugarit. Mistakes in the cuneiform and particularly the hieroglyphic text, however, have led to doubts over the authenticity of the seal,123 raising tantalising possibilities for subversive action in the political space inadvertently crafted by imperial bureaucratic intervention. No impressions of this particular seal are attested, but counterfeiting royal

116 118 120 121 123

117 Mora (1987, Nr. 2.21., 311, Nr. 1.40.). Wiseman (1953, Nos. 317 and 454). 119 Bordreuil, Pardee, and Hawley (2012). Márquez Rowe (1999, 402-403). Márquez Rowe (1999, 404, 422), Hittite legal document: RS 17.109. 122 Schaeffer (1956). RS 14.202 (Galliano and Calvet 2004, 74). Neu (1995, 124-125).

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seals and tablets was a well-known problem in the kingdom of Ugarit, the punishment for which was exile.124 About thirty documents are issues of the viceregal court at Carchemish, concentrating in the reigns of Ini-Tesub and Talmi-Tesub. The Carchemish tablets were stanced horizontally and, thus, differed morphologically from both Ugaritic and Anatolian texts. In some instances, Ini-Tesub had used his two stamp seals to authenticate tablets, which were comparable in size to royal equivalents from Hattusa.125 In the majority of cases, however, tablets had been impressed by hybridising, digraphic cuneiform and Luwian hieroglyphic cylinder seals rolled across the middle of the reverse.126 A third cylinder seal owned by Ini-Tesub carried only a cuneiform inscription outlining his genealogy in the Syrian tradition.127 The documents sealed by the viceroys of Carchemish concern mostly the arbitration of inter-state legal issues, including Ugarit’s border with the neighbouring kingdom of Siyannu and high-value economic disputes. Also among the texts is a series of complaints to, and reprimands of, Ugarit’s rulers, in particular Ibiranu and his successor, who in the later thirteenth century BCE took increasing liberties in the interpretation of their vassal obligations.128 Lower-ranking imperial officials are represented by stamp, signet, and cylinder seals at Ugarit. The stamp seals of Hittite officials, many of whom are known from texts and the Westbau archives at Hattusa, carry Luwian hieroglyphic inscriptions, but lack iconographic content. Signets also had hieroglyphic inscriptions, and some included pictorial scenes comparable to those from the Westbau, whereas cylinder seals carried digraphic cuneiform and hieroglyphic inscriptions. Individual administrators, such as the prince Arma-ziti, were often in possession of more than one type of seal, which were used in different contexts and involved corresponding variations in tablet format and sealing location. Prince and head-scribe Taki-Sarruma for instance, was a Hittite official operating out of Carchemish, who is also well known from the Hattusa archives.129 He used a signet ring to seal the top of the obverse of an Ugaritic tablet which recorded a legal decision involving the governor of Ugarit (Figure 48).130 A second tablet fragment, a land donation along Ugarit’s border, took a larger, vertical format and was sealed with a round stamp seal in the centre of the obverse in Anatolian fashion.131

124 125 126 127 129 131

RS 16.249: Nougayrol (1956, 120); Vita (1999, 461, 477; notes 37, 154). RS17.146 and RS17.230 (Schaeffer 1956, 20). E.g. Ini-Tesub: RS17.158, RS 17.59, RS 17.128; Talmi-Tesub: RS 17.226 (Schaeffer 1956, 26); Márquez Rowe (1999, 406). 128 Schaeffer (1956, 21). Singer (1999, 683-704); Glatz (2013). 130 Herbordt (2005, 82). RS 17.251: Schaeffer (1956, 37; fig. 55). RS 17.403: Schaeffer (1956, 37-39; figs. 59-60); Singer (1999, 640; note 111).

DISCIPLINE AND DIFFÉRENCE

217

Such hybridising seals were favoured by the viceroys of Carchemish as well as lower-ranking Hittite officials, who were involved in the mediation of Ugarit’s imperial relationships. The familiarity of these officials with the local script and archival practices and the apparent care they took in achieving appropriate combinations of seal type, tablet morphology, and sealing location, contrast rather starkly with the conservative localism of 48 Tablet sealed with signet ring of Taki-Sarruma (after Schaeffer 1956, fig. 56) Ugaritic scribal practice. The majority of sealed texts produced at Ugarit are of a legal nature and were stored in the upper storey of the Central Palace Archive. The Ugaritic dynastic cylinder seal authenticated property sales, grants of royal land, or was rolled on tablets recording cases where the king acted as the supervisor of land transfers. This seal, both the original and a copy used by the palace administration, was rolled across the top of the obverse.132 Personalised royal seals, mostly cylinders, were introduced in the thirteenth century BCE. Cylinder seals also predominated among the general population of Ugarit,133 who, along with their rulers, by and large did not adopt Anatolian or other seal types.134 A small number of attested seals hybridise Anatolian, Syrian, and Egyptian sealing traditions, such as a royal signet ring, which carries the Akkadian cuneiform inscription ‘Son of Niqmadu, King of Ugarit’ and shows a person wearing a loincloth and Egyptian hairstyle in a kneeling position attacking a lion with a spear.135 King Ammistamru II also used a personal signet ring with an alphabetic cuneiform inscription as well as the standard dynastic seal.136 A high official of the late thirteenth century BCE used a seal ring with Egyptian hieroglyphs.137 Changes in legal and administrative practice at Ugarit that may be associated with Hittite interventions are similarly limited. A small number of sealings attached to doors or containers were found in Court V of the Palais Royal and at the nearby port of Ras Ibn Hani.138 So-called clay labels, perforated flattened or truncated cones and cylinders carrying short cuneiform inscriptions and seal impressions attached to bags, baskets, and cuneiform tablets, which were in use in Mesopotamia from the third millennium BCE, formed part of Ugarit’s 132 135 136 138

133 134 Márquez Rowe (1999, 395-396). Amiet (1980). Singer (1999, 650). RS 16.191 and RS 16. 272, most likely Niqmaddu III (Singer 1999, 693). 137 RS 16.270 (Schaeffer 1956, 79; fig. 104). Singer (1999, 650). Singer (1999, 653-654, note 142).

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bureaucratic toolkit.139 A few clay labels for cuneiform tablets were also excavated at Hattusa,140 suggesting commonalities, but not necessarily coordination of archival practice, at the two sites. In terms of legal practice, there is one significant change discernible at Ugarit, which involved the rendering mandatory of obligations (ilku, pilku, and unuššu) by the recipients of royal land in line with Hittite law and contrary to traditional Ugaritic practice.141 The indigenous and imperial legal spheres otherwise co-existed rather than converged. For instance, a small number of texts document the devolution of arbitration from imperial courts to that of the local vassal, though usually with an authorising imperial official as arbitrator. These cases were recorded on cuneiform tablets with hybrid morphologies, combining Carchemish’s horizontally stanced tablets with central Anatolian stamp seal impressions in the middle of the obverse. By contrast, similar documents in which the Ugaritic king acted as the arbitrator were issued in the local tablet format for legal texts and stored in the Central Archive.142 The lack of interest in Anatolian glyptic, tablet formats, or sealing practices at Ugarit differs markedly from other contemporary Syrian principalities, such as Emar, to which I will return shortly, but also Ugarit’s inland neighbour in the Homs valley, the kingdom of Amurru. Amurru was established in the fourteenth century BCE and became one of the first polities to enter into a vassal treaty with Hattusa.143 The Central Archive at Ugarit includes a small number of tablets containing agreements and correspondence between Ugarit and Amurru. These indicate the adoption at Amurru’s court in the thirteenth century BCE of not only the Anatolian planoconvex tablet format, but also the replacement of the royal cylinder seal with a round stamp complete with Luwian hieroglyphs and impressed in the Anatolian fashion in the middle of the obverse.144 Sausgamuwa, who adopted the Anatolian seal, was half Hittite on his mother’s side and also married to the Hittite princess Gasulawi, a sister of Tudhaliya IV. A scribe Sausgamuwa is attested in the Westbau archive with three different signet ring impressions and may be the young prince of Amurru.145 Family ties and intense socialisation among Hattusa’s scribal community, thus, led to the transformation of Amurru’s traditional insignia of power to align closely with Hittite imperial tradition. At Ugarit, Hittite technologies of government were carefully curated but never adopted or even appropriated. Thus, we might ask how effective they were in persuading Ugarit’s rulers to comply with imperial instruction. 139 142 144 145

140 141 Amiet (1992). van Soldt (1989). van Soldt (2010, 91-92). 143 Márquez Rowe (1999, 408). Beckman (1999b, 36-41). RS 19.68, RS 17.228, RS 17.318, RS 17.360A (Márquez Rowe 1999, 409). Herbordt (2005, 82).

DISCIPLINE AND DIFFÉRENCE

Overall, they would seem to have served Hattusa well: for over a century, the Hittite court appears to have received substantial annual tribute of gold and purple dyed cloth and garments. Acts of non-compliance with vassal duties, such as annual visits to Hattusa, delay tactics in the provisioning of tribute and other requested goods or military assistance increased towards the final years of the Late Bronze Age and were met with verbal reprimands. One might interpret this as a sign of growing Hittite weakness in the final decades of the thirteenth and early twelfth centuries BCE, or alternatively, that Ugarit’s masterful deployment of ‘the weapons of the weak’146 fell well within the accepted or even expected range of disobliging behaviours of the subordinated. Chastisement followed only in the wake of overt transgression of the boundaries between hidden and public transcript, such as in the case of Ugarit’s overtly independent behaviour during the so-called Syrian rebellion at the time of Mursili II, which appears to have been punished with a significant territorial reduction.147 This official acquiescence, however, was, as we have seen above, tempered with a distinctive uninterest in all things Anatolian. This was not restricted to the spheres of bureaucratic practice, but the kingdom’s rejection of Anatolian culture emerges in high relief in this arena of deliberate imperial intervention and the regularised encounters between imperial and local scribal practitioners it would have involved. It presents, thus, a form of resistance, visceral, possibly unconscious and practiced daily. Ugarit’s insistence on local practice can be juxtaposed with the hybridising scribal and sealing traditions that were developing elsewhere in the region, including at the Hittite viceregal chancellery at Carchemish. The latter indexes, as I shall argue below, the convergence of local and imperial agendas, a collaboration whose emergent materiality increasingly differentiated, both visually and in routine practice, a new peripheral community from an increasingly distant imperial centre.

Collaborators Bronze Age and many later narratives of empire memorialise a very limited and carefully selected range of relationships and processes centred on military victories, the domestication of conquered landscapes through building projects, and the large-scale extraction of resources. Beyond the role of the rebellious yet ultimately defeated enemy or the more occasional rescued, and subsequently subservient, kingdom in distress, the conquered rarely feature in stories of empire-making as told in the texts and images of imperial overlords. No imperial network, however, could achieve any of its celebrated feats and

146

Scott (1990).

147

Bryce (2006, 200-201).

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survive an initial phase of expansion without the collaboration of indigenous agents willing to facilitate imperial-local relationships. Without such alliances, for instance, 12,000 British would not have been able to control the over 340 million inhabitants of its Indian colony, nor would the French have been able to hold sway over West Africa or Nigeria, where the ratio of colonial foreigners to locals ranged from 1:27,000 and 1:54,000 respectively.148 Historically, collaborators were actively sought out by imperial and colonial powers in post-conquest scenarios to procure information and resources, especially in the form of taxes and labour. Imperial collaboration was neither ‘an ethical betrayal of an entirely voluntary nature’ nor did it come to pass ‘by sheer coercion’149 alone, but presents a morally complicated blend of threat and social or economic opportunity.150 Imperial relationships and their experience, as colonial studies from seventeenth century CE Illinois151 to the Japanese colonisation of Korea152 illustrate, are not reducible to simple dichotomies, the strict juxtaposition of submission, which implies varying forms of, and enthusiasm for, co-operation, versus outright resistance – betrayal versus a noble struggle for freedom. The daily realities of many imperial encounters were precariously complex and laced with ambiguities, where collaboration and resistance existed not necessarily as opposing but interconnected behaviours, with each implicit in the production and negotiation of new, hybridising social and cultural spaces that over time pitched not the imperial against the indigenous but the margins against the centre. Systems of authority that differed from those of the imperial power or whose hierarchal structures were difficult to discern posed particular challenges for imperial rule and, as a result, held opportunities for both resistance, as in the case of the Kaska north, and for the carving of politically strategic and mutually beneficial collaborative spaces of action. In the case of the Late Bronze Age city of Emar at the south-eastern edge of Hittite imperial reach, such a political space was fashioned from the amalgamation of imperial and local bureaucratic technologies and the social spheres that they governed. Along with several other Late Bronze Age centres on the Middle Euphrates (see Chapter 6), Emar’s cityscape not only lacked a distinctive palace structure, but also its tablet archives, which were found in a series of private residences, suggest that its government was distributed among several city institutions; a model of sovereignty very different from the hierarchical, palace-based kingdoms that otherwise dominated the region. Emarite political institutions did include individuals referred to as ‘kings’ (LUGAL URUE-marki), but their role and the extent of their authority differed from traditional royal office, approximating a more corporate model of representation by prominent city 148 150

Osterhammel (2010, 63-67). Robinson (1972); Caroll (1997).

149

Osterhammel (2010, 65-66). 152 Morrissey (2015). Kwon (2015).

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families.153 Between 1350 and 1270 BCE, two dynasties of kings are attested alongside ‘the elders’ and ‘the brothers’, whose institutional remit was the property sale of delinquent citizens and the guaranteeing of legal transactions.154 Scribes, a mayor, and a ‘lord of the storehouse’ are also attested in official and administrative roles. With the incorporation of the city into the Hittite viceregal realm of Carchemish, a fourth group, the family of the diviner Zu-Ba‘la, ascended to increasing prominence in the city’s administrative and legal affairs.155 Zu-Ba‘la’s family residence, originally called the temple du devin (Temple M1), yielded an extensive cuneiform archive of lexical texts, narrative and wisdom literature, and different types of cult-related texts such as omen, incantations, and prayers. It also included documents detailing the management of different cults and public rituals alongside legal and economic texts and a small number of Hittite and Akkadian letters.156 The institution of Emarite kingship ceased to exist several generations before Zu-Ba‘la’s archive comes to an end, and from the texts in his archive we can chart the gradual appropriation of Emar’s legal and administrative authority by Hittite officials facilitated by the diviner’s collaboration.157 The most prominent Hittite official at Emar was the ‘overseer of the lands’, a role comparable to the BĒL MADGALTI of central Anatolian border settlements, which involved the day-to-day management of the kingdom of Astata, of which Emar was the capital.158 This official reported directly to Carchemish, whose viceroys are also well attested in the correspondence and glyptic of Emar.159 Unlike at Ugarit, the great kings of the Hattusa dynasty showed no direct interest in, and had no jurisdiction over, Emar’s affairs.160 In tandem with increasing Hittite influence at Emar, Zu-Ba‘la’s archive charts the ascent of the diviner’s family, who operated independently of Emar’s dynasty and other civic institutions,161 to a key position in the management of the city’s affairs. The close relationship of the diviner’s family with the Hittite empire is illustrated, for instance, by a letter from the Hittite chancellery at Carchemish, which confirms Zu-Ba‘la’s exemption from tax and corvée, regular correspondence with Mutri-Tesub, the ‘overseer of the land’, and two documents witnessed by the Hittite viceroy at Carchemish.162

153 155 156

157 159 161

154 Festuccia and Mori (2010); Skaist (1998). Cohen and d’Alfonso (2008). Beckman (1992, 49); Cohen and d’Alfonso (2008, 13). Margueron (1979); Dietrich (1990); McClellan (1997); Finkbeiner (1999–2000); for a recent summary, see Rutz (2013, 64-80). Other private residences also contained sizeable archives, including the Hema family residence in Area T, a large bit-hilani structure on the northern edge of the city. 158 Cohen and d’Alfonso (2008, 18). Beckman (1995a, 28). 160 Beckman (1995a, 27; note 54). Beckman (1995a, 31). 162 Fleming (2000, 209-210). Fleming (2000, 226, note 90 with references).

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Hittite rule at Emar had little impact on the city’s material culture, with the exception of its bureaucratic technologies and the two distinctive scribal traditions that developed at Emar as a result of the diviner family’s collaboration with the Syrian agents of the Hittite empire. The two scribal traditions operated side by side at Emar for over a century,163 but in spite of their substantial chronological overlap, texts associated with Emar’s traditional governmental institutions do not mention Hittite officials, nor do Hittite sources refer to Emar’s dynasties directly, although they show awareness of the latter’s involvement in legal matters.164 The two scribal and administrative schools distinguished themselves palaeographically and in their orthographics,165 but especially in their materiality. The fourteenth to twelfth century BCE cuneiform corpus of Emar amounts to c. 1170 legal documents and letters, over 800 of which carry the impressions of 350 to 400 original seals.166 The vast majority of attested seals at Emar (280) are cylinders; less frequent are signet and stamp seals (Figure 49). Actual seals are rare and those attested are made of steatite, faience, and a black stone.167 Seals were also occasionally impressed on clay labels and jar stoppers.168 As at Ugarit, there is no evidence at Emar for the adoption of Anatolian archival practice. A single bulla with eight impressions of the combined seal of Hattusili III and Puduhepa was found in the destruction debris of Level IV at the neighbouring outpost of Tell Fray (Chapter 6).169 The documents produced by the city’s traditional institutions continued local practices by using the Syrian script on local, vertically stanced tablet formats.170 Cylinder seals cut in the local tradition or the Mitanni style were rolled onto the sides of tablets or across the tip of the obverse.171 By contrast, a multitude of seal types and styles were used on so-called free-format, horizontally stanced tablets,172 including Syrian and hybridising Syro-Anatolian seals.173 Mitanni-style glyptic predominates in the first few generations following Hittite conquest. With the cessation of references to Emar’s local

163 165 166 167 168

169 170 171

172

164 Cohen and d’Alfonso (2008); Cohen (2012); Wilcke (1992, 117). Cohen (2009). Fleming (2000); Cohen (2009); Rutz (2013, 41). Beyer (1987, 29-30); www.uni-tuebingen.de/emar/en/history.html. Beyer (2001, 15). Cohen (2011, 153); Beyer (2001, 17); Rutz (2013, 135). This includes two tags from the southern temple of Area E (temple of the Stormgod): Emar 61 bears the seal impressions of Sadiya, the diviner Baʿl-ma¯ lik and the Hittite official Kili-Sarruma. Emar 62 is written in the Syrian script and comes from a basket used for the storage of tablets. Archi (1980b, 31-32; TAV I.1-2.); Matthiae (1980, 38). Fleming and Démare-Lafont (2009). Beyer (2001, 15); texts and glyptic from Tell Munbaqa-Ekalte, for instance, show the use of very localised scribal practices in the region shortly before it came under Hittite hegemony (Mayer 2001; Werner 2004). 173 Beyer (2001, 430-437). Beyer (2001, 429); van Exel (2010).

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49 Examples of Emar glyptic (redrawn after Beyer 2001, Nos. A2b, A3, C19, B46, A46)

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dynasty,174 Syro-Anatolian seals begin to dominate in the final two generations of attested officials, many of whose personal names suggest Hurrian and west Semitic and therefore local origins.175 Over half of the recorded seal impressions at Emar stem from seals combining Syrian and Anatolian glyptic traditions including the use of Luwian hieroglyphs mainly on cylinders but also on signet rings and stamps. SyroAnatolian seals appear exclusively on the free format tablets stored in Zu-Ba‘la’s archive.176 The locations of the seal impressions vary in this group and include the obverse, reverse, and sides of tablets.177 The iconography of Syro-Anatolian seals belonging to these officials display close stylistic connections with the Hattusa corpus, but possess a more limited range of motifs at Emar and vary in popularity at the two sites.178 Over three quarters of Emarite seals depict the Hittite king facing a deity and a winged sun-disk and, thus, unambiguously proclaime loyalty to a Hittite royal figure.179 Another popular motif was the sun-god, which appears on the seals of the Hittite viceroy Sahurunuwa and the official Hismi-Tesub, but was less popular among the officials in the capital.180 The bow-carrying hunter is well attested at both Emar and Hattusa,181 as is a female adoration scene depicting the goddess S-aus-ka.182 A number of changes in local legal practice during the time of Hittite overlordship can be tracked in the tablets of the archive of Zu-Ba‘la. This includes a transfer from the reign of Talmi-Tesub onwards of legal authority from local civic institutions to imperial officials, who acted as witnesses in local family law affairs183 and held increasing oversight of property transfers.184 Emarite scribal practice, in addition to changes in tablet format and seal traditions, underwent a series of additional minor and major changes. This involved changes in the formulation of legal documents and the introduction of new scribal schooling materials that included a number of Hittite texts.185 More significantly for Emar’s population, time and the routines that it structured were transformed as local scribes abandoned the use of traditional eponyms and month names and adopted a new calendar mainly for cultic purposes, but also in some administrative texts.186 This new time, though not a direct imperial imposition, opened a critical new field of political production at Emar. Zu-Ba‘la’s collaboration enabled Hittite officials to involve themselves profoundly in the management of Emar’s religious cults and their public 174 176 179 180 182 184

175 van Exel (2010, 71). Beckman (1995a, 31); Herbordt (2005, 31). 177 178 Beyer (2001, 62). Beyer (2001, 61). Herbordt (2005, 54-55). Beyer (2001, 26-31); Cohen (2011, 153). 181 Herbordt (2005, 63; Abb. 38a); Beyer (1987). Herbordt (2005, 73). 183 Herbordt (2005, 63); Beyer (2001, A46; C8). van Exel (2010, 71). 185 186 Fleming (2000). Fleming (2000). Ibid., 227; Cohen (2011, 146, 147).

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festivities,187 which underwent substantial modifications and expansion during the period of Hittite overlordship.188 This includes the so-called zukru festival, a local Syrian tradition also attested at Mari, which was celebrated annually, and a grand zukru, which was conducted in seven-year intervals. The lengthy and detailed description of both the provisioning and execution of the grand zukru is among the largest and best preserved ritual texts in the diviner’s archive.189 Festivities lasted for seven days and involved sacrifices to various gods, communal feasting, and a procession of deities from their sanctuaries to extra-urban sacred places marked by standing sikka¯ nu stones. The participation of an ambiguous royal figure, which may be understood as either the Emarite ‘king’ or the Hittite viceroy, is also stated in the new free-format version of the ritual text.190 Hittite officials did not interfere openly with local cult practice, but took an interest and intervened in the appointment of cult personnel and may have also been involved in the conduct of some of the cults. Anatolian deities, ‘the gods of the Land of Hatti, the lower and upper cities’, and their rituals were also introduced. The allocation of resources necessary for the conduct of Anatolian cults benefitted Hittite officials and may, thus, have formed a critical means of extracting resources from Emar and its surrounding settlements,191 in ways similar to central Anatolian ritual festivities (Chapter 3). Zu-Ba‘la and his successors were responsible for the organisation and distribution of ritual resources in the form of goods and labour, such as the supervision of wine deliveries in accordance with the new cultic calendar or the allocation of metals for the production of cult objects. Provisioning, however, did not always run smoothly, with some Emar letters recording delays in the supply of oils and other goods needed for the conduct of Hittite cults. Relevant inventory texts listing cult-related provisions were tellingly co-authenticated by the seals of members of the diviner’s family and Hittite officials.192 Thus, in the course of the thirteenth and early twelfth centuries BCE, the Hittite empire was able to insert itself in two critical spheres of political production at Emar as well as in its ritual economy. This was made possible by the collaboration of the diviner Zu-Ba‘la and his family, who over the course of a century co-produced with Hittite officials from Carchemish a new, visually distinctive materiality of institutional authority that eventually displaced the city’s traditional apparatus of government. The hybrid glyptic styles, which combined Syrian and Anatolian elements, were key to the creation of this collaborative network of local and imperial literate high officials and served as the symbols of a new political community in the making. 187 190 192

188 189 Cohen (2011, 146). Fleming (2000, 226-227). Fleming (2000, 48-49). 191 Cohen (2011, 151). Arnaud (1987, 17-18); Cohen (2011, 146-154). Cohen (2011, 146-149).

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This emergent hybridity finds parallels, for instance, in the spheres of healing and medicine in colonial South Africa, where ‘the distances and distinctions of the imperial frontier were most often breached’ across professional communities and where ‘all parties . . . seemed most receptive to innovation from “the other”’.193 MIXED SIGNALS

To sum up, in the course of the fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE, the Hittite bureaucratic apparatus at Hattusa grew from a modest chancellery to imperial dimensions. Here now were engaged a multitude of scribes and officials in the receipt and dissemination as well as tracking and storage of information and things, and, by extension, in the formalisation of the relationships and practices of subordination. The explicit orders of letters and treaties, the distinctive materialities of Hittite tokens of governance, and the behavioural responses they demanded, together with their assemblages of officials, are among the critical yet tenuous threads that stitched together the wider imperial network. As with all arenas of imperial production, there were profound regional differences in terms of central investment in involving particular polities in shared practices, and with regards to local responses and degrees of receptivity. The efficacy of bureaucratic symbols and written instruction is proportional to the discipline of the publics whose behaviours they aim to instruct. The absence of complex indigenous administrative practices in western Anatolia, alongside Hattusa’s loose political grip on the region, may explain the lack of Hittite effort in establishing local bureaucratic oversight. Strategic vassal polities to the south and east of the central region, by contrast, were integrated into an extended community of Anatolian archival practice. Imperial intervention in the long-established bureaucratic system of the powerful and independently minded kingdom of Ugarit, while effective in communicative terms, elicited none of the local cultural responses generally expected from imperial encounters. The distinctive pillow-shaped tablets with the deep, round impressions of the Hittite chancellery’s seals were filed away in a separate archive far from Ugarit’s daily administrative routines, while the vassal kingdom’s text format, seals, and sealing practices remained conservatively local and, as such, actively resistant to imperial interference. Only Hittite officials and the viceroys at Carchemish regularly used hybridising signet and cylinder seals with hieroglyphic or digraphic inscriptions, which they also employed in the Syrian manner in local legal matters.

193

Comaroff and Comaroff (1997, 323-324; 2001, 113).

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This appropriation of indigenous practice is not unique to Hittite Syria. Agents of the British empire, for instance, also adopted Islamic seals to carry out much of their daily work in India and Arabia.194 In the case of the viceroys and officials stationed at Carchemish, I have argued, it was the collaboration with semi-autonomous local agents that produced not only greater imperial hold over Emar and helped advance internal factional interests, but their convergent cultural practices also created a political space in which was forged a new community. This community of imperial and local scribes and administrators, though officially nested within Hittite imperial sovereignty, had begun, thus, to materially differentiate itself from the Hittite imperial network’s Anatolian centre, creating a new, shared Syro-Anatolian identity. In the following chapter, I move to examine a very different arena of cultural production to the world of scribes and high officials investigated here. The political affordances of plain ceramic vessels, unlike those of seals and related bureaucratic technologies, are not immediately evident in their material characteristics, and state institutions were generally not invested in their production. However, as I shall argue below, the political work of plain pots takes place in the contextual associations of their consumption. This is also the social space in which mimesis and rejection may be wielded by local agents in their negotiation of imperial relationships along with the ambiguities afforded by a widening sphere of globalising cultural fashions. First, however, we must peel back a few interpretive layers and deconstruct some of the deeply ingrained believes about early states and imperial formations, their cultural goals, and capabilities, and how they differ from the ambition and practice of national state-making.

194

Lowe: www.qdl.qa/en/performing-authority-‘islamic’-seals-british-colonial-officers.

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. . . administrative manipulation of cultural matters has the unintended side effect of causing meanings and norms previously fixed by tradition and belonging to the boundary conditions of the political system to be publically thematized. Habermas (2007 [1973], 47-48) . . . the everyday is . . . the most universal and the most unique condition, the most social and the most individuated, the most obvious and the best hidden . . . Lefebvre (1987, 9) . . . our dealings with things largely take place in a mode of inconspicuous familiarity. . . . Olsen (2010, 89)

A striving for standardised homogeneity and simplification is fundamental to the national state project of modernity. Through a rhetoric of sameness and alterity, modern states aim to create – though few actually succeed1 – a shared, national identity. Generally framed within a discourse of ethno-linguistic unity across a clearly bounded territory, state institutions encourage and enforce common ideas and practices by (re-)ordering their citizens’ lives and bodies.2 At the same time, much effort is expanded to ground cultural commonalities, often invented for the purpose of cohesiveness, in deep history to lend 1 2

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Smith (1986, 228-229). Foucault (1991 [1975]); Anderson (2006); Lefebvre (2003, 94-94); see also ‘pathological’ homogenisation in the form of ethnic cleansing (Rae 2002).

