The Mummy Under the Bed: Essays on Gender and Methodology in the Ancient Near East (wEDGE, 1) 9783963270888, 3963270888

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wEdge 1 wEdge 1

The Mummy Under the Bed

The Mummy Under the Bed

Essays on Gender and Methodology in the Ancient Near East

Edited by

Katrien De Graef, Agnès Garcia-Ventura, www.zaphon.de

Anne Goddeeris and Beth Alpert Nakhai

Zaphon

wEdge-Cover-1---2022-04-22.indd 1

22.04.2022 15:20:28

The Mummy Under the Bed Essays on Gender and Methodology in the Ancient Near East

Edited by Katrien De Graef, Agnès Garcia-Ventura, Anne Goddeeris and Beth Alpert Nakhai

wEdge Cutting-Edge Research in Cuneiform Studies Volume 1

Editor-in-Chief: Lorenzo Verderame Editorial board: Eva von Dassow Agnès Garcia-Ventura Jean-Jacques Glassner Ann Guinan Emanuel Pfoh Jordi Vidal

The Mummy Under the Bed Essays on Gender and Methodology in the Ancient Near East

Edited by Katrien De Graef, Agnès Garcia-Ventura, Anne Goddeeris and Beth Alpert Nakhai

Zaphon Münster 2022

Illustration on the cover: Dama oferente de Ibiza. Museo Arqueológico Nacional. Inv. 1923/60/510. Foto: Fundación ITMA, autor: Santiago Relanzón.

The Mummy Under the Bed. Essays on Gender and Methodology in the Ancient Near East Edited by Katrien De Graef, Agnès Garcia-Ventura, Anne Goddeeris and Beth Alpert Nakhai wEdge 1

© 2022 Zaphon, Münster (www.zaphon.de) Printed in Germany. Printed on acid-free paper. ISBN 978-3-96327-088-8 (book) ISBN 978-3-96327-089-5 (e-book) ISSN 2698-7007

Table of Contents Preface and Acknowledgements Some Words with a Mummy ................................................................................ 7 Women Talking about Women: Excavating the Memory of Women in Ancient Near Eastern Studies Agnès Garcia-Ventura ........................................................................................ 13 1. Reading Against the Grain The Late Bronze Age in Syria: Was It a Dark Age for Women? Frances Pinnock ................................................................................................. 41 The Female Gaze: The Subjected Body in Tablet 103 of Šumma ālu Omens 1–7 Ann K. Guinan .................................................................................................... 57 In nomine matris et filii . . . : The Use of Matronymics in the Legal and Economic Documents from Sukkalmaḫ Susa Katrien De Graef ................................................................................................ 89 2. Cult and Cults Women in Cult in First Millennium BCE Mesopotamia Natalie Naomi May ........................................................................................... 125 Engendered Cosmic Regions in Ancient Mesopotamian Mythologies Lorenzo Verderame........................................................................................... 157 Of Cities, Mothers, and Homes: A Cognitive-Stylistic Approach to Gendered Space in the Hebrew Bible Karolien Vermeulen .......................................................................................... 173 Vanishing Point: New Perspectivity on Women in the Book of Exodus Elizabeth B. Tracy............................................................................................. 195 3. Ancient Beauties The Aroma of Majesty: Gender and the Hebrew Bible’s Olfactory Cultic Theology Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme ..................................................................... 217

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Table of Contents

Performing Beauty in Phoenician-Punic Cultures: A Gender Perspective Meritxell Ferrer and Mireia López-Bertran ..................................................... 233 Embodying the Past: The Case of the Goddess on Lion at Hasanlu Letteria Grazia Fassari and Raffaella Frascarelli ........................................... 253 Entangled at Death: Beads, Gender, and Life Cycles during the Central Anatolian Early Neolithic; Aşıklı Höyük as a Case Study Sera Yelözer and Mihriban Özbaşaran............................................................. 289 4. Networks and Powers Zinu, Wife and Manager in Old Babylonian Larsa Baptiste Fiette ................................................................................................... 327 Grandmother’s Tablets: Some Reflections on Female Landowners in Nuzi Brigitte Lion ...................................................................................................... 353 Women and Their Weight: Incorporating Weighted Edges in a Network Analysis of the Central Redistributive Household of Nippur (Eighteenth Century BCE) Anne Goddeeris ................................................................................................ 369 Women’s Property and Social Networks in Mesopotamia Allison Thomason ............................................................................................. 407 Was It Law? Gender Relations and Legal Practice in the Ancient Near East Ilan Peled .......................................................................................................... 433

Index ................................................................................................................. 447

Preface and Acknowledgements Some Words with a Mummy These gentlemen spoke the mother-tongue of the mummy with inimitable fluency and grace; but I could not help observing that (owing, no doubt, to the introduction of images entirely modern, and of course, entirely novel to the stranger) the two travellers were reduced, occasionally, to the employment of sensible forms for the purpose of conveying a particular meaning. Edgar Allan Poe, “Some Words with a Mummy”1 The present volume contains seventeen chapters devoted to various methodological approaches to gender studies within the broad field of Ancient Near Eastern studies, including ancient history, archaeology, art history, Assyriology, Phoenician-Punic studies, and biblical studies. This collection is the result of presentations, exchanges, and discussions that took place during the third workshop on Gender, Methodology, and the Ancient Near East in Belgium from 8 to 10 April 2019. Over these three days, scholars from the four corners of the world descended on the Royal Academy of Dutch Language and Literature in the picturesque city of Ghent in order to exchange research findings, ideas, and hypotheses on gender-related topics within the realms of greater Mesopotamia, Egypt, and the Levant. Building upon thematic panels held during the Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in Ghent (2013) and Warsaw (2014), the first workshop on Gender, Methodology, and the Ancient Near East was hosted by the Centre of Excellence in Changes in Sacred Texts and Traditions at the University of Helsinki in October 2014. At this time, the focus was broadened to methodological approaches in all areas of Ancient Near Eastern studies, thereby facilitating a fruitful dialogue among the various fields of research. Two and a half years later, in February 2017, a second workshop was hosted by the Institut del Pròxim Orient Antic at the University of Barcelona; this workshop benefitted from a very varied programme, with Egyptological, biblical, and Phoenician-Punic contributions. After yet another two years and a half years, the third workshop, GeMANE 3, was organised by the Assyriology research group at the Department of Languages and Cultures at Ghent University in cooperation with the Centre of Excellence in Ancient Near Eastern Empires at the University of Helsinki, and hosted by the Faculty of Arts and Philosophy of Ghent University. More than 1

“Some Words with a Mummy,” 1852, in Tales of Mystery, Imagination, & Humour; and Poems, London, 220.

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Preface and Acknowledgements

thirty scholars from universities in Asia, Europe, and North America explored new methods for addressing gender-related topics by sharing ideas, research results, and ongoing projects. Their results were further elaborated and, together with new chapters, bundled into the present volume. Building on the previous workshops, GeMANE 3 has thereby created a platform to present, examine, and discuss innovative methodological and theoretical approaches to gender within the broad framework of Ancient Near Eastern studies. Scholarly networking was enhanced, and the initiative was consolidated by coining the acronym GeMANE and inaugurating a collaboration with the newly established wEdge series to publish the research results emerging from the framework of GeMANE 3 and possibly future workshops. Over the last several decades, gender studies has claimed its rightful place within Ancient Near Eastern studies. After the initial and sorely needed retrieval of women’s lives utilizing textual and archaeological sources, new methodological and theoretical approaches to gender and sexuality now complement descriptive studies. Going forward, GeMANE remains fully committed to opening up all possibilities inherent within (post-) feminist, masculinist, structural, queer, and related theories. Also fundamental are innovative (digital) methodologies for historical, art historical, archaeological, and philological subjects within Ancient Near Eastern studies. And, like the gentlemen in Poe’s story, this “introduction of images entirely modern, and … novel” occasionally reduces us to the “employment of sensible forms for the purpose of conveying a particular meaning.” As editors of this volume, we are most grateful to all participants for sharing their research, for exchanging ideas and engaging in fruitful debates during the Ghent workshop. We also wholeheartedly thank all persons, institutions, research groups, and projects who have contributed financially, without whom the workshop and the current volume would not have been possible: the Research Foundation–Flanders (FWO); the Faculty of Arts and Philosophy of Ghent University; the Centre of Excellence in Ancient Near Eastern Empires at the University of Helsinki; J. Edward Wright, chair of the Arizona Center for Judaic Studies of the University of Arizona; and Helaine Levy and the Diamond Family Philanthropies. The current volume is the result of the collaborative work of an editorial committee consisting of Katrien De Graef (Ghent University), Agnès GarciaVentura (Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona), Anne Goddeeris (Ghent University), and Beth Alpert Nakhai (University of Arizona). All chapters have undergone a scrupulous review process. As editors, we especially want to thank copyeditor Marie Landau (Raised Type) for her outstanding work revising the manuscripts, which added greatly to the readability, style, and clarity of the volume. Thanks also goes to indexer Amron Gravett (Wild Clover Book Services), to Àngel Fernández García (Acontrafibra) for his assistance in the treat-

Preface and Acknowledgements

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ment of the images, and to Lorenzo Verderame, editor in chief of the wEdge series at Zaphon publishers. The content of this volume is structured in four thematic sections. The first section, “Reading against the Grain,” is devoted to studies in which dominant readings of both textual and archaeological sources are questioned and alternative, resistant readings are offered. The second section, “Cult and Cults,” contains contributions on the role of women and feminine identity in cult, and on (en)gendered spaces in religion and mythology. The third section, “Ancient Beauties,” includes chapters on divine fragrance, beautification practices, bodily adornment, and binary gender stereotypes. The fourth section, “Networks and Powers,” contains contributions on the role of women and female networks in economy and society, and on the application of Social Network Analysis. But first and foremost, the introductory chapter is devoted to the memory of women in Ancient Near Eastern studies. This contribution, whose author speaks the “mother-tongue of the mummy with inimitable fluency and grace,” gave us inspiration for the title of the volume.

Katrien De Graef, Agnès Garcia-Ventura, Anne Goddeeris and Beth Alpert Nakhai Antwerpen, Barcelona and Tucson, December 2021

GeMANE3 Workshop Attendees in the Meeting Room of the Royal Academy of Dutch Language and Literature (KANTL), in front of a painting of Leopold II. April 2019. KANTL removed the painting in October 2019.

Women Talking about Women Excavating the Memory of Women in Ancient Near Eastern Studies Agnès Garcia-Ventura1

1. Starting point: excavating the memory of women in the academic milieu In 1942, a member of the Society of Woman Geographers filled out a questionnaire in an absolutely unexpected way. It was a routine questionnaire that was sent to the members every year asking about publications, lectures delivered, and articles planned. The aim was to publish these data in the Society’s Bulletin, which was circulated among its members. 2 In this case, the aforementioned member wrote: “I am 86 years old—quite crippled with arthritis and doing nothing, alas! But I do enjoy with all my heart the privilege of still belonging to this wonderful society ... so I am very grateful to you for letting me still belong— useless as I am”.3 The author of this astonishing message was Isabel Frances Dodd (1857– 1943) (Fig. 1). A good connoisseur of the art and archaeology of the ancient Near East, Dodd devoted her life to the teaching and dissemination of these subjects at the American College for Girls at Constantinople (now Istanbul). From this position, she was in touch with the main scholars of her time, such as Archibald Henry Sayce (1845–1933) and William Mitchell Ramsay (1851– 1939), and she even suggested hypotheses that were discussed in first-rate academic publications.4 But despite all this, over the years, Dodd has been almost forgotten in both studies dealing with the American College for Girls and ancient Near Eastern studies.

1

Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, [email protected]. For a brief overview of the history of this learned society, see http://www.iswg.org/ about/history [accessed 20 January 2020]. 3 Library of Congress Archives, Society of Woman Geographers Records, MSS65707, Box I: 10, Isabel Frances Dodd Membership Files, page 1. 4 For some insight into the correspondence between Dodd and Sayce and an example of one of these hypotheses linked to the interpretation of a relief from Hattuša, see GarciaVentura (forthcoming, 2022). Regarding Dodd’s relationship with Ramsay, see section 4 below. 2

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Figure 1. Photograph of Isabel Frances Dodd (by Bachrach) taken when she joined the Society of Woman Geographers in 1928. Library of Congress Archives, Society of Woman Geographers Records, MSS65707, Box I: 10, Isabel Frances Dodd Membership Files, page 106. My aim in this contribution is twofold. First, I aim to counter this situation of oblivion of Isabel Frances Dodd in current research by recovering a part of her memory. To do so, below I will present a selection of texts by four women who met Dodd and who mentioned her in their writings. I argue that this selection of voices of her contemporaries is a highly valuable source to gain a better understanding of Dodd’s teaching and dissemination activities as well as her research interests and travels. Second, taking a look at how these four women described Dodd might also shed light on some important aspects of women who were linked to education in the Middle East or to ancient Near Eastern studies at the turn of the twentieth century CE. 2. The “feminist biography” and the plurality of voices as a source A contribution such as this one is part of a growing interest in highlighting the active role of women in science, research, and education. In this framework, the publication of biographical profiles of women in specialized volumes has been one of the most widespread practices and strategies, something especially relevant now, in times of the so-called “biographical turn” in historical research.5 I 5

For some reflections with a historiographical perspective, see, among others, WagnerMartin 1980 and Gallego and Bolufer 2016. Regarding the context and goals of encyclopaedias and biographical dictionaries that focus only on women, see Bolufer 2014: 92–93.

Women Talking about Women

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share these premises and aspirations, although I maintain a much more discrete and limited objective by focusing on a small group of scholars; specifically, I focus on reference volumes in the field of women’s history devoted to those who dedicated their lives to the study of the past, such as Excavating Women: A History of Women in European Archaeology, coedited by Margarita DíazAndreu and Marie Louise Stig Sørensen (1998), and Breaking Ground: Pioneering Women Archaeologists, coedited by Getzel M. Cohen and Martha Sharp Joukowsky (2004).6 The aim of the research carried out in this vein is to recover the names and trajectories of some women for memory and history, as has traditionally been done with men, but also to incorporate approaches that question the traditional vision of a monolithic subject and promote, instead, kaleidoscopic perspectives of the subject of the biography. This approach, labelled in some arenas as “feminist biography”, is quite common for those working with biographical profiles of women, where more relevance has been given to networks and voices of other women.7 Along these lines, I choose the voices of several women as primary sources, as I detail below. This “feminist biography” and all contributions linked to the “biographical turn” in the framework of women’s studies start from a shared diagnosis: there is a clear imbalance between the recovery of men’s biographical profiles and that of women’s biographical profiles. The latter are clearly at a disadvantage for several reasons, ranging from greater fragmentation of sources to a lesser interest—in traditional historiography—in recovering some of these profiles.8 Considering this scenario, I defend that understanding the specific circumstances that led to the oblivion of some women would be a useful first step in the research, as it might help to better identify potential sources. Isabel Frances Dodd, the main character of this chapter, was gradually forgotten in both ancient Near Eastern studies and studies dealing with the American College for Girls. In the field of ancient Near Eastern studies, this oblivion could be attributed to the fact that Dodd was neither teaching at a university nor publishing her articles in academic journals. Indeed, she was teaching in a secondary school and published some texts in missionary journals, such as Life and Light for Women, and in outreach journals, such as The National Geographic Magazine and Records of the Past. Perhaps for these reasons, in ancient Near Eastern studies, she was not considered a fully fledged scholar and consequently 6

For updates to the profiles included in this volume, as well as new additions, see: http://www.brown.edu/Research/Breaking_Ground/introduction.php [accessed 20 January 2020]. 7 For an overview of the methodologies of “feminist biography”, see Cho 2010: 6–10, along with previous references. 8 For some reflections on the persistent lack of biographical profiles of academic women compared to those of men, see Baigent and Reyes Novaes 2020.

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is only mentioned occasionally, in passing, when dealing with the interpretation of some Hattuša reliefs from the end of the second millennium BCE.9 With regard to studies dealing with the American College for Girls (hereinafter “the College”), Dodd did not have any managerial position in the College and nor did she write memoirs, as some of her contemporaries did, that drew the attention of subsequent research. An example of this drawing attention would be, for instance, Mary Mills Patrick (1850–1940). She was president of the College and in 1930 published an autobiographical volume titled Under Five Sultans (1930). Unlike Dodd, Patrick has an entry in the Dictionary of American Biography (Pearce 1958), and she is also mentioned in current research dealing with the College.10 I argue that the set of circumstances set out thus far, alongside other more random potential factors, led to Dodd’s not being considered as a central figure worthy of attention as such in subsequent scholarly works. Indeed, research prioritizes some characters, and those perceived as marginal—whatever the reason may be—are not considered. However, as Ruth Horry (2015) has recently pointed out, in focusing on historiography linked to Assyriology to obtain a more realistic approach about how knowledge construction works, we need to pay attention precisely to these bit actors and actresses (to use a simile from show business). In other words, people perceived as peripheral in certain historical narratives are key to gaining a better understanding of the big picture built thus far. In accordance with these principles, in sections 3 and 4, I focus on some of the voices of Isabel Frances Dodd’s contemporaries to see how they describe and allude to her. All these contemporaries are from academic and cultural circles, and can be grouped into the two environments mentioned before when discussing her current oblivion: the American College for Girls at Constantinople and ancient Near Eastern studies. To explore the first environment, I have chosen two teachers and members of the College: Hester Donaldson Jenkins (1869–1941) and the abovementioned Mary Mills Patrick. To explore the second, I focus on the writings of two archaeologists and travellers linked to ancient Near Eastern studies in a broad sense: Gertrude Bell (1868–1926) and Agnes Dick Ramsay (d. 1927).

9

For an overview of scholarly publications from the beginning of the twentieth century, as well as current ones mentioning Dodd in this context, see Garcia-Ventura (forthcoming, 2022). 10 See, for instance, Goffman 2011 and Reeves-Ellington 2015, along with previous references.

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3. Voices from the American College for Girls at Constantinople The Home School was founded in 1871 by the Women’s Board of Missions, a female section of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions.11 This Home School, an educational institution that was initially small in size and had few ambitions, in just a few years became a renowned centre in its milieu. In 1890, it became the American College for Girls at Constantinople, also known as the Constantinople Woman’s College, when a charter to establish the centre as a secondary school was granted by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Mary Mills Patrick was the main driver of this change. She arrived to the centre in 1875 and codirected it with Clara Hamlin from 1883 to 1889; when Hamlin married and consequently retired from the College, Patrick became the sole director for more than thirty years. Indeed, Patrick directed the centre from 1889 until 1924, when she returned to the United States of America to retire.12 In 1934, Patrick published a history of the college titled A Bosporus Adventure: Istanbul (Constantinople) Woman’s College 1871–1924 (Fig. 2). This volume is quite autobiographical and overlaps significantly with the abovementioned volume of memoirs, Under Five Sultans (1930). Moreover, Hester Donaldson Jenkins, a teacher at the College from 1900 to 1909, also published a history of the American College with a considerable focus on Patrick—An Educational Ambassador to the Near East: The Story of Mary Mills Patrick and an American College in the Orient (1925). In all these volumes, Isabel Frances Dodd is mentioned as one of the main characters involved in managing and teaching at the College. In what follows, I present a selection of excerpts from these volumes, which provide insights into three main aspects of Dodd’s life: first, her education and training; second, her duties and roles in the College from its very beginnings; and third, her experience of the troubled times and war conflicts that took place while she was working at the College.

11

For a brief presentation of the genesis and first years of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions (ABCFM), see Becker 2015: 16–18. For an overview of the presence and role of this and other American missionary societies in the Middle East at the time, see Murre-van den Berg 2005; Reeves-Ellington 2007; and Yücel 2012 (all with previous references and with an emphasis on different aspects). 12 For all these biographical profile details, see Pearce 1958. See also Goffman 2011 for an analysis of Patrick’s trajectory and intellectual transformation also linked to the formation and transformation of the College.

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Figure 2. Selection of five women working at the American College for Girls, as teachers and as managers, during Mary Mills Patrick’s term. Notice the presence of Isabel Dodd as one of the only three teachers (Dodd, Patrick, Wallace) included here. Illustration published in Patrick 1934: 148. As for her education and training, Dodd graduated from the Western College in Oxford, Ohio (United States), with the basic training to start teaching.13 Moreover, she committed to undertake continuous training, a usual practice for other teachers at the College, which she concentrated in two areas: (1) she followed courses and did research stays in some of the most prestigious European universities, mainly in German-speaking ones; 14 and (2) she travelled extensively throughout the Middle East to enhance her knowledge of art and archaeology, the specialties she taught at the College (for more on these trips, see section 4, below). Some details about these two aspects are provided in the following excerpts by Jenkins (also alluding to Dodd’s family precedents) and Patrick, respectively: 13

For the key dates of her career as well as for this information about her education, see the following archival document: Amerikan Bord Heyeti (American Board), Istanbul, “Memorial records for Isabel F. Dodd”, American Research Institute in Turkey, Istanbul Center Library, online in Digital Library for International Research Archive, Item #16833, http://www.dlir.org/archive/items/show/16833 [accessed 20 January 2020]. 14 The choice of German-speaking universities was common. For an analysis of the specific case of women from the United States travelling to German-speaking universities at the turn of the twentieth century, see Singer 2003.

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Isabel Frances Dodd is the daughter of a medical missionary who fell a victim to the cholera that he was combating in Smyrna. She was educated in America, graduating from an Ohio seminary, which later bestowed on her an honorary degree. Enthusiastic, devoted to the school, of unusual personal charm, with a love of the antique that has developed into archaeological scholarship, she has been a popular and efficient teacher.15 Professor Dodd, for instance, increased her knowledge of history of art by studying in Berlin, Dresden, Heidelberg, and Munich, as well as by travelling extensively in Egypt, Asia Minor, and Greece.16 It is worth noting that, in addition to the German-speaking universities mentioned by Patrick, Dodd also visited US centres such as Columbia University and Bryn Mawr College.17 She made the most of these periodic trips, cultivating financing and donations from institutions and individuals and resolving administrative matters at the headquarters of the College, in New York. To obtain this financing, Dodd and her colleagues took part in meetings and lectures where they disseminated the tasks carried out in the College. In this framework, one of the main arguments expressed they was that the College helped local women to overcome gender inequality by giving them an education; in turn, Dodd and her colleagues presented this issue as key to guaranteeing the improvement of Turkish society and the modernisation of the country. We can observe, then, that despite the evangelizing goals that were at the origins of the College, these goals became more “secular” over time, a common trend in contemporary women’s organisations when compared to the men’s organisations at the origin of these missions.18 Without a doubt, the newspapers of the time serve as excellent sources to illustrate all these issues. For example, I gather two news headlines presenting the lectures and meetings in which Dodd took part to get financing. First, the Norwalk Hour issue from 28 January 1911 included a news piece about a lecture delivered by Dodd in Norwalk, Connecticut (United States); the headline reads, “Miss Dodd Told of the Lowly Women of Turkey”. Second, a headline in The San Francisco Call 17 July 1913 issue reads, “Feminists in Turkey: American 15

Jenkins 1925: 54. Patrick 1934: 146. 17 Her stay at Bryn Mawr is mentioned by Patrick (1934: 98). Moreover, this stay, as well as that at Columbia, is also referred to in this archival document: Dodd, Isabel F. Collective and individual biography. American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions archives, 1810–1961. ABC 77.1 (Box 21). Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts. https://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:FHCL.HOUGH:32109003 [accessed 20 January 2020]. 18 For more on this topic see, among others, Robert 1996; Murre-van den Berg 2005; Reeves-Ellington 2011. See also section 4 below for more insights on this topic in the context of Halide Edip’s relationship with the College. 16

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Women from Constantinople Tell of Awakening of Once downtrodden Sex”. It is enlightening to see that in this latter example, teachers involved in the project were portrayed as “feminists”, despite their involvement in missionary institutions that would not seem feminist at all at first sight.19 However, as has been observed by Barbara Reeves-Ellington, “Missions offered a less radical form of activism than abolition and suffrage”,20 and thus they were embraced by women of other social and cultural milieus. Shifting to Dodd’s duties and roles at the College, the second focus area of this chapter, it is worth noting that the years Dodd devoted to the College roughly coincided with those of Patrick and, consequently, with the launch and consolidation of the College itself. Dodd arrived to the College in 1882 and retired in 1927, while Patrick arrived in 1875 and retired in 1924. In this vein, Patrick’s writings, and particularly the prefaces to her volumes, bear witness to their close relationship and trust. Patrick thanks Dodd, here referred to by the title “Dr.”, for her suggestions.21 The use of this title is not trivial: Dodd was awarded an honorary degree of Doctor of Literature by the Western College in Ohio,22 her alma mater, but she is typically referred to as “Miss” rather than “Dr.”—as can be seen in the several sources quoted in this contribution, with the exception of Patrick. It seems to me that this can be interpreted as further proof of Patrick’s appreciation for Dodd and also as a way for Patrick to highlight the academic quality standard of the teachers of the College. In addition to Patrick’s prefaces, both Jenkins and Patrick (in her main texts) acknowledge Dodd’s commitment to the educational project and her long career in it. Not surprisingly, Dodd is always mentioned as one of the pioneers in the project of the College: Among the early teachers in the High School were some strong, cultured and able women. Notable among them for long, devoted and efficient services are two who deserve special mention,—Isabel Frances Dodd and Ida Woods Prime. These two women, both of American missionary stock, joined the staff of the High School shortly after Miss Patrick, and are both there still.23

19

For an analysis of this issue see, for instance, Lewis 2004: 36–42, 81–82. For further references, see also footnote 56, this chapter. 20 Reeves-Ellington 2011: 192. 21 Patrick 1930: vii; Patrick 1934: vi. 22 Dodd, Isabel F. Collective and individual biography. American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions archives, 1810–1961. ABC 77.1 (Box 21). Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts. https://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:FHCL.HOUGH:32109003 [accessed 20 January 2020]. 23 Jenkins 1925: 53.

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In those early years of our college history two remarkable young women joined our staff, Dr. Isabel F. Dodd and Ida W. Prime. They were destined to contribute distinguished service in the development of the institution. During her long connection with the college, Dr. Dodd devoted her energies to archaeological study in the Near East. She gradually attained the position of an authority on the subject.24 This last excerpt highlights that “Dr. Dodd devoted her energies to archaeological study in the Near East”, in Patrick’s words. In this vein, Dodd also launched a project that distinguished the College from other contemporary educational institutions: an archaeological museum that put particular emphasis on the material culture of nearby settlements. Dodd herself bought most of the artefacts, as she described in an article published in 1909 in the journal Records of the Past, where she also published some photos of the showcases of the museum.25 Other objects were donations from philanthropists and antique collectors, mostly women, who were in touch with the College and who wanted to contribute to its educational and cultural project. These circumstances were documented in the writings by Jenkins and Patrick, who also referred to some details (origin, type, etc.) of the objects while bringing to the fore Dodd’s main role in the project: This art museum is the result of many years’ work on the part of Professor Isabel F. Dodd, the head of the department of art and archaeology. It contains Greek, Roman and Byzantine coins, Tanagra figurines, broken iridescent glass from a first century grave in Cappadocia, ancient Greek pottery, and a case of Egyptian objects as well as a collection of beautiful and characteristic national textiles, the gift of Miss Olivia P. Stokes.26 It was in those years that professor Isabel Frances Dodd gradually established an archaeological museum which would be an honor to any college. There is in her museum a case containing a unique collection of archaeological remains from a mound in Cappadocia representing many cultures superimposed upon each other. Among the specimens are several Hittite objects which have been described in archaeological journals. … Dr. Dodd also conducted practical courses based on study in the Istanbul Museum of Archaeology, and her own extensive research in Asia Minor. Before the war she had visited there many sites of archaeological interest. Her department was especially fortunate in enjoying frequent lectures by distinguished visiting archaeologists.27

24

Patrick 1934: 45. See Dodd 1909. 26 Jenkins 1925: 206. 27 Patrick 1934: 184–185. 25

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However, among the objects that made up the collection it seems that the most striking, at least due to its location for some time, was an Egyptian mummy. As Patrick describes, This art collection had included a real mummy from Egypt, the gift of an enthusiastic friend of Professor Dodd. This individual, if one could call a mummy an individual, was somehow saved. During the years that elapsed, however, before we had an art museum, Mr. Mummy was kept under a bed in one of the rooms in Bowker Building. This was greatly to the terror of young students, and not exactly pleasant for anyone who occupied the room.28 In addition to the project of the archaeological museum, one of the key features of Dodd’s “distinguished service in the development of the institution” was the role she played when the College decided to establish relations with Bulgaria.29 Dodd was commissioned to learn the language and to promote the College among potential future students, as described by Jenkins: On the opposite shore of the Bosphorus stood friendly Robert College, whose success with Oriental young men was a continual stimulus to the High School. As this college had already done a splendid work among the Bulgarians, Dr. Patrick decided to add to the number of Bulgarians already in her school. Miss Dodd was sent to Bulgaria to learn the language and interest students. Since that time Bulgarian students have been numerous in the upper classes, and the college is now affiliated with both national gymnasia and American schools in Bulgaria.30 The bonds with students from Bulgaria, however, were not only the duty of Dodd, but also of Patrick, as these bonds relied on diplomatic relations at the highest level, involving both the government and the royal family. This can be seen in this excerpt from Patrick’s memoirs: The relations of the college with the Bulgarian government have been very cordial throughout its history. I always experienced a thrill of joy and expectation when I glided into the Sofia station on the Orient Express 28

Patrick 1934: 107–108. A similar description, but with an added reference to rats, is also present in the other volume by Patrick here discussed: “The Egyptian mummy, a present to the museum, had to be kept under the bed—which proved disastrous both on account of rats and because of the superstitious fears of young students” (1930: 196). 29 However, it is important to note that this was not the first experience of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions in Bulgaria in the field of women’s education, as they had already been recruiting Mount Holyoke College (United States) graduates to work in mission schools for girls in Bulgaria in the 1860s. For more on this, see the study by Reeves-Ellington (2004). 30 Jenkins 1925: 58.

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and watched eagerly from the window for the first glimpse of familiar faces. … Dr. Dodd and I were received by King Boris,31 who conferred a decoration upon each of us.32 These relations with Bulgaria and the incorporation of Bulgarian students were examples of the College’s commitment to provide a multicultural education.33 This was particularly significant and challenging for a College located near Constantinople at the turn of the twentieth century, as the Ottoman Empire was dismantled during these decades, and the geopolitical balances in the area subsequently redefined.34 Furthermore, this redefinition also had social effects, as times of change are also a good breeding ground for experimentation in terms of gender.35 This might also explain why the College promoted the active role of women in these transformations. At this historical juncture, conviviality among women (students and teachers) from different national origins and religions was proudly disseminated through different media. Good proof of this is this excerpt from the news piece about the lecture that Dodd delivered in Norwalk (United States) in 1911: In the college are over two hundred girls—Russian, Turkish, Armenian, Bulgarian, Persian, Greek, French, German—all being target (sic) to understand and love each other and working thus for a greater unity and comprehension throughout the nations. The Turkish graduates have done much in the new growth of liberty and justice among the Turks.36 Given the geopolitical context at the time, in the volumes by Jenkins and Patrick, alongside the celebration of this conviviality between people from various backgrounds who made up the College community, another topic inevitably arose: war conflicts, the third and last topic I explore here. During the years that Dodd was working at the College, several episodes of upheaval significantly affected the area—for instance, the Young Turk revolution of 1908 and major conflicts such as the Balkan Wars (1912–1913) and the First World War (1914– 1918).37 All of them were particularly challenging for an educational institution 31

King Boris III of Bulgaria reigned from 1918 until his death in 1943. Patrick 1934: 238. 33 Jenkins devotes several chapters to students from different nationalities. For those from Bulgaria, see chapter viii, “Coming down from the Balkans” (Jenkins 1925: 100– 115). See also Patrick 1934: 237–241 for a complementary point of view. 34 For a historical overview with a broad chronological perspective, see Shaw and Shaw 1977 as a classic reference. For a historical analysis of the last decades of the nineteenth century, see Fortna 2009. 35 See Giomi and Zerman 2018, along with previous references. 36 The Norwalk Hour, 28 January 1911, page 1. 37 For an overview of these diverse events in the context of the history of the Ottoman Empire and of Turkey, see, among others, Hanioğlu 2001 and 2009. See also Shaw and 32

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hosting students from several nations that were enemies in these diverse conflicts. However, the College always committed to continue working, defending that this was precisely the way to overcome confrontations. This strategy was also reinforced by the resistance of the most veteran teachers, such as Dodd, who always decided to stay at the College and to maintain teaching and research activities as long as possible. But despite all this, in the autumn of 1912, due to US political pressure to close the school during the Balkan Wars, some teachers and all students were forced to leave. However, as Patrick describes, Dodd withstood this pressure and remained: Miss Dodd and Miss Prime had not joined the exodus; they had lived through too many such experiences to be thrilled by the idea of flight, and they remained in the quiet and comfort of their own quarters. As we started on our march down the hill, they bade us good-by, with a quiet smile of something that was partly amusement and partly scorn.38 Dodd’s capacity to cope with tense situations due to war conflicts is also described by Patrick in the context of the First World War. During the summer holidays, teachers from the school used to travel throughout Europe. In the summer of 1914, however, Dodd and Prime decided to stay at the College, while Patrick spent some days in Chamonix (France). At the beginning of the First World War, Patrick was still in Chamonix and she experienced serious difficulties trying to reach the College, due to obvious travel restrictions.39 This was also the case for the other teachers who were expected to join the College faculty for the 1914–1915 academic year. But despite all these difficulties, the official message the College issued was that the term would begin in any case. Patrick portrays the situation and Dodd’s attitude in these terms: It was a disillusioned group that I found at the college. Professor Dodd had spent the summer there and was, as always, ready for whatever is brave and daring. We astonished the American community by announcing in the city papers the next day that ‘the college would open as usual on September fifteenth.’ I must confess, however, that the foundation on which this statement rested was very uncertain.40 As can be imagined, this statement was not easy to carry out in reality, and academic life was absolutely affected during wartime.41 Some students and teachers Shaw 1977: 273–339. 38 Patrick 1930: 246. In other particular moments during the First World War, even if the College continued to operate, teachers and students were offered the chance to leave if they preferred to (see, for instance, Patrick 1930: 311–312). 39 For her own story, see Patrick 1934: 165–168. 40 Patrick 1934: 167–168. 41 Patrick 1934: 169–175.

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decided to leave. Dodd and Patrick were among the few who decided to stay until the end of the war, when the US community had almost disappeared from the area.42 It was only during the summer of 1918 that, making the most of the College summer break and considering the dire circumstances, Dodd and Patrick travelled together to Paris and, from there, to the United States.43 4. Voices from ancient Near Eastern studies Isabel Frances Dodd took advantage of her privileged geographical location and professional position to travel throughout the Middle East and also to welcome, at the College, scholars travelling in the area. With regard to her geographical location, unlike most of her colleagues and acquaintances, she lived and worked relatively close to some of the settlements that were newly excavated at the time and were at stake in ancient Near Eastern studies. Perhaps the most emblematic example of this was her opportunity to visit the settlement of ancient Hattuša (current Boğazköy) in the summer of 1909, an experience Dodd shared in an article published in 1910 in The National Geographic Magazine.44 Due to her specialization in ancient Near Eastern art and archaeology, she was in touch with some of the scholars in this academic field and with some of the archaeologists working at these settlements. Good proof of this is, for instance, the relationships she maintained with Ramsay and Sayce. I will focus here on one example each of Dodd’s welcoming scholars at the College and of her visiting settlements and travelling for scholarly interest. More specifically, I will first discuss the visit she received from the Ramsay family in 1909; second, I will discuss a trip Dodd embarked on in 1907 to Binbirkilise, a region in ancient Lycaonia, in the modern Karaman province of Turkey. There she spent some days with Gertrude Bell and, again, with the Ramsays. The sources used to explore these examples are travel diaries and correspondence; both give us interesting information about Dodd’s personality and her way of managing personal relationships and networking. Beginning with the first example, the archaeologist William Mitchell Ramsay; his wife, Agnes Dick Ramsay; and one of their daughters, probably Agnes Margaret Ramsay,45 travelled to Turkey in April 1909 and remained until July. 42

Patrick 1934: 193. Patrick 1934: 208–209. 44 For more details about this trip and about the early archaeological campaigns in the settlement, see Seeher 2010. See also Dodd 1909 for another piece she published in the journal Records of the Past, which was closely related to the piece published in The National Geographic Magazine in 1910. 45 The Ramsays had six children (see Anderson, revised by Lock 2004: 2), and it seems that Agnes Margaret was born in Smyrna (Turkey) in 1881 (according to Roueché 2013: 253). In 1909, she may have been nearly thirty and it seems plausible that she was the daughter travelling with Agnes and William to Turkey, although this is impossible to confirm. In the volume The Revolution in Constantinople and Turkey, for instance, 43

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After the trip, a diary was published, titled The Revolution in Constantinople and Turkey. William was the only author listed, but on many occasions he opened quotation marks to include the accounts of his daughter and wife. The excerpts in quotation marks, particularly those of his wife, are a crucial part of the volume, both in terms of quantity (they are frequent and long) and quality (approaches by William and by Agnes were different and always complementary).46 In addition, she was also responsible for the photographs included in the book. The acknowledgement of Agnes’s contribution to the published work on the cover of the book is thus well deserved, but not sufficient: “with episodes and photographs by Lady Ramsay”.47 Indeed, there is no first name for Lady Ramsay on this cover.48 It is telling that on the cover of another book, Everyday Life in Turkey (1897), this time authored only by Agnes Dick Ramsay, we find “Mrs. W.M. Ramsay” rather than her own name. In this case, there is simply a “Mrs.”, signalling that the author was she and not he, as might be suggested at first glance of the initials “W.M.”49 In any case, during the Ramsays’ trip to Turkey, they visited the American College for Girls and met Isabel Frances Dodd several times between the end of April and the beginning of May 1909. This is not surprising, as they already knew each other; in fact, they were friends (see below for more details about previous trips together). It seems that the Ramsays were looking forward to spending some time with Dodd, making the most of their stay in the area.50 On 30 April 1909, they all went to Istanbul city centre with other people from the William always refers to his daughter just as such, without using her first name. 46 Regarding the particularities of production and reception of women’s travel writing at the turn of the twentieth century, see Mills 1991. Particularly telling are what Mills calls “constraints on the reception of women’s travel writing”—that is, how expectations about these writings conditioned their positive or negative reception (Mills 1991: 108– 122). Needless to say, this feature has to be taken into account when analysing Agnes Dick Ramsay’s contribution to this volume, especially considering that her voice is discreetly included in a volume officially authored by a man. 47 To counter this situation as far as possible in this paper, I include both William and Agnes Ramsay as coauthors of The Revolution in Constantinople and Turkey, thus citing the volume as Ramsay and Ramsay 1909. 48 Her maiden name was Agnes Dick Marshall. I have been able to find only her death date, 1927, in the biographical profile of William Mitchell Ramsay published in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (see Anderson, revised by Lock 2004), a reference that provides several details about her family and her origins. 49 Agnes Dick Ramsay authored two books solo: the travel book Everyday Life in Turkey (1897) and the novel The Romance of Elisavet (1899). In any case, her activity as a travel writer has been poorly recognized. See, for instance, Thornton 2018: 254, footnote 91, where Agnes is at least acknowledged in a note contrasting William’s and Agnes’s travel writings. 50 William Ramsay in some of his publications (see for instance Ramsay 1909) refers to Dodd explicitly as a “friend”.

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College. Dodd and Agnes Ramsay met William Ramsay in the city and the two women went together using a caïque, a traditional fishing boat from the area, as described by Agnes: Most of the party from the College went by steamer, but Miss Dodd and I preferred to go by caique, and rejoin the others in Stamboul. The caique is a light, narrow, graceful boat, pointed at either end, the boatmen are expert rowers, the passenger reclines at leisure on the comfortably cushioned seat, and is borne swiftly and smoothly over the softly rippling water. … Our caique was rowed by two men, each with a pair of oars, so that we went very fast, but not so fast as to prevent the chief of the two from talking in a lively and interesting manner all the time. … They were both intelligent, decent-looking men, and the one who talked was well known to Miss Dodd, and eager to pour his views of the present condition of things into her sympathetic ear. … They thoroughly appreciate a good listener.51

Figure 3. William Ramsay in foreground on a carriage in the city centre of Istanbul, 30 April 30 1909. Photograph taken by his wife, Agnes Ramsay. Published in Ramsay and Ramsay 1909: 152, XIL.

51

A. Ramsay in Ramsay and Ramsay 1909: 152–153.

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Agnes Ramsay took some pictures of crowded city centre they found that day. She described what is seen in the image reproduced below with a humorous approach, to the mettle of her husband: “I caught sight in the distance of my husband’s face. … We found him along with an English lady seated in an open carriage, in the thickest part of the crowd, calmly writing an article on the First Epistle to Timothy, while he awaited whatever Fate might bring” (Fig. 3).52 A few days later, on 3 May 1909, Isabel and Agnes spent some time together again. On this occasion, their meeting included another teacher from the College and the Ramsays’ daughter. The four women went together to visit Halide Edip Adıvar (1884–1964),53 a former student of the College and a former pupil of Dodd’s. Halide Edip was the most famous student from the College. She had an intense life: she wrote novels and was very active in politics, in education, and in fighting for women’s rights. In this vein, it is worth highlighting that she was the first woman to teach at a university in Turkey and she was even elected as member of the Parliament,54 achievements clearly linked to her time spent at the College. In a volume of memoirs published in 1926, Halide Edip acknowledged the influence that her time at the College had on her in the following terms: “As a whole, college had a liberating effect upon me, giving me a much greater balance and opening up to me the possibility of a personal life with enjoyments of a much more varied kind. Some of the already strong tendencies of my thought also now found new vistas into wider paths.”55 Taking all these circumstances into account, as well as this reciprocal influence and feedback between Halide Edip and the College, the abovementioned all-women visit to Halide Edip is highly significant. Another excerpt from the Ramsays’ diary that was authored by Agnes Ramsay reveals why this encounter was long awaited and so special for all the participants. Below, I reproduce the beginning and the end of Agnes’s description of the episode: Miss Dodd, one of the Professors at the College, and another American lady, the greater part of whose life has been spent in Turkey, were kind enough to take my daughter and me to call upon a Turkish lady who has, along with some other women, taken a not unimportant part in the national movement. Before leaving the College Miss Dodd put into my hand a small pamphlet, which contained, among other articles, one which I quote 52

A. Ramsay in Ramsay and Ramsay 1909: 156–157. For a recent biographical profile of Halide Edip in English, see Erol 2009. 54 About the presence of women in public spaces such as these ones, and a special mention of the case of Halide Edip, see Boyar 2016 (along with previous references). 55 Adıvar 2009 [1926]: 153. Here I quote the critical edition of Halide Edip’s memoirs published in 2009 with an introduction by Siben Erol. The volume was titled House with Wisteria: Memoirs of Turkey Old and New. In the final bibliography it is referred to as Adıvar 2009 [1926], thus preserving the original year of publication of Halide Edip’s volume of memoirs in brackets. 53

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in order to give some idea of the influence of Mohammedan women on this movement. The writer, Halideh Salih, is a graduate of the American College for Girls and a writer of distinction. She has frequently been described as ‘the leading woman in Turkey in popularity and influence’. … … I confess that it gave me intense pleasure to know that in their time of need the women of Turkey are looking for help to the women of England and America, and feel that the kind of liberty they desire is found among the Anglo-Saxons.” 56 The perception that Agnes Ramsay had about the situation and aspirations of the women’s movement in Turkey after this meeting is really telling. She was from the United Kingdom and went to the meeting accompanied by women from the United States; thus, it is no wonder that she alludes to the Anglo-Saxons in this excerpt, in an attempt to include both and considering both as coming from a common cultural background, regardless of their different nationalities. Moreover, as Carolyn Goffman has summarised, during the transformation of the aims of the American College for Girls, “feminist and nationalist goals supplanted Protestant conversion”.57 With Halide Edip being the first Muslim student in the College and a prominent promoter of feminism in Turkey at the time, this becomes even more evident.58 In fact, Halide Edip’s case illuminates two issues: First, it shows how, from the missionary point of view, a certain tension existed between civilization and evangelization—two objectives of the College—with civilization (in this case, equal to feminist and nationalist goals) being favoured when a choice was necessary.59 Second, it is one of the several examples of how, from the point of view of the students from several cultural traditions, these Anglo-Saxon gender models were adapted and appropriated as a tool to reinforce their own national identities, far from being just acculturation models.60 Turning now to the second, shorter example, I will focus on a trip Dodd embarked on in 1907 to Binbirkilise. On this occasion, she joined the Ramsays, who were travelling to this area for a joint research project carried out by Wil56

A. Ramsay in Ramsay and Ramsay 1909: 175–176, 179. Goffman 2011: 84. These were also the main two topics in literature in the Ottoman Empire at the end of the nineteenth century. For an analysis of this circumstance, with some examples, see Mardin 1974. 58 For a critical approach of feminism in Turkey at the beginning of the twentieth century, with special emphasis on the character of Halide Edip, see, among others, Başcı 1998 (in English) and Durakbaşa 2000 (in Turkish). See also Kandiyoti 1998. 59 See Murre-van den Berg 2005. 60 See Reeves-Ellington for the case of Bulgarian women in contact with these missionary schools: “Bulgarian women appropriated American gender models to reinforce their position as preservers of the national religion and culture, while simultaneously developing a new position as harbingers of progress” (2004: 149). 57

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liam Ramsay and Gertrude Bell. The aim of the project was to document the Byzantine churches on the slopes of Mount Karadağ.61 It seems that the joint work of Ramsay and Bell was a kind of “marriage of convenience” in an academic sense. Bell, who launched the proposal, was interested in working with Ramsay, a renowned archaeologist, but she was not happy with the way the cooperation unfolded.62 Ramsay, in turn, was reluctant from the very beginning, but he was forced to accept the cooperation proposal because Bell was funding the project at a time when private funding was often a requirement to make British and American archaeological campaigns possible.63 But despite these difficulties in their understanding, the project resulted in a thick reference volume (comprising almost 600 pages) published in 1909 and titled The Thousand and One Churches. As has been pointed out by Julia Asher-Greve, although the volume “is generally listed under Ramsay’s name, Bell contributed 460 pages and Ramsay 80 pages”.64 It is worth noting that Ramsay, in the preface of the book, acknowledged the merit of Bell and detailed which parts of the book had been prepared by each.65 To continue this project, the parties involved travelled to the area several times and in June 1907, Dodd also joined them. It resulted in Gertrude Bell, Isabel Dodd, Agnes Ramsay, and William Ramsay sharing a few days together in Binbirkilise. Luckily, we have the letters, diaries, and photographs of Bell as a testimony of those days (Fig. 4).66 In Bell’s diary entry of 22 June 22 1907, for instance, she mentioned Dodd’s arrival to the camp at which Bell and Ramsay organised their work through the diverse archaeological remains: Very stormy cold and windy. Mahlech covered. I drew out yesterday’s work and in the afternoon measured and planned 2, Hassan’s house. Never was there a place so full of fleas. I came in covered and was obliged to change everything. Miss Dodd of the American College in C’ple arrived; a very nice little woman and a pleasant addition. Hurricane in the night.67 61

Regarding this joint research project, see Asher-Greve 2004: 167–168; Cooper 2016: 21–25; Roueché 2013: 256–257 (along with previous references). 62 See, for instance, Asher-Greve 2004: 171. 63 Roueché 2013: 256–257. 64 Asher-Greve 2004: 168. 65 Ramsay in Ramsay and Bell 1909: viii–ix. 66 Furthermore, in the Gertrude Bell Archive there are some photos, taken in June 1907, that testify to the time the Ramsays and Dodd spent together during this trip. See, in particular, photos H234, H237, H238, and H240, all from Album H (1905–1907) Turkey, Gertrude Bell Archive, accessible online: http://gertrudebell.ncl.ac.uk/photos_in_album.php?album_id=8 [accessed 20 January 2020]. 67 Bell’s diary, 22 June 1907. Gertrude Bell Archive, Newcastle University. Diary entry accessible online: http://gertrudebell.ncl.ac.uk/diary_details.php?diary_id=603 [accessed

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Figure 4. Agnes Ramsay in foreground, William Ramsay and Isabel Dodd in background. Photograph taken by Gertrude Bell in June 1907 during the days Bell, Dodd, and the Ramsays spent together in the area of Binbirkilise. Gertrude Bell Archive, Newcastle University, H-238. Moreover, Dodd’s arrival was also mentioned in the letter Gertrude Bell sent to Florence Bell (1851–1930), her stepmother,68 in these terms: I have another visitor, a very nice little American woman from the American College in C’ple, a friend of the Ramsays. Name of Dodd. She’s going to travel with the Rs into Phrygia, poor poor lady! I can’t think how they travel at all, they are so completely vague and helpless, and I wouldn’t share their lot for worlds. However they’ve done it this way for 30 years so I suppose there is no cause for anxiety.69 The excerpt from this letter is particularly hilarious, as Bell pities Dodd as a travel companion of the Ramsays. It seems that this image of the Ramsays as careless and spartan when travelling was shared by other contemporaries. For instance, the archaeologist David Hogarth (1862–1927) claimed that Ramsay “had made to himself a European reputation as an explorer of Asia Minor at a cost which another man would think scarcely sufficient for the tour of Germany”.70 Moreover, Gertrude Bell’s profile published in the Oxford Dictionary of 20 January 2020]. 68 Florence Bell became the stepmother of Gertrude Bell when she married Hugh Bell (1844–1931), a widower with two children, Gertrude and Maurice. For more on Florence Bell, a prolific writer, see John 2004. 69 Letter from Gertrude Bell to Florence Bell, 24 June 24 1907. Gertrude Bell Archive, Newcastle University. Letter accessible online: http://gertrudebell.ncl.ac.uk/letter_details.php?letter_id=1603 [accessed 20 January 2020]. 70 Hogarth 1910, as quoted by Roueché 2013: 253. For more on Hogarth’s trips with

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National Biography also notes, referring to the joint research project in Binbirkilise, that “more practical than the absent-minded Ramsay, she directed the team of Turkish diggers”.71 From the previous two excerpts of writings by Bell, it follows that despite the reservations she had about the Ramsays, Bell liked Dodd, qualified by her in these writings as “nice”, “pleasant”, and “little”. The same impression is corroborated by another letter Gertrude sent to Florence about two years later, in which she remembered Dodd’s stay in the camp in the summer of 1907: 2 years ago when I was in camp in the Kara Dagh [Kara Dag], a sister, a Miss Dodd stayed for a few days with me. She is a friend of the Ramsays and was going to travel with them after we parted. She came up to us for the last few days of our stay in the Kara Dagh, a very nice woman, I enjoyed having her. She is on her way here now; I shall probably meet her on the road tomorrow.72 In this letter, Gertrude explicitly stated that she enjoyed Dodd’s stay and, interestingly enough, called her “sister” as a result of her link with the missionary association. This linguistic appreciation is telling: Dodd was not consecrated, but like her colleagues at the College, she was not married—a prerequisite to carry on her professional career in the framework of the missionary educational activity.73 5. To conclude: women talking about women The variety of voices and sources discussed in this contribution enables us to collect data and gather information about some features of Dodd that go beyond the data we usually find in obituaries and even in some archival documents. Thanks to this, we see that Dodd was described by these four women contemporaries as a generous, nice, and easygoing person. With regard to her professional life and her involvement in the College, she was always characterised as a good, proactive, and efficient teacher. In addition, her museum project was clearly a much-appreciated distinguishing factor in the educational institution. Multiple sources observe that she went on several stays abroad for academic purposes

Ramsay, and particularly their subsequent publications of travel books, see Thornton 2018: 142–145. 71 Lukitz 2004: 4. 72 Letter from Gertrude Bell to Florence Bell, 23 June 1909. Gertrude Bell Archive, Newcastle University. Letter accessible online: http://gertrudebell.ncl.ac.uk/letter_details.php?letter_id=1720 [accessed 20th January 2020]. 73 This relates to the construction of the “unmarried missionary teacher”, in the words of Dana L. Robert. For further insight into this, with an overview of the changes of the profiles of women working in the missions abroad during the nineteenth century, see particularly Robert 1996: 106–109.

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(mainly in American and German-speaking universities), and she also visited archaeological settlements to gain a better knowledge of the advances in archaeological research in the Middle East. In addition to these travels, she also went regularly to Bulgaria to learn the language and to establish relationships to attract future students. She spoke several foreign languages fluently—at least Bulgarian, German, and Turkish, taking into account the sources analysed here. She was probably also able to understand the other languages used in the College: Arabic, Armenian, Greek, Persian, and Slavic.74 Dodd was clearly a tireless traveller throughout her life. The voices captured in the writings of the several women here highlight Dodd’s good values from several points of view: personal, professional, and scholarly. It seems that this recognition by her contemporaries accompanied Dodd throughout her life, as illustrated by a final archival document I quote below. This document is linked to the first one mentioned at the beginning of this contribution, from the Society of Woman Geographers in 1942. Dodd was sending an unexpected reply to a questionnaire, saying she was “useless” and “quite crippled with arthritis and doing nothing”. Luckily, the reply she received after sending the form back to the Society of Woman Geographers has been preserved. Dodd received this reply on 29 April 29 1942, almost a year before her death on 26 February 1943. It summarises the positive appreciation of her person and her career very well: In response to the notation on your Bulletin questionnaire I hasten to reply that we never drop members who are as distinguished and useful as you are. The fact that you are not undertaking any projects at this time does not in any way detract from the value of the work you have done in the past, in which the Society takes great pride.75 Acknowledgements This chapter was prepared in the framework of the research projects HAR201782593-P (Spanish Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness) and PID2020114676GB-I00 (Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation) during a “Ramón y Cajal” contract (RYC2019–027460–I). I thank Jordi Vidal for his trust in giving me the opportunity to contribute to both research projects. I am also grateful to Gianluca Foschi (Newcastle University) for granting me the permission to publish the current Figure 4, a photograph from the Gertrude Bell Archive. Finally, I owe gratitude to Àngel Fernández García for his help in preparing for publication Figures 2 and 3.

74

In this regard, see Patrick 1934: 67. Library of Congress Archives, Society of Woman Geographers Records, MSS65707, Box I: 10, Isabel Frances Dodd Membership Files, page 4.

75

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In L. Battini (ed.): Image and Identity in the Ancient Near East. Papers in Memoriam Pierre Amiet. Oxford. Giomi, F. / Zerman, E. 2018: L’espace (post-)ottoman au prisme du genre. Clio: Femmes, genre, histoire 48, 8–16, http://journals.openedition.org/clio/14793. Goffman, C. 2011: From Religious to American Proselytism: Mary Mills Patrick and the “Sanctification of the Intellect”. In M.A. Dogan / H.J. Sharkey (eds.): American Missionaries and the Middle East: Foundational Encounters. Utah, 84–121. Hanioğlu, M.Ş. 2001: Preparation for a Revolution: The Young Turks, 1902– 1908. Oxford. Hanioğlu, M.Ş. 2009: The Second Constitutional Period, 1908–1918. In R. Kasaba (ed.): The Cambridge History of Turkey. Cambridge, 62–111. https:// doi.org/10.1017/CHOL9780521620963. Accessed 27 April 2021. Horry, R. 2015: Assyriology at the Margins, the Case of William St. Chad Boscawen (1855–1913). Iraq 77, 107–128. Jenkins, H.D. 1925: An Educational Ambassador to the Near East: The Story of Mary Mills Patrick and an American College in the Orient. New York. John, A.V. 2004: Bell [née Olliffe], Florence Eveleen Eleanore, Lady Bell. In Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford. https://doi.org/10.1093/ ref:odnb/41106. Accessed 27 April 2021. Kandiyoti, D. 1998: Some Awkward Questions on Women and Modernity in Turkey. In L. Abu-Lughod (ed.): Remaking Women: Feminism and Modernity in the Middle East. Princeton, 270–287. Lewis, R. 2004: Rethinking Orientalism: Women, Travel and the Ottoman Harem. New Brunswick, New Jersey. Lukitz, L. 2004: Bell, Gertrude Margaret Lowthian. In Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/30686. Accessed 27 April 2021. Mardin, Ş. 1974: Super Westernization in Urban Life in the Ottoman Empire in the Last Quarter of the Nineteenth Century. In P. Benedict / E. Tümertekin / F. Mansur (eds.): Turkey: Geographic and Social Perspectives. Leiden, 403– 446. Mills, S. 1991: Discourses of Difference: An Analysis of Women’s Travel Writing and Colonialism. London and New York. Murre-van den Berg, H. 2005: Nineteenth-Century Protestant Missions and Middle Eastern Women: An Overview. In I.M. Okkenhaug / I. Flaskerud (eds.): Gender, Religion and Change in the Middle East. Oxford and New York, 103–122. Patrick, M.M. 1930: Under Five Sultans. London. Patrick, M.M. 1934: A Bosporus Adventure: Istanbul (Constantinople) Woman’s College, 1871–1924. Stanford.

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Pearce, K.S. 1958: Patrick, Mary Mills. In R. Livingston Schuyler / E.T. James (eds.): Dictionary of American Biography. Supplement Two [to December 31, 1940]. New York, 516–517. Ramsay, A.D. 1897: Everyday Life in Turkey. London. Ramsay, A.D. 1899: The Romance of Elisavet. London. Ramsay, W.M. 1909: II. The Armed Priestess in the Hittite Religion. The Expository Times 21, 66. Ramsay, W.M. / Bell, G.L. 1909: The Thousand and One Churches. London. Ramsay, W.M. / Ramsay, A.D. 1909: The Revolution in Constantinople and Turkey: A Diary. London. Reeves-Ellington, B. 2004: A Vision of Mount Holyoke in the Ottoman Balkans: American Cultural Transfer, Bulgarian Nation-Building and Women’s Educational Reform, 1858–1870. Gender & History 16(1), 146–171. Reeves-Ellington, B. 2007: Education: Missionary; The Ottoman Empire, Nineteenth Century. In S. Joseph / A. Najmabadi / J. Peteet / S. Shami / J. Siapno / J.I. Smith (eds.): Encyclopedia of Women & Islamic Cultures. Volume IV: Economics, Education, Mobility and Space. Leiden and Boston, 285–287. Reeves-Ellington, B. 2011: Women, Protestant Missions, and American Cultural Expansion, 1800 to 1938: A Historiographical Sketch. Social Sciences and Missions 24, 190–206. Reeves-Ellington, B. 2015: Constantinople Woman’s College: Constructing Gendered, Religious, and Political Identities in an American Institution in the Late Ottoman Empire. Women’s History Review 24, 53–71. Robert, D.L. 1996: American Women in Mission: A Social History of Their Thought and Practice. Macon, Georgia. Roueché, C. 2013: The History of an Idea: Tracing the Origins of the MAMA Project. In P. Thonemann (ed.): Roman Phrygia: Culture and Society. Cambridge, 249–264. Seeher, J. 2010: “Die Adresse ist: Poste restante Yozgat Asie Mineure”— Momentaufnahmen der Grabungskampagne 1907 in Boğazköy. In J. Klinger / E. Rieken / C. Rüster (eds.): Investigationes Anatolicae: Gedenkschrift für Erich Neu. Wiesbaden, 253–270. Shaw, S.J. / Shaw, E.K. 1977: History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey. Vol. 2: Reform, Revolution, and Republic: The Rise of Modern Turkey, 1808–1975. Cambridge. Singer, S.L. 2003: Adventures Abroad: North American Women at GermanSpeaking Universities, 1868–1915. Westport, Connecticut. Thornton, A. 2018: Archaeologists in Print: Publishing for the People. London. Wagner-Martin, L. 1980: Telling Women’s Lives: The New Biography. New Brunswick, New Jersey.

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Yücel, İ. 2012: A Missionary Society at the Crossroads: American Missionaries on the Eve of the Turkish Republic. CTAD: Journal of Modern Turkish History 8(15), 51–68.

1. Reading Against the Grain

The Late Bronze Age in Syria Was It a Dark Age for Women? Frances Pinnock1

The art of preclassical Syria featured strong elements of continuity between Early Bronze IVA (the Mature Early Syrian period, ca. 2400–2300 BCE, the age of the Ebla State Archives) and the Iron Age (Late Syrian period, ca. 1200–550 BCE, the age of the Luwian, Aramaic, and Phoenician principalities of northern, inner, and coastal Syria).2 Cult architecture seems the most conservative, with the birth and evolution of the typical temple in antis between Early Bronze IVA and the Iron Age, with a single cella or with inner tripartition;3 palace architecture witnesses the development of the peculiar reception suite of the Middle Bronze I–II palaces into the so-called bît ḫilāni, the typical palatial residence of the Iron Age.4 In the visual representation of power in art, it is also possible to detect some individual iconographies or motifs, whose origins can be easily found in the Early and Middle Bronze periods, like the individual duel between man and lion, the imperfect mirrorlike representation of the sovereign (derived from the Egyptian sm’ t3wi),5 and the monumental representation of the kings and, in some instances, of queens in life-size statues.6 In this frame, the Middle Syrian period (Late Bronze Age, ca. 1400–1200 BCE) was a kind of void, and yet, if some iconography and, probably, some aspects of the ideology of kingship, were still in use during the Iron Age, they should have been adopted in some way into the “mysterious” Late Bronze Age, too.7 Here, I will try to analyse some aspects of this complex phase in the history of the Syrian region, and I will try to single out these eventual elements of continuity. The first problem to be faced is the fragmentation of the archaeological evidence, which is not only the normal consequence of the passing of time and of eventual violent destruction. During the Late Bronze Age, the number of settlements in north, inner, and coastal Syria was drastically reduced,8 after the military deeds by Hattusili I and Mursili I, between 1650 and 1600 BCE. Even some of the largest centres, particularly in north inner Syria, suffered a strong 1

Sapienza University of Rome, [email protected]. Matthiae 2013: 285–290, 335–364, 631–641, 649–664. 3 Ibid.: 203–215; Pinnock 2013. 4 Matthiae 2013: 335–346. 5 Ibid.: 653. 6 Pinnock 2015. 7 Matthiae 1997: 114, 119, 126–127. 8 Liverani 1988: 540–541. 2

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crisis: nothing can be said about Aleppo, except that the life of Hadad’s temple apparently continued, though nothing can be said of the extension and importance of the town. Alalakh / Tell Atchana was reoccupied shortly after its destruction, and, after a first phase of uncertainty, it flourished again to become one of the most important centres of the Middle Syrian period, under the socalled Niqmepa dynasty. Qatna apparently underwent a relatively calm transition from the Middle to the Late Bronze Age, when it had a phase of flourishing. Ugarit’s most ancient history is hardly known, whereas its history during the Middle Syrian period for a long time represented the example of this phase in the Syrian region. On the other hand, Ebla was also reoccupied soon after the destruction, but it never reached the previous levels of development and importance, and remained a rural village until the Byzantine period, when it was finally abandoned.9 In the Late Bronze Age, the great regional powers that had mainly flourished in inner Syria in the Early and Middle Bronze periods, like Ebla, did not exist anymore or were strongly diminished, with the exception of Qatna,10 whereas the coastal communities—like Alalakh and Ugarit—witnessed a phase of relative prosperity and appeared to be internationally connected by trade relations. Regarding the wider political scenario, the region witnessed the expansionistic aims of the Hittite empire from the north, with a strong influence in centres like Karkemiš and Emar, and of the Egyptian New Kingdom from the south, with the creation of nomoi—for example, the province whose capital was Kumidi/Kamid el-Loz in the Beqa’ Valley.11 In an extremely concise summary, instead of the regional powers of Early Bronze IVA (Ebla and Mari in the first) and of Middle Bronze I–II (Aleppo and Mari in the first), there was a high fragmentation of city-states, with a limited territorial catchment, opposed to supraregional powers in strong expansion and finding in Syria their main battlefield, with a conclusive, albeit not resolutive, event in the battle of Qadesh (ca. 1274 BCE). The political events of the period and, in part, the feelings of the weak principalities of the Syrian coastal region, are well known from the diplomatic correspondence from Tell el-Amarna in Egypt, dating from the fourteenth century BCE.12 Concerning the archaeological and written evidence from the Syrian sites themselves, Ugarit yielded a large evidence for both, since the beginning of the French excavations in 1928–1929. Since 1937, Alalakh also contributed with the 9

For an up-to-date, excellent synthesis on the archaeological evidence for the transition from Middle to Late Bronze, see Schwartz 2018. For the development of the Late Bronze age in the Syrian Euphrates region, see Otto 2018. 10 Iamoni 2012: 181–188. 11 In general, for different aspects of the complex dynamics at work during this period, see Liverani 2001; see also Liverani 1988: 552–561. 12 Liverani 1988: 563–564.

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materials from level IV, as well as Qatna (albeit on a smaller basis), with the excavations of 1924 and 1927–1929. After 1973, the strong development of field archaeology in Syria brought important improvements in our knowledge of the Middle Syrian period, with the excavations of Emar and Kamid el-Loz, and the reprise of the systematic exploration of Qatna.13 For the previous phases of the Early and Old Syrian periods, epigraphic findings were very relevant (even in numbers) but limited to a few sites—e.g., Ebla for the Mature Early Syrian period and Mari for the Old Syrian period. In the Late Syrian period, however, nearly every site yielded written documents, allowing us to get a better picture of the period for the whole region, including Qatna, Emar, Ugarit and its satellite centres of Ras Ibn Hani and Minet el-Bedha, and Kamid el-Loz. As concerns my main question, namely the position of women in the Middle Syrian courts, I will first deal with the epigraphic evidence,14 then I will turn to the evidence provided by art and material culture, and, lastly, I will try to set the data obtained within the general frame of the period. Starting with the cuneiform documents, I will take into account two types of texts: on one hand, a ritual from Emar, in northern Syria, and, on the other hand, two literary texts from Ugarit, in coastal Syria. The archaeological evidence will be provided mainly by the sites of Alalakh, in the plain of Antioch, Ugarit, and Qatna, in central inner Syria. These are, albeit with some gaps, the largest and most organic corpora thus far yielded by the Syrian region.15 The first written evidence is the ritual for the installation—or, as is written, “enthronement”—of the High Priestess of Baal in Emar.16 It is a long text, with several variants, 17 describing in detail a ceremony that lasted seven, or more probably nine, days. The ritual was correctly compared by Walther Sallaberger, in his review of Fleming’s book, with the Eblaic Ritual of Kingship. 18 The Eblaic ritual was preserved in three texts,19 dating from the Mature Early Syrian period, ca. 2300 BCE, which are not copies of the same ceremony but refer to three different events. In fact, there is a general similarity between the two rituals, of Emar and Ebla, both describing complex ceremonies lasting for several days. In my opinion, there are also some specific, and more relevant, points of contact between the two ceremonies, whereas one main difference is that at Ebla the queen is the protagonist, alone at the beginning and afterwards with the king, with the same prerogatives as the sovereign. At Emar, the “sons of Emar” are

13

Iamoni 2012: 69–70. In dealing with epigraphic evidence, I will rely on published materials. 15 Matthiae 1997: 109–133. 16 Fleming 1992. 17 Ibid.: 9, 30–31. 18 Sallaberger 1996: 143–144. 19 Fronzaroli 1993. 14

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the protagonists,20 and have to choose “a daughter of any son of Emar” for the prestigious appointment.21 A “house of the father” is frequently mentioned in both instances: The queen of Ebla starts her journey from her “father’s house”22 and goes back to it during the ritual, and the “father’s house” offers several gifts for the ceremony, among them jewels and clothes.23 At Emar, the chosen girl is presented while performing some ritual act, which will be detailed later on, after which she is led to her father’s house,24 where other ritual actions are performed. In another section of the ritual, she wears golden earrings and sits in front of a table, with both objects coming from her father’s house. 25 From this house also come some specific clothing items she wears, which are similar to those mentioned for the queen of Ebla in one of the three Eblaic texts.26 Concerning Ebla, the mention of the father’s house was not given a specific or special meaning, because, in the first edition of the texts, the ceremony was interpreted as a marriage rite,27 and it thus seemed quite natural for her to start the ritual from her birthplace. In P. Matthiae’s and my opinion, however, the ritual does not concern a marriage, but rather a renewal of kingship:28 In fact, the female protagonist is called queen from the beginning and before the accomplishment of the ritual; the human couple is compared with the divine couple of Kura and Barama. During the performance of the rite, the two couples—the human and the divine ones—are deprived of their ruling capacities, which are returned to them only at the end of the ritual, and it is difficult to explain this circumstance within the frame of a marriage rite. If the rite concerns the renewal of kingship—namely, an act of profound political meaning—the fact that a large part of it takes place outside the town, taking the royal couple to touch several villages in the town’s territory, seems more appropriate. In this case, the mention of the father’s house might as well have a political meaning, hinting at the important connection between the urban milieu of the town, and the rural areas to the east mainly devoted to sheep breeding:29 before the beginning of the rite, the queen spends one night outside the town to the east, in a “cultivated field”, probably in the direction her father’s house.30 20

Fleming 1992: 49. Ibid. 22 Fronzaroli 1993: 3 (Text 1; hereafter cited as T1), 85 (Text 3; hereafter cited as T3). 23 Fronzaroli 1993: passim. 24 Fleming 1992: 50–51. 25 Ibid.: 53. 26 I refer to a red wool headdress (Fleming 1992: 53) and to a “colourful sash” (Ibid.: 56). For the Eblaic counterpart, see Fronzaroli 1993: 53–54 (T1), 85 (T3). 27 Fronzaroli 1993: 21. 28 Matthiae 2020: 77–78; Pinnock 2016: 101–104. 29 Pinnock 2016: 110–113. 30 Fronzaroli 1993: 54 (Text 2; hereafter cited as T2). 21

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Similarly, in the case of Emar, the future priestess’s father apparently is not a relevant person, as he may be anyone among the sons of Emar. Thus, the stress on this character, on the gifts he offers to his daughter, and on the fact that the girl has to go back to his house during the ritual—though no specific reason for this is provided—might be simply a repetition of the older ritual, whose memory had been kept through the centuries, albeit in different circumstances. In both instances, the ritual has to be performed completely for the Eblaic queen to have back her decisional powers31 and for the Emar girl to be able to enter the temples and take up her role as High Priestess.32 In Text 2 of the Eblaic ritual, the queen, before entering the town, receives a red dress, a multicoloured dress, and a gold chain,33 which she has to wear instead of her clothing; the Emar would-be priestess wears a headdress of red wool and the gold earrings offered by her father,34 and, in another moment of the ritual, she wears a coloured sash over her head, “like a bride”. 35 During the Eblaic ritual, a dress in the Mari fashion is mentioned several times,36 whereas at Emar, the elders give to the would-be priestess an “Akkadian” blanket. 37 At Ebla, at the beginning of the ritual, the queen takes off her clothes in order to wear the ceremonial red garment,38 while staying in the field outside the town; at Emar, the girl’s head is shaved,39 and this event takes place in an undetermined location, apparently neither a temple—which she cannot enter yet—nor her father’s house, where she is led afterwards.40 Thus, albeit in different contexts, we have the frequent mention of the “father’s house”, and both women receive clothes (and specifically one red and one multicoloured cloth) and gold jewels (a chain at Ebla and earrings at Emar), provided by their fathers. In both rituals, a “foreign cloth” is mentioned, in the Mari or in the Akkad fashion, and, lastly, in both instances a loss is mentioned— the clothes for the queen of Ebla and the hair for the priestess—in what is clear31

Ibid.: 17 (T1). Fleming 1992: 52. The appointed priestess goes several times to the temples, but she cannot enter them until the end of the ritual, when she receives the throne, symbol of her new status (Fleming 1992: 57, 183). 33 Fronzaroli 1993: 54. 34 Fleming 1992: 51, 53. 35 Ibid.: 56. 36 Fronzaroli 1993: 5 (T1), 55 and 68 (T2), 86 (T3). It is interesting to note that, whereas other elements may appear in one text only, this dress “in the Mari fashion” appears in all three versions of the ritual, and it therefore seems to be the only absolutely necessary feature of the ritual. 37 Fleming 1992: 57. 38 Fronzaroli 1993: 54 (T2). 39 Fleming 1992: 50. 40 These events have no logical explanation and for this reason they seem to me to be the traditionally determined repetition of some event of the past. 32

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ly a passage rite, leading to a complete renewal, and, in the case of the Emariote girl, a change of status. The Kingship Ritual of Ebla is imbued with political implications, pivoting on the queen’s figure, which—in our interpretation— represents the link between the town with the central political authority and the territory controlled by the town with the local communities,41 whose contribution for the economy and subsistence of the town was a basic one. The situation at Emar is not comparable, yet some peculiar traits of the older ritual are still present, including the repeated mention of the father’s house, which cannot certainly be explained by political reasons, as it is explicitly stated that the new priestess may be the daughter of any son of Emar. Thus, the presentation of precious gifts by her father might be interpreted as an exhibition of wealth, hinting at the fact that the appointed girl belongs to a worthy family. The possibility cannot be ruled out that it is only a memory, and a repetition, of a traditional rituality whose memory had been preserved over the centuries. Turning to Ugarit, and to its wealthy evidence, both written and archaeological, the Ugaritic literature preserved two poems dealing with the ideology of kingship—the Poem of Kirta and the Poem of Danil and Aqhat.42 In the first poem, the king, after a series of complex events, succeeds in having a heir, but he somehow offends the gods and falls deadly ill.43 On his deathbed, he is assisted by one of his sons, to whom he urgently and repeatedly asks to summon his lastborn and beloved daughter, Thitmanata/Octavia, because she must cry for his death, rather than the son.44 At a first glance, this might look as a kind of diminutio: the son must not cry but the daughter has to. In reality, the role of young Thitmanata is not merely to act as a mourner, which was a typical female role, as beautifully represented, e.g., in Ahiram’s sarcophagus from Byblos.45 In fact, she also has to take care of the accomplishment of the whole funerary rite, including preparing the burial chamber,46 thus changing her position in the line of Kirta’s numerous progeny, as promised by the gods themselves at the beginning of the poem.47 Thus, Thitmanata, through the accomplishment of these acts of pietas—which will allow Kirta to go through the funerary rites in the correct 41

Pinnock 2016: 110. The text of the Poem of Kirta and the three texts of the Poem of Danil and Aqhat were found, among others, in the house of the scribe Ilimilku (“library of the High Priest”) (Budin 2018: 51). 43 The poem was previously analysed in del Olmo Lete 1981: 266–268 and Xella 1982: 168–174. For different opinions about the development of the events, see Knoppers 1994; Peri 2004 (contra Sanders 2004). 44 Xella 1982: 173. 45 Matthiae 1997: 233. The chronology of this piece is debated: it bears a Phoenician inscription dating from around 1000 BC, whereas the sarcophagus itself was dated from the twelfth century BC. 46 Xella 1982: 174. 47 Ibid.: 168–169. 42

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way and to become one of the rapi‘uma—becomes the firstborn among her sisters, a true partner of her eldest brother,48 ensuring the succession of the dying king and the continuation of the dynasty. In this sense, the narrative would not simply mark a difference in role between male and female, or even a superiority of the male role over the female, but rather the need for the presence of both brother and sister, with their different and complementary roles and prerogatives for the correct accomplishment of the funerary ceremonies. In the light of this interpretation of Kirta’s poem, I propose that some scenes on Old Syrian cylinder seals might be ante litteram illustrations of the ideology represented by the poem: in the seals, a human character is seated on one side of the figurative pattern and is assisted by male and female figures.49 The seated person does not wear any kind of headdress, he sometimes holds an alabastron in one hand, and, in one instance, he holds instead a flower with reclining head, like the protagonist of the funerary scene on Ahiram’s sarcophagus. Both the alabastron and the flower lead to the interpretation of this figure as a dead king. The other male character, standing in front of the seated figure, is identical, but instead of holding an object, he frequently raises his hand in an act of homage. The female figure may be placed either behind the seated king, or behind the standing man, and in some instances, she carries a vegetable element, which might recall what is stated in the poem, namely that when Ilhu would have looked for Thitamanata and found her outside the palace, where she had gone to look for water.50 Kirta’s poem points to the importance of the female members of the royal family in the correct accomplishment of the funerary rites. Other interesting elements can be inferred from the poem of Danil and Aqhat, which has already been scrutinised several times,51 sometimes precisely for the aspects concerning the figure of Pughat, Aqhat’s sister.52 Here, we deal again with a problem of descendance, albeit with different outcomes. In a very short synthesis, the king, after several attempts, at last has a male heir—Aqhat— who in his youth insults the goddess Anat, who sentences him to a sad death. Aqhat’s sister, Pughat, “who knows the course of the stars”, is the first person to acknowledge Aqhat’s death, because she notices the drought provoked by this dramatic event. In a parallel way with Kirta’s poem, Pughat assumes a primary 48

The couple formed by Ilhu and Thitmanata apparently shows how to behave correctly in the case of a king’s passing away, opposing the real firstborn’s rebellion against Kirta (Knoppers 1994: 580–581). See also, in this regard, Marsman, who proposes to see in Thitmanatu’s and Pughat’s actions a sort of “critique on society or an ideological programme to defend women’s capability to rule the kingdom” (2003: 265). 49 Pinnock 2014: 13–17. 50 Xella 1982: 173. This does not seem a princely duty; moreover, it is stated that, mourning for her father, she would have spread her tears in the fields. This seems to me a way to stress a special relationship between this princess and the outside of the palace. 51 Ibid.: 207–216. 52 Budin 2018.

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role: she assists her father, prostrated by his son’s death, and helps him with his royal duties; lastly, she takes over the task to avenge her brother, killing Anat’s envoy, Yutpan, the material perpetrator of the crime.53 At this point, before starting to look for Yutpan, Pughat undergoes a passage rite: she washes in the sea, she paints herself in red up to the shoulders, and she dons male attire, over which she wears female attire. Here, again, we have the use of the red colour and a change of dress. This ceremony was considered an indication of Pughat’s sex change—at least metaphorically, if not physically—and was related with the contemporary evidence provided by Nuzi,54 where daughters could become, or be considered, males too, in cases of inheritance. The use of the double dress, however, was considered by some a dissimulation, aimed at assimilating Pughat to Anat, the warrior maiden.55 Another element for discussion was the reason why Anat and Aqhat quarrelled, namely the goddess’s wish to seize Aqhat’s beautiful bow: according to some interpretations, the bow was considered a symbol of virility. For this reason, it was so strongly coveted by Anat that she did not accept “no” for an answer.56 However, there is not a general consensus about the interpretation of the bow as a symbol of virility,57 and the fact that Pughat wears a double attire is not, in my opinion, a mark of dissimulation, but rather a representation of the empowerment of Pughat, who has to take over some of her father’s duties and to avenge her brother. Much in the same way, the High Priestess at Emar, whose head is shaven at the beginning of the ritual and who is dressed “like a bride” during the ritual, also possibly shows a double nature: the loss of her hair might mark a loss of femininity,58 whereas the ritual apparently follows the conventions applying to a marriage, where she acts as the bride. In fact, at the end of their stories, Pughat succeeds in killing Yutpan and ensuring the throne of Ugarit, whereas the priestess of Emar becomes the “head of any divine household”.59 Summing up, in the epigraphic evidence I have presented here, there is the representation of the correct accomplishment of the funerary rites for the passage of the dying king to the role of the rapi‘uma (Kirta), where a king’s daughter plays a basic role, so important that as a result of performing the rituals, she 53

Xella 1982: 215; Budin 2018: 67. Mori in Henoch 2016. Fincke 2012: 122–123; Grosz 1987; Paradise 1987. 55 Budin 2018: 67. 56 Ibid.: 59. Really, Aqhat’s answer is a very far-from-polite “no”, because he heavily comments on feminine nature and on the fact that females do not hunt. 57 In this regard, see the extensive discussion with previous literature in Budin 2018: 58–61. 58 On this subject, see Leach 1958: 147–164, 149–150, 153–154, 160–162. This is contra to Hallpike, who maintains that the cutting of hair symbolizes belonging to a society, and keeping hair long symbolizes being an outcast, rather than being related to sexuality (1969: 260). See also Derrett 1973: 101–102; Synnott 1987: 383–386, 393, tab. I, 394. 59 Fleming 1992: 83. It should also be noted that, though the text says that she is treated like a bride, she is never defined as Baal’s spouse. 54

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is allowed to attain the highest position among her siblings. In the two other texts (regarding the High Priestess of Emar, and Danil and Aqhat), two women undergo a similar passage-rite—albeit in different circumstances—through which they seem to obtain male prerogatives, enabling them to act autonomously in positions of high responsibility. Turning to the archaeological evidence, two facts jump immediately to the eyes. First, the monumental images of kingship—male and female—so largely attested in the Old Syrian period disappear almost completely. In the Old Syrian period, life-size, or even larger, statues of kings and queens, but also of other members of the town elite, were exhibited in large numbers at Ebla,60 frequently in open spaces (temples, porches, or public squares); something similar probably happened also at Alalakh, where a beautiful head of a male statue was retrieved.61 On the contrary, the best-known specimens of Middle Syrian monumental images are the seated statue of Idrimi of Alalakh, smaller than life size,62 and a small statue of a seated personage from Ugarit, wrongly attributed to the god El.63 The two seated statues guarding the entrance to the Late Bronze Age hypogeum of Qatna, also smaller than life size, have recently, and convincingly, been dated to the end of the Old Syrian period, precisely on the basis of the stylistic similarities with the head from Alalakh.64 Even taking into account the fact that the evidence is in general scant, it seems likely that the representations in the round of members of the elites are very few, and they are all male. Second, the Middle Syrian period is the age of the flourishing of a luxurious court handicraft, which, based on the experiences elaborated in the Early and Old Syrian periods, produced refined objects in ivory and metal, employing different techniques. These objects were attributed to an “eclectic style”, a Mediterranean koine, strongly inspired by Egypt;65 the technical skills displayed in their production and the quality of the materials employed seems more important than the meaning of the iconographies adopted. In a 2001 article, Jacqueline Gachet-Bizollon analysed the object usually defined as a headboard, belonging to a “bed” from Ugarit writing:

60

Pinnock 2020a; 2020b. Attributed to Yarim-Lim of Alalakh, the head was found in the Royal Palace of level VII (Woolley 1955: 235–237, pls. XLI–XLII). 62 Ibid.: 240, pl. XLVI. 63 Yon 1990. The statuette features a personage, seated on a throne with a high back, wearing a cloak with swollen edges and a high tiara, typical of the royal attire of the late Old Syrian period, and does not show any divine attribute. The arms were made separately and probably of a different material; the left arm was brought to the breast, whereas the right hand was leaning on the right knee and possibly held a cup, in a typical royal iconography (Matthiae 2013: 564). 64 Teinz 2014: 11; Pfälzner 2017: 154–155. 65 Feldman 2006: 25–30, 159–176. 61

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Il paraît évident que le décor est le témoignage d’un programme politique et religieux: il s’agit de montrer que la stabilité et la prospérité du royaume passent par la puissance du roi, dans ses activités héroïques contre l’ennemi et les forces naturelles, et dans la continuité de sa lignée, sous les auspices de la protection divine.66 I share her considerations. It is certainly true that the palace workshops of Ugarit elaborated suggestions of different provenances and that the choice of iconographic motifs was not the result of chance, nor was it a merely decorative device, as Gachet-Bizollon acknowledges, too.67 Moreover, the use of iconographies inspired by Egypt is by no means Middle Syrian specifically, because, in different ways, Egyptian influences can be detected since the Mature Early Syrian period and they should reflect ideological rather than merely decorative needs.68 The structure of the ritual of kingship of Ebla, in fact, recalls the Sed festival, hinting at a well-rooted knowledge of the Pharaonic ideology of kingship and at the capacity to adapt it to the needs of the local elites.69 I will now try to draw some schematic conclusions—as my analysis is schematic for obvious reasons of space: 1. The Middle Syrian period (Late Bronze Age, ca. 1400–1200 BCE) is a period of strong economic and political difficulty for the Syrian region in general, albeit with different modes in the various microregions of the area and in the individual urban centres. This period witnessed a definite reduction in the number of settlements, particularly in north inner Syria, and a relative flourishing of the coastal areas, in a general frame of fragmentation and territorial discontinuity; 2. Probably as a consequence of this situation, the visual representation of kingship in monumental art is markedly scaled down with respect to the previous periods (Early Syrian period of Early Bronze IVA–B, ca. 2400– 2000 BCE, and Old Syrian period of Middle Bronze I–II, ca. 1900–1600 BCE). The circumstances of finding the few specimens retrieved suggest that 66

Gachet-Bizollon 2001: 74. “It seems evident that the decoration is the result of a political and religious program: it shows that the stability and prosperity of the kingdom are the result of the king’s might, through his heroic activities against foes and natural forces, and of the continuity of his bloodline, under divine auspices and protection” (translation by author). 67 Ibid.: 74–75. Among the different suggestions that can be recognized in the ivory panel, the Egyptian one seems stronger, or at least, more easily detectable. See the discussions in Gachet-Bizollon 2001: 75–77; Matthiae 2010: 1649. 68 Contacts at the highest levels with the Pharaonic court are attested in the Royal Palace G of Ebla, and during the Old Syrian period of the Middle Bronze Age, Egyptian iconographies were accepted, adapted, and modified by the great Old Syrian palace and temple workshops (Matthiae 2010: 1647–1648; Matthiae 2018a; Pinnock 2018). 69 Pinnock 2016: 102, fn. 19.

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their use was strictly related to rituals and religion, rather than to the public display of royal images.70 The derivation of these statues from the archaic Old Syrian monumental art is quite clear; 3. The visual representation of kingship, on the other hand, is entrusted to the refined palace handicraft, in ivory and metal. In this frame, I can now try to give an answer to my question: Was this an obscure age for women? The answer is both yes and no. Certainly, if the monumental male images decreased in number, female images apparently disappeared completely. On the contrary, based on the written evidence examined here, it seems that elite ladies still had important roles, both in the ideology of kingship and in the highest priestly spheres.71 Equally, the “headboard of the Ugarit bed” seems to confirm this hypothesis, in Gachet-Bizollon’s interpretation, with the representation of the royal couple tenderly embracing and placed in close relation with the certainty of descendants, represented by the two young princes breastfed by a goddess. I think that another interpretation can be provided for this exceptional piece, which might integrate, rather than contrast with, Gachet-Bizollon’s hypothesis. It is necessary, at first, to try to reconstruct the original fitting. Usually, this piece of furniture is compared with Egyptian beds 72 —approximately seventy centimetres large—and this is certainly a good possibility. In this case, we would have a piece of furniture of a strictly private use for one of the members of the royal couple—yet an iconography so strongly inspired by the exaltation of the prolific 70

The small statue of a sitting personage from Ugarit, wearing a cloak and the royal tiara, was found in a pit, yielding materials probably pillaged from the nearby temple called Sanctuaire aux rhytons (Yon and Gachet 1989: 349). The two statues from Qatna were found at both sides of the entrance to the Royal Hypogeum (Pfälzner 2017: 153). 71 We have already marked how this seems to imply the assumption of some male prerogative—as also happened in private contexts in order to ensure the preservation of private properties within one family—through the institution of the attribution of the status of male to a daughter (Mori 2016: 239–241, for the evidence from Emar). Here, the possibility is also attested for a woman to introduce a man in marriage in her household, and in this instance the woman gives the man the status of head of the household (ibid.: 241–242). Concerning the role of elite women, another piece of evidence may prove their importance, namely the presence of at least one woman within the Royal Hypogeum of Qatna (Pfälzner 2012: 208–209). 72 Several fragments of beds or complete beds, usually made of wood and sometimes richly decorated with gold leaf, were found in Egypt, always in funerary contexts; when they are decorated, they usually feature geometric or vegetable motifs, with the only exception being a bed from Kerma, in Nubia (Killen 1980: 23–36, fig. 14, pl. 40 for the Kerma specimen). The oldest piece of furniture of this kind was found at Ebla, in the Northern Palace, and dates from the end of the late Old Syrian period (ca. 1700–1659 BCE); the closest comparison proposed for this Eblaic object is precisely with the bed found in a royal tomb at Kerma (Scandone Matthiae 2002: 44–45).

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couple and of the king’s prowess in hunt and war does not seem perfectly adequate for private use only.73 On the contrary, we might think of something closer in shape to a throne, slightly larger than a traditional chair or throne. In this case, the figurative pattern might look more appropriate for the purpose of the public display of the king’s and of the royal couple’s qualities and prerogatives.74 The tradition of this kind of decorated throne, with carved backs and armrests, dates back to the Mature Early Syrian period: in this phase, a specimen made of wood was found at Ebla, in the Royal Palace G, featuring an openwork decoration with contest scenes and at least two figures of a king and a court lady. With further elaboration along this line, I propose that the attitude of the royal couple might point to a manifestation of trust, rather than of marital affection. In fact, the gestures of their hands recall the representation on an Old Syrian cult basin from Ebla, which was probably dedicated in celebration of the signature of a political treaty between Ebla and another town, most likely Aleppo.75 In this light, another nuance of meaning might be ascribed to this image, which might even refer to a dynastic marriage76 and/or to the harmony that should reign between husband and wife in order to guarantee the future of the dynasty, not only in terms of a satisfactory private life, but also within the frame of wider political interests. The decorative pattern of this kind of fitting cannot be interpreted as an idealized portrait of the living royal couple, but rather as an iconic representation of 73 Of course, this impression of inadequacy might descend from a wrong perception about the use of iconographies in private or public milieus. 74 The findspot of the bed’s fragments can also be discussed: according to the excavator of Ugarit, C.F.A. Schaeffer, the ivory plaques were found in Court III, but this would not be their original location, which, according to his interpretation, should have been the small Room 44, that opened on to the court and, in his opinion, was a workshop where the precious object was being produced (Gachet-Bizollon 2001: 20). Margueron (mentioned in Gachet-Bizollon 2001: 20) accepts the hypothesis that the bed was originally placed in Room 44, but considers it a pavilion or a place for the king to rest. Gachet-Bizollon seems to agree with this hypothesis, though she maintains that the ivory fragments were found all together in the court, in a very limited area, and that this means that they did not fall down from an upper story. In Room 44, no ivory fragment was found, so it is also possible that the court was the original location of the precious fitting. 75 Matthiae 2018b, in particular 116. In the Ebla basin, the two characters hold each other by the arms: one of them seizes the other’s wrist with his right hand, while raising the left hand to the other’s mouth, while the second personage raises his right hand to the first man’s breast. In the Ugarit piece, the two characters embrace each other with one arm around the other’s shoulder, but the other hands’ gestures are the same, with the woman, to the right, raising her right hand to the man’s mouth, and the man raising his left hand to the woman’s breast. 76 A dynastic marriage may also be interpreted in a wider sense, as the union with an upper-class foreign woman, or with a woman belonging to an important household of the same town.

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royalty that is fully effective when the two partners, male and female, act in harmony, each in his/her own sphere of competence, and when they—and eventually the segments of societies or the political entities they represent—can trust each other. This luxurious and elegant piece of furniture, besides displaying the technical capacities of the palace workshops, can also be read as a synthetic illustration of the heroic traditions of kingship, expressed in poems like those chanting the deeds of Kirta, Danil, and Aqhat, without the dramatic events represented in the poems. In this sense, they can be interpreted as “positive displays” of the acts of the kings, where the female figure is represented because she is considered an indispensable element of the mosaic:77 as the poems show, in the case of a crisis, women have to be present and even ready to take over male roles in order to protect the dynasty—and, as a consequence, the land.78 Summing up, I believe that the Syrian principalities of the Middle Syrian period faced a phase of regression, and yet they strived to keep some structural form of the ideology of kingship that had been elaborated in older, more glorious times. The refined handicraft of this time became the support for storytelling, where local rulers were represented with high, not “diminished”, prerogatives, much different from the auto-representation they proposed in the correspondence sent to the Pharaonic court and found at Tell el-Amarna.79 Even renouncing the public monumental representation of themselves, the Middle Syrian kings and queens kept their traditions, albeit in less powerful modes and languages, in a kind of cultural and ideological resilience, opposed to the necessity of confronting much more powerful foreign powers, like Egypt on the one side and Hatti and Assyria on the other. Due to the ephemeral nature of a number of the supports used for these visual manifestations of kingship, it is difficult now to follow the preservation and evolution of the chosen iconographies, but it is certainly through these expressions that individual iconographies, patterns, and, most of all, ideological principles were transmitted to the following Late Syrian period of the Iron Age. Bibliography Budin, S.L. 2018. Gender in the Tale of Aqhat. In S. Svärd / A. Garcia-Ventura (eds): Studying Gender in the Ancient Near East. Philadelphia, 51–72. Derrett, D.M. 1973: Religious Hair. Man 8, 100–103.

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On the role of women in the Ugaritic court, see also Xella 1988; Marsman 2003: 57– 61, 110–112, 207–222, 334–338. 78 In both poems, the fragility of the ruling dynasty leads to disaster; in the poem of Danil and Aqhat, Pughat is defined as one who carries water on her shoulders, who spreads dew on barley and knows the course of the stars (Xella 1982: 207–208), which seems to suggest that she has a good knowledge of the regular processes of nature. 79 For examples of this correspondence, see Liverani 1988: 565.

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Feldman, M.H. 2006: Diplomacy by Design: Luxury Arts and an “International Style” in the Ancient Near East, 1400–1200 BCE. Chicago and London. Fincke, J.C. 2012: Adoption of Women at Nuzi. In P. Abrahami / B. Lion (eds): The Nuzi Workshop at the 55th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale. Studies on the Civilizations and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians 19. Bethesda, Maryland, 119–140. Fleming, D.E. 1992: The Installation of Baal’s High Priestess at Emar: A Window on Ancient Syrian Religion. Harvard Semitic Studies 42. Atlanta. Fronzaroli, P. 1993: Archivi Reali di Ebla, Testi. XI: Testi rituali della regalità. Archivio L.2769. Rome. Gachet-Bizollon, J. 2001: Le panneau de lit en ivoire de la cour III du palais royal d’Ougarit. Syria 78, 19–82. Grosz, K. 1987: Daughters Adopted as Sons at Nuzi and Emar. In J.-M. Durand (ed.): La femme dans le Proche-Orient ancien. Paris, 81–86. Hallpike, C.R. 1969: Social Hair. Man 9, 256–264. Iamoni, M. 2012: The Late MBA and LBA Pottery Horizons at Qatna: Innovation and Conservation in the Ceramic Tradition of a Regional Capital and the Implications for Second Millennium Syrian Chronology. Studi Archeologici su Qatna 2. Udine. Killen, G. Ancient Egyptian Furniture. Vol. I: 4000–1300 BC. Guildford, Surrey. Knoppers, G.N. 1994. Dissonance and Disaster in the Legend of Kirta. Journal of the American Oriental Society 114, 572–582. Leach, E.A. 1958: Magical Hair. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 88, 147–164. Liverani, M. 1988. Antico Oriente: Storia, società, economia. Rome and Bari. Liverani, M., 2001: International Relations in the Ancient Near East, 1600–1100 BC. Chippenham. Marsman, H.J. 2003: Women in Ugarit and Israel: Their Social and Religious Position in the Context of the Ancient Near East. Leiden and Boston. Matthiae, P. 1997: La storia dell’arte dell’Oriente Antico: I primi imperi e i principati del Ferro, 1600–700 a.C. Milan. Matthiae, P. 2010: La culture figurative médio-syrienne du Palais royal d’Ougarit: Un essai d’évaluation. Comptes-Rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 154, 1637–1652. Matthiae, P. 2013: Studies on the Archaeology of Ebla, 1980–2010. Edited by F. Pinnock. Wiesbaden. Matthiae, P. 2018a: Doni faraonici alla corte di Ebla nell’Antico Regno: Una riflessione sul contesto storico. In A. Vacca / S. Pizzimenti / M.G. Micale (eds): A Oriente del Delta: Scritti sull’Egitto ed il Vicino Oriente antico in onore di Gabriella Scandone Matthiae. Contributi e Materiali di Archeologia Orientale XVIII. Rome, 347–366.

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Matthiae, P. 2018b: The Old Syrian Temple N’s Carved Basin and the Relation between Aleppo and Ebla. Studia Eblaitica 4, 109–138. Matthiae, P. 2020: Ebla: Archaeology and History. London and New York. Mori, L. 2016: Essere mogli e madri nella Siria del Tardo Bronzo. In M.G. Biga / L. Mori / F. Pinnock (eds): Donne d’Oriente: Voci e volti di donne dal Mediterraneo orientale. Henoch 38(2), 233–245. del Olmo Lete, G., 1981. Mitos y leyendas de Canaán según la tradición de Ugarit. Madrid. Otto, A. 2018: Summing up the Late Bronze Age of the Upper Syrian Euphrates Region. In A. Otto (ed.): From Pottery to Chronology: The Middle Euphrates Region in Late Bronze Age Syria Proceedings of the International Workshop in Mainz (Germany), 5–7 May 2012. Münchner Abhandlungen zum Alten Orient 1. Gladbeck, 225–232. Paradise, J. 1987: Daughters as “Sons” at Nuzi. In M.A. Morrison / D.I. Owen (eds): General Studies and Excavations at Nuzi 9/1. Winona Lake, Indiana, 203–213. Peri, C. 2004. Poemi ugaritici della regalità: I poemi di Keret e di Aqhat. Brescia. Pfälzner, P. 2012: How Did They Bury the Kings of Qatna? In P. Pfälzner / H. Niehr / E. Pernicka / A. Wissing (eds): (Re-)Constructing Funerary Rituals in the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the First International Symposium of the Tübingen Post-Graduate School “Symbols of the Dead” in May 2009. Wiesbaden, 205–220. Pfälzner, P. 2017: Cultural Memory and the Invisible Dead: The Role of “Old Objects” in Burial Context. In J. Bradbury / C. Scarre (eds): Engaging with the Dead: Exploring Changing Human Beliefs about Death, Mortality and the Human Body. Oxford and Philadelphia, 149–162. Pinnock, F. 2013: Syrian and North Mesopotamian Temples in the Early and Bronze Age. In K. Kaniuth / A. Lohnert / J.L. Miller / A. Otto /M. Roaf (eds): Tempel im Alten Orient: 7. Internationales Colloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft. Wiesbaden, 385–405. Pinnock, F. 2014: Ancestors’ Cult and Female Roles in Early and Old Syrian Syria. Hors Série, Bulletin d’Archéologie et d’Architecture Libanaises X, 5– 26. Pinnock, F. 2015: From Ebla to Guzana: The Image of Power in Syria between the Bronze and Iron Ages. Studia Eblaitica 1, 109–125. Pinnock, F. 2016: Royal Images and Kingship Rituals in Early Syrian Ebla: A Multi-Faceted Strategy of Territorial Control in EB IVA North Inner Syria. Zeitschrift für Orient-Archäologie 9, 98–116. Pinnock, F. 2018: Ancora sui rapporti tra Ebla e l’Egitto: Note a margine. In A. Vacca / S. Pizzimenti / M.G. Micale (eds): A Oriente del Delta: Scritti sull’

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Egitto ed il Vicino Oriente antico in onore di Gabriella Scandone Matthiae. Contributi e Materiali di Archeologia Orientale XVIII. Rome, 495–520. Pinnock, F. 2020a: Building in Stone and Mudbrick: The Monumental Architecture of Ebla in the Middle Bronze Age I–II. In M. Devolder / I. Kreimerman (eds.): Ashlar: Exploring Materiality of Cut Stone Masonry in the Eastern Mediterranean Bronze Age. Louvain-la-Neuve, 97–120. Pinnock, F. 2020b: Representing the Elites in Middle Bronze I–II Ebla. In A. Otto / M. Herles / K. Kaniuth (eds): Proceedings of the 11th ICAANE, Munich, 3–7 April 2018. Vol. 1: Images in Context. Archaeology as Cultural Heritage. Engendering Near Eastern Archaeology. Societal Contexts of Religion. Shaping the Living Space. Wiesbaden: 245–258. Sallaberger, W. 1996: Review of Daniel E. Fleming, The Installation of Baal’s High Priestess at Emar: A Window on Ancient Syrian Religion. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 86, 140–147. Sanders, P. 2004. Review of Chiara Peri, Poemi ugaritici della regalità: I poemi di Keret e di Aqhat. Review of Biblical Literature 10, 2004. Scandone Matthiae, G. 2002: Materiali e Studi Archeologici di Ebla. III: Gli avori egittizzanti dal Palazzo Settentrionale. Roma. Schwartz, G. 2018: The Value of the Vestigial: From Middle to Late Bronze in Ebla and Western Syria. In P. Matthiae / F. Pinnock / M. D’Andrea (eds): Ebla and Beyond: Ancient Near Eastern Studies after Fifty Years of Discoveries at Tell Mardikh. Wiesbaden, 439–474. Synnott, A. 1987: Shame and Glory: A Sociology of Hair. British Journal of Sociology 38, 381–413. Teinz, K. 2014: Imagery of Ancestors? Bowl-Holding Seated Stone Effigies. In P. Pfälzner / H. Niehr / E. Pernicka / S. Lange / T. Köster (eds): Contextualizing Grave Inventories in the Ancient Near East. Proceedings of a Workshop at the London 7th ICAANE in April 2010 and an International Symposium in Tübingen in November 2010. Wiesbaden, 11–28. Woolley, L. 1955: Alalakh: An Account of the Excavations at Tell Atchana in the Hatay, 1937–1949. Oxford. Xella, P. 1982. Gli antenati di Dio: Divinità e miti della tradizione di Canaan. Verona. Xella, P. 1988: “I figli del re e le figlie del re”: Culto dinastico e tradizioni amorree nei rituali ugaritici. Fs Loretz. Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici sul Vicino Oriente antico 5, 219–225. Yon, M. 1990: El, le père des dieux: Monuments et mémoires de la Fondation Eugène Piot 71, 1–19. Yon, M. / Gachet, J. 1989: Une statuette du dieu El à Ougarit. Syria 66, 349.