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50 State-led homogenisation of life: The Park Hill Estate, Sheffield (photo by Paolo Margari, Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons)7

legitimacy to their existence, practice, and defence.3 State regulations surrounding the construction of houses, for instance, include in often minute detail the prescription of ‘traditional’ architectural features, lending easily recognisable visualities to built spaces within particular national boundaries. State-produced functional or social housing is more overtly homogenising and often quite literally brutal in its modernist architectural style such as the infamous Park Hill Estate on the outskirts of Sheffield or Glasgow’s Red Road flats (Figure 50).4 The purpose of state-driven homogeneity, in this case the ‘shattered space’5 of council housing, is to improve each citizen’s body’s ‘usefulness and its docility, its integration into systems of efficient and economic controls’ through the provision of a measure of comfort on the one hand, and a range of disciplinary techniques and surveillance measures on the other.6 The development of the first centralising institutions in the ancient Near East roughly coincides with the emergence of homogenising material assemblages. Pottery, or rather specific subsets of ceramic repertoires, is the most abundant material category showing signs of greater homogeneity in the 3 5 7

4 Bhabha (1994, 204); Hobsbawm (2010 [1983]). Hollow (2010); Duffy (2015). 6 Lefebvre (2005, 94). Foucault (1984a, 261). https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Park_Hill,_half-abandoned_council_housing_ estate,_Sheffield,_England.jpg.

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archaeological record. Following the exuberant decorative styles of the Halaf and Ubaid periods, a more simplified ceramic visuality developed in the course of the fourth millennium BCE in Mesopotamia, hand in hand with early urbanism. Over the course of the Bronze Age, which saw the development of centralising polities across the Near East and East Mediterranean, wheel-made, visually homogenous, and mostly undecorated monochrome pottery traditions proliferated in mundane contexts but were also consumed in large quantities by palatial and temple institutions, including in Anatolia where they have acquired the epithet ‘drab ware’ in the archaeological literature.8 Archaeology has had a long-standing interest in the subject of craft production and its relationship with state institutions. However, we still lack in the majority of historical cases an empirically grounded understanding of the specific ways in which homogenising material culture colluded, directly or indirectly, in the production of early political networks. Similarly unclear are why and how local communities adopted such simple things as plain pottery into their material and behavioural repertoires and how such cultural appropriations contributed to the dynamic tensions of political in the making. Since Gordon Childe’s ‘urban revolution’, specialist craft production has been both synonymous with and mutually indexical of complex and hierarchical social systems.9 In very general terms, greater material homogeneity is thought to be rooted in the shift from household production to individuals and groups engaged more exclusively in the making of things and a resulting self-reinforcing system of increased productivity.10 This, aided by technological innovations such as the potter’s wheel, led to the development of higher skill levels and the routinisation of practice. The latter involved the reduction of mostly unconscious behavioural variation in the performance of production tasks and their technological choices, leading ultimately to greater uniformity in product attributes such as rim diameter and volume, as well as visual coherence. Standardisation and aesthetic simplifications such as lack of surface treatments or decorations, from this perspective, are the by-products of improved productive speed or efficiency.11 In functionalist models, this so called massproduction presents either an economic necessity to ensure competitiveness on the open market or the result of demand by state institutions to be supplied with large quantities of basic equipment needed for their smooth running.12 Others have argued that such simplification was not only the mere by-product

8 10

11

9 Schoop (2006, 216); originally coined by Goldman (1956, 203). Childe (1950). van der Leeuw (1977); Feinman, Upham, and Lightfoot (1981); Rice (1981, 220-221; 1989); Peacock (1982); Feinman, Kowaleski, and Blanton (1984); Hagstrum (1985); Sinopoli (1988, 586); Costin (1991); Arnold and Nieves (1992); Blackman, Stein, and Vandiver (1993); Costin and Hagstrum (1995); Wattenmaker (1998); Longacre (1999); Roux (2003). 12 Davis and Lewis (1985). Kramer (1985, 118); Pfälzner (1995); Duistermaat (2008).

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of efficiency, but a critical strategy of early political production.13 In the latter scenario, plain pottery presents a deliberate aesthetic deprivation of the majority of society that provides the cultural baseline from which elite culture and its elaborate spectacles of prestige and value deliberately differentiated themselves in the sharpest of contrasts. Standardising, simple things in the archaeological record, thus, have been treated as tokens of either state control or its cultural hegemony and their geographical distribution as directly indexical of the spatial scope of a regime’s sovereignty. The appearance of Early Dynastic Meidum bowls, a simple and plain carinated type of vessel, for instance, is generally interpreted as indicative of a region’s incorporation into the early Egyptian state,14 whilst crudely made conical cups have supported theories of a Cretan thalassocracy over surrounding Aegean islands.15 In the Middle and Neo-Assyrian realm, the appearance of standardised, low-investment ceramic repertoires is generally ascribed to an expanding provincial administrative apparatus.16 Past scholarship has similarly imagined a well-oiled Hittite imperial machine both willing and capable of effecting dramatic changes in cultural production not only at home but also in the diverse regions over which it sought to exert authority.17 Andreas Müller-Karpe, for instance, suggested that ‘the creation of an Einheitsstaat with a strong state-dependency of large parts of the economy . . . is likely to have also been a catalyst for the standardisation of the [ceramic] repertoire and its tendency towards formal simplification’.18 For areas beyond the Hittite central region, Nicholas Postgate held resident administrative and military personnel and their ceramic needs responsible for the local adoption and production of north-central Anatolian ceramic traits,19 whereas Marie-Henriette Gates argued for the imposition of a tightly controlled, empire-wide standard of ceramic production.20 In the more recent historical record, colonial and national efforts are attested towards such directed forms of culture change. Their aim was to alter indigenous peoples’ or ethno-linguistic minorities’ world-views and lifeways in order to facilitate their incorporation and exploitation. But even then, transformation and its materiality often emerged from a process of transmutation that was deeply embedded in local cultural logics and that was, therefore, 13 14 16 17

18 19

Wengrow (2001); Baines (1994) for a comparable process in Dynastic Egypt and Miller (1985) for an apparent lack of individuation in the material culture of the Harappan Indus valley. 15 Sterling (2001, 2015). Knappett and Hilditch (2015). Pfälzner (1995); Kreppner (2015). Garstang (1953, 141-142); Goldman (1956, 350); Burney (1980, 165); Macqueen (1986, 105); Gunter (1991, 105; 2006, 360-361); Gates (2001, 141; 2006, 308); Symington (2001); Henrickson (2002, 123); Müller-Karpe (2002a, 257); Müller (2005); Postgate (2005); Jean (2006, 328-330 for a critical perspective); Schachner (2011). Müller-Karpe (2002a, 257), translated from German. 20 Postgate (2005, 2007); Müller (2003, 2005). Gates (2001, 2006).

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unpredictable and largely beyond the control of imperial agents.21 The early imperialists of the ancient Near East, including the Hittites, had no such civilising missions, even if those beyond their direct sphere of authority were often portrayed as barbarous in state propaganda. Neither did they, as I contest here, have the capacity or indeed an interest in enforcing deep-reaching cultural transformations to homogenise the daily lives of their subordinates and deliberately deprive them of aesthetic pleasures in the process. The latter is a notion rooted in modernist material ideologies and understandings of value, whose juxtaposing forces Pierre Bourdieu called ‘working class realism’ and ‘bourgeois frivolity.’22 I argue here that such notions are not in such simple, binary terms applicable to early state and imperial contexts. The localised production of plain or simple imperial things such as north-central Anatolian-style ceramic types beyond their cultural homeland, moreover, can only be explained by taking account of the agency of indigenous communities and the vitality of material appropriation. Conformity, some have suggested, presents a form of consensual submission.23 Cultural mimesis as an act of interpretation, however, is never unambiguously submissive or uninterested,24 but a means through which are harnessed imperial practice and symbolism for a range of local agendas including, and sometimes concurrently, cultural alignment and subversion.25 In the preceding chapter, I have argued against a strict division between modernity and techniques of political production in the past. In this chapter, I caution against hasty analogies of agenda and capability between nation states and their colonial ventures and the imperial experimentations of the Bronze Age through a case study focused on the production and consumption of plain, simple things. I will first take another critical look at the conceptual links that have been drawn between craft specialisation, efficiency, product standardisation, and centralising institutions, before moving on to examine from a range of vantage points past hypotheses of Hittite state-directed ceramic uniformity. In the second part of this chapter, I shift attention from contexts of production to commensal consumption as a more promising explanatory framework and from a purely Hittite-local field of cultural exchange to considering the proliferation of plain, monochrome pottery as a globalising phenomenon rooted in the expanded network of Late Bronze Age inter-regional interaction.

21 23 24 25

22 See, for instance, Thomas (2002) as discussed in Chapter 1. Bourdieu (1984, 373-386). Benjamin Constant cf. Scott (1999, 30); Eagleton (1991, 114). Mimesis as a concept was first developed by Plato and Aristotle and features in the psychologies of Freud and Lacan (Taussig 1993). Bhabha (1994); Jiménez (2010, 48); Card (2013, 2).

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NO STATES’ CRAFT

The material qualities, attributes, and aesthetics, including the standardisation of the things that craft specialists produce, are to a large extent determined by the distributed social forces of consumer demand and the culturally defined expectations that consumers place on the things they want: what a cooking pot ought to look like and how it is expected to behave when under repeated thermal stress.26 Elites and state institutions may influence what things are produced and their material attributes through the possession of what Karl Marx defined as the means of production: the subjects of labour or raw materials, and the instruments of labour, the tools and locales of production. Controlling the labour force, in this case professional potters, is another or additional option. Archaeological research in this regard has focused primarily on the strategies through which centralising institutions interleave themselves in the production of things, whose raw materials, labour-input, and individuality when displayed in what Arjun Appadurai called tournaments of value27 confer in and of themselves socio-political capital. The early archaeological literature on craft specialisation envisaged firm state control over both the means and labour of production in the case of such prestige goods; this relationship has been referred to as attached specialisation.28 Much less theorised and empirically explored are the inter-dependencies of state institutions and craft specialists when it comes to the acquisition of the many mundane things that furnished palatial and temple households and that are, unlike prestige goods, rarely distinguishable from the material trappings of ordinary life. The production of such simple things is generally ascribed to independent specialists, who are envisaged as operating in market-like economic conditions. In practice, however, relationships between consumers, whether elite or not, and producers have been shown to take much more diverse and complex forms than the luxury/commodity-attached/independent dichotomy allows for.29 This is especially the case for pottery, which sits uncomfortably in either category and blurs their boundaries in a number of ways. Unlike Roman marble, silver, Persian columned halls, or fine Inka textiles,30 the ability of pottery to entrap human agents of empire or indigenous communities, especially in the case of plain, locally produced, and, as a result, highly disposable wares, was minimal. They present, thus, a curious case study for the political work and vibrancy of things. On the whole, pottery has been 26 28 29 30

27 Arnold and Nieves (1992); Longacre (1999). Appadurai (1986, 21). Brumfiel and Earle (1987); Clark and Parry (1990); Costin (1991); Peregrine (1991); Patterson (2005). Costin and Wright (1998). Katchadourian’s (2016) ‘delegates’; see discussion in Chapter 1.

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considered a poor choice of material for the display or enhancement of social status.31 Raw materials are readily accessible, and general vessel form can be imitated easily enough and replaced when broken. At the same time, pottery’s promiscuous nature,32 its ability to mimic through its skeuomorphic affordances a variety of materials and shapes including itself, makes it the ideal medium for the blending of different cultural influences as well as the negotiation of social and cultural boundaries. In the Late Bronze Age Near East and East Mediterranean, some pottery – imbued with the value of distance33 or decorative elaboration – could in itself acquire prestige status.34 Most local ceramic traditions, however, would appear to have held little intrinsic value in societies whose elites had come to afford tableware made of precious metals and other higher-prized materials. However, plain and monochrome vessels were extensively consumed not only by commoners but also by state institutions including and especially, as I will discuss in more detail below, in politically charged contexts. With the state an avid consumer of plain and simple things and their very public roles, we may justifiably query the relationship between ceramic specialists and state institutions and the degree to which the latter interfered in the production process as well as deliberately influenced product attributes. Investigating this relationship in the context of the Late Bronze Age Near East is fraught with some difficulty, however, due to the scarcity in the archaeological record of primary production locales. Only a handful of pottery workshops has been excavated across the region, but their general lack of physical proximity to elite households and state institutions, a proxy if not of control then of elite interest,35 seems to point to a generally loose relationship. At the Middle Assyrian border post of Tell Sabi Abyad, pottery production took place within the fortified compound. There are, however, no archaeological or textual indications that the state – despite being a major consumer of the workshop’s output – controlled it in any direct manner.36 A series of pottery kilns were also installed in the Upper City of Hattusa in the course of the thirteenth century BCE.37 These kilns, however, partially replaced rather than were attached to the temples and monumental structures that had characterised this part of the capital in the preceding centuries.38 The move of hazardous production activities into an area protected by extensive fortification walls at a time when much of this part of the capital city was devoid of official structures, moreover, points to a primary concern with

31 34 35 37

32 33 Sherratt (1999, 174). Gosden (2004, 206). Helms (1988). This was the case for Aegean pottery in the Levant or the highly decorated Nuzi ware. 36 Glatz (2015c) for an extended bibliography. Duistermaat (2008). 38 Müller-Karpe (1988); Parzinger and Sanz (1992). Seeher (2001b); see also Chapter 9.

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security rather than an attempt by a diminished Hittite state apparatus to control ceramic production. Where available, textual sources also largely point to disinterest on the part of state institutions in pottery production. In contrast to other craft specialists such as textile or metal workers,39 potters, their raw materials, and products are rarely mentioned in ancient Near Eastern texts.40 Where they are attested, potters stood in a diverse range of relationships with central institutions ranging from exchange partners to state ownership of the means and also the labour of production. The Ur III state of southern Mesopotamia compensated potters with rations and land for the workdays spent producing for public households.41 Potters working for temples are mentioned in a small number of Hittite texts, and according to Hittite law, potters could be bought at a fixed price alongside other craftspeople; a treaty text indicates their transfer as part of political agreements.42 Free potters, who could own landed property, are also mentioned.43 In contrast to the scarcity of production locales and lack of textual concern with the potter’s craft, there is no shortage of the things themselves, even if Late Bronze Age Anatolia ceramic assemblages are generally fragmentary and only rarely excavated in situ. From the ceramic vessels or their fragments can be interfered, among other characteristics such as geological area of origin and modes and sequences of production, the specialisation of those who made them and the wider communities of practitioners they tied into. Diachronic trends in assemblage distribution and transformation moreover allow us to identify in broad terms the social forces that informed the making of individual vessels and steered the development of the north-central Anatolian tradition more broadly. With standardisation and homogeneity the key concepts around which orbit theories of state intervention in ceramic production, the first analytical step must be to determine the degree to which we can define Late Bronze Age Anatolian pottery as standardised. Assemblage diversity and rates of change over time also provide us with a measure of homogeneity, which can be compared to expectations of state-enforced production standards.

39 40

41 43

Hittite texts, for instance, mention large quantities of weaponry, which some have interpreted as state production: Beal (1992b, 137-139); Lorenz and Schrakamp (2011). Potts (1997, 138-184); they are similarly underrepresented in administrative texts at Nuzi (Mayer 1978), the Middle Assyrian administration (Jakob 2003, 473-475), Levantine citystates (Heltzer 1982; Von Dassow 2008, 138-139), as well as in Hittite texts (Müller-Karpe 1988). 42 Steinkeller (1996); Sallaberger (1996). Otten (1988) cf. Mielke (2006b, 173). Müller-Karpe (1988) for a summary of relevant Hittite texts.

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Ethnographic studies have shown that both specialist and domestic producers are capable of creating standardised-looking vessels.44 They, however, also by and large confirm the causal connection between high-rate production and the metric standardisation of vessel attributes.45 Valentine Roux’s ethnoarchaeological study of different groups of Indian potters presents us with a series of baselines for annual production rates and scales and the degrees of standardisation to be expected from them.46 Observed part-time village potters, which operated in a small-scale and low-rate production environment, produced around 6,000 vessels annually. In the high-rate production environment of a Delhi suburb, full-time specialists produced an annual average of 15,000 water jars each.47 Coefficients of metric attribute variation of key variables such as height, maximum diameter, and aperture fell below 3 percent in the case of Delhi’s high-rate and full-time producers and reached up to 9 percent for small-scale to very small-scale production contexts. An archaeological cautionary tale is offered by the comparison of this ethnoarchaeological data with the coefficients of variation of a stack of 27 open-simple-rim fine ware bowl kiln wasters from late third millennium BCE Tell Leilan. Like the Anatolian ceramics of interest here, these had been previously characterised as the highly standardised products of centralised mass-production,48 but coefficients of variation between 4 and 9 percent would rather indicate a lower-rate and therefore weakly standardised production system.49 In the absence of detailed metric data from suitable Late Bronze Age Anatolian assemblages, we are compelled to approach the question of production scale and intensity from the perspective of consumer demand. An exercise in consumption estimation based on the hundreds of plain drinking and serving vessels from the so called pantries of the Late Bronze Age Mycenaean palace at Pylos offers an instructive comparative case. Annual pottery consumption of the palace at Pylos was estimated by Todd Whitelaw to amount to about 12,000 vessels, that of a lower-status household in the region of 50–100 pots. Scaled up to the c. 15 ha town of Pylos and its approximately 3,000 inhabitants, annual consumption would have ranged around 37,500–75,000 vessels.50 Whitelaw proposed that the annual ceramic needs of the palace could be met by two

44

45 46 48 50

Arnold (1991); London (1991). In both cases, the deliberate reproduction of homogenous artefacts has definable limits. Human ability to identify variation among objects is not absolute but tied to relative differences in the shape or weight of observed objects, which must exceed about 3 percent in order to be recognised as different by the human sensory system. Scalar errors of c. 5 percent or more (Eerkens 2000, 667), therefore, exist even in intentionally standardised assemblages (Eerkens and Bettinger 2001, 494-495). Costin (1991, 33); Costin and Hagstrum (1995); Berg (2004, 76) for a summary of ethnographic observations. 47 Roux (2003, 776-777). Roux (2003, 769-770). 49 Blackman, Stein, and Vandiver (1993, 73). Roux (2003, 780). Whitelaw (2001, 62-64).

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full-time or four part-time seasonal potters, those of the entire town by seven to 13 potters.51 Drawing on ceramic production rates from ethnographic studies and allowing for a less competitive, non-market environment, he suggested an average production rate of 27 vessels per full-time potter per day over a 300-day working year. This would have resulted in an annual output of around 8,100 vessels per potter per year, falling close to the low-rate, small-scale producers in Roux’s study above.52 Past estimates of ceramic consumption at the Hittite capital city and at settlements under Hittite imperial control have tended to underestimate the quantities of ceramic utensils consumed annually by households and central institutions as severely as they have overestimated the scale and intensity of production required to satiate them: the oft-invoked mass-production or industrial scale of Hittite ceramic production.53 The production associated with five pottery kilns and associated wasters dating to the final phases of occupation in the Upper City at Hattusa, for instance, was originally estimated to amount to a minimum of 10,000 vessels over a period of c. 35–50 years.54 When considering the known architectural space in the two Upper City phases of c. 27,000 m2 in the earlier phase (Oberstadt 3) and 17,000 m2 in the final phase of occupation in the thirteenth century BCE (Oberstadt 2),55 annual consumption in the buildings of Oberstadt 3 should have amounted to at least 46,000 vessels and 30,000 in the later phase. The former would have required six full-time or 12 part-time potters, the latter four fulltime or eight part-time specialists to produce.56 Annual vessel consumption for the entire settlement at Norş untepe, which includes four sizeable houses on the summit and further structures on the southern terrace (see also Chapter 6), were estimated to range between 30 to 50 pots,57 while Aegean estimates would suggest at least double this amount.58 Either annual estimate, however, would not have kept even a part-time specialist busy year-round, indicating a small-scale to very small-scale production environment, even if individual potters produced for more than one settlement community in the region. A second variable to consider is production rate. Large numbers of similarlooking vessels, bearing signs of varyingly careless, wheel-based production and little in the form of investment in surface treatment and decoration, especially when found in state institutions, have evoked explanations of efficiency, both in the production process as measured by output volume and in the sense of a bare minimum functionality.

51 54 55 57

52 53 Whitelaw (2001, 71). Roux (2003, 769-770). Schoop (2006, 216). Müller-Karpe (1988, 163). Six further kilns belonging to the same phases of Oberstadt 3 and 2 were recorded in the 1982–1987 excavation seasons. 56 Calculated from Neve (1999, 2001). Glatz, Steele, and Kandler (2011). 58 Korbel (1985, 125). Whitelaw (2001, 64).

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Wheel-throwing, as ethnographic studies have shown, can indeed increase the volume of production, even if production scale and intensity vary considerably among specialist potting communities.59 However, archaeological approaches to potting chaînes opératoires60 have demonstrated that, while the potter’s wheel was used from the fifth millennium BCE in some parts of the Middle East, it is wheel-shaping rather than throwing techniques that dominated many ceramic traditions until at least the second millennium BCE.61 This is corroborated by experimental reconstructions of Bronze Age potter’s wheels in the Aegean, Egypt, and the Levant, which demonstrate that the energy stored by such rotary devices was not sufficient to throw larger or more complex vessels.62 The fast kick-wheel appears only to come into use in the early first millennium BCE.63 X-radiographic and microfabric analyses of Bronze Age vessels from the wider region have also begun to point towards a diversity of contemporary forming techniques.64 Important here is that while both wheel-shaping and wheel-throwing are specialist skills, wheel-forming does not significantly reduce the amount of time spent making a vessel compared to various hand-forming methods. It is, in other words, not more efficient. Late Bronze Age north-central Anatolian pottery is conventionally described as the product of wheel-throwing.65 While this is the case for small to medium-sized vessels, macroscopic analyses and experimental chaînes opératoires,66 microfabric and x-radiographic studies67 have shown that many vessels, in particular larger and more complex forms, were produced in several stages and with a range of forming techniques. Formal preferences for rounded bases of cooking pots and the majority of bowls, even if first formed on the wheel, involved additional trimming or shaving and a return to the turntable for finishing.68 Also attested are exclusively handmade vessels, such as the plate with stepped-rim profile, and some miniature bowls.69 Some bowls also appear to have been moulded.70 The diverse range of attested forming methods and the existence of production stages that catered to culturally specific aesthetics and functional characteristics at the expense of output speed argue against 59 60 61 62 63 66 68 69

Duncan (1998, 157); Costin (2000, 392); LaViolette (2000, 58-70); Tekkök-Biçken (2000, 99); Stark (2003, 203-204). van der Leeuw (1976); Rye (1981); Rice (1987); Courty and Roux (1995, 17-18); Berg (2008). Roux and Courty (1998, 748); Crewe (2015); Roux (2015); but see e.g. Laneri (2011) for a different assessment. Amiran and Shenhav (1984); Powell (1995); Morrison and Park (2007–2008); Roux and de Miroschedji (2009); Evely and Morrison (2010); Berg (2013, 115-116). 64 65 Moorey (1994, 148). Summary in Berg (2013, 115-116). Schoop (2011a, 264). 67 Müller-Karpe (1988); Mielke (2006b). Henrickson (1993, 2002). Müller-Karpe (1988); Henrickson (1993, 2002). 70 Müller-Karpe (1988, 125-126); Schoop (2011a, 264). Henrickson (2002).

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efficiency as a major concern or pressure on potters and also point to comparatively low rates of production. North-central Anatolia’s plain, monochrome, and standardised-looking ceramic assemblages, rather than the mere byproduct of mass-production for efficiency’s sake, present, thus, a cultural choice. What remains to be determined is what underwrote this choice and how far state institutions enforced compliance with specific cultural standards. If we entertain for a moment the possibility, highly unlikely as it seems at this point, that Hittite central institutions engaged in a deliberate strategy of cultural uniformisation, we might expect to find marked visual and morphological standardisation within groups of artefacts clustering around functional types. In the case of ideologically driven homogeneity, we might predict the persistent co-occurrence of vessel types in assemblages serving particular political purposes: an imperial service. A standardised assemblage of this sort, for instance, formed part of the Inka empire’s commensal politics to co-opt local elites.71 Functional or administrative purposes, such as the collection, storage, and redistribution of surplus, should lead to the clustering of vessel attributes within recognisable metric parameters. Arguments to this end have been made, for instance, for the Uruk-period bevelled rim bowls and Neo-Assyrian carinated bowls.72 Alternatively, state oversight over production may have no particular intention to visually or metrically homogenise an assemblage, but be borne merely out of a concern for the supply of its institutions with all the things required to adequately perform their functions. In the latter case, levels of homogeneity ought to be similar to contexts in which producers operate within the parameters of cultural acceptability and preferences set by their consumers. If Late Bronze Age pottery production was, as has been suggested, subject to a politically motivated strategy of cultural homogenisation, then we would expect to find low rates of innovation by individual potters and a stable repertoire composition over time. We would also expect to find more conformism in the choices exercised by consumers of pottery, leading to an overabundance of the most common vessel forms. By contrast, an absence of such strictly enforced standards of production ought to result in relative fluidity in repertoire composition over time, with rates and patterns of change comparable to those which affect all material traditions at the macroscale and that form the basis, for instance, of typology-based relative chronologies. The extensively published pottery assemblage of the final two Late Bronze Age occupation phases of the Upper City of Hattusa may serve as a case study here (Figure 51). The first phase, Oberstadt 3, is characterised by an extensive 71 72

D’Altroy and Bishop (1990); Costin and Hagstrum (1995, 627); Costin (1996, 2001); Hayashida (1999) D’Altroy, Williams, and Lorandi (2007, 119). This has been suggested, for instance, for the beveled rim bowls of fourth millennium BCE Mesopotamia: e.g. Millard (1988); Nissen (1988); Chazan and Lehner (1990).

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51 Oberstadt bowl repertoire (left) and percentages of each bowl type in the Upper City rim sherd assemblages from Oberstadt 3 and Oberstadt 2 (right) (after Glatz, Steele, and Kandler 2011; fig. 4)

sprawl of monumental structures, a large number of which have been identified as temples and the majority of the pottery comes from their basement storage rooms. The Upper City complex was initially assigned a date in the late thirteenth century BCE,73 but a re-assessment of the chronological span of its 73

Müller-Karpe (1988, 161); Neve (1992, 1999); Parzinger and Sanz (1992, 72-73).

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cuneiform tablet and glyptic archives points to an occupation history that stretches back at least to the fifteenth century BCE (see also Chapter 2).74 At the end of this phase, many of the monumental structures were abandoned and left to decay. Buildings and workshop installations of the subsequent, and final, Late Bronze Age occupation, Oberstadt 2, were partially built over the levelled structures of the preceding phase. House 4, for instance, was abandoned and the ground levelled to make way for two phases of pottery kilns.75 Bowls are the most abundant functional type attested in north-central Anatolian assemblages76 and therefore offer themselves to a quantitative approach. Plotting77 the relative abundance of bowl variants from a combination of functional contexts – temples, houses, and kilns – and across the two architectural phases suggests that there was considerable repertoire fluidity.78 Compared to a null hypothesis of random or non-directed copying of traits,79 the distribution of bowl variants in each of the two architectural phases does not conform to the expectations of enforced cultural homogeneity outlined above. Instead, they are consistent with less prescriptive relationships where cultural norms and tastes guide vessel attributes rather than specific and rigid standards of production. The frequency distributions of bowl variants in both phases do not depart significantly from those expected under conditions of random copying (drift), but suggest a decrease in the number of potters and/or in the rate of innovation in the later phase, which saw the abandonment of monumental structures and ultimately the departure of Hattusa’s main ceramic consumer, the state. Rather than the conformism expected of centrally regulated standards of production that ought to result in the most common types becoming even more abundant in subsequent phases, there was a complete changeover in the most popular bowl type from internal to externally profiled rims, which may track a change in culinary practices.80 Evidence, though less abundant and well published from other parts of Anatolia, further corroborates the conclusions reached thus far concerning

74 76 77 78 79

80

75 Mielke, Schoop, and Seeher (2006). Müller-Karpe (1988, 5). Mielke (2006b); Schoop (2011a). Using the data presented by Parzinger and Sanz (1992), which provides high typological resolution as well as consistency in the range of production and consumption contexts. For more details on this analysis, see Glatz, Steele, and Kandler (2011); Steele, Glatz, and Kandler (2010). Neiman (1995); Shennan and Wilkinson (2001); Kohler, Van Buskirk, and Ruscavage-Barz (2004); Eerkens and Lipo (2005). The neutral model of cultural diversity in the absence of selection is one in which new traits appear by a process akin to random mutation, and existing traits are randomly chosen to be copied so that their frequencies change only because of chance sampling effects. A similar process is assumed here in the absence of either functionally biased selection or cultural conformism. Müller-Karpe (1988).