The Female Gaze The Subjected Body in Tablet 103 of Šumma ālu Omens 1–7 Ann K. Guinan1

1. Introduction Tablet 103 is the first of two sex omen texts from the first millennium compendium of terrestrial omens, Šumma ālu.2 The first seven omens describe sexual positions that reflect the general range of Mesopotamia’s visual erotic repertoire and appear to directly reference them. 3 More specifically, I contend that the references to the lead inlays of Tukulti-Ninurta I (1233–1197 BCE), as discussed by Julia Assante, may not be a matter of coincidence.4 It is unusual for Mesopotamian sources to provide such a congruence between textual and visual corpora.5 The explicit sexuality portrayed in the inlays represents a contradiction between a private arena of elite privilege, power, and militarized sexuality and the legally promulgated requirements for public behavior expressed in the Middle Assyrian Laws. The omens substantiate and amplify Assante’s reading of both the visual and legal record. While tablet 103 is not contemporaneous with the lead inlays, and the connection between them is circumstantial, the omen texts, nevertheless, can be shown to have deep roots in the Middle Assyrian period (fourteenth to eleventh century BCE). The sex omens in general speak to the anxieties of the dominant male power structures, both private and public. The conceptual structure of an omen is perfectly situated to mediate the contradictions between the visual and legal sources.6 However, the first sequence of tablet 103 (omens 1–7), which deals with sexual positions, stands out from the other sex omens because they have a second clause. References to women looking back at their sexual partners occur in these clauses. These seven omens constitute a subversive gender discourse on the female gaze.

1

Babylonian Section, Penn Museum, [email protected]. Freedman 1998, 2006, 2017. 3 Cooper 2008: 69–94. 4 Assante 2007: 369–407. 5 Cooper 2008: 69–94. 6 My discussion of the structure of an omen is based on Guinan 1997: 472–473 and 2002b: 185–201. 2

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1.1. Tablet 103 According to the colophon, tablet 103 originally had thirty-four omens. It is not only the shortest Šumma ālu tablet, but it is also narrowly focused and the sequence of omens progresses logically. The omens record acts of coitus between a masculine subject and a feminine object. The malefic omens are followed directly by a short apotropaic ritual intended to ward off the evil that threatens the male subject. The ritual is performed by the afflicted person immediately after the ominous behaviour—by manipulating associated objects, the ritual action reverses the circumstances of the omen.7 All the omens of tablet 103 are based on the alignment of biological sex and the cultural constructions of sex and gender. Therefore, the topical thread linking the omens on the tablets is an implicit concept of what today would be called “heterosexuality.”8 Since an omen stands out from the everyday background of life and deviates in some way from the norm, the omens of tablet 103 can be said to probe the boundaries of heteronormativity. 1.2. Tablet 104 For textual and interpretive reasons, tablet 104, the second of the two sex omen tablets, needs to be considered together with tablet 103. The sexual subjects covered in tablet 104 include both male and female partners, but also acts that do not involve intercourse—or do not even involve a partner at all. Many of the omens are responses to and elaborations of the acts specified in tablet 103; for example, the sexual partners at the end of 103 are very young women, and the incipit of 104 reads, “If a man has sex with an old woman, daily quarrelling.”9 Tablet 104 is replete with references to the Middle Assyrian Laws tablet A, which deals with women.10 It is an important part of the record that ties the omens to the Middle Assyrian period (1363–1050 BCE). Tablet 104 is a combination of two distinct texts. A dividing line separates the first thirty-eight omens from the thirty-five omens that comprise the second section of the tablet, which is structurally and topically quite different. The omens in the second section are a series of one-line, malefic omens that deal with divorce and marital abuse, which reference and appear to be written in conversation with the Middle Assyrian Laws: “The omens are reversals of the law. They supply an alternate order of 7

The abbreviated ritual, which is similar to throwing salt over one’s shoulder, is a characteristic of the Šumma ālu human behavioral omen tablets and unlike the namburbi rituals, which are recorded at the end of an omen tablet. The ritual formula reads: “ana NU TE-e … NU TE-šú” (To avoid this … and then it will not afflict him.” Notably, the ritual does not occur in the sleep omen tablets since the subject would not be immediately aware of his behavior. 8 See Garton 2004: 81–100 for an excellent discussion, “The Making of Heterosexuality.” 9 CT 39 44: 1, CDLI P370809 and catchline of VAT 13809:17. 10 Roth 1997: 155–176; CT 39 45–46: 39–73.

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meaning and address areas of contradiction and instabilities that the laws expose but have no legal mechanism to resolve.”11 A new manuscript of Šumma ālu [Sm. 1479, obv. 10–rev. 10] cites omens that reference the laws in this second section of tablet 104.12 The scribes who produced the sex omens of Šumma ālu tablets 103 and 104 open a wide range of sexual acts and desires for divinatory inquiry and question. The semantic logic of the divinatory frame and the contrast between penetrating subject and penetrated object produce two distinct discourses on sexuality that are structurally and thematically different but at the same time both relentlessly misogynistic. Tablet 103 details a range of ambiguous desires. Acts that stray too far from the norm can be reversed and ritually resolved. In tablet 104, problematic aspects of sexual desire are propitiously deployed for social gain.13 It also should be noted that liminality associated with sexual ecstasis is a subject of both divination and magic (incantations, clay apotropaic figurines), but their points of view differ. As I have argued elsewhere, and as the rituals following the omens indicate, magic and divination bear an inverse relationship to each other. Magical acts seek to influence events directly, while divination acts to produce a text to be read.14 As Assante articulates, “From literary and incantation texts we know that the body and its orifices were regarded as sites of transition, especially when aroused.”15 The sites where the female body could be penetrated were endowed with magical properties and these powers came to be embedded in Old Babylonian (2004–1595 BCE) erotic plaques (see sec. 4.2, Fig. 4).16 2. The female gaze—tablet 103, omens 1–7 The protases of these omens stand out from the rest of the omens on the tablet because they have a second clause. The first clause is a description of the sexual positions, and the second clause describes what happens when the position is assumed. The second phrase constitutes a divinatory discourse on the sexual ambiguity of female orifices and the penetrations that cross the boundary between them. References to women looking, women facing men, and women’s faces occur in the second clause and in the ritual. 1. If a man “goes” to a woman who is standing … [illegible]17 11

Guinan 2014: 105–122. Boddy 2021: 53–56 (Sm. 1497 Lambert Nachlass, [009062]). For a discussion and texts of tablet 104, omens 39–45, see Guinan 2014. 13 Guinan 1997: 473. 14 Guinan 2002a: 18. 15 Assante 2002: 29. 16 Graff 2014: 386. 17 See footnote 62 for a discussion of the apodosis. Tablet 103 expresses sexual intercourse using the verb “DU alāku,” the basic meaning of which is “to go,” while 12

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2. If a man “goes” to the anus of a woman who is bent over [and he withdraws] from inside the anus and “goes to the vagina …” 3. If a man “goes” to a woman who is lying on her back and her tre[sses hang down(?)] at times (something evil) chooses [him]; at other times [something evil] releases [him].18 4. If a man “goes” to a woman who is lying on her back and her feet go around the back of his [n]eck, wherever he goes, the god, the king, the noble will be agreeable. 5. If a man “goes” to a woman who is lying on her back [and he withdraws] from inside the anus and “goes” to the vagina, Sagḫulhazû demon, either the female will die, or the male will die. [To] avoid this: you take your bed [i.e., stand it up], rub her face, [and] it will not affect to her. 6. If a man “goes” to a woman who is lying on her back and while i[n?] his bed “they face each other” [engage in foreplay?], he will have profit. 7. Ditto [i.e., If a man “goes” to a woman who is lying on her back [and] while in his bed “they face each other”], he smears his footprint with semen, he will have losses. To avoid this: he should clean shoes [and] place them on the threshold of the door, going in and coming out; standing up, she should face him; he should rub the bed (that is) before her [and] he should kiss that woman seven times; go out the door [and] kiss the doorjamb seven times [and] it will not affect him.19 2.1. Text sources for tablet 103 The standard manuscripts of tablet 103 include three texts from Nineveh and one from Assur. The Assur text is the largest. Sixteen omens survive only on this text.20 2.1.1. Standard manuscripts From Nineveh: K 8268 (AMT 65 3) + K 12711 (P397558): 25 lines, omens 2 –13 K 17635 (P402957): 5 lines, omens 6–7 tablet 104 uses the verb “TE ṭeḫû,” “to sexually approach.” Both verbs are synonymous, intransitive, and refer to penetrative intercourse. 18 See footnote 71 for a discussion of this omen. 19 See section 4 of this chapter for a more in-depth discussion of these omens. 20 The following discussion of the text sources is a summary of Guinan, forthcoming 2022.

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K 3134 (CT 39 43; P370806): 10 lines, omens 31–34 From Assur: VAT 13809 (Heeßel 2007, KAI I 35): obverse 27 lines, omens 8– 23; reverse 16 lines, omens 24–3421 The tablet was part of the extensive research library found in the house of the Baba-šumu-ibni family, chief ašipus (excorcists/healers) for the temple of the god Aššur (hD81 trench, N4 library).22 2.1.2. Scholia In addition to the standard texts, there are two scholia, both of which are significant to the present discussion. 2.1.2.1. K.103 K.103 is a ṣâtu 2c commentary on tablets 103 and 104 from Nineveh.23 The text, which is written in the Babylonian script, is divided into three sections by two rubrics. The first rubric on line 8’ quotes the incipit of the standard version of tablet 103: [lemma]ta relating to “If a man has intercourse with a woman who is standing up.”24 All of the seven preceding explananda correspond to tablet 103 omens. Line 2 of the commentary is an explanandum of 6/7 (see sec. 4.3.2 for a full discussion of the line). The rubric on the reverse line 22’ reads: lemmata relating to “If a woman rejoices [or sins] in a man’s house.”25 According to Jiménez, the third section does not correspond to any known Šumma ālu incipit. Moreover, there are no known omens in the two sex omen tablets or in the corpus of human behavioral omens, which begin, “If a woman … ” According to Jiménez, this section ought to correspond to tablet 104. With the exception of two tenuous but possible correspondences (lines 9 and 18), none of the other ten explananda can be matched with the base text; therefore, Jiménez considers this section to be tablet 104 alt. There are also possible equivalences to tablet 103, and this section could be an alternate version of tablet 103. Furthermore, line 27 in the third section [(xx) giš], ⸢NÁ⸣ it-bi (he rises from the bed), refers to tablet 104, line 18.26 There is evidence that ties the K.103 to Nabû-zuqup-kēnu, the learned scholar from Kalḫu (Nimrud) whose professional life dates from 716 to 683 21

Although the text begins with omen 8, this is a coincidence (Andrew George, personal communication, 2021). 22 Robson and Stevens 2019: 321–322; Pedersén 1998; Maul 2010; Pedersén 1986: 2:41–76. 23 Jiménez 2017. 24 [ṣa-a]-tu₄ šá NA ana MUNUS GUBza-at (Jiménez 2017: 8’). 25 ṣa-a-tu4 šá MUNUS ina É NA iḫ-te-di (Jiménez 2017: rev. 22’); Guinan 2002a: 7–40. 26 CT 39 44:18; Guinan 1997: 472 12; 479n39.

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BCE, spanning the reigns of Sargon II and Sennacherib.27 If this is the case, the text of K.103 was part of the aquisitons of three important scholarly libraries. At some point, probably after his death, Nabû-zuqup-kēnu’s sons moved to Nineveh to assume a function at the royal court, and brought along his library, which was later incorporated into Ashurbanipal’s library. Roughly one hundred tablets belonging to Nabû-zupup-kēnu have been identified. His Šumma ālu tablets represent a version of the series that differs from the later “canonical” compendium. The materials in his library that are related to Šumma ālu suggest that he may have been the framer of an earlier version of the omen compendium. Each of his Šumma ālu tablets parallel, overlap, or borrow from other sources. In addition, the scribe made line counts in the margins of these texts. When they were clearly visible, Gadd included stylus marks in his copies of Šumma ālu texts.28 In other cases, the stylus mark is faint and easy to overlook. On K.3134, the source that preserves the incest omens at the end of tablet 103, there is a four-count in the margin next to omen 34, which is not visible on the CDLI photograph. 29 I have hypothesized that the scribe made the marginal counts when he calculated the space he would need to integrate sequences of omens from other sources into a new Šumma ālu context.30 The so-called Prodigy Book (the Prodigies of the Fall of Akkad) has a line that refers to the incest omens at the end of tablet 103 and a Nabû-zuqup-kēnu colophon.31 The text lists forty-seven signs seen in the in the time of King IbbiSin in Babylon and the land of Akkad.32 The colophon states that these strange signs (itātu aḫâtu) portended the fall of the land of Akkad. Unlike an omen that can be observed by one individual but be overlooked by another, a prodigy calls attention to itself. The text lists events that defy the natural order (a male dog giving birth) or are alarming and astonishing (a severed head laughing). The prodigies were softened into omens and incorporated, probably by Nabû-zuqupkēnu himself, into sequences of Šumma ālu omens and Šumma ālu tablets, particularly tablet 2 and tablet 88. Schaudig understands itātu aḫâtu to refer to aḫû (BAR) omens—“extraneous” or “non-canonical” omens deriving from an unauthorized stream of tradition.33 However, K.3969+K.7120, CT 40 45–46, is an excerpt tablet that quotes signs from tablet 2, tablet 61, tablet 88, and the Prodigy Book, which makes it perfectly clear that these are not ordinary omens. After a dividing line, lines 20– 22 read, “If evil, wrong, and strange signs are seen in the land, the cities, the 27

Fincke 2017: 385. Gadd 1925–1931 (CT XXXVIII–XLI). 29 CDLI photograph P370806. 30 Guinan 2002a: 7–40. 31 Guinan 2002a: 7–40; Schaudig 2019: 400–425; Glassner 2020: 47–49. 32 Schaudig has brilliantly read the cryptographic writing of the king’s name as Ibbi-Sin. 33 Schaudig 2019: 401. 28

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palaces, and the meadows …”34 Line 14 of the Prodigy Book deals with primary incest categories: “A man [gurus] had sex with his mother, a man had sex with his sister, a man had sex with his daughter, a man had sex with his mother-inlaw.”35 The sequence of incest omens at the end of tablet 103 is based on a man having sex with the young daughter of family members. In addition, K.103 may well have been part of Nabû-zuqup-kēnu’s collection of commentary tablets: The most important scholarly tablet collection stemming from Kalḫu was found not in Kalḫu, but in Nineveh. Around one hundred tablets once owned by the scribe Nabû-zuqup-kēnu, a descendant of an illustrious scribal family, have been recognized among the approximately thirty thousand tablets of Ashurbanipal’s libraries found at Nineveh. No less than 21 percent of these one hundred tablets are commentaries, one of the highest ratios from any library or tablet collection. Nabû-zuqup-kēnu’s commentaries, dating to the end of the eighth and the beginning of the seventh century BCE, represent the oldest datable commentaries. Moreover, his tablets reveal an even older tradition: many of Nabû-zuqupkēnu’s mention that they were copied from Babylonian originals, and in some cases identify their original owners.36 2.1.2.2. W003081–W003082 W003082 (obverse) and W003081 (reverse) is an unpublished Seleucid Uruk nisḫu text that, along with other Šumma ālu tablets, was part of the holdings of the Ekur-Zakir family of ašipus.37 The text excerpts omens from both tablet 103 and tablet 104.38 It may have belonged to the Šumma ālu nisḫu series of extraneous omens excerpted from an alternate version of the compendium and com34

GIZKIM.MEŠ ḪUL.MEŠ ha-ṭa-a-tu4 a-ḫa-a-tu4 šá x [ ] ina KUR URU.MEŠ E.GAL.ME u A.ŠÀ A.GÀR IGI.MEŠ. 35 GURUŠ ana AMA-šú TE GURUŠ ana NIN-šú TE GURUŠ ana e-me-ti-šú TE (Rm 155; CT 29 48:14; P365974). 36 Jiménez 2013. For a list of Nabû-zuqup-kēnu’s commentary tablets, see https://ccp. yale.edu/catalogue?scribe=Nabu-zuqup. The low K number indicates that the tablet was found in Room XL or XLI of the southwest palace, which was the location of a number of scholarly tablets (Reade 1986: 213–222). 37 Stevens 2013. 38 For the text and a full discussion, see the forthcoming (2022) joint article by A. Guinan and M. Jaques. The tablet has been missing from the Baghdad Museum since the 1980s. All that remains of this text is a very poor excavation photograph; I am very grateful to Jaques for sharing this text with me. It is an important piece of evidence that ties tablet 103 to the network of scholarly transmission. For general discussion of first millennium knowledge networks, see Koch 2015: 258–261; Clancier 2009: 81–89; Robson 2019; Robson and Stevens 2019.

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piled into a large nisḫu-series.39 Šumma ālu was transmitted from Nineveh to Uruk mainly in this form.40 The obverse, lines 1–24, correspond to the Nineveh and Assur sources, omens 1–11 and 13–18; lines 15 and 17 add omens that are not in the Nineveh and Assur sources. The reverse, lines 1–7, preserve the five omens derived from oral sex. These omens may represent another version of tablet 103 or perhaps can be placed with the incomplete sections of the Assur text (lines 20–27). The last omen of the oral sex sequence (rev. line 7) reads: “DIŠ GAL4.LA DAM-šú ina EME-šú ú-ḫa-ṭi-ip NA.BI dALAD u dLAMA TUK-ši” (If he wipes his tongue across his wife’s vagina, he will have a dŠedu and a dLamassu [protective deities]).41 The last line of the nisḫu, which follows (rev. line 8), reads: “DIŠ NA MUNUS GU.DU TE NU.SIKIL U4.3.KAM x” (If a man has anal sex with a woman, he is not pure, three days …).42 The verb haṭāpu (to wipe) is also used in the expression dīmta haṭāpu / uḫuṭṭupu (to wipe away tears) and underscores the importance of the female eye. Although the nisḫu number is not preserved, the rubric on the reverse (line 9) states that these omens are aḫû (BAR.MEŠ) omens extracted from an extraneous compendium. However, unlike the rest of the Šumma ālu nisḫu series, they do not appear to be extraneous. The tablet 103 omens on the obverse vary slightly from the standard version of tablet 103, while the twelve omens extracted from tablet 104 on the reverse (lines 10–21) follow the standard version of text. The last line of the nisḫu quotes tablet 104, omen 12: r. 21’ [DIŠ NA ana MUNUS šu-ku-ur u gi-na-a ŠÈ ] ┌ È ┐-uš NA BI i-lani (UMUŠ) ul i-šú-ú ŠÀ ḪUL BAR-[su]. (If a man [has sexual relations] with a woman drunk and always defecates, that man is possessed by a god [i.e., pixillated]; he has no sense; grief is kept away from him.)43

39

A nisḫu is a selection of omens excerpted from an alternate version of an omen series and numbered in the order of the tablet sequence from which they were extracted. The abridgements (a nisḫu series) are structured like an omen compendium. A rubric at the end of each section gives the excerpt number and the series. The colophon at the bottom of a tablet records a catchline, which is the incipit of the next nisḫu tablet in series. 40 Koch 2015: 259. See also Frahm 1998: 13–14. 41 This is, as far as I know, the first straightforward, unambiguous attestation of cunnilingus in Mesopotamian texts. See the corrigendum to CDA s.v. ḫaṭapu (https://www. soas.ac.uk/cda-archive/lemmata/), with reference to Gabbay 2004: 177–184. I am grateful to Sophus Helle for finding and sending me these references. 42 Although heterosexual and homosexual anal intercourse occurs as a significant topic in the sex omens, this is the only straightforward, unqualified reference. 43 For a discussion of this omen, see Guinan 2002b: 200.

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The catchline quotes tablet 104, omen 13 (see sec. 6.2 for a discussion of this omen). This indicates that the next nisḫu tablet probably excerpts omens from tablet 104, which deal with anal sex. 2.2. The scope of tablet 103 The sequence of omens follows the trajectory of Šumma ālu tablets from the center to the periphery—from inside the city and inside a house to the vicinity immediately outside. Borders of all kinds recur throughout the text. Signs are manifest at borders, there are signs about crossing borders and looking back at borders that have been crossed. The text examines heterosexual sexual intercourse from the male point of view, as it delineates and contrasts the sexual thresholds of the female body, the liminal areas of the human environment, and the sexual boundaries of the family. It observes the orifices, exchanges, openings, and penetrated boundaries that are an inherent part of heterosexual erotic life. The initial seven omens deal with coital positions and contrast penetrated female orifices. In this scheme, omens from oral sex are almost inevitable. They are followed by intercourse in a chair and on a bed. At the same time that the furniture locates the acts inside the house, it also introduces the next sequence of omens, which depicts intercourse in liminal locations in human environs: the inner threshold of a house followed by the outer threshold of a house, in an animal pen, on a ferry that crosses a river, and in a river.44 The text does not just deal with the liminal body, liminal locales, or even ambiguous categories of incest—these are familiar liminalities that can be seen in much of Mesopotamian literature. Rather, the omens explore areas where ordinary liminality is problematic and deal with it at a different level of complexity. 3. Pornography as imperial strategy 3.1. The lead inlays of Tukulti-Ninurta I Julia Assante (2007) recontextualizes and reinterprets a collection of twenty small lead erotica that date exclusively to the reign of Tukulti-Ninurta I (1233– 1197 BCE) and were manufactured in the wake of his brutal reconquest of Assyria’s lost western empire. Both the scenes depicted and the use of lead from Anatolia reveal his military ideology of conquest and submission. They are the product of the social changes that occurred in the first flush of empire when the Assyrian military returned from battle hyper-aroused and hyper-sexualized, bringing with them a flood of goods and captive peoples. According to Assante,

44

Intercourse in a river occurs only on line 20 of the Uruk text and not in the Nineveh or Assur sources. It also occurs on the first line of an odd and unprovenanced text that shows characteristics of both Šumma ālu omens and moral precepts (Moren 1977: 66–67, line 1).

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the lead inlays are pornography—carefully staged, private sexual theater for the elite Assyrian male. Seven of the objects she discusses depict captive men engaged in an astonishing variety of sex acts with naked women.45 The men wear soft-pointed caps signifying their western origin and captive status.46 They are dressed in long, flowing garments secured at the waist and open in the front. A bordered piece of cloth worn over the first garment covers the buttocks, securing the backside and preventing exposure. In contrast, the women’s buttocks are not only exposed but accentuated by a girdle worn around the waist. As Assante articulates, “A detailed succession of anklets, bracelets, and necklaces works to accentuate female nakedness and comprises the sparse adornments allowed to a body prepared exclusively for sex.”47 Jewelry on the naked body and the curly hairdo signify a sex worker.48 The inlays had to be seen at close range to be appreciated, and were meant for private viewing. They are small (averaging 5.46 centimeters in height) with only one decorated surface and exhibit intricate, detailed craftmanship. Assante argues that the inlays attached to furniture such as wood chairs, beds, or chests.49 Their use had a political function. They depict an empire’s fantasies of the ultimate sexualized otherness: the enemy who has succumbed to sexualized military conquest. They helped define and maintain the separation of the elite male Assyrian citizen (awīlu, MA a’īlu), who held power at the pinnacle of the social structure, and everyone else who populated the Assyrian state. Assante refers to the inlays as private pornography because they conflicted with the straightlaced standards that governed public behavior. Visual arts of Assyria offer many arresting examples of this sexualized military ideology. Julia AsherGreve has noted that in Mesopotamian art, Dead or captured enemies about to be killed, blinded or castrated, are stripped of all clothes. Fallen or captured enemies who are depicted naked are always men. Women were also captured and led into slavery, but they do not appear in the visual imagery until the first millennium BCE on Assyrian wall reliefs. … In the context of war and captivity the bodies of enemies convey the message of victory and subjugation …50

45

Assante 2007: figs. 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8. According to Assante (2006: 1), there are twelve inlays, but she only discusses seven. The present state of conservation and preservation does not allow the five similar inlays to be visually reproduced. 46 Assante 2007: 378; Cooper 1972–1975: 264. 47 Assante 2007: 376. 48 Cooper 2006: 14. 49 Assante 2007: 370. 50 Asher-Greve 1997: 44.

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When captive women appear in Assyrian art, they are never depicted naked.51 Catherine A. MacKinnon’s 1987 work on pornography is particularly relevant to the present discussion as well as to the cultural moment: To be clear: what is sexual is what gives man an erection. Fear does; hostility does; hatred does; the helplessness of a child or a student or an infantilized or restrained or vulnerable woman does; revulsion does; death does. Whatever it takes to make a penis shudder and stiffen with the experience of its potency is what sexuality means culturally. Violation, conventionally through penetration and intercourse, defines the paradigmatic sexual encounter. Transgression, for which boundaries must first be created, then violated, is necessary for penetration to experience itself (emphasis mine). All this suggests that what is called sexuality is the dynamic of control by which male dominance—in forms that range from intimate to institutional, from a look to a rape—eroticizes as man and woman, as identity and pleasure, that which maintains and defines male supremacy as a political system.52 In this context, the woman’s naked buttocks reveal ambiguous boundaries which are first defined and then penetrated. 3.2. The male gaze Assante’s argument focuses on the hyperbolic significance of the male gaze during this particular social and cultural moment. She stresses the contradiction between the private gaze embodied in the inlays and public gaze exemplified by the laws, which I will elaborate in the following sections. 3.2.1. The male gaze: private Private areas where elite men congregated were venues for group sex. The lead inlays were used and enjoyed in a sequestered arena of power, privilege, and militarized sexuality that belonged solely to the elite. It cannot be determined if the inlays depict actual sex shows or, if they do, how many men were in the audience. They may simply reflect the newly empowered elite’s bad taste in furniture. Bastions of men who shared the prerogatives of power and privilege were arenas not only of heightened sexual arousal, but also venues for various forms of participatory group sex. The nature of the sexual activity, and its meaning and function, varied according to the needs of the cultural institution it served. Power invaded the sexual and the accompanying impacts on the prohibitions and productions of sexual behavior and desire. Although less acknowledged, the converse was also true—the exercise of and satisfaction of power was profoundly sexualized and erotically charged. Arenas of homosocial power provided access to avenues of sexual expression and satisfaction of desires that are mutu51 52

Cifarelli 1998: 223. MacKinnon 1987: 75.

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ally supported, mutually denied, and shielded from the wider observation of the social world. 3.2.2. The male gaze: public—Middle Assyrian Laws on veiling women: MAL A40 The men who possessed the inlays and enjoyed the pornographic display of naked women held to a contradictory set of standards when they left their arena of protection, privilege, and privacy. The sexual objectification of women asserted and constantly reinscribed the unequal power relations between men and women, creating a female class structure. The male gaze was, and is, a spectator sport—it draws men into the game. In insular and highly stratified male societies, such as the one under discussion, the coercive pressure of the male gaze intensifies, requiring the seclusion of women. Wives and women living under male protection in the domestic sphere therefore needed to be shielded and protected from the gaze of other men when they venturde out. Examples can be found in all time periods.53 The public street, for example, is a culturally charged locale.54 In private and in public socially, unaffiliated women were considered sexually available. According to Assante, Only males of the awēlu-class were responsible for looking and for policing public space to maintain a system of social ranking based on visual/ sexual accessibility. Male looking was therefore empowered by the state. Men also dictated visible status by performing the symbolic veiling of women in marital rituals and by stripping unsubmissive women for public humiliation.55 The Middle Assyrian Laws (henceforth MAL) bring into sharp focus the cultural investment in surveillance and the significance of clothing for both men and women. The lengthy provision of MAL 40 spells out the detailed class structure that determined the requirements for veiling women in public: “Wives of a man, or [widows], or any [Assyrian] women who go out into the main thoroughfare [shall not have] their heads [bare]. … A concubine (esirtu) who goes about in the main thoroughfare with her mistress is to be veiled.”56 The framers of the omens are insistent that “a prostitute shall not be veiled; her head shall be bare (v 68).”57 Furthermore, “Whoever sees a veiled prostitute shall seize her, secure witnesses, and bring her to the palace entrance. They shall not take away her jewelry, but he who has seized her takes her clothing; they shall strike her 50 blows with rods; they shall pour hot pitch over her head 53

See two modern memoirs: Feldman 2012 and Martin 2014. Guinan 2014: 112–114; Steinert 2014: 148–150. 55 Assante 2007: 382–383. 56 Roth 1997: 167–168. 57 Roth 1997: 168. 54

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(v 77).”58 Her clothing is taken away, but she is allowed to keep her jewelry. She thus appears naked on a public street presumably the same way she appears when she plies her trade or performs in private venues. A man who sees a veiled prostitute and does not turn her in to the authorities is subject to severe punishment. The one who informs against him takes his clothing—humiliating and feminizing him.59 4. Omens 1–7 and “the lead inlays of Tukulti-Ninurta I: pornography as imperial strategy” and the female gaze Assante focuses on the male gaze, but the female gaze is an implicit part of her argument which the omens make explicit. The following is a detailed comparison of the individual omens and the inlays, in conversation with Assante’s assertion quoted in the section header.60 The omens stand midway between the private art and the public laws. The first clause of the protases of tablet 103 refers to the art, and tablet 104 references the Middle Assyrian Laws. However, omen 2 depicts intercourse with a woman who is bent over, and omens 5 and 6 indicate that intercourse takes place in bed and appear to refer more broadly to Mesopotamia’s visual erotic repertoire—particularly terracotta plaques that were mass produced in the Old Babylonian period (2004–1595 BCE). According to Assante, the plaques were non-elite apotropaia that guarded the transition points of everyday spaces. The plaques that depict sexual motifs fall into three basic types: coitus a tergo drinking scenes, bed scenes depicting face-to-face intercourse, and single nude females in postures of sexual display.61 4.1. Standing intercourse: omen 1 Omen 1 reads, “If a man goes to a standing woman … [illegible]”62 The partners in Figure 1 (Assante 2007: fig. 6) gaze at each other. According to Assante, face-to-face gazing in this scene presents “a more joyful, equitable picture. … There is more physical contact as well.”63 58

Cooper 2016: 212n10. Lerner 1986: 134–140 has a very insightful, if flawed, discussion of the MAL veiling regulations. 59 In a recently published article, Fales concludes that rigid veiling for concealment is only attested in the Middle Assyrian Laws about women (2021: 101). 60 Assante 2007: figs. 6 and 7; omens 2–7 = lines 1–14 of K 8268 (AMT 65 3) + K 12711, P397558. 61 Assante 2007: figs. 6 and 7; Assante 2002: 27–52. 62 DIŠ NA ana MUNUS ú-zu-uz-za-ta DU-ik [ … ]. This is the incipit of tablet 103, which has been restored from the catchlines of the two alternate versions of tablet 102 (CT 39 43, K3677, CDLI P370805, and Rm 924 CDLI P370807). The apodosis is also partially preserved on W3082, line 1, but it is illegible. I have included the omen on the basis of Assante’s discussion (2007) of face-to-face standing intercourse in the inlays. See also Cooper 1972–1975: 263, 268. 63 Assante 2007: 377.

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Figure 1. Lead inlay (VA 5426). Published in Assante 2007: 399 fig. 6.

Figure 2. Lead inlay (VA 5429). Published in Assante 2007: 400 fig. 7. In the photograph, the woman appears to be slightly shorter than Assante has drawn her, and as a result, she appears to look directly at her partner’s face. The position of the man’s head and the upward turn of his nose indicates an upward gaze. The heads are missing in Figure 2 (Assante 2007: fig. 7). The pose is more sexually acrobatic. The woman balances on one foot, raising her body to the level of his groin. The other leg is bent at the knee, allowing her to grasp the man’s penis and guide it into her.64

64

Assante 2007: fig. 4, 378.

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4.2. Anal intercourse with a woman in a bent-over position: omen 2 Omen 2 reads, “If a man ‘goes’ to the anus of a woman who is bent over [and he withdraws] from inside the anus and ‘goes’ to the vagina …65

Figure 3. Lead inlay (VA 5428). Published in Assante 2007: 396 fig. 4. Both the omen and the inlay address the same situation. Assante describes the scene as follows: [In] the ménage à trois scene in figure 4, a nude woman stands in the middle penetrated from behind by her partner at the right. The woman’s second partner faces her at left, although only his legs have survived. This scene mimics live entertainment most obviously because the male at right plays a lute while engaged in coitus. He also turns up alone in a fragment that probably came from the same mold (Andrae 1935, pl. 45d). The woman again wears anklets, bracelets, necklaces and has distinctively tightly waved hair. She is in a dance step, raising her outside thigh high above her waist to allow a good view of the man’s penis at her buttocks. At the same time, she twists her upper body to the front, displaying her breasts. As her outstretched hand is nearly identical to the woman’s masturbating hand in figure 3, she is most probably masturbating her facing partner.66

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2’ [DIŠ NA ana] ┌MUNUS qid-dam-ta┐ ana ┌GU.DU┐ DU [TA ŠÀ GU.DU] / 3’ [ana] GAL4.LA DU DÙ? [ ] (K 8268 [AMT 65 3] + K 12711, P397558). 66 Assante 2007: 377. A man who makes a woman masturbate him is the subject of tablet 104, omen 28 (see section 7 of this chapter).

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Intercourse with a woman who is bent over evokes the widely depicted drinking scene associated with the tavern, in which the woman is bent over drinking beer from a long tube and the man penetrates her from behind.67 According to Assante, it is often not possible to determine whether these scenes portray vaginal or anal penetration.68 The lead inlay, however, clearly depicts anal penetration.

Figure 4. Terracotta plaques from Babylon (left: VA Bab 3576, 13.5 x 7.5 cm) and Warka (right: VA Bab 3576, 7.2 x 6.1 cm). Published in Assante 2002: 29 figs. 1 and 2. While both the lead inlay and the omen may reference a familiar image, the drinking component of the scene remains in the background and with it the association with the tavern. The omen and the inlay each add a variation on anal intercourse, according to either the textual or visual agenda. The first part of the protasis of the omen states the position, while the second specifies that the man withdraws from the interior of the anus and penetrates the vagina. In this position, the woman is unable to look back. The apodosis of the omen is not preserved, nor is the omen followed by a ritual. Either the act is not malefic or, if it is, it is not serious enough to require ritual resolution. The omen begins with anal intercourse—the vaginal intercourse that follows rectifies the act by reasserting the gendered body. 67

Cooper 2016; De Graef 2018. Cooper questions whether the images on early second millennium terracotta plaques are to be taken literally or “are emblematic of the link between the consumption of alcohol and sexual activity” (2016: 214). 68

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4.3. Intercourse with a woman who is lying on her back: omens 3–7 Omens 3–7 are a thematic sequence of omens.69 The apodoses of omen 3 and omen 6/7 are ambiguous. The sequence begins with non-penetrative sexual positions contrasting head and feet. The sequence then progresses to penetrative intercourse contrasting inside and outside. This set of omens reflects the overall trajectory of Šumma ālu tablets, which begins with contrasting up/down (“If a city is set on a height / If a city is set in a depression” [tablet 1:1–2]) and then progresses to center/periphery (“If fire falls in the city / If fire is seen in the land” [tablets 50–51]).70 4.3.1. Omens 3 and 4 Omen 3 reads, “If a man ‘goes’ to a woman who is lying on her back and her tre[sses hang down(?)] at times [something evil] will choose [him]; at other times [something evil] will release [him].”71 Omen 4 reads, “If a man ‘goes’ to a woman who is lying on her back and her feet go around the back of his [n]eck, wherever he goes, the god, the king, the noble will be agreeable.”72 These omens do not deal with penetrative intercourse, but rather contrast the woman’s head with her feet. I understand the verb ḫâru in the apodosis of omen 3 to refer to demonic espousal. The consequence of the act of omen 3 is expressed in a way that makes it appear that the behavior was not classified as either definitively benefic or malefic by the ancient scribe. The woman’s elaborate hairdo has become loose and the man may have become entangled in it. In omen 4, the gendered position is propitious. The use of “goes’’ (sexually) in the protasis and “wherever he goes” in the apodosis asserts the connection between the sexual and the social. The man’s personal god smooths his way and he is able to negotiate the social hierarchy with confidence.

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Assante 2007: figs. 1 and 3. Freedman 1998: 21. 71 3’ [DIŠ N]A ana MUNUS pur-qí-dam DU-ma pe-r[e-es-sa uš-šu-ra-rat? ] / 4’ [k]ia-am i-ḫar ki-a-am ú-še-eṣ-ṣi. The reading pi-r[e-es-sa(?) is tenuous. Jacobsen agreed with my reading but suggested the translation “tresses” to specify that pīretu refers to the hair of her head (private communication, 1980). Line 4 has been restored by W3082, line 4’ (unpub., see Guinan and Jacques 2022). The construction kīam … kīam is a terse formulation that makes a temporal contrast between verbs with opposite meanings (CAD K kīam 328, meaning 1d). The transitive verb ḫâru (to choose) lacks both an expressed subject and object. I understand the verb to refer to supernatural seizure or demonic espousal. See also Assante 2002: 43. Lexically hâru is equated with amāru “see” (Veldhuis: http://oracc.org/dcclt/nineveh/corpus, K 52, CT 18 6:20, CDLI P3459). 72 5’ [DIŠ N]A ana MUNUS pur-qí-dam DU-ma GÌR.II-šá ana [la]-ba-ni-šú DU a-šar DU-ku / 6’ DINGIR LUGAL IDIM ŠE.GA.MEŠ (K 8268 [AMT 65 3] + K 12711, P397558). 70

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Figure 5. Lead inlay (VA 4244). Published in Assante 2007: 393 fig. 1. The woman lies on a platform that raises the body to provide easy access and accentuates her naked buttocks. One leg is supported by her partner’s shoulder. The point of penetration is the center of the visual field. In Assante 2007, figure 1 shows that the platform is slanted, allowing the woman visual access; she appears to be looking into her partner’s face. The man grasps her hand. Assante notes that this a visual reference to the captives’ formal gesture of supplication, as discussed by Cifarelli.73

Figure 6. Lead inlay (VA 4245). Published in Assante 2007: 395 fig. 3.

73

Cifarelli 1998: 224.

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The platform in Figure 1 (Assante 2007: fig. 6) is not raised, allowing the woman to reach back with her hand and masturbate the man behind her. Although she is unable to raise her head to look at the man in front of her, she is able to look into the face of the man behind her. 4.3.2. Omens 5 and 6/7 Omen 5 reads, “If a man ‘goes’ to a woman who is lying on her back [and he withdraws] from inside the anus and ‘goes’ to the vagina, Sagḫulhazû demon, either the female will die, or the male will die. [To] avoid this: you take your bed [i.e., stand it up], rub her face, [and] it will not affect to her.”74 The text of omen 6/7 is a conflation of both a benefic and malefic omen.75 The point I wish to make does not warrant a full discussion of the textual difficulties, but I read the malefic component as follows: If a man “goes” to a woman who is lying on her back and while i[n?] his bed ‘they face each other’(engage in foreplay?), [and] he smears his footprint with semen, he will have losses. To avoid this: he should clean shoes [and] place them on the threshold of the door, going in and coming out; standing up, she should face him; he should rub the bed [that is] before her [and] he should kiss that woman seven times; go out the door; kiss the doorjamb seven times [and] it will not affect him. 76 The bed scenes provide the clearest evidence that omens reference the art. The protases of the omens only describe the position. The bed remains in the background—that the act took place in a bed can only be inferred from the ritual. This is quite different from the omens that follow, which explicitly state that the ominous import derives from the furniture (cf. omen 8: “If a man goes to a woman in a chair …”).77

74

7’ [DIŠ N]A ana MUNUS pur-qí-dam GU.DU DU TA ┌ŠÀ┐ GU.DU ana GAL4.LA DU / 8’ SAG.ḪUL.ḪA.ZA TUK-ši šum4-ma MUNUS UŠ2 šum4-ma NITA ÚŠ 9’ [ana] NU TE-e KI.NA2-ka TI-qe2 IGI-┌ša┐ ŠÉŠ-ma NU TE-ši ] (K 8268 [AMT 65 3] + K 12711, P397558). 75 Irving Finkel (private communication, 2019) suggested breaking the text reading into the benefic and malefic components. Once I did this, the omen numbering conformed to the colophon on K 3134. 76 10’ [DIŠ N]A ana MUNUS pur-qí-dam DU-ma ki-ma i[na! K]I.NÁ-šú uš-ta-at-tu-ú / 11’ [K]I.UŠ-su A TAG-ma Á.TUK TUK-ši [K]IMIN I.BÍ.ZA IGI / 12’ ana NU TE-e šeni LAḪ-ma ina KUN4 KÁ GAR KU4 u È / 13’ ú-šu-uz-za-ta KI-šu uš-ta-at-ti KI.NÁ šá IGI-šá ŠÉŠ-┌ma┐ / 14’ MUNUS.BI 7-šú i-na-ši-iq KÁ È-ma sip-pu 7-šú ina-šiq-m[a NU TE-šú] (K 8268 [AMT 65 3] + K 12711, P397558). 77 8’ [DIŠ N]A ana MUNUS ina GIŠ.GU.ZA DU ŠÀ.ḪÚL.LA DÙG.GA ŠÀ … (K 8268 [AMT 65 3] + K 12711, P397558); VAT3809:1. For a figurine depicting intercourse in a chair, see Assante 2002: 27n3.

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Figure 7. Picture from Cholidis 1992: Nr. 152: Tafeln 40.

Figure 8. Bed scene. Picture from Cholidis 1992: Nr. 147, Tafel 39.

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Figure 9. Drawing from Cholidis 1992: Nr. 40 and 41, Tafel 24. The visual representations that correspond to omens 5 and 6/7 commonly occur in Mesopotamian erotica, but not in the inlays. It is part of the thematic trajectory of this set of omens. Jerrold Cooper describes five Old Babylonian clay plaques that depict standing face-to-face intercourse. Wherever preserved, the female has one or both legs raised, and the male’s stance with one leg forward clearly indicates a standing position, despite the fact that the act takes place on a bed whose sides frame the scene.78 The apodosis of omen 5 predicts a realistic possibility; however, the act also brings out Saghulhazû, a demonic but invisible presence.79 The evil, a combination of semen and feces, becomes a material substance that emerges into the visible world. Although smell is not mentioned, it is not hard to imagine what it would have been like.80 The ritual action, which could perhaps be called a form of post-coital prophylaxis, specifies that you stand the bed up and rub her face; then, in an unusual departure from the typical formula, the ritual stipulates that the evil incurred will not affect her, rather than him. I would argue, nonetheless, that the ritual is not a deviation from the male point of view. She is the locus of the act, and on her back she may “see” the evil and thereby make it manifest. Her face is the conduit that removes the evil from the immediate world. Once she is ritually expiated, he is clear. If this is the case, the omen contrasts with a bent-over woman who is unable to look back. Figure 8 corresponds to the position described in omen 6/7. The translation of this omen depends on the reciprocal verb šutātû, which has a basic meaning

78

Cooper 1972–1975: 268. Jacobsen, private communication (1980). 80 De Zorzi 2019. 79

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of “face to face” or “to look at each other.”81 When it occurs in the singular, it is construed with itti. In addition to the two attestations in this omen, it also occurs twice in tablet 104 (see sec. 8 below), suggesting specific sexual connotations. Following Cooper’s description of the Susa bed scene, I have translated the term as “foreplay.”82 The stimulation of “mutual looking” has resulted in ejaculation outside of a female orifice. My interpretation is based on the independent clause in the second line (K]I.UŠ-su A TAG), which I have translated as “he smears his footprint with semen,” and on the elaborate ritual. The commentary K.103:2 reads: “[KI.UŠ]-su A TAG-ma = ki-bi-is me-e talap-pat-ma: ul i-di.” Although the commentator does not understand the line, he has spelled out the second person present, indicating that he understood the phrase to be part of either the apodosis or the ritual. He has also taken A to be mu, “water,” instead of “sperm” or “semen.” The basic meaning of kibsu is “tracks, steps made by human beings, animals, demons, etc.” 83 Its extended meanings, such as “path, traces, or approach,” derive from the basic sense of kibsu as prints left on the ground by a living being. The pronomial suffix -su indicates that the word is in the nominative or accusative case and should be read kibissu. The verb lapātu occurs with a double accusative, providing the translation “he smears his footprint with semen.”84 The elaborate three-line ritual makes it clear what is at stake: instead of a proper crossing of boundaries, an ominous contamination has occurred. The ritual begins with a good first step—he should clean shoes and place them on either side of the threshold of the door. In the second line, the bed is placed in a standing position, and it becomes the door. The woman faces him, but the bed is the locus of the malefic event, so it is the bed that is rubbed. In the third line of the ritual, he kisses the women seven times, goes out the door and then kisses the door jamb seven times. The ritual cleans the contamination and restores the proper crossing of crossing of thresholds. In addition, the reliefs provide visual evidence that make it perfectly possible to see how semen could become smeared on a man’s footprint. The ritual actions suggest that malefic contamination occurred first on the bed and then subsequently when he left the house with semen on the bottom of his shoes, tracking it outside the house and making him prey for both animals and demons.

81

CAD A/II ātû, “to find,” 520, mng. 3. Cooper 1975: 263§8. 83 CAD K kibsu 336. 84 See CAD L lapātu 86 mng 1h. 82

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5. Omen 10: the outer threshold of the house Omen 10 reads, If a man “goes” to a woman on the threshold of the outer gate, for dIšum, Lord of the street … , that woman will not deliver [her child]; illness. … To avoid this: you take dust from the right and the left of the threshold; you make a figurine of the woman; you bury it in the threshold of the outer gate [and] it will not happen to him. 85 Omen 10 does not deal with anal intercourse; rather, intercourse has taken place, not on the inner threshold of the house, but on the outer threshold, a place that marks the transition between the house and the public street. The making of a figurine and burying it under the threshold is a common Mesopotamian practice supported by archaeological evidence. The Assur text was part of the large professional library in the house of excorcists. According to Heeßel, The finding of several brick boxes below the floor that still contained magical figurines deposited there when the house was built reveals that the excorcists followed their own advice in protecting their home against demons, diseases, and other evils by placing magical figurines at precarious points in the house, just as it was detailed in the ritual texts found in their library.86 6. No man is an Object: MAL A19 and A20—tablet 104, omen 13 Two Middle Assyrian legal provisions that deal with sodomy, and the omen from tablet 104 that references them, help flesh out, so to speak, Assante’s portrait of sexual theater and statecraft. Although the two laws and the omen deal with sex between men, together they provide a concise demonstration of the relationship between the omens and laws and show what can be gained by viewing the material through the prism of an omen. 6.1. MAL A19 and A20 Two sodomy laws are recorded in the MAL A, the tablet of provisions dealing with women. There is no parallel to these laws in any of the other Mesopotamian legal corpora. Like the inlays, they make their appearance within a narrow temporal and cultural moment and then vanish. The laws have to be understood within the context of the social bonds and sexual ideology that protect and define elite Middle Assyrian citizenry. 85

10’[DIŠ N]A ana MUNUS ina KUN4 KÁ TILLA4 DU-ik ana dI-šum EN SI[LA ] / MUNUS BI ul uš-tak-lal mu-ru-uṣ [] ana NU TE SAḪAR KUN4 KÁ 15 u 150 te-leq-qú ṣa-lam MUNUS ┌DÙ┐ / ina KUN4 KÁ TILLA4 te-te-mer-ma N[U TE-šú]. Composite text: K 8268, lines 19–22 (AMT 65 3) + K 12711, P397558 /VAT 13809 (KAL 1 107, lines 5–8). 86 Heeßel 2017: 374.

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The verb nâku, here translated as “to sodomize,” refers to illicit sexual intercourse. Unlike the verbs alāku and ṭeḫû, it is transitive (see footnote 10). The legal usage thus casts a man’s equal as both a grammatical and sexual object. The sex omens do not refer to sexual activity as either licit or illicit. MAL 19 reads: If a man furtively spreads rumors about his comrade, saying, “Everyone sodomizes him,” or in a quarrel in public says to him, “Everyone sodomizes you,” and further, “I can prove the charges against you,” but he is unable to prove the charges and does not prove the charges, they shall strike that man 50 blows with rods; he shall perform the king’s service for one full month; they shall cut off his hair; moreover, he shall pay 3,600 shekels of lead.87 For its part, MAL 20 reads, “If a man sodomizes his comrade and they prove the charges against him and find him guilty, they shall sodomize him and turn him into a eunuch.”88 As the text above indicates, MAL 19 deals with unsubstantiated defamation. An Assyrian citizen, either by spreading rumors or in a public outburst, accuses another man of being a penetrated sexual object. The calumny challenges the accused’s claim to full Assyrian citizenship. The false accuser is to perform the king’s service for a month and his hair is cut off. He is not castrated. However, when his head is shaved, he temporarily carries the outwardly visible mark of eunuch. MAL 20, however, deals with rape.89 An Assyrian citizen has forcibly turned his equal into a penetrated sexual object. A sexual offense against an individual is also a crime that threatens to destabilize elite social order. The crime and punishment are virtually the same. The punishment reflects the ethos of sexualized public performance that is part of the cultural imagination. The punishment stipulates a communal act in which the transgressing citizen is publicly and ritually transformed into the other, and effectively removed from the circle of equals by an equivalent act of state-sanctioned sexual aggression. Group rape imposes a public performance. If individual agency threatens to invert the social order, the social order responds in kind, with preposterously logical excess, demanding equivalent inflationary re-inversion.90 The sodomy laws that imagine an Assyrian citizen as a victimized sexual object are logically included in the provisions that deal with women. They have no place in the other MAL tablets, which consider disputes between free Assyrian subjects.

87

Roth 1997: 159. For the use of lead as currency, see Postgate 2013. Roth 1997: 160. 89 Guinan and Morris 2016: 153. 90 Guinan and Morris 2016: 155. 88

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6.2. Tablet 104, Omen 13 Omen 13 reads, “If a man has anal sex with a man of equal status, that man will go foremost among his brothers and colleagues.” 91 This omen is the mirror image of MAL 20—the position is the same, but anal sex with an equal is consensual, not criminal. The paronmastic relationship between qinnatu (anus) and the kināti plural of “colleagues” is a sly reference to the bond of group anality.92 The omen turns on the inverse relationship between sexual penetration and social position. The lone individual in the front and the rest of his community behind him is the same in both the omen and law.93 Going foremost is also the vanguard military position; the one who goes foremost spearheads the penetration into enemy territory.94 Ominous ambiguity is also in play, as the logic of reversible position is embodied in every man; the positions that define the relationship between two male equals—somatic obverse and inverse (penis and anus), agency (sexual subject or sexual object), social hierarchy (superior and inferior), or directional hierarchy (front and back)—can be occupied by one, or by everyone. 7. The male subject is never an object and female agency is not subjecthood: tablet 104, omens 17 and 28 Throughout both sex omen tablets, the man is always the divinatory, sexual, and grammatical subject. The woman may be the agent of the act, but she is never the subject. Omen 17 twists the syntax of the protasis to preserve the male subject and demonstrates that female agency is not subjecthood: “If a man, a woman mounts him, she will take his virility; for one month he will not have a personal god.”95 In omen 28, a male subject who initiates female sexual agency has turned himself into a sexual object and is emasculated by his own desires: “If a man causes a woman to repeatedly take hold of his penis [i.e., masturbates him], he is not pure; the god will not accept his prayer.”96

DIŠ NA ana GU.DU me-eh-ri-šú TE NA.BI ina ŠEŠ.ME / ù ki-na-ti-šú a-šáre-du-tam DU-ak (CT 39 44:13), Guinan 1997: 474n16, 479n43.

91

92

Previous discussions of this omen include Guinan 1997: 469; Cooper 2006: 85; Peled 2016:189; Helle 2015; Guinan and Morris 2016: 162–163. 93 Sophus Helle (2015) pointed this out. He also pointed the possible etymological relationship between ašarēdu, “foremost,” and (w)ēdu, “single, sole, only” ( CDA 27). 94 Guinan and Morris 2016: 163.

DIŠ NA MUNUS ir-kab-šú MUNUS.BI UR.BI i-leq-qé ITU.1.KÁM (var. MU.1.KÁM) DINGIR NU TUK-ši (CT 39 44:17), Guinan 1997: 473n1, 478n28. 96 DIŠ NA GÌŠ-šú MUNUS uš-ta-na-aṣ-bat NU SIKIL ZI ŠU-šú DINGIR NU TUK-ši (CT 39 44:28); Guinan 1997: 473n2, 478n29. 95

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8. The female gaze in tablet 104, omens 19/20 and 36 The language of the omens exposes the anxiety that underlies the culture’s outward assertion of Assyrian sexualized subjecthood. The formulators of both sex omen tablets deem the female gaze to be a matter of ominous consideration. However, the logic and structure of each tablet differs. Tablet 104 explicitly contrasts the male and female gaze.97 The female gaze is located within a hierarchical frame of binary contrasts between benefic/ malefic and male/female. As the contrasting pair of omens (19 and 20) demonstrate, the female gaze is resolved by the reassertion of gendered power structure. Omen 19 reads, “If a man repeatedly stares at his woman’s vagina, his health will be good; he will lay his hands on whatever is not his.”98 Omen 20, however, asserts, “If a man is with a woman [and] while looking at him she repeatedly stares at his penis, whatever he finds will not be secure in his house.”99 In omen 19, to look is to reach out and take—whatever he looks at he is able to acquire. In the contrasting omen 20, the woman may be the agent, but the man remains the subject—the things he finds are subject to loss. Omen 36 deals with mutual looking: “If when a man is with his woman, while looking at each other, she touches [TAG.MEŠ] her vagina with her hands, that man is not pure; for the rest of [his] days his hand will tremble.”100 The verb šutātû appears in omens 19 and 36 with the same sense of foreplay as discussed above in relation to omens 6/7 and 104. The plural of lapātu (TAG.MEŠ) stands for the plurality of the action. The motion of her hand transfers negatively to the motion of his hand—his hand trembles. 9. Conclusion At present, the connections between omens 1–7 and the Middle Assyrian period and the inlays are based on circumstantial evidence. Middle Assyrian and Babylonian versions of Šumma ālu were part of the Assur Šumma ālu textual tradition that circulated alongside first-millennium recessions.101 It cannot be determined with existing evidence if tablet 103 was part of the earlier tradition. 97

The female gaze in the omens has to be distinguished from other examples of the female gaze in Akkadian literature, e.g., the frontal gaze of the goddess (Asher-Greve 2003: 1–59), the evil eye of the witch (Thomsen 1992: 19–32 [Abusch 2016: 205, Maqlu III: 11]), or the gaze elicited through love magic (Rendu Loisel 2018: 67). 98 DIŠ NA GAL4.LA MUNUS-šú it-ta-nap-la-as UZU.BI DÙG.GA / mim+ma la šu-atum ŠU-su KUR-ád (CT 39 44:19), Guinan 1997: 473n4, 478n31. 99 DIŠ NA KI MUNUS ina šu-ta-ti-šú GÌŠ-šú it-ta-nap-la-as / mim+ma ma-la ut-tu-ú ina É-šú NU GI.NA (CT 39 45: 20); Guinan 1997: 473n5, 478n32.

DIŠ NA UD-ma KI MUNUS-šú -ta-tu-ú GAL4.LA-šá ina ŠU.II-šá TAG.MEŠ / NA.BI NU SIKIL ana EGIR UD-mi ŠU-su i-ra-’-ub (CT 39 45: 36); Guinan 1997: 473n3, 478n30. 100

101

Heeßel 2007: 2–8; Arbøll 2021: 256–268.

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Omens from tablet 104 are direct references to the MALs. These references suggest that the omens address the conflict between the Middle Assyrian lead inlays and the MALs that Assante discusses. It also should be noted that omens of Šumma ālu reference and reverse both textual and non-textual aspects of culture.102 The female gaze in omens 1–7 cannot be resolved in the manner of tablet 104, nor are the omens reversals of the dominate power structure. Furthermore, the omens do not depict an incipient process of female subject formation, but only male fear of it. Therefore, it cannot be claimed that they constitute a Mesopotamian theory of subjection in the manner theorized by Judith Butler in The Psychic Life of Power.103 The omens, together with the inlays, indicate that the female gaze issues from a subjected body. Tablet 103 is an exploration of not just of thresholds, but ambiguous thresholds. The resolution of the malefic portents through ritual is built into and nailed into the divinatory system of tablet 103. However, women looking, women facing men, and women’s faces fall outside of this structure. The rituals of omen 5 and 7 address and resolve only the evil that threatens from the sexual act and her observation of it. The female gaze remains unresolved and active. The female eye, therefore, is not an orifice that can be penetrated—it remains unstated, implicit, and her gaze is penetrating. Acknowledgements I would like to thank two wonderful and patient editors, Beth Jewell and Beth Alpert Nakhai. Beth Jewell has been (or should have been) acknowledged on every paper I have ever written. I am also grateful to all the editors of GeMANE, who read and commented on this paper—it is a great privilege to be a member of this group of scholars. Sophus Helle read various drafts, and I’m grateful for his insightful comments. I am also grateful for Evelyne Koubkova’s timely and helpful suggestions. I would also like to thank my brother, Tom Kessler, MD, who was usually up at night when I wanted to talk. He developed an uncanny sense not just of the interpretive issues, but also for the textual mechanics. Finally, I would like to acknowledge the scholarship of Jerrold Cooper. His reading of texts and eye for images has produced a large and insightful body of work, which has laid the foundation for this paper. Bibliography Abusch, T. 2016: The Magical Ceremony Maqlû: A Critical Edition. Leiden/ Boston.

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Guinan 1989: 231. Butler 1997.

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Arbøll, T.P. 2021: Medicine in Ancient Assur: A Microhistorical Study of the Neo-Assyrian Healer Kiṣir-Aššur. Leiden and Boston. Asher-Greve, J. 1997: The Essential Body: Mesopotamian Conceptions of the Gendered Body. Gender and History 9(3), 432–461. Asher-Greve, J. 2006: The Gaze of the Goddesses: On Divinity, Gender, and Frontality in Late Early Dynastic, Akkadian, and Neo-Sumerian Periods. NIN: Journal of Gender Studies in Antiquity 4(1), 1–59. Assante, J. 2000: The Erotic Reliefs of Ancient Mesopotamia. PhD dissertation, Columbia University. New York. Assante, J. 2002: Sex, Magic and the Liminal Body in the Erotic Art and Texts of the Old Babylonian Period. In S. Parpola / R.M. Whiting: Sex and Gender in The Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the 47th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Helsinki, July 2–6, 2001. Helsinki, 27–52. Assante, J. 2007: The Lead Inlays of Tukulti-Ninurta I: Pornography as Imperial Strategy. In J. Cheng / M. Feldman: Ancient Near Eastern Art: Studies in Honor of Irene J. Winter by her Students. Leiden and Boston, 369–407. Boddy, K. 2021: A Peculiar Manuscript of Šumma ālu 104. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires 1(22), 54–56. Butler, J. 1997: The Psychic Life of Power: Theories in Subjection. Stanford, California. Cholidis, N. 1992: Möbel in Ton: Untersuchungen zur archäologischen und religionsgeschichtlichen Bedeutung der Terrakottamodelle von Tischen, Stühlen und Betten aus dem Alten Orient. Münster. Cifarelli, M. 1998: Gesture and Alterity in the Art of Ashurnasirpal II of Assyria. The Art Bulletin 80 (2), 210–228. Clancier, P. 2009: Les bibliothèques en Babylonie dans la deuxième moitié du Ier millénaire av. J.-C. Münster. Cooper, J. 1972–1975: Heilige Hochzeit. B. Archäologisch. Reallexikon der Assyriologie 4, 259–269. Cooper, J. 2002: Buddies in Babylonia. In T. Abusch: Riches Hidden in Secret Places: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Memory of Thorkild Jacobsen. Winona Lake, Indiana, 73–85. Cooper, J. 2006: Prostitution. Reallexikon der Assyriologie 11, 12–21. Cooper, J. 2008: Incongruent Corpora: Writing and Art in Ancient Iraq. In P. Taylor: Iconography without Texts. London and Turin, 69–94. Cooper, J. 2013: Sex and the Temple. In K. Kainiuth / A. Löhnert / J. Miller / A. Otto / M. Roaf / W. Sallaberger: Tempel im Alten Orient. Wiesbaden, 49–57. Cooper, J. 2016: The Job of Sex: The Social and Economic Role of Prostitutes in Ancient Mesopotamia. In B. Lion / C. Michel: The Role of Women in Work and Society in the Ancient Near East. Boston and Berlin, 209–277. De Graef, K. 2018: Taberna Quando Sumus: On Taverns, Nadītum Women and the Gagûm in Old Babylonian Sippar). In L. Budin / M. Cifarelli / A. Garcia-

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Ventura / A. Millet Alba: Gender and Methodology in the Ancient Near East: Approaches from Assyriology and Beyond. Barcelona, 77–115. De Zorzi, N. 2019:. Rude Remarks Not Fit to Smell. In T. Krüger and / A. Schellenberg (eds.): Sounding Sensory Profiles in the Ancient Near East, Atlanta, 217–251. Fales, F.M. 2021. Veiling in Ancient Near Eastern Legal Contexts. In R. Del Fabbro / F.M. Fales, H.D. Galter (eds.): Headscarf and Veiling Glimpses from Sumer to Islam. Venice, 89–101. Feldman, D. 2020: Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots. New York. Fincke, J. 2017: Assyrian Scholarship and Scribal Culture in Kalḫu and Nineveh. In E. Frahm (ed.): A Companion to Assyria. Hoboken, New Jersey, 368–377. Frahm, E. 1998: Anmerkungen zu den ālu-Kommentaren aus Uruk, NABU 1998 1, 13–14. Freedman, S. M,. 1998: If a City Iis Set on a Height., Vvols. 1–-3. Philadelphia. Gabbay, U. 2004: Wiping Away Tears in Akkadian Literature: dīmta haṭāpu and the Semitic Root hṭp/ htp. Ugarit Forschungen 36, 177–184. Gadd, C.J. 1925–1931: Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum. Vols. XXXVIII–XLI. London. Garton, S. 2004: Histories of Sexuality—Antiquity to Sexual Revolution. New York. Glassner, J.-J. 2020: Review of Schaudig 2019. Orientalistische Literaturzeitung 115, 47–49. Graff, S. 2013: Sexuality, Reproduction and Gender in Terracotta Plaques from the Late Third–Early Second Millennium BCE. In B. Brown / M. Feldman: Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art. Berlin, 371–390. Guinan, A. 1989: The Perils of High Living. In H. Behrens / D. Loding / M. Roth: DUMU-E2-DUB-BA-A: Studies in Honor of Ake W. Sjöberg. Philadelphia, 227–232. Guinan, A. 1997: Auguries of Hegemony: The Sex Omens of Mesopotamia. Gender and History 9(3), 462–479. Guinan, A. 2002a: A Severed Head Laughed: Stories of Divinatory Interpretation. In L. Ciraolo / J. Seidel: Magic and Divination in the Ancient World. Groningen, 7–40. Guinan A. 2002b: Erotomancy: Scripting the Erotic. In S. Parpola / R.M. Whiting: Sex and Gender in The Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the 47th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Helsinki, July 2–6, 2001. Helsinki, 185–201. Guinan, A. 2014: Laws and Omens: Obverse and Inverse. In J. Fincke: Divination in the Ancient Near East: A Workshop on Divination Conducted during the 54th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Würzburg, 2008. Winona Lake, Indiana, 105–121.

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Guinan, A. / Jaques, M. Forthcoming, 2022: A New Šumma Alu Nisḫu Tablet from Uruk (Tablet 103 and Tablet 104). Journal of Cuneiform Studies. Guinan, A. / Morris, P. 2016: Mesopotamia Before and After Sodom: Colleagues, Crack Troops, Comrades-in-Arms. In I. Zolnay: Being a Man: Negotiating Ancient Constructs of Masculinity. London, 50–175. Heeßel, N.P. 2017: Assyrian Scholarship and Scribal Culture in Ashur. In E. Frahm: A Companion to Assyria. Hoboken, New Jersey, 368–377. Heeßel, N.P. 2007: Keilschrifttexte aus Assur literarischen Inhalts. Wiesbaden. Helle, S. 2015: Putting the Anal Back in Anal(ysis): Some Notes on Anal Sex in Babylonian Scholarship. Oxford Postgraduate Conference in Assyriology, 2015. Wolfson College, Oxford. Jiménez, E. 2013. Cities and Libraries. Cuneiform Commentaries Project. In E. Frahm / M. Frazer / E. Jiménez / K. Wagensonner: Cuneiform Commentaries Project. https://ccp.yale.edu/P237781. Accessed 8 October 2021. Jiménez, E. 2017: Commentary on Ālu 103, 104 alt, and […] (CCP 3.5.103). In E. Frahm / M. Frazer / E. Jiménez / K. Wagensonner: Cuneiform Commentaries Project. https://ccp.yale.edu/P237781. Accessed 9 June 2021. Koch, U. 2015: Mesopotamian Divination Texts: Conversing with the Gods; Sources from the First Millennium BCE. Münster. Lerner, G. 1986: The Creation of Patriarchy. New York. MacKinnon, C. 1987: A Feminist/Political Approach. In J. Greer / W.T. O’Donohue: Theories of Human Sexuality. New York, 65–90. Martin, W. 2016: Primates of Park Avenue: A Memoir. New York. Maul, S. 2010: Die Tontafelbibliothek aus dem sogenannten “Haus des Beschwörungspriesters.” In S. Maul / N. Heeßel: Assur-Forschungen: Arbeiten aus der Forschungsstelle “Edition literarischer Keilschrifttexte aus Assur” der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften. Wiesbaden, 189–228. Moren, S. 1977: A Lost “Omen” Tablet. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 29(2), 63–72. Pedersén, O. 1986: Archives and Libraries in the City of Assur: A Survey of the Material from the German Excavations. 2 vols. Uppsala. Pedersén, O. 1998: Archives and Libraries in the Ancient Near East, 1500–300 B.C. Bethesda, Maryland. Peled, I. 2016: Masculinities and Third Gender. The Origins and Nature of an Institutionalized Gender Otherness in the Ancient Near East. Münster. Postgate, N. 2013: Bronze Age Bureaucracy: Writing and the Practice of Government in Assyria. Cambridge, United Kingdom. Reade, J. 1986: Archaeology and the Kuyunjik Archives. In K.R. Veenhof: Cuneiform Archives and Libraries: Papers Read at the 30e Rencontre Assyriologiques Internationale, 4–8 July 1983. Leiden Rendu Loisel, A.C. 2018: Acting on an Unwilling Partner: Gender and Sensory Phenomena in Old Akkadian and Old Babylonian Love Incantation. In S.L. Budin / M. Cifarelli / A. Garcia-Ventura / A. Millet Albà: Gender and Meth-

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odology in the Ancient Near East: Approaches from Assyriology and Beyond. Barcelona, 65-–74. Robson, E. 2019: Ancient Knowledge Networks: A Social Geography of Cuneiform Scholarship in First-Millennium Assyria and Babylonia. London. Robson, E. / Stevens, K. 2019: Scholarly Collections in First-Millennium Assyria and Babylonia., c. 700–200 BCE. In G. Barjamovic / K. Bardrum: Libraries before Alexandria: Ancient Near Eastern Traditions. Oxford, United Kingdom, 319–366. Roth, M. 1997: Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor. Atlanta. Schaudig, H. 2019: Explaining Disaster: Tradition and Transformation of the “Catastrophe of Ibbi-Sîn” in Babylonian Literature. Münster. Steinert, U. 2014: City Streets: Reflections on Urban Society in the Cuneiform Sources of the Second and First Millennium BCE. In N. May / U. Steinert: The Fabric of Cities: Aspects of Urbanism, Urban Topography and Society in Mesopotamia, Greece and Rome. Leiden and Boston, 123–169. Stevens, K.R. 2013: Secrets of the Library: Protected Knowledge and Professional Identity in Late Babylonian Uruk. Iraq 75, 211–254. Thomsen, M. 1992: The Evil Eye in Mesopotamia. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 51(2), 19–32. Veldhuis, N. n.d.: CT 18 6:20, K 00052, CDLI P345982. Open Richly Annotated Cuneiform Corpus. Accessed 27 September 2021. http://oracc.museum. upenn.edu/dcclt/nineveh/corpus. Winter, U. 1983: Frau und Göttin: Exegetische und ikonographische Studien zum weiblichen Gottesbild im Alten Israel und in dessen Umwelt. Freiburg and Göttingen.

In nomine matris et filii … The Use of Matronymics in the Legal and Economic Documents from Sukkalmaḫ Susa Katrien De Graef 1 ana ummīya 1. Introduction In all societies, individuals are given one or more names. These are never given randomly; on the contrary, names are intended to convey information to society. They are linked to social identity and self-identity and may reflect social status.2 Most people use a system combining a personal name and a family name: a first or given name followed by a last name, family name, or surname. Whereas the first name refers directly to the referent, the family name locates the referent in a larger group, such as a family or clan, and is most often taken from the father’s side.3 Family names or surnames may be occupational (referring to a profession), toponymic (referring to a place of origin), or cognominal (referring to a characteristic, physical or other), but the oldest and most common types of surnames are patronymic (referring to a patrilineal ancestor). 4 Patronymic surnames go back to actual or primary patronymics: son or daughter of a father’s given name. Although still in use (e.g., in Iceland and as an additional or a middle name in Russia),5 these have largely been replaced by patronymic surnames that originate from the given name of the father or a patrilineal ancestor, but do not change every generation. The female equivalent of patronymics, matronymics—son or daughter of a mother’s given name—are far less common. However, throughout history, traces of the use of matronymics can be found. In medieval European and Middle Eastern societies, matronymic names seem to have been a minority trend. Often, these are complementary matronymic designations, primarily transmitted to women but on some occasions also to men (e.g., in Catalonia and Italy), or matronymic surnames used by both women and men (e.g., in Anglo-Saxon societies and Bologna). 6 Of particular interest in this regard is pre-eighteenth-century

1

Ghent University, [email protected]. Keats-Rohan 2007: 158. 3 Keats-Rohan 2007: 156; Kroskrity 2020. 4 Keats-Rohan 2007: 166–168; Hanks and Parkin 2016. 5 Hanks and Parkin 2016; Kroskrity 2020. 6 Lestremau 2017: 201–202. 2

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Sardinia, where the use of multiple surnames permitted men and women to identify with both the patriline and matriline.7 Matronymic surnames are also known from medieval Ashkenazi communities, mostly referring to well-known female moneylenders who continued their husband’s business after his death. Matronymics were used in Hebrew prayers and rituals, a practice that may go back to Talmudic times and is probably linked to women’s particular connection to magic.8 In Arabic, matronymic surnames are also occasionally attested—the most famous example being, no doubt, ʿĪsā ibn Maryam (Jesus, son of Mary) in the Qurʾan.9 In Ancient Near Eastern sources, individuals are in general identified by a patronymic: son or daughter of a father’s given name.10 Occasionally, however, matronymics were used. This seems to have been the case particularly in royal and upper-class circles, due to polygynous marriages, when further specification was needed to clarify which wife was the mother, e.g., in Egypt, Ugarit, and Emar. The same goes, no doubt, for Joseph’s brother Benjamin, who is referred to as “his mother’s son”, and his half sister Dinah, who is called “daughter of Leah” in the Hebrew Bible. Children of women who are high rank and/or related to the royal family could also be referred to by their mother’s name, in which case the use of the matronymic was probably due to the mother’s social position and lineage, such as the children of the māliktu in Ebla, and David’s nephews, who are referred to as “sons of Zeruya”, David’s sister, in the Hebrew Bible.11 In other cases, the use of matronymics is generally explained by the lack of a legal father: male children of unmarried women, such as ḫarimtus,12 or priestesses, in the Old Babylonian period,13 and children born to female household slaves begotten by their owners in the Late Babylonian period.14 In general, the use of matronymics is perceived as and explained from an absence or deficiency of the male (father), and therefore often considered pejorative. Not being acknowledged by their father, these children were not allowed to use his patronymic, as a result of which they did not have a natural place in a patrilineal society and remained social outsiders. However, in documentary texts from Nuzi, men identified through matronymics are attested whose status does not seem to have been different from that 7

Murru-Corriga 2000. Keil 2017: 88–89. 9 Kroskrity 2020. 10 Married women could be identified as “wife of [husband’s given name]”. The use of family names, two- and three-part filiations, with a patronymic and a heritable surname referring to an ancestor and/or profession only came into being in the first millennium BC. See Wunsch 2014a and 2014b. 11 Marsman 2003: 205–206, 221–222, and 241. 12 Often mistranslated as “prostitute” (see Budin 2021: ch. 2). 13 Diakonoff 1986: 237; Harris 1989: 149. 14 Kuhrt 1989: 231. 8

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of men identified through patronymics. They act as parties and witnesses in economic and legal documents. It seems therefore improbable, as Grosz concluded, that these men were the illegitimate children of these women. She suggested the possibility that the men using matronymics instead of patronymics were sons of women appointed as sons. She has argued that, in the absence of sons, daughters who were not yet married could be given the full status of son in order to be able to inherit the family estate and responsibility for the family cult, and as such continue the patrilineage.15 If this holds true, the reason for using a matronymic is related to hereditary rights: being the sons of their mother makes them heir to her paternal estate. The mother behind the matronymic is, so to speak, the link in the chain of the lineage. This does not necessarily mean these men were fatherless or not acknowledged by their father. On the contrary, women who were married and whose father’s name is known from other contexts also used matronymics, as Grosz has noted.16 A similar situation seems to have existed in Pharaonic Egypt, where both men and women used matronymics for reasons linked to hereditary rights, especially in the context of polygynous marriages, as children of a first wife inherited more than those of a later wife.17 Within the framework of my research into heterarchy in Elam during the Sukkalmaḫ regime (ca. 1980–1450 BCE), I noticed the occurrence of matronymics in the documentary texts of Susa. To my knowledge, these have not been noted before: in the original edition of the texts in the 1920s and 1930s,18 Scheil considered all of them to be patronymics—even when they were preceded by the female gender determinative (munus), which he interpreted as part of the logogram for “daughter” (dumu.munus), although the names of referents were clearly male. The fact that there could have been male witnesses using matronymics was apparently even more inconceivable than the existence of female witnesses. So far, I have identified twenty-five matronymics (see Tab. 1), but there are probably more. It is, however, not always easy to recognize matronymics as such in the Susa texts, for the scribes did not consistently apply the use of gender determinatives. Only after 1400 BCE did the prefixing of personal gender determinatives seem to have become the rule in general.19 Twelve of the matro15

1989: 173–175. Ibid.: 176. 17 Marsman 2003: 205–206; Feucht 2016: 206. 18 MDP 18 by Dossin in 1927, and MDP 22, 23, 24, and 28 between 1930 and 1939 by Scheil, who retook a number of texts from MDP 18 and MDP 22. 19 Brinkman 2007. Noteworthy in this regard is the use of the double gender determinative (both male and female) before matronymics in the Middle Babylonian texts from Nippur and Babylon, which might point at the social and/or economic independence of these women as head of their family or household, as suggested by Brinkman. The same goes for the Nuzi texts (see Abrahami 2011). In the Susa texts, matronymics are never preceded by a double gender determinative. Female names not used as matronymics have double gender determinative on various occasions—and exceptionally even 16

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nymics I identified were prefixed by a female gender determinative—two of whom appeared both with and without gender determinative. The majority of the persons using a matronymic are men: twenty men vs. only five women. A logical explanation for the predominance of men may be the fact that in general more men than women are mentioned in the texts. However, caution is due here, as it is not always easy to identify the personal names that appear in the Susa texts as female or male. Contrary to the generally accepted assumption that the onomasticon in the documentary texts from Sukkalmaḫ Susa was for the greater part Akkadian, preliminary results of a study of the onomasticon show that more than half of the personal names were Elamite, hybrid, foreign, or of uncertain origin.20 Our poor understanding of Old Elamite and the rather large amount of hypocoristics (pet names or nicknames) and so-called banana names (lallatives with reduplicated syllables such as “banana”) make it difficult to understand the origin and meaning of these names, and therefore whether they were used for men or women (or both). As a result, only the names prefixed by a female gender determinative and those that could be identified with certainty (or high probability) as female—often Akkadian names—have been included in this study. The overall majority of the men and women identified by a matronymic in the Susa texts are witnesses. Their status does not seem to have been different from that of the men and women identified by a patronymic or without identification. It is hard to estimate the proportion of persons identifying themselves through their matriline, as more than three-quarters of the witnesses occur without any identification whatsoever (patronymic, matronymic, title, or profession). Only 5 percent of the witnesses with identification are attested with a matronymic. However, caution is again due here: as mentioned earlier, there are no doubt more, but it is hard to identify them due to the specificities of the onomasticon and the inconsistent application of gender determinatives. Moreover, at least one Susian woman is identified by both her matriline and patriline in different texts (see sec. 3.2). It seems, therefore, that the use of a matronymic could be a matter of choice, depending on the context. The same may have been true for the women from Nuzi who were married and whose father’s name is known from other contexts, but nevertheless used matronymics, as mentioned above. The reason why these men and women used (or chose to use) matronymics remains unknown, unfortunately. Démare-Lafont argues that a patronymic was an expression of legitimate filiation; hence, matronymics indicate that the mother in question was a widow, a divorcée, or single.21 She refers in this context to a male gender determinative. As for now, no clear pattern could be discerned: in some texts, one and the same woman is attested with a double and/or a female and/or a male and/or no gender determinative. Further research might shed light on the use of gender determinatives in the Susa texts, but lies outside the scope of the present article. 20 De Graef 2019: 93. 21 2014: 14–19.

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an Old Babylonian litigation from Sippar, in which military officers attempted to enlist a man named Ṣurārum—claiming that his father, Šumum-libši, was himself a soldier—but his request was rejected when it proved impossible to establish Šumum-libši’s paternity. The military officers argued that Šumum-libši, a member of the troops under their command, had married Šimat-Ištar, who left him two sons, among them Ṣurārum. However, Šimat-Ištar’s sister Lamassāni, a nadītu woman, declared together with her brother that Šumum-libši never officially married Šimat-Ištar, but was one of the many men who used to visit her. She further stated that the two boys were not officially the sons of Šumum-libši, but were raised by her.22 In the beginning of the text, Ṣurārum is identified by a matronymic (ᴵṢurārum, son of ᶠŠimat-Ištar). The uncertain paternity may certainly underlie this. However, as the full lineage reads “ᴵṢurārum[,] son of ᶠŠimatIštar[,] sister of Lamassāni[,] nadītu of Šamaš[,] daughter of Ili-išmeanni”23, the mention of his mother no doubt also serves as a link with or introduction to Lamassāni, whose declarations further in the text will prove to be decisive. Another Old Babylonian text often cited in regard to the contestation of paternity (and, as a result, hereditary rights) of a man whose father died before he was born is PBS 5 100.24 Roth offers a new interpretation of the text, concluding that it was no dispute between two opposing parties contesting the paternity of one of them, but on the contrary a confirmation hearing reviewing the oral testimony of witnesses and written documents. Moreover, as Roth notes, the text concerns filiation rather than paternity.25 Interesting for our case is the fact that although his father died before he was born (leaving him fatherless, so to speak), he is identified through a patronymic (and not a matronymic). In other words, the absence of a father is not necessarily at the root of the use of matronymics.26 Once again, it becomes clear that being the child of someone (man or woman, deceased or still alive) often means being the heir to that person (or his/her family). Obviously, this does not mean that the lack of a (legal) father cannot be a reason for the use of matronymics. However, in light of a society in which women seem to have been able to inherit and own real estate, such as the Elamite one, hereditary rights can be an interesting line of thought in explaining the use of matronymics. The donation deeds from Sukkalmaḫ Susa show that, in the majority of cases, donations were made to women. In almost a third, mothers donate their property to their children, mostly daughters, but also sons, or both. 22

Veenhof 2003; Charpin 2005. Veenhof 2003: 314–318, lines 1–2. 24 Stol 2000: 173–174 (with references). 25 2001: 256–288. 26 Another example, which Anne Goddeeris kindly pointed out to me, can be found in a text from Old Babylonian Nippur (TMH 10 3), in which a mother gives her daughter in marriage because the daughter’s father has died. The daughter is referred to by a patronymic despite the father being deceased. 23

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In the other documents, men donate property to women: mostly husbands to their wives, but also fathers to their daughters (and sons) or men to women whose relation is not explicitly mentioned. Only rarely do men donate to other men. On one occasion, it is explicitly stated that the property she donated to her daughters was inherited by the mother from her father.27 Indeed, apart from the donations made by fathers to their daughters, it seems that on some occasions, daughters could equally share in the inheritance of the paternal (or other) estate.28 This is also apparent from the mention of property co-owned by men and women in sales and litigations. Sales and leases also show that, although less often than with men, women could also own real estate property in Sukkalmaḫ Susa. Being the son or daughter of such a woman, and identifying as such by means of a matronymic, could therefore have been important in terms of hereditary rights. This is clearly demonstrated by the aforementioned donation of property by a mother to her two daughters, which not only mentions the origin of the property (inherited by the mother from her father) but also explicitly mentions the heirs of the legatees, viz, their sons.29 In this case, the property was transferred by her father to Anu-pīša, who donated it to her daughters, whose sons would inherit it in turn. In two of the four generations, the ones transferring (a part of) the property were females. In what follows, I will give an overview of the men and women identifying themselves by a matronymic in the documentary texts from Sukkalmaḫ Susa. Only proper matronymics (PN son/daughter of (ᶠ)PN) are included; individuals who are identified as the son or daughter of a woman mentioned earlier in the text (e.g., PN “her son” or “her daughter” in donations, referring to a female donor) have not been included. This is by no means an exhaustive overview—as mentioned above, it is not always easy to recognize matronymics as such in the Susa texts. Further research into the onomasticon of the Susa texts will certainly provide more insight into the linguistic nature of the names and will no doubt reveal hitherto-unrecognized female names and thus matronymics. Although reference has been made here and there to the linguistic and etymological origin of the names attested as matronymics, this is by no means a study of these names, but only a preliminary study of the use of matronymics. In my conclusion, the use of matronymics is contextualised within the framework of a heterarchical social power structure.

27

MDP 28 404ab: par. 2. In MDP 22 21, ᶠSābītu, ᶠBānītu, Damiq-Inšušinak, and Bēlšunu, children of Adad-bani, divide the paternal estate; in MDP 24 334, Sîn-rabi, Ziniyu, Sîn-išmanni, and Amat-Erra (although preceded by a male gender determinative, clearly a female personal name) divide the property of Tadduya; and in MDP 24, 335, 336, and 337, ᶠErištum, ᶠLarzātum, ᶠBēltani, and Rabiya divide the paternal estate. 29 MDP 28 404ab: par. 2. 28

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2. Men identifying themselves by a matronymic In two copies of a donation (MDP 28 404ab), two men are explicitly mentioned as son (and thus heir) of their mother. Both documents record the donation of Anu-pīša’s property, which she inherited from her father, to her daughters: the first one to her daughter Sîn-nūri and the second one to her daughter Pilili. At the end of the first document, Irib-Sîn is mentioned as Sîn-nūri’s son and thus heir (i-ri-ib-sin dumu šà sin-nu-ri), at the end of the second document, Bēlšunu is mentioned as Pilili’s son and thus heir (be-el-šu-nu dumu šà pi-li-li). In all other texts, the men identifying themselves by a matronymic act as witnesses in legal and economic documents, mostly leases, sales, donations, and divisions: documents in which property is (temporarily or permanently) transferred. The reason some of these men identify themselves through their matriline remains uncertain, but as MDP 28 404ab seems to indicate, being a son implies being an heir.30 In a society where real estate property was not exclusively transferred from father to son, but where women could also be heirs or recipients and were, as such, owners of real estate alongside men, it might have been important to stress kinship to one’s mother. As the examples given below show, a social network of well-to-do urbanites existed in which both men and women were economically active. Not only was property co-owned between men and women, but property was also transferred from men to men, women to women, men to women, and women to men. Within a context of a property-transfer network in which women could play key roles, it seems obvious for some men to identify themselves through their matriline.

30

This is corroborated by the interchangeable use of the phrases “to adopt as a son” and “to adopt as an heir” in the adoption documents from Old Babylonian Nippur (Anne Goddeeris, personal communication, 22 September 2021).

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Table 1: Overview of matronymics attested in the legal and economic texts from Sukkalmaḫ Susa (in alphabetical order) Matronymic Adaritu Adaritu Akiyaki

Šēlebūtu (?) Šēretu

Det. — f f f f f — — f f f f f f — — — f f — f — — — f f f f

[Šiqlātu (?) Šūbultu [Tarībatu

— — —

Akk? Akk Akk

Te(t)tê Kuk-tepturi Šupuša

? El ?

Ummi-rūqat Uzāltu ZA-AB-rutu (?)

— — —

Akk Akk El (?)

Rīm-Kuriš Teppirtu Sîn-atkal

hybrid El Akk

Anatu (?) Bānīti-Erra Bēlet-ili-ummi Etelletu

Ḫuzalātu Immertu

Iṣrupanni Kāribtu Lālûtu Pili-kuti Pilili PI-qa-ti Sîn-nūri Ṣaburtu

Ling. El (?) El (?) ?

Matronymic bearer Rabāt-erišti Ay-ēniš Šamaš-rabi

Ling. Akk Akk Akk

Amor (?) Akk Akk Akk

Ḫablum Lidiya Adad-rabi Warad-Kurara

Akk ? Akk hybrid

Akk Akk

Nūr-Ištar a/ia-a-ta-PA-da

Akk ?

Akk Akk Akk El El ?

Mār-ešrê Zayan Kūbu-rabû Bānītu Bēlšūnu Rabiya

Akk ? Akk Akk Akk Akk

Akk Akk

Irib-Sîn Nūr-Ištar

Akk Akk

Akk Akk

Ḫumban-[ … ] Adaritu

El El?

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Det. = gender determinative; f = female gender determinative; — = no gender determinative; Ling. = linguistic nature; Akk = Akkadian; El = Elamite; Amor = Amorite; ? = uncertain Gender f m m

m m m m

m m (?)

m m (?) m f m m m m

m f f m m (?)

m f m

Text MDP 23 227: 27 MDP 24 381: 22 MDP 23 174: 15 MDP 23 175: 14 MDP 23 176: 14 MDP 23 275: 8 MDP 24 394: 14 MDP 23 260: 12 MDP 23 174: 10 MDP 23 175: 9 MDP 23 176: 9 MDP 22 101: 13 MDP 23 174: 19 MDP 23 175: 18 MDP 23 176: 18 MDP 22 138: 5 MDP 22 047: 7 MDP 23 229: 16 MDP 22 051: 45 MDP 28 404b: 21 MDP 23 224: 30 MDP 23 261: 15 MDP 28 404a: 21–22 MDP 23 227: 26 MDP 23 229: 17 MDP 23 286: 26 MDP 23 285: 5 MDP 23 313: 17 MDP 22 101: 21 MDP 22 101: 19 MDP 23 174: 16 MDP 23 175: 15 MDP 23 176: 15 MDP 23 285: 6 MDP 23 287: 19 MDP 23 174: 20 MDP 23 175: 19 MDP 23 176: 19

Genre sale of a house donation (3 copies of a) division

Role witness 6 out of 11 witness 3 out of 12 witness 8 out of 17

loan of silver verdict (?) lease esip tabal (3 copies of a) division

witness 2 out of 6 witness 5 out of 7 witness 1 out of 6 witness 3 out of 17

lease esip tabal (3 copies of a) division

witness 1 out of 14 witness 12 out of 17

donation sale of a house sale of a field sale of a house donation sale of a house lease esip tabal donation sale of a house sale of a field adoption ina aḫḫūtim donation settlement of accounts before witnesses lease esip tabal lease esip tabal (3 copies of a) division

witness 5+x out of 24+x witness 10 out of 14 witness 2 out of 5 witness 15 out of 16 mentioned as heir witness 4 out of 8 witness 3 out of 5 mentioned as heir witness 5 out of 11 witness 3 out of 5 witness 7 out of 17+x witness 10 out of 19 owner of the house where the settlement took place witness 10 out of 14 witness 7 out of 14 witness 9 out of 17

donation donation (3 copies of a) division

witness 11 out of 19 witness 9 out of 13 witness 13 out of 17

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2.1. Ay-ēniš, son of ᶠAdaritu Ay-ēniš, son of ᶠAdaritu,31 is the third witness (after the gods32) in MDP 24 381. This text records the donation by ᶠIštayartu of all her property, urban and rural, to her daughter Ali-aḫatu.33 The first two witnesses, Iqīšūni and Šamaš-nāṣir, are identified as her husband (dam-sà) and her son (dumu-šà)—obviously referring to ᶠIštayartu—which is a highly unusual way for witnesses to be identified. After Ay-ēniš, son of ᶠAdaritu, the witness list continues with Mār-ešrê, Adaritu—no doubt Ay-ēniš’ mother—and seven more witnesses, (at least) six of whom are female, all without patronymics or matronymics. The composition of this witness list is remarkable, to say the least: apart from the husband and son of the testatrix, Ay-ēniš is the only one to be identified by a matronymic, viz, Adaritu, who herself is a witness. Moreover, the majority of witnesses are women. A possible explanation might lie in the nature of the contract, viz, a woman bequeathing all of her property to her daughter, notwithstanding the fact that the legatee had brothers and sisters, as mentioned in the text,34 at least one of whom (but maybe more) was a witness. 31 Scheil (1933: 76) considered Ay-ēniš to be the daughter of Adaritu (line 22: igi a-a-eni-iš dumu.munus a-da-ri-ti). However, Ay-ēniš refers to a male (abbreviation of Ayēniš-ili or Ili-ay-ēniš; see Stamm 1939: 175 and CAD E sub enēšu 1 a), whereas Adaritu is clearly a female personal name (with female gender determinative in MDP 23 313: 17 and MDP 24 393: 46). It is therefore much more likely to interpret Ay-ēniš as the son of Adaritu (line 22: igi a-a-e-ni-iš dumu fa-da-ri-ti). The etymology of ᶠAdaritu is uncertain. CAD A1 sub *addarû (fem. addarītu) gives the female personal names ᶠA-da-ri-ti and ᶠAda-ri-tum and translates as “born in the month Addaru”. However, it is unclear whether the month name addaru is of Semitic origin or is an Elamite or foreign word (Cohen 1993: 340). Personal names with adar/attar are common in Elamite (e.g., Kuk-adar, Attar-uktuḫ, Attar-kittaḫ, ᶠAttar-šutu). According to Zadok (1984: 8 and 35), adar/attar is to be interpreted as at(t)a [“father” + -r (formative 3rd sg. conjugation III)]. Note, however, ELW I sub a-da-ar interpreting Adar as an Old Elamite deity. Zadok (1983: 99, 110) interprets Adara, Adari, Adaru, and Adaruru as (male) hypocoristica derived from at(t)ar. ᶠAdaritu might have been a female hypocoristicon on -itu (possibly “Akkadianized”?) derived from adar/attar. ᶠa-da-ri-ti is also attested as matronymic in a Middle Babylonian text from Nippur (see Sassmannshausen 2001: 240; Brinkman 2007: 4). 32 In the majority of legal and economic texts from Sukkalmaḫ Susa, the first two witnesses are gods, logographically rendered as ᵈutu and ᵈmùš.eren and traditionally interpreted as Šamaš, the Babylonian sun god, and Inšušinak, patron deity of Susa (see Hinz 1980), following Scheil’s first edition of the texts. It is, however, more likely that in this context ᵈutu must be read Naḫḫunte, the Elamite sun god, instead of his Babylonian counterpart (see Stolper 1998). In the order of witnesses in the list, I start counting after the gods Naḫḫunte and Inšušinak. 33 Written a-la-ḫa-tu on lines 7 and 11 but a-li-a-ḫa-tu on line 35. For the name Aliaḫatu, see Stamm 1939: 285. 34 MDP 24 381: 9: ma-am-ma-an i-na aḫ-ḫi-šà; 10: ù aḫ-ḫa-ti-šà; 11: šà a-na a-⸢la⸣-ḫatu; 12: ú-ul na-di-ik-ki i-qa-ab-bu-ma (Whoever among her brothers and her sisters

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Within the context of this clearly female property-transfer network, in which even the husband and son of the testatrix are identified by referring to her, it might have been appropriate (or even imperative?) for Ay-ēniš to identify himself through his matriline (rather than his patriline)—especially as his mother, Adaritu, seems to have been part of the female network. A person named Ayēnis is attested as the father of Išme-kārab-ilum in the witness list of MDP 24 383, a marriage contract. It may be one and the same person, but unfortunately this does not inform us more on his and his mother’s relationship to the testatrix and legatee. Highly remarkable also is the existence of another text, MDP 24 382, also recording the donation by ᶠIštayartu of her property to her daughter Ali-aḫatu. Contrary to the former text, in which the property is described in general terms,35 it is described here in detail: fields located in the three bala sectors, cultivated by rainfall as well as irrigation, everything her father left her, and a house with well in Susa. 36 Both donations have completely different witness lists, apart from one woman, ᶠŠumruṣaku, occurring in both lists as the tenth and eleventh witness, respectively. It is not clear to me which text predates (and/or replaces) which. MDP 24 381 mentions that ᶠIštayartu donated her property “facing death” (ina pānu šīmtīša), which might imply this text was written later and thus replaced MDP 24 382. The fact that her property is described in general terms rather than in detail may point in the same direction, viz, all of her property: the property described in MDP 24 381, left to her by her father, and the property she later acquired. 2.2. Division of the estate between Šallu, Išme-kārab-ili, and Taklāku-ana-Inšušinak Three texts, MDP 23 174, 175, and 176, record the division of the estate between three persons, Šallu, Išme-kārab-ili, and Taklāku-ana-Inšušinak. Each document records the share of one of them: Šallu receives (shares of) five orchards and (a share of) a field, and Išme-kārab-ili and Taklāku-ana-Inšušinak each receive (shares of) four orchards and (a share of) a field.

should say to Ali-aḫatu “It is not given to you”). 35 MDP 24 381: 5: níg.ga šà uruki-šà ù eden-šà; 6: a.šà é.dù ù giškiri6 (Her urban and rural property: fields, houses, and orchards alike). 36 MDP 24 382: 4: a.šà 0.1.4.0 numun.ta.àm numun bala.3.[kam]; 5: bala.uru.dag bala.gal; 6: ù bala.igi.uruki; 7: a.šà im.an.na ù ší-qí-ta; 8: mi-im-ma šà a-bi; 9: i-zi-ba-amma; 10: é.dù.a ù bu-ur-ta; 11: šà uruki šu-ší (Fields (requiring) 100 litres of seed in the three bala sectors, the bala.uru.dag, the bala.gal, and the bala.igi.uruki, fields (cultivated by) rainfall and irrigation, everything that my father left me, and a house with well in the city of Susa). For the bala sectors and the topography of fields in the Susa text in general, see De Graef 2018.

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The three texts have identical witness lists, consisting of seventeen men, all identified by patronymic, matronymic, or profession/title, the last of whom being the scribe of the documents, Warad-Kūbi. At least four (but possibly five) of these men identify themselves by a matronymic: 1) the third witness, WaradKurara, son of ᶠEtelletu;37 2) the eighth witness, Šamaš-rabi, son of ᶠAkiyaki;38 3) the twelfth witness, a/ia-a-ta-PA-da, son of ᶠImmertu;39 and 4) the thirteenth witness, Sîn-atkal, son of ZA-AB-rutu.40 As for the ninth witness, Šupuša,41 son 37

Scheil (1932: 17) considered Warad-Kurara to be the daughter of Etelletu (MDP 23 174: 10: igi ìr-ku-ra-ra dumu.munus e-di-li-ti); see also ELW I sub ARAD(?).ku-ra-ra. However, names starting with ìr- (Akk. warad [male slave/servant of X]) always refer to males, implying munus is to be considered a female gender determinative indicating a matronymic. Zadok interprets Kurara as an Elamite divine name or epithet, with a reduplicated syllable from kur (see Zadok 1984 sub 117b. KURARA). According to Grillot-Susini (1987: 13) kur means “hand”. ᶠe-di-li-ti is no doubt a variant spelling of the Akkadian Etelletum, attested in BM 97018 (unpublished administrative document, Old Babylonian Sippar) (see also Etellet-GN in Stamm 1939: 84). See also ᶠe-di-il-⸢li⸣-tu in MDP 22 138 (see sec. 2.7) and e-tel-lí-ti-na-bi-im in MDP 24 332. 38 Scheil (1932: 17) considered Šamaš-rabi to be the daughter of Akiki (MDP 23 174: 15: igi ᵈutu-gal dumu.munus a-ki-ki). However, Šamaš-rabi always refers to a male (in the Susa texts and beyond; see Ranke 1905: 147), implying munus is to be considered a female gender determinative indicating a matronymic. Moreover, MDP 23 175: 14 and 176: 14 read igi ᵈutu-gal dumu ᶠa-ki-ia-ki, implying the matronymic is to be read Akiyaki (and not Akiki). MDP 23 174 was unfortunately not available for collation, but in all probability the modern copyist omitted the /ia/ and line 15 is to be read igi ᵈutu-gal dumu ᶠa-ki-ia-ki (the same goes for MDP 23 175: 9, where the copyist omitted the /li/ but collation showed it to be ᶠe-di-li-ti). The meaning and origin of ᶠAkiyaki is unclear. A similar PN is attested in MDP 23 175 as neighbour of two orchards on lines 1–2: nu-riia-ki, possibly to be interpreted from Akkadian nūru “light”, followed by a suffix -yaki, the origin and meaning of which is unclear to me. 39 Scheil (1932: 17) considered a/ia-a-ta-pa-da to be the daughter of Immertu (MDP 23 174: 19: igi a-a-ta pa-da dumu.munus im-me-er-ti). However, Immertu refers to a woman (see Stamm 1939: 253), implying munus is to be considered a female gender determinative indicating a matronymic. The meaning and origin of a/ia-a-ta-PA-da is unclear. A similar name is attested in MDP 22 165: a-na-a-a-ti-a-pa-du, read by Scheil (1930: 177) as A-na a-a-ti-a-ḫad-du, maybe to be interpreted as Ana-ayāti-aḫaddu (Forwhat/whom-shall-I-rejoice?). It might be a variant (short) spelling of the same name: Ayati-aḫadda. However, it is also possible to read Ayata-pada, see for pada ELW I sub pa-da (Old Elamite, without translation) and the name Erra-pada in MDP 23 208. Ayatum and Ayatiya are attested as (hypocoristica) personal names for both men and women (see Ranke 1905: 64, 182). 40 The meaning and origin of ZA-AB-rutu is unclear. A possibility is to read Ṣabrutu, which might be a variant of the female Akkadian name Ṣaburtu (see Stamm 1939: 265) or is to be interpreted as the Akkadian ṣabrutu, “squinting” (see the male variant Ṣabru in a text from Tell Muhammad; see also Turan 8: 1681). Another possibility is to interpret it as an Elamite name, starting with zap- and ending in -rutu, “wife” (see ELW

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of Tarībatu, it remains uncertain, as Tarībatu can be used for both men and women.42 It is unclear to me why four (or five) of the seventeen male witnesses identify themselves through their matriline (rather than their patriline), especially as the estate is divided between three men: Šallu, Išme-kārab-ili, and Taklāku-anaInšušinak. The neighbours of the orchards divided among them are in part female, viz ᶠŠušu-liwwir, neighbour to one (part of an) orchard legated to Šallu and three (parts of) orchards legated to Išme-kārab-ili; ᶠImdi-kitta, neighbour to one (part of an) orchard legated to Išme-kārab-ili and one (part of an) orchard legated to Taklāku-ana-Inšušinak; and Iṣrupanni,43 neighbour to one (part of an) orchard legated to Taklāku-ana-Inšušinak. Nuriyaki, neighbour to two (parts of) orchards legated to Taklāku-ana-Inšušinak, might also be a female name, given the suffix “-yaki” parallel to the female name ᶠAkiyaki (see fn. 38), in which case the majority of neighbours were female. It is therefore possible that Šallu, Išme-kārab-ili, and Taklāku-ana-Inšušinak inherited the estate from a woman (their mother or another female relative?), which might explain the choice of some of the witnesses to identify themselves through their matriline. However, this remains highly speculative, as the relation between the three legatees is unfortunately unknown to us—they might as well have been partners in an artificially created partner- or brothership and were thus biologically unrelated. 2.3. Ḫablum, son of ᶠAnatu (?) Ḫablum, son of ᶠAnatu,44 is the second witness (after the gods) in MDP 23 275, a commercial loan document between the partners Pukkudi45 and Išme-kārab-ili. The other witnesses are not identified through a patronymic or matronymic. II sub ru-tu4, ru-tú). The meaning of zap is unclear, but see the nickname Zappi (Zadok 1983: 119) and geographical names staring with zap-, such as Zap-muri, Zappiya, and Zapšali (ELW II sub za-ap-mu-ri, za-ap-pi-ia, and za-ap-ša-li.KI). Whether Akkadian or Elamite in origin, it clearly seems to be a female name. 41 The meaning and origin of Šupuša is unclear. It is also attested in the Nuzi texts; see OIP 57: 139 sub ŠUPUŠA (Akk. Šûpuša?). It might be a variant of the Akkadian names Šu-pīša or Šūpûm (see Turan 8: 1866). Another possibility is a nickname from the Elamite šup, “sacrifice” (see Zadok 1983: 94, 114: Šupšupi(ya) and ELW II sub šu-up). 42 Ranke 1905: 168–169, 195. 43 For the female name Iṣrupanni, see fn. 60. 44 Scheil (1932: 140) considered Ḫablum to be the daughter of Ana-ᵈ … (line 7b: igi ḫaab-lim dumu.munus a-na-ᵈ …). However, Ḫablum refers to a man (see Stamm 1939: 297), implying munus is to be considered a female gender determinative indicating a matronymic. Moreover, collation of the tablet showed that the sign after a-na is certainly not dingir, but rather ti, which is the last sign of the line. As such, we can read the name as Anatu (see Gelb 1980: 95: ʿan-at-um). Anatu(m) is used for both women and men, but is here clearly a female name (line 7b: igi ḫa-ab-lim dumu ᶠa-na-ti?). 45 The meaning and origin of Pukkudi is unclear. It is listed in ELW I sub pu-uk-ku-di as

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2.4. Lidiya, son of Bānīti-Erra (and his brother Munnati) Lidiya,46 son of Bānīti-Erra,47 is the fifth witness (after the gods) in MDP 24 394, a verdict in the lawsuit that ᶠPilili and ᶠPigutu filed against Enšam-īde and Tarībatu regarding the possessions of Šamaš-gāmil, their father. Lidiya is followed in the witness list by Munnati,48 his brother. The other witnesses are not identified through a patronymic or matronymic. A woman named Bānīti-Erra is attested in four more texts, in three of which she is preceded by the female gender determinative. She is the penultimate witness in MDP 23 263, 264, and 267, three esip tabal field leases 49 in which Awīliya acts as lessee (except for the first witness in MDP 23 267, all three texts have an identical witness list). In MDP 24 378, she is granted two orchards by her husband, Būr-Adad, which are set aside as ḫuptu holdings and which she may give to an heir. Although uncertain, it is possible that all attestations of Bānīti-Erra refer to one and the same woman, in which case Būr-Adad is likely to be the father of Lidiya and Munnati. It is not clear to me why Lidiya identifies himself through his matriline (as well as his brother through association with him). A possible explanation may be their mother being part of the network of the claimants ᶠPilili and ᶠPigutu. A woman named Pilili is attested in two more texts: as recipient (?) of two sheqels of silver in MDP 18 141, a list of amounts of silver and names, and as heiress to the estate of her mother, Anu-pīša, together with her sister Sîn-nūri in MDP 28 404b (see sec. 2.0). Although uncertain, it is possible that all attestations of Pilili refer to one and the same woman. ᶠPigutu is otherwise unattested. Although the relation between the claimants and defendants is not explicitly stated, it seems highly probable that ᶠPilili and ᶠPigutu were Šamaš-gāmil’s daughters, who took legal action against their brothers, Enšam-īde and Tarībatu, regarding the estate of their father—which seems to have turned out in their favour, as the text states that they must divide equally. The relation between Bānīti-Erra and ᶠPilili is unknown—if there was any— but both seem to have belonged to the social circle of wealthy Susian women.

an Old Elamite personal name, without translation. It might be a variant of Pukkitta known from the Nuzi texts (see OIP 57: 118). 46 The meaning and origin of Lidiya is uncertain. The name is not attested otherwise in the Susa texts. It might have been a nickname from the Akkadian līdu (CAD L sub līdu, “bastard”; CDA sub līdu, “child”, “offspring”). Another possibility is a (short) variant of i-li-di-ia (see OIP 57: 297: Ili-ittiya). 47 Always written ba-ni-it-ᵈìr.ra, no doubt short for Bānīti-Erra (My-creator-is-Erra); see Stamm 1939: 215 for female names with bānīti. 48 The meaning and origin of Munnati is uncertain. The name is not attested otherwise in the Susa texts. It might be a variant of Munatum (see Turan 8: 1196). 49 For esip tabal field leases, see Oers 2013.