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52 Distribution of pre-firing potmarks in Late Bronze Age Anatolia (base map: ESRI Topographic Data [Creative Commons]: World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water).

the comparatively small scale of Late Bronze Age ceramic production and the general lack of centrally enforced production standards. They also point to significant inter- and intra-regional variations in production organisation and technological practice. Marks on pottery, for instance, appear in three different forms in Late Bronze Age Anatolia: signs incised, impressed, stamped, or painted prior to firing and scratches and incisions applied after firing.81 Marks applied after a vessel is shaped but before it is fired are closely associated with the production process. Marks added after firing relate to later stages in the biography of a vessel, possibly denoting ownership or the destination of traded items.82 The vast majority of the 275 published Late Bronze Age potmarks attested at 13 sites in west-central, central, southern, and south-eastern Anatolia fall into the first, pre-firing, category (Figure 52). Potmarks are a well-known phenomenon across numerous ancient and ethnographic contexts and their interpretation varies widely, depending on the social and economic organisation of the society in question, at what stages in the life of a vessel the marks were applied, and the presence or absence of a contemporary writing system. In the case of Late Bronze Age Anatolian 81

For a full discussion, see Glatz (2012).

82

Hirschfeld (2002, 96).

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potmarks, attention has focused on finding similarities between marking symbols and signs of the Luwian hieroglyphic script.83 The meaning of the closest matching hieroglyphic sign forms the interpretive basis for both the function of the potmark and the vessel inscribed with it. For instance, a vessel marked with a dissected triangle (Figure 53), which looks like the Luwian hieroglyphic symbol REX (king), might be interpreted as belonging to a royal storehouse. Marie-Henriette Gates put forward a more production-oriented explanation, which, however, also assumes a direct link between the practice of potmarking and Hittite state interference in production as part of a strategy to centralise the economies of incorporated regions.84 Gates proposed that the marks present symbols of ‘a professional potter’s industry’, indexical of a large-scale production environment that required cooperation on various levels, and where individual effort was recorded and remunerated accordingly.85 Ethnographic accounts favour a rather different interpretation. In the majority of ethnographic cases, pre-firing potmarks are exclusively associated with, and do not intentionally extend to functions beyond, the production process. Observations among Andean,86 African, and Asian communities87 suggest that pre-firing marks serve to distinguish the work of craftspeople from different economic units or households at stages of production where facilities are shared, such as at drying and firing locales. Potmarks are applied to a small number of vessels in individual patches and they are only employed when vessels of different potters cannot be distinguished by other means. Potmarks rarely serve any communicative purpose beyond such production stages. Among Peruvian potters, for instance, these marks did not have any special significance to the potters, who changed their marks frequently.88 The same study showed that consumers were unable to use potmarks to identify the product of a specific potter, nor were they seen as a form of quality assurance. The number of published pre-firing potmarks is exceedingly small across Late Bronze Age Anatolia, amounting to fewer than 300 incised symbols across sites located in the Hittite central region and areas with varyingly dense ties to the Hittite imperial network. If such marks were used to monitor individual potters’ productivity, we would expect numbers of marked vessels to be significantly higher. The extremely low numbers of marked vessels found at the capital city itself are particularly telling here. In a sample of 100,000 sherds or 11 tons of pottery excavated in the Upper City, for instance, a mere 11 sherds were marked with pre-firing potmarks, amounting to 0.01 percent of the total sherd count. Similarly, from the c. 100,000 sherds excavated on the north-west slope at Kuş aklı, 39 marks are published (0.04 percent), 49 in total from 83 84 87

Seidl (1972); Roller (1987, 1-2); Müller-Karpe (1988, 1998, 2000b); Mielke (2006b, 153-155). 85 86 Gates (2001, 137-138). Gates (2001, 141). Donnan (1971). 88 Lindblom (2001). Donnan (1971, 465).

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53 Summary table of pre-firing potmarks: HAT = Bo˘gazköy-Hattusa, ALA = Alacahöyük, KUS = Kuş aklı-Sarissa, MAS = Maş at-Tapikka, POR = Porsuk, GOR = Gordion, TAR = Tarsus, MER = Mersin, SOL = Soli Höyük, KIN = Kinet Höyük, IMI – ˙Imikuş a˘gı, KOR = Korucutepe (after Glatz 2012; fig. 2)

Kuş aklı. If we consider minimum vessel counts instead of sherds,89 4.4 percent would have carried potmarks. This contrasts with other settlements located 89

Mielke (2006b).

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outside the central plateau, where marked vessels make up to 10 percent of recorded assemblages. This is the case, for instance, at Kinet Höyük in the bay of ˙Iskenderun, which was home to several sizeable domestic units with contacts across the East Mediterranean, but no monumental architecture or other signs of centralised state power. Motif diversity, the apparently indiscriminate application of similar signs on different vessel categories and at different locations on vessels within as well as across different sites, suggests that Late Bronze age potmarks were not intended to convey any specific post-firing information. This is further supported by the large number of single occurrences of signs. Many of these cannot be assigned to any geometric or other category of classification, meaning that a large number of potmarks are scribbles rather than meaningful (hieroglyphic) signs and were not intended for recognition beyond the potters that applied them. Not all Late Bronze Age sites within the orbit of Hittite political hegemony, moreover, have to date yielded pre-firing potmarks, and neither do such marks chronologically co-occur or present exclusively on plain north-central Anatolian-style vessels.90 This suggests that at the majority of Anatolian settlements, the scale and organisation of ceramic production did not require products to be distinguished through pre-firing marks. Annual ceramic consumption at these sites would have been so low that a single full-time or perhaps a part-time potter could have fulfilled them with little or no need or opportunity for collaboration. Even though vastly more vessels would have been consumed by Hattusa’s central institutions, potters here also appear to have had no need to distinguish their efforts, perhaps because they were state owned or produced exclusively for the state. By contrast, the evidence from Kinet Höyük points towards an intermediate scale and an alternative, institutionally independent but cooperative production organisation. The range of different technological choices made by Late Bronze Age potters across Anatolia too suggests a series of different regional communities of practice. Decisions surrounding clay preparation, the selection of temper, production location, forming tools and techniques, firing equipment and temperature, as well as post-firing treatments are not guided purely by technological considerations, but have been shown in ethnographic studies to be fundamentally informed by cultural norms and views of the world among groups of craft practitioners.91 Typical north-central Anatolian pottery, which is mainly buff in appearance, is exclusively mixed with mineral temper to a medium-coarse matrix; no organic materials are used.92 Many of the vessels from Gordion, Porsuk, Tarsus, and Korucutepe share this general 90 91 92

Gunter (2006, 358). Gosselain (1999, 2000, 189); Hegmon (2000, 130-133); Stark (2003, 211-213). Fischer (1963, 31); Müller-Karpe (1988, 16); Parzinger and Sanz (1992, 36-39).

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characteristic. The ceramic assemblage at Norş untepe,93 however, as well as an orange-coloured fine ware at Korucutepe,94 were chaff tempered. At Tarsus, too, are attested several shallow plates95 and miniature vessels96 with organic or shell temper, as are specimens from Kinet Höyük.97 At Porsuk, the occasional use of organic additions to cooking pots also presents a departure from the north-central Anatolian tradition. Such variations are not determined by environmental factors and access to raw materials, but present cultural choices.98 Divergent forming techniques are also attested, for instance, for plates with stepped rims. These were handmade at Hittite centres and often have rope impressions around the rim. Potters at sites in Cilicia99 and in eastern Anatolia, by contrast, produced similar-looking, though often smaller vessels on the wheel and without the characteristic cord impressions. Interestingly, at Arslantepe cords were combined with wheel-forming, emulating style rather than production technique.100 Although the details of ceramic production organisation and regional communities of potting practice still remain to be explored more fully across different parts of Anatolia and across diverse categories of settlements, the potmark evidence and divergent technological choices demonstrate that rather than a single centrally controlled or organised mode of production, there coexisted, as might be expected, a range of different scales and modes of organising the potter’s craft within the Hittite imperial network.101 To sum up the argument so far, there is currently no single strand of evidence that would support a central enforcement of cultural standards of ceramic production in the Hittite empire. There is also no evidence for the technological capability or indeed desire to mass-produce for efficiency’s sake the sort of metrically standardised output observed in modern, high-rate, and large-scale ethnographic production contexts. Estimates of vessel consumption levels at Late Bronze Age households and among state institutions suggest that such high-rate productivity would have been unnecessary to cater to a varied but mainly low consumer demand. This demand appears to have been met through a range of production organisations that operated mainly independently of state interference. These catered to a series of culturally specific and, with regards to speed of production often inefficient, aesthetic and functional 93 95 96 98 99 100 101

94 Korbel (1985, 124). Griffin (1980, 5). Slane (1987, Nos. 537, 539, 643, 644, 645, 652, 654, 664, 689). 97 Slane (1987, 529, 545, 661, 683, 705). Gates (2006, 305). As argued, for instance, by Müller (2005, 111). Slane (1987, 620); Hansen and Postgate (2007b); Glatz in Bouthillier et al. (2014). Manuelli (2013, 358). This finds a general comparison in the results of quantitative studies of the formal attributes of Egyptian Meidum bowls, which were also produced at two very different scales and organisation: one localised at rural sites and the other literally implicated in the production of the state in the pyramid workers’ villages (Sterling 2009, 2015).

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requirements. This leaves us then still searching for explanations for both the plainness and monochrome homogeneity of north-central Anatolian ceramic assemblages and the motivations of local communities to adopt and appropriate aspects of this repertoire. POMP IN CI RCU MSTANCE

The dramatised performance of sovereignty presents an essential strategy of early state- and empire-making. Breaking away from the temporality of daily life, cult festivities and associated feasting, as I have argued in Chapter 3, formed a critical technology for the reproduction of the Hittite imperial network that was frequently and regularly employed. Here, I return to this sphere of political practice to highlight the plain and simple things on whose collaboration Hittite elites relied in their attempts to ritually reproduce a community of subjects and to legitimise the extraction of surplus from it. Feasts and their material culture, including the food that is consumed and the paraphernalia that furnishes it, are polysemous in that ‘they both unite and divide at the same time’.102 The communal consumption of food and the inebriation from alcoholic drink speeds the formation and consolidation of social relationships and the forging of alliances, as well as a broader sense of community among participants. At the same time, differential access to particular foods103 and objects,104 specific spatial arrangements and differences in the ways in which bodies are trained in the expert manipulation of consumption equipment,105 and etiquette106 are powerful means of maintaining social hierarchies and distinctions.107 During state-sponsored feasts, sovereignty was ‘produced in the arena of sensory experience and sensuous memory; it is biopolitics and bio-political power’.108 As social tournaments, feasts could also confer as well as subvert the meanings and values of objects used and displayed.109 The mundane furnishings of Hittite state rituals and their feasts receive cursory mention in the ration lists of festival texts as containers of foodstuffs to be distributed among festival participants.110 A recurring formula in provincial temple inventories is the provision of cups for drinking: ‘They provide for the cups’.111 This suggests a special concern with the availability of consumption vessels during ritual acts by the central authority, although it is not always clear who is responsible for their provision. Some of the material trappings of

102 104 107 109 111

103 Dietler (2001, 77). Goody (1982); Adams (1990). 105 106 Bourdieu (1984); Appadurai (1986). Whalen (2014). Gero (2003). 108 Dietler (2001, 69, 88). Hamilakis (2013, 130, 143); Dietler (1996, 89). 110 Wiessner (2001, 117-119). Singer (1983, 141). Translations by Hazenbos (2003).

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54 North-central Anatolian pottery types associated with feasting contexts (after Glatz 2015c; fig. 8.4, based on Schoop 2011a)

Hittite state festivities are also depicted in Anatolian ritual iconography and can be compared with the north-central Anatolian ceramic repertoire (Figures 54 and Figures 55). Most common are depictions of drinking scenes involving small cups that both human and divine protagonists balance on their fingertips. These can be equated with ceramic vessels referred to as miniatures or votives.112 Miniatures in the form of cups and also juglets, which contained enough liquid for a toast or similar drinking ritual,113 first appeared at Hattusa in the Old Hittite Period, but peaked in popularity in the thirteenth century BCE.114 Cups were produced mostly on the wheel and string cut from a cone, resulting in irregular profiles and a general absence of surface finishings.115 Their hasty, careless production suggests an inherent disposability that has led to interpretations of sacrificial items.116 Miniatures formed part of the ceramic inventories of cult-related contexts such

112

113 116

Schoop (2011a, 246); Müller-Karpe (2002a). Miniature bowls from Hattusa range between 2 and 13 cm in rim diameter, with most concentrating between 3 and 5 cm. Vessel heights average around 2–5 cm, resulting in vessel volumes of around 80–100 ml. 114 115 Schoop (2011a, 249). Fischer (1963, 69, 103). Schoop (2011a, 247). Neve (1971, 12, 25-27).

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55 Drinking scene depicted on the I˙nandıktepe vase (Glatz 2015c; fig. 8.2; based on Mielke 2006b, 95; Abb. 76c) and cooking pots depicted on the ˙Inandıktepe vase (Glatz 2015c; fig. 8.3; based on Mielke 2006b, 84; Abb. 59)

as the monumental temple structures of the Upper City at Hattusa.117 Dozens of miniature cups were also excavated, for instance, in Building A on the acropolis of Kuş aklı, but they are also found in domestic contexts.118 Not depicted in Anatolian iconography are the somewhat larger, hemispherical eggshell bowls (c. 12–16 cm in diameter) that were also most likely used for the consumption of liquids.119 They present the second most popular bowl type in north-central Anatolian assemblages of the fifteenth century BCE and the only local fine wares. The four round-bottomed vessels depicted in the lowest register of the ˙Inandık vase (Figure 55) can be identified as standard north-central Anatolian cooking pots which may be associated with the provision of soups in Hittite festival texts. Cooking pots were globular in shape, had a wheel-made body whose bottom was subsequently scraped to achieve a rounded base, with incurving rims and two vertical handles on the shoulder.120 They were made of coarse mineral-tempered clay different from the standard, buff-firing fabrics 117 118 119 120

Parzinger and Sanz (1992, 30). Müller-Karpe (1988, 124; 2002a, 262); Schoop (2011a, 248). Müller-Karpe (1988, 118-122); Mielke (2006b, 212); Schoop (2011a, 243; fig. 8.5.f and g). Mielke (2006b, 79); Schoop (2011a); but see Fischer (1963, 53) for different forming techniques and sequences.

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to withstand thermal shock. Vessel surfaces frequently show signs of secondary burning, confirming a role in food preparation.121 Bowls with inverted rims are the most likely consumption vessel for the soups mentioned in the festival texts, as their rim morphology would have prevented the spillage of liquids.122 These so-called Schwapprandschalen appear at the beginning of the Late Bronze Age and become the most popular bowl type in central Anatolia during the fifteenth and fourteenth centuries BCE.123 Schwapprandschalen are wheel-made, with round bases, which are achieved through shaving or scraping, and are generally made of the standard medium-coarse fabric. With average rim diameters around 26 to 27 cm, this vessel type is suitable for individual consumption, but larger examples (with rims up to 40 cm in diameter) may have served more than one person. The sharing or preparation of (semi-)liquid foods may also have been the function of a related but heavier and deeper bowl type with round, flat, or ring bases.124 These larger bowls are attested on the central Anatolian plateau since the Middle Bronze Age,125 and their numbers peak in the first half of the Late Bronze Age. Several stacks of deep bowls, for instance, were found associated with the brewery in Building C at Kuş aklı.126 Bowls with everted rims, which become the most popular bowl type in the thirteenth century BCE, by contrast, may have been used for the serving and consumption of dry foods, suggesting perhaps a change in culinary preferences or at least the nature of festive provisions.127 The second type of preparation and serving vessel depicted on the ˙Inandık vase – itself a representative of this form – are jars with egg-shaped bodies, inward-tapering necks, and funnel-like, everted rims.128 North-central Anatolian jars undergo a general development from a variety of rim shapes in the Middle Bronze Age and the early part of the Late Bronze Age to this single type in the fifteenth to fourteenth century BCE. Besides their use as storage and as funerary containers,129 the depictions on the ˙Inandık vase suggest a use in the preparation and serving of beverages, most likely beer.130 During the later part of the Late Bronze Age, this type of jar is partly replaced by open-mouthed bag-shaped jars with rounded bottoms, deep carinations,

121 123 124 125 127 129 130

122 Schoop (2011a, 249). Müller-Karpe (1988, 106-113; S5). Schoop (2011a, 245). Müller-Karpe (1988, 95-100) suggests a function in food preparation rather than consumption; Mielke (2006b, 107-108); Schoop (2011a; fig. 8.5.i). 126 Schoop (2011a, 245). V. Müller-Karpe (1998, 112). 128 Müller-Karpe (1988, 100-106; S2–4). Müller-Karpe (1988; T12–13, T15). Schoop (2011a). Bittel (1937, 39); Müller-Karpe (1988, 83; 2002a, 261); Mielke (2006b, 95); Schoop (2011a, 249).

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and vertical vessel walls,131 whose functions also included the brewing or storage of beer.132 Another vessel form associated with the preparation of food, but not depicted in iconographic sources, are large, handmade, and possibly wheelfinished plates with stepped-rim profiles.133 The coarse fabric composition of these vessels is designed to resist repeated exposure to thermal stress. Patchy firing suggests limited control in original firing processes, while frequent traces of secondary burning point towards a function in food preparation, probably baking.134 The large quantities of bread mentioned in textual sources that formed part of ritual activities and that were consumed by festival participants make this vessel type an important component of feasting preparations. These large (up to 80 cm in diameter) and distinctive vessels, moreover, present a Late Bronze Age addition to the north-central Anatolian repertoire, whose popularity peaks in the fifteenth and fourteenth centuries BCE.135 Their rim diameters subsequently decline, and an increased use of standard fabrics suggest perhaps a new function in the serving rather than production of food. Also attested is the use of large plates as the underside of portable ovens136 and as pithos lids.137 Not found in Anatolian iconography, but well attested in centralised storage facilities, are large jars with round and later pointed bases, long constricted necks, and one vertical handle, which were used for the medium-term storage of liquids as well as of solid staples such as grain.138 Archaeological evidence for feasting events in the central region of the Hittite imperial network includes a series of fifteenth to fourteenth century discard episodes in the ruins of the abandoned Building E at Kuş aklı, which may have derived from activities taking place in the monumental temple (Building C) located upslope.139 The ceramic assemblage from these depositional layers is highly specialised compared to that of the site’s domestic contexts.140 Over half of the pottery from the fill layer was made up of drinking bowls and medium-sized bowls with inverted rims, followed by pouring vessels, jars, plates, and cooking pots.141 It would appear that the material was deposited over a relatively short period of time and did not accumulate in the course of household rubbish disposal.142 The analysis of

131 133 134 135 136 138 139 141

132 Müller-Karpe (1988; T12-T7). Pasternak (2000); V. Müller-Karpe (2005). Mielke (2006b, 127-129); Schoop (2011a, 247). Fischer (1963, 103); Müller-Karpe (2002a, 261); Schoop (2003, 173; 2006, 231-233; 2011a, 246); Mielke (2006b, 129). Lechtman (1977); Gosselain (1992; 2000, 190); Lemonnier (1992); van der Leeuw (1993). 137 Seeher (1995, 612; Abb. 12-13). A. Müller-Karpe (1998; Abb. 5). Müller-Karpe (1988, 31; 2002a, 258); Schoop (2011a, 249). 140 Arnhold (2009, 9); von den Driesch (2009, 149). Mielke (2006b). 142 Arnhold (2009, 126-127; Abb. 34). von den Driesch (2009, 144).

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animal bones from the fill layers suggests that the vast majority of animals were butchered for the purpose of consumption. Almost 90 percent of faunal remains, moreover, derived from sheep and goat, with juvenile males predominating. This finds parallels at the Temple 1 at Kuş aklı143 and to some extent at the great temple in the Lower City at Hattusa,144 and contrasts with domestic assemblages in which the distribution of species and age groups is usually more balanced and wide-ranging.145 The likely remnants of a drinking ritual possibly associated with the Hittite rain cult146 in the form of large numbers of miniatures, drinking bowls, a small number of serving vessels, and an arm-shaped libation vessel were found deposited in a water-basin in the palace area of Hattusa.147 Excavations at the rock sanctuary of Yazılıkaya, the likely location of the Hittite New Year festival and other cult-related functions,148 revealed only limited amounts of pottery.149 The published repertoire, however, is similarly restricted to miniature cups, hemispherical drinking bowls, bowls with inverted rims, plates, and a few serving and preparation vessels. The pottery from a range of other cult-related locations in Hattusa also present evidence not of feasting events per se but of their material furnishings. Stored in the basements of Temples 7 and 10, for instance, were both ceramic cult equipment and large quantities of a restricted range of plain pottery vessels.150 Consumption vessels in the form of bowls dominate almost all Hattusa temple assemblages, making up about half of the recovered ceramic finds. This is similar to the Kuş aklı Building E fill layer,151 where cups and bowls make up about 67 percent of ceramic finds. By contrast, bowls account only for about 38 percent of the domestic and workshop-derived assemblages on the north-west slope at Kuş aklı.152 Hemispherical drinking bowls make up around 10 percent of the Upper City bowls, whereas miniature cups are attested in most temples and houses, but in varying and mostly low numbers. In the basement of Temple 7, miniatures cluster below the adyton area alongside beak-spouted jugs, arm-shaped vessels, and other cult paraphernalia, perhaps pointing towards their use primarily during cult activities in the narrow sense rather than associated feasting. In the Hattusa Upper City temples, cooking pots make up around 10 to 15 percent of recovered assemblages, which is more in line with the domestic and

143 144 145 147 150 152

von den Driesch and Vagedes (1997); von den Driesch (2009); see also Arnhold (2009; Abb. 37). von den Driesch and Boessneck (1981; table 17). 146 von den Driesch and Pöllath (2004, 6-10). Neve (1971). 148 149 Neve (1982, 128-129). Bryce (2002, 198). Hauptmann (1975, 193). 151 Müller-Karpe (1988); Parzinger and Sanz (1992, 74-90). Arnhold (2009; Abb. 36). Arnhold (2009, 34); Mielke (2006b).

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workshop contexts of the north-west slope rather than the Building E fill layer at Kuş aklı, where they account for less than 5 percent of the recovered pottery. Plates with stepped profiles, by contrast, are numerous in Building E, amounting to 11 percent of the assemblage, but are generally more limited at Hattusa. The Hattusa temples also show a greater concern with large-scale storage vessels than the fill layer of Building E,153 no doubt a function of the post-feasting depositional nature of the latter assemblage. Comparable distributions of functional categories in the temple on the north-west terrace, Building C, and the huwaši-sanctuary at Kuş aklı, as well as Building B at Kayalıpınar154 point to very similar functions for the vessels stored in these state-related structures. The ceramic furnishings of around 80 vessels excavated in situ in a large fourteenth century BCE domestic structure located on the plateau between Yenicekale and Sarıkale at Hattusa155 also present a feasting kit. This assemblage is dominated by a range of plain, wheel-made, shallow bowls and platters, but also includes six large baking plates, a bag-shaped footed jar, and two special-purpose vessels in the form of a jar with flaring neck, whose rim is decorated with crenulations, and a large bull-headed vase (Figure 56).156 The overwhelming dominance of consumption and serving vessels as well as the presence of two special-purpose vases point towards a use in socially charged consumption and ritual events, where alcoholic beverages, semi-liquid foods, and bread were served. The host was most likely a high-ranking

56 Ceramic inventory of Rooms 1 and 6 of a recently excavated structure on the middle plateau at Hattusa (after Schachner 2009b; Abb. 18, courtesy of Andreas Schachner)

153 155 156

154 Arnhold (2009, 49; Abb. 34). Mühlenbruch (2014, 216-235). Schachner (2007, 76-79; Abb. 11-14; 2008, 129-133; Abb. 21-31; 2009b, 31-39; Abb. 13-16; 2017a). Schachner (2009b, 36; Abb. 8.5).

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member of Hittite society, a GAL MEŠEDI (see Chapter 2),157 whose feasts, while being capable of entertaining at least 70 people at any one time, would have been of a more private nature than those held in the palatial and temple districts of the capital. In the course of the Bronze Age, pottery largely ceased to be a prestige good in its own right, at least for the highest social echelons of the most wealthy and powerful states. For instance, pottery never forms part of Hittite tribute demands158 or boasts about the loot and booty acquired during Egyptian military campaigns.159 Decorated and imported pottery carried some significance for the elites of smaller polities in the Levant and on Cyprus,160 but were decidedly sub-elite161 or middle-class162 in Egyptian contexts, while their glass and faience copies were more coveted than the original imports.163 The increasing simplification and homogenisation of local ceramic assemblages across Anatolia and, with the exception of eggshell bowls,164 the scarcity of fine, high-status table wares suggest that vessels of other media, particularly metal, gradually replaced ceramics at the apex of Bronze Age value hierarchies. The social distinctions inherent in the access to such prestige goods would have been reproduced during public feasting, where a smaller number of elaborate ritual and drinking vessels made of fine or imported Red-Lustrous WheelMade wares and various metals, would have stood in stark contrast to the large quantities of plain, monochrome pottery from which the majority of participants consumed their food and drink. These simple pots, however, were as critical to Hittite political performance as high-value prestige goods. They served not as the poor imitations of more elaborate things but as a complementary component of public and more private elite feasting165 and acquired political charge in the context of and through their collaboration in such events.166 Hittite texts mention the breaking of cups as part of royal funerary rituals,167 implying that even central cult protagonists handled plain pottery vessels in important ritual circumstances, which finds archaeological confirmation in ritual depositions of miniatures and other plain drinking equipment in the palatial citadel at Hattusa. At the same time, the consumption and sharing of food and drink from a visually uniform repertoire would have promoted a shared material identity168 and the integration of different segments of society into a solidary and, through its 157 159 161 164 165 166 168

158 Schachner (2009b, 39). Translations by Beckman (1999b). 160 Bevan (2007, 136-137). Steele (1999, 807). 162 163 Kemp and Merrillees (1980, 85; 284-285). Hulin (2009). Wilson (1988). Schoop (2011a, 245). Glatz (2015c); this is also the case, for instance, for the plain pottery associated with ritual feasting at Hazor; see e.g. Lev-Tov and McGeough (2006); Zuckerman (2007, 2015). 167 Knappett (2001) Kassian, Korolëv, and Sidel’tsev (2002, 456-457). E.g. Galaty (2010) on Pylos.

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comparatively humble material trappings, deliberately inclusive political community. I propose that it is this collaborative, occasion-bound political work that made otherwise plain things desirable to communities beyond the Hittite central region and led to their appropriation and integration into local practice. COPIED POTS

In the course of the Late Bronze Age, pottery which references the formal characteristics of north-central Anatolian vessel types began to be locally produced across a wide region stretching from west-central Anatolia to the Upper Euphrates. With one exception, the communities where such pottery has been identified in stratified contexts are modest in size and, beyond occasional fortification systems, mainly lacked evidence for monumental architecture indicative of well-established local or imperial institutions. Rather than an imposition of a recognisable and standard imperial service, these communities selectively adopted north-central Anatolian vessel types at different points in time and with varying enthusiasm into their potting traditions and consumption practices.169 Amidst this wide spectrum of local variability, however, a core group of vessel categories can be traced at almost all excavated sites, albeit in highly variable quantities. They include stepped-rim plates, shallow platters, medium-sized bowls, miniature cups, and tall-necked bottles – the basic ceramic inventory of Hittite feasting. Located at the north-western and south-eastern perimeter of the central Anatolian plateau, the village of Gordion and the fortified settlement of Porsuk appear to have formed an integral part of the central Anatolian ceramic tradition, with the majority of published pottery resembling those of Hittite centres across major functional categories. The mound of Yassıhöyük-Gordion, the capital of Phrygia in the first half of the first millennium BCE, lies in the plain of the river Sakarya about 100 km south-west of Ankara. A Middle to early Late Bronze Age cemetery170 attests to occupation throughout the second millennium BCE, while deep soundings underneath the Phrygian Megara 10 and 12 yielded Late Bronze Age habitation debris and pits, but no coherent architecture.171 Subsequent excavations produced a number of semi-subterranean house structures. The standardised appearance of the ceramics and their purported simplicity have been emphasised in various publications, including the limited range of vessel forms and the

169 170

Glatz (2009); assessments of the relative abundance of particular vessel types are possible only at a very small number of sites. 171 Mellink (1956). Gunter (1991).