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2.5. Adad-rabi, son of Bēlet-ili-ummi Adad-rabi, son of Bēlet-ili-ummi,50 is the first witness (after the gods) in MDP 23 260, recording the esip tabal field lease by Nūr-Inšušīnak from ᶠUbārtu. Five more witnesses follow, (at least) one of whom was a woman, ᶠAḫtiyaʾutu, who herself leased out a field to Nūr-Inšušinak in MDP 23 257; the latter was witnessed by, among others, ᶠUbārtu, implying both women belonged to the same social circle of Susian women owning property. The same may hold true for Adad-rabi’s mother, Bēlet-ili-ummi, which might explain why he identified himself through his matriline. A woman named Bēlet-ili-ummi is attested in MDP 22 137. This text records the donation by Bēlet-ili-ummi, facing death, of all of her property to her daughter Ilātišu (to the detriment of her son Iluluti, with whom she broke an earlier agreement—which again shows that a mother could freely choose to transfer property to a son or a daughter). Although uncertain, this might be the same Bēlet-ili-ummi that is referenced in MDP 23 260. Being the first witness implies Adad-rabi’s importance and ranking in the social network (through his mother). 2.6. Nūr-Ištar, son of fḪuzālatu, and Kuk-tepturi, son of Šūbultu Nūr-Ištar, son of fḪuzālatu,51 is the first witness (after the gods) in MDP 22 101, recording the esip tabal field lease by Ḫun-dilatu from Kundiya and Ešbê. Kuktepturi, son of Šūbultu,52 is the seventh witness in the same document. In between these two witnesses are a number of high-ranking persons: Atkalšu, apprentice teppir (puḫu teppi)53 (second witness); Kumbulu, pašīšu priest of Annunītum (third witness); and Warad-Kūbi, pašīsu priest of Kabta54 (eighth witness). The presence of high-ranked witnesses can be explained by the special status of the leased field, which was exceptionally large and belonged to the temple of Annunītum. 55 One of the lessors, Kundiya, was possibly pašišu 50

Always written dingir.maḫ-um-mi. For dingir.maḫ = Bēlet-ili see epsd sub Dingirmah (DN). 51 Scheil (1930: 115) considered Nūr-Ištar to be the daughter of Ḫuzalāti (line 13: igi nuúr-iš8-tàr dumu.munus ḫu-za-la-ti). However, Nūr-Ištar always refers to a male (in the Susa texts and beyond; see Ranke 1905: 133–134, and Stamm 1939: 275), whereas Ḫuzālatu is clearly a female personal name (see Stamm 1939: 253, and CAD Ḫ sub ḫuzālatu), implying munus is to be considered a female gender determinative indicating a matronymic (line 13: igi nu-úr-iš8-tàr dumu fḫu-za-la-ti). 52 Ranke (1905: 194) interprets Šubultu as “ear of grain” (see CAD Š3 sub šubultu), whereas in CAD it is listed under šūbultu (consignment, shipment, gift) (see CAD Š3 sub šūbultu c). 53 See Tavernier 2007: 64. 54 Scheil (1930: 115) reads line 20 as igi ìr-ku-bi pa-ší-ší šà ᵈìr-ra; collation of the tablet showed this to be igi ìr-ku-bi pa-ší-ší šà ᵈkab-ta. 55 MDP 22 101: 1: a.šà 10.0.0.0 gur numun-[šu bala] igi.uruki šà an-nu-⸢ni⸣-[tum] (A

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priest.56 The fact that Nūr-Ištar, son of fḪuzālatu, precedes these high-ranking persons in the list of witnesses implies that he was an important member of Susian society with a high social status. Given the matronymic, he may have owed this high status to his matriline. Unfortunately, fḪuzālatu is otherwise unattested. The same goes for Kuk-tepturi and his mother, Šūbultu, who are both otherwise unattested. Kuk-tepturi is an Elamite name,57 which might imply a social and/or professional high rank.58 It is in any case extraordinary that two undoubtedly high-ranking men identified themselves through their matriline rather than their patriline. Possibly, a third witness is identified through a matronymic in this text, viz, Te(t)tê, daughter of Šiqlātu (?),59 the tenth witness (see sec. 3.3). field (requiring) three thousand litres of seed (located in) the bala igi.uruki sector, belonging to Annunītum). (A second collation confirmed Scheil’s original reading, correct in De Graef 2018: 281, as such.) Annunītum was worshipped in Susa from early on in the Šimaškean/Sukkalmah period, as is shown by two lists with expenditures of food offerings (ewes, male sheep, and male goats) for deities in which she is mentioned (MDP 23 304 and 305, both dated by a year name of Ebarat I; see De Graef 2015). See also the personal name Annunītum-ummi (lessor of a field in MDP 23 252). On average, leased fields required one hundred litres of seed, implying this field was approximately thirty times the size of an average field (see De Graef 2018: 271–274). 56 Only a part of the first sign of Kundiya’s title is preserved, but it is likely to be completed ⸢pa⸣-[ší-ší], as suggested by Scheil (1930: 115). If this is correct, he was probably a pašīšu priest of Annunītum, like the third witness. 57 See ELW I sub ku-uk.te-ip-tu-ri, and Zadok 1984, 22–23. The same may go for lessor Kundiya and lessee Ḫun-dilatu. Kundiya might be of Hurrian origin (see OIP 57: 91 Kuntuya, used for both men and women). A person named Kundiyaʾu is attested in the litigations MDP 23 320, and 323, bearing the Elamite title ḫupirririša (see CAD Ḫ sub ḫupirririša). According to Zadok (1984: 13, 45), Ḫun-dilatu (and variant Ḫun-dulti) consists of the Elamite words ḫun (figure, image?), possibly a DN, according to Zadok— but see ELW I sub hu-un (light?) and tultu (no translation). For tultu, see Tultu-Adad (Turan 8: 1898), and Tulati and ᶠTultu in OIP 57: 157. -dilatu may also be a variant spelling of Akkadian tillatu, normally written with illat, but see Ili-ti-la-ti and Ilšu-ti-latu-su in Turan 8: 791–792, 832–833. 58 Although the preliminary results of the study of the onomasticon of the Susa texts show that there is in general no link between personal names and professional categories—persons bearing Akkadian, Elamite, and other names are represented in most professional categories—all state officials, form the highest to the lowest rank, bear Elamite names (see De Graef 2019: 93–94). 59 Scheil (1930: 115) reads line 21 as igi te-et-te-e dumu é-gál-la-ti; collation of the tablet showed this to be igi te-et-te-e dumu ší-iq-la-ti (SI-IG-la-ti). Although otherwise unattested, Šiqlātu might be a female nickname from šiqlu; see the male nickname Šiqlānu (Ranke 1905: 151; Stamm 1939: 256; Turan 8: 1837–1838). The name Te(t)tê is twice attested with female gender determinative: ᶠte-et-te-e (MDP 22 90) and ᴵᶠte-e-te-e (MDP 23 215), implying it refers to a woman here as well. The meaning and origin of

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2.7. Mār-ešrê, son of Iṣrupanni Mār-ešrê, son of Iṣrupanni,60 is the fifth +x witness in MDP 22 138. This text records the donation by Aḫušina of his property to his mother, ᶠṢaburtu: as long as she lives, she will have the usufruct, but after her death, his children Igmilanni-Inšušinak and ᶠEtelletu will inherit the estate. It is exceptional for a son to donate his estate to his mother—mostly, mothers or fathers donate to their children and husbands to their wives. The fact that Aḫušina’s children are appointed as heirs to his estate implies that his mother replaces him in some way—he might have been dying and wanted to safeguard his estate while his children were still too young to administer it. Whatever the case may have been, the fact that his mother becomes the keeper of his estate, which will be divided later on between his son and daughter, corroborates the equal roles men and women could play in Susian society regarding ownership of real estate. A question must be raised about Aḫušina’s wife. The expected procedure would have been that she would have inherited his possessions, or at least have taken care of them until the children could take over. The most simple explanation for her absence would be that she passed away, and Aḫušinua was soon to follow. The rather long list of more than twenty-four witnesses, among whom at least six were women, is partly broken, but it seems that Mār-ešrê is the only one identified by a matronymic. Although uncertain, a possible explanation may be that his mother was somehow linked to ᶠṢaburtu. A woman named Iṣrupanni is also attested in MDP 23 174, 175, and 176, documents recording the division of the estate between Šallu, Išme-kārab-ili, and Taklāku-ana-Inšušinak, as neighbour to one (part of an) orchard legated to Taklāku-ana-Inšušinak (see sec. 2.2). It is possible, though uncertain, that it concerns the same woman. The same three texts mention as the third witness Warad-Kurara, son of ᶠEtelletu. It seems, however, unlikely that Warad-Kurara’s mother and Aḫušina’s daughter were one and the same woman, given the different generations mentioned in the texts. 2.8. Zayan, son of Kāribtu Zayan, son of Kāribtu,61 is the tenth witness in MDP 22 47. This text records the purchase of a house by Kittamma from Muniq(u)-atta. It is not clear to me why Zayan identifies himself through his matriline. The list of witnesses is for the

Te(t)tê is uncertain (see Zadok 1983: 95, and OIP 57: 266, suggesting a possible Anatolian origin). 60 See Stamm, who interprets the female name ᶠIṣrupanni as “He-purified-me” (1939: 314). 61 For Kāribtu, see CAD K sub kāribu (fem. kāribtu) b), designating a woman as personal name. The meaning and origin of Zayan are unclear.

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greater part lost, but from what’s left, Zayan seems to be the only one identified by a matronymic. 2.9. Kūbu-rabû, son of Lālûtu, and Nūr-Ištar, Son of Ṣaburtu Kūbu-rabû, son of Lālûtu,62 is the second witness (after the gods) in MDP 23 229. This text records the purchase of a field by Awilīya from Ibašši-ilum. NūrIštar, son of Ṣaburtu,63 is the third witness. It is not clear to me why these two men identify themselves through their matriline. Seller and buyer, as well as both neighbours, are men. Curiously, however, the first and fourth witnesses are women, viz, ᶠŠamaš-nūri and ᶠKuritu, daughter of Inšušinak-mudammiq. ᶠŠamašnūri could possibly be identified with the woman of the same name who is donated two houses and a field by her father-in-law, Tayû, in MDP 22 130. ᶠKuritu,64 daughter of Inšušinak-mudammiq, is attested as a witness in two other house sales documents featuring Nur-Inšušinak as buyer: MDP 23 227 and MDP 28 414. Noteworthy is the presence of Ibašši-ilum, gardener, as the first witness and Nūr-Ištar, son of Ṣaburtu, as the third witness in the first sales document. Clearly, ᶠKuritu, daughter of Inšušinak-mudammiq; Ibašši-ilum; Nūr-Ištar, son of Ṣaburtu; and Nūr-Inšušinak, a well-known agricultural entrepreneur, 65 belonged to the same social network of well-to-do Susians (male and female). This is corroborated by MDP 23 245, recording the lease of an orchard by NūrInšušīnak from Nūr-Kūbi: the neighbouring orchard belongs to ᶠKuritu, who is also the first witness, without patronymic but identified by the Elamite title katta (ka-at-ta), the meaning of which is unknown.66 Although she is mentioned with62 Scheil (1932: 87) considered Kūbu-rabû to be the daughter of Lālûtu (line 16: igi kubu-gal dumu.munus la-lu-ti). However, Kūbu-rabû refers to a male, as is shown in MDP 23 237: 17: igi ku-bu-ra-bu-ú dumu ra-⸢bi?⸣-[ … ] (Before Kūbu-rabû, son of Rabi?-[ … ]), whereas Lālûtu is clearly a female personal name (see Stamm 1939: 253, and CAD L sub lalû A 1. d), implying munus is to be considered a female gender determinative indicating a matronymic (line 16: igi ku-bu-gal dumu ᶠla-lu-ti). 63 Scheil (1932: 87) considered Nūr-Ištar to be the daughter of Ṣaburtu (line 17: igi nu-írᵈiš8-tár dumu.munus ṣa-bur-ti). However, Nūr-Ištar always refers to a male (in the Susa texts and beyond; see Ranke 1905: 133–134, and Stamm 1939: 275), whereas Ṣaburtu is clearly a female personal name (see Stamm 1939: 265, and CAD Ṣ sub ṣabru B [fem. ṣaburtu]), implying munus is to be considered a female gender determinative indicating a matronymic (line 17: igi nu-ír-ᵈiš8-tár dumu ᶠṣa-bur-ti). 64 According to Zadok (1983: 112), Kuritu is a female hypocoristicon on -t (possibly due to Akkadian influence), derived from Elamite kuri. See also Zadok 1984: 24 sub 118: KURI (occurs mostly in females’ names). According to ELW, I kuri might mean something like “ornament” or “glory” (see ELW I sub gu-ri.ba-ab-ba-at). 65 See Oers 2013: 166. 66 The title is only attested twice so far in the legal and administrative Susa texts. It might be linked to the Elamite word for throne (see ELW I ga-at, ka-te, ka-tuh, GIŠ.qa-at, and qa-te). The other attestation shows the title was used by both men and women (MDP 22

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out patronymic, it is highly probable that it is the same woman. The same goes for MDP 22 130, where ᶠKuritu is mentioned as owner and lessee of a house together with two other women. Nūr-Ištar, son of Ṣaburtu, is also attested as a witness in MDP 23 286, recording the adoption “in brotherhood” (ina aḫḫūtim) of Nūr-Inšušīnak by Ana-ilima-atkal. Returning to our point of departure, viz, MDP 23 229, the sales document witnessed by Kūbu-rabû, son of Lālûtu, and Nūr-Ištar, son of Ṣaburtu, we cannot but conclude that the list of witnesses is rather feminine, featuring, apart from the scribe, two prominent women, two men identifying themselves through their matriline, and possibly a third female witness, Tarībatu (fifth witness). This, however, remains uncertain, as Tarībatu can be used for both men and women (see sec. 2.2). Again, the context of a social network of propertied women seems to emerge, in which it might have been obvious for some men to identify themselves through their matriline. 2.10. Rabiya, son of ᶠPI-qa-ti Rabiya, son of ᶠPI-qa-ti67 is the fourth witness (after the gods) in MDP 23 224. This text records the sale by ᶠErra-bašti to Nūr-Inšušinak of her share of a house, which she co-owns with her heirs. It is not clear to me why Rabiya identifies himself through his matriline. The other witnesses are five men with patronymics—the first witness is Ibašši-ilum, son of Libluṭu, who may be identified with Ibašši-ilum from MDP 23 227 and 229 (see secs. 2.9. and 3.1)—one woman, and the scribe. A possible link may be ᶠErra-bašti and/or her heirs. A woman named ᶠErra-bašti is known from a litigation concerning the rights of inheritance on property she co-owns (MDP 22 164), and as a witness to the donation by 110: 15: Uzalu katta). 67 Scheil (1932: 80) considered Rabiya to be the daughter of Waqarti (line 30: igi ra-bi-ia dumu.munus wa-qa--ti). However, Rabiya always refers to a male in the Susa texts: in MDP 23 170, a Rabiya, son of Šamaš-mušēzib, is the eighth witness; in MDP 23 307, Rabiya receives large amounts of silver on various occasions. This is always expressed as leqû, whereas it is leqât for a female recipient; MDP 24 335, 336, and 337 are three copies of the division between Rabiya and three women. Scheil (1933: 13) reads ᶠra-bi-ia in MDP 24 335: 4. This, however, must be a mistake: the hand copy shows no trace of the female gender determinative; in the two other copies, Rabiya is not preceded by a female gender determinative, but, foremost, all three texts have ina ṭūbātīšunu ina narʾamātīšunu with masculine plural suffixes, implying one of the four parties in the division must have been male, which can only have been Rabiya. This implies that the munus is to be considered a female gender determinative, indicating a matronymic (line 30: igi ra-bi-ia dumu ᶠPI-qa-ti). Scheil’s assumption that wa-qa-ti was a scribal error for wa-qa-ar-ti is highly improbable, as the same person is also attested in MDP 23 261: 15 as ra-bi-ia dumu PI-qa-ti. Neither the reading, meaning, nor origin of this name is clear to me. It might be Akkadian pīqatu, “narrow” (see CAD P sub pīqu), or a variant of the Hurrian female name Iwa-katta (see OIP 57: 77: ᶠi-wa-qa-at-ta).

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ᶠIštayartu of her property to her daughter Ali-aḫatu (MDP 24 382) (see sec. 2.1)—this is likely to be one and the same woman, clearly a member of the circle of propertied women of Susa. Rabiya, son of PI-qa-ti, is also attested as the third witness in MDP 23 261, recording the esip tabal field lease by Nūr-Inšušinak from ᶠIṣṣurtu and Tarībatu. The first witness is Ibašši-ilum (see sec. 2.9); the other witnesses are known from MDP 23 224. 2.11. Ḫumban-[ … ], son of ᶠŠēlebūtu (?), and Rīm-Kuriš, son of Ummi-rūqat Ḫumban-[ … ], son of ᶠŠēlebūtu (?),68 is the tenth witness in MDP 23 285. This text records the donation of (his part of) the property that Inšušinak-šemê coowned with ᶠTeppirtu and ᶠInšušinak-nādā, by Inšušinak-šemê, facing death, to his daughter ᶠNarubtu. Rīm-Kuriš, son of Ummi-rūqat,69 is the eleventh witness. ᶠUmmi-rūqat (with female gender determinative) is the fifteenth witness, followed by three more women, the last of whom bears the title of ištarītu. 70 ᶠŠēlebūtu and ᶠUmmi-rūqat are otherwise unattested. Rīm-Kuriš is attested in five other texts: four times as a witness (without matronymic or patronymic, and once as brother of Šamaš-šemê) and once as the father of a witness—it is possible but not certain that it is one and the same person. One of the co-owners of Inšušinak-šemê, ᶠTeppirtu, could possibly be identified with ᶠTeppiru, daughter of ᶠUzaltu (see sec. 3.4). A woman named ᶠNarubtu is mentioned as the recipient of a small amount of silver in MDP 23 307 (together with Rabiya, who receives large amounts on various occasions; see fn. 58)—it might be Inšušinak-šemê’s daughter, although this remains speculative. Again, the context of a transfer network in which women played significant roles as owners, co-owners, and heiresses seems to emerge, which may explain why these two witnesses identified themselves through their matriline.

68

Scheil (1932: 153) considered Ḫumban-[ … ] to be the daughter of Šēlebu (rev. line 4: igi ḫu-um-ba-an-[ … ] dumu.munus še-li-bu). However, all names starting with Ḫu(m)b/pan seem to refer to men (see Zadok 1984: 65–66). Moreover, there are traces of another sign after se-le-bu, which might have been ti, resulting in še-le-bu-ti (for ᶠŠēlebūtu, see Stamm 1939: 253). It seems therefore very probable that munus is to be considered a female gender determinative, indicating a matronymic (rev. line 4: igi ḫuum-ba-an-[ … ] dumu ᶠše-le-bu-⸢ti⸣). 69 According to Zadok (1984: 58), ri-im-ku-ri-is can be interpreted as Rīm-Kuriš (Mercyof-Kuriš), with Kuriš as DN or Rimku-riš with riš(a) (great). ELW II sub ri-im.ku-ri-iš translates as “Rim-spoiled(-him)”. Rīm-Kuriš seems the best option, given the parallel Rīm-Adad in other Susa texts. See also CAD R sub rīmu A d. 70 See CAD I/J sub ištarītu 2: a woman of a special status.

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3. Women identifying themselves by a matronymic There are far fewer women than men identifying themselves through a matronymic. As with the men, the majority of them act as witnesses in legal and economic documents in which property is (temporarily or permanently) transferred (two sales, one lease, and one donation). One exception is MDP 23 313, recording a settlement of accounts before witnesses, which took place in the house of a woman identified by a matronymic. The text starts with the enumeration of fourteen witnesses: Warad-Kūbi, the scribe; followed by three men with patronymic, followed by Aḫuḫuya, master of the house (bēl bīti); followed by five persons related to or in service of an unnamed woman—Šimuya, her son-in-law (ḫatanīša); Kutāna and Rupuš, both identified as her servant (ṣuḫārīša); Epiš-šakuttam (her?), leatherworker (aškapī[ša?]); and Qīšiya, her farmer (ikkarīša). These are then followed by four women: Adaritu, wife of Aḫuḫuya; Āmur-šēressa; Annišuya, wetnurse (mušēniqti); and ᶠPuyatu, wife of Kīma-ayyaru. The text continues by stating that in the presence of these fourteen witnesses, ᶠAlīya’utu 71 and Warad-Amurru balanced their accounts in the house of ᶠAdaritu, daughter of Šēretu, as a result of which Warad-Amurru received 220 grams of silver and 600 litres of sesame from ᶠAlīya’utu, except for the silver belonging to Kuyu, her husband.72 Being the protagonist of the text, it is very likely that the five witnesses referred to as related to or in service of an unnamed woman were related or in service of ᶠAlīya’utu (which is corroborated by the fact that Kuyu is identified as her husband). Unfortunately, ᶠAlīya’utu is otherwise unattested, but the large amounts of silver and sesame, as well as the personnel at her service, imply that she must have been an important entrepreneur. The man she owed the silver and sesame to, Warad-Amurru, is known as a creditor in various commercial loans involving foreign partners, as one text referring to Ḫuḫnur (modern Tappeh Bormi) shows.73 It is therefore not inconceivable that ᶠAlīya’utu was a nonlocal business partner passing through, which would explain the presence of her entourage. The settling of accounts between ᶠAlīya’utu and Warad-Amurru took place in the house of Adaritu, daughter of Šēretu.74 The reason is unknown. Interestingly though, the owner of the house identifies herself through her matriline. A wom71

ᶠAliya’utu (ᶠa-li-ia-ù-tu) might be a variant of the female name Alīyātum (see Turan 8: 165–166). 72 Scheil (1932: 173–174) interpreted Kûmuza as a personal name (line 24: šà ᴵku-ù-muza). However, Kuyu is a well-known Elamite name, implying mu-sà is here to be understood as “her husband” (mussa). For Kuyu, see ELW I sub ku-ù and ku-ù-ú, hypocorismtocon derived from ku, possibly meaning “hero”. See also Zadok 1983: 114, 117. 73 MDP 23 190, 199, 271, 272, and 273. For the identification of Ḫuḫnur with Tappeh Bormi near Ram Hormuz, see Mofidi-Nasrabadi 2005. 74 For Adaritu, see fn. 31. Šēretu is probably a short variant of Šēret-DN (see CAD Š2 sub šērtu D).

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an named Adaritu is also mentioned as a witness, but, as such, she is identified as the wife of Aḫuḫuya, himself a witness. Are Adaritu, wife of Aḫuḫuya, and Adaritu, daughter of Šēretu, one and the same woman? Aḫuḫuya is identified as bēl bīti, literally “owner of the house”, referring to the head of the household.75 There is only one house mentioned in the text, the one where the accounts were settled, which implies that Adaritu, daughter of Šēretu, was the wife of Aḫuḫuya. If this holds true, it is highly significant that the house is specified as that of Adaritu, daughter of Šēretu, and not that of Adaritu, wife of Aḫuḫuya, or even more commonly, that of Aḫuḫuya bēl bīti. So, either it concerns two houses (and two women named Adaritu) altogether, or, within the larger household of Aḫuḫuya, Adaritu owned a (part of a) house of her own.76 The fact that Adaritu identifies herself through her matriline (and not as the wife of her husband) in this context, may be linked to her ownership of this house and the possibility that she acquired it through her mother. Another explanation would be that the settling of accounts was in some way linked to the business interests of Adaritu, which she had inherited from her mother, Šēretu, and therefore had to be done in her house, meaning the (part of the) house in which she lived. Her husband is only mentioned as a witness (he is no part of this business of his wife) and defined as the master of the house, meaning the chief of the household. In this scenario, the witnesses linked by -ša could also be linked to Adaritu. All other women identifying themselves by a matronymic act as witnesses, as described in the following section. 3.1. Rabāt-erišti, daughter of Adaritu Rabāt-erišti, daughter of Adaritu77 is the eighth witness in MDP 23 227. This text records the purchase of a house by Nūr-Inšušinak from Imdi-ᵈIrri-x-karak and Mannu-eb-ana-ili. Rabāṭ-erišti is preceded by Nūr-Ištar, son of Ṣaburtu, and followed by four female witnesses—all identified by a patronym—among whom is ᶠKuritu, daughter of Inšušinak-mudammiq, and Ibašši-ilum (first witness)—all part of the social circle of well-off urbanites (male and female) around NūrInšušinak (see sec. 2.9). 75

CAD B sub bēlu 1d. A similar situation may be found in MDP 23 172, a text recording the division of the paternal estate between two brothers, which is said to have consisted of a large (part of the) house, their father’s residence ([é.dù].a gal šu-pa-at a-bi-⸢šu-nu⸣), and a (part of the) house of the women (é.dù.a a-wi-la °x° -ti). Scheil (1932: 13–14) reads é.dù.a a-wa-at-ti, but collation confirmed the reading a-wi-la °x° -ti, as already suggested by De Meyer (1961: 202 fn. 3). 77 Line 27: igi ra-ba-at-nin dumu. / a-da-ri-ti. As Scheil (1932: 84) already noted, the scribe erroneously wrote dumu instead of dumu.munus, as Rabāt-erīšti clearly seems to be a female name (see Stamm 1939: 187, 236 for female names with Rabāt-, and 125 for female names with Erišti-). It might be short for Rabāt-erišti-DN or Rabāterištiša. For Adaritu, see fn. 31. 76

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A woman named Adaritu is attested as the mother of Ay-ēniš, as the daughter of Šēretu, and as the wife of Aḫuḫuya (see secs. 2.1 and 3.0): although not impossible, there is no indication that these can be identified as one and the same woman. Rabāt-erišti is otherwise unattested. 3.2. ᶠBānītu, daughter of ᶠPili-kuti and Adad-bani ᶠBānītu, daughter of ᶠPili-kuti,78 is the fifteenth witness in MDP 22 51. This text records the sale by ᶠSābītu, daughter of Adad-bani, to Ilabrat-abi of her share of the house that she co-owns with her siblings. The fourteenth witness is ᶠPili-kuti, wife of Adad-bani, followed by ᶠBānītu, her daughter (dumu.munus-šà). In other words, ᶠBānītu is not identified by a matronymic of the type “daughter of ᶠPN” but by reference to the preceding witness, her mother. It is remarkable that ᶠBānītu is identified as her daughter—referring to ᶠPili-kuti, who herself is identified as the wife of Adad-bani—and not as his daughter, referring to her father Adad-bani, especially since her sister ᶠSābītu, seller of her share of the house, is identified by a patronym. We know with certainty that ᶠBānītu and Sābītu were sisters, as is shown by MDP 22 21, the document recording the division of the family estate between the children of Adad-bani. In this text, it is stated that the paternal house, their father’s residence, was divided in equal parts between the four children, viz, ᶠSābitu and ᶠBānītu and their brothers, Damiq-Inšušīnak and Bēlšunu. As for the other houses the family owned, they were divided by casting lots. Special mention is made of the house where Ilabrat-abi, son of Qurdiya, resides, for which the shares of each of the four siblings are explicitly described: ᶠBānītu receives the part of the house adjacent to the house of Kukati (who must be an external neighbour), Damiq-Inšušinak receives the part adjacent to that of his sister ᶠBānītu, Bēlsunu the part adjacent to that of his brother Damiq-Inšušinak, and ᶠSābītu the part of the house adjacent to that of her brother Bēlsunu on the one side and the house in which Damqiya, son of Ilum-ṭābiya, resides on the other.79 78

Although otherwise unattested, ᶠPili-kuti is clearly an Elamite name. The exact meaning, however, is not clear. According to Zadok (1984: 34), pil possibly refers to pila (to maintain, to restore). See, however, ELW I sub pi-li, with a translation of “creating, working” (das Schaffen, Wirken). According to Zadok (1984: 24), kuti means “to bring” and kutir “the one who brings” (contrary to kutur, which means “protector”). See, however, ELW I sub names, composed of ku-te-ir and a DN with translation “DN-is-theprotector”. See also the female nickname ᶠPilili in MDP 24 394 (see sec. 2.4). 79 MDP 22 21: 1: ᴵᶠsà-bi-tu ᴵᶠba-ni-tu; 2: ᴵda-mi-iq-ᵈmùš.eren ù be-el-šu-nu; 3: dumu.meš ᵈiškur-ba-ni; 4: iš-tu é.dù.a.⸢gal⸣ šu-pa-at a-bi-šu-nu; 5: a-ḫa-ti is-qa id-du-ma; 6: i-zu-zu i-na é.dù.a.meš-šu-nu; 7: i-na é.dù.a šà ᵈnin.šubur-a-bi; 8: dumu qú-ur-di-ia wa-aš-bu; 9: da ku-ka-ti is-qa-at ᶠba-ni-ti; 10: da ᶠba-ni-ti is-qa-at da-mi-iq-ᵈmùš.eren; 11: da da-miiq-ᵈmùš.eren; 12: is-qa-at be-el-šu-nu da be-el-šu-nu; 13: [ù da é šà dam-qi]-⸢ia⸣ dumu dingir-dùg-ia wa-⸢aš⸣-[bu]; 14: [is-qa-at ᶠsà-bi-ti … ] (remainder of text is lost because the tablet is broken).

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The share of the house ᶠSābītu sells to Ilabrat-abi in MDP 22 51 is exactly the part of the residence of Ilabrat-abi, son of Qurdiya, she was allotted in MDP 22 21: adjacent to the house in which Damqiya, son of Ilum-ṭābiya, resides and adjacent to the share of her brother Bēlšunu.80 In other words, she sells her share of the house to the resident of it, viz, Ilabrat-abi, son of Qurdiya. She is not the only legatee who sells their share to the resident of the house: MDP 22 50 records the sale by Damiq-Inšušīnak of his share of the same house, located between Bēlšunu’s and ᶠBānītu’s shares, to Ilabrat-abi. It seems thus likely that the other siblings, Bēlšunu and ᶠBānītu, also sold their shares to Ilabrat-abi, who must have rented the house from Adad-bani but bought it after it was divided between Adad-bani’s children. Unfortunately, these sales documents have not been preserved. The relation between Ilabrat-abi, son of Qurdiya, and the family of Adad-bani—if there were any apart from lessee-lessor—is unknown.81 ᶠBānītu, daughter of Adad-bani, is also attested as the seventh witness in MDP 24 382, one of the two texts recording the donation by ᶠIštayartu of her property to her daughter Ali-aḫatu (see sec. 2.1).82 The preceding text shows that ᶠBānītu identified herself both through her patriline and matriline: in ᶠIštayartu’s donation (MDP 24 382), she is identified by her patronymic, whereas in her sister’s sales document (MDP 22 51), she is identified through her mother. The obvious reason would be that she is identified by her patronymic while her father is still alive, and by her matronymic after he dies. This seems corroborated by the fact that she is identified through her matriline at the time when her sister sells one of her shares of the family estate after the division, implying that their father must indeed have passed. Or, at least, this is how it appears at first sight: in the very same sales document, both her sister ᶠSābītu, the seller, and her brother Damiq-Inšušinak, the first witness, are identified by their patronymic,83 and her mother, who precedes her

80

MDP 22 51: 6: da é šà dam-qí-ia: 7: dumu dingir-dùg-ia wa-aš-bu; 8: ù da be-el-šu-nu a-ḫi-šà. 81 Bēlšunu, son of Ada-bani, is a witness in MDP 22 14, recording the division of the family estate between the seven children of Qurdiya, among whom was Ilabrat-abi, implying both families belonged to the same social circle. 82 One or more women named ᶠBānītu are mentioned in four more texts: (1) lessee of a field in MDP 22 89 and witness in the same text—implying there were two women of the same name, as it is unusual for a party to be witness at the same time; (2) lessor of a field in MDP 22 128; (3) recipient or supplier of silver in MDP 23 310; and (4) involved in a litigation with Amurru-bani concerning the payment of silver in MDP 23 326, a list of settled (mesû) cases (see De Graef 2010). Due to lack of a patronymic or matronymic, it is impossible to identify them with ᶠBānītu, daughter of ᶠPili-kuti and Adad-bani. 83 MDP 22 51: 4: ᶠsà-bi-ti dumu.munus ᵈiškur-ba-ni; 32: igi da-mi-iq-ᵈmùš.eren dumu ᵈiškur-ba-ni.

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in the witness list, is identified by her husband.84 Moreover, Damiq-Inšušinak is also identified by his patronymic when he sells another part of his inheritance.85 This does not imply that Adad-bani was still alive—the division of the family estate, including their father’s residence, indicates he must have passed—but proves that the choice of identification by patriline or matriline is motivated by something else. The reason the seller, ᶠSābītu, is identified by her patronymic may lie in the fact that she obtained the share of the house she sells from her father (as is shown by the division). In other words, she acts as the heir of her father. The same goes for Damiq-Inšušinak when he sells a part of his inheritance. It is, however, remarkable that, in the list of witnesses, ᶠBānītu identifies through her mother, whereas her brother Damiq-Inšušinak is identified by his patronymic. A possible explanation may lie in the fact that ᶠBānītu’s mother, ᶠPili-kuti, who identifies herself as the wife of Adad-bani, was put in charge of a part of the family estate after her husband’s death, which she donated to her daughter ᶠBānītu. As we saw earlier, women could decide to donate all their property to one daughter to the detriment of their other children (whose agreement would be broken). As such, ᶠBānītu would be an heiress of ᶠPili-kuti, whereas her brother Damiq-Inšušinak would not. Another possibility is that ᶠPilikuti was ᶠBānītu’s mother but not the mother of the other three siblings—Adadbani could have had two wives—in which case only ᶠBānītu would have been an heiress of ᶠPili-kuti. 3.3. Te(t)tê, daughter of Šiqlātu (?) Te(t)tê, daughter of Šiqlātu, is the tenth witness (after the gods) in MDP 22 101, the esip tabal field lease involving a number of high-ranking persons discussed above. 3.4. ᶠTeppirtu, daughter of Uzāltu ᶠTeppirtu, daughter of Uzāltu,86 is the ninth witness (after the gods) in MDP 23 287. If Scheil’s restoration is correct, this text records the donation by ᶠUzaltu87 84

MDP 22 51: 45: igi ᶠpi-li-ik-ku-ti dam ᵈiškur-ba-ni. MDP 22 44 records the sale by Damiq-Inšušīnak, son of Adad-bani, of a share of a house that his father Adad-bani co-owned with his sister ᶠAdad-dumqi to Ilabrat-abi—no doubt Ilabrat-abi, son of Qurdiya, corroborating the link between the Adad-bani and Qurdiya families. 86 Instead of “ᶠPN1 dumu.munus PN2”, the scribe wrote “ᶠPN1 dumu-ti PN2 (ᶠPN1 mārti PN2)”. This may be a variant spelling or a scribal error. ᶠTeppirtu is a female nickname derived from the Elamite title teppir (see Zadok 1983: 112). Uzāltu is a variant of the Akkadian female name Ḫuzālatum (see Stamm 1939: 253; CAD Ḫ sub ḫuzālatu). 87 The upper part of the tablet is broken, as a result of which the name of the testatrix as well as the description of the property she donates has not been preserved. Scheil (1932: 157) restores the name of the testatrix as ᶠUzāltu, based on the traces visible on the left edge: ṣú-pur ᶠú-[za-al-ti] (fingernail of ᶠU[zaltu]). The fact that she is the mother of one 85

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of her property to her son Kugiya, ᶠTeppirtu’s brother, which explains why ᶠTeppirtu identifies herself by her matronymic. It is possible there was another document recording a donation to ᶠTeppirtu by her mother, as there is no mention of the breaking of an earlier agreement, as is the case in some other donations (see sec. 2.5). Unfortunately, no such document has been preserved. Among the witnesses are three šati priests and three sons of šati priests, which may point to a religious professional context of the family of ᶠUzāltu. A woman named ᶠTeppirtu is mentioned in another donation (MDP 23 285). This text records the donation by Inšušinak-šemê of (his part of) the property which he co-owns with ᶠTeppirtu and ᶠInšušinak-nādā to his daughter ᶠNarubtu (see sec. 2.11). Although not certain, this might be the same person. A woman named Uzāltu is attested as a witness in MDP 22 138, recording the donation by Aḫušina of his property to his mother ᶠṢaburtu (see sec. 2.7), and as co-lessor of a field (MDP 23 253). It might be one and the same person, but there is no concrete evidence to indicate this is the case. 4. Matronymics in a heterarchical social power structure The preceding discussion shows that the use of matronymics in the documentary texts from Sukkalmaḫ Susa is not simply due to the lack of a (legal) father. On the contrary, various texts seem to reveal the existence of networks of property transfer in which women played significant roles as owners, co-owners, heiresses, and testatrixes, which might have urged their children and thus heirs to identify themselves through their matriline. Moreover, on some occasions, the use of a matronymic seems to have been a matter of choice, depending on the context, as is shown by at least one woman who is known to have identified herself both through her patriline and matriline. In other words, the use of matronymics was both purposeful and variable, depending on the context. Identification through a female lineage was not uncommon in Elam. On the contrary, throughout the Sukkalmaḫ period (but also later), rulers and officeholders on various levels88 legitimized themselves by claiming to be the son of the sister (ruḫušak in Elamite, dumu.nin / mār aḫātim in Sumero-Akkadian) of another/previous ruler or officeholder. Although the subject of intense debate for a long time, there is now a consensus that the identification as being the son of the sister refers to an avuncular succession (succession by a ruler’s sister’s son), originally a biological reality but later on probably a fictitious descent.89 Howof the witnesses makes this restoration indeed probable. 88 See De Graef 2012 for a preliminary hypothesis on the stratified state structure of the Sukkalmaḫ regime, consisting of various levels of power with a king on top, sukkalmaḫs ruling each a vast territory and sukkals, and teppirs and lower-ranked rulers each ruling cities and/or smaller areas. 89 See most recently Potts 2018, where an overview of the history of interpretations and hypotheses is given.

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ever, whereas the majority of rulers and officeholders identified themselves through a female lineage (son of the sister of RN), about one-third of them did this through a male lineage (grandson, or beloved son or beloved brother of RN). Some of them used both at the same time (e.g., Pala-iššan, son of the sister of Šilḫaḫa and beloved brother of Temti-Agun90). Strictly speaking, these rulers did not use matronymics (PN son of ᶠPN), since the name of their mother who was the sister of another or previous ruler is never mentioned. Only exceptionally, when a ruler used a combination of kinship terms, the name of his mother is revealed. This is the case in the legend of the seal of Kuk-Našur, which is impressed on MDP 23 283, a royal charter in which Kuk-Našur grants a favour to his servant Sîn-imguranni. The seal legend reads: “Kuk-Našur, sukkal of Susa, son of the sister of Temti-Agun, beloved son of Zanaḫu-šarit”. 91 The same Zanaḫu-šarit is mentioned with female gender determinative as the owner of a neighbouring field in MDP 23 289 and 290, two almost-identical duplicates of the donation of royal land by an unnamed ruler to his servant Kudur-Napiriša. The unnamed ruler might have been Kuk-Našur or a contemporary ruler on another level of power (king or sukkalmaḫ). The fact that the sister of Temti-Agun and mother of Kuk-Našur, as a high-ranking member of the royal family, was granted royal land is in line with expectations. Another example is Širuktuḫ, king of Susa, who identifies himself as the son of the sister of Kuk-Našur and the beloved son of ᶠTe-⸢x⸣-[ … ] in MDP 23 284, a royal charter in which Širuktuḫ grants a favour to his servant Nur-Inšušinak.92 It is not clear to me why, on these two occasions, the name of the mother is given, whereas she generally remains anonymous. It is possible that the matronymic was added here to clarify which sister was meant in case the previous ruler had more than one sister whose sons held an office. The importance of the matriline of the Elamite rulers is also reflected in the title amma ḫaštuk (“revered mother”?), referred to by Temti-Agun and Ṣiwepalar-ḫuḫpak in some of their royal inscriptions93 and mentioned in the oath of a division (MDP 24 328) alongside Širuktuḫ. Although there is no consensus on the exact meaning of the title,94 it seems likely that it refers to the royal sister(s) 90

Mahboubian 2004 nr 7b: pá-la-iš-ša-an dumu nin ší-il-ḫa-ḫa šeš ki.ág te-em-ti-a-gu-un. Amiet 1966: 320 nr 239A = de Miroschedji 1981: Pl. I nr 4 = MDP 43 2015: 1 : ku-ukᵈna-šu-[úr]; 2 : sukkal šu-ší-im; 3: dumu nin-šu šà te-em-ti-a-gu-[un]; 4: dumu ki.ág; 5: šà za-na-ḫu-šà-ri-it. Scheil (1932: 151) was not able to read to the last two lines of the seal legend. My reading is based on the photos and drawings given in Amiet 1966, de Miroschedji 1981, and MDP 43. 92 MDP 23 284: 1: ᴵší-ir-tuḫ lugal šu-⸢ší⸣; 2: dumu a-ḫa-ti-šu šà ku-uk-⸢ᵈ⸣[na-šu-ur]; 3: ⸢dumu⸣ na-ra-a-mu šà ᶠte-⸢x⸣-[ … ]. 93 Temti-Agun: IRS 14; Ṣiwe-palar-ḫuḫpak: EKI 3A+B; Mahboubian 2004 nr 8 (variant amma ḫaštik). 94 ELW I sub ha-aš-ti-uk translates as “verehrt’”, but see Zadok 1983 sub 34a (late, regretted). However, the contexts in which the title is used seem to imply that the woman 91

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who gave birth to one or more rulers or officeholders of the following generation. In all, an image of a complex, nuanced, and diverse society emerges, one in which, depending on the context, individuals could identify through their matriline and/or patriline; this goes both for members of the urban elites when it comes to hereditary rights and for members of the ruling class when it comes to legitimization of power. Being the son (or daughter) of a woman means to be the heir or successor to the property, office, or power of that woman or to that of her brother or father, through her. In any case, the mother is the link in the chain for transmitting property and/or power. Clearly, the importance of the matriline is much more prominent in the kingship terminology used by the ruling class (where the majority identify themselves through a female lineage) than in that of the individuals attested in the documentary texts, where only a small minority identify themselves through matronymics. A possible explanation might lie in the fixed basic structures of the administrative apparatus the Elamites adopted from Mesopotamia. Whereas a part of the legal and administrative formulas clearly differ from the Mesopotamian ones, no doubt reflecting local legal practices—including, on some occasions, Elamite expressions and words—the basic structure of the contracts and deeds was obviously identical: subject, verb, oath, and witness list, including the use of patronymics, inherent in the method of identification of individuals in Mesopotamia.95 Contemporaneous Babylonian social structures were generally hierarchical and patrilineal, including the custom of patrilineal inheritance where only male children inherited in a linear father-to-son succession. This was not the case in Elam during the Sukkalmaḫ regime, where a complex stratified state structure, including various levels of power with an avuncular succession, was prevalent. This political structure, including the relative importance of the matriline, can be interpreted from the perspective of heterarchy: a flexible, complex, multilateral system in which elements possess the potential to be ranked in a number of different ways, depending on systemic requirements.96 The same goes for Elamite urban society, where women could share equally in the division of the (paternal) estate with their brothers, and property was co-owned or could be transferred between men and women alike. While men were without a doubt politically and socioeconomically predominant—after all, all rulers and officeholders and the overall majority of economic actors were men—it is striking that women often acted as a crucial conduit in the transfer of property and/or power. In other words, property and power was transferred between men but via women, for, as Fortunato has noted, “matrilineal kinship may be used as one of the criteria for who held the title was still alive; see also Grillot’s (1988: 68) interpretation: “mère par excellence”. 95 See De Graef 2019: 95–97. 96 See Crumley 2015.

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the allocation of rights and duties among individuals; other possible criteria include age, gender or status”.97 As such, Elamite society clearly shows heterarchical patterns by allowing flexibility in status definition, political (power) relations, and lateral differentiation on a socioeconomic level, which is manifested, among other things, in the identification through a female lineage and the use of matronymics. Bibliography Abrahami, P. 2011: Masculine and Feminine Personal Determinatives before Women’s Names at Nuzi: A Gender Indicator of Social Economic Independence? CDLB 2011:001. https://cdli.ucla.edu/pubs/cdlb/2011/cdlb2011_001.html. Accessed July 2021. Amiet, P. 1966: Elam. Auvers-sur-Oise. Brinkman, J.A. 2007: Masculine or Feminine? The Case of Conflicting Gender Determinatives for Middle Babylonian Personal Names. In M.T. Roth / W. Faber / M.W. Stolper / P. von Bechtolsheim, (eds.): Studies Presented to Robert D. Biggs, June 4, 2004. Assyriological Studies 27. Chicago, 1–10. Budin, S.L. 2021: Freewomen, Patriarchal Authority, and the Accusation of Prostitution. New York. Charpin, D. 2005: Ṣurârum est-il le fils de son père? À propos d’un procès à Sippar-Amnânum. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires 1, 2–3. Crumley, C. 2015: Heterarchy. In R. Scott / S. Kosslyn (eds.): Emerging Trends in the Social and Behavioral Sciences. Wiley Online Library. https://doi.org/ 10.1002/9781118900772.etrds0158. Accessed July 2021. De Graef, K. 2010: Inšušinak lu dārû! Lawsuits in Old-Babylonian Susa. Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 16, 27–48. De Graef, K. 2012: Dual Power in Susa: Chronicle of a Transitional Period from Ur III via Šimaški to the Sukkalmaḫs. Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 75, 525–546. De Graef, K. 2015: Susa in the Later IIIrd Millennium: From Mesopotamian Colony to Independent State (MC 2210-1980). In W. Sallaberger / I. Schrakamp (eds.): Associated Regional Chronologies for the Ancient Near East and the Eastern Mediterranean Vol. 3: History & Philology. Turnhout, 281–288. De Graef, K. 2018: In Susa’s Fields. On the Topography of Fields in Old Babylonian Administrative Documents from Susa. In J. Tavernier / E. Gorris / K. Abraham / V. Boschloos (eds.): Topography and Toponymy in the Ancient Near East: Perspectives and Prospects. Louvain-la-Neuve, 267–311. De Graef, K. 2019: It Is You, My Love, You, Who Are the Stranger: Akkadian and Elamite at the Crossroads of Language and Writing. In J. Mynářová / M. Kilani / S. Alivernini (eds.): A Stranger in the House—the Crossroads III: Proceedings of an International Conference on Foreigners in Ancient Egyp97

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tian and Near Eastern Societies of the Bronze Age held in Prague, September 10–13, 2018. Prague, 91–120. Démare-Lafont, S. 2014: Identifiers and Identification Methods in Mesopotamia. In M. Depauw / S. Coussement (eds.): Identifiers and Identification Methods in the Ancient World. Legal Documents in Ancient Societies III. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 229. Leuven, 13–31. De Meyer, L. 1961: A propos de l’expression qadu lâ bêri dans un contrat de partage susien. Revue d’Assyriologie et d’Archéologie Orientale 55, 201–202. de Miroschedji, P. 1981: Le dieu élamite au serent et aux eaux jaillissantes. Iranica Antiqua 16, 1–25. Diakonoff, I.M. 1986: Women in Old Babylonia Not under Patriarchal Authority. Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 29, 225–238 Feucht, E. 2016: Motherhood in Pharaonic Egypt. In S.L. Budin / J.M. Turfa (eds.): Women in Antiquity: Real Women across the Ancient World. New York, 204–217. Fortunato, L. 2012: The Evolution of Matrilineal Kinship Organization. Proceedings of the Royal Society B 279, 4939–4945. Gelb, I. 1980: Computer-Aided Analysis of Amorite. Assyriological Studies 21. Chicago. Grillot, F. 1988: A propos d’un cas de “lévirat” élamite. Journal asiatique 276, 61–70. Grillot-Susini, F. 1987: Éléments de grammaire élamite. Paris. Grosz, K. 1989: Some Aspects of the Position of Women in Nuzi. In B.S. Lesko (ed.): Women’s Earliest Records: From Ancient Egypt and Western Asia. Atlanta, 167–180. Hanks, P. / Parkin, H. 2016: Family Names. In C. Hough (ed.): The Oxford Handbook of Names and Naming. Oxford Handbooks Online. https://www. oxfordhandbooks.com/view/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199656431.001.0001/ox fordhb-9780199656431. Accessed August 2021. Harris, R. 1989: Independent Women in Ancient Mesopotamia? In B.S. Lesko (ed.): Women’s Earliest Records: From Ancient Egypt and Western Asia. Atlanta, 145–156. Hinz, W. 1980: Inšušinak. Reallexikon der Assyriologie 5, 117–119. Keats-Rohan, K.S.B. 2007: Biography, Identity and Names: Understanding the Pursuit of the Individual in Prosopography. In K.S.B. Keats-Rohan (ed.): Prosopography Approaches and Applications: A Handbook. Oxford, United Kingdom, 139–181. Keil, M. 2017: Hendl, Suessel, Putzlein. Women’s Names in Ashkenazi Communities (Fourteenth–Fifteenth Centuries). Clio. Women, Gender, History 45, 82–102.