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clustering of metric attributes.172 Clay was sourced in the vicinity of the site, but the production sequences of some vessels closely resembled potting practices in the central region of the Hittite network.173 Formally, too, the pottery at Gordion finds close parallels at central Anatolian sites – a relationship that develops already in the Middle Bronze Age and that follows broad developmental trends at Hittite centres.174 Popular in earlier levels were inverted-rim bowls, cooking pots with internal-rim thickenings, and jars with flaring necks. A beak spout fragment with lustrous red slip is also attested and about half of recorded vessels were slipped and burnished. The most prominent vessel types in the second half of the Late Bronze Age were bowls with inverted rims, followed by carinated bowls. Hemispherical bowls with tapered rims and bowls with everted lips are also present. Larger vessels display a wide formal range, many of which match central Anatolian types. Only one miniature bowl, however, is published. Also rare are shallow bowls with simple rims and plates with stepped-rim profiles. Wheel-made pottery with connections to the Late Bronze Age north-central Anatolian tradition also continue to be produced into the early phase of the Early Iron Age. Regions further to the west, such as the Late Bronze Age communities at Aphrodisias and Beycesultan, by contrast, show no or very little interest in north-central Anatolian pottery.175 Beycesultan, for instance, yielded rich evidence for ritual activities and feasting, but its pottery was fiercely local in character, revelling in formal and functional variety and decorative elaboration such as metallic slips.176 The presence of occasional plates and plain bowls demonstrates the long-standing familiarity of Beycesultan’s inhabitants with the north-central Anatolian tradition,177 but ritual and feasting at the site served the purpose of local self-affirmation178 and present at the same time a firm rejection of Hittite cultural hegemony. A second settlement with strong links to the north-central Anatolian ceramic tradition during the first half of the Late Bronze Age is the c. 6 ha fortified town of Zeyve Höyük-Porsuk on the southern fringe of the central Anatolian plateau. Most popular here are bowls with inverted rims, most of which were burnished; some have a greenish-white wash or a partial, red-burnished slip well attested at Hittite centres. Also present are carinated bowls with everted rims and hemispherical bowls, the majority of which are either red or white slipped or washed. Handled drinking cups find parallels in the early Late 172 173 174 175 176

Henrickson (1993, 1994, 2002); Henrickson and Blackman (1996). Müller-Karpe (1988); Henrickson (1993, 2002). Assessment is based on the Late Bronze Age pottery publication by Gunter (1991). Gates (2001, 141) includes both Aphrodisias and Beycesultan in her sphere of Hittite statecontrolled ceramic production; Müller-Karpe (2002a, 257) includes Beycesultan. 177 178 Mellaart and Murray (1995). Gunter (2006, 355). Mac Sweeney (2011).

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Bronze Age material from Hattusa.179 Plates with stepped rims were made of both the coarse, gritty matrix generally associated with these vessels, but some were also made of a finer, medium-coarse fabric and have unusual burnished exteriors. Also present are north-central Anatolian style funnel-necked jars and cooking pots. Absent from the Niveau V assemblage are shallow bowls with simple rounded or thickened rims, bowls with everted rims, miniature vessels, and jars typical of the second half of the Late Bronze Age at central Anatolian sites. Farther afield, the uptake of north-central Anatolian pottery types is more selective and varies considerably from site to site, chronologically and in the extent of north-central Anatolian influences. The ceramic repertoires of Tarsus (Figure 47), the capital of Kizzuwatna, shows a number of similarities with the central plateau, while also displaying strong local characteristics, as do the sites farther to the east. The original excavation report presents the Tarsus pottery divided into two Late Bronze Age phases: LB I and LB II.180 In Section A of the mound, the so-called Later Terrace Building and Pottery Store Room date to the sixteenth to fifteenth centuries BCE,181 followed by an ill-defined transitional phase and a subsequent monumental structure, referred to as the Hittite Temple, and a series of large, multi-roomed houses with evidence for domestic activities and stable functions in Section B. In terms of the site’s pottery, too, there is a clear development discernible between the sixteenth-fifteenth and the fourteenththirteenth centuries BCE.182 The ceramic repertoire of the first half of the Late Bronze Age continued local practices, such as Cilician/Syrian painted traditions as well as registering an increased interest in monochrome slipped and burnished wares. Imported grey wares provide a link to the Amuq plain, while red- and brown-slipped and burnished monochrome vessels reference central Anatolian traditions.183 Rare in the LB I repertoire are bowls with inverted rims, so popular at this time at north-central Anatolian centres; miniature vessels are altogether absent. Closed vessels are attested in a great variety of forms with some generic similarities but no exact parallels in the north-central Anatolian repertoire.184 The majority of jar types are local in character, as are

179 180

181 182 183

Fischer (1963; Tafel 82). The sequence of architectural levels, however, is more complex than this standard subdivision, and the re-examination of pottery and field notes by Slane (1987) shows that there are a number of unsolved problems concerning stratigraphic relationships and the exact architectural contexts of pottery and other finds. Symington (1986); Slane (1987, 372). Goldman (1956, 203); included here is pottery published by Goldman (1956); Symington (1986); Korbel (1987); Slane (1987). 184 Goldman (1956, 183); Symington (1986); Slane (1987, 371-373). Slane (1987, 371).

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the handmade cooking pots, which continued to be produced throughout the Late Bronze Age.185 In the second half of the Late Bronze Age (LB II), the assemblage becomes dominated by plain, monochrome pottery. For the first time, plates with stepped-rim profiles appear186 and bowls with inverted rims become more numerous, as do shallow bowls or platters with thickened rims.187 Both types continue to be produced after the destruction of the monumental building in Section A.188 Represented only in small numbers are hemispherical bowls with tapered rims and simple carinated bowls, while none of the previously popular, large carinated bowls with everted rims are attested. More numerous are bowls or basins with everted rims.189 Miniature bowls and juglets190 are attested in the intermediate levels below191 and in contexts associated with the monumental structure as well as the East House in Section B and the destruction horizon above.192 General parallels with the north-central Anatolian tradition can be drawn between a number of jar and pithos shapes.193 Two tall-necked bottles with pointed bases194 have direct central Anatolian parallels, while jugs, by contrast, have mostly irregular, trefoil mouths. Among the imported vessels are several fragments of Grey Impressed Ware in the intermediate levels below the monumental structure.195 Later levels yielded Red-Lustrous Wheel-Made libation arms196 and small amounts of Cypriot pottery.197 Two Canaanite jars198 and fragments of a possible Tell el-Ajjul crater are also attested.199 Mycenaean pottery appears in the third floor level above the destruction of the main LB IIa structures200 and alongside Late Bronze Age monochrome pottery, including plates and miniature vessels,201 and newly emerging local painted traditions.202 Neighbouring sites, while lacking the detailed published resolution of Tarsus, also yielded evidence for central Anatolian connections. At Mersin,

185 186

187 188 190 192 193 194 195 197 199 201

Slane (1987, e.g. Nrs. 88, 103, 367, 469, 546). A typical example of this vessel type is illustrated by Goldman (1956, Nr. 1121); an additional plate has a less pronounced rim (Nr.1134). Further examples from LB IIa (Level IX) are illustrated by Slane (1987, Nrs. 603 and 645) and five more come from the subsequent LB IIb (Level X) (Slane 1987, Nrs. 662, 664, 665, 689 and 690). Korbel (1987; Tafel 8.178, 8.190); Slane (1987, Nrs. 537, 540, 541, 583, 602 and 653); Korbel (1987; Tafel 8.386). 189 Slane (1987, Nrs. 663 and 666). Korbel (1987; Tafel 10.179, 28.192, 28.337). 191 Slane (1987, Nrs. 421, 431-432). Slane (1987, Nr. 539). Slane (1987, Nrs. 445-459). Goldman (1956, Nr. 1206; Nr. 389 C to F, M, L, O and Q; Nr. 390 I). Goldman (1956, Nrs. 1191 and 1192); Slane (1987, Nr. 553). 196 Slane (1987, Nrs. 522, 523 and 530). Goldman (1956, Nrs. 1047 and 1229). 198 Slane (1987, Nrs. 585 and 624). Goldman (1956, Nrs. 1215 and 1216). 200 Slane (1987, Nr. 576 and 617). Slane (1987, Nr. 465); French (1975). 202 Slane (1987, Nrs. 461-465). Ünlü (2005).

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for instance, this includes bowls with inverted203 and everted rims,204 shallow platters or plates with very weakly pronounced steps,205 as well as a miniature bowl.206 The pottery from Kilise Tepe Level III207 also shows a number of ceramic connections to the early north-central Anatolian tradition in addition to large numbers of Red-Lustrous Wheel-Made imports and coarser local red wares. A destruction level followed by a clear architectural break and the introduction of new, frequently painted shapes such as square-rim jars and grooved-rim bowls mark the beginning of Level II, which dates to the final Late Bronze Age, while some shapes, such as bowls with inverted rims, continue in the early phases of Level II.208 At Kinet Höyük Period 14A, a well-built domestic structure included a kitchen and storage room filled with vessels for the preparation, serving, and consumption of food.209 Also found were a Levantine-style ivory seal and a Canaanite jar, while a fragmentary bull-headed cup, or rhyton,210 suggests a ritual component to the activities taking place in the structure. The ceramic inventory includes cooking pots and baking plates with stepped-rim profiles as well as miniature cups, medium-sized bowls with inverted rims, large, shallow bowls or platters with thickened or everted rims, and deep bowls and jars. The pottery is predominantly plain and monochrome, but bowls and small plates were often decorated with red-burnished bands around the rim. In concert, the inventory of the Period 14A House at Kinet Höyük appropriates through amalgamation distinctively north-central Anatolian vessel forms and practices such as the baking of bread on large plates and the ritual toasting with miniature cups, with local aesthetic preferences in the form of burnished bands and products and practices from the Levant and elsewhere in the Mediterranean not attested in central Anatolia. At Korucutepe in the Altınova region of eastern Turkey, north-central Anatolian connections concentrated on a few characteristic shapes.211 In the first half of the Late Bronze Age (Phase I, c. 1600–1400 BCE), which is best represented by a series of domestic structures along a street on the north-west slope of the mound,212 the local pottery tradition underwent a gradual shift in fabric type and colour preferences from grey and brown gritty wares, which dominated the Middle Bronze Age, to orange(-buff ) and red-slipped or burnished wares.

203 204 205 206 207 208 210

Garstang (1953; fig. 157) Sevin and Köro˘glu (2004, 78; figs. 4.9, 5.1-2, 5-6). Garstang (1953; fig. 157); Sevin and Köro˘glu (2004; fig. 4.8). Garstang (1953; fig. 157); Sevin and Köro˘glu (2004, 78; fig. 4.1-5). Garstang (1953; fig. 157). Symington (2001); Hansen and Postgate (2007b); Glatz in Bouthillier et al. (2014). 209 Hansen and Postgate (2007b); Bouthillier et al. (2014). Gates (2001, 2006). 211 212 Gates (2006, 301; figs. 6.a and b.8). Griffin (1980). Van Loon (1978, 28-34).

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The most concrete formal connections are plates with stepped-rim profiles, which first appear in Phase I. Such plates were made of a diverse range of fabrics at the site, including brown gritty burnished ware; cooking wares; and orange-slipped, burnished, and wheel-marked wares. The most popular vessel types were bowls with inverted rims, while everted rims are also attested, alongside long-necked jars. Absent, by contrast, are bowls with carinations and everted rims, hemispherical fine ware bowls, and, with one exception, miniature cups. Jars with funnel necks also find general comparisons.213 In the first phase of Phase J (c. 1400–1200 BCE), the site underwent largescale terracing and saw the construction of a corbeled stone postern gate, a possible tower, and a retainer wall, as well as a number of partially excavated domestic contexts. The main difference in terms of the ceramic repertoire is a dramatic increase of orange wheel-marked wares and a general decrease in surface treatments.214 Another difference is a reduction in the number of stepped-rim plates and an increase in wheel-marked platters or shallow bowls with thickened rims. A large number of these platters were found in a stonebuilt house in S18 belonging to the later Orthostat stage of occupation. The same house also contained an architectural model,215 miniature string-cut cups, and an iron bar.216 Small concentrations of miniature cups were found on a court surface associated with a series of hearths in excavation square O22, one of which contained borage seeds.217 A miniature jug came from a trial trench to the north of the mound. Extensive pitting followed this Orthostat stage, though the pottery remained largely the same. A Red-Lustrous Wheel-Made ware spindle bottle218 and the base of a libation arm come from this pit phase, as well as the majority of glyptic evidence from the site (see Chapter 7).219 The Late Bronze Age village of Norş untepe was located about 5 km from Korucutepe and consisted of a collection of three, relatively large domestic houses arranged around an open space, as well as several partially exposed structures centred on the submit of the c. 8 ha mound.220 As at Korucutepe, the first Late Bronze Age occupation phase saw a reduction of the metallic grey wheel-made ware typical of the Middle Bronze Age in the region in some but not all excavation contexts.221 At the same time, fabric types similar to the Korucutepe orange wheel-marked ware become more popular.222 In formal 213 214 216 218 219

220 222

Nr. 113, 140, 261, 264, and possibly also 128 (Griffin 1980; plate 4) Korucutepe Nr. 395 Korucutepe Nr. 350. 215 Griffin (1980, 76). KRC 70-384 (Van Loon 1978, 37). 217 KRC 70-332 (Van Loon 1978, 37). Van Loon (1978, 38). Griffin (1980, D, 17C). Griffin (1980, H10, plate 18B) may be the base of another arm-shaped vessel. Several more fragments of arm-shaped vessels were found during subsequent excavations (Ertem 1988; Mielke 2007). 221 Korbel (1985, 14, 47): Horizons IV and III. Korbel (1985, 114). Korbel (1985, 115).

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terms, however, Noş untepe’s pottery assemblage shares only a few diagnostic links with the north-central Anatolian tradition, which are attested in small numbers.223 They include stepped-rim plates,224 miniature vessels,225 and shallow bowls.226 Other vessel types such as shallow bowls with straight profiles or thickened, inverted and everted rims share more general similarities, but they are already attested in the pit level beneath the first Late Bronze Age building phase.227 A few tall-necked jars and some cooking pots also share north-central Anatolian connections, but most jar and pithos forms do not. A similar chronology and pattern of adoption also characterise the ceramic tradition at Arslantepe in the Malatya plain,228 with other sites in the region, such as Tepecik229 and ˙Imikuş a˘gı, also participating to varying degrees in a north-central Anatolian sphere of ceramic production and consumption.230 Traditional models of acculturation assume that the barbarous become civilised through the imitation of the superior cultures of those politically, economically, and militarily more powerful. The efforts of subordinates and peripherals, however, are always doomed to fall short of the original culture they strove to approximate for the purpose of localised contests of prestige and value. This, for instance, has been argued for one of the most enduring and wide-ranging Bronze Age examples of cultural emulation: the Levantine penchant for Egyptian material culture, dress, and hairstyle.231 Rather than merely clumsy or incomplete imitation, however, the Levant’s incorporation of Egyptian stylistic elements masterfully creates its very own arena of political performance and diplomatic jesting. A fragmentary alabaster vase, for instance, depicts the Ugaritic king, Niqmadu, with a woman in Egyptian costume, implying a marriage to an Egyptian princess.232 Egypt’s official rhetoric, however, strongly suggests that it was not in the habit of sending its princesses abroad, let alone to marry the vassal ruler of another imperial power. Niqmadu’s vase signals, at the same time, cultural affiliation and familiarity and subverts and satirises Ugarit’s relationship with imperial Egypt. The local production and consumption of simple north-central Anatolian-style vessels present a similar case of cultural mimesis that acknowledged and reproduced Hittite cultural hegemony as much as it subverted and appropriated it through the amalgamation with local practices and aesthetic adjustments. 223 224 225 227 228 229 230

Contrary to Harald Hauptmann’s (1970, 119-120; 1971; 1972, 107-108) interpretation; also Murray (1986, 274). Korbel (1985, Nr. 1596, 2139, 2197, 2624, 2639, 4185 and a slightly different form 2315). 226 Korbel (1985, Nr. 5812). Korbel (1985, Nrs. 4981 and 4982). On the basis of this ceramic evidence Korbel (1985, 120) proposed a date of Norş untepe Horizons IV-III in the LBA II, contemporary with Tarsus LB IIa. Manuelli (2013, 213-214; 393); Pecorella (1975); Müller-Karpe (1988) and Parzinger and Sanz (1992, 94-95) for comparisons with the Hattusa material. Esin (1970; Tafel 8.2 and Tafel 9; 1971, 123-124; Tafel 92.1; 1974; Tafel 101.2, 4). 231 232 Konyar (2002, 2006). Higginbotham (2000). Feldman (2002, 2006).

261

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These developments, moreover, did not take place in a cultural vacuum, nor did they result in the hybridisation of previously pure Hittite and local Anatolian traditions. Rather, they were embedded within, and subject to, an increasingly connected East Mediterranean and Near Eastern cultural sphere and its globalising trends. With the exception of plates with stepped-rim profiles, which present a north-central Anatolian innovation from the time of Hittite state formation, many of the most popular vessel categories discussed above share varying degrees of similarity with types produced in the Levant, Mesopotamia, or the wider East Mediterranean. Hastily produced miniature bowls are known also from northern Syria233 and southern Levantine sites.234 Mesopotamian235 and Levantine236 feasting iconography shows participants holding similar small cups to those depicted in Anatolian sources, while conical cups present an Aegean cognate.237 Shallow wheel-made bowls and platters, though ubiquitous in north-central Anatolian assemblages and therefore characteristic, can also be found in the native repertoires of western Turkey238 and north-Syrian sites.239 Bowls with everted rims find generic similarities in the Troy VI repertoire240 and in northern Mesopotamian assemblages.241 More significant than detailed formal comparison, however, is that alongside the north-central Anatolian tradition, the ceramic assemblages of Mesopotamia, the Levant, and the Aegean also trended towards plain, monochrome wares and simplified repertoires over the course of the second millennium BCE242 and that these vessels critically collaborated in varyingly grand political spectacles from the western Peloponnese243 to the southern Levant.244 Plain, monochrome, and visually homogenous pottery in all its local variation was, thus, as essential to Late Bronze Age political production as so-called prestige goods, and, like elaborate metal vessels of varyingly hybrid or international styles, formed part of the international material lingua franca of political reproduction and elite competition.245 Plain pottery and the ambiguous Spiel of social in- and exclusion that it embodies and reproduces, as a result, were fashions worth imitating. This was the case not only among Anatolian settlements, and therefore

233 235 237 239

240 241 242 244 245

234 Yon (1987; fig. 21 79/574). Zuckerman (2007, 2015). 236 Schmandt-Besserat (2001); Pollock (2003). Ziffer (2005); Yon (2006, 146). 238 Knappett and Hilditch (2015). Koppenhöfer (2002; Abb. 12). Caubet (1982, Nr. 3); Akkermans and Schwartz (2003; fig. 10.3.a); Dornemann (1981; figs. 13.23, 31); Monchambert (1983; fig. 4.26); Zuckerman (2015); Horowitz (2015); for northern Mesopotamia, see Pfälzner (1995, e.g. Mitannian: Tafel 2.b-e; 3.a-d,f. Middle Assyrian: Tafel 67.c-d; 100.b,c and 101.d,e). Koppenhöfer (2002; Abb. 12). Pfälzner (1995, e.g. Middle Assyrian: Tafel 101.c; 110.a,d and 136.d). 243 See papers in Glatz (2015d). Whitelaw (2001; fig. 2). Zuckerman (2007); for a general discussion of feasting, see e.g. Wilson (1988); S. T. Smith (2003); Wright (2004); Yasur-Landau (2005). Feldman (2006); Horowitz (2015).

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the result of Hittite imperial pressure or influence. Communities on Cyprus, for instance, whose decorated and mainly handmade traditions formed popular imports elsewhere, also began to produce and consume plain, monochrome ceramics in the course of the Late Bronze Age, emulating the consumption practices of their Levantine neighbours and exchange partners.246 PLAIN, NO T SIMPLE

Notions of standardisation and homogeneity have a seductive appeal, mesmerising the docile citizens in all of us. But it is archaeology’s mandate to investigate the structure of variation of seemingly universalising phenomena and to untangle their implication in political production at both the imperial and local scale. Meta-narratives of the power of empire, although alluring storytelling they may make, are profoundly unsatisfactory in their generalisation of historically diverse processes, agendas, and agencies and their amalgamation into composite, overly coherent, and, thus, inevitably fictitious and isolated cultural phenomena. The analyses of the Anatolian ceramic record in this chapter, aimed to demonstrate that the production and geographical proliferation of plain, simple, and visually homogenous things do not equate with state sovereignty and enforced unity of practice and meaning. Rather, they represent the outcomes of more complex, localised processes of partial mimesis and mixing that, while seemingly reinforcing cultural hegemonies, actually subvert and ultimately weaken the cultural and symbolic ties that hold together imperial networks. What appears to the archaeologist as imperial cultural traits in the periphery, would in fact have quickly become ‘internalized as local, rather than foreign’,247 in the same way that Coca-Cola becomes ‘a black sweet drink from Trinidad’ in the eyes of local consumers248 in a globalised world. Such processes unfold differently and possibly in contradictory ways in different cultural and social arenas, reinforcing the need to conceptualise empire not as an essentialised political construct, but as a multi-layered collage of interconnected networks. Deliberate imperial making is expressed very differently in different regions and on different planes of action. Subjection, collaboration, and rejection too take shape and are expressed differently in different spheres of life. The communities discussed in the preceding chapters are for the most part the same as those I have examined here, but many show highly varied patterns of engagement and participation in the bureaucratic, commensal, and ritual networks that Hittite imperial practices sought to extend or that they accidentally created. How these ties dissolved as well as reached beyond Hatti’s political lifetime, I turn to in the next chapter.

246

Crewe (2015).

247

Gosden (2005).

248

Miller (1997).

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Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. W. B. Yeats

Sometime in the late thirteenth or perhaps the first years of the twelfth century BCE, Hittite great king Suppiluliuma II proclaimed in a monumental inscription in his capital city that . . . to Suppiluliuma the Great King, the Hero, all the gods . . . stood with favour, (and) he subjected the enemy: Wiyanawanda, Masa, Lukka, and Ikkuna. The chieftains in all the Land of Hatti and on the frontiers of Hatti, he removed this enemy. Suppiluliuma, Great King, the Hero, subsequently (re)built the Land of Hatti, . . . .1

A second inscription, preserved only as a copy on a clay tablet, describes a sea and land battle against enemies from Alasiya, most likely the island of Cyprus, and how Suppiluliuma himself enslaved the country, took its royal family into exile, and extracted tribute from it.2

1

264

Based on the translation by Yakubovich (2009, 7).

2

Güterbock (1967).

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We are by now well familiar with royal Hittite accounts of regular campaigns to quell rebellions, restore Hittite versions of order, and rebuild what are described as lost or destroyed settlements. Literary tropes of military and civic prowess, they also contain some kernels of truth about centuries-old practices of imperial production: the regularised, mobile performance of violence and, as we saw in earlier chapters in this book, the engineering of new political, ritual, and productive landscapes. At the same time, the repeated recurrences in Hittite accounts of rebellious people and places index, if inadvertently, the contingency of this state of imperial in the making. Precarious and ever evolving as it may have been, however, what Suppiluliuma II describes and what his stories indirectly disclose was also business as usual. For over four centuries, the Hittite political and military machine had weathered, at times more and at times less successfully, internal and external disasters including rebellions, enemy assaults, diseases, changing environmental and economic conditions, and dynastic power struggles. Within a few years of Suppiluliuma monumentalising his achievements at Hattusa, however, the Hittite imperial network and the vast majority of its relational ties dissolved. At the start of the twelfth century BCE, written records cease to be produced and Hattusa lay abandoned by its imperial institutions and their personnel as well as being partially destroyed. Its once expansive spheres of sovereignty and influence were fragmenting into old and newly emergent communities that found themselves in the grip of Hatti’s imperial debris3 – the temporal reach of its networked associations between people, places, things – to widely differing degrees. Of the end itself we know as yet preciously little, though we can with some confidence exclude a rapid and widespread apocalypse. In an oft-quoted article, Kurt Bittel in 1983 stated that occupation at many of central Anatolia’s Hittite centres terminated in a marked horizon of destructions.4 Though an evocative narrative of imperial fall, it is not borne out by the evidence at hand. There is no conclusive evidence, for instance, for the synchronic destruction of central Anatolian cities at the end of the Bronze Age. The final destruction of Maş at Höyük, a district centre in the Hittite central region’s eastern borderlands, for instance, can only broadly be dated to the later thirteenth century BCE based on the ductus of clay tablets, seal impressions from Level I, and several Late Helladic IIIA2/IIIB pottery fragments.5 Similarly, the settlement at Kuş aklı was rebuilt following its partial destruction in the fourteenth century BCE, and destroyed again sometime around 1200 BCE, followed by what is described as a small-scale squatter occupation in the twelfth- to eleventh centuries.6 Other centres such as 3 6

4 Stoler (2013). Bittel (1983, 31-34). Müller-Karpe (2017, 148-149, 156-157).

5

Özgüç (1978, 66; 1982, 102-103).

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Alacahöyük too are thought to have been destroyed towards the end of the Late Bronze Age, but we lack as yet more specific dates. Only at Oymaa˘gaç can the destruction of a monumental thirteenth century BCE temple be dated in absolute terms to the early twelfth century BCE.7 Hattusa, the imperial capital, is currently the only central Anatolian locale where we can trace the end of empire with some precision. Here, archaeological evidence points to a process of gradual downscaling of institutional presence on the one hand, and a sense of unease among the city’s inhabitants on the other.8 The former involved the disuse of sixteen of the twenty five monumental structures of the Upper City during the last phase of occupation and the exploitation of their ruins for building materials. Some of these structures were superseded by a horizon of production installations including pottery kilns. This presents not only a fundamental re-interpretation of urban space, but the installation of potentially hazardous production activities inside the confines of the city wall could point to unsettled conditions. Several of the city’s monumental entrance gates were also blocked by what appear to be hasty, makeshift constructions.9 Signs of conflagration in this last phase of occupation are restricted to public monumental structures, including the palace, temples, and some of the city gates. There are no signs of destruction in habitation areas. All affected buildings, moreover, had been cleared out in an orderly fashion except for administrative archives and large pithoi, which remained in the structures. It is difficult not to interpret this as a deliberate and possibly ritualised closure of the most salient physical agents and representatives of empire before they were set alight. This process of closing down imperial institutions appears to have reached its apex sometime in the late thirteenth century BCE, but there is as yet no evidence to suggest that either clearing out or burning episodes took place in short succession, or at the same time across different structures. On the basis of this evidence, Jürgen Seeher suggested a slow decline over the course of the later thirteenth century BCE, culminating in the dissolution of the Hittite state apparatus at Hattusa.10 A move of Hittite government institutions and personnel to a new location somewhere to the south or south-east of Hattusa has been proposed by many, either as the impetus or the outcome of this process. However, there exists no evidence either written or archaeological for this scenario, only a historical precedent when Muwatalli temporarily moved his capital to Tarhuntassa a few generations earlier. With the central institutions went their personnel, dependents, and producers, depopulating a city that had possessed little in the form of an organic urban fabric or an economy independent of the business of empire. 7 10

Manning in Czichon et al. (2016; table 6). Seeher (2001b; 2010, 220).

8

Seeher (2001b).

9

Neve (1999, 157).

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The catalysts of these developments are predictably difficult to pinpoint. Past explanations of Hittite demise focus on geopolitical processes and decision making such as the hypothetical failure of the Hittite state to prevent and counteract conflicts in border zones and resulting domino effects of loss of control. Some find the seeds of collapse in internal political fragmentation, the (re-)emergence of regional power bases and the crisis of legitimation this conjured for the central Hittite lineage at Hattusa. Others focus on climateinduced food shortages and population movements as the primary culprits,11 while Mediterranean-centred perspectives on Late Bronze Age collapse see the Hittite empire fall victim to its own inability to adapt to a complexly interconnected and rapidly decentralising international market.12 Whatever the exact timings and stimuli, by the early twelfth century BCE, we find the Hittite central region a landscape devoid of major cities and any recognisable regional political superstructure. No other part of the Hittite empire appears to have experienced quite as precipitous a socio-political rescaling. At the same time, new and surviving elites on the south-central Anatolian plateau as well as in eastern Anatolia and northern Syria appropriated and re-interpreted the memories of an imperial past and the technologies of its sovereign projections for a new and radically different socio-political environment. Collapse and post-collapse experiences of other Anatolian communities fell somewhere in between those of Hatti’s central region and the SyroAnatolian realm, each articulating idiosyncratically local variants of demise and transformation. In this chapter I want to explore less the end of empire per se than to examine two sets of post-collapse communities and their physical and ideational entanglements with a Hittite imperial past. This allows me to extend my arguments for a repositioning of how the Hittite imperial network and other similar formations are constituted and conceptualised in scholarly discourse on the one hand, and provides a primarily archaeological vantage point from which to triangulate some of the key conditions that both made and undid the Hittite imperial project on the other. DISASSOCIATION

Over the course of the second millennium BCE, the political landscapes of central Anatolia underwent a series of profound transformations, commencing with the development of urbanism from several fledgling Early Bronze Age experiments with greater social differentiation and centralised decision making. The resulting world of competing regional principalities was one in which the 11 12

Hawkins (2002, 151); Bryce (2006, 230-231); Yakar (2006, 37); Schachner (2011, 113). Sherratt (2003); Broodbank (2013); for a recent summary of the Mediterranean collapse debate, see Knapp and Manning (2016).

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Hittite state self-consciously rooted itself and which, at the same time, it took great pains to forget (Chapter 2). In the early twelfth century BCE, the Hittite empire, too, was in the process of being deliberately forgotten, not everywhere, as we shall see below, and not entirely, but most profoundly at its very core and where it had focused much of its efforts of political production. Early Iron Age occupations are attested to date only at sites which were also occupied during the Late Bronze Age (Figure 57), although this may be an artefact of archaeological research rather than necessarily a pattern of past behaviour. Not all Late Bronze Age sites were occupied during this transitional phase, including the important regional centres at Kuş aklı and Maş at Höyük, while in the later phases of the Iron Age, settlements returned to the traditional höyük sites of the Early and Middle Bronze Ages.13 Following Hattusa’s abandonment by the Hittite imperial apparatus, a small village community established itself on Büyükkaya, one of the city’s prominent rock outcrops, in the early twelfth century BCE.14 This heavily fortified part of the capital city housed a series of large, stone-lined silo pits during the Late

57 Early Iron Age sites and monuments mentioned in the text (base map: ESRI Topographic Data (Creative Commons): World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water)

13

Schachner (2011, 313).

14

Genz (2000b, 2004); Seeher (2000, 2018).

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Bronze Age, which were, however, no longer in use by the mid-thirteenth century BCE.15 The archaeological remnants of this new village, which was occupied until the tenth century BCE in three occupation phases, consisted of a cluster of postholes, pits, and wall foundations for small pit houses that were constructed using undressed stones. Hattusa’s post-collapse inhabitants, thus, had a very different approach to house construction, including layout, materials, and techniques, than those who built the urban centres of the Hittite empire. Among those who settled on Büyükkaya, however, were also individuals whose technological practices tied them to the Hittite past. The ceramic evidence from the three occupation phases at the Büyükkaya village affords us a rare glimpse of potentially inter- and post-collapse cultural practice and transformation. The recovered ceramic record suggests both continuity from the preceding phase and, thus, a measure of continuity of the craftspeople who produced these vessels, as well as relatively rapid and profound change in both aesthetic and technological styles. Among the simple bowls, cooking pots, jugs and jars, a survival of Late Bronze Age potting traditions and its practitioners is attested in the continued use of wheel-fashioning techniques and the production of fine, buff-fired vessels with some formal affinities with the Late Bronze Age repertoire. A greater emphasis on burnished surface treatments distinguishes the Early Iron Age examples from the predominantly untreated surfaces of the preceding phase. This pottery type makes up about one third of the ceramic assemblage of the earliest Büyükkaya occupation phase.16 The majority of the recovered pottery from this phase, by contrast, indexes producers with distinctly different technological practices and consumers with new tastes and aesthetic ideals (Figure 58). Most of the pottery from Büyükkaya is handmade, coarse, and fired brown to black. In the following two occupation phases, this handmade tradition continues to be produced and its repertoire expanded. Typical shapes include bowls and jars with angular or squared rims, jars with flaring rims, and jugs. Red-painted geometric motifs were added to about five percent of the finer buff wares in the middle and late phases. Coarser pots often featured knobs and horseshoe-shaped handles.17 In contrast to this handmade tradition, typical Late Bronze Age shapes and their characteristic mode of production do not continue into the later Early Iron Age phases, when settlement appears to have expanded from Büyükkaya to other parts of the former capital city.18 The evidence from Büyükkaya for the co-existence of two distinct cultural styles and technological traditions over the course of about a generation leaves little doubt about a continuity of occupation by people closely entangled with 15 17

16 Seeher (1998; 2018, 66-73, 101). Genz (2003, 181). 18 Genz (2004, 24; 2003, 181). Genz (2004, 24-26); Parzinger and Sanz (1992, 33-36).

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58 Early Iron Age Pottery from Büyükkaya (after Genz 2004; Tafel 76; courtesy of Hermann Genz)

the Hittite imperial formation, at least in cultural terms.19 In all probability the wheel-made component of the Büyükkaya ceramic assemblage was produced by craft specialists who were trained and worked in Hattusa’s pottery workshops prior to the abandonment of the city by its imperial institutions. The added investment in surface treatment may reflect a regaining of sociopolitical capital of pottery in a period of economic downscaling, or, alternatively, a competition over consumers between surviving ‘Hittite’ pottery specialists and the producers of the new handmade tradition, whose identity remains as yet enigmatic. Hermann Genz originally proposed a connection between the new handmade pottery and the Kaska people of the Pontic zone.20 In a later paper, he suggested that due to the similarity with Early and Middle Bronze Age assemblages,21 the Early Iron Age pottery from Büyükkaya formed part of an indigenous, central Anatolian tradition, which re-emerged in the drastically 19 20

Genz (2004, 26) also suggested that some of the original population remained at Hattusa. 21 Genz (2000a). Genz (2005).

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altered socio-economic circumstances of the post-collapse period.22 Jürgen Seeher proposed that the handmade and painted traditions were brought to Bo˘gazköy by Kaska settlers, whose traditions, he argued, harked back to those of the north-west Anatolian Early Bronze Age.23 The newly discovered Late Bronze Age wheel-made, painted pottery from Oymaa˘gaç24 places the cultural epicentre of this tradition in the Pontic region. Its developmental context, however, was not a single ethnic or social group – the Kaska – but the social and cultural intermingling typical of imperial borderlands (Chapter 4). The lack of continuity of the wheel-made Late Bronze Age pottery into the second and third Early Iron Age occupation phases at Büyükkaya suggests that the potters trained in the Late Bronze Age tradition did not pass on their skills to the following generation. A functionalist explanation would see here handmade pottery as an indication of a shift from industrial-scale to domestic modes of production in the small-scale village communities of the Early Iron Age. Post-collapse communities were, without a doubt, faced with very different socio-economic conditions and scales than the urban centres of the Late Bronze Age. Their circumstances, however, may not have been quite as restrictive and challenging as traditional doomsday scenarios of collapse and inherited Enlightenment nostalgia for the state might lead us to imagine. There is, for instance, increasing evidence not only for the continuity but also for the flourishing of Early Iron Age metallurgical enterprises in the southern Levant.25 Joseph Lehner’s work on the Early Iron Age metal workshop on Büyükkaya also demonstrates the continuity of Late Bronze Age metallurgical knowledge and practices among the Büyükkaya community (Figure 59).26 Workshop furnishings and products, including a predominance of arsenic copper, track the transmission over several generations of specialist metallurgical knowledge and preferences from the Late Bronze Age. At the same time, the metal artefacts from Büyükkaya register an increase in the production of tin-bronzes, a rare occurrence in the metal workshops of the Hittite capital. On the one hand, this would point to the continuity of long-distance trading networks despite the collapse of multiple large-scale polities at the end of the Bronze Age. On the other, it indicates the access to these networks by Anatolia’s post-collapse communities and the latter’s technological expertise in bronze production. More recently, Seeher also stressed the ‘un-Hittite’ characteristics of the artefacts in the Early Iron Age village on Büyükkaya, including tools associated with textile production such as spindle whorls and coils, the shape of casting crucibles, and the treatment of astragal and phalanx bones.27 22 24 25 26

23 Genz (2003, 187). Seeher (2010; 2018, 103-106). Mielke in Czichon et al. (2016). Ben-Yosef et al. (2012); cf. Yahalom-Maack and Eliyahu-Behar (2015). 27 Lehner (2017). Seeher (2018, 105).

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59 Early Iron Age metal workshop on Büyükkaya (after Seeher 2018; Tafel 51.2; courtesy of Jürgen Seeher)

What then accounts for these varied continuities and degrees of transformation? I would argue that it was the entanglements of material-human assemblages that bound some individuals in this Early Iron Age community more intensely than others to the Hittite imperial network in the short-term, but that the conscious exercise of cultural choices underwrote the longer-term patterns that we can trace in the various arenas of social and economic production at the site. Technological skill and knowledge, as I have discussed in more detail in Chapters 4 and 8, are embodied and, thus, in part subconscious. They are the result of many years of immersed practice among groups of craft specialists, where countless routine performances of culturally specific and symbolically meaningful chaînes opératories result in distinctive and only partially discursive ways of doing. We might say that the bodies and minds of craft specialists, their materials, and instruments become tightly enmeshed in this process. The wholesale unravelling of such ties in a single generation is very unlikely, due both to the internalised, non-verbal nature of bodily skills and the cultural symbolism of specific practices and the identities they confer.28 Technological know-how may be lost for a variety of reasons, especially in 28

Lave and Wenger (1991).

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small-scale societies, where, for instance, the death of one or two specialists might bring about dramatic technological loss. Lack of cultural transmission in the case of the Büyükkaya post-collapse community, however, suggests, I would argue, a deliberate expression of cultural distinction – a conscious shedding of part of the Hittite imperial debris in the form of a ceramic assemblage and its practices of food consumption that were, as I have argued in Chapter 8, central to Hittite rituals of state. The collapse of the Andean Tiwanaku polity presents itself as a comparative case here. Across Tiwanaku, pottery was produced in specialist workshops and shows a considerable degree of standardisation with regards to shape and decoration. This pottery was also imported to Tiwanaku colonies, while its local production affirmed individual communities’ ties with the wider political network. Nicola Sharratt’s recent study of Andean ceramic and textile industries during and following the collapse of Tiwanaku suggests that craft producers and consumers faced changes in resource availability and access to imported goods and that by some measures standards of potting and weaving were diminished as a result.29 Post-collapse pottery, for instance, was coarser, mostly locally produced, less well-made and -fired, with greater formal variety, less attention paid to surface treatment and fewer colours used for decoration. Craft producers in post-collapse communities, however, also found ways to reproduce specific material forms in spite of changing circumstances, while at the same time deliberately discarding others, such as the decorative elements most closely associated with Tiwanaku elite authority. Such material disentanglements from selected symbols of imperial authority, though they are arguably better documented in post-collapse communities, are by no means confined to them. At the small site of Kilise Tepe in the Göksu valley, for instance, an assemblage of more typical Late Bronze Age central Anatolian vessel forms in Level III was replaced by a gradually diversifying ceramic repertoire that includes the introduction in Level II of new wheelmade forms such as square-rim jars and grooved-rim bowls, painted decoration, and later also handmade wares.30 Contrary to earlier interpretations, which saw this cultural transformation as part of a devolution of political power from Hattusa to Tarhuntassa and the transition into a post-imperial Early Iron Age,31 new radiocarbon dates place these locally driven developments firmly into the Hittite Empire Period.32 Faunal data provides another cultural prism through which we can examine the degrees to which the Early Iron Age inhabitants of Büyükkaya continued 29 32

30 31 Sharratt (2016). Hansen and Postgate (2007a, 2007b). Postgate (2005). Fragments of Late Helladic IIIC pottery on the floor of Phase IId of the Stele Building provide a date between 1200 and 1150 BCE for the final occupation of the building (Bouthillier et al. 2014, 157).

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Late Bronze Age ways of doing, disassociated themselves, or were disassociated by prevailing circumstances from earlier human, animal, and environmental assemblages. The Early Iron Age faunal record indicates, not entirely surprisingly, a continued reliance on species already popular during the Late Bronze Age such as cattle, sheep and goat. At the same time, it indexes marked departures in food preferences and economic strategies and, therefore, differences in the ways in which Büyükkaya’s Early Iron Age inhabitants engaged with their surrounding landscapes. Perhaps most striking is the doubling of pig bones in the Early Iron Age, in particular in light of Hittite texts suggesting an aversion to pigs. Equids too increase in number, and unlike those of the Late Bronze Age, Early Iron Age equid bones show cut and chop marks indicative of food preparation and seemingly significant differences in what constituted culturally acceptable forms of food.33 Both pre- and post-collapse communities engaged in mixed meat and secondary products strategies for sheep and goats. A higher ratio of male sheep in the Late Bronze Age, however, points to a primary concern with wool production. Male sheep were also the Hittite sacrificial animal of choice.34 Cattle were slaughtered much later in the Early Iron Age than in the preceding phase. Bulls are more numerous, suggesting an emphasis on agriculture. Judging from painful bone pathologies, Early Iron Age draft animals were worked much harder than those of the preceding phase. Early Iron Age livestock was also generally smaller, which may be suggestive of overgrazing and potentially poor knowledge of animal husbandry.35 This points to a local population, perhaps the lower-ranking state personnel and craft specialists left behind following the Hittite administration’s exodus, and potentially new settlers from the north, who were learning both to cope with their altered socio-economic circumstances and reacted against imperial food taboos as symbols of authority. Pigs, for instance, are cheaper and easier to raise than other domesticates, while equids may have lost their high status and royal affiliation with the departure of the state apparatus. Food preference and even taboos, moreover, often wane in the face of economic adversity. Other Early Iron Age settlements on the central Anatolian plateau display broadly similar developments to those of the Büyükkaya village, although with significant local variations. For instance, a small Early Iron Age community occupied part of the mound of Çadır Höyük, located c. 50 km south-east of Bo˘gazköy. Excavations on the south slope of the mound yielded a series of mudbrick walls dating to the fifteenth century BCE or later, which were

33 34

von den Driesch and Pöllath (2003, 2004); von den Driesch and Boessneck (1981, 44-45); Dörfler et al. (2011, 117). 35 von den Driesch (2009). von den Driesch and Pöllath (2004).

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re-purposed as a production area, which yielded a series of pyro-technological installations as well as tools and materials suggestive of metal production.36 Occupation at Çadır, thus, appears to have continued into the later Hittite Empire Period and potentially beyond.37 A subsequent Early Iron Age occupation consisted of deep circular and shallow rectangular features, interpreted as work surfaces,38 and, somewhat later, round, semi-subterranean structures and evidence for further industrial activities associated with wool processing.39 Radiocarbon dates place these features to between the thirteenth and ninth centuries BCE.40 It seems, therefore, that there was a relatively seamless transformation taking place at what in the Late Bronze Age was a fortified, medium-sized centre.41 The pottery from the Late Bronze Age – Early Iron Age transitional phase at Çadır Höyük includes a mixture of wheel- and hand-fashioning techniques with pottery types reminiscent of the Late Bronze Age tradition and new forms and decorative styles. However, both during the final part of the Late Bronze Age and the Early Iron Age, there appears to have been a greater fluidity in forming techniques between formal types associated with Late Bronze Age Hittite centres and newly introduced Early Iron Age forms and decorations.42 Vessel forms include bowls, jars, bottles and holemouth jars, and Late Bronze Age–type platters and bottles, which range in colour from yellow to brown and pink with occasional red and white slips and burnished finishes. Some sherds were painted with geometric designs in red, brown, and purple. Overall, there appears to be significant continuities in ceramic production practices at Çadır spanning the collapse of the Hittite political network. This suggests a continued presence at the site of potters trained in the wheel-shaping techniques and formal types of the Late Bronze Age tradition as well as the presence of individuals using hand-building techniques, who catered to both old and newly emergent ceramic tastes. Wheel-fashioning diminishes further in importance in subsequent Early Iron Age phases at Çadır, where ceramics are primarily handmade with only occasional wheel-finishes. Forms include bowls, jars, and jug-type containers with plain surfaces or painted, incised, and impressed decoration.43 Late Bronze Age traits continue in small quantities, but fabric, especially with regards to the frequent admixture of organic materials, suggests a further phase

36 38 39 41 43

37 Ross et al. (2019, 22-23). Ross et al. (2019, 23; Table 2). Earlier publications interpret these as houses, but they lack evidence for cooking facilities (Ross 2010). 40 Ross et al. (2019, 23-25). Kealhofer et al. (2010, 74). 42 Gorny (2006); Ross et al. (2019). Genz (2001); Ross et al. (2019, 29). Ross (2010, 71).

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of appropriation of Late Bronze Age pottery types into a new cultural milieu. The painted and handmade pottery at Çadır is locally produced,44 but shows parallels with middle and later Early Iron Age materials from Bo˘gazköy.45 The transition from the Late Bronze Age to the first phase of the Early Iron Age is attested also at Kaman-Kalehöyük and Karahöyük-Elbistan. At KamanKalehöyük, wheel-made pottery continues to be produced but with additions of bichrome and painted decorations.46 The overall faunal repertoire at the site changes comparatively little from the Late Bronze Age. Both cattle and pigs decrease in the Early Iron Age, while cattle and sheep diminish in overall size. Animals are slaughtered later, and there are signs of a greater investment in hunting in the later phase.47 Ceramics comparable to the middle and later phases of the Early Iron Age are more frequently encountered at central Anatolian sites, and sporadically also further north.48 Large, coarse, handmade vessels, one with a horseshoe handle, have recently been recorded in the cave of Dereba˘gköy Ma˘garası in the Cide district of Kastamonu province, not far from the Black Sea coast.49 Pottery dating to the middle to late Early Iron Age has been identified at Alacahöyük and Eskiyapar,50 at Oymaa˘gaç Höyük, and several survey sites in Samsun, Amasya,51 and Çankırı.52 Following a hiatus of occupation, a related painted tradition develops at Gordion, a site on the western perimeter of the former Hittite central region.53 The later painted traditions of KamanKalehöyük IId find comparisons at Porsuk Niveau IV, although the dating of this level is as yet unclear,54 and the Early Iron Age phases of sites in Cilicia. To summarise, the central Anatolian plateau over the course of the later thirteenth and early twelfth centuries BCE transformed from the central region of an expansive imperial network with monumentalised urban centres and a state apparatus woven into the economic and ritual fabrics of surrounding landscapes to one dominated by small village communities with no apparent regional political superstructure. Central Anatolian Early Iron Age communities were materially entangled with the Hittite imperial past. They made the ruins of empire their homes, and some produced, for some time at least, material culture not only stylistically but also technologically aligned with Late Bronze Age traditions. At the same time, architecture, new pottery wares, shifting metallurgical preferences, and animal husbandry are markedly, and in

44 45 48 50 53

Neutron Activation Analysis (NAA) of twenty Early Iron Age ceramic fragments from Çadır Höyük suggests that a single clay source was used during this period (Kealhofer et al. 2010). 46 47 Genz (2001). Genz (2003, 181; 2013); Matsumura (2008, 42). Hongo (2003). 49 Genz (2003, 179) with references. Şerifo˘glu (2015, 222-223; fig. 8.3). 51 52 Genz (2013, 473). Özsait (2003). Matthews (2009a, 150-152). 54 Genz (2013, 474-475). Dupré (1983, 57-75; Pl. 51); Crespin (1999).

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some instances it would appear quite deliberately, distinct from preceding imperial ways of doing. Rather than the migration of one specific group to the Hittite capital and other Late Bronze Age centres following their destruction or abandonment, the evidence at hand suggests a culturally diverse, but in part at least local population – the sort of cultural diversity characteristic of imperial metroploleis, which attract through status and function individuals from within their political realms and beyond. This diversity, as I shall argue below, however, was also an artefact of imperial strategies of hostage taking and mass deportations to quell labour shortages and settle precarious borderlands, and might in part explain the scale of the transformations characterising the Hittite central region. The more southerly parts of the central plateau, by contrast, appear to have experienced a rather different trajectory following the collapse of the Hittite imperial apparatus. Evidence, for instance, from Kınık Höyük located in the foothills of the Melendiz and Hassan Da˘g on the south-central Anatolian plateau suggests architectural continuity from the fifteeenth century BCE into the Early Iron Age.55 This part of the south-central plateau formed part of the kingdom of Tabal during the ninth century BCE, whose elite, much like those of the Syro-Anatolian region which I will discuss in the following section, selectively appropriated the memory of a Hittite imperial past and its technologies of sovereign projection, including landscape monuments, the Luwian Hieroglyphic script, and Late Bronze Age representational styles.56 APPROPRIATION

Central Anatolia’s precipitous fall from imperial glory makes, on the face of it, for a good contrast to the fate of south-east Anatolia and parts of what is today northern Syria. It has become something of a truism in recent literature that Hittite culture and at least some of its political heritage lived on in the region’s Early Iron Age, which was characterised by the development of a series of small, culturally and linguistically diverse, as well as politically competitive states between the twelfth and eighth centuries BCE. These include the polities of Carchemish on the Euphrates, Melizi/Melid in the Malatya region, Kummuh in Adıyaman province, Tabal on the south-central Anatolian plateau, Gurgum in the area of modern Maraş , Que in Cilicia, Hilakku in Rough Cilicia, Patina/Unqui in the Amuq plain, and Hamath in the area of modern Hama.57 55 56 57

d’Alfonso, Gorrini, and Mora (2016, 601-602). Hawkins (2002, 148); Mora and d’Alfonso (2012, 393-395). Melchert (2003a); Bryce (2012).

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In political terms, Syro-Anatolian states did not differ dramatically from those of the Late Bronze Age. Kings still ruled from palaces and through a centralised administrative system, although their sovereign realms were of a much more modest scale compared to that of the Hittite imperial network and its Late Bronze Age competitors.58 On the whole, we know very little about the formation or internal organisation of these kingdoms, especially in archaeological terms.59 Well attested, by contrast, are their monumental sculptures and hieroglyphic inscriptions that underwrote the development of a regional elite identity. These monuments also carried out critical political work to both socialise new publics and compete with new neighbours by blending Late Bronze Age Anatolian political technologies with long-standing Syrian traditions.60 The story of Syro-Anatolian polities, many of which were neither culturally nor politically associated with the Hittite imperial network, is not one of Hittite survival or resilience, but of strategic, self-conscious mimesis and selective disassociation in locally idiosyncratic patterns and chronologies. The main settlements in the Elâzı˘g region such as Korucutepe, Norş untepe and Tepecik, which, as we have seen in preceding chapters, show varyingly strong connections with the Hittite political network and cultural sphere during the Late Bronze Age, for instance, were destroyed by fire and superseded by more ephemeral and temporary villages or fortified strongholds.61 Early Iron Age ceramic assemblages at these sites were dominated by a new, handmade grooved ware,62 which ties the region into a novel, highlandcentred interaction network stretching from the Euphrates and Tigris regions to the Lake Van area and into northwest Iran.63 A series of new foundations and short-distance relocations of Early and Middle Iron Age capitals such as from Alalakh to Tell Ta’yinat in the Amuq valley,64 much like the shifts in central Anatolia’s political landscapes that I discussed in Chapter 2, present deliberate disruptions of the spatial logics of the preceding era, its local political regimes, and associations with the Hittite

58 59

60 61 64

New capital cities are also smaller, ranging between 20 and 50 ha in size (Mazzoni 1994; Akkermans and Schwartz 2003, 368). Although recent work has greatly enhanced our understanding of selected Early and Middle Iron Age sites in the Syro-Anatolian region (e.g. Casana and Herrmann 2010; Harrison 2013; Marchetti 2014; Peltenburg, Wilkinson, and Barbanes Wilkinson 2016). Bonatz (2000); Aro (2003); Gilibert (2011); Harmanş ah (2013, 40); this also included Hittite titles (Hawkins 2009, 164). 62 63 Köro˘glu (2003, 232-233). Müller (2003; 2005b). Roaf and Schachner (2005). Akkermans and Schwartz (2003, 368); this practice of short-distance transfers of capital cities emerges more prominently in the Syro-Anatolian region during the tenth and ninth century BCE, which sees the movement of political centres from, for instance, Tell Fekheriyeh, ancient Sikani, in the northern Khabur region to the nearby site of Tell Halaf, the new capital city of the Middle Iron Age kingdom of Bı¯t Bahia¯ ni. New foundations also include architecturally distinctive and fortified cities such as Zincirli-Sam’al (Harmanş ah 2013, 68-69).

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and other contemporary imperial networks. At the same time, several Syrian cult locales, such as the temples at ‘Ain Dara65 and Halab-Aleppo,66 which were adorned with limestone and basalt lions and sphinxes as well as Anatolian-influenced relief-orthostats, appear to have been in continued use across the Late Bronze Age – Early Iron Age transition. Only at Carchemish, however, do we have tentative evidence for dynastic continuity following the demise of the Hittite imperial network in the early twelfth century BCE. A seal impression on a bulla of Kuzi-Tesub, son of Talmi-Tesub, the Hittite viceroy at Carchemish during the final decades of the Hittite empire, discovered at Lidar Höyük, suggests an unbroken dynastic line.67 Kuzi-Tesub is also attested as the grandfather of two late twelfth century kings of the newly founded kingdom of Melid/Malatya centred at Arslantepe. By contrast and despite renewed archaeological work at the site and its surrounding landscapes,68 there is as yet no archaeological evidence for continuity in settlement at Carchemish, where substantial building activities and the appropriation of Hittite practices of political production, as I will return to below, date to the tenth century BCE and later.69 Archaeologically, the Late Bronze Age – Early Iron Age transition and the appropriation of Late Bronze Age Anatolian political practices in the early decades following Hittite collapse are so far only attested at Karahöyük, the largest mound in the Elbistan plain. Karahöyük was already occupied during the Late Bronze Age,70 and there are signs of continuity in the production of northcentral Anatolian-style ceramics in the Early Iron Age (‘post-Hittite’) levels.71 The Late Bronze Age layers at Karahöyük yielded stamp and cylinder seals as well as fragments of relief vases and bronze tools. At the top of the c. 20 m high and fortified mound, an open plaza succeeded what is described in the excavation report as a monumental Late Bronze Age occupation. In the south-west corner of this plaza stood a large inscribed limestone stele (Figure 60),72 a stone through was set in front and ashy deposits of pottery and animal bones point to sacrificial acts and feasting.73 Opposite the stele stood a paved platform.

65 66 67 68 69

70 72 73

Abu¯ Assaf (1990); Stone and Zimansky (1999); Zimansky (2002). Kohlmeyer (2000); Gonnella, Khayyata, and Kohlmeyer (2005). Sürenhagen (1986); Hawkins (1988). Peltenburg, Wilkinson, and Barbanes Wilkinson (2016). Nor in fact is there as yet much evidence for a substantial Late Bronze Age occupation at the site (Chapter 7); see e.g. Hawkins (1976–80, 434–435); Marchetti (2014). A recently discovered corpus of Late Bronze Age sealed bullae, however, does suggest Hittite administrative activities at the site (Beke 2017). 71 T. Özgüç and Özgüç (1949, 36-50). Genz (2013, 474). Hawkins (2000, I: 289). Initially interpreted as rubbish deposits by T. Özgüç and Özgüç (1949, 21-25), Denel (2006) and Harmanş ah (2013, 52) rightly point to a ritual nature of the deposits.