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Kroskrity, P.V. 2020: Naming. In J. Stanlaw (ed.): The International Encyclopedia of Linguistic Anthropology. Wiley Online Library. https://doi.org/10. 1002/9781118786093.iela0282. Accessed July 2021. Kuhrt, A. 1989: Non-Royal Women in the Late Babylonian Period: A Survey. In B.S. Lesko (ed.): Women’s Earliest Records: From Ancient Egypt and Western Asia. Atlanta, 215–239. Lestremau, A. 2017: Gender and Naming in the Medieval West (Sixth–Eleventh centuries). Clio. Women, Gender, History 45, 193–215. Mahboubian, H. 2004: Elam: Art and Civilization of Ancient Iran, 3000–2000 BC. London. Marsman, H.J. 2003: Women in Ugarit and Israel: Their Social and Religious Position in the Context of the Ancient Near East. Leiden. Mofidi-Nasrabadi, B. 2005: Eine Steininschrift des Amar-Suena aus Tappeh Bormi (Iran). Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 95, 161–171. Murru-Corriga, G. 2000: The Patronymic and the Matronymic in Sardinia: A Long-Standing Competition. The History of the Family 5, 161–180. Oers, L. 2013: To Invest in Harvest: Field Leases in Old Babylonian Susa. Zeitschrift für Altorientalische 19, 155–169. Potts, D.T. 2018: The Epithet “Sister’s Son” in Ancient Elam: Aspects of the Avunculate in Cross-Cultural Perspective. In K. Kleber / G. Neumann / S. Paulus (eds.): Festschrift für Hans Neumann zum 65. Geburtstag am 9. Mai 2018. Dubsar 5. Münster, 523–555. Ranke, H. 1905: Early Babylonian Personal Names from the Published Tablets of the So-Called Hammurabi Dynasty (B.C. 2000). Philadelphia. Roth, M.T. 2001: Reading Mesopotamian Law Cases PBS 5 100: A Question of Filiation. Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 44, 243– 292. Scheil, V. 1930: Actes juridiques susiens. Mémoires de la Délégation en Perse 22. Paris. Scheil, V. 1932: Actes juridiques susiens (suite: n° 166 à n° 327). Mémoires de la Délégation en Perse 23. Paris Scheil, V. 1933: Actes juridiques susiens (suite: n° 328 à n° 395). Mémoires de la Délégation en Perse 24. Paris Stamm, J.J. 1939: Die akkadische Namengebung. Leipzig. Stol, M. 2000: Birth in Babylonia and the Bible: Its Mediterranean Setting. Cuneiform Monographs 14. Groningen. Stolper, M.W. 1998: Nahhunte. Reallexikon der Assyriologie 9, 82–84. Tavernier, J. 2007: The Case of Elamite tep-/tip and Akkadian ṭuppu. Iran 45, 57–69.

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Veenhof, K.R. 2003: Fatherhood Is a Matter of Opinion: An Old Babylonian Trial on Filiation and Service Duties. In W. Sallaberger / K. Volk / A. Zgoll (eds.): Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilcke. Wiesbaden, 313–332. Wunsch, C. 2014a: Babylonische Familiennamen. In M. Krebernik / H. Neumann (eds.): Babylonien und seine Nachbarn? Wissenschaftliches Kolloquium aus Anlass des 75. Geburtstages von Joachim Oelsner. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 369. Münster, 289–314. Wunsch, C. 2014b: Double Family Names in Neo-Babylonian Records: The Case of the Ēṭiru and Ṭābiḫu Families and Their Butcher’s Prebends. In Z. Csabai (ed.): Studies in Economic and Social History of the Ancient Near East in Memory of Péter Vargyas. Budapest, 751–787. Zadok, R. 1983: A Tentative Structural Analysis of Elamite Hypocoristica. Beitrage zur Namenforschung 18, 93–120. Zadok, R. 1984: The Elamite Onomasticon. Supplemento n. 40 agli Annali vol. 44. Naples. Abbreviations CAD = Roth, M.T., editor-in-charge. 1965–2000: The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago. CDA = Black, J. / George, A. / Postgate, N. 2000: A Concise Dictionary of Akkadian. Wiesbaden. EKI = König, F.W. 1965: Die elamischen Königsinschriften. Archiv für Orientforschung, Beiheft 16. Graz. ELW = Hinz, W. / Koch, H. 1987: Elamisches Wörterbuch (in 2 Teilen). Archäologische Mitteilungen aus Iran 17. Berlin. IRS = Malbran-Labat, F. 1995: Les inscriptions royales de Suse: Briques de l’époque paleo-élamite à l’Empire néo-élamite. Paris. MDP 18 = Dossin, G. 1927: Autres textes sumériens et accadiens. Paris. MDP 22 = Scheil, V. 1930: Actes juridiques susiens. Paris. MDP 23 = Scheil, V. 1932: Actes juridiques susiens (suite: n° 166 à n° 327). Paris MDP 24 = Scheil, V. 1933: Actes juridiques susiens (suite: n° 328 à n° 395). Paris. MDP 28 = Scheil, V. 1939: Mélanges épigraphiques. Paris. MDP 43 = Amiet, P. 1972: Glyptique susienne des origins à l’époque des perses achéménides: Cachets, sceaux-cylindres et empreintes antiques découverts à Suse de 1913 à 1967. Paris. OIP 57 = Gelb, I.J. / Purves, P.M. / MacRae, A.A. 1943: Nuzi Personal Names. Chicago.

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PBS 5 = Poebel, A. 1912: Historical and Grammatical Texts. Philadelphia. TMH = Goddeeris, A. 2016: The Old Babylonian Legal and Administrative Texts in the Hilprecht Collection Jena. Wiesbaden. Turan 8 = Saporetti, C. 2021: Onomastica di Ešnunna nel periodo paleobabilonese. Rome.

2. Cult and Cults

Women in Cult in First Millennium BCE Mesopotamia Natalie Naomi May1

1. Introduction My interest in women in cult in Mesopotamia was triggered by the fact that in the modern Western world the priests, until very recently, were all male.2 This naturally goes back to the Hebrew Bible’s distribution of cultic functions exclusively among males. As is well known,3 many aspects of the biblical description of the Jerusalem temple cult were directly influenced by Mesopotamian practices. Did the latter also affect gender regulations of liturgical roles in the Jerusalem cult? In order to understand this, we must investigate the role of women in cults of first millennium BCE Assyria and Babylonia. I have intentionally avoided using the term “priestess” in the title of my contribution, since the question of “what is a priest?” in Mesopotamia is already one of the most difficult to answer.4 The criteria for affiliation with priesthood are the matter of the ongoing discussion. From the earliest periods, Mesopotamian temple personnel were closely associated with literacy and scholarship, although literacy as such cannot serve a proof for one’s belonging to clergy. I have shown that the very limited role of women in scholarship was reduced to healing functions and was not connected with temple rituals and services.5 However, priestesses of the early periods were definitely literate.6 The nature of a Mesopotamian temple, which was not only a religious institution but equally the main economic hub of the society, must always be kept in mind. Receiving income from a temple was a necessary but, in itself, not sufficient indication of belonging to its priesthood. Neither can participation in temple rituals as such be proof of belonging to clergy. Only permanent personnel, who were responsible for bringing regular offerings (sattukku and the like) to the 1

Leiden University, [email protected]. This research was carried out due to funding of Marie Skłodowska-Curie Project Colophons and Scholars, Grant Agreement no. 797758. 7 The abbreviations in this article are in accordance with the CDLI’s “Abbreviations for Assyriology”. For the non-Assyriologists among the readers OAkk stands for the the Akkadian dialect, OB—for the Old Babylonian period and dialect, OA—for the Old Assyrian, MB for Middle Babylonian, and LB for the Late Babylonian. MA and NA ia Middle and Neo-Assyrian respectively. 3 E.g., Hurowitz 1992: 130–321. 4 I have touched on this subject in May 2017: 96–97. 5 May 2018a. 6 See section 2.1. below. 2

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gods, apparently should be perceived as priestly personnel. The same is true for different kinds of individuals consecrated to temples or gods; dedication to a god might be evidence of a person becoming temple property or a servant, but not a cult officiant. The most common cases are Babylonian širkus, or “oblates;”7 in Assyria, the baker and the brewer dedicated to Šarrat-nipḫa,8 are good examples of consecrated personnel, who provided professional services to the temple and were in turn rewarded by provision of a share in the offerings.9 Women of any status—from princesses to slaves—were dedicated to temples by their male legal guardians.10 This is particularly important to take into account when discussing the role of females in cult. A further criterion for priesthood could be an initiation ritual. The category of persons designated in the first millennium as erib bītis (traditionally translated as “temple enterers,” but were actually “cella enterers”) certainly had priestly functions, since they presented offerings, attended divine statues, and communicated with gods directly. While each of these criteria correspond, to some degree, to priesthood, they are never found all together in one document or even in the documents of the same period. Respectively, they will be related when attested. Keeping all this in mind, let us see how and if these criteria are applicable to Mesopotamian women. We need a diachronic perspective in order to understand the relation of women to cult in first millennium Babylonia and Assyria. In cases where the continuity can be traced, I will provide a short overview of the role of women in cult in the south and in the north in the third and second millennia, in order to comprehend how that role changed throughout the time.11 In the earlier periods, the evidence for women in cult is copious: there exist a variety of terms for different kinds of females officiating as priestesses and all the above-mentioned criteria are attested for female cult practitioners. The research on women—highest clergy and various kinds of devotees—for these periods is no less copious, but the present study will only address the terms for and offices of priestesses, which continued into the first millennium. The religious roles of women in the second half of the third and early second millennia have been rather thoroughly explored by Joan Westenholz.12 Repre7

Wunsch and Magdalene 2014: 338–339. SAA 12 68: rev. 28–29. 9 SAA 12 68: 27 rev. 13–14 and SAA 12 68: 7, 13. 10 The princesses and free women were usually consecrated by their fathers or brothers, but slave women were often consecrated by their owners, who were sometimes women as well (e.g., ND 2309 and ND 2316; see section 3.1. below). 11 Present research does not take as factual evidence literary and scholarly texts, since they do not reflect the actual reality of the time, but may use them as comparative material. 12 Westenholz 1989a, 1989b, 2006, 2012. See also Steinkeller 1999: 120–129 and, more recently, Gadotti 2016. There is extensive research on OB women in cult, starting with Renger 1967: 118–188 ff. 8

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sentations of women in cultic functions were equally thoroughly investigated by Claudia Suter.13 J. Westenholz summarised the evidence in two charts comparing the distribution of male and female clergy in the Sumerian and OAkk through OB periods. According to her division, officiants were almost only male, and “votaries” 14 only female. 15 But even en/entum-priestesses—all of them princesses—were dedicated by their fathers, as were all other women affiliated with temples later in the Sumerian and OB periods.16 Further, Sumerian liturgical cantors and musicians remain undifferentiated regarding their gender, but according to J. Westenholz, in the OB period there were two more terms for specifically female liturgical musicians than there were for the male: míbalaĝ.di/ṣāriḫtum and mítigí/tegītum.17 The other two terms, musician18 and lamenter,19 could relate to both genders. But it must be stressed that the professional male lamenters were scholars and temple enterers (erib bītis), while the female ones were not.20 Although there seems to be a certain gender balance in the top echelons of clergy, J. Westenholz stresses that already in the Sumerian period, “In the second rank (of cultic officiants—N.N.M.) is the most prolific group of sacerdotal functionaries who were in charge of the care and feeding of the deities. Some of these posts could be exceptionally filled by women but the vast majority only by men.”21 2. Babylonia 2.1. “High priestesses” The office of en /entum-priestesses was introduced for the king’s daughters by Sargon of Agade, who installed his daughter Enḫeduana as the priestess of the 13

Suter 2007. This is the term that J. Westenholz uses for the Sumerian l u k ur and Akkadian (OB) nadītum, ugbabtum, qadištum, kulmašītum, and kezertum. 15 The latter is true only in early periods. See fn. 7 above. 16 Sumerian l u k u r and OB nadītus were other highly positioned females related to the temples, but since there is no continuation of these offices in the first millennium BCE, they are not discussed here. See Renger 1967: 134–147 and, later, Stol 2000: 457–460, 465, for the interchanging of Sumerian and Akkadian terms in OB in different loci. 17 Westenholz 2006: 33 (unfortunately, she does not site the sources). CAD T 398b confirms her assumptions, but only male ṣāriḫu, “singer of lamentation,” is found in a few lexical texts (CAD Ṣ 110b). Besides, there is an attestation for a male MB tigî of Marduk, Nabû-kudurru-uṣur, who belonged to the highest clergy of Nippur (HS 157: iv 103– 104 = TMH NF 5: iv 103–104; Aro 1970: 16, no. 3, iv 103–104; ca. 1094 BCE). 18 Male: (lú)NAR/nârum; female: míNAR. 19 Male: lúGALA/kalûm; there is no female equivalent for this term. J. Westenholz apparently meant female wailer (a m a - g a l ) . 20 May 2018a: 151–152. 21 Westenholz 2006: 33. 14

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moon god of Ur.22 This clever political move was further expanded by Sargon’s grandson Narām-Sîn, who installed one of his daughters, apparently the eldest, Enmenana, as the high priestess of the moon god at Ur, his other daughter, Tūtanapšum,23 as the high priestess of the chief god Enlil at Nippur, and his third daughter, Šumšanī, as the high priestess of the sun god Šamaš at Sippar. His granddaughter, Līpuš-iā’um, was a cultic musician of Sîn24—possibly the beginning of tradition of appointing younger royal daughters as the god’s younger “wife.”25 Later on, other kings extended the number of entums and installed their daughters as high priestesses of various gods.26 In Ur III, installations of royal princesses as high priestesses became a standard procedure reflected in year-date formulas, 27 and the positions of the en-priestesses were always occupied by daughters of kings and rulers. The high priestesses were expected to be literate. There are four statues of a high priestess with a tablet on their lap (Fig. 1a).28 Enḫeduana is credited with composing poetry, and four compositions were assigned to her: three hymns and a divine love dialogue.29 One of the hymns was written on assumption of her en -ship.30 It is worth noting that Enḫeduana was also a prophetess—according to Westenholz, a “pythoness”—typically, of the female deity Ningal. 31 Enḫeduana’s OB colleague, Nišatapada—who was the daughter of Sîn-kāšid of Uruk, a princess, and the ereš-dingir-priestess of Mestalamtaea—calls herself a female scribe (munusdub-sar) in her letter to RimSîn of Larsa.32 Disregarding the discussion of whether these women were indeed the authors of the compositions ascribed to them,33 I would like to stress that they were perceived as literate by their contemporaries and those who read and copied their works later. Literacy, inherent or assigned to the high priestesses (as 22 See Steinkeller 1999: 124–125; Westenholz 2012: 291–301. But also note the argument of J. Westenholz (2006: 298) for the existence of the en-priestess in pre-Sargonic Kish. 23 Westenholz 1992. 24 RIME 2 E2.1.4.54: 6–9. 25 See fn. 32 below. 26 See Steinkeller 1999: 125–129; Westenholz 1992; Westenholz 2006, esp. 34–35; Westenholz 2012: 301–302. 27 Gadotti 2016: 68. See also Westenholz 2012: 304–306 for Ur III and OB e n -ship. 28 See also Suter 2007: 334. 29 Westenholz 1989a: 548–556. 30 Westenholz 1989a: 552–555 (Text B). 31 Westenholz 1989a: 548. J. Westenholz presumes that oneiromancy is meant here, since a bed is mentioned in a previous line. The articulation points, however, to Enḫeduana uttering the words of the goddess to people, as prophets do: e n i m d u 11-g a d N i n - g a l - l a l ú - r a n u - m u - n a - b ú r , “ I may no longer reveal the words of Ningal to a man,” (see Zgoll 1997: 14 l. 119). 32 This is a literary letter, known in six copies. Hallo 1991: 377, ll. 16–18. See also Michalowski 1996: 185. 33 Weiershäuser 2008: 241–245; Gadotti 2016: 67–68, with further literature.

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opposed to other royals, for instance their royal fathers), 34 apparently was necessary for performing the priestly duties. Thus, I would suggest that the tablets on the laps of the high priestesses are hymns composed on the occasion of their initiation to that position, similar to the vessels, which they hold in their hands or which were depicted on the thrones of the statues of the en-priestesses (Figs. 1a–b) that symbolize another kind of offering—the libation.

Figure 1. Statues of the enthroned en-priestesses with their donations identified due to their attire. Ur III period(?)35. After Suter 2007: figs. 11 and 10; a. With a tablet on her lap and with folded hands (attitude of a worshiper); b. Holding a vessel. All the other high-positioned female clergy belonged to royalty as well.36 There is pictorial evidence of female highest clergy bringing or supplying regular of34

Royal literacy was exceptional. During more than two-and-a-half millennia, only three Mesopotamian kings are explicitly said to be literate (May 2013). One can speculate that other rulers might be literate too, but obviously this fact was not important enough to be mentioned either for the kings themselves or for their contemporaries or descendants. 35 See Suter 2007: 333–334 for discussion. 36 For the cultic duties of the Ur III queens, see Weiershäuser 2008: 46–94, 119–148, 157–160, 166–169 (for cultic responsibilities of Šulgi-simtī, Abī-simtī, Kubātum, and Geme-Enlila, respectively, with a summary on 179–184). The queens, however, did not

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ferings, performing libations (Fig. 2), and executing other rites.37 The highest female clergy definitely entered temple cellas, as is well illustrated by the Early Dynastic votive plaque, where priestesses are depicted in front of the temple in the lower register and then inside it before the divine statue in the upper.38 There are also records of these categories of these female temple personnel receiving their part of the temple income.39

Figure 2. The seal of Iku-Parakkum with the Priestesses libating before Ištar; OAkk period, modern seal impression. After Suter 2008: fig. 15. It is important to stress that the en-priestess’s gender was seen as male, since she is referred to as the “son” (dumu) and not the “daughter” (d umu.munu s) of the king. J. Westenholz40 has noted, “Although her sexual identity is female, her gender role was considered masculine, possibly due to her position of power which she exercised.” Interestingly, J. Westenholz quotes here, with the reference to Brigitte Lion, the relatively late OB tutelary of Enanedu, who is called “son (du mu ) of Kudur-mabuk, and brother (šeš) of Warad-Sîn,” and disregards the OAkk testimony. The perception of the en-priestess as male goes back to the rise of her office: in both inscriptions where her titles and lineage appear, Enḫeduana is called the offspring (du mu ) of Sargon.41 Similarly, in her hymn, she addresses Inana as “the eldest offspring of Sîn” (dumu gal Suena).42 The same is correct for Enmenana, the high priestess of Sîn at Ur, who is called both

necessarily hold priestly offices. As F. Weiershäuser stresses, they served mostly female deities, primarily Inanna (ibid.: 179–180). For l u k u r , see ibid.: 237–240. See also Gadotti 2016: 70–71, with the references to further literature on the discussion of the Ur III queens and princesses as l u k u r . 37 Westenholz 1989a: 546–547; Westenholz 2006: 39–40; Weiershäuser 2008, as cited in the previous note. 38 See also Westenholz 2006, 2012. 39 Westenholz 2006, 2012 for the estate of high priestesses and their economic power. 40 Westenholz 2012: 306. 41 RIME 2 E2.1.1.16: 4–5, disk; RIME 2 E2.1.1.2003: 2, seal of her servant. 42 N i n m e š a r a : ll. 41, 58; Zgoll 1997: 4, 6.

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“offspring” (du mu ) of Narām-Sîn in Sumerian inscriptions43 and his “daughter” (DUMU.MUNUS-su)44 in the Akkadian one, while her sisters Tūta-napšum45 and Šumšanī, 46 who both have Akkadian names, are designated as daughters (DUMU.MUNUS-su). The difference in the filiation terms applied to the high priestesses might be a matter of seniority and of the importance of their offices, but most probably it is just of a linguistic character—Sumerian, which does not have the grammatical gender, was typically used by the high priestesses of the moon god of Ur, while Akkadian was used by the others.47 In the OB period, as the aforementioned instance of Enanedu proves, the high priestess is described as male gendered.48 This happens resulting from copying Sumerian inscriptions of the OAkk period. Copying OAkk texts caused OB scribes to return to the Archaic orthography and invent the tradition of male-gendered grammar and writings for high-positioned females. This attitude persisted into the later periods.49 What happens, however, after the OB period? To the best of my knowledge, this field remains by and large unexplored, although the evidence for Middle Babylonian high priestesses of various gods in various locations is rather extensive and clearly indicates that in Babylonia the office of the high priestess for the royal daughters still existed. For example, the imagery of the kudurru of Meli-Šipak II50 (1186–1172 BCE) depicts the king’s daughter Ḫunnubat-Nanāya holding a harp and wearing the circlet.51 She is introduced by her father the king before the goddess Nanāya (Fig. 3). The kudurru depicts the installation of the princess as the high priestess of the goddess.52 The text upon the kudurru is the 43

RIME 2 E2.1.4 (viii) (ll), a year-name formula; RIME 2 E2.1.4.2020: 5 (?; dumu-[ni]), seal impression of her servant on a bulla found in Tello. 44 RIME 2 E2.1.4.33: 11, OB tablet copy from Nippur. 45 RIME 2 E2.1 A.20: 8, inscription on a disk. 46 RIME 2 E2.1 A.51: 5–9, inscription on a bronze bowl found in Mari. 47 This is most probably the reason why J. Westenholz disregarded this evidence. This is also the conclusion of B. Lion (2009: 172, 176–177), who, however, overlooked part of the OAkk testimony. Grammatical gender differentiation by using female determinatives appears only in the Ur III Sumerian, starting with Ur-Nammu, as shown by Lion (2009: 174), and results from the Akkadian influence. But d u m u used for Ur-Nammu’s daughter Ennirgalana, who also was the high priestess of the moon god, is simply continuity of the traditional orthography. Starting with Šulgi, also Sumerian texts systematically indicate female offspring as d u m u . m u n u s and male as d u m u . 48 By “male gendered” here, I mean grammatically male gendered. I will explore further implications of this Mesopotamian phenomenon in another publication. 49 May 2018b: 251, 272–279, and below. 50 MDP X 87–94 = Paulus MŠ 3 (2014: 391–401); status of Ḫunnubat-Nanāya as the king’s daughter is specified in viii 4–5, 18–19. 51 It can be still seen, despite the image of the princess being effaced. 52 See also Schaudig 2003: 487. It is possible that even two copies of this kudurru existed. U. Seidl calls the badly damaged or unfinished duplicate a “Replik” (Seidl 1989: 79, 198, and pl. 11 [nr. 24]).

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rich grant of the vast land property, gardens, and settlements to the daughter of the king and, apparently, to the temple of Nanāya. Moreover, all this property is granted together with tax exemptions. But the term entu or any other cultic office, which might clarify Ḫunnubat-Nanāya’s tenure, is absent from this text. It is worth noting also that the king’s son, future Marduk-apla-iddina I, gets a similar grant.53 Interestingly, one of the MB documents,54 which mentions the house of the high priestess (É EREŠ.DINGIR),55 derives from the time of Meli-Šipak and thus indirectly supports the assumption that Ḫunnubat-Nanāya was indeed a high priestess.

Figure 3. The kudurru of Meli-Šipak II (1186–1172 BCE). The king introduces his daughter, Ḫunnubat-Nanāya, as a High Priestess of Nanāya before her goddess. After Paulus 2014: 391. Five MB documents from Nippur demonstrate the enormous wealth of the high priestesses. Registers of herds show that high priestesses (EREŠ.DINGIRmeš, EREŠ.DINGIR.GAL, and EREŠ.DINGIR.TUR) possessed huge numbers of large and small cattle.56 The Nippurean high priestesses obviously owned also vast fields, 53

MDP II 9–111 = Paulus MŠ 3 (2014: 369–383). UET 7 70 rev. 5’, rev. 7’ also mention EREŠ.DINGIR in a broken context. 55 Starting with the OB period, this Sumerogram can stand both for ēntu and ugbabtu (see Renger 1967: 134–147). Ugbabtu was another type of the higly positioned priestesses, some of whom were kings’ daughters and were promoted to the position of ēntu when the latter died. It might well be that this was the case in the MB period too (see fn. 56 below), but in the absence of syllabic writing, nothing can be said with certainty. 56 EAH 195 = BE 14 99a (Torczyner 1913: 34–35, no. 21) dated to the eleventh year of Kadašman-Turgu (ca. 1270 BCE) lists the herds of the high priestesses, as its colophon 54

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since their income in corn was counted by the priestesses’ scribe.57 Existence of the “young high priestess” (EREŠ.DINGIR.TUR) might be the continuation of the aforementioned Akkadian and Ur III practice to install younger royal female offspring in offices secondary to that of the high priestess.58 Furthermore, in Ur a lawsuit is brought before the high priestess to judge!59 High priestess acting as a judge—exclusively male office and often royal responsibility—proves the great authority of the office of high priestesses, which by that time had already existed for more than a millennium, in the MB city of the moon god. Nabonidus’s inscriptions on occasion of the installation of his daughter, Ennigaldinanna, as the high priestess of Sîn mention an image of the high priestess on the twelfth-century stele of Nebuchadnezzar I.60 Finally, the brick inscriptions of Adad-apla-iddina, the eighth king of the second dynasty of Isin, stating that he renovated Egišnugal, call him “son-in-law of the divine crescent” (mu 10ús-sá du 4-sakar-ra-ke 4 in Sumerian) and “son-in-law of the god Nanna” (emu dNANNA-ri in Akkadian).61 Paul-Alain Beaulieu conjectured, “Assuming that the practice of consecrating a female priestess to the moon god involved some form of hierogamy, this unusual royal title would constitute further proof of existence” of the high priestesses of the moon god in post-Kassite Babylonia.62 This is the most plausible suggestion, especially in the light that the inscriptions record the renovation of the ancient temple of the moon god, but they also call Adad-apla-iddina the “son of the goddess Ninisina” and use an exotic epithet “AŠimbabbar” for the moon god,63 which, all together, might hint at the resurrection of the old rites and habits hand in hand with the restoration of the temple. Resurrected or uninterruptedly continued, installations of the royal daughters in (rev. 47) states; l. 13 and rev. 33 mention EREŠ.DINGIR.GAL (328 heads of large cattle and 1315 of small, respectively); rev. 45 refers to EREŠ.DINGIR.TUR (1237 heads of small cattle). An additional small tablet from the same year, CBS 3060 = BE 14 89 (Torczyner 1913: 38, no. 22) contains the record of sheep and goats of EREŠ.DINGIR.GAL (l. 9) and EREŠ.DINGIR.TUR (l.16). CBS 3067 = BE 14 104: 3 (Torczyner 1913: 60, no. 32) records the butter received and sold by the high priestess household in the thirteenth year of Kadašman-Turgu (ca. 1268 BCE). CBS 12911 = BE 14, 131: 18 from the sixth year of Šagarakti-šuriaš (ca.1233 BCE) refers to EREŠ.DINGIR.GAL as well. 57 CBS 6092 = BE 14 136: 1, 5, 15 (Torczyner 1913: 58–59, no. 31), ninth year of Šagarakti-šuriaš (ca.1236 BCE). 58 See section 2.1. and fn. 36 above. 59 UET 7 7. 60 YOS 1 45, i 29–33 = Schaudig 2001: 374, no. 2.7 I 29–33 and CT 46 48 ii 5’–8’ = Schaudig 2001: 591–592, no. P4 iii 5’–8’. See also Brinkman 1968: 114, 1969: 333–334; Schaudig 2003: 483–488. 61 RIMB B.2.8.10: 5–6 (Sumerian); RIMB B.2.8.11: 5–6 (Akkadian). 62 Beaulieu 1989: 71. 63 RIMB B.2.8.10/11: 1–3 and 10, respectively.

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the office of the high priestess existed in the MB period. In Ur and Nippur, these were the millennia-old practies established by the Akkadian kings. Kassite kings, as the instance of Ḫunnubat-Nanāya suggests, also tried to create for their daughters positions of priestesses of female deities. High priestesses, however, seem to be the only female cultic office known to us from Kassite and postKassite Babylonia. From the Neo- and Late Babylonian periods, the textual evidence for female cultic personnel is so dramatically reduced that, indeed, we can count all the attestations with the digits of two hands. High priestesses disappear. Losing independence to Assyria, and thus having no dynasty to produce royal princesses, certainly contributed to the cessation of this office, which still occurred earlier in the first millennium. Despite the extreme wealth of Nebuchadnezzar II’s daughters, well illustrated by rich donations and payments by Kaššāya,64 there is no hint whatsoever that any of his daughters was a high priestess. Besides, all of Nebuchadnezzar II’s daughters were connected to Uruk, where high priestesses never existed. Notwithstanding, governor of Ur Sîn-balāssu-iqbi’s controversial account of the reconstruction of gipāru could testify that the once-mighty en priestesses of the moon god were still remembered. Apparently, this semiindependent ruler attempted to resurrect some archaic features of the cult, but he did not carry out enough research, which led to clumsy slips.65 Moreover, he did not restore the office of the ēntu-priestess on occasion of the reconstruction of gipāru—the residence of the high priestess of Ur. Instead, he “settled” there a goddess in the form of her statue. Despite all of his independence, Sîn-balāssuiqbi could not afford to enrage his Assyrian overlords and install his daughter as ēntu—that would be a riot. But if it is true that the ēntus of Sîn were still remembered, Nabonidus’s discovery of the steles of Enanedu and of Nebuchadnezzar I, dedicated to the investiture of the latter’s daughter, during the excavations at gipāru was not an occasional find but a result of purposeful search.66 2.2. Cultic roles of women in the first millennium Aside from Nabonidus’s resurrection of the office of the ēntu of Sîn for his daughter Ennigaldinanna67 and the pseudobiography of his mother, Adad-guppi/ Hadad-ḥappe (who was assumed to be the high priestess of Sîn of Harran, but is 64

The largest documented donation of all was to Eanna, Nanāya, and Ištar-of-Uruk (Beaulieu 1998). 65 Beaulieu 1989: 68–76. See Brinkman 1969: 337–338, n. 1, and RIMB: 243–244 regarding Sîn-balāssu-iqbi’s inscribed cones dedicated to the restoration of gipāru (RIMB B.6.32.2014 = UET 1 172). 66 Clearly, the primary purpose of Nabonidus’s excavations remains the restoration of the temple and the cult of Sîn, and the gipāru itself. 67 See Schaudig 2003: 482–488 for the exhaustive treatment of the Ennigaldinanna’s case, the related matters, and previous research.

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never attested with any title, even in the only evidence of her existence— inscriptions of her son),68 we know only of five texts where female cultic personnel is mentioned. In a document dated to the reign of Nabonidus, which records the woman Bazītu being given into marriage, 69 she is designated as NU.BAR-tu. The tablet derives, however, not from Babylonia, but from Neirab, another Syrian centre of the cult of the moon god.70 Three other attestations for women in cult stem from the Hellenistic period and one occurs in Arsacid Babylon. Mysterious DUMU MUNUSmeš míbi-ta-na-ti šá É.TÙR.KALAM.MA, the term that Andrew George translated as “the female members of the temple staff of Eturkalama,”71 make merry and hurl apples72 in the chapels of the temple in the afternoon of the ninth of Simānu, shouting, “Come on now! Come on now!”73 The more literal translation of the expression for female officiants would be “the daughters, the women of the inner quarters” of the temple, but this does not bring us nearer to the understanding of the exact function and position of these women. Their performance is preceded by the mourning of a kurgarrû, a cultic performer, often mentioned in connection with Ištar. Another devotee of Ištar involved in this ritual is an assinnu. Nanāya is a divine recipient of worship together with Bēlet-Bābili. George points out the erotic and ecstatic aspects of this ritual:74 apples are mentioned in the love lyrics in conjunction with Simānu(?), starting with the OB period.75 Simānu could also stand for spring, the time of love. The Neo-Assyrian text from Ḫuzirina prescribes performance of a ritual of the “love of a man to a woman” (KI.ÁG.GÁ NÍTA ana MUNUS) on the tenth and thirtieth of Simānu.76 Most probably, it is this same ritual. Further, the OB term nadītu appears in the Kislīmu ritual of Esagil that was written in the Seleucid time, probably in Babylon. It says, “nadītu turns; her windows are ready, the curtains drawn and she? is seated. She will put the alû68

See P.-A. Beaulieu’s (1989: 71–74) conclusive and convincing argument for Adadguppi not being any priestess, and Schaudig (2001: 500–513, no. 3.2) for the edition of the Nabonidus’ inscriptions dedicated to her. 69 Dhorme 1928: 65–66, no. 23: 4, 7–8. All the other documental evidence for kulmašītu comes exclusively from the OB Sippar (Renger 1967: 185). 70 See also Beaulieu 1989: 71, with n. 4. 71 Eturkalama was the temple of Bēlet-Bābili (Ištar of Babylon). See George 1992: 307– 308 for translation. 72 Ḫašḫuru, often translated as “apple.” George (2000: 272–273) interprets it as an aphrodisiac fruit. 73 See George 2000: 276; BM 32656 iv 9’-12’. 74 For the copy, edition, and interpretation, see George 2000: 270–280. 75 A 7478 i 8 (Wasserman 2016: 65, 73, with n. 263). 76 STT 300: 9–10. However, the Seleucid text MLC 1859 ( = BRM 4 20): 6, copied from the Urukean and Babylonian originals, associates this ritual with Libra (mulZibānītu), the sign of the autumnal month Tašrītu.

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drum by the barley beer (and) write seven documents. She will hold the documents in her left hand and the alû-drum by (?) the barley beer in her right hand.”77 Two scribal mistakes together with three distinctively OB expressions in these three lines suggest that the scribe copied them from the OB tablet or tablets, which he could hardly read. One of these OB features is a nadītu appearing as a scribe, which not only recollects the distinctive function of OB nadītus as scribes and bookkeepers, but also proves that in Hellenistic Babylon female literacy was not inconceivable. The other OB feature in this late text is the nadītu’s connection to the window, well attested in OB texts as a place of nadītus’ activities. 78 Various rituals were often performed behind drawn curtains.79 There is even evidence that Sumerian lukurs and OB nadītus played musical instruments.80 The nadītu is the only female in a long list of male participants of this ritual, some titles and epithets of whom are typically OB and are not attested elsewhere in the Late Babylonian period.81 The text may have been copied from a much earlier original, which the copyist himself could not properly read. But the scribe could also have invented this ritual, adorning it with the archaic titles of officiants and other archaizing details taken from OB tablets.82 The inventions of rituals claimed to be ancient is well attested in Hellenistic Babylinonia, when they are said to be copied from old originals. There is no doubt that the scribes indeed used much earlier tablets for this purpose.83 Another first millennium text that mentions nadītu is the famous NB fake from Sippar, known as the Cruciform Monument, the text of which is known from the Cruciform Monument itself, written in the archaizing pseudo-OAkk ductus and from a number of the NB duplicates on clay tablets. LUKUR is mentioned there in conjunction with her fields, in a context imitating a deed.84 This demonstrates that 77

Çağirgan and Lambert 1991–1993: 98; BM 32206 + iv 101–103. mína-di-tu4 ŠU.BAL apa-a-tu4-šá ṣa-am-da šid-du šá-di-id ù áš-bat E-le-e ina muḫ-ḫi KAŠ.ŠE.BAR ta-nam-di 7 ši-ṭir ta-šaṭ-ṭár si-tir ina 150-šú tu-kal-la ù á-lu-ú KAŠ.ŠE.BAR ina 15. 78 For nadītus and windows, see Harris 1964: 130, and CAD A II 198 s.v. aptu 1b). Strangely enough, Çağirgan and Lambert mistake apātu for ašâtu and translate it as “reins.” Rare even in the OB ŠU.BAL (http://psd.museum.upenn.edu/nepsd-frame.html), they leave untranslated. The scribe wrote alû as E-le-e and used 1c. instead of 3f. in ašbat (contiguous in l. 102, which means he could not read this part of the original and probably interpreted it according to his understanding). 79 CAD Š I: 22 s.v. šadādu 1b). 80 Shehata 2009: 99, with n. 526. 81 Çağirgan and Lambert 1991–1993: 90–91. 82 Contra Westenholz 2006: 34. 83 Cf. the “restoration” of the cult of Anu in the Hellenistic Rēš Temple at Uruk by Kīdin-Anu, who, according to the colophon of AO 6451 (Linssen 2004: 175–176), went to Elam to copy ritual tablets robbed from Uruk by Nabopolassar. 84 BM 91022: 89 (the Cruciform Monument itself, former BM 12164); Si 3: 10, 20 (Sollberger 1967–1968: 56) and IM 124625 i 30 (al-Rawi and George 1994: 142) men-

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the forger was well informed about the nadītus of antiquity, but the text by no means reflects the NB reality. Thus, both in Babylon and Sippar nadītus were well remembered in the NB and LB periods. But there is no evidence for nadītus participating in public rituals in all the bulk of documents related to the OB nadītus. 85 The Seleucid Kislīmu ritual could preserve a memory of religious functions of nadītu, which is lacking in the OB evidence, but the text is too obscure to derive any reliable conclusions from it. A chief of female musicians, (GAL-tu4 šá míNARmeš), Nanāya-bulliṭiš figures together with the male “temple enterers” and female pirsātānītu in a request for garments, addressed to scribes and “trusties”86 of Esagil. 87 Her personal seal, together with the seals of a man and two other women, is impressed on the reverse of the tablet. She was definitely an important person, the only one named in this letter. Her title is also given, and her name is typically written using both male and female determinatives: mfdNa-na-a—TIN-eš. While all the relevant male titles, except for the obvious invention lúEN.SIG5meš, are well known, both other female titles are obscure. These are the aforementioned pirsātānītu and a mysterious míSAG KI.KUD.DA, to whom the requested garments are to be sent. Based on the contiguous sequence of lúKU4 Émeš mípir-sa-⸀ta⸣-na-a-tú and its similarity to the well-documented expression ērib bīt pirišti (literally, “enterer of the house of secrecy”), 88 Michael Jursa translates pirsātānītu as “der (weiblichen) Initiierten.”89 But phonetically written with s and not with š, pirsātānītu is more likely to be derived from pirsu (detachment) or even parsu (separated, isolated). The latter is very well attested in the construct bīt parsi (separate house, place) in ritual and therapeutic texts.90 This interpretation explains also mí SAG KI.KUD.DA, which can be literally translated as a “forewoman of a separate place.”91 According to the Arsacid (94 BCE) list dealing with the distribution of the income of Esabad—the temple of Gula in west Babylon92—female singer Gigītu

tion LUKUR dUTU, the nadītu of Šamaš. 85 Renger 1967: 112–113. 86 M. Jursa (2002: 108) translates lúEN.SIG5meš = bēl dumqi, not attested otherwise in NB/LB, as “Beamter” and briefly discusses it further. 87 BM 80711, late Achemenid or early Hellenistic(?) text, published by Jusra (2002: 107–109). 88 See CAD P 401b–402a s.v. pirišti in bīt pirišti, ērib bīt pirišti, and ērib bīt pirištūtu. 89 Jursa 2002: 108, with discussion. 90 CAD P 194 s.v. parsu 1 b) and 1b 2’. 91 Pirišti is, however, derived from the same root parāsu (to cut off, separate), as is parsu, and the topic of the letter fits well with the T. Doty’s interpretation of bīt pirišti as “wardrobe” (Doty 1993: 87). The situation it further complicated by the existence of parištu, the other derivate of parāsu meaning “post-menopausal woman” (CAD P 187a). 92 George 1993: 137 (no. 994).

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gets huge amounts of silver—ten shekels—for clothing. 93 In both cases, the musicians appear in relation to clothes, which they apparently needed for their cultic performances. The distribution list makes it particularly evident, since all the expenses recorded in it are aimed for the temple rites.94 Is there more evidence of females in regard to the temple income? Typically, Neo- and Late Babylonian women could manage prebends, and enjoyed their usufruct, but they did not perform the cultic tasks in these prebends.95 Inbāya, the widow of Marduk-rēmanni, sublet the prebends she inherited from him for a part of an income. She even drafted six replacement (ēpišanūtu) contracts and hired substitutes (ēpišanus), who officiated in her stead, although she had adult sons.96 But her case is rather exceptional, since she is an active party in these contracts.97 Apparently, her independence was due to her position as a widow of a senior age. Marduk-rēmanni himself was adopted at the age of sixteen by his maternal grandmother, Zazītu, whose son and husband had died. When adopting Marduk-rēmanni, Zazītu let him perform her prebend of the temple enterer of the Egukug—the ziqqurat of Sippar—and enjoy the income or part of it in return for sustaining her in old age. She enjoyed the usufruct of her possessions until the end of her days.98 In Hellenistic Uruk, women from the renowned clans of exorcists owned and traded in ašīpūtu prebends. These are Anu-rabūtišu/Anu-ahu-utīr/Anu-zērulīšir//Ēkur-zākir, who is said to have previously owned the prebend,99 and Dannatu or Maqartu/Anu-abu-uṣur/Nidintu-Anu//Ḫunzû, the wife of Lâbâši/Anuzēru-iddin/Lâbâši//Ēkur-zākir. 100 The latter is the buyer of the prebend. Of a 93

AB 248: 1 ir-bi šá qu-up-pi, “income of the cash box”; AB 248: 14–15 GÍN ana túglubu-uš-tu4 míGí-gí-i-tu4 míNAR-tu4 (McEwan 1981a: 141–143). 94 For the possible existence of the narūtu prebend, see McEwan 1981b: 89. 95 Waerzeggers 2014: 169. 96 Waerzeggers 2014: 168–171; see MR nos. 161 (p. 340; 490 BCE) and 178–181 (pp. 356–360, all but no. 181 [date lost,] dated to 484 BCE). 97 Two other ēpišanūtu contracts involving women are know from Sippar. In one of them, Inbāya//Ile’i-Marduk, the mother, is present at signing the contract and is specifically named as the mother of Nidinti-Marduk, apparently yet minor owner of the prebend, while a male relative or trustee acts on his behalf (BM 42424, Jursa 1999: 180– 181). In the other, Tūrinnītu//Šumu-libši owns the prebend, but a male is acting as a contracting party (BM 42365, Jursa 1999: 161). C. Waezeggers (2014: 169) assumes that this is her husband. 98 Waerzeggers 2014: 181–182, MR 4 (528 BCE), 414. 99 MLC 2116: 8 (255 BCE), most recent edition Corò 2005: 146–147. 100 NCBT 1954: 9, 12, 15, 18, 19 (217 or 216 BCE), copy Doty 2012: pls. 165–166 (YOS 20 84). This Lâbâši must be the grandson of the buyer in MCL 2116 (contra McEwan 1981b: 73, and Doty 1977: 218), since the activity of Lâbâši, the grandfather, took place in 270– 269 (or even 280–279) through 235 BCE (see Dotty 1977: 198, 217). He could hardly be

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great interest is an unfortunately badly damaged Hellenistic document from Babylon,101 apparently also a confirmation of the ašīpūtu prebends to the daughter of Zēdāya (name broken) and her daughters by the college (kiništu) of ašīpus of Esagila. Though it is tempting to suggest that these women were hereditary ašīpus, since this was a healing profession and women functioned as healers in Mesopotamia,102 nothing but an income claim can be assumed from this text.103 This is so far all the evidence for first millennium BCE Babylonia. 3. Assyria 3.1. Prophetesses Despite the great Babylonian influence, Assyria had its own distinctive cultic tradition. First of its striking differences from Babylonia is the existence of substantial evidence for prophets and, especially, prophetesses.104 Coming from the West Semitic milieu, prophecy is a cultic activity distinctively extraneous to the cuneiform culture. In Mesopotamia it seems to be associated with the Amorites. In the OB period it is best attested in Mari, but two prophecies for the Ibāl-pî-ēl, the Amorite ruler of Eshnuna are known as well.105 They are presented as uttered by goddess Kitītum, the local manifestation of Ištar. The resemblance between Eshnuna and Assyrian oracles is amazing. In Mari the evidence for prophets is the most copious. It all, however, comes from letters and rituals: no complete prophetic texts are preserved, only quotes from them in the other kinds of texts. Nonetheless, Assyrians could inherit this kind of prediction from Mari, together with many other Assyrian traditions descending from there.106 Both in Mari and in the Middle Assyrian period, 107 the term for ecstatic prophets/ still be alive in 217–216 BCE. The name of the prebend owner is written as fKAL-tu4. Doty (1977: 217 passim; 2012: 70) normalises it as Dannatu, and McEwan (1981b: 73, 119) as Maqartu. 101 BM 34203 = CI 49 140. 102 May 2018a. 103 See Clancier 2009: 326–330, contra Boiy 2004: 271, who apparently relied on McEwan’s (1981b: 155) translations. P. Clancier points to the expressions common with other texts of restitution in rights (Clancier 2009: 326, n. 22). 104 There is evidence for (typically female) ecstatics in Babylonia (Sum. lú/salg u b - b a, Akk. muḫḫu/muḫḫutu(m)), starting already with the Akkadian period (MAD 5 8: 31). Enḫeduana herself was a medium uttering the words of goddess Ninlil (fn. 31 above). See also Nissinen 2003: 181–182, nos. 119, 120; 189–199, nos. 127–135; and discussion on 180–181), coming mostly from literary and scholarly texts, more rarely from documents. But no prophetic texts as such are known, only a few quotes of probably oral utterances. In Babylonia, prophets were not a part of the literate establishment, although they were very well provided by temples. 105 Nissinen 2003: 13–91; FLP 2064 (Ellis 1987: 240); FLP 1674 (ibid.: 258–259). 106 Cf. portable sanctuaries (May 2015: 387). 107 Prophets (maḫḫu’ē), prophetesses (maḫḫu’āte), and the assinnū of the Istar temple are

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prophetesses is muḫḫu/muḫḫutum. They are provided by temples, and in Mari they are attested participating in royal rituals, typically of Ištar,108 the goddess most often associated with prophecy. In Assyria, prophets were associated with temples, although the details of their status there remain unknown. The NA term for a prophet/ess, however, is different and unique—raggimu/raggintu. More prophetesses (raggintu) are attested than prophets, and most often they are uttering the words of female deities—Mullissu, and especially Ištar of Arbela.109 This subject has been exhaustively scrutinized by Martti Nissinen.110 Another female associated with temples is šēlûtu. Interestingly, this word is attested as designating consecrated females exclusively in NA period, and more rarely in Mari. In Standard and NB dialects, šēlûtu is only attested twice, in both instances designating votive objects, and not humans.111 In NA evidence, in two cases, the šēlûtus are prophetesses.112 This is, however, all we know about the cultic role of šēlûtu, since the other seven attestations of this word in the NA texts are silent about it.113 Further, Aḫāt-abû, an employee of a female administrator (šakintu) of the Old Palace in Kalḫu, buys a girl from her father in order to dedicate her as a šēlûtu of Mullissu. 114 Aḫāt-abû is a unique writing of this name. A woman with a similar name—Aḫāt-abīša—appears as a prophetess in SAA 9 1: v 24–25. The two might be identical. If so, ND 2309 is another instance of a šēlûtu’s relation to prophecy. It must be stressed that there is no indication that Assyrian prophets and prophetesses were literate. Their utterances were collected and put in writing by others. Despite the fact that queen mother Naqī’a is addressed by the oracles five times, deities speak by and large to the king in four of the known NA oracle texts, 115 and only one (and the shortest) oracle refers to Naqī’a alone.116 The agency of Mari royal women117 in oracular activities is well known, and it is provided with food, according to the MA ration list VAT 17999 i 37’–39’ (Freydank 1974: 60–61; Freydank 1976: pl. I [no. 1]). 108 A. 3165 ii 21’–27 (Durand and Guichard 1997: 53–54); A. 12496 + S. 142 75 + M. (unnumbered): 4’, 8’(?) (ibid.: 59–60). 109 Nine prophetesses are known, but only four prophets (SAA 9: XLVII–LII); the numbers given by Nissenen (2019: 138, 140) are slightly different, since he demonstrates the gender ambiguity of some of the Assyrian prophets (ibid.:141–143). Nonetheless, also in his counting, women prevail. 110 Nissenen 2009: 136–149 passim. 111 CAD Š III: 264. The term is also known from Emar. 112 SAA 12 148; SAA 9 1 v. 10–11. 113 Svärd 2018: 120. 114 ND 2309. 115 SAA 9 1: v. 8, 13; 2 i. 13’, iv. 28’. 116 SAA 9 5: 1. 117 Nissinen 2019: 149.