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6 0 Karahöyük-Elbistan stele with Luwian hieroglyphic inscription (after Hawkins 2000, 288295; pls. 133-134; courtesy of David Hawkins)

The extensive Luwian hieroglyphic inscription, which covers three sides of the stele, has been dated to the early twelfth century BCE on palaeographic grounds and shares many similarities with Hartapu’s monuments on the southcentral plateau (see Chapter 5).74 The inscription describes the granting of the land POCULUM and its three main cities to Armananis, the Lord of the Pithos-Men, by a great king, Ir-Tesub. The inscription recounts how Ir-Tesub, who has been varyingly assigned to the Carchemish and Tarhuntassa dynasties,75 had taken over the land and upon finding the ‘the city empty’ proceeded to re-settle it and improve his newly acquired territories.76

74 75

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Hawkins (2000, I: 289, 290). Hawkins (1988, 107-108) for a discussion of both possibilities; also Bryce (2012, 86); Harmanş ah (2013, 54) suggests a potential connection with the emerging kingdom of Melizi/Melid. Hawkins (2000, I: 291).

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The plaza, the monumental stele, and the ritual and feasting taking place at its foot, rather than being merely commemorations of the founding of a regional polity and apparently several of its settlements, present the very technologies through which this new sovereignty was hopefully projected. To maximise their outcomes in this respect, Armananis and Ir-Tesub, operating within the constraints of their own cultural contexts and available scribal and artisanal expertise, chose to draw on practices of monument making that were first developed in the course of Late Bronze Age Anatolian territorial competition. The combination of the Karahöyük stele’s architectural context, standing prominently at the centre of a public urban space, its size, and purely inscriptive character, however, also differs in significant ways from Late Bronze Age monuments. With the exception of the Emirgazi altars of Tudhaliya IV, Late Bronze Age hieroglyphic inscriptions were carved either on architectural blocks such as at Yalburt or the Südburg at Hattusa or were edged directly onto the living rock (see Chapter 5). Also different is the subject matter of the Karahöyük inscription, which focuses on the founding of a political entity and the deeds carried out to make a previously ‘empty’ landscape prosperous, tropes that in the Late Bronze Age were reserved for annalistic cuneiform texts rather than public stone monuments (see Chapter 2). Most Late Bronze Age monumental inscriptions were much shorter, providing the names and titles of those they depicted. Only the last two Hittite kings, Tudhaliya IV and Suppiluliuma II, had commissioned the carving of extended hieroglyphic texts at Yalburt, Niş antaş and the Südburg at Hattusa.77 These lengthier inscriptions focus on royal military achievements, but Suppiluliuma II in the Südburg inscription also makes reference to building projects.78 Only decades after the collapse of the Hittite imperial network, thus, political rhetoric alongside the sources of elite legitimacy had shifted dramatically from one of wideranging imperial conquest to acts of creation and dedicated care. Following the founding of POCULUM in Elbistan, evidence for Early Iron Age state-making in the Malatya plain, a fertile agricultural basin located between the Taurus and Anti-Taurus ranges, can be traced to the later twelfth century BCE in the form of a series of monumental inscriptions by its Carchemish-derived rulers. Later in the twelfth and early eleventh centuries BCE, Melid is also attested in Middle Assyrian sources as a tribute-paying vassal of Assyria.79 The earliest known king of Melid is Runtiya, son of PUGNUSmili and grandson of Kuzi-Tesub of Carchemish. Drawing on an archaic Anatolian technology of sovereign projection over desired landscapes, Runtiya commissioned two landscape monuments at Gürün and Kötükale in the Tohma Su river valley (Figure 61). Like the Karahöyük stele and in

77

Gilibert (2011, 130).

78

Hawkins (1995a).

79

Grayson (1991; A.0.87.1; A.0.87.4).

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61 Kötükale inscription (after Gelb 1939, pl. 40, courtesy of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago)

contrast to their Late Bronze Age precursors, however, Runitya’s landscape monuments were purely inscriptive in character and differed in the content of their written message. The inscription at Gürün celebrates royal achievement in the form of the settling of the kingdom’s borderlands, while Kötükale commemorates the construction of a road.80 Monument production subsequently shifted from landscape monuments to free-standing stelae, which blend hieroglyphic inscriptions with pictorial content, suggesting a rather fluid state of experimentation with inscribed monuments in early Syro-Anatolian state-making. Examples here include the ˙Ispekçür and Darende stele, which were probably both erected by Arnuwanti II, grandson of Arnuwanti I, the brother of Runitya. Geographically, Arnuwanti’s stelae also suggest a political focus on the Toma Su region as well as a concern with the Malatya plain. The ˙Ispekçür monument takes the form of a tall limestone stele showing human figures involved in ceremonial activities and material culture well attested also in Late Bronze Age Anatolian iconography (Chapters 3 and 8), such as the pouring of a libation from a jug and the consumption of drink from small cups balanced on the fingertips of 80

Hawkins (2000, 295-301; plates 135-141).

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62 ˙Ispekçür stele and inscription (after Hawkins 2000, pl. 143)

participating protagonists. A hieroglyphic Luwian texts covers the stele on three sides (Figure 62).81 The monument of Darende is a smaller basalt stele with a similar pictorial programme and inscription on one side.82 As many Iron Age monuments, the two stelae have a long history of being moved from their original place of display, making it difficult to draw precise geographical conclusions from their distribution. As the monuments of his predecessor, Arnuwanti’s stelae are also concerned with the establishment of settlements, in particular in mountain regions. The geographical distribution of rock inscriptions and free-standing stelae of the kings of Melizi/Melid, though perhaps not outlining the geographical perimeters of the kingdom83 or tracking its expansion,84 helps 81 83

82 Hawkins (2000, 301-304; plates 142-144). Hawkins (2000, 304-305; plates 145-146). 84 Hawkins (1995b, 88). Harmanş ah (2013, 63).

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us trace the widening territorial discourses of desire that projected Melizi/ Melid’s sovereign claims across the Malatya plain and into surrounding river valleys. The kingdom of Melizi/Melid was centred on the multi-period mound of Arslantepe, a local centre during the second half of the Late Bronze Age (see Chapter 6). Excavations at the site, though long-standing, do not as yet provide us with a very good understanding of either the Late Bronze or Early Iron Age occupation at the site.85 There is also as yet no conclusive evidence for continuity of settlement from the time of the Hittite empire into the Early Iron Age. Though difficult to ascertain in stratigraphic terms, it would appear that the monumental Lion Gate, was built on the same location as the Late Bronze Age ‘Imperial Gate’ on the eastern side of the mound, followed by the construction of a paved open space and monumental building in Levels III and II.86 Several of the orthostats, which were incorporated into the later gate structure, were carved in the so-called archaic style of the twelfth and eleventh centuries BCE. PUGNUS-mili is mentioned on two orthostats and a fragmentary stele, which ties the Lion Gate construction into a wider tradition of spoliation of early post-imperial monuments.87 Among these is a royal libation scene which closely matches those depicted on a range of Late Bronze Age media such as the Schimmel Rhyton and Hattusili III’s rock relief at Fıraktın (Figure 63). A second well-known orthostat depicts a scene from the Anatolian Myth of Illuyanka, in which the stormgod Tarhunta slays the serpent Illuyanka. The style, iconographic detail, and subject matter of the archaic relief orthostats at Arslantepe and elsewhere index an in-depth knowledge of Late Bronze Age Anatolian cultural traditions and their selective drawing upon for the purpose of political production in a world only a few decades past the fall of the Hittite empire. Styles, symbols, and motifs, however, were also already altered in their cultural meanings through their long-term amalgamation with Syrian traditions during the preceding phase, involving in particular glyptic (Chapter 7) and metalwork.88 The incorporation of these orthostats into monumental building projects, thus, selectively remembered not a Bronze Age Anatolian or Hittite past but the things and practices that lay at the foundation of Early Iron Age political becoming: a hybridising Late Bronze Age Syro-Anatolian cultural sphere. The use of architectural orthostats, although attested at Late Bronze Age central Anatolian sites such as Ortaköy,

85 86 88

Pecorella (1975); Frangipane (2011); for more detail on the Late Bronze Age, see Manuelli (2013). 87 Frangipane (1993, 50). Harmanş ah (2013, 56); Hermann (2017). Alexander (1991); Mazzoni (1977, 13-21).

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63 Relief carvings lining the interior of the Lion Gate at Arslantepe (after Delaporte 1940; pl. XXI)

Kayalıpınar, and Kilise Tepe,89 forms part of a long-standing Syrian tradition with its roots in the Middle Bronze Age entrance gates at Ebla or Tilmen Höyük,90 and presents, therefore, another case of cultural blending. A similar process of incorporation and appropriation of archaising Early Iron Age relief orthostats as well as the use of hieroglyphic inscriptions can be observed at tenth and ninth century BCE Carchemish, the former Hittite viceregal seat. Strategically located on the west bank of a key Euphrates crossing, Carchemish was first excavated by Leonard Woolley and T. E. Lawrence in the early twentieth century. These early excavations revealed an extensive Iron Age city with a fortified citadel overlooking the river.91 Woolley focused on a monumental complex built by the Suhis-Katuwas dynasty of Carchemish rulers, who succeeded the Hittite-derived dynasty of Kuzi-Tesub sometime in the tenth century BCE. Similar large-scale urban building and re-modelling projects are attested for the tenth and ninth centuries at, for instance, Til Barsip-Tell Ahmar, Zincirli, Tell Ta’yinat, or Tell Halaf.92 Woolley’s excavations unearthed one building on the citadel and a few structures in the lower town alongside several city gates. Much of his efforts concentrated on a coherent monumental complex composed of the so-called Water Gate, the King’s Gate, the Temple of the Stormgod Tarhunza, a palace of the bit hilani-type, and an open, ceremonial space or plaza. The walls of this complex were lined with plain and relief orthostats, hieroglyphic inscriptions, gate sculptures, and ancestor statues, whose depictive themes interwove mythology and dynastic narratives for the purpose of representation as well as serving as a monumentalised stage for political ritual.93

89 91 92

90 Müller-Karpe (2009); Postgate and Stone (2013). Harmanş ah (2011; 2013, 168-189). Hogarth (1914); Woolley (1921); Woolley and Barnett (1952). 93 Harmanş ah (2013, 136). Mazzoni (2000, 1048); Gilibert (2011, 115-124).

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The Water Gate was a monumental, two-chambered tower-like structure, where the excavators found a cobble-paved floor, which they dated to the second millennium BCE and which might indicate a Bronze Age predecessor,94 that led directly onto, and towered at least three meters over, the Euphrates embankment.95 The Water Gate is the oldest Iron Age structure excavated at Carchemish and includes a series of limestone orthostats, all of which were spoliated from earlier structures. Several of the gate orthostats have strongly archaising features and may date from between the later twelfth to the eleventh centuries BCE.96 Their iconography includes a series of animal and hybrid creatures, which find parallels at ‘Ain Dara and Aleppo. A somewhat later banquet (B30b) and a libation scene (B30a) where an offering is made to the stormgod with his bull-drawn chariot (Figure 64) – an Anatolian theme – find parallels at Aleppo and the Lion Gate at Arslantepe.97 As a result, Alexandra Gilibert suggested a close connection between the Water Gate, its archaic depictive themes, and Bronze Age libation and feasting practices, which are often associated with gate structures in Hittite ritual texts, such as in the KI.LAM (-hilammar) or gatehouse festival (see also Chapter 3).98 From the tenth century BCE Carchemish’s new ruling dynasty abandoned Hittite titulature and began to invest in civic-oriented political symbolism and performances.99 Innovations during this phase include the depiction of military achievements, not attested in Anatolian iconography, as well as divine and other processions, alongside the extensive use of hieroglyphic inscriptions and the introduction of colossal ancestral statues.100 In conclusion, the Syro-Anatolian region had little Hittite imperial debris to inherit, with the exception of Anatolian administrative technologies, a few relief carvings and gate sculptures,101 and the ritual practices introduced at Emar (Chapter 7). Surviving local elites, especially the descendants of the Hittite viceregal dynasty and their craft specialists, certainly had detailed knowledge of Anatolian traditions.102 Yet they chose to continue and develop only some aspects of this heritage, while others, such as cuneiform writing and Hittite administrative practices, were quickly abandoned. 94 95 97 98 100

101

Woolley and Barnett (1952, 233-234); Naumann (1955, 268-279). 96 Gilibert (2011, 25). Özyar (1991, 29); Mazzoni (1997, 316-317). B30a: Hawkins (2000, 288; fig. 59); Gonnella, Khayyata, and Kohlmeyer (2005 99; fig. 138); Kohlmeyer (2009). 99 Gilibert (2011, 116). Gilibert (2011, 120-121). Aro (2013, 241-242), however, recently proposed that the practice of combining in-theround ancestral ruler statues with lengthy hieroglyphic inscriptions may have its roots in the final decades of the Late Bronze Age. She proposes that the practice of starting Luwian hieroglyphic inscriptions with *1 EGO (I am), was introduced by Suppiluliuma II, and that it presupposes the existence of a free-standing ruler statue. 102 Orthmann (1993); Kohlmeyer (2009); Mazzoni (2011). Aro (2013, 247).

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64 Locator plan of Iron Age Carchemish (based on Woolley 1921; pl. 3); banquet and libation scene reliefs from the Water Gate (after Woolley 1921; pls. B.30a and B.30b; courtesy of © The Trustees of the British Museum); plan of the Lower Palace and Water Gate areas (Adapted after Woolley 1921, 41a; courtesy of © The Trustees of the British Museum)

This heritage, moreover, was not for the most part that of the Hittite empire per se, but of its Syrian incarnation, which, as I have argued in Chapter 7, were already deeply implicated in a process of local cultural mimesis and transformation in the thirteenth century BCE. A process that connected local collaborators, such as Emar’s diviners, with the Hittite Stellvertreter at Carchemish and that gradually pitched this peripheral community against the centre at Hattusa. Anatolian-derived textual and iconographic representational technologies, moreover, were vigorously blended103 and transformed to suit newly emergent, small-scale political worlds and cultural tastes. There are also no direct references to the memory of the Hittite

103

Virginia Hermann (2017) recently showed how iconographic details such as aspects of clothing, hairstyle, and the fashioning of fingers on spoliated 10th century BCE orthostats at Zincirli blend Bronze Age Anatolian and Syro-Anatolian elements with newer Iron Age tastes.

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empire in any of the region’s Iron Age inscriptions, which suggests a limited desire to tie political discourse to imperial glory in explicit terms. DEATH ON THE MARASSANTIYA

Throughout this book, I have argued that imperial form emerges from the materially assembled practices of a myriad of different relationships and encounters. Change, as a result, is inherent, continuous, and inevitable. We have already seen that the characteristic state-of-being of the Hittite imperial network was to pivot, successfully for some time and to varying degrees in different places, on the brink of disintegration. The political collapse of the late thirteenth and early twelfth centuries BCE cross-cuts this more continuous flow of transformation. It ruptures rather than modifies the majority of the key associations that assembled the Hittite imperial network. Collapse, ruination, and the end of empires have captured the imaginations of poets and historical commentators for millennia, with cultural decay and moral depravity, or, more theatrically, the divine wrath they unleash as the causes of socio-political disintegration. Rife with such moral judgement, biological analogy with its cyclical and inevitable rhythm of birth, growth, decay and death characterises some of the earliest modern explanatory forays into the end of civilisations such as Oswald Spengler’s The Fall of the West or Arnold J. Toynbee’s twelve-volume A Study of History.104 Collapse has also periodically entered archaeology’s disciplinary consciousness, reflecting contemporary existential concerns over political instability and climate change and fears of anthropocene dystopias. On the whole, however, relying on theories concerned with the explanation of synchronic relationships, archaeologists and others have struggled to both frame and address the complexities and multiplicities of societal collapse. Most studies, as Smith and Katchadourian aptly pointed out,105 embrace either tragedy in the form of environmental mal-adaptation106 or a belief in the unfaltering resilience of the human spirit to overcome any such challenges through downscaling, regrouping, and burning palaces,107 as the dramaturgical undercurrent of human macrohistory.108 Neither paradigm sits very comfortably with our specific case

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Spengler (2006 [1918–22]); Toynbee (1987 [1933–54]); discussion in Tainter (1988, 79-86). 106 Smith and Katchadourian (2016). Diamond (2005). Yoffee (2006, 226); McAnany and Yoffee (2010b); Broodbank (2013, 468). Both perspectives share a common origin in systemic explanations of the social and cultural. For systemic approaches, see Flannery (1972); Marcus (1998); Turchin (2003); recent adaptations of resilience thinking: Redman (2005); Schwartz and Nichols (2006); McAnany and Yoffee (2010a); Faulseit (2016). Resilience theory originates in ecology, where the term denotes ‘the capacity of a system to absorb disturbance and still retain its basic function and structure’ (Walker and Salt 2006, xiii).

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study, though each illuminates variables to be examined for their role, or lack thereof, in the processes that led to the dissolution of the most critical ties that constituted the Hittite imperial network. There is, for instance, increasing evidence from a variety of palaeoclimate proxy data that the East Mediterranean environment became more arid towards the second half of the second millennium BCE. As a result, several recent studies have argued for an abrupt and catastrophic climate change that brought the Bronze Age polities of the East Mediterranean to their knees.109 The limited chronological and geographical resolution of this data and lack of evidence for microregional impact and human response, however, make a rapid collapse scenario in which climate change played the decisive role highly unlikely.110 As regards Anatolia, pollen records from across the region point towards increasing landscape degradation,111 but there is at present no convincing evidence that the region experienced a fatal environmental turn. Often cited in this context are letters exchanged between the Hittite chancelleries at Hattusa and Carchemish, the vassal state of Ugarit, and the Egyptian court concerning the shipment of bulk consignments of grain, often accompanied by claims of widespread famine. Such correspondence, however, is not confined to the final years of Hittite imperial existence, nor do the letters necessarily refer to historical events. Overly dramatic predictions of future ill fates are essential parts of the rhetorical toolkit of Late Bronze Age diplomacy to hasten along the delivery of requested goods.112 Alternatively, then, and more convincingly, the maritime transfer of staples across the Mediterranean can be read as ‘an index of precocity, rather than weakness.’113 Mediterranean perspectives favouring resilience or restructuring over tragedy juxtapose the highly centralised and tightly structured Bronze Age palatial economies and their monopolies over the production and exchange of specific goods with the decentralised maritime trading worlds of the Iron Age and the ‘aggressively open economy’ of surviving and emerging coastal trading communities.114 Although this characterises well the longer-term trends in Mediterranean maritime exchange, as an explanation for Hittite imperial collapse, however, such broad-brush economic models sit uneasily with recent textual and archaeological studies of Bronze Age palatial economies. These demonstrate that state institutions operated on a significantly smaller scale than

109 110 111 112 114

Langgut, Finkelstein, and Litt (2013); Kaniewski, Guiot, and Van Campo (2015); Kaniewski et al. (2010, 2013). Knapp and Manning (2016). van Zeist and Bottema (1991); Roberts et al. (2011); Dörfler et al. (2011, 100-103). 113 Moran (1992). Broodbank (2013, 460-461). Sherratt and Sherratt (1993, 162); Sherratt and Sherratt (1998, 301-302), Broodbank (2013); Knapp and Manning (2016, 103).

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traditionally assumed, exerting only a limited degree of centralising control over the economies of the communities they were able to lay political claim to.115 In other words, we ought to be cautious not to read too much into what appear to be attempts of price fixing such as in the Hittite law code and institutional inventory lists of valuable goods. The vast majority of economic activities in Late Bronze Age Anatolia would have remained uncontrolled, though not necessarily untapped, by the Hittite state apparatus. Equally, we must re-examine the assumption that inter-regional exchange formed the foundation of all Bronze Age palatial economies and that it was increasing commercialisation that eroded away palatial monopolies and paved the way for political collapse. The Hittite political economy clearly depended on the influx of materials, livestock and people from its subject territories, but it did so mostly in the form of war spoils and tribute, but not to any significant degree through direct trade. A special international merchant class is occasionally mentioned in Hittite texts, but these royal agents were principally involved in the transportation of war spoils rather than the trading of merchandise: We, the merchants of Ura and Zallara, are coming, and have plenty and abundance in our possession. We are bringing many NAM.RA-people. We are driving cattle, sheep, horses, mules, and asses in large numbers. We have barley and wine in large amounts in our possession. We have in our possession valuable items as well: silver, gold, lapis lazuli, carnelian, Babylonian stone, quartz, iron, copper, bronze, and tin –116

Telling in this context is that the Hittite term lahha- denotes both a military campaign and a commercial trip, depending on the wider context.117 Hittite campaign reports typically focus on the deportation of prisoners of war and on the capture of livestock. Tribute and tax collections formed the most important sources of revenue for the Hittite state apparatus. Tribute, large quantities of gold and silver, was levied from Levantine vassal states, whose wealth derived from their involvement in maritime and overland trade. A more modest number of finished goods made from precious metals, textiles, and purple-dyed wool were demanded as obligatory gifts.118 Copper is mentioned as war spoils and tribute from Alasiya (Cyprus) and Ugarit, but with many extant copper sources at home, it was also collected as tax from Kizzuwatna and other parts of Anatolia, occasionally in significant quantities.119 About a quarter of taxes were paid in metals in the thirteenth century BCE, over half of

115 117 119

116 Paulette (2015); Rattenborg (2017); Richardson (2017). Klengel (1979). 118 Hoffner (2002a, 181). Beckman (1999b, 177-178). Hoffner (1968; 2002a, 184-185). One tax collection office delivered 496 minas of copper, while the highest amount delivered by a single taxpayer was 200 minas (Siegelová and Tsumoto 2011, 277; note 3).

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which was copper and with smaller quantities of silver and tin.120 Metals were, thus, central to the Hittite political economy; their acquisition, however, was dependent only indirectly on international trade. Precious metals were hoarded as capital in central institutions as well as channelled into the maintenance of religious paraphernalia and royal insignia. They were worked into jewellery, vessels, belts, and textiles for royal consumption and remuneration and occasionally also into cuneiform documents.121 Both copper and tin were delivered to state-controlled depots. Copper was handed out in substantial quantities to craftspeople to produce tools, parts of weapons, and horse-bits. Bronze, by contrast, is mentioned less frequently and used for the production of a specific set of military and cult items such as lance heads, libation vessels, and cult statues. Bronze axes, sickles, knives, daggers, and needles also appear to have had more symbolic value than practical application.122 There is some textual evidence that suggests bronze was cast in centrally controlled workshops,123 though in the light of the purely state-centred Hittite written record, it would be imprudent to treat this as evidence for a state monopoly. Iron appears to have been worked both in state-owned workshops, as suggested by correspondence between Hattusili III and Tukulti-Ninurta, as well as being produced by provincial communities and paid as tax.124 While we have evidence for occasional demands for internationally traded merchandise, such as lapis lazuli,125 the central Hittite chancellery on the whole, and in stark contrast to Levantine elites, appear to have been rather uninterested in other traded goods. The archaeological record of Anatolia also attests to a striking scarcity of foreign objects, with Anatolian things being equally rare in the wider East Mediterranean.126 The only exception to this is a selection of specialised vessels made from Red-Lustrous Wheel-Made Ware, which were imported in large quantities to Hattusa and other parts of the central plateau in the fifteenth and fourteenth centuries BCE as cult paraphernalia.127 Among the few later imports are a stele with an inscription of Ramses II and an alabaster vase 120

121 122 123 124

125 127

The archive of Yabinu, an Ugaritic merchant, mentions, among silver, horses, and a range of foodstuffs and animals, the acquisition of tin from Euphrates markets (Broodbank 2013, 394-395). Siegelová (1986, 162-166); Siegelová and Tsumoto (2011, 277-278). Müller-Karpe (2000c). Müller-Karpe (1994, 74-78); Siegelová and Tsumoto (2011, 286-288). Archaeological evidence for metalworking is surprisingly scarce across Anatolian sites, consisting of occasional tuyères, moulds for casting weapons and jewellery, and working tools. Where attested, metal workshops are often found in spatial association with monumental, state-related buildings (Siegelová and Tsumoto 2011, 279). This, however, is to a large extent a function of where archaeological excavations have been conducted at Late Bronze Age sites. 126 Nougayrol (1956, 221-225; RS 17.383 and RS 17.422). Genz (2006; 2011, 316-317). Mielke (2007, 163).

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and lid found at Hattusa, a handful of Mycenaean ceramic vessels and fragments from Hattusa, Kuş aklı and Maş at Höyük, a fragment of a copper oxhide ingot also from Hattusa, a sword of purported west Anatolian or Aegean origin, and a Mesopotamian cylinder seal from Alacahöyük.128 By contrast, western Turkey throughout the second millennium BCE formed part of a wider trans-Aegean interaction sphere that involved both colonisation from the Minoan and later the Mycenaean world in south-west Turkey at Miletus and Ephesus, and close cultural ties in the case of Troy and Panaztepe.129 Communities along Turkey’s southern coast too show occasional interest in Aegean ceramic imports, both prior to and after the collapse of the Hittite empire, but extremely little of this material trickles inland either to the Hittite central region or its east Anatolian dependencies and successor states.130 Canaanite amphorae, another transport container that is closely associated with Late Bronze Age maritime trade, are also only found in very small quantities along the Cilician coast. Though this could be the result of a transfer to more portable containers for overland transport, the more plausible explanation is that Hittite imperial elites were generally uninterested in Mediterranean sumptuary goods and practices,131 which is also the case for other inland regions along the Levant and in Upper Mesopotamia.132 In summary, the Hittite political economy was built on conflict and appropriation133 on the one hand and the extraction of tribute and taxes on the other, part of which derived indirectly from international trade. At the same time, Anatolia’s social economy functioned largely independently of contemporary Mediterranean tastes and fashions. With trade activities attested at, for instance, Ugarit right up until its final destruction134 and with few signs of political defection, despite some feet-dragging on tribute payments,135 it is difficult to see how transformations in the Mediterranean, including temporary disruptions by maritime migrations, would have had an impact in any direct and catastrophic manner on the central regions of the Hittite imperial realm. Resilience approaches spotlight two key vectors of political collapse and its aftermath relevant to the Hittite case. The first concerns the flexibility or rigidity of organisational institutions, such as palaces and temples, their bureaucratic and legal instruments, and other mechanisms and practices which structure, socialise, and ritualise relationships of subjection, in responding to challenges and tensions at different geographical and social scales.136 128 129 131 134 136

For a full list, see e.g. Kozal and Novák (2007); Kozal (2018). 130 Mee (1998); Mountjoy (1998); Günel (1999); Niemeyer (2005). Kozal (2007). 132 133 Genz (2011; figs. 3-5). Bell (2006). Garfinkel and Skaperdas (2008). 135 Cline (2014, 108-109). Glatz (2013). Hegmon et al. (2008) draw primarily on modern approaches to resilience in socio-ecological systems in their definition of key parameters of rigidity: integration, hierarchy, and conformity.

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The second is the effective solidarity or its absence that political constituents come to engender towards such institutions. Centralisation or lack thereof has been argued to be a key parameter in resilience studies, with lower levels of integration generally thought of as providing more and localised flexibility in addressing societal or ecological challenges.137 Lisa Cooper, for instance, has argued that community resilience in the face of adverse climatic conditions in the late third to early second millennium BCE in the northern Euphrates region was due to a combined, and thus more flexible, agropastoral economic strategy, a corporate community structure, and a lack of large-scale political centralisation.138 In the same vein, the mid-twelfth century CE Andean imperial network of Tiwanaku is thought to have fallen victim to a centrally orchestrated agricultural overspecialisation at a time of significant climatic degradation.139 Heavy state investment in a highly specialised form of hydraulic agriculture appears to have rendered Tiwanaku’s economy structurally rigid and incapable of responding adequately to new environmental circumstances. A resulting lack of agricultural surplus in turn appears to have prevented Andean elites from performing their sovereignty through acts of ritual generosity, leading to political collapse in particular in the central regions of Tiwanaku, which subsequently remained devoid of urban centres for over three centuries. The collapse of the Western Han empire of China serves as another example of institutional rigidity. Here, an increasing disjunction between local experience and socio-political response, exacerbated by attempts by the central government to counterbalance decentralisation and increasingly severe environmental strains, appears to have underwritten imperial disintegration.140 Han administrative practices were defined by strict behavioural codes and proved incapable of resolving an increasingly precarious agricultural situation. Economic overextension to finance imperial warfare along with the inflation of official titulatures to secure elite cooperation were all well under way when a series of massive floods provided the social dynamite for a large-scale peasant rebellion that brought an end to the Western Han empire. By comparison, the seeds of Hittite disintegration would appear to lie less in structural rigidity than in political pragmatism in the face of inevitable centripetal political dynamics and the embrace of political ambiguities in the practice of empire. Hittite practices of governance were deeply rooted in its earliest phase of state-making, where members of the royal family were placed on

137 138 140

Although there are also studies that suggest that diversity may have adverse effects on social resilience (Faulseit 2016, 265-266). 139 Cooper (2006). Kolata (1993, 284; 2006, 220-221); McEwan (2006). Kidder et al. (2016, 84-85).