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tempting to suggest that Naqī’a, who was of West Semitic origin, introduced prophecy at Assyrian court. But this conjecture must be rejected. Indeed, prophecy is documented in Assyria only in reigns of Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, but the same is true for traditional extispicy and more innovative celestial divination, the reports of which are known only from the times of these kings and from royal correspondence with scholars. Thus, any claims for a special role of Naqī’a in the NA prophecies do not hold water,118 although her extraordinary interference into politics and matters of succession—and in this conjunction into divinatory procedures—as well as her active part in cult and temples’ provision is well known.119 3.2. Assyrian qadištu Starting with the Old Assyrian period,120 we know only one term that designates a kind of a priestess in Assyria. This is qadištu,121 literally meaning “consecrated,” known also in Babylonia.122 As opposed to Babylonia, there is no evidence for an Assyrian qadištu dedicated as a votary.123 In the OB period, qadištus apparently came from wealthy families, since they were given a house and a field on occasion of their installation. 124 Qadištu could marry and were related to fertility, childbirth, and childcare. This is clear also from Sumerian, from literary texts,125 and from OB attestations, where the qadištu is found as a wet nurse.126 118

Contra Nissinen 2017: 267. May 2018b: 251–252, 254, 258–260, 262–268, 272–274, 278–280, with the written and pictorial evidence collected there. 120 Only three OA documents are known where qadištus are mentioned, and all three are related to the marriages of Assyrian merchants in Kanesh. From ICK 13: 1–6 and AKT AKT l 77: 1–9, we learn that a qadištu should be taken as a second wife; BIN 6 222: 8–9, LE is a testament of the Assyrian merchant Amur-Ištar, who bequeaths to his wife, qadištum Lamassī, his house at Kanesh with the furniture and slaves. 121 A lot has been written about n u . g i g /qadištu (see Westenholz 1989b and LAS II: 182–183, with further references). For this reason, but mainly because this term and office do not continue into MB and NB, the Babylonian qadištu has not been discussed in the previous section, although there is probably one attestation of míQadištu as a family name in the MB period (PBS 2/2 122: 22). 122 Westenholz 1989b. 123 For OB, see CH Law no. 181. 124 VAS 8 70: 7 (case), 69: 6 (tablet). 125 In Atraḫasis, the house of a qadištu is ordained by Mami for women to give birth for the joy of midwives in the process of creation: 290ša-[ab]-sú-tum i-na bi-it qá-di-iš-ti liiḫ-du 291a-li a-li-it-tum ú-ul-la-du-ma, “Let the midwife rejoice in the qadištu’s house, where the pregnant woman gives birth” (Lambert and Millard 1969: 62 i 290–291); cf. n u - g i g n i g ì n , “n u - g i g of the birthing place” (Foster 1982: 324). 126 E.g., VAS 7 10: 3, VAS 7 37: 16; see also Westenolz 1989b: 252. L. Barberon presumes even that the school texts found at the OB Sippar, in an archive, which belonged to qadištum Ḥumṭi-Adad and her brother, might be the product of her students (Barberon 119

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Assyrian qadištus, in contrast with the Babylonian ones, are recorded having an active part in religious rites. Occurrences of the term are, however, rare in all periods. It is worth noting that in OA letters, as well as in the Middle Assyrian “Harem Laws” and Aššur-uballiṭ I’s Edict, this term is written syllabically. In the Palace Decree of Aššur-uballiṭ I,127 (although in broken context) the qadištu is paired with the midwife, 128 as she is in Atraḫasis.129 The Middle Assyrian Laws130 declare that the married qadiltu must be veiled, while the unmarried should go bareheaded like a slave girl. This was one of the reasons why qadištus were considered prostitutes in the research.131 This restriction might be, however, related to their not fully free status of a consecrated person. The titles of the female cult performers in the MA ritual of the Adad temple, KAR 154, are written with logograms—NU.GIGmeš (qaldāte) and NU.GIGmeš TURmeš (young qaldāte). There, they act together with two male officiants—the priest, šangû, and the purification priest, šangû ša teliltu. They present lavish meat and food offerings, bring aromatics and beer for Adad, sing him an inḫuprayer, 132 and consume the leftovers. The young qaldāte perform their song (zimrišunu) together with the male singer. The ritual includes a procession from the Adad temple to the precinct of the Aššur temple and purification with the purification device. At the end of the ritual, qaldāte remove their jewellery.133 The qaldāte are certainly present inside the temple, most probably in the cella before the divine statue, while the ritual is performed. J. Westenholz noted the connection of qadištu to the cult of Adad also in Sippar and Kish.134 Only two clear occurrences for qadištu are known for the NA period. In the course of the oath ritual performed during of the New Year festivities,135 the qadištu is expelled after the offerings of incense and the libation are presented before the “daughter of the river.” Purification with the use of salt precedes her expulsion. An exorcist executes a purification on the next day too. Thus, expelling qadištu is a part of the purification ritual. She functions as a scapegoat in this rite. The text was found in Assur but the ritual is said to have been executed at Esagil.136 2009: 280–281). I could not, however, find a confirmation for this claim in the texts published by F. al-Rawi and S. Dalley (2000). 127 Weidner 1954–1956: 268 l. 11. 128 mí sa-ab-su-tu ù míqa-di-il-tu. 129 See fn. 125 above. 130 MAL § 40. 131 LAS II:182, n. 321. 132 For a possible ecstatic character of this song or chant, see George 2000: 271, n. 23. 133 Menzel 1981: T2–T4. 134 Westenholz 1989b: 253. 135 Thus E. Ebeling (1953: 41). S. Parpola considers it to be a ritual for undoing a lightheartedly sworn oath (LAS II: 183). 136 Ebeling 1953: 43–44 (VAT 10568a rev ii 5 = PKTA 17 = KAR 134).

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A letter to Esarhaddon, written apparently by his chief exorcist, Mardukšākin-šumi, discusses the exorcistic rites that are to be performed by a certain woman on behalf of the king, the crown prince Assurbanipal, and all his brothers, with all their sons assisted by some males and an exorcist (lúMAŠ.MAŠ).137 Simo Parpola suggested that this woman is the queen mother Naqī’a herself and she is the one to be cured. 138 This, however, contradicts the words of the author of the letter, who states, “I shall bring up and say to her the name of the king, and [the names of] the crown prince and all his brothers, [as many as] there are sons, my lords, (of them) … and she will pronounce them.”139 Naqī’a knew the names of her son and her grandsons, and most probably the names of their sons as well, and hardly needed this information. This passage also makes it clear that the ritual was performed not for her, but for the king’s male offspring, an interpretation that is additionally supported by the mention of the king’s grandsons in what is left of the blessing formula.140 The woman in charge is the qadissu mentioned in ll. 13–14: míqa-di-su me-me-ni [i-b]a-áš-ši e-ep-pa-áš, which should be translated as “whichever qadissu they have, she will perform.” According to the king’s demand she should perform the rites in the presence of the letter’s author and impose the exorcism—literally, “cast the solvents” (pi-šìr-a-ti lu tak-ru-ur). The latter expression turns us to SAA 10 245 rev. 11–12, where it also appears, and further to a very interesting point. In SAA 10 245, in order to “cast solvents,” the female performing the rites in Kalḫu must be supplied with some thirty to forty canonical and non-canonical tablets, which Marduk-šākin-šumi is collecting and sending for her to Kalḫu.141 This naturally suggests that the female performer, apparently a qadištu as well, was able to read these tablets, which supports my previous suggestion that women involved in healing could be literate.142 In SAA 10 246, the qadištu’s role as being responsible for the offspring clearly comes to the forefront. The topic of SAA 10 245 is also the health of the king and his male offspring. This follows from the fact that it was

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SAA 10 246. See the discussion in LAS II: 180–181. 139 šu-mu ša LUGAL [MUmeš ša] DUMU MAN ù ŠEŠmeš-šú gab-bu [am-mar DU]MUmeš EN-ia-ani gab-bu x[x x]x a-na-ku a-qab-ba-ámešš-ši ta-zak-kar (SAA 10 246 rev. 3’–6’). 140 SAA 10 246: 2’. 141 ki-i ša LUGAL be-li i-qab-bu-ni šum-mu tal-Ia-ka a-na uruKal-ḫa a-na mA-ḫu-ni liš-paru-ni li-in-tu-ḫa lu-bi-la ba-ši pi-šìr-a-ti lu tak-ru-ur ù a-na-ku an-nu-rig tup-pa-a-ni 30 40 SIG5meš am-mar ina UGU-ḫi qur-bu-u-ni ù a-ḫi-ú-ti i-ba-áš-ši i-še-niš ša im-ma-ti-me-ni [in-né-p]u!-šú-u-⸢ni⸣ re-e-šú [a-na- áš-ši a-m]a-ta-ḫa, “Now, if she—as the king, my lord, says,—comes to Kalḫu, let them send Aḫuni to pick up and bring (the tablets), so she can ‘cast the solvents.’ As for myself, I am presently [col]lecting all the 30 to 40 canonical tablets that are relevant to the matter, as well as (all) the existing non-canonical ones that are ever [per]formed (in this connection);” SAA 10 245 rev. 7–18. 142 May 2018a. 138

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written by Marduk-šākin-šumi and includes his extremely long blessing, which ends with a mention of the king’s grandsons,143 exactly as in SAA 10 246. 3.3. Royal women, female singers, mourners, and other in the Neo-Assyrian cult Besides the qadištu, two main groups involved in cult in Assyria are royal women and cultic female singers. When speaking of the royal women, it must be kept on the top of the mind that they, like the OB royal high priestesses, could be male gendered.144 I have already discussed all the rather scarce evidence for the Assyrian royal women in cult in my contribution to the First GeMANE Workshop.145 The role of the queen in the cult of Ištar is scrutinized by Wiebke Meinhold in her book.146 New evidence testifying for the existence of the en-priestess in the late MA and early NA periods was published recently by Hanspeter Schaudig—KAL 12 6 and KAL 12 7.147 These two texts are royal rituals of dedication of the high priestess of Aššur. The first one, KAL 12 6, describes the dedication (še-lu-a148) of Amat-Mullissu by her father, the king. As follows from the colophon, this is Tiglath-pileser, 149 apparently Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076 BCE). 150 Both the king and his daughter are purified by ablutions and prescribed to wear ritual clothes.151 The attire of the high priestess to be is described in much detail, while that of the king is simply described as “garment for sacrifices.” It seems that the mouth-washing ritual was performed for the princess as well. The other ritual is a dedication of the high priestess by the king as well, but this time it is her brother, Shalmanesser III (858–824 BCE; KAL 12 7: 8’–9’). Only the theophoric element of her name, “-Mullissu,” survived. Schaudig suggests the restoration Amat-Mullissu and supposes that this was the office name of Assyrian high priestess, 152 which is, however, unparalleled elsewhere. Remarkably, the ritual is dated to the 8 of Addāru, the time of the spring festivals.153 It is possible that the office survived from the times when Assyria was a vassal and a province of the Akkadian empire—OAkk legacy was always revered in Assyria.

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SAA 10 245: 1–19—the blessing occupies the entire obverse of the tablet! See fn. 49 above. 145 May 2018b: 266–270. 146 Meinhold 2009: 240–245. 147 Schaudig 2020 = KAL 12. 148 See comments in Schaudig 2020: 37; for the NA šēlûtus, see fn. 112 above. 149 KAL 12 6 rev. 13’. 150 Schaudig 202: 39. 151 KAL 12 6 5; KAL 12 6 5’–12’. 152 KAL 12 7 rev. 8’; Schaudig 2020: 41. 153 Schaudig 2020: 41. See also fn. 188 below. 144

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Although, as a royal consort, Assyrian queens played an important role in the cults of female deities—Mullissu, the consort of Aššur, and Ištar—they did not hold any temple position.154 But bottom line, we have only one more ritual text involving Assyrian royal women. 155 This document resulted from Sennacherib’s156 religious reforms. It was also performed in the time of Assurbanipal.157 Besides the queen, the daughter of the king, and the sister of the king, it involves some women (MÍmeš) who shall circumambulate in front of the statue of Aššur seated at the Firmament Gate.158 Who these women are remains unclear, and the rite is said to have been elective. The queen enters the “the strong house” of Aššur159 and the daughter of the king invokes Šērū’a’s name during the ceremony of the meat offering to this goddess. The ritual ends with the invocation to Šērū’a after offering her boiled meat. But this time, it is not the daughter but the sister of the king who shall act. Her words are repeated by the choir of (apparently) women participating in the ritual.160 Nonetheless, very few late NA attestations for the term ēntu are found in the three astrological reports,161 which simply quote one and the same omen from Enūma Anu Enlil,162 as these texts themselves state.163 These series of celestial omens were copies from the older originals for centuries, and originated in the OB period.164 These omina have nothing to do with the NA reality. The only late 154

Cf. Ur III queens; fn. 36 above. SAA 20 52 = BM 121206 rev. v 53’–57’. See also May 2018b: 267. 156 This is mentioned on the obverse of the tablet of the ritual (BM 121206 iv 2’ and rev. iv 5’). 157 BM 121206 rev. iv 50’ states that the ritual was performed on Šabāṭu 12 of 645 (eponymate of Šamaš-da’’inanni). 158 Ibid.: rev. ii 49’–50’. 159 Ibid.: rev iv 52’–53’: míÉ.GAL ina ma-at! lib-ba-ša-ni ina É dan-nu ina IGI dAš+šur lu te!-ru-ub, “the queen enters the stronghold of Aššur when she wants.” What building is designated here as bīt dannu should be checked against the topography of the Aššur temple. The signs of É dan-nu ina IGI dAš+šur can be also read as É dan-nu-ti dAš+šur or É dan-nu ana! IGI dAš+šur (collated from photograph). 160 Ibid. rev. vi 53’–56’: [GIM sal-q]u ina IGI dŠe-ru-u-a ep-pu-lu [DUMU.MUNU]S MAN GIM MU-šá-ma dŠe-ru-u-a DUMU.MUNUS AN.ŠÁR ma-a ki-i ḫa-an-ni-u li-iz-mu-ru la DUG.GA a-ḫat LUGAL GIM MU-šá-ma dŠe-ru-u-a DINGIR-te AN.ŠÁR ma-a ki ḫa-ni-i li-izmu-ru DUG.GA; “[When the boiled me]at is presented to Šerū’a, [the daught]er of the king (says): ‘her name is Šerū’a, the daughter of Aššur.’ Shall they sing like this? Not good. The sister of the king (says): ‘her name is Šerū’a, the divinity? of Aššur.’ Shall they sing like this? This is good.” Collated from photograph; pace SAA 20 52, the translation there is a stretch, which contradicts the clear syntax of the direct speech in this sentence. 161 SAA 8 147 rev. 3, 307: 2–3, 408: 8. In SAA 8 104: 11, it is restored based on EAE. Literary and scholarly texts are not discussed in this essay, since they do not mirror the concrete reality of the period. 162 E.g., ACh Shamash 8:1ff., 10: 29–30, based on which the SAA 8 104: 11 is restored. 163 an-nu-ti šá ÉŠ.QÀR; “these belong to the series” (SAA 8 147 rev. 5). 164 Rochberg-Halton 1988: 19–20. 155

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NA economical(?) text, which probably mentions ēntu in obscure context, is SAA 14 68. But the reading ⸢mí⸣NIN.DINGIR.RA, suggested by SAA 14 68: 3, is very doubtful.165 Thus, there is no clear evidence for entu-priestesses in Assyria in the late NA period,166 but royal daugthers and sisters played a prominent role in the cult of Aššur. Royal women have an active part in SAA 20 34, the funerary ritual for a queen,167 namely Ešarra-ḫammat, the wife of Esarhaddon, as was convincingly shown by Simo Parpola.168 The queen’s daughter presents an offering,169 but the most active in this ritual is the daughter-in-law of the late queen, who also kisses the feet of the deceased.170 This is a well-known homage to the dead by someone inferior in rank. This habit is described in Gilgamesh, where the princes of the earth kiss the feet of the deceased Enkidu.171 Further,172 míÉ.GALmeš command the burial of the queen. Parpola has demonstrated that míÉ.GAL designates a queen in the NA period.173 SAA 20 34 rev. 9 is virtually the only certain occurrence of this term in plural.174 In my view, míÉ.GAL in this context should be taken for its literal meaning, “palace women,” as referring to all royal women, who participate in the ritual: the queen’s daughter, her daughter-in-law and the queen-mother Naqī’a, who outlived her son’s wife. The latter is not assigned any particular role, but was certainly present at the ceremony. This reading is supported by the generally loose definitions in this text, which do not specify whose daughter and daughter-in-law are meant, but imply this as self-evident. The the fact that there was no queen in Assyria for that moment—thus, all the royal female family members were responsible for the queen’s household further confirms my interpretation. It is worth noting that not a single male is explicitly mentioned in this funerary ritual as having a specific task, although masculine plural verbal forms suggest that males performed rites together with the royal women.175 Active participation of the latter in the burial of the queen is not surprising; even professional mourners in Mesopotamia were female.176 Presence of 165

See photograph in CDLI P334979; ⸀mí⸣EREŠ is difficult there. Contra Svärd 2018: 124. 167 SAA 20 34: rev. 9–10, 20. 168 Parpola 1983: 190–191. 169 SAA 20 34: 29. 170 SAA 20 34: 4–14; she continues in ll. 19–23 and kisses her mother-in-law’s feet again. 171 Gilgamesh VII 87, VIII 143 (George 2003: 641, 657). 172 SAA 20 rev. 9–10. 173 Parpola 1988. 174 SAA 8 381 rev. 6 might be another occurance, but the text before É.GAL is broken. 175 Taking into consideration that the NA royal women could be grammatically male gendered, this might be the case here too. 176 See Harris 2000: 100; Gadotti. 2016: 65–66; May 2018: 151–152. The very term for a mourner is ama’irrû, “wailing woman,” a Sumerian loan word, meaning literally “moth166

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female family members at the funerals of a relative, especially a female one, is natural. Thus, SAA 20 34 cannot be taken as evidence for the regular female cultic activities, but is rather a record of a special occasion.

Figure 4. Representation of a royal family on the cylinder seal ND 1989.332 from the Queens’ Tombs. Nimrud. Tomb III. Neo-Assyrian Period. Modern Seal Impression. After May 2020b. The pictorial evidence for the royal women in cult is relatively substantial177 and points to the queen’s role in the cult of Mulissu. On the famous bronze relief, Naqī’a participates in worship together with Esarhaddon. 178 Queens are depicted as worshipers alone (the seal of Hamâ179 ), together with kings (the aforementioned bronze relief and chalcedony seal 2002-5-15,1), 180 and even together with the king and crown prince (Fig. 4).181 The latter is especially valuer of mourning.” Like harištu, “mourner,” ama’irrû does not have a male equivalent, although the SB onomatopoetic lallaru/lallarītu can be both male and female, thus reflecting later developments towards transmitting female professional functions to males. The broken OB tag catalogue once attached to a basket with tablets, lists incipits of the series. Its colophon summarizes: 37 IM.GÍD.DA ama-ér-ra-ku-tim ša DINGIR.MAḪ, “37 long tablets of the wailing of Bēlet-ilī” (Shaffer 1993). Notwithstanding that this is very early evidence of serialisation, female mourners, or at least their forewomen, should have been literate in order to read and perform their laments. Typically, this wailing series did not persist. 177 See May 2018: 265–268, with figs. 4, 5. 178 May 2012: fig. 8.17. 179 May 2018: fig. 4. 180 Ibid.: fig. 5. 181 May 2020.

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able because, together with Hamâ’s seal, this is the only evidence pointing to the queens’ important role in the state cult before Sargonids.182 Circlets of the female worshipers and cult performers might designate that these are royal women too.183 Female musicians were very popular in Assyria184 and in Mesopotamia in general. Female cultic singers are already known from the MA period,185 but the evidence for them in the NA period is scarce. Interestingly, on the relief of the passage to the Ištar temple, all three female musicians,186 who are certainly part of a royal cultic ritual (whether themselves royal or not), play only percussion instruments, while female Elamite captives are shown playing the strings.187 The female chief singer (nargalutu[míNÀR.GÁL]) announces that Šerua has given birth in the course of Assurbanipal’s Assur temple rites of Šabattu-Addāru of 650 BCE.188 The female singers who appear beside the male ones in a breadand-beer distribution list might also belong to the cultic personnel, since they are recorded there together with lamentation priests. 189 A letter to Esarhaddon 190 describes the funerary rites performed by the apparent governor of Assur. The singer (lúNÀR) Qīsāia and his daughters chant, mourning the deceased king (Sennacherib).191 This is another instance of the traditional role of women in funeral and mourning. In this very ritual, the governor’s wife burns a female goat-kid as a holocaust,192 as a sign of a deep sorrow. There are more instances in NA sources where females are taking part in cult or rites but there is neither a term for their position, nor is it indicated that they 182

For the discussion of date of this seal, see May 2020: 71. May 2018: 268–270, with figs. 6-8. 184 In addition to the attestations in documents (Svärd 2015: 121–123), see Sennacherib boasting of taking all the female (and male) musicians of Hezekiah as booty (e.g., RINAP 3/2 Sennacherib 4:58). A similar situation is depicted on an Assurbanipal relief, which represents Elamite female musicans taken to captivity (Barnett, Turner and Bleibtreu 1996: pls. 304–305, 307–308, room XXXIII, slabs 385–386, lower register). 185 See fn. 203 below. Note that the MA term, zamartu, is different from the NA one. 186 Barnett, Turner, and Bleibtreu 1996: pls. 492–494, passage to Ištar Temple, slabs 672–673). 187 See fn. 184 above. J. Westenholz (2006: 33) suggests that female musicians played mostly drums, which is based on identification of b a l a ĝ - d i /timbuttu and t i g í/tigû as percussion instruments (see fn. 17 above). Investigation of this assumption is beyond the scope of this article. See Gabbay 2014a: 93–98, 102–103, 115–116. 188 A 125+ = SAA 20 9 r. iii 22. 189 SAA 7 142: 5–7. 190 SAA 16 95: 1–11. 191 SAA 16 95: 5; the rest of the occurrences of female musicians assembled in Svärd 2015: 121–123 and Macgregor 2012: 29–54 are not connected with any religious performance. 192 Cf. the Biblical ‫קָ ְרבַּ ן עוֹלָה‬, completely burned as symbol of regret. SAA 16 95: 5 interprets udu.míÁŠ.GÀR as a female goat-kid. 183

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participate in the rites on regular basis. For instance, Urdu-Nabû, the priest of Nabû at Kalḫu, informs the king about the beautiful slave girls (qallāte) he saw on the day of a feast in the temple. He does not specify what they were doing there. They might have been passive subjects of the rites, similar to a slave girl used in an eclipse ritual.193 3.4. Women in the cult of Tašmētu Women in Assyria were involved in the cult of Tašmētu. The earliest evidence for this is the OA “letter-prayer” of a certain Akatīya, a servant (GEMÉ) of Tašmētu to her goddess. Guido Kryszat, who published this letter, stresses the possibility that the letter is a school exercise. Although he concludes that this is a real, and not literary, letter, his observation that it “von einer noch ungeübten Hand geschrieben wurde” remains valid. 194 Most plausibly, Akatīya wrote it herself. The term GEMÉ, however, can designate just a devotee, and not an actual position of a cultic officiant. Thirty-six female singers (míza-ma[-ra-te] ša dTaš-me-te) are mentioned the MA list of women.195A woman in charge of the lighting ceremony of Tašmētu in the Nabû temple or in the goddess’s akītu-house at Kalḫu is mentioned in one of the letters.196 The letter is, however, a complaint about innovations introduced by the lamentation priest Pūlu. One of these innovations was that this kalû himself performs the duties of the woman in the lighting ceremony. Kalûs were new to the NA cultic establishment,197 and this letter is a good example of women being replaced by men in their traditional cultic functions. The other priest of Nabû at Kalḫu, Nergal-šarrāni, discusses with Naqī’a her offerings and the rite, which includes presenting these offerings as well as lavish animal sacrifice. The role of the queen mother’s maid (GEMÉ ša AMA MAN) in the rite is presenting the offering basket. However, she cannot participate and the priest asks the queen mother for a substitute.198 In his next letter,199 Nergal-šarrāni specifies that the offerings were made for Tašmētu. Assyrian women certainly were actively involved in the rites of Tašmētu starting from OA through the NA periods. 4. Conclusion The highest female clergy, starting with the OB period at least, were male gendered, as were Assyrian royal women. Besides, there is a dramatic reduction in the Babylonian female clergy after the OB period. The Kassite invasion, which 193

SAA 10 313. Kryszat 2003: 253–255, 258. 195 VAT 18059 rev. ii 43’–44’ (Freydank 1976: no. 57). 196 SAA 13 134 rev. 4–5. 197 Gabbay 2014b: 121–122. 198 SAA 13 76. 199 SAA 13 77. 194

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overturned the entire social structure of Babylonia, might be the reason. It seems that the mighty office of the high priestess of the moon god survived the Kassites. But the upper echelons of clergy in Mesopotamia were always occupied by the members of royal family. The same is true for the second millennium and for the case of Nabonidus’s daughter. This may explain the nearly complete absence of female high clergy in Babylonia in the first millennium, since there was no royalty there anymore, which is underlined by the Nabonides’ attempt to restore the office of the high priestess of the moon god. The remembrance of literacy of the female clergy of the earlier periods, and their function in cultic musical performance, is preserved in the image of the nadītu in the Seleucid Kislīmu ritual. The first millennium Babylonian evidence for the women in cult is meagre and obscure, and the terms for officiants are mostly invented or re-invented. The only role in which women continued to appear in cult were female musicians. As for Assyria, royal women played important role in cult and, as well as in Babylonia, the office of ēntu for royal princesses persisted there until the early first millennium. Otherwise there seems to be no evidence for established priestly positions for women, except for the qadištu, who was definitely connected with childbirth, childcare and childhealth, and with purification rites. The affiliation of qadištus with healing—which was a traditional female occupation in Mesopotamia200—alongside male healers could be the reason why she survived into the first millennium in Assyria. NA qadištus most probably were literate, although their status is somewhat compromised by the role of the scapegoat in purification ritual PKTA 17+ and the position of second wives in the OA period.201 Prophecy is the only profession in which females outnumber males in the NA period, but this occupation was also not the mainstream in the Mesopotamian religion. Prophetesses were definitely affiliated with the temples, but there is no evidence of their participation in cultic rituals. In the first millennium in Assyria, as well as in Babylonia, females participating in cult are either royal or musicians. In Assyria some females, especially the royal ones, had functions in the cults of the female deities, especially Mullissu and Tašmētu. Women take active part in funerary rites, not just as wailers. In Mesopotamia, women were never as active in cult as men, with the exception of the royal women. Despite the dramatic reduction in the female cultic roles in the first millennium, women still entered temples, even their inner chambers. Female singers were important until the very dawn of the cuneiform civilization. There was no prohibition for women to participate in cult. Even in late periods, females in Mesopotamia were not sweepingly prohibited at temple ritual, as they were in the Jerusalem temple. Contrarily, Assyrians and Babylo200 201

See May 2018a. Qadištus, however, are not attested in NB Babylonia.

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nians expected women to be involved in certain cultic functions, which could even be reinstalled for them. On one hand, this attitude is strikingly different from that in the Hebrew Bible, where we do not find any clear indication of women taking part in cult.202 On the other hand, the actual prohibition obliging women to stay in the “court of women” in the Jerusalem temple was a product of much later developments. It relates to the Herod’s temple and is only attested in Mishnaic and Talmudic sources.203 Thus, we should exclude the influence of first millennium Mesopotamia changes in the position of women in cult on the absence of women in cult in the postexilic Jerusalem temple. Bibliography al-Rawi, F. / Dalley, S. 2000: Old Babylonian Texts from Private Houses at Abu Habbah Ancient Sippar. Baghdad University Excavations. Edubba 7. London. al-Rawi, F. / George, A. R. 1994: Tablets from the Sippar Library III: Two Royal Conterfeits. Iraq 56, 135–148. Barberon, L. 2009: Les documents d’archives des religieuses en Babylonie ancienne: Usage, transmission et conservation. Topoi Supplément 10, 273–288. Barnett, R.D. / Bleibtreu, E. / Turner, G. 1998: Sculptures from the Southwest Palace of Sennacherib at Nineveh. London. Beaulieu, P.-A. 1989: The Reign of Nabonidus, King of Babylon (556–539 BC). New Haven, Connecticut. Beaulieu, P.-A. 1998: Ba’u-ašītu and Kaššaya, Daughters of Nebuchadnezzar 11. Orientalia 64, 173–201. Boiy, T. 2004: Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 136. Leuven. Brinkman, J.A. 1968: A Political History of Post-Kassite Babylonia, 1158–722 B.C. Rome. Brinkman, J.A. 1969: Ur: “The Kassite Period and the Period of the Assyrian Kings.” Review of Ur Excavations, VIII: The Kassite Period and the Period of the Assyrian Kings, by Leonard Woolley. Orientalia 38, 310–348. Çağirgan, G. / Lambert, W. G. 1991–1993: The Late Babylonian Kislīmu Ritual for Esagil. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 43(45), 89–106 Clancier, P. 2009: Les activités des femmes dans les temples de Babylone aux époques hellénistique et parthe. In F. Briquel-Chatonnet / S. Farès / B. Lion / C. Michel (eds.): Femmes, cultures et sociétés dans les civilisations médi-

202

2 Kgs 23:7 mentions destruction of houses in the temple, where women were weaving clothes for Ashera as a part of the Josiah reform. Sacrificing with qĕdēšôt in Hos 4:14 is condemned and is mentioned not as temple worship, but in context of the cult on the high places. Biblical prophetesses, although respected, were not the part of the official temple cult either. 203 E.g., Sukkah 51b.

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Renger, J. 1967: Untersuchungen zum Priestertum in der altbabylonischen Zeit. Teil 1. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 58, 110–188. Schaudig, H. 2001: Die Inschriften Nabonids von Babylon und Kyros’ des Grossen samt den in ihrem Umfeld entstandenen Tendenzschriften: Textausgabe und Grammatik. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 256. Münster. Schaudig, H. 2003: Nabonid, der „Archäologe auf dem Königsthron‟: Zum geschichtsbild des ausgehenden neubabylonischen Reiches. In G.J. Selz (ed.): Festschrift für Burkhart Kienast zu seinem 70: Geburtstage dargebracht von Freunden, Schülern und Kollegen. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 274. Münster, 447–497. Schaudig, H. 2020: Staatsrituale, Festbeschreibungen und weitere Texte zum assyrischen Kult. Ausgrabungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft in Assur E, Inschriften 9; Keilschrifttexte aus Assur literarischen Inhalts 12. Wiesbaden. Seidl, U. 1989: Die Babylonische Kudurru-Reliefs: Symbole Mesopotamischer Göttheiten. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 87. Freiburg Schweiz-Göttingen. Shaffer A. 1993: From the Bookshelf of a Professional Wailer. In M.E. Cohen / D.C. Snell / D.B. Weisberg (eds.): The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo. Bethesda, Maryland, 209–210. Shehata, D. 2009: Musiker und ihr vokales Repertoire. Untersuchungen zu Inhalt und Organisation von Musikerberufen und Liedgattungen in altbabylonischer Zeit. Göttingen. Sollberger, E. 1967–1968. The Cruciform Monument. Jaarbericht van het Vooraziatisch-Egyptisch Genootschap Ex Oriente Lux 20, 50–70. Stol, M. 2000: Titel altbabylonischer Klosterfrauen. In J. Marzahn / H. Neumann (eds.): Assyriologica et Semitica: Festschrift für Joachim Oelsner anläßlich seines 65. Geburtstages am 18. Februar 1997. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 252. Münster:, 457–466. Suter, C.E. 2007: Between Human and Divine: High Priestesses in Images from the Akkad to the Isin-Larsa Period. In J. Cheng / M.H. Feldman (eds.): Ancient Near Eastern Art in Context. Leiden and Boston, 317–361. Suter, C.E. 2008: Who Are the Women in Mesopotamian Art from ca. 2334– 1763 BCE? Kaskal 5, 1–55. Svärd, S. 2015: Women and Power in Neo-Assyrian Palaces. State Archives of Assyria Studies 23. Helsinki. Svärd, S. 2018: Women in Neo-Assyrian Temples. In S. Yamada (ed.): NeoAssyrian Sources in Context: Thematic Studies of Texts, History, and Culture. State Archives of Assyria Studies 28. Helsinki, 117–134. Torczyner, H. 1913: Altbabylonische Tempelrechnungen. Wien. Waerzeggers, C. 2014: Marduk-Rēmanni: Local Networks and Imperial Politics in Achaemenid Babylonia. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 233. Leuven.

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Westenholz, J.G. 1989a: Enḫeduanna, En-priestess, Hen of Nanna, Spouse of Nanna In H. Behrens / D. Loding / M.T. Roth (eds.): DUMU-E2-DUB-BAA: Studies in Honor of Åke W. Sjöberg. Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund 11. Philadelphia, 539–556. Westenholz, J.G. 1989b: Tamar, Qedēša, Qadištu, and Sacred Prostitution in Mesopotamia. Harvard Theological Review 82(3), 245–265. Westenholz, J.G. 1992: The Clergy of Nippur: The Priestesses of Enlil. In M.D. Ellis (ed.): Nippur at the Centennial, Papers Read at the 35e Recontre Assyriologique Internationale, Philadelphia, 1988. Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund 14. Philadelphia, 297–310. Westenholz, J.G. 2006: Women of Religion in Mesopotamia: The High Priestess in the Temple. Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies Journal 1(1), 31– 44. Westenholz, J.G. 2012: EN-Priestess: Pawn or Power Mogul? In G. Wilhelm (ed.): Organization, Representation, and Symbols of Power in the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the 54th Rencontre assyriologique internationale, Würzburg, 20–25 July 2008. Winona Lake, Indiana, 291–311. Weiershäuser, F. 2008: Die königlichen Frauen der III: Dynastie von Ur. Göttinger Beiträge zum Alten Orient 1. Göttingen. Wunsch, C. / Magdalene, F.R. 2014: Freedom and Dependency: Neo-Babylonian Manumission Documents with Oblation and Service Obligation. In M. Kozuh / W. Henkelman / C.E. Jones / C. Woods (eds.): Extraction & Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper. Chicago, 337–346. Zgoll, A. 1997: Der Rechtsfall der En-ḫedu-Ana im Lied nin-me-šara. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 246. Münster.

Engendered Cosmic Regions in Ancient Mesopotamian Mythologies Lorenzo Verderame1

In Mesopotamian cosmological thought, there are five main cosmic regions: the Sky, the Earth, the Sweet underground waters (Abzu / Apsû), the Sea, and the Mountain.2 To these, we modern scholars add the Netherworld, which corresponds terminologically and ideologically to the Mountain in Sumerian and to the Earth in Akkadian. All five cosmic regions are engendered and three are feminine: Earth, Sea, and Mountain. The Earth and Sea are opposed and coupled to male counterparts, the Sky and the Sweet underground waters, respectively, with whom they form primordial couples. The Mountain has no male counterpart and no cosmogonical role. It is opposed to the Mesopotamian plain and thus is built over the negation of the values the latter conveys. As a place of alterity par excellence, the Mountain is feminine as well. The Netherworld, however, is a different matter. It is not definitively engendered as feminine, but it is marked with feminine traits. It is identified with two cosmic regions that are “feminine,” the Mountain in Sumerian tradition and the Earth in Akkadian tradition. Finally, as a place of inversion and alterity, the Netherworld has feminine features, starting from the fact that a woman, Queen Ereškigal, rules this region. In this paper,3 I will examine the relationship of the Earth, Sea, and Mountain to creation, passiveness, death, and alterity. I begin discussing the role the Earth and Sea play in a variety of cosmogonic acts. I then proceed to describe the Sumerian Kur, which identifies with the Mountain and the Netherworld. I analyse these three feminine regions’ “natural” status, which is perceived as passive, inert, and unproductive in the absence of male stimulation, or which results 1

Dipartimento Istituto Italiano di Studi Orientali, Sapienza Università di Roma, lorenzo. [email protected]. 2 See in general Horowitz 1998; Lambert 2013; Lisman 2013. 3 This paper is part of a series of studies derived from my personal interest on alterity, femininity, and conception that started with the organization, together with M. Érica Couto Ferreira, of the conference The Matrix of the World: Cultural Constructions of the Uterus (Rome, 21–22 March 2013; for the conference’s acts, see Couto-Ferreira / Verderame 2018), and was successively developed or touched on in subsequent conferences and articles (Verderame 2014; 2020a; 2020b; 2020d; 2021b). The topics of alterity and femininity have been scrutinized from different perspectives and in different disciplines; my theoretical perspective is grounded in the anthropological researches of Ida Magli and Françoise Héritier, for which see, for instance, Magli 1974, 1982; Héritier 2002.

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in improper creations, i.e., when the Earth, Sea, and Mountain generate by themselves or with a male participant but outside of cosmogonic acts. Finally, I discuss the absence of cult for these cosmic regions as well as the different degrees of relationship with death they show. In the final wrap-up, I conclude that the different features that characterize the three cosmic regions are all elements of the Mesopotamian construction of alterity, of which femininity is one of the main peaks. 1. Earth and Sea in cosmogonic acts The Earth and Sea have a major role in cosmogonies. They form couples with male opposites and interact with them in fundamental cosmogonic acts, namely the separation of the Sky and Earth, the mixing of sweet and salty waters (Abzu/Apsû and Tiamat, respectively), and the fecundation of the Earth by the Sky. There is a difference in the three cosmogonic acts discussed below. If the separation of the Sky and Earth is a first act from which cosmogony springs, the mixing of waters and the fecundation are truly procreative acts. There is a slight difference between the Sumerian and Akkadian traditions as well. The relevance of the Mountain in the Sumerian compositions fades away in the Akkadian. However, the Sea has a minor role in Sumerian literature but gains a crucial role in Akkadian cosmologies. Furthermore, the two traditions focus on two main and different primordial couples and cosmogonic acts: the separation of the Sky and Earth prevails in Sumerian tradition, and the melting of waters (Apsû and Tiamat) in Akkadian tradition. 1.1. Sky and Earth and the creation by separation Earth, known as Ki or Uraš4 in Sumerian and erṣetu and qaqqaru in Akkadian,5 is coupled and opposed to the Sky and his god, An.6 They represent the two spatial references “above” and “below,” well summarised by the first two lines of the Enūma eliš: «When above no name was given to heaven, nor below was the Earth called by name» (ll. I 1–2). They form a hendiadys ( a n - k i / šamû erṣetu) that expresses the totality of the cosmos, and the totality of the divine and human community. The god lists from the Old Babylonian period (XIXth–XVIIth century BCE) onwards begin with the couple An and Antum. The latter, a feminine construction from the masculine An, is doubled by Uraš in the beginning of the Old Babylonian god lists from Nippur (OIP 11, 122–124), and is equated to Sumeri-

4

Krebernik 2014; Ceravolo / Verderame 2022. For the various names of the Earth (and Netherworld), see Horowitz 1998: 268–294; to these, some more references may be added, in particular for the name qaqqaru, which is frequently opposed to the Sky and alternated with erṣetu in incantations. 6 See Westenholz 2010. 5

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an terms for Earth ( k i , u r a š ) in An=Anum I 1–3 and elsewhere.7 In Sumerian literary compositions, the separation of the Sky from Earth, or vice versa, is the first cosmogonic act,8 after which proceeds the rest of the creation. From a chronological perspective, the motif of the separation of the Sky and Earth is very old, found in texts from the Early Dynastic period. In the text, usually labelled as a royal inscription of Urukagina (Urukagina 15), the creation has not yet taken place: the Sky and Earth are still joined, and they shout.9 In the three Early Dynastic texts IAS 113, 136, and 203, it is Enlil who has separated ( b a d ) Sky from Earth,10 and he does the same in The Song of the Hoe: «(Enlil) did not hasten to separate (lit. open) Sky from Earth, he did not hasten to separate Earth from Sky» (ll. 4–5).The bilingual Middle Assyrian anthropogony KAR 4 begins with the separation of the Sky from Earth, with whom he forms “an established pair.”11 1.2. Sweet and salty waters and the creation by union In the Enūma eliš, the first cosmogonic act is not a separation, but a union. Apsû, the sweet water, and Tiamat,12 the salty water, mix their waters together and from their union a new couple (Lahmu / Lahamu) is generated. However, the very beginning still refers to the Sky and Earth (Enūma eliš I 1–2; see above). The coupled sweet and salty waters are established by this time, as can be found in Old Babylonian birth incantations, where the water of birth is compared or associated to those of Apsû and Tiam(a)tu.13 1.3. Creation by fecundation of Earth The fecundation, literally “pouring the seed in the womb” ( š a 3 … a … r u / r i ), after sexual intercourse ( ĝ i š 3 … d u 1 1 ) is not usual in cosmogonies. References 7

The An = Anum list continues with Uraš, which seems to be the male element of a couple formed with the feminine Nin-uraš. For this passage, the equivalence of Antu and Uraš and, in general, god lists, see most recently Ceravolo / Verderame 2022. 8 Enki and Ninmah 1–2; Gilgameš, Enkidu, and the Netherworld 8–9. For the translation and comments on literary passages, see Horowitz 1998: 135–142; Lambert 2013: 169– 171; Lisman 2013: 23–75. For the motif of the separation of the Sky and Earth in different cultures, see Staudacher 1942. 9 a n - k i t e š - b a š e g 1 2 a m 6 - g i 4 - g i 4 . See most recently Lisman 2013: 27; Rubio 2013: 4–5. The motif of the Sky and Earth not yet separated and shouting to each other is found also in the Barton Cylinder (I 12) a n - n e 2 k i - d a 12) g u 3 a m 6 - d a b 6 - e 12) k i a n - d a ⸢ g u 3 ⸣ a m 6 - d a b 6 - e ); see also NBC 11108: 5–6, a n - k i t e š 2 - b i - a m u - l u g . See van Dijk 1976; Horowitz 1998: 138–139; Lisman 2013: 36–37; Rubio 2013: 6–7; cf. Sjöberg 2002: 234 and fn. 11. 10 Lisman 2013: 26. 11 Pettinato 1971: 74–85; Lambert 2013: 350–377; Foster 2018: 491–493. 12 For Tiamat, see Lambert 2013: 236–238. 13 YOS 11, 86: 5–7; CUSAS 32, 28a: 2–3; see also Verderame 2020a: 12–13.

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to sexual intercourse and fecundation can be found in two Early Dynastic texts. In the Barton Cylinder, a male character mates with Ninhursaĝa and impregnates her with seven “twins.”14 In IAS 174, in order «… to have intercourse with her, he has poured the seed in (her) womb.»15 The beginning of the text is lost, and it is unclear who the protagonists are. In two Sumerian debates, the Earth bears the two opponents after being impregnated by An or Enlil. The “luxuriant” Earth, preparing to copulate with the Sky, receives the seed of Tree and Reed in the homonymous composition. The wide Earth was brilliant: Green was her surface! Wide earth was covered with silver and lapis lazuli, Adorned with diorite, chalcedony, carnelian, antimony, Splendidly dressed up of vegetation and grass, she had something regal. Be that the noble Earth, the holy Earth, you made yourself beautiful for Sky, the prestigious one! And Sky, the sublime god, plunged his penis in the spacious Earth; he poured in her vagina, the seed of the brave Tree and Reed as well.16 The Earth is the female counterpart of the Sky, but the latter is not the only one who fecundates the Earth. In Winter and Summer, Enlil copulates with Earth, who at night gives birth to Summer and Winter.17 In Enki and Nihursaĝa, Enki creates Dilmun and gives it to the mother goddess mentioned under her various names (Ninsikila, Ninhursaĝa, Nintu, etc.) in the composition. After having provided Dilmun with water, Enki drags his erect phallus through ditches and reed beds and adjures the goddess to lie down in the marsh. Eventually, Enki inseminates the goddess: he “irrigates” (a … d u 1 1 , l. 72) Damgalnuna and he «pours the semen into the womb» ( a š a 3 - g a b a - n i i n - r i , l. 73) of Ninhursaĝa, and the goddess «takes into (her) womb the semen, the semen of Enki» ( a š a 3 - g a š u b a - n i - i n - t i a d e n - k i - k a 3 - k a , l. 74). It should be highlighted that the Sumerian term “a” means both water and semen. Furthermore, irrigation and other metaphors related to fieldworks are widely diffused in sexual and reproductive figurative language of Sumerian and Akkadian sources. Particularly developed is the part played by the plough, not 14

«With Ninhursaĝa he has had intercourse, he has kissed her, and the seed for a set of septuplets, he has poured into her womb» (ii 6) d n i n - h u r - s a ĝ - r a 7) ĝ i š 3 n u - n i - d u 1 1 8) n e m u - n i - s u b 5 9) a - m a š - i m i n 10) š [ a 3 ] m u - n i - r u ); see Alster / Westenholz 1994; Lisman 2013: 30–31; Rubio 2013: 10. A similar passage is preserved in another Early Dynastic text where a male god has intercourse with Ašnan and she bore seven children (OIP 99, 283); see Alster 1976: 124–125. 15 I 4’) ĝ i š 3 H I - N U N - Š I D 5’) a M A R 6’) N U N - Š A - r u . 16 Tree and Reed 1–7; see Lisman 2013: 39–40. Compare the end of Urukagina 15; see fn. 9. 17 Summer and Winter 14–16.

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only in mythical narratives, as in the case of Ninurta, who devastates, subdues, and domesticates the Mountain through the plough, but in erotic compositions as well.18 In the above-discussed cases, two female characters are the receiver of the male semen: the Earth and Ninhursaĝa. Commenting on the Barton Cylinder, Lisman convincingly demonstrates that Ninhursaĝa should be identified with the Earth.19 This interpretation finds a clue in Enki and Ninhursaĝa, where different passages point at a relation of Ninhursaĝa and the Earth. The goddess is laid down; Enki “drags” his penis into the ground and provides water to Dilmun and “irrigates” Ninhursaĝa (Damgalnuna). 

An

separation



(Sky)

(Earth)

Abzu/Apsû



union



(Sweet water) An (Sky)

Ki

Tiamat (Sea)

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intercourse



Ki (Earth)

Figure 1. Primordial couples’ interaction in cosmogonic acts.

Figure 2. Cosmogonic interplays between coupled agents. 1.4. Chain creation Chain creation is a common motif, particularly in Akkadian historiolae.20 The Earth and Sky appear often as first elements, but in a different function and context with regard to the above-discussed cosmogonic “acts.” This is the case of 18

For the civilising action of subduing the Kur through the plough, see Verderame 2011: 113. For the plough in sexual metaphors, see Wilcke 1987; see also Cooper 1989 and Couto-Ferreira 2017. 19 Pace Alster / Westenholz 1994: 33. 20 See Veldhuis 1993. For cosmogonic motifs in historiolae, see Ceravolo 2020.

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the similar mythological introductions describing the origin of the worm.21 The first is found at the beginning of an Old Babylonian incantation: «Anu begot (rehû) the sky, the sky bore ((w)alādu) the earth (erṣetu), the earth bore the stench, the stench bore the mud, the mud bore the fly, the fly bore the worm» (YOS 11, 5: 1–3). The second is found in the so-called Legend of the Worm or Incantation against the Toothache, documented from first millennium copies (CT 17, 50 //). At the beginning, the text recites: «After Anu created (banû) the sky, the sky created the earth (erṣetu), the earth created the rivers, the rivers created the watercourses, the watercourses created the marshes, the marshes created the worm.» In both texts, it is the god An who initiates creation. In CT 17, 50 //, each successive being is “created” (banû) while in YOS 11, 5, the being is “generated” ([w]alādu). In YOS 11, 5, however, the first act is not a “generation” but a “mating” (rehû): An copulates with the Sky that gives birth to the Earth, and so on. None of the elements generating and generated in this chain creation are feminine except the Earth (erṣetu) and the Worm (tûltu). Contrast this to the situation in CT 17, 50 //, where all the beings creating and created are feminine, all but the first two, Anu and the Sky. A different chain creation22 is found in the so-called Theogony of Dunnu,23 where we find a series of beings belonging to different generations. The male member of the next generation kills the father, steals his power, and marries the mother. The female beings are, successively, the Earth, Sea, and River.24 Only the Sea kills her mother, the Earth, and is killed by her son (the name is not preserved) who marries the sister, the River. 2. The kur In the Sumerian tradition, the Mountain ( k u r ) is the antithesis of the Mesopotamian plain. It is geographically and culturally marked and built in opposition to Mesopotamia. The mountainous landscape (mountain, trees, stones, darkness of the woods) are in contrast with the steppe landscape of Mesopotamia (flat, desert, sunny). In the Sumerian perspective, the positive fundamental features of civilisation of Mesopotamian urban culture are absent in the Mountain. Thus, the Mountain is described by contrast, negating those features. To the vital and civilized Sumerian town, where sound and light never stop, is opposed the chaotic, dark, silent Mountain, which is populated by uncivilised men, demons, and dangerous animals, and which, finally, coincides with the Netherworld.25 21

Lambert 2013: 399–400; Foster 2018: 180, 995. Even if not related to the topic of the present study, it is worth mentioning the myth of Enki and Ninhursaĝa, where the god Enki mates successively with the female goddess created by the preceding intercourse. See most recently Ceravolo 2019. 23 Lambert 2013: 387–395; Foster 2018: 489–491. 24 For the female divine River and her relationship with Earth and Ninhursaĝa in another mythical text related to procreation in the Barton Cylinder, see fn. 14. 25 Verderame 2011, 2014, 2021a. 22

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Opposed to the active “male” Mesopotamia, the Mountain is passive “feminine.” She gives birth and, being a chaotic element, her progeny are monsters. As kingdom of the dead, the Kur/Netherworld is ruled by a queen, Ereškigal, not a king, as all the other cosmic realms. As part of a process of alterity, the Mountain is implicitly, not explicitly, marked as feminine. In his battles against chaotic monsters, Ninurta attacks the Kur with the plough. This is a cultural action, which associates the Kur with the Earth, which must be worked, transformed, subjugated. As is the Earth, the Kur is a passive element. The use of the plough involves a series of sexual metaphors marking the Kur as a feminine element that can be impregnated and bear offspring, besides the improper results.26 In the Akkadian language and literature, the Mountain plays a slightly different role. Nonetheless, it should be noted that even the Akkadian term for mountain, šadû, is grammatically masculine, different from the Earth and Sea (erṣetu, tiāmtu), which are feminine. A less frequent use of the Mountain as a far place and geographical and cosmic border is retained in Akkadian literature and royal inscriptions. 27 Here, the Mountain is not the Netherworld anymore, which is instead identified with the Earth (erṣetu). 3. Passive, inert, “unproductive” status of Earth, Sea, and Mountain The “natural” status of the Earth and Sea is inert. They are inactive before and after the cosmogony. They become active in the cosmogony after a stimulation from the male member of the couple. After the cosmogony, they become cosmic regions. Thus, their “active” role is limited to the creative moment of the cosmogony. Furthermore, this role is more participative than active. The male element stimulates and fecundates the female element. This stimulation process may usually be a fecundation act by a male character and take the form of rain pouring from the Sky on the Earth, sweet water mixing up with salty water or simply the pouring of semen. Once fecundated or stimulated, these regions become productive and fertile. Without male intervention, the Earth, Sea, and Mountain are unproductive, inactive, and passive. 3.1. Agriculture and craftmanship or the cultural transformation The Earth does not bear produce by herself. She may be described as adorned with luxuriant greenery and precious stones, as in the above-quoted passage from Tree and Reed, but this is only instrumental to attract the Sky and copulate. It is the watery element that makes her productive: the semen of the Sky or the water of the canals that are dug by the gods after the creation.28 In Mesopotami26

See above, fn. 18. For the hendiadys Mountain / Sea-River as geographical and cosmic borders, see CAD Š2 sub šadû 51–52; Verderame 2014; Verderame 2020b: 78–79. 28 Enki and Ninmah, Atra-hasīs; cf. Rulers of Lagaš, How Grain Came to Sumer. 27

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an sedentary cultures, the product of the Earth is only that which is obtained through agriculture, 29 through the work and irrigation of the Earth. The two concepts, the “penetration” with the plough and the “irrigation,” are—not coincidentally—employed as sexual metaphors.30 In Sumerian cosmological thought, the chaotic space extending outside the town is distinguished between the steppe ( e d e n ), the open country outside the urban perimeter marked by the city walls, and the Kur, the mountainous remote periphery. Both chaotic and characterised with an increasing degree of alterity, they are a menace and a resource for the civilised urban centres at the same time. The eden is a vital space for extension and development of the town. From the Kur come all the precious products that civilised urban centres lack. Stone and wood are largely available in the Kur, as the poem of Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta or the Lugal-e celebrate. However, these are raw materials whose essence and scope ( m e ) are fulfilled only through craftmanship. As agriculture, craftmanship is a cultural transformation of raw material and a civilising act. The “scope” of precious stones is to be worked by the artisans. It is the transformation of the inert material in objects through craftmanship that differentiates the civilised Uruk from the rich but uncivilised Aratta, and eventually determines Inanna’s favour for Uruk, as in Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta. Thus, the products of the Kur are inert and functional, only conceptually realised through urban craftmanship. In this perspective, they “naturally” flow from the Kur/periphery to the town/centre.31 3.2. The yield of the Sea While the Earth and Mountain do not bear products by themselves and must undergo a process of (cultural) transformation (agriculture, craftmanship), the Sea produces a yield by it/herself. The product of the Sea is not culturally marked in Mesopotamian cultures. It is not economically relevant for the central administration, but is for towns of the coast.32 It is thus surprising to find frequent references to the abundance or yield of the Sea in literature.33 The passages in Sumerian compositions note the fact that the Sea “bears” or “creates” ( u 3 t u ) the yield “by it/herself” ( n i 2 - b a ). 29

For agriculture as a civilisation mark and the barbarians eating not cultivated vegetables, see Verderame 2021a. 30 See above fn. 18, and below. 31 Verderame 2011, 2014, 2021a. 32 The recent analysis of animal remains reveals the importance of seafood in the diet of the lagoon and coastal area settlements. 33 Sum. h e 2 - ĝ a l 2 , h e 2 - n u n , m a - d a m , g u 2 - u n ; Akk. biltu, hiṣbu, hegallu, nuhšu. For passages in Sumerian literature, see Verderame 2020b: 81; for Akkadian passages, see CAD T sub tâmtu 151. Interestingly, hiṣbu, from habāṣu (“to be enlarged, joyous),” has the meaning of “outcome, product, yield, abundance” and is a term for vulva as well; see CAD H s.v. 202–203.