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conquered thrones.141 Suppiluliuma I, in the wake of his successful Syrian campaign, also left behind two of his sons, Telipinu and Piyassili/Sarri-Kusuh, to act as viceroys in strategic Hittite holdings at Aleppo and Carchemish. While Aleppo and its Hittite overlord are rarely mentioned in subsequent sources, the Hittite lineage at Carchemish actively involved itself in the governing of northern Syria. A late fourteenth century BCE treaty between a Hittite great king, probably Mursili II, and his brother Sarri-Kusuh, the viceroy of Carchemish, stipulates that the kings of Carchemish had become the third charge d’empire, after the great king and the heir to the Hattusa throne. This constituted not only a formal concession of Carchemish’s powerful status, but a fundamental re-organisation and effective devolution of imperial powers.142 At the close of the thirteenth century BCE, Ini-Tesub claims for himself the title of great king.143 Strategic decentralisation, or a loosening of network ties, appears to lie also behind the decision of Muwatalli II to appoint upon the move of the Hittite capital from Hattusa to Tarhuntassa his brother, Hattusili (III), first to governor and then king of Hatti’s dynamic northern borderlands. From this position, Hattusili was able to usurp the Hittite throne and exile his predecessor’s heir, Urhi-Tesub/Mursili III.144 From Hattusili III onwards there also existed a new king at Tumana in the north-west central Anatolian-Pontic interface, which was formerly governed from Hattusa.145 Geopolitically much more significant, however, was the establishment of Tarhuntassa, on whose throne Hattusili III placed his nephew Kurunta. The so-called Bronze Tablet sets out a later treaty between Tudhaliya IV and Kurunta.146 The document demarcates in some detail the border between Hatti and Tarhuntassa and concedes a political status to Tarhuntassa that was equal to Carchemish. Kurunta’s confident projections of power onto the south Anatolian plateau in the form of a landscape monument at Hatip, his use of the title of great king, and Tudhaliya IV’s marked investment in landscape monument construction in the same region all point to a highly contested relationship (see Chapter 5). Next we hear of Tarhuntassa in the Südburg inscription, which describes Suppiluliuma II’s campaign in the Lukka Lands, Classical Lycia, and in Tarhuntassa and in which he claims to have destroyed and occupied the latter city.147 In the landscape monuments of Kızılda˘g, Karada˘g, and Burunkaya, Hartapu, son of Mursili (either Mursili II or Urhi-Tesub),148 also claims the title of great

141 142 144 145 147

See e.g. the Proclamation of Telipinu, translation by Hoffmann (1984). 143 See also Klengel (2003); Mora (2010). Nougayrol (1956, 137, 121, 164). Apology of Hattusili III, translation by Otten (1981). 146 Cammarosano and Marizza (2015, 163-164). Otten (1981, 1988). 148 Hawkins (1995a). Hawkins (2002, 146); discussion in Bryce (2012, 22).

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king. Traditionally dated to after the fall of Hattusa, the monuments’ close associations with Yalburt, however, suggest a date in the final decades of the Late Bronze Age and their participation in the intense political contests of the time. To the west, the kingdom of Mira, the most powerful successor state of the Arzawa confederacy broken up by Mursili II, too appears to have had a status if not in title then in significance and influence on par with Carchemish and Tarhuntassa.149 Both the deliberate creation and inability to prevent the emergence of new regional sovereignties would have had not only political and ideological but also wide-ranging economic implications, with tax and other revenues from these regions no longer flowing directly into Hattusa’s coffers. The treaty between Tudhaliya IV and Kurunta of Tarhuntassa, for instance, states that Tudhaliya IV generously gave to Kurunta new towns, fields, and meadows along with deportees to hold in his own vassalship.150 We might now ask whether Hittite leadership was aware that their imperial network was in the process of disintegration and what was done to re-dress or adjust to these developments. Monroe, for instance, posits a lack of critical selfassessment of the changing situation on the part of the Hittite and other Bronze Age palatial centres.151 That is perhaps not entirely accurate, given the highly formulaic and conservative nature of the text genres, which provide us with the majority of our information on royal activity. It also gives undue pre-eminence to imperial wills or wants in bringing about the conditions of empire and to implement successful measures to prevent their disintegration. More accurately, we must ask how locked into human and material dependencies Hittite imperial agents found themselves by the close of the thirteenth century BCE and whether in the light of the many intertwined social and economic entrapments they had created over centuries of imperial practice, institutional adjustments were both possible and capable of yielding desirable outcomes. It has long been suggested that Tudhaliya IV engaged in an extensive reform of regional, non-royal cults in the later thirteenth century as a means of asserting centralised control and to introduce the standard spring and autumn festivals into local cults. However, there is much earlier evidence for both the recording and reviving of local, non-royal cults by the central administration since at least the Middle Hittite Period.152 Records dating from the reign of Tudhaliya IV appear merely the latest, non-discarded administrative records of cult places and their paraphernalia and practices. Similarly, the fundamental

149 152

150 151 Hawkins (2002, 147). Beckman (1999b). Monroe (2009, 297). Houwink ten Cate (1986); Hazenbos (2003); Lebrun (2010, 134); but see Cammarosano (2012).

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chronological re-assessment of Hattusa’s urban history153 and the pushing back of monumental construction in the Upper City by several centuries, means we can no longer attribute to the final Hittite rulers ‘a devout misdirection of resources to keep the gods smiling’.154 What later Hittite kings did engage in vigorously, however, was the construction of landscape monuments as means of territorial contest and indices of unsettled political conditions along the fringes of the Hittite central region. Attempts to address disunity among Hittite subjects also include a series of instruction texts and oaths. Unlike earlier instructions, which were more concerned with practical matters of administration, those dating to the later thirteenth century BCE focused on loyalty. Tudhaliya IV, for instance, composed Instructions and Loyalty Oaths for Lords, Princes and Courtiers, while Suppiluliuma II commissioned Instructions and Oath Impositions for the Men of Hattusa.155 The loyalty oaths include clauses regarding the movement across borders and collaboration with internal and external enemies, as well as tax collection and succession issues. Some of these texts partly take the form of a prayer or plea to the gods and include concerns – albeit with unclear context due to their fragmentary state – over the ‘kingship of the Land of Hattusa’, the ‘kingship of the borders’ and of ‘minor kingship’.156 This brings us to the final parameter of collapse that I want to consider here, social cohesiveness and its intersection with solidarity and legitimacy. Subjection, the manner in which subjects are created through practices of sovereignty and the depth of ideological, emotional, and behavioural association that they are able to elicit, shapes both political collapse itself and the degrees to which preceding social and political models and their material mediations are remembered and reinterpreted in post-collapse communities.157 Political communities are produced, as we have seen in preceding chapters, not only with coercive force and bureaucratised processing of information but are also built on sovereign legitimacy and a minimum degree of solidarity. Forms of government vary in their collective or unequal nature, and imperial polities characteristically incorporate a range of nested and spatially distributed sovereignties, whose elite agents and citizens are to varying degrees socialised and mentally and materially locked into the imperial project.158 Discrepancies between ideological representations and the experiences of the social as well as

153 155 157 158

154 Seeher (2006a). Broodbank (2013, 471). 156 Miller (2013, 22-23; nos. 26 and 28). Miller (2013, 308-309). See also Yoffee (2005); Butzer and Endfield (2012). Kolata (2006), for instance, suggests that ideological orthodoxies or, alternatively, orthopraxy bind together a political entity and that their distinctive psychologies and praxis fundamentally shape post-collapse regeneration. In the case of the latter, strategic mimesis of state institutions, values, and social practices disappear with the collapsing polity.

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the failure of state institutions to deal with and sufficiently explain such contradictions result in what Jürgen Habermas calls legitimation crises.159 Labour shortage was an ever-pressing problem in early imperial networks, which their leaders frequently sought to redress through the forced movement of large numbers of deportees from conquered territories. Suppiluliuma I, Mursili II, and Hattusili III claim to have deported several tens of thousands of captives to the central region of the Hittite empire.160 These so-called NAM.RA.MEŠ were subsequently used as agricultural labourers, assigned to palaces and temples or used to populate unsettled border regions, which royal rhetoric claims had been depopulated by enemy actions (see Chapters 2 and 4). Although such deportations may have alleviated labour shortages and formed part of the ideological performance of imperial cruelty in insubordinate regions, they would have had a number of knock-on effects both in the areas that saw thousands of people and livestock forcibly removed and in those in which they were subsequently resettled. This is not merely an economic question of loss and acquisition of labour power and subsequent disparity in productivity, but one of socio-cultural cohesion, solidarity, and legitimacy. Once captured, deportees were divided into two groups, those that the king sequestered for his own services in military, agricultural, cult-related, or building projects, and those distributed to his officers. The latter were often accompanied by livestock and perhaps included not only warriors but also other segments of displaced populations, no doubt to be settled in the estates of such dignitaries. Restrictions were placed on their movement; some were even blinded.161 Textual sources rarely concern themselves with NAM.RA.MEŠ beyond the act of deportation, but when they do, such as in Hittite diplomatic texts and treaties, the primary concerns are fugitives and their repatriation.162 As a result of this imperial practice, the central region of the Hittite empire and its most precarious borderlands became increasingly settled by groups who, if they did not feel outright hostility towards their captors, at least had no or insufficient ties – social, cultural, or ideological – with their new home and its inhabitants. In the case of the Hittite empire’s northern borderlands, this would have aggravated further an already highly fluid demographic situation (see Chapter 4). In concert, these processes created a central region that was both culturally heterogeneous and socially little cohesive; a fact that did not go unnoticed by Hittite leadership. Hattusili III, for instance, made a point of emphasising that he resettled the northern city of Tiliura with the people who were originally from the town, and not like his father, Mursili II, had done with those ‘whom he had conquered with the sword’.163

159 162

160 161 Habermas (2007 [1973]). Hoffner (2002b). Hoffner (2002b). 163 Beckman (1999b). Tiliura Decree, translation by von Schuler (1965, 45-48).

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This is not in the first instance a problem of ethnic, much less linguistic diversity per se, as has been suggested recently.164 Ethno-linguistic diversity existed throughout the second millennium in Anatolia and appears to have had little direct bearing on political geography or material practices. It is the forced aspect of such projects of imperial social engineering that undercut Hittite sovereignty, so laboriously ritualised, as we saw in Chapters 3 and 8, in its central region. Two further political practices aimed to increase sovereign power, which however ultimately diminished the central regions’ cohesion, involved the redistribution of landed property to loyal military dignitaries and administrative staff (Chapter 2) and the inflation of aristocratic titles. These titles were increasingly linked with administrative roles and bestowed as royal recognition and reward. The Hittite elite was, thus, becoming increasingly a functional aristocracy,165 detached from the landscapes and people they held control over and administrated. Ironically, at the end of this process stood a diverse and ideologically, at least in part, disassociated population rather than the cohesive socio-political community that Hittite practices and performances of state had aimed to produce. This population had limited ties with as well as interest in the maintenance of Hittite cultural traditions and organisational infrastructure, which disappeared or transformed soon after the state apparatus had abandoned the capital. This scenario can be compared to the demise of the Neo-Assyrian empire, whose heartland too displays a striking lack of institutional regeneration following capital relocations, the settlement of large numbers of deportees, and the promotion of generals into offices close to the king, which resulted in disenfranchised elites with few ties to the lower social tiers of the territories that they governed.166 Maurice Bloch observed that the construction of the symbolic state requires ‘the creation of the incompleteness and disorganisation of the subjects’ transcendental social which can only be made complete in the kingdom’.167 But as James Scott put it, there exists significant danger in ‘dismembering an exceptionally complex and poorly understood set of relations and processes in order to isolate a single element of instrumental value’.168 It was the very strategies of Hittite empire-making that produced the conditions in which it was no longer able to elicit a minimum of solidarity among the population of subjects at its very heart that led to the dissolution of its imperial network. This resulted in the complete rejection of its imperial heritage on the central Anatolian plateau, while dynastic survival in south-east Anatolia and northern Syria initiated a process of selective appropriation and remembering.

164 166

Bryce (2006, 217-219; 2012, 13-14). Yoffee (2010); but see Liverani (2001a).

165

Herbordt (2005). Bloch (1986, 8).

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168

Scott (1999, 21).

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AFTER DARK

Popular treatments of collapse use the notion of dramatic and fatal civilisational breakdown to much effect. Introducing the end of the Late Bronze Age in the East Mediterranean, Eric Cline, for instance, recently wrote: ‘[i]n the end, it was as if civilization itself had been wiped away in much of this region’.169 What follows is generally described as a ‘dark age’,170 which is, however, merely the product of Hittite imperial rhetoric from beyond the grave, made more poignant by the abrupt cessation of its monumental proclamation. A rupture that speaks also to our own western, progressivist foundation myth that sees socio-political complexity as an achievement and its apparent loss as something to be mourned,171 and what follows to be scorned.172 In Anatolian studies this brings with it a marked shift in terminology and return to unabashed culture history, where interactions are thought to take place between ceramic horizons rather than people.173 The absence of humans in much of the Anatolian post-collapse discourse sits comfortably with the notion that in the Hittite central region collapse was total, civilisational, and that what followed was largely disconnected from what preceded it socially, politically, and culturally. While the collapse of a socio-political network renders subjects transcendentally incomplete and bereft, and perhaps surprisingly unable and not just unwilling to reclaim or restore preceding, non-state practices, not all imperial dependencies cease abruptly at this point. Instead, imperial debris ‘continues to bind human potentials to degraded environments, and degraded personhoods to the material refuse of imperial projects – to the spaces redefined, to the soils turned toxic, to the relations severed between people and people, and between people and things’.174 The connective tissue that binds imperial pasts with post-imperial and post-colonial presents is both physical, the artefacts, structures, and places of empire, whether ruined and memorialised or rebuilt and re-inhabited, as well as ideational. From this debris, people manage to extricate themselves or fashion new things and meanings at varying pace and cost. The end of tax collection and corvée labour was no doubt a relief to the majority of former Hittite subjects. At the same time, the cessation of the networked relationships between people, things, and places that reproduced the Hittite empire over several hundred years may well have been as debilitating to many as it was liberating. In the central region especially, we must imagine a population whose lifeways and social and transcendental ties as well as economic dependencies had been profoundly reformulated as part of the

169 172 173

170 171 Cline (2014, 9). See also Bryce (2012). McAnany and Yoffee (2010b). Schachner (2011, 313) for instance, characterises it as a throwback to the Stone Age. 174 Genz (2013, 475). Stoler (2013, 8).

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making and re-making of the Hittite imperial network. The lack of regeneration of Hittite centres in central Anatolia, thus, is not a sign that Hittite civilisation had only a superficial impact and that it could not penetrate longterm cultural structures to effect change in a more permanent fashion.175 Quite to the contrary and paradoxically, given their ever partial and only temporary successes and unforeseen consequences that I have attempted to draw out in preceding chapters, Hittite sovereign practices deeply transformed central Anatolia’s traditional social, ritual, and economic landscapes. This newly established sociality and its material dependencies ultimately robbed the region of the socio-cultural cohesion that would have allowed for a more rapid political regeneration and continued cultural production to take place. Like the city of Vijayanagara, Hattusa, along with several of its newly created administrative centres, ‘did not survive without the empire that created it’.176 175

Schachner (2011, 313); Seeher (2018, 106).

176

Sinopoli and Suvrathan (2016).

TEN

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS

Cultural analysis is (or should be) guessing at meanings, assessing the guesses, and drawing explanatory conclusions from the better guesses, not discovering the Continent of Meaning and mapping out its bodiless landscape. What generality it contrives to achieve grows out of the delicacy of its distinctions, not the sweep of its abstractions. Geertz (1973, 20)

This book tackles the production, negotiation, and eventual undoing of the Hittite imperial network in Late Bronze Age Anatolia and northern Syria at a range of geographical scales and in different social and material spheres. Neither a fictitious fabulation of male pretentiousness as some of its Near Eastern predecessors, nor a fully realised governmentality, it presents, I have argued, an empire in the making. The term registers on the one hand, the Hittite experience as implicated in the long-term history of imperial experimentation, its gathering of pace and expanse over the past millennia, as well as of its transmutations that continue to shape, whether as imperial debris or neoimperial practice, the lives of much of the world’s population today. On the other hand, it indexes the conditional emergence of all socio-political formations from the dialectic of relational constraint and agentive vibrancy, both of human volition and the unpredictability of human-thing collectives. These are the processes that gradually transform and occasionally rupture long-term configurations of landscape and material practice as part of (as well as quite apart from) the production, negotiation, and rejection of a political regime or facets of its experience. It is on this latter aspect that the book’s analytical planes 301

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pivot, and where it contributes a new perspective and empirical case study of the to and fro of early imperial formation. In an earlier publication, I visualised the Hittite imperial network as a series of overlapping spheres of material inter-dependencies, whose temporal and geographical intersections allowed conclusions about the nature, intensity, and socio-cultural depth of the Hittite imperial network’s impact on local communities.1 The overall conclusions of this have not changed, even if a network or rhizome would depict more aptly – if equally abstractly – the nature of these connections and the emergent vitality of their intersections. Each sphere maps the geography of a specific subset of the Hittite imperial encounter in a particular arena of life. Where they overlap and intersect, imperial gaze was more intense and change most transformative, such as in the Hittite central region. Here, Hittite settlement and land policies erased the spatial logic of preceding centuries along with the polities that they materialised and set about the production of a series of new political landscapes. Their disparate communities were stitched together by the transfiguration of local time and rituals of place into a royal calendar of travel and imperial performance, while later policies populated their contested margins with prisoners of war. Cumulatively, these ruptures in the traditional relationships of people, places and things resulted in the profound abandonment and rejection of the Hittite imperial legacy in its very heartland – a development that contrasts often starkly with those in other regions, which were less dramatically transformed. In this book I wanted to move beyond this mainly empire-centric perspective to wrestle more vigorously from the available archaeological and textual records and define more explicitly the tensions of Hittite imperial in the making. Preceding chapters aimed to capture its dialectic along with the precarious temporality and fluid expressions of the Hittite political network by tracing continuities and transformations, their sources, nature, and subsequent trajectories in several spheres of landscape and material culture practice within and along nested political faults. These include the places and rituals with which Hittite imperial institutions sought to transform and appropriate new political spaces, and the ways in which particular kinds of things drew different groups into imperial domains of engagement and produced varyingly docile subjects. There is no doubt that it remains exceedingly difficult to make the subalterns speak2 from a record chiefly centred on the Hittite institutional apparatus and its material expressions, and yet ‘dissonances, subversive practices, and nonconformity’3 in the Hittite case are not only archaeologically (and textually) accessible, but were critical to imperial formation and biography and, thus, our understanding of them.

1

Glatz (2009).

2

Spivak (1988).

3

González-Ruibal (2013).

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS

Along with other recent approaches to the political, I have argued that imperial production is both fundamentally material in nature and emergent from relational practice. The book departs from these other studies, however, in its profound scepticism not of the things and practices themselves as deeply implicated and constitutional of political form, but of their efficacy in producing the sorts of unassailable, desired even by their subjects, political sovereignties that have been proposed to result from their deployment. Neither are things passive signifiers of imperial existence and its geographical scope nor are they fully proficient agents of imperial reproduction. They are, like imperial rhetoric, technologies of desire, hopeful in intent but not necessarily successful in bringing about dominance and consent, either where they were lacking or where they were prone to wane. This is a discrepancy that is not merely the result of ever tightening material dependencies, although they too play a role, but of the many ways in which individuals and groups challenge, subvert, and reject imperial domination and cultural hegemony at large, or in specific cultural and social domains. The Late Bronze Age Anatolian landscape monuments which I discussed in Chapter 5, for instance, present such hopeful claims to sovereignty, but rather than being commemorative of political achievement, they hope to actively appropriate stroppy political landscapes in a context of vigorous local and regional competition; their success in geopolitical terms may be said to have been limited. Critical, if not the only, sources of such structural tensions are the arenas for local action, non-action, and refusal that the very practices and material instantiations of imperial production create. Examples in preceding chapters demonstrated that these were geographically diverse and historically contingent both within and between different spheres of cultural engagement. This diversity results from the unique interplay of local ontologies and situational Realpolitik and the affordances and restrictions that local lifeways, social structures, and knowledge placed on different forms of submission, collaboration, and resistance. The Hittite bureaucratic technologies discussed in Chapter 7 hoped to enchant subjects into docile behaviours, but their material affordances and the conceptual distance that their very deployment wedged between command and execution opened up a host of possibilities both for local cooperative appropriation and for resistance through rejection. At Emar, ritual, time, and administrative practices constituted critical spaces, not only of imperial instantiation but also for internal social negotiation, and for the collaborative hybridisation of bureaucratic practices that gradually pitched the Hittite viceregal realm against that of the Hittite central region. The Kaska north, whose borderlands were sketched out in Chapter 4, presents a contrasting case, where beyond a zone of intensive interaction and tempestuous cooperation, the material culture and practices of Hittite urban centres met with little local interest and engagement. The experience of the Hittite

303

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imperial encounter was, thus, place-based, historically contingent, and culturally highly specific, as were the social and cultural developments that followed in their wake. In short, the landscape and material analyses in this book challenge the historicity of a Hittite Einheitsstaat, the well-oiled institutional apparatus not only able but also willing to control and homogenise even the most minute aspects of its subjects’ lives. Such sweeping abstraction is the result of overly enthusiastic readings of imperial self-narration, the conflation of imperial political intent with romanticised notions of the national statehood of modernity, and the intellectual baggage of nineteenth and twentieth century CE imperialist desires and paradigms. Hittite projections of sovereignty, like those of all political entities,4 by far outstretched the reach in spatial and social terms of its institutional power. Conversely, all-encompassing control and the standardisation of government and culture were never the aims of the Hittite imperial project. Like other imperial networks, it was content to draw just enough life from the dues, public deference, and protection of the many diverse, nested, and often autonomously acting sovereignties and protectorates it had assembled under its political aegis. This is not to say that the Hittite imperial network, and others like it, did not wield real power over those they conquered and often transformed as a result of short-term, violent interventions or longer-term practices of governance and ideological co-option, because they did. But they did not do so indiscriminately and across all spheres of life, as is often implied in traditional meta-narratives. Rather, as the analyses in this book have aimed to demonstrate, empire is ever morphing and locally co-produced. Its development, thus, is unpredictable and ultimately uncontrollable by its instigators: ‘such networks, then, . . . almost become the (distributed) agents at least as considered as gestalts’.5 Large-scale abstraction and simplification such as the Einheitsstaat make for an elegant narrative, but they also create a false sense of cohesion in the phenomenon under investigation. By doing away with the variation, messiness, and texture of imperial historicities, moreover, such characterisations of the past become – deliberately or not – profoundly political acts. For it is from such simple, binary stories of powerful empires and essential alterity6 that are spun the myths of civilisational superiority and difference that legitimise new imperialist ventures and totalitarian utopias. This book has attempted to engage with empire as a historical phenomenon by telling the complicated story of the Hittite imperial network as it teetered for some time between rhetorical state and momentarily realised, but always negotiated, materiality.

4

Smith (2011); Richardson (2012).

5

Robb and Pauketat (2013, 28).

6

Said (1978).

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INDEX

number in italics refers to table or figure; number in bold refers to footnote acculturation 16, 22, 129, 261 Acemhöyük 37, 60, 62, 90, 96 Adad-nirari I 180, 191 agricultural estate 76, 79, 93, 98, 117, 138, 184 AGRIG system 84–86, 93, 95, 106, 114, 116 Ahlamu (Arameans) 181, 192 ‘Ain Dara relief-orthostats 279, 286 Akpınar (Sipylos) 160, 160, 167 Alacahöyük cult centre 78, 82, 203 destruction 266 funerary displays 57 gate systems 183 Iron Age 276 Mesopotamian cylinder seal 292 Middle Hittite tablets 36 pre-firing potmarks 244 relief 106, 108, 111, 111 Alaksandu of Wilusa 40, 162 Alalakh See Tell Atchana-Alalakh Alasiya 40, 264, 290 Aleppo See Halab-Aleppo Aliş ar Höyük 60, 93, 93, 106, See also Amkuwa; Ankuwa Altınova plain 179, 183–84, 259 Amasya 137, 140, 145, 276 Amkuwa 93, See also Aliş ar Höyük; Ankuwa Amuq plain 257, 277–78 Amurru polity of 191, 213, 218 Sausgamuwa of 182, 218 scribal traditions 218 tribute payment 39 AN.TAḪ.ŠUM festival 109, 110, 111–12 Anitta 61, 93 Anitta Text 61–62, 64–65, 67, 129 Ankuwa 93, 111, 113, See also Aliş ar Höyük Annals of Hattusili I 50, 64, 130 Annals of Mursili II 39, 65, 134, 158, 168 Annals of Tudhaliya I/II 130–31

Anti-Taurus highlands 182 mountains 61, 85, 281 Aparru, governor of Kalasma 168 Apology of Hattusili 65–66, 131–32 Arameans See Ahlamu Arawanna 168–69 archive Alalakh 214 Amarna 35 central Anatolian 36 Dur-Katlimmu 191 Emar 187, 220 Hattusa 35–36, 76, 166, 216, 241, 266 Hema family, Emar 187, 221 Kültepe 60 Sapinuwa 87 Sarissa 88 Tapikka 86, 132 Ugarit 215, 217–18, 226, 291 Westbau, Niş antepe 76, 159, 203–4, 209, 216, 218 Zu-Ba‘la’s, Emar 187, 221, 224–26 Arinna cult city 110–11, 113–14 -Hebat 166 Mursili’s Prayer to 134 sungod 110, 130 Ari-Sarruma, king of Isuwa 212 Armananis 280, 281 Arma-ziti, prince 197–99, 216 Arnuwanti’s stelae 281–83 Arslantepe See Melid/Malatya; Melizi/Melid Arzawa 39, 40, 168, 172, 295 Assyria Adad-nirari I 180, 191 allegiance with Mitanni 179–80 Ashurbanipal II 5 imperialist aspirations 175 Middle 40, 186, 188–93, 231, 234, 281 Neo- 16–17, 51, 153, 231, 298 Old 37, 61, 69, 93, 130, 177 propaganda 5–6

363

364

INDEX

Assyria (cont.) raid 181–82 relief carvings 5 Samsi-Adad I 60 Shalmaneser I 181–82, 190 Tukulti-Ninurta I 85, 181–82, 291 Astata, Land of 180, 186, 191, 214, 221, See also Meskene-Emar Azzi people 140, 150 Babylon 10, 37, 39, 63, 178 beak-spouted jug 108, 108, 165, 252 beer 25, 105, 115, 250 BĒL MADGALTI 84–86, 132, 221 Beycesultan 169, 208, 256 Bitik 82, 106 Boğazköy-Hattusa See also Hattus; Niş antepe Anitta Text 61, 64, 67 archives 35–36, 76, 166, 240, 266 Bronze Tablet 35, 170 bull vessels 107 bullae 202 Büyükkale 70, 72, 74, 115, 203, 254 Büyükkale-Upper City viaduct 66 Büyükkaya 67, 74, 104, 146, 148, 268–72, 270, 272, 273–75 clay labels 218 feasting 252–54 fortification 66, 71, 74, 76, 234 hall-type house 88 KI.LAM festival 114–15 landgrant document 76–78 Late Helladic pottery 292 Lower City 69, 71, 74, 203, 252 miniature pottery 115, 248, 252, 254 monumental gates 72, 157, 170 monumentalisation 32, 70–76 pottery workshop 72, 237, 266 pre-firing potmarks 244 relief vase 106 signet rings 204 silo 99, 104, 116, 138, 268 southern ponds 112 spoliation 266 Südburg inscription 40, 64, 73, 157, 264, 281, 294 temples 74, 114, 150, 203, 249, 252 Upper City 70–72, 146, 156, 239 Yazılıkaya 76, 157, 163, 168, 252 borderlands definition 33 bowls with inverted rims 250–52, 256–58, 260 Boyabat-Kovuklukaya 141, 145–46 Boyalı Höyük 82 brewery 88, 250 Bronze Tablet 35, 96, 120, 170, 206, 294–95 bull vessel 107–8 bulla Acemhöyük 60 Carchemish 213, 279

definition 203 Gordion 208 Hattusa 202 Kaman-Kalehöyük 94 Kayalıpınar 90 Korucutepe 211 Kültepe 57 Kurucutepe 212 Kuş aklı-Sarissa 89 landgrant documents 206 Maş at-Tapikka 86 Niş antepe 159 Norş untepe 212 Ortakaraviran Höyük 208 practice of sealing with 200 Şarhöyük-Dorylaion 208 Soli Höyük 211 Tarsus 209 Tell Fray 188 Burunkaya relief 170, 294 Çadır Höyük 93, 274–76 calendar Emar’s new cultic 224–25 reproductive 109 royal travel and performance 103, 302 Canaanite jar 258–59, 292 Carchemish archival evidence 190 Assyrian merchants 191 campaign of Hattusili I 177 Emar 221–22, 225, 227, 287 excavations 35, 213, 285–86 Ini-Tesub I 191, 216, 294 Iron Age 277, 279, 285–86 Kuzi-Tesub 185, 192, 279, 281, 285 relationship with Ugarit 213, 215, 289 Sarri-Kusuh 294 scribal and sealing traditions 216, 219, 226 Suhis-Katuwas dynasty 285 Suppiluliuma I 39, 213, 294 tablets issued by chancellery 206, 289 Taki-Sarruma 200, 217 Talmi-Tesub 216, 224, 279 treaty with Mursili II 294 viceroy 179–80, 186, 221, 226, 279, 294 cemetery Gordıon 208, 255 Osmankayası 76 Royal Cemetery at Ur 200 Chief of the Borderguards See BĒL MADGALTI Cide Archaeological Project 148 clay labels 217, 222 colonisation, agricultural 52, 81, 92, 98, 117, 130, 190 copper mine 141, 182, 184 Çorum Province 78

365

INDEX

corvée services 81, 181, 221, 299 cult inventories 62, 113, 115 cult inventory text 115 cuneiform tablets Anatolian 200–5, 218 free-format 207, 222, 225 Hittite at Ugarit 215 hybridising 218 issued by Carchemish chancellery 206, 216 issued by Hattusa chancellery 215 Syrian (Emar) 207 Syro-Anatolian (Syro-Hittite) 207 Ugaritic 206, 216 Cyprus 40, 254, 263–64, 290 Daesh See Islamic State (ISIS) Darende stele 282–83 Deeds of Suppiluliuma 49, 63, 131, 143 deportation 63, 277, 290, 295, 297–98 Devrez river (valley) 83, 130, 134–35, 140 Devrez-Kızılırmak line 137–38, 144 divine stone house of the dead’ See NA4hekur monument Dumanlı Kale 135, 146, 149 dunnu (lordly manors) 190, 192 Durmitta 113, 131 Ebla 177, 214, 285 Eflatun Pınar 112, 154 Emar See Meskene-Emar Emirgazi altars 170, 281 Eskiyapar 78, 106, 203, 276 farmsteads 75–76, 79, 93 Fasıllar 154 Fatmaören Höyü˘gü 81 feasting See also festival association with gate structures 286 Beycesultan 256 commensal 19, 104, 109 communal 19, 114, 225 elite 19, 254 funerary 57 iconography 262 Karahöyük 279–81 Kayalıpınar 253 kit 253 Kuş aklı-Sarissa 88, 115, 251–53 of the GAL MEŠEDI 254 pottery 20, 105, 247–55, 248, 255 public 254 state-sponsored 19, 247 tributary 114 festival AN.TAḪ.ŠUM 109, 110, 111 autumn 113, 122, 295 circuit 113 depicted on Alacahöyük relief 111

depicted on relief vases 79, 105–7 Great Festival for Telipinu 111–12 KI.LAM 109, 112, 114–15, 286 LÚ AGRIG, responsible for cult 84 New Year 252 nuntarriyašhaš 109 of Istar 89 parties 99 purulli- 132 royal 113 royal residance during 85 spring 89, 112–13, 295 texts 104, 112, 114, 247, 249–51 travel 99, 109, 114 zukru- 225 Fıraktın höyük 165 Fıraktın relief 108, 164–66, 166, 284 frontier governor (BĒL MADGALTI) 84–86, 132, 221 GAL MEŠEDI 85, 91, 254 Gavur Kalesi 112, 154 Gordion See Yassıhöyük-Gordion Gözlu Kule-Tarsus 36, 209–11, 244, 245, 256–58 Late Helladic pottery 258 granary 47, 84–85 Gürün inscription 281 Halab-Aleppo Hittite prince 179, 213, 294 kingdom of Yamhad 177 Mursili I 178 province 179 relationship with Carchemish 214 relief-orthostats 279, 286 vassal treaty 213 viceregal seat 39 Hamite relief 154, 164 hamlet 58, 75, 79, 93, 184 Hanhana 79, 112–13, 130 Hanigalbat 180–81, 190, 192 Hanyeri relief 162–64, 164 Hartapu 157, 170–73, 280, 294 Hatip relief 154, 170, 172, 294 Hatti, Land of border with Tarhuntassa 294 Deeds of Suppiluliuma 63 eastern 83, 92, 132, 140 gods of 225 Hittite hegemony 118 inscription of Suppiluliuma II 264 Lower Land 49, 96 man of the 49 Proclamation of Telipinu 50 Upper Land 49 Hattus See also Bo˘gazköy-Hattusa city of 64, 67, 70, 93 king 61, 67

366

INDEX

Hattusa See Bo˘gazköy-Hattusa Hattusili I 38, 79, 93, 95, 176 Hattusili III Adad-nirari letter 191 and Puduhepa seal 188, 222 cult inventories 113 deportations 297 Kadasman-Enlil of Babylon letter 181 king of northern borderlands 40, 294 Kurunta of Tarhuntassa 294 landscape monuments 162–68, 284 peace treaty with Ramses II 37, 40 Tiliura Decree 133, 297 Tukulti-Ninurta letter 291 Hayasa people 140, 150 homogeneity See also standardisation cultural 128, 196 ideologically driven 239–41 measure of 235 of north-central Anatolian pottery 115, 247, 254 striving for 22, 228–30, 232, 304 Hulaya River Land 95, 120, 170 Hurri and Seri (bulls of the Stormgod) 79, 107 Hüseyindede See Yörüklü-Hüseyindede Tepesi huwaši-sanctuary 88, 112, 253 hybridity bureaucratic practices 303 cultural 34, 149, 220, 284 Hittite imperial relationships 24 identity 22–23 scribal traditions 218–19 sealing traditions 216–17, 222, 225–26 Illuyanka, myth of 132, 284 ˙Imamkulu monument 158, 162 ˙Imikuş a˘gı 183, 244, 261 ˙Inandıktepe agricultural estate 79, 138 cult equipment 107–8 excavations 35, 79–81, 80 Kaska conflict 83, 138 landgrant document 79 relief vase 105, 105–7, 111, 249–51 Ini-Tesub I of Carchemish 191, 216, 294 inventory text 114, 141, 225, 290 Ir-Tesub 280–81 Islamic State (ISIS) 4–9, 8 ˙Ispekçür stele 282–83 Istar 65, 89, 110, 130 Isuwa, kingdom of 179, 183–84, 203–12 itinerary, travel cult 99, 113, 130 Kadasman-Enlil II of Babylon 181 Kalasma 40, 168–69 Kaman-Kalehöyük bullae 94 excavations 94 grain storage facility 95, 104

human skeletal remains 62 Iron Age pottery 276 Late Bronze Age-Iron Age transition 276 provincial centre 203 relief vase 106 Kanes kingdom 58–62, See also Kültepe-Kanes Karabel relief 154, 172, 172 Karada˘g relief 170, 173, 294 Karahöyük stele 279–81, 281, 280 Karahöyük-Elbistan 106, 276, 279 Karahöyük-Konya 37, 60, 62 Karkamiš See Carchemish ka¯ rum 59, 59, 60 Kasha 112 Kaska border settlements 63–64 conflict 83, 129, 133, 138, 143, 152 -Hittite borderlands 42, 125, 128, 132, 134, 138 migration 130 people 125–29, 133–50, 270–71 prisoners of war 142 socio-political organisation 134 Tiliura Decree 133 treaty with Hittite state 133, 141, 143 Kassite Babylonia 16, 51, 178 Kayalıpınar architectural rupture 92 bull vessels 107 bullae 90 excavations 35, 91, 157 feasting 253 regional centre 98 Samuha cult centre 49, 66, 85, 90, 114 tablets 36 use of architectural orthostats 285 KI.LAM festival 109, 112, 114–15, 286 Kilise Tepe 210, 211, 259, 273, 285 Kili-Tesub See Sattiwaza of Mitanni Kilushepa, queen of Isuwa 212 Kinet Höyük 245–46, 259 Kınık Höyük 98, 277 Kınık-Kastamonu 107, 137, 141, 142, 145 Kızılda˘g relief 170, 173, 294 Kızılırmak delta 130 river 47–48, 61, 82, 89–90, 96, 125 river bend 130 river crossing 95, 138 Kizzuwatna kingdom 179, 209, 257 Puduhepa, daughter of the Land of 166 seal house 85 tax payment of copper 290 Korucutepe 184, 210, 211–12, 244, 245, 259–60, 278 Kötükale inscription 281, 282, 282 Ku(wa)lanamuwa monuments 158–60, 162–64 seal impression 159

367

INDEX

Kültepe-Kanes 37, 54, 57–62, 59, 62, 69, 90 Kurunta of Tarhuntassa 35, 40, 96, 120, 156, 170, 294–95 Kuşaklı Höyük (Yozgat) 36, 92 Kuş aklı-Sarissa acropolis 92, 249 brewery 88, 250 bull vessel 107 cult centre 114, 203, 212 destruction 265 excavations 35, 80, 87–91 feasting 88, 115, 251–53 huwaši-sanctuary 88, 253 king of 85 landgrant document 89 Late Bronze Age texts 36 Late Bronze Age-Iron Age transition 268 Late Helladic pottery 292 pre-firing potmarks 243, 244 regional centre 98 relationship with Hattusa 91 spring festival 89, 112 stored grain 104, 117 Kuzi-Tesub of Carchemish 185, 192, 279, 281, 285 Labarna anonymous seal 79, 203 Proclamation of Telipinu 45 seal 76 title 204 landgrant document before and during reign of Telipinu 130 disuse 109 Hattusa 76–78 ˙Inandıktepe 79, 106 Kuş aklı-Sarissa 89 Labarna seal 76, 203 royal 77, 83, 206 Tarsus 209 landscape monument Akpınar (Sipylos) 160, 160, 167 Arnuwanti’s stelae 281–83 as political technology 151–54, 172–74, 296, 303 Eflatun Pınar 112, 154 Fasıllar 154 Fıraktın 108, 164–66, 166 Gavur Kalesi 112, 154 Hamite 154, 164 Hanyeri 162–64, 164, 284 Hatip 154, 170, 172, 294 ˙Imamkulu 162–63, 163 Karabel 154, 172, 172 Ku(wa)lanamuwa 158–60, 162–64 of king Hartapu 157, 170–73, 280, 294 of king Runtiya 281 of Kurunta of Tarhuntassa 40, 96, 156, 170, 294 patrons 153–58, 165 Sirkeli 154, 165

Suratkaya 160–62, 161, 167 Taş çı 167, 166–68 Yalburt pool complex 40, 112, 168, 169, 170, 173, 281, 286 Yazılıkaya 76, 157, 163, 168, 252 Landschenkungsurkunde See landgrant document Late Helladic pottery 86, 165, 258, 265, 273, 292 law code, Hittite 49, 54, 55, 56, 77, 116, 290 libation arm-shaped vessel 115, 252, 258, 260 equipment 114, 150, 259, 291 jug 108, 165 ritual act 110, 112, 114, 286 scene 108, 108, 165, 205, 282, 284, 286 source of 131 Lidar Höyük 185, 212, 279 Lord of the Watchtowers See BĒL MADGALTI Lower Land 49, 66, 96 LÚ AGRIG See AGRIG system Lukka Lands 40, 168, 264, 294 Luwian, hieroglyphic aedicula 161, 168, 170, 204, 215 bullae 213 cylinder seals 216, 224 inscription attributing patronage 157–68 inscription, Darende stele 283 inscription, ˙Ispekçür stele 283, 283 inscription, Karahöyük stele 280–81, 280 inscription, Niş antaş 157, 281 inscription, Ortaköy-Sapinuwa 157 inscription, Südburg 40, 64, 73, 157, 264, 294 inscription, Yalburt 40, 173, 281 inscriptions, Carchemish 285–86 letter writing 35 limestone figure 212 potmarks 188, 243 pseudo- 208 script use in Syro-Anatolian region 277 seals 185, 185, 204 signet rings 207, 224 silver bowl engraved with 142 stamp 198, 211, 216, 218, 224 wooden writing boards 35 Maraššantiya See Kızılırmak river Mari 181, 189, 214, 225 Masa kingdom 122, 264 Maş at-Tapikka cult centre 114, 203 district centre 98 excavations 35, 86–87, 91 final destruction 265 Hittite border town 140 Late Bronze Age texts 35, 86–87, 116, 142 Late Bronze Age-Iron Age transition 268 Late Helladic pottery 86, 265, 274

368

INDEX

Melid/Malatya See also Melizi/Melid Assyrian raid 181 ceramic tradition 246, 261 excavations 183 identification of Melid 49 Mitanni’s realm of influence 179 seal and seal impressions 212 Melizi/Melid See also Melid/Malatya Arnuwanti’s stelae 281–83 Gate of Lions 284, 285, 286 Iron Age kingdom 277, 279, 281–84 Ir-Tesub 280 king PUGNUS-mili 281, 284 king Runtiya 281 merchant Amurru 182 Assyrian 69, 99, 182, 191 Emar 191 foreign in Ugarit 215 international class of 290 ka¯rum settlement, Kültepe-Kanes 59, 59, 60 Levantine 192 Mesopotamian 58 Old Assyrian 37, 62, 130 Ugaritic 198, 291 Mersin 244, 258 Meskene-Emar adminstrative practices 187 excavations 35, 186–87 kingdom of Yamhad 177 Late Bronze Age textual evidence 36, 187, 190, 221–22, 224–26 political institutions 220–21 relationship with Carchemish 221, 227, 303 ritual, time, administrative practices 286, 303 Sabi-Abyad text 192 scribal traditions (Late Bronze Age) 206, 218, 221–24 Zu-Ba‘la’s archive 187, 221, 224–26 mimesis analytical lense of 24 and rejection 227 behavious as 33 cultural 22, 226–27, 232, 261, 263, 287 form of 275 incentive for 4 material 27 strategic 278, 296 miniature pottery depicted in Anatolian ritual iconography 238 feasting 255 Fıraktın 165 Gözlu Kule-Tarsus 258 Hattusa 115, 248, 252, 254 Kinet Höyük 259 Korucutepe 246, 260 Late Bronze Age north-central Anatolian 238 Mersin 259

northern Syria and southern Levant 262 Noş untepe 261 Oymaa˘gaç Höyük 150 Porsuk/Zeyve Höyük 257 Sarissa 249 Yassıhöyük-Gordion 256 Yazılıkaya 252 Mira kingdom 168, 172, 295 Kupanta-Kuruntiya, king of 161 -Kuwaliya 162 Man of 161 princes of 162 Tarkasnawa, king of 172, 208 Mitanni Alalakh 214 Emar 190 imperial aspirations 16, 175 kingdom 179–80 -style cylinder seal 185, 211, 222 Suppiluliuma’s victory over 39, 186 Tell Bazi 188 Tell Munbaqa-Ekalte 187 Tur Abdin mountain region 192 Mursili I 38–39, 63, 178 Mursili II Arzawa 39, 172, 295 bureaucratic apparatus at Hattusa 203 Carchemish 213 dedication of Timmuhala to the gods 64 Deeds of Suppiluliuma 63, 131, 143 deportations 297 Kupanta-Kuruntiya of Mira 162 plague epidemic 39 Plague prayers 65, 141 seal of 215 Syrian campaign 191 Syrian rebellion 219 treaty with Carchemish 294 Mursili’s Prayer to Arinna 134 Muwatalli II appointed Hattusili III governor 85, 294 Apology of Hattusili 65–66 battle of Qadesh 37, 40 cult centre Samuha 90 royal seal 204 Sirkeli relief 164–65 Tarhuntassa 40, 266, 294 treaty with Alaksandu of Wilusa 40, 162 Mycenaean pottery See Late Helladic pottery hekur monument 72, 77, 112 NAM.RA.MEŠ (civilian captives of war) 143, 290, 297 Nerik See also Oymaa˘gaç Höyük Apology of Hattusili 132 cult centre 113, 130, 132, 138

NA4

369

INDEX

Prayer of Arnuwanda and Asmunikal 131 soldiers of Arawanna 169 strom-god of 113 Niqmadu vase 261 Niş antaş inscription 157, 281 Niş antepe NA4 hekur monument 72 Westbau archive 76, 159, 203–4, 209, 216, 218 Norş untepe 184–85, 212, 237, 246, 257–61, 278 Okçular Kale 145 Okçular ware 148–49, 148 Old Assyrian trade network 37, 61, 69, 93, 130, 177 Ortaköy-Sapinuwa capital under Tudhaliya III 66 destruction 92 excavations 35, 80, 87 identification with Sapinuwa 49 Late Bronze Age texts 35 orthostats 157, 284 seals and seal impressions 203 Oymaa˘gaç Höyük See also Nerik bull vessel 107 Early Bronze Age houses 146 excavations 132, 138–40, 138–40 Iron Age 276 Late Bronze Age text 203 pottery tradition 146, 147, 149–50, 271 temple destruction 266 palace Acemhöyük 60, 90 Assyrian 6 at Middle Bronze Age trading centres 62 -based kingdom 220, 278 Büyükkale 70, 74, 254 Carchemish 285, 287 Ebla 214 -focused political network 186, 292 Hattusa 112, 252 Kültepe 59 official 212, 214–15 provincial 77, 85, 87, 90 Pylos 236 regional 91 Samuha 90 Sarissa 89 Tell Fray 188 Tell Munbaqa-Ekalte 187 Ugarit 215, 217 Pitassa, Land of 120, 168–69 Piyassili/Sarri-Kusuh, prince 180, 294 Plague prayers of Mursili II 65, 141 POCULUM, land of 280–81 pool, sacred Eflatun Pınar 112, 154 Suppitassu 112 Yalburt 40, 112, 168, 169, 170, 173, 281, 286

Porsuk/Zeyve Höyük 91–98, 208, 244, 245–46, 255–57, 276 potmark 242–46 pottery workshop excavated 234 Hattusa 270 Tell Sabi Abyad 234 Upper City, Hattusa 72, 234, 237, 241, 266 Prayer of Arnuwanda and Asmunikal 131–32, 143, 182 Proclamation of Telipinu See Telipinu Proclamation Puduhepa 40, 108, 166, 188, 209, 222 PUGNUS-mili, king of Melid 281, 284 Pulur 140 Purushattum kingdom 58, 60–61 Ramses II 37, 40, 153, 291 Ras Shamra-Ugarit Arma-ziti 197–98 campaigns of Hattisili I 177 clay labels 217 correspondence with Amurru 218 excavations 35 Late Bronze Age textual evidence 36, 182, 205, 215–19, 291 relationship with Carchemish 214–15 scribal traditions 215–19, 226 tribute payments 116, 219, 290, 292 Ugaritic clay tablets 206 vassal treaty 39, 120, 213, 215 Red-Lustrous Wheel-Made ware 97, 252, 254, 259–60, 291 Reisefeste See Festival, travel relief vase Aliş ar Höyük 93, 106 Bitik 82, 106 distribution 107 Eskiyapar 106 Hüseyindede 81, 106–7 ˙Inandıktepe 79, 105–7, 105, 111, 249–51 Kabaklı 106 Kaman-Kalehöyük 106 Karahöyük-Elbistan 106, 279 Maş at-Tapikka 106 Mülkbükü 106 Uruk-Warka vase 105 ruination 63–64, 67, 74, 288 Runtiya, king of Melid 281 Sahurunuwa, viceroy 224 Salman Höyük 53, 136 Samsun 48, 137, 140, 145, 276 Samuha 49, 66, 85, 90, 114, See also Kayalıpınar sanctuary huwaši- 253 rock 76, 252 Sapinuwa See Ortaköy-Sapinuwa Sargon of Akkad 15, 58, 178 Sarissa See Kuş aklı-Sarissa

370

INDEX

Sarri-Kusuh of Carchemish 294 Sattiwaza of Mitanni 179–80 Sausgamuwa of Amurru 182, 218 Schimmel Rhyton 108, 108, 284 Schwapprandschalen See bowls with inverted rims scribal traditions (central) Anatolian 205, 207, 215 Amurru 218 Emar 221–25 hybridising 218–19 Syrian 206 Syro-Hittite or Syro-Anatolian 207 Ugarit 215–19, 226 seal (impression) of a great/head of the charioteers 188 of Ari-Sarruma, king of Isuwa 212 of Arma-ziti 197, 198, 216 of Hattusili III and Puduhepa 188, 222 of Hismi-Tesub 224 of Ini-Tesub 216 of Isputahsu, king of Kizzuwatna 209 of Kantuzzili (GAL MEŠEDI) 91 of king Ammistamru II of Ugarit 217 of king Tarkasnawa of Mira 172 of Ku(wa)lanamuwa 159 of Kuzi-Tesub of Carchemish 185, 279 of lower ranking Hittite officials 216 of Ma/izitima 89 of Mursili II 215 of Muwatalli II 204 of Pihaziti 212 of prince Sauskakurunti 170 of Puduhepa 209 of Samsi-Adad I 60 of Sausgamuwa of Amurru 218 of Son of Niqmadu, King of Ugarit 217 of Suppiluliuma I 86, 204 of Taki-Sarruma 216, 217 of Tarkasnawa of Mira 172 of Tudhaliya I/II 90 of Tudhaliya II/III 86 of Tudhaliya IV 204 of viceroy Sahurunuwa 224 of viceroys of Carchemish 216 of Yamhad 214 seal house 78, 84–85, 90 seal matrice 201, 203 Seri and Hurri (bulls of the Stormgod) 79, 107 Shalmaneser I 181–82, 190 silo Çadır Höyük 94 Hattusa 71, 78, 99, 104, 116, 268 Kaman-Kalehöyük 94, 104 Kuş aklı-Sarissa 89, 104, 117 Norşuntepe 185 of Hittite imperial centres 101 Oymaağaç Höyük 138 Sinop 135, 137, 140–41, 145

Sirkeli relief 154, 165 Siyannu kingdom 120, 197, 214, 216 Sos Höyük 140 spoliation of early post-imperial monuments 284–86 standardisation 230–33, 235–36, 239, 263, 273, 304, See also homogeneity Stellvertreter cult 114, 287 subaltern 10, 22, 28, 302 Südburg inscription 40, 64, 73, 157, 281, 294 Suppiluliuma I Annals of Mursili II 39, 65, 131, 158 bureaucratic apparatus at Hattusa 203 Deeds of Suppiluliuma 49, 63, 131, 143 deportation 297 fortication of Hattusa 66 Mitanni 179–80, 186 plague epidemic 39 Sattiwaza Treaty 179–80 seal of 86, 204 Syrian campaign 191, 213, 294 Zida, brother of 166 Suppiluliuma II loyalty oath 296 Niş antaş inscription 157, 281 Südburg inscription 64, 73, 157, 281, 294 urban monuments 40, 172, 264–65 Suratkaya reliefs 160–62, 161, 167 Sutu/Suteans 192 Tabal kingdom 62, 277 Talmi-Tesub of Carchemish 216, 224, 279 Tapikka See Maş at-Tapikka Tarhuntassa Bronze Tablet 35, 96, 120, 170, 206, 295 devolution of power from Hattusa to 273 Hittite capital under Muwatalli II 40, 64, 66, 266, 294 Kurunta of 40, 96, 156, 170, 294 Südburg inscription 64, 294 Ulmi-Tesub treaty 212 Tarsus See Gözlu Kule-Tarsus Taş çı reliefs 166–68, 167 Taurus mountains 47–48, 164, 176, 182, 209, 281 Tawananna seal, anonymous 90 Tawiniya 110, 113 tax BĒL MADGALTI’s remit 85 collection 103, 116–17, 215, 290–91, 296, 299 evasion 29, 116 exemption 77, 221 extraction 292 paid in metal 290–91 revenue 7, 81, 85, 101, 295 Telipinu god 103, 111–12 king 76, 130, 209 son of Suppiluliuma I 294 Telipinu Proclamation 37, 39, 50, 63, 84, 116 Tell Ahmar See Til Barsip-Tell Ahmar

371

INDEX

Tell Atchana-Alalakh 36, 54, 157, 177, 214–15, 278 Tell Bazi 186–89 Tell Bi’a-Tuttul 180–81, 188–89 Tell Chuera 190, 192 Tell Fray 187–88, 190, 222 Tell Munbaqa-Ekalte 180, 186–87, 222 Tell Sabi Abyad 190, 192, 234 Tell Ta’yinat 278, 285 Tepecik 184–85, 212, 261, 278 Testament of Hattusili I 50 Til Barsip-Tell Ahmar 188, 285 Tiliura Decree 133, 297 Tille Höyük 185, 212 trader See merchant treaty Hattusa and Amurru 218 Hattusili III and Ramses II 37, 40 Hittite state and Kaska 133, 141, 143 Mursili II and Sarri-Kusuh 294 Muwatalli and Alaksandu of Wilusa 40, 162 Suppiluliuma and Sattiwaza 179–80 Suppiluliuma II and Alasiya 40 Tudhaliya IV and Kurunta of Tarhuntassa 35, 96, 170, 206, 294–95 Tudhaliya IV and Sausgamuwa 182 Ulmi-Tesub 164, 212 vassal 39, 143, 204, 213, 215, 218 Troy 40, 57, 136, 208, 262, 292 Tudhaliya I/II 90, 142 Tudhaliya II/III 86, 90 Tudhaliya IV Bronze Tablet 35, 96, 120, 170, 206, 294–95 cult reforms 113, 295 landscape monuments 40, 96, 156, 169, 281, 294–300 letter to Tukulti-Ninurta 181–82 letter to Ugarit 205 loyalty oaths 296 Milawatta letter 208 prayer 182 Sausgamuwa of Amurru 182, 218 seal of 204 stele of a warrior 156 Yalburt pool complex 40, 168, 169, 170, 173, 281 Yazılıkaya 157, 163, 168 Tukulti-Ninurta I 85, 181–82, 291 Tumana 86, 135, 168, 294 Tunip 177, 213

Ugarit See Ras Shamra-Ugarit Ulmi-Tesub treaty 164, 212 Upper Land capital Samuha 90 eastern perimeter 87 extension of Land of Hatti 49 Hattusili (III) 86 Hittite border strategies 92, 132 Hittite sovereignty 91 landscapes 92, 140 regional centres 138 seal houses and storehouses 84 spatial re-organisation 83 Urhi-Tesub/Mursili III 40, 170, 294 viceregal seat Aleppo 39 Carchemish 186, 206, 216, 221 Tarhuntassa 40 Westbau archive, Niş antepe 76, 159, 203–4, 209, 216, 218 Wilusa 40, 162, 208 wine 85, 115, 225, 290 workshop centrally-controlled 291 installations 241 metal 271, 272, 291 monument 174 pottery 234, 237, 266, 270 state-owned 291 Yalburt pool complex 40, 112, 168, 169, 170, 173, 281, 286 Yalburt survey 169 Yamhad kingdom 177–78, 214 Yassıhöyük 94, 96 Yassıhöyük-Gordion 208, 244, 245, 255–56, 276 Yazılıkaya 76, 157, 163, 168, 252 Yörüklü-Hüseyindede Tepesi 79, 80, 81–82, 93, 106–7, 106–7 Zababa 110, 130 Zalp(uw)a 61, 129–31 Zippalanda 111, 111, 113 Zu-Ba‘la, diviner of Emar 221, 224–26