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4. Improper procreation The creative act of the Earth and Sea and their male counterparts is set in the frame of cosmogonies. The main features are, first, a male intervention and, second, an established time, after which the participants become inert. This status is shared by the Earth, Sea, and their male partners, Abzu/Apsû and, somehow, An. However, the Earth, Sea, and also the Mountain may procreate outside cosmogony and its frame—that is, by themselves without any male intervention or with a male intervention but after the cosmogonic act.34 This is an improper procreation, which produces an improper result: monstrous and chaotic beings. References to such beings generated by the Earth, Sea, and Mountain are diffused in Akkadian and, to a lesser extent, Sumerian literature. Monstrous and chaotic beings are directly related to these primordial female creators, which have now become cosmic regions. 4.1. Procreation without male intervention The Earth bore Anzu35 and is involved in the chain creation of the worm of the teeth and the merhu.36 From the Sea emerges the Labbu and the Bašmu dragons,37 and in the Sea the Bison is killed by Ninurta.38 In the Enūma eliš, Ti’amat, after losing her partner, Apsû, autogenerates an army of monsters to destroy the gods.39 Tiamat is said to be the one who suckled the Umman-manda, fierce and monstrous invaders with partridge bodies and raven faces, according to the standard recension of The Cuthean Legend.40 The Mountain, a place inhabited by wild and fantastic animals, is the origin or seat of chaotic monsters par excellence. At the lines 128–134 of the bilingual composition known as Lugal-e, the “warriors” defeated by Ninurta are enlisted: Kuli-anna, the Dragon, the Gypsum, the Strong Copper, the warrior Six-Headed Wild Ram, the Magilum Boat, Lord Saman-ana, the Bison Bull, the Palm-Tree King, Anzu, and the Seven-Headed Snake. 41 As Asag / Asakku, they are all settled in the Mountain (Kur) and are here slayed by Ninurta. Anzu lives in the Mountain and was possibly generated from here.42 He returns to the Mountain after he has stolen the Tablet of Destinies from Enlil, and he confronts Ninurta (Anzu). 34

I consider the birth of twins, or a couple of characters from the debate poems, as belonging to narrative, rather than a mythological context. 35 Anzu (late version) I 52; cf. fn. 42. 36 Lambert 2013: 399–400; Foster 2018: 180–181, 995. See also above. 37 For the lists of monsters created by the Sea and living in the Sea or within Tiamat, see Horowitz 1998: 34–35; Lambert 2013: 202–207; Foster 2018: 579–582. 38 Anzu I 12. 39 Enūma eliš I 134–146. 40 Westenholz 1997: 265–266, 309. 41 A slightly different list is offered in Angindimma or Ninurta’s Return to Nippur 32–40. 42 «The gods of the apsû … the pure waters. The wide Earth conceived him. He is the one [born] in the rocks of the mountain», Anzu (late version) I 51–53.

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4.2. Improperly fecundated The Earth, Sea, and Mountain can be inseminated outside cosmogonies. The process is similar to the cosmogony, but the timing is different. After the cosmogony, the Earth, Sea, and Mountain must remain inert cosmic places. Thus, these post-cosmogonic (pro)creations are improper and yield improper results. In Lugal-e, the monstrous and vicious Asag / Asakku, the antagonist of Ninurta, is generated by the Earth after the Sky has fecundated her.43 The improperness of Asag / Asakku’s birth is shown by the negative role An plays in other creations. He is the father of demons such as the Lamaštu, who bears the title of “son/daughter of An,” common to other demons. In the Epic of Gilgameš, the creation of Enkidu is similar to that of the human beings in anthropogonies (Enki and Ninmah, Atra-hasīs), but with two important differences. First, the creator is not Enki / Ea, but An. He is the one who “orders” (zik(a)ru) the new being that would be created by the mother goddess. The latter pinches the clay by herself (and not through the intervention of Enki / Ea as in the anthropogony) and “makes” (banû) Anu’s order in her interior, but she does not bear it, for she throws the clay in the steppe.44 Hubaba will remind Enkidu that he is of a different status when he calls him «spawn of a fish, who knew no father, hatchling of terrapin and turtle, who sucked no mother’s milk!»45 In the Akkadian mythological and theological tradition constructed by Enūma eliš and god lists, An is a pivotal figure. He is the last of the primordial couples, the first god, and the father of all of the other gods. As a passing point between the primordial couples and the generation of the proper gods, An represents the archaic in the true divine world. Besides being a god, he keeps something of the primordial time and beings. An is the first element in most Sumerian cosmogonic myths. He is the one who creates the cosmos, but afterwards becomes a cosmic region, as do the other protagonists of the creative act (the Earth, Apsû, the Sea). An takes part in Akkadian narratives (Atra-hasīs, Adapa, etc.), and together with Enlil and Ea, forms the so-called creative triad. However, his status is different from that of other gods and can be compared to that of the deus otiosus. An’s role as father, or, better, begetter is proper at the beginning of time (cosmogony), but improper afterwards. Thus, his intervention in a procreative process that is carried out outside a cosmogonic act is inappropriate, and the result negative. Returning to the Lugal-e, Asag / Asakku, in turn, copulates with the Mountain «to broaden his seed.»46 The use of different verbs for this passage and the other discussed here is revealing. In the Sumerian monolingual version of Lugale, the Mountain changes her “mind” ( š a 3 … b a l ) and she sides with Asag. In the bilingual version, the Mountain is not the subject of the verb anymore, but 43

Lugal-e 26–27. Epic of Gilgameš I 94–104. 45 Epic of Gilgameš V 86–87; see also Wasserman 2003. 46 n u m u n ( - b i ) b a - t a l 2 - t a l 2 / ze-ra ur-tap-pi-iš (Lugal-e 34). 44

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Asag / Asakku, and the Sumerian ( š a 3 … u 5 ) is built on the Akkadian uš-tarkib, from rakābu “to ride, to mount,” an Akkadian term for sexual intercourse in its G form.47 5. Other aspects: the cult and the relation with death 5.1. The cult The beings who act directly in cosmogonies become cosmic regions (the Earth, Sea, Mountain) and a gods’ abode (Abzu). This is partly the case with An, the Sky, who has (as mentioned) an intermediary status in the divine pantheon. Apart from An, and even with some peculiarities in his case, these beings have no dedicated cults or temples and, as cosmic regions, no gods preponed or related to them. Uraš is the divine Earth but is almost absent, apart from cosmogonies, in other form or expression of religious life. In the Sumerian and Akkadian pantheon, there is no god or goddess of the sea. In the Sumerian tradition, Nanše and Enki extend their patronship from marshes and lagoons to the sea waters, but they are not sea divinities.48 In Enūma eliš, Tiamat’s body is used for the creation of the world. This is also the case of the Mountain, which has different “upper” gods related to it. Utu is often called the patron or lord of the Kur. In Sumerian compositions, Enlil shows a relationship with the Kur. Two goddesses are particularly related to the Kur.49 These are Inanna / Ištar, who constantly travels east and, at least once, to the Kur / Netherworld; and the queen of the Kur / Netherworld itself, Ereškigal, literally “queen of the vast land.” However, a discussion on Inanna / Ištar and her relationship with the Kur and on her sister Ereškigal would lead us too far, but it is worth mentioning here, in brief, the relationship that these three cosmic regions and concepts have with death. 5.2. Death As opposite to the vital Mesopotamia, death is the extreme sphere of otherness. As femininity is another major feature of otherness, death is often engendered as feminine. 50 Besides being engendered as feminine, the three cosmic regions discussed here show different degrees of relationship with the sphere of death.

47

See Seminara 2001: 231–232. Note that the object / patient of the Sumerian sentence, š a 3 , has also the meaning of “womb.” 48 Verderame 2020b: 83–86. 49 Nin-hur-saĝ, whose name (“lady of the high places”) may recall that of the mountains, is not mentioned in relation with the k u r , but with the h u r - s a ĝ , a different term. 50 For the relationship of women and death, especially their role in mourning, see in general De Martino 1958 and, for ancient Mesopotamia, Cooper 2006; see also Sautman 1986. For the relationship of birth and death, see Couto-Ferreira 2018; Verderame 2020c. For a comparative approach in Ancient Near Eastern cultures, see Bergman 2008.

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The Sea or the salty water river is the cosmic border that encircles the earth and separates the world of the living from that of the dead.51 At its shore, the souls of the dead wait for the infernal ferryman (Humuṭ-tabal “Bring fast!”) to reach their last abode.52 The “waters of death” are crossed by Gilgameš, who wants to meet the hero who survived the deluge, Utanapištim. The last of a generation of immortal men, Utanapištim is relegated to an island at the border of the worlds, in between the lands of the living and dead. Finally, a minor—or certainly less documented—tradition locates the Netherworld in the Sea.53 As for the Earth, the physical last abode of the dead body is a pit in the ground, and, in fact, incineration was an abomination according to Mesopotamian written sources. The burial pit is often described as a door or access to the Netherworld. The Earth that receives the dead bodies is perceived as maternal. On the opposite end of the metaphorical spectrum, the womb is associated with death and the burial pit.54 Thus, the womb and the Earth generate human beings, the first physically, the second metaphorically. The womb and the Earth receive the dead bodies, the first metaphorically, the second physically. Finally, the Earth is terminologically identified with the Netherworld (erṣetu) in Akkadian language. As antithesis of the Mesopotamian environment, the Mountain is the place of otherness par excellence and is also the seat of the Netherworld. The identification in Sumerian language is complete, as the term “Kur” is employed for “Mountain” and “Netherworld.”55 6. Conclusions In Sumerian and Akkadian sources, three main cosmic regions are marked as feminine. These are the Earth, the Sea, and the Mountain. The first two are associated or opposed to male counterparts with whom they form primordial couples—that is, the Sky and Earth, the sweet and salty waters. These two couples are protagonists of the first creation act. It can be a separation (the Sky and Earth), a union (the sweet and salty waters, and Abzu / Apsû and Tiamat), or a fecundation (the Sky and Earth). The Mountain has no role in cosmogonies. Being the opposite of the Mesopotamian civilisation and landscape, the Mountain is featured with otherness traits, including femininity. Outside cosmogonies, the Earth and Sea are inert, passive, and unproductive without male stimulation or fecundation. This status is shared by the Mountain. However, they can bear after cosmogonies or even by themselves. The result of this improper birth is monstrous. Chaotic beings defeated by Ninurta and other 51

Verderame 2014: 30–34; 2020b: 78–79; Kostantopoulos 2020. Verderame 2014: 32–34. 53 Lambert 2013: 244–245; Verderame 2020b: 82–83. 54 Couto-Ferreira 2018. 55 For a discussion of the otherness of the Mountain, see above. 52

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warrior gods are born from the Earth, Sea, and Mountain, or there have their lair. Finally, in their process of alienation, the three cosmic regions have different degrees of relationship with death. The Sea, the Earth, and the Mountain are related to the death sphere or identified with Netherworld, tout court. Engendering, again, becomes part of this process, for death is female! This final association shows a further step toward the construction of otherness and engendering spaces in Mesopotamian religious thought. Bibliography Alster, B. 1976: On the Earliest Sumerian Literary Tradition. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 28(2), 109–126. Alster, B. / Westenholz, A. 1994: The Barton Cylinder. Acta Sumerologica 16, 15–46. Asher-Greve, J.M. / Westenholz, J.G. 2013: Goddesses in Context: On Divine Powers, Roles, Relationships and Gender in Mesopotamian Textual and Visual Sources. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 259. Fribourg and Göttingen. Bergmann, C.D. 2008: Childbirth as a Metaphor for Crisis: Evidence from the Ancient Near East, the Hebrew Bible, and 1QH XI, 1–18. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 382. Berlin and New York. Ceravolo, M. 2019: L’ambiguità coerente di Enki e Ninḫursaĝa. Historia Religionum 11, 119–137. Ceravolo, M. 2020: Il mito e il rito alla luce dell’historiola: Il caso dell’antica Mesopotamia. Unpublished Phd Dissertation, Sapienza Università di Roma. Roma. Ceravolo, M. / Verderame, L. 2022: Les listes des dieux dans le Proche-Orient ancien: Les noms divins entre hiérarchie et puissance. Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 24 (in press). Cooper, J.S. 1989: Enki’s Member: Eros and Irrigation in Sumerian Literature. In H. Behrens / D. Loding / M.T. Roth (eds.): DUMU-E2-DUB-BA-A: Studies in Honor of Åke W. Sjöberg. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 87–89. Cooper, J. S. 2006: Genre, Gender and the Sumerian Lamentation. Journal of Cuneiform Studies JCS 58, 39–47. Couto-Ferreira, M.É. 2017: “Let me be your canal”: Some Thoughts on Agricultural Landscape and Female Bodies in Sumero-Akkadian Sources. In L. Feliu / F. Karahashi / G. Rubio (eds.): The First Ninety Years: A Sumerian Celebration in Honor of Miguel Civil. Berlin and Boston, 54–69. Couto-Ferreira, M.É. 2018: Nell’oscurità: Il feto tra nascita e morte nei testi cuneiformi. Rivista degli Studi Orientali 91, 19–32. Couto-Ferreira, M.É. / Verderame, L. 2018: Cultural Constructions of the Uterus in Pre-modern Societies, Past and Present. Newcastle upon Tyne. De Martino, E. 1958: Morte e pianto rituale nel mondo antico. Torino.

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Foster, B. R. 2018. Before the Muses : An Anthology of Akkadian Literature. Bethesda, Maryland. Gadotti, A. 2011: Portraits of the Feminine in Sumerian Literature. Journal of the American Oriental Society 131(2), 195–206. Héritier, F. 2002: Masculin-Féminin. Paris. Horowitz, W. 1998: Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography. Mesopotamian Civilizations 8. Winona Lake, Indiana. Kostantopoulos, G. 2020: The Bitter Sea and the Waters of Death: The Sea as a Conceptual Border in Mesopotamia. Journal of Ancient Civilizations 35(2), 171–197. Krebernik, M. 2003–2004: Altbabylonische Hymnen an die Muttergöttin (HS 1884). Archiv für Orientforschung 50, 11–20. Krebernik, M. 2014: Uraš. A. Reallexikon der Assyriologie 14, 401–406. Lambert, W.G. 1987: Goddesses in the Panthéon: A Reflection of Women in Society? In J.-M. Durand (ed.): La femme dans le Proche-Orient antique. Paris, 125–130. Lambert, W.G. 2013: Babylonian Creation Myths. Mesopotamian Civilizations 16. Winona Lake, Indiana. Lisman, J.J.W. 2013: Cosmogony, Theogony and Anthropogeny in Sumerian Texts. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 409. Münster. Magli, I. 1974: La donna: Un problema aperto. Firenze. Magli, I. 1982: La femmina dell’uomo. Roma and Bari. Metzler, K.A. 2002: Tod, Weiblichkeit und Ästhetik im mesopotamischen Weltschöpfungsepos Enūma elîš. In S. Parpola / R.M. Whiting (eds.): Sex and Gender in the Ancient Near East, II. Helsinki, 393–411. Pettinato, G. 1971: Das altorientalische Menschenbild und die sumerischen und akkadischen Schöpfungsmythen. Heidelberg. Rodin, T. 2014: The World of the Sumerian Mother Goddess: An Interpretation of Her Myths. Unpublished Phd Dissertation, Uppsala Universitet. Uppsala. Rubio, G. 2013: Time Before Time: Primeval Narratives in Early Mesopotamian Literature. In L. Feliu / J. Llop / A. Millet Albà / J. Sanmartin (eds.): Time and History in the Ancient Near East. Winona Lake, Indiana, 3–17. Sautman, F. 1986: Woman as Birth‐and‐Death‐Giver in Folk tradition: A Cross‐Cultural Perspective. Women’s Studies 12(3), 213–239. Seminara, S. 2001: La versione accadica del Lugal-e: La tecnica babilonese della traduzione dal sumerico e le sue “regole.” Materiali per il vocabolario sumerico 8. Roma. Sjöberg, Å.W. 2002: In the Beginning. In T. Abusch (ed.): Riches Hidden in Secret Places: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Memory of Thorkild Jacobsen. Winona Lake, Indiana, 229–247.

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Sonik, K. 2009: Gender Matters in Enūma Eliš. In S. Holloway / J. Scurlock / R.H. Beal (eds.): In the Wake of Tikva Frymer-Kensky. Piscataway, New Jersey, 85–101. Staudacher, W. 1942: Die Trennung von Himmel und Erde: Ein vorgriechischer Schöpfungsmythus bei Hesiod und den Orphikern. Tübingen. van Dijk, J. 1964–1965: Le motif cosmique dans la pensée sumeriénne. Acta Orientalia 28, 1–59. van Dijk, J. 1976: Existe-t-il un “Poème de la Création” Sumérien? In B. Eichler / S.N. Kramer / A.W. Sjöberg / J.W. Heimerdinger (eds.): Kramer Anniversary Volume. Cuneiform Studies in Honor of Samuel Noah Kramer. Münster, 125–133. Veldhuis, N. 1993: The Fly, the Worm, and the Chain: Old Babylonian Chain Incantations. Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica 24, 41–60. Verderame, L. 2011: L’immagine della città nella letteratura sumerica. In R. Dolce / A. Pellitteri (eds.): Città nel Vicino Oriente e nel Mediterraneo: Linee di storie e di simboli dall’antichità ad oggi. Palermo, 99–126. Verderame, L. 2014: Aspetti spaziali nella costruzione dell’immaginario infero dell’antica Mesopotamia. SMSR Studi e materiali di storia delle religioni 80(1), 23–41. Verderame, L. 2020a: Metafore del parto negli scongiuri dell’antica Mesopotamia. In G. Pedrucci (ed.): Pregnancies, Childbirths, and Religions: Rituals, Normative Perspectives, and Individual Appropriations. Roma, 3–21. Verderame, L. 2020b: The Sea in Sumerian literature. Water History 12(1), 75– 91. Verderame, L. 2020c: «Perché non dormi bambino?» Scongiuri babilonesi del II millennio per quietare un bambino. In A.M.G. Capomacchia / E. Zocca (eds.): Percezioni e gestione sacrale dell’infanzia nelle culture antiche. Brescia, 20–31. Verderame, L. 2020d: I sogni di Gudea: Oniromanzia e politica nella Mesopotamia del III millennio a.C. Quaderni del ramo d’oro on-line 12, 233–265. Verderame, L. 2021a: “Canine instincts and monkeys’ features”: Animal and Demonic Traits in the Construction of “Otherness” in Sumerian Literature. In L. Milano / L. Mori (eds.): Studies in Honor of Mario Liverani. Münster (in press). Verderame, L. 2021b: Écrit dans le corps: Prédestination, physiognomie, et mutilation dans la Mésopotamie ancienne. In L. Battini / A.-I. Langlois (eds.): Actes du colloque Corps de pierre et d'argile: Perception et images des êtres vivants dans la Mésopotamie des IIe et Ier mill. av. J.-C., Paris 9/11/2017 (in press). Wasserman, N. 2003: Offspring of Silence, Spawn of a Fish, Son of a Gazelle …: Enkidu’s Different Origins in the Epic of Gilgameš. In Y. Sefati / P. Artzi / C. Cohen / B.L. Eichler / V.A. Hurowitz (eds.): “An Experienced

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Scribe Who Neglects Nothing”: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Jacob Klein. Bethesda, Maryland, 593–599. Westenholz, J.G. 1997: Legends of the Kings of Akkade. Mesopotamian Civilizations 7. Winona Lake, Indiana. Westenholz, J.G. 2010: Heaven and Earth: Asexual Monad and Bisexual Dyad. In J. Stackert / B. Nevling Porter / D.P. Wright (eds.): Gazing on the Deep: Ancient Near Eastern and Other Studies in Honor of Tzvi Abusch. Bethesda, Maryland, 293–326. Wilcke, C. 1987: Riding Tooth: Metaphor, Metonymy and Synecdoche, Quick and Frozen in Everyday Language. In M. Mindlin / M.J. Geller / J.E. Wansbrough (eds.): Figurative Language in the Ancient Near East. London, 77– 102.

Of Cities, Mothers, and Homes A Cognitive-Stylistic Approach to Gendered Space in the Hebrew Bible Karolien Vermeulen1

The Hebrew Bible envisions cities, in particular Jerusalem/Zion, as women. Scholars have addressed this feature often in light of the background of the image on the one hand and the problems this metaphor generates with regard to the portrayal of women on the other hand. On the different explanations for the former, Ulrike Sals states, “Bislang ist allerdings keiner dieser Ansätze in der Lage, alle Texte zum Phänomen „Stadt als Frau“ erklären zu können, so daß— was für Phänomene ‚normaler‘ Theologie zumeist selbstverständlich ist—m.E. von einer Mehrzahl an Entstehungskausalitäten und -kontexten auszugehen ist: es gibt keinen Generalschlüssel.” 2 On the latter, Julia O’Brien writes the following: “Throughout the Prophetic Books, the nation and/or the city are called ‘whores’, the punishment for which is described in graphic language that can only be described as rape. Some of the language is so sexually explicit and voyeuristic that feminist interpreters such as Athalya Brenner label it ‘pornoprophetic’.”3 Perceptive as they are, many of these studies pay little attention to the opportunities of the city’s personification for storytelling.4 What can a city do when it has human (female) features? And perhaps, more importantly, what is the effect of the biblical text on readers when cities in this text become fellow people with similar dreams and flaws? In this chapter, I will focus precisely on the advantages of the metaphor THE CITY IS A WOMAN, and in particular its subtype THE CITY IS A MOTHER, as it appears in the Hebrew Bible. I will examine how these images contribute to individual stories told in specific biblical passages as well as whether these episodes develop a similar/different discourse on the cities they feature. To do so, I will adopt a cognitive-stylistic approach that will assess the metaphors of the city as mental structures that underlie the specific style of stories on cities in the Hebrew Bible.5 Style should be understood here as the unique appearance of the 1

Institute of Jewish Studies, University of Antwerp. karolien.vermeulen@uantwerpen. be. 2 Sals 2004: 34. 3 O’Brien 2008: xii. 4 One of the few exceptions is Brad Kelle’s piece on wartime rhetoric, which focuses on the persuasive quality of the city-as-woman image (2008). 5 The analysis is conducted on the source text in Biblical Hebrew. However, English translations are used throughout the chapter for the reader’s convenience as well as to be

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text as manifested by word order, word choice, and grammatical features (typically referred to the realm of linguistics), as well as literary devices, poetic features, and rhetorical techniques (deemed the topic of literary studies). After contextualizing the study and introducing its methodology, the remainder of the chapter will address the benefits of maternal imagery for telling stories about biblical cities. 1. Context The topic of gendered city space is not new in biblical studies. Scholars have noted that Ezekiel portrays Jerusalem as daughter, bride, sister, and harlot, while the same city weeps over its “children forlorn” in Lamentations.6 It has come to their attention that Nineveh is presented as a rape victim, and that the Song of Songs merges the female body and the city.7 Over time, scholarship has addressed the topic of the city-woman in the Hebrew Bible from various angles, and as a result, with different methodologies. Initially, studies focused on the origin of the gendering: Why did the Hebrew Bible present cities as women, rather than as men or gender-neutral people? Three lines of thought were developed: a cultural, a linguistic, and a literary one. Situating the imagery in its broader cultural setting, scholars have argued that the Hebrew Bible combines and adapts the traditions of its neighboring cultures. In West Semitic societies, cities were often imagined as goddesses, married to the patron deity of the city. The latter protected the city space against the threats of war, famine, and disease.8 While the West Semitic tradition deified cities, patron deity and city in the Mesopotamian tradition remained two separate but very closely related entities through the relationship of patron and protégé.9 In addition, the Mesopotamian city-lament genre imagined a goddess weeping over her destroyed city (e.g., the Lament over Ur or Nippur).10 The biblical text dis-

consistent with the discussion on conceptual metaphors, which are, by definition, formulated in the language in which the article is written. For the analysis, the whole text was considered, even though the specific images under study, as discussed later, only appear in a limited set of books. Finally, the study does not aim to make any claims about the text-external world. Likewise, any possible connections between the historical data about specific examples in the corpus and the use of the metaphor THE CITY IS A MOTHER fall outside of the scope of this piece. However, the latter does not imply that such analyses should not or cannot be done in the future, based on the findings of the current study. 6 Ez 16; Lam 1:16. See Galambush 1992; Maier 2008. 7 Na 3:4–5; Sg 8:10. See O’Brien 2009; James 2017: 108. 8 Lewy 1944: 429–488; Fitzgerald 1972: 403–416. 9 Biddle 1991: 175. 10 The Hebrew Bible developed its own version of city laments, as argued by Frederick Dobbs-Allsopp in his study devoted to the topic (1993). For a more recent discussion, see Wischnowsky 2001.

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plays the patron deity idea from the latter and the female personification from the former.11 A second strand of research explains the origin of the metaphor through linguistics and, in particular, grammatical gender. In Biblical Hebrew, as in other West Semitic languages, the words for city (‫עיר‬, ‫קריה‬, and ‫ )קרת‬all carry the feminine gender. Since cities are also given names, just like people, one could argue that the female personification of Jerusalem and other cities is the result of grammatical gender and labeling.12 However, there are many languages in which (female) personification of cities takes place without this grammatical gender match.13 In addition, when no personification takes place, the biblical text retains the feminine forms and endings when it refers to a city.14 In this way, the feminine gender of city vocabulary in Biblical Hebrew facilitates female personification. According to Frederick Dobbs-Allsopps “both explanations [cultural and linguistic] are likely motivated by a tacit lack of serious respect for literary figuration as a phenomenon.”15 This leads to a third thread of research that considers the imagery to be literary. The metaphor draws the reader’s attention to the city space. It makes for a vivid, entertaining account with an opportunity for the biblical authors to show their literary sophistication.16 Later studies revisited the imagery to address its impact on contemporary audiences. Passages in which city-women were treated violently formed the center

11

Lewy 1944; Fitzgerald 1972. For an overview of followers and those rejecting the argument, see Darr 1994: 126–127, 131; Low 2013: 54–55. As far as criticism goes, scholars have argued that the deification of West Semitic cities is to be dated to a later point in time (second century BCE), thus far later than the imagery appears in the biblical text. In addition, evidence is lacking for goddesses named as ‫בת‬, “daughter,” or for ‫בת‬, “daughter,” as title for cities (Low 2013: 54). 12 Fitzgerald 1975: 167–183; Follis 1987: 173–184. Note that medievalists have used similar argumentation to explain the female personifications of virtues in allegories. In a fine master’s thesis, Dinah Wouters states about this position: “Not only is it so that female personifications are linked to feminine roles and characters, but also the female gender of personifications apparently assures the trope’s effectiveness in a way that maleness does not. Their gender is essential to the functioning of the personification as a literary device” (2015: 18). 13 In Dutch, for example, the word “city” (stad) is masculine or can take both masculine and feminine gender, depending on the regiolect. Nevertheless, the city of Antwerp, for example, is often personified in literature as a woman (e.g., in the city poems by Tom Lanoye). In English, to mention another example, the word “city” is neuter, but names of cities can become feminine when they denote political or economic units (for geographical references, they remain neuter). 14 Darr 1994: 127. 15 Dobbs-Allsopp 2009: 133. 16 Ibid.: 132–133; Maier 2013: 107; Anthonioz 2014: 22.

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of attention.17 These studies focus heavily on the “woman” part in the metaphor THE CITY IS A WOMAN, demonstrating a malfunctioning of the metaphor altogether. Recent advancements in the study of gendered city space are made by scholars who combine an interest in and close reading of the language with other frameworks such as theology or critical spatiality. Noteworthy to mention here are Christl Maier’s book Daughter Zion, Mother Zion and Maggie Low’s Mother Zion in Deutero-Isaiah.18 The former offers a spatial-critical, feminist study of Jerusalem, in which the gender of the Jerusalem is studied within a broader discourse of space as material, mental, and experiential. As such, Maier offers a way to connect the metaphor’s spatial functioning in the text and its ancient context with concerns of the modern-day reader. Maggie Low’s work displays a similar combination of foci, developing a cognitive-linguistic informed theology of Isaiah 40–55. Even though she does return to the origin question (why a woman?) with a linguistic explanation (it is a conceptual metaphor), her analysis ultimately leads to an understanding of Isaiah’s theology. She develops an argument that discusses the metaphor THE CITY AS WOMAN as a building block of a religious narrative.19 The current study fits the last category best, in that it pays close attention to the text, its language, and the discourse developed. Its analysis starts from the story world of the Hebrew Bible, which is always and necessarily influenced by the world in which the text is produced as well as read. In addition, it emphasizes that a contemporary understanding of the metaphor can only be achieved if one is aware that a conceptual metaphor has two domains—a source (on which you draw for your comparison) and a target domain (the entity about which you want to say something)—and that the text wants to inform its readers about the target domain, in this case the city. 2. Cognitive stylistics and gendered city space With roots in English linguistics and indebted to Russian formalism, cognitive stylistics studies what happens when we read. In other words, it explores the question of how text—taken in its broadest interpretation as any type of human discourse spoken as well as written—produces meaning.20 The field draws primarily on methods and concepts from cognitive linguistics and cognitive psy17

Brenner 1995, 2004; Gordon and Washington 1995; O’Brien 2009. Maier 2008; Low 2013. 19 While both studies combine insights from different fields, they still show a tendency toward identifying the exact referents of the metaphor. For Maier, the separation of place and people is part of the critical-spatial buildup. For Low, the difference between place and people is essential to her argument that Deutero-Isaiah’s (Dt-Is) Jerusalem as physical place is not guilty and therefore can be God’s abode. 20 Stockwell 2002; Jeffries and McIntyre 2010; Stockwell and Whitely 2015. 18

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chology, matching them to key terms from the literary field. For the study of city space and city conceptualization, I will draw on Conceptual Metaphor and Framing Theory. Conceptual Metaphor Theory considers metaphors to be, first and foremost, products of human cognition rather than of literary skill.21 Metaphors help us to understand and describe the world. Rather than stating, for example, “Jerusalem is a woman,” a conceptual metaphor underlies the actual words and sentences in a text.22 Indeed, the Bible does not explicitly declare that Jerusalem is a woman, or that Babylon or any other city is. Yet the prophets address cities as people, thus cities talk and think, walk and cry, wear clothes and adornment, bear children, and become sick.23 All these aspects together evoke the idea that the city is a woman, a point illustrated in Jeremiah. And you, doomed to destruction, what do you do by wearing scarlet, by adorning yourself with ornaments of gold, by enlarging your eyes with kohl? In vain do you beautify yourself; lovers reject you, they seek your life! Yes a voice of one in travail I hear, distress as of one bearing her first child, the voice of daughter Zion gasping for breath, stretching out her hands: “Woe for me! I am faint before the killers!”24

‫ואת שדוד‬ ‫מה תעשי כי תלבשי שני‬ ‫כי תעדי עדי זהב‬ ‫כי תקרעי בפוך עיניך‬ ‫לשוא תתיפי‬ ‫מאסו בך עגבים‬ ‫נפשך יבקשו‬ ‫כי קול כחולה שמעתי‬ ‫צרה כמבכירה‬ ‫קול בת ציון‬ ‫תתיפח תפרש כפיה‬ ‫אוי נא לי כי עיפה נפשי‬ ‫להרגים‬

According to Conceptual Metaphor Theory, a source domain is used to talk about a target domain, in this example a woman and a city, respectively.25 Al21

Lakoff and Johnson 2003 [1980]; Kövecses 2010. In response to cognitive-linguistic research and its emphasis on the unconscious use of metaphor as well as its ubiquity, other studies try to grasp the nature of metaphor in literature, arguing in favor of deliberateness and singularity (e.g., Steen 2008, 2011; Semino and Steen 2008). 23 Dobbs-Allsopp 2009: 125. 24 Jer 4:30–31. Low argues that there are no children here, so place and people are not distinguished from each other (2013: 58–59). She points out that the expression of a woman in labor is typically used in cases of crises of all sorts (following the work of Bergmann 2008). Despite all this, the verses do evoke the image of a mother-city, and more generally, the image of the city as woman (person), similar to what happened in Jer 2 and 3. The prophet is drawing on a metaphor he has used before. In terms of referent of the metaphor, Low confirms my point that the city concept in the biblical text is a complex one and that at various occasions the writers have more than just the place or just the people in mind. 22

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though the text reveals certain ideas about the source domain, the actual focus of the text is the target domain. Thus, if a city-as-woman is negatively portrayed, this portrayal primarily concerns the city and not the woman.26 A second element that entangles these portrayals is the notion of framing—as Entman puts it, “select[ing] some aspects of a perceived reality and mak[ing] them more salient in a communicating text, in such a way as to promote a particular problem definition, causal interpretation, moral evaluation, and/or treatment recommendation for the item described.”27 Writers select particular metaphors for their associations and effects. Framing acknowledges the role of the writer in the use of conceptual metaphor X or Y.28 In addition to THE CITY IS A WOMAN, biblical writers draw on other conceptual metaphors, such as THE CITY IS A CONTAINER and THE CITY IS AN OBJECT. One obvious difference between the personification and the other two metaphors is the role of agency, which is present in the former and lacking in the latter.29 When selecting one metaphor over another, writers frame things in order to maximize reader response. This goes back to what I mentioned in the introduction, that there are not only problems with the city-as-woman metaphor, but also clear advantages in terms of meaning production. 3. The mother-city as a case study In the remaining pages, I will focus on one particular image of the city as woman—that of the city as mother. Throughout the Hebrew Bible, this metaphor occurs about fifty-eight times and is limited in this specific form to the prophetic corpus (both major and minor prophets), a few Psalms, Song of Songs, and the book of Lamentations. In terms of genre, all these passages would qualify as poetic.30 25

Kövecses 2010: 4. This is contrary to the position taken in, for example, Julia M. O’Brien’s study (2008), which focuses very much on the source domain of the city’s personification. See also Low’s critique on that matter (2013: 16). 27 Entman 1993: 52. Framing is primarily a research topic in media studies but has found its way into various other fields (Hallahan 2008). It has been distinguished as a possible application of figurative language, including metaphor (e.g., Lakoff 1996, 2006; Burgers, Konijn, and Steen 2016). This type of framing should not be confused with the cognitive understanding of a frame as “a domain of knowledge and experience” a reader relies on when making sense of a text (Stockwell 2015: 238). 28 This acknowledgement is also at the heart of the field of cognitive stylistics itself: “For cognitive stylistics researchers, style is the creative choice of an author, drawing upon the capacities that language affords and constrains” (Stockwell 2015: 235). 29 For a more elaborate discussion, see Vermeulen 2020 and 2021. 30 This also counts for the majority of personified city spaces, which may explain why scholars have addressed it as a literary metaphor before. Nevertheless, this seems to be mere coincidence. There are personified city spaces outside the poetic corpus, although 26

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3.1. The extended-family metaphor The city as mother is, conceptually speaking, part of an extended-family metaphor that gathers all gendered personifications of city space in the Hebrew Bible.31 What is more, the mother image is one of the more frequently used images of city-women, in addition to that of the whore/adulteress and the daughter. At the heart of the family metaphor are two primary relationships, that between husband and wife and that between parent and child.32 The extended-family metaphor also includes the sibling relationship and those relationships that threaten the central relationships, such as the adulteress/whore threatening the bond between husband and wife. Additional roles include the widow (negative form of the husband-wife relationship), the barren woman, and the bereft woman (the latter two as negative forms of the mother) (Fig. 1).33 3.1.1. Mothers and wives In discourse about cities, the roles of wife and mother do not coincide in the Hebrew Bible. That is to say, except for some chapters in Isaiah34 and a few far less, for example, in Neh 4:1, where “healing had come to the walls of Jerusalem.” In addition, many of the city portrayals in the prophetic corpus would not be perceived as literary metaphor. Is 24:12, for example, sees “desolation left in the town” (THE CITY IS A CONTAINER), whereas Jer 51:20 speaks of Babylon as a war-club (THE CITY IS AN OBJECT). 31 In some of the texts, the family metaphor seems to be part of the language of the prophet, as argued by Sarah J. Dille for Dt-Is (rather than a controlling theological model of God—she speaks of God instead of city) (2004: 21). I would argue that the prophetic corpus indeed draws often on the personification of cities and on the family metaphor in which these personifications fit. This has to do with its take on cities as relational entities rather than as entities without agency or containers to be filled or emptied. 32 On relationships and the city, see Steck 1992 [1989]; Maier 2013: 107; Anthonioz 2014: 22. 33 Figure 1 visualizes the different source domains for the metaphor THE CITY IS X, in which X can be any of the terms mentioned. The terms represent concepts, not specific lexical items, hence the use of English rather than Hebrew. As far as the choice for the terms “adulteress” and “whore” go, they stand for two female figures that form opposites of the “wife.” The term “whore” is chosen over “prostitute” precisely because it expresses a negative influence on the spousal relationship, whereas the term “prostitute” was associated with worship and cult (and as such belongs to a different discourse, as illustrated, e.g., in Is 40:2 or Ez 16: 30–34). 34 Is 49:17–26, 54:1–13, 60:4–16, 62: 4–5. Ulrich Berges has called the relationship in Isaiah between Zion, God, and the children “dramatic” (2001: 76). Carol Newsom deems the relationship in Dt-Is “most affectively charged,” with the children “provid[ing] the symbolic model for their reincorporation” (1992: 76–77). Even though the pieces do not address the fact that Zion is presented both as wife and as mother, the very language used in these studies suggests that these chapters have a strong impact on the reader. Christl Maier notes, however, that “while the authors of Isaiah 40–55 take up the marriage met-

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Figure 1. Female imagery and relationships. verses in Ezekiel and Zechariah,35 cities imagined as mothers do not evoke the metaphor THE CITY IS A WIFE. This separation of mother and wife may be obvious when Babylon or Nineveh are the intended cities, such as in Psalm 137 or Nahum 3; these cities are not God’s spouses, contrary to Jerusalem/Zion. 36 However, preserving the distinction between maternal and spousal roles also occurs in the case of Jerusalem, meaning that no male parent is evoked. In some passages, one could argue that the mother-city may actually be a parent-city, without specific gender. In Psalm 147, for example, the psalmist speaks of the children of the city as blessed. No wife metaphor occurs; God is the one to be praised by Zion, thus the context is worship.37

aphor, they shun from spelling out all aspects of it. Their focus is on Zion’s relationship to her children and on YHWH’s promise of love” (2008: 175). 35 Ez 16:60–61; Zec 9:11–13. The last chapters of Dt-Is as well as 3 Is are considered to be messages of hope (Dille 2004: 151; McKinlay 2013: 102). Also, in the last lines of Ez 16, which overall has a very negative vibe, the tide eventually turns for the cities, even though restoration comes with shame (Galambush 1992: 108–109). Zec 9:11–13 shares a similar hope for the future (Meyers and Meyers 1993: 173–176). Thus, hope seems to be a preliminary answer as to why these particular passages draw explicitly on two feminine roles that tend to be separated from each other elsewhere. Zion is imagined not only as the faithful spouse, but simultaneously as the caring mother of Zion’s inhabitants. 36 Ps 137:9; Na 3:10. See also Is 54:6; Jer 3:1; Ez 16:8. On the exclusivity of the marriage metaphor for Jerusalem/Zion, see Dille 2004: 23. Babylon is imagined as a widow, but her husband is not mentioned (e.g., Is 47:8–9). 37 Ps 147:13. And this is without evoking the adulteress/whore metaphor, which would in turn evoke the wife metaphor.

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3.1.2. A discourse of relationality This observation leads to the central component of the mother (or parent) image: the relationship between an older caring family member and a younger dependent one.38 Translated to the city, the metaphor describes the relationship between the city and its inhabitants. On some occasions, the child represents a future state of the city and thus embodies the city as a whole, such as in Nahum. She as well was exiled, she went into captivity; her babies too were dashed in pieces at every street corner. And over her honored men lots were cast, and all her great ones were bound in chains.39

‫גם היא לגלה‬ ‫הלכה בשבי‬ ‫גם עלליה ירטשו‬ ‫בראש כל חוצות‬ ‫ועל נכבדיה ידו גורל‬ ‫וכל גדוליה רתקו בזקים‬

Nahum compares Nineveh to Thebes, with the mother image in the middle of the verse. The children (‫ )עלליה‬are not part of the people exiled at the beginning of the verse (‫)היא‬, nor are they part of the elite at the end (‫ נכבדיה‬and ‫)גדוליה‬. In other words, the children do not stand for all the inhabitants of the city.40 Rather, the text relates the story of a complex city concept, with no present (an empty container, inhabitants gone), a future destroyed (babies dashed), and no one to solve the problems (the elite is immobilized). The children, representing the future city, are separated from their mother. The spatial disconnection between mother and child will result in the death of the city. Obviously, the text plays here with the connotation of the child as the embodiment of a potential future and its importance in the Bible (for example, offspring as covenant between God and his people, as in the book of Genesis).41

38

Note that in the biblical corpus, the parent-child metaphor is important in addressing the relationship between God and his people mostly (e.g., Lapsley 2008; Strawn 2008). In addition, God is presented as mother and father in the biblical text, again emphasizing that it is the parental relationship rather than the specific gender that counts in the metaphor (Dille 2004). 39 Na 3:10. 40 This is contrary to most studies that argue that the children of the city are her inhabitants. Julia O’Brien, for example, seems to understand the children as literally Ninevite children (2009: 63). A similar point is made by David Baker in his commentary (2009: 38). Other scholars take a comparable stance regarding children of personified cities elsewhere (e.g., Darr 1994: 46–84; Maier 2008: 189–210). 41 This is similar to what Othmar Keel has argued for Babylon’s children in Ps 137: “We need to consider, however, whether these ‘little ones’ ought not to be understood just as symbolically as ‘Mother Babylon.’ The inhabitants of the oppressor-city or the children of the ruling dynasty concretize the continuation of the unrighteous empire” (1978: 9).

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3.1.3. The linguistics of mother and child The mother-city is evoked through a gendering of the city as woman (e.g., by mentioning female body parts, clothes, or epithets such as “daughter”) in combination with the use of the word “child,” (‫ בן‬or ‫בת‬, ‫עולל‬, and occasionally ‫ זרע‬or ‫)זכר‬. Only twice does the text have the actual word ‫( אם‬mother) to refer to a city: in Ezekiel in the proverb “like mother, like daughter,” and in Isaiah where Zion is the mother of the addressed people.42 In addition, the city is envisioned as a mother who gives birth. In these passages, no lexemes for children are present. For each of the mentioned lexical items, the conceptual relationality between parent and child shows in the language of the passages. The children are almost always mentioned in a linguistic dependency construction, as “child of X” or “your/her child” (construct construction). Additionally, but far less frequently, children appear without mentioning their parent. The “child of X” construction focuses on the behavior and the state of the children. The text informs the reader about the familial lineage, as happens in some narrative parts of the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Genesis or Judges). Thus, Isaiah describes the vanity of the daughters of Zion and God’s response to that.43 Similarly, the daughters of Zion addressed in the Song of Songs evoke the mother image, and thus the city, merely as a frame of reference. The metaphor is part of the background against which the Song’s events evolve.44 By comparison, the construction “your/her child” functions differently. The passages with such phrases often focus on the city space and its relationship with the children as either inhabitants or future city. It seems that the linguistic compactness of the rendering (with a pronominal suffix attached to the noun) comes with a conceptual tightness between mother and child. In Ezekiel, for example, God says the following: “And you took your sons (‫ )בניך‬and your daughters (‫ )בנותיך‬that you bore to me and sacrificed them (‫ )ותזבחים להם‬to them [i.e., idols] as food—as if your harlotries were not enough.” 45 The sons and daughters evoke the metaphor THE CITY IS A MOTHER. The relationship between children and parent is made explicit in the constructions with pronominal suffixes (‫ בניך‬and ‫)בנותיך‬. Also, at the end of the verse, when the city is said to sacrifice the children, mother and children are still connected through linguistic affixation. It is only afterward that this connection, self-evidently, disappears. Then the children are God’s, rather than the city’s; God steps in as parent.46 42

Ez 16:44; Is 51:10. Is 3:16–17. 44 Chistopher Meredith in his study of the songscape argues that “the multivocal form of the text re-enforces this implied spatiality; it is implied that there is room to speak into, distance to speak across” (2013: 54). 45 Ez 16:20. 46 Ez 16:21. Note that the children are not defined as “ours,” but belong to either God or the city, which again seems to imply that the parental role is not conceived as gendered. 43

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183

Most often though, the children of Jerusalem appear in cultic or war scenes when God is mentioned. In Jeremiah, Jerusalem’s children have forsaken the LORD and in Ezekiel, the daughter-towns will be put to the sword.47 Note that both passages stay away from wife imagery so that God does not become the parent of the children nor the husband of the city space. As a result, the city itself remains the sole entity responsible for the well-being and behavior of her inhabitants.48 The pronominal variant shows a greater variety than the nominal one mentioned before, in terms of vocabulary, agency, and positive or negative portrayal. In Isaiah, for example, the children appear as ‫זרע‬, acting in a positive setting, while the ‫ עללים‬of Nahum are the subject of a passive verb of destruction.49 Passive/active does not necessarily result in negative/positive cityscapes, respectively. In Ezekiel, the ‫ בנות‬are the beneficiaries: God will restore their fortunes.50 In all three examples, however, the focus remains on the relationship between city and children, with the latter widening the range of the former (Isaiah), being killed in the space of the former (Nahum), and both being united in the good fortune brought along by God (Ezekiel).51 When the linguistic dependency is absent, so is the relationship with the children. In Isaiah, none of the sons she bore (‫ )מכל בנים ילדה‬guides the city, and in Ezekiel, God gives Jerusalem’s sisters as daughters to her ( ‫נתתי אתהן לך‬ ‫)לבנות‬.52 Twice the children appear without suffix referring to the city. This separation also shows in the content of the verses: Isaiah’s Jerusalem has no support of its children; Ezekiel’s city is given children who are not even its own. At the opening of Ezekiel 23, both cities, Samaria and Jerusalem, give birth to children, expressed in the standard way known of other birth accounts: ‫ותלדנה בנים ובנות‬ (and they bore sons and daughters). It is only later in the chapter that pronominal suffixes appear with the children becoming explicitly the cities’ (e.g., ‫המה בניך‬ ‫ובנותיך יקחו‬, “they will take away your sons and daughters”). Remarkably, the connection remains when the cities are accused of having sacrificed their children to idols (‫ובשחטם את בניהם‬, “and when they slaughtered their children”), as if to stress the seriousness of the violation.53 God is as much a caring parent as the city is. 47 Jer 5:7; Ez 26:6. 48 This is also argued in terms of guilt when it comes to the city’s destruction (e.g., Blessing 1998: 61–62) and the metaphor’s role in ideologically blaming the personified city (Chapman 2004: 65). 49 Is 54:3: ‫( וזרעך גוים יירש וערים שמות יושיבו‬your seed will dispossess nations and desolate towns they will inhabit); Na 3:10: ‫גם עלליה ירטשו בראש כל חוצות‬, (her babies too were dashed in pieces at every street corner). 50 Ez 16:53. 51 Is 54:3; Na 3:10; Ez 16:53. For a more elaborate discussion on the incident in Nahum, see Vermeulen 2016: 74; Vermeulen 2017b: 6. 52 Is 51:18; Ez 16:61. 53 Ez 23:25, 23:39.

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Authors sometimes explore the relationship between parent and child as it is expressed in Isaiah, where a seeming paradox appears. The text literally states, “the children of your bereavement” (‫)בני שכליך‬, 54 often translated as “you thought you had lost” (e.g., Jewish Publication Society). Isaiah uses a pronominal suffix, connecting mother and child, however, through the loss of those very children. Some translations (e.g., King James Version and New American Standard) wrongly eliminate this paradox by rendering the loss as a thought of the city rather than a possibility or even reality. It is the latter, though, that gives the prophecy its persuasive power and emotional impact. City and inhabitants, and also city and future, are inherently connected, yet their relationship is complicated, to say the least. 3.1.4. The style of the maternal city As a preliminary conclusion, the mother-city covers one of the female roles that “the city as woman” fulfills in the Bible. This metaphor singles out the relationship between parent and child, sometimes clearly gendered, other times not. The dependency falls on a continuum from no connection (before the child is actually there, with no textual reference) to a very close relationship (in the case of pronominal suffix second person). Overall, the image expresses the relationship between city and inhabitants, a relationship that comes in different forms (positive and negative ones) and evolves over time, as in its human equivalent. Occasionally, the child is a vehicle for the future city. 3.2. City space and home space The metaphor THE CITY IS A MOTHER evokes particular associations: dependency, care,55 safety, continuity,56 and familiarity. The inhabitants depend upon the city; they need its presence and care, as children require those things from a parent. Thus, Lamentations calls upon the city to pray for its children so that they will survive, and in Isaiah, the inhabitants suck from the city’s breast.57 Both examples describe a model mother-city. Yet the Bible also expresses its ideals through opposition and contrast. 58 In Ezekiel, Jerusalem sacrifices its 54

Is 49:20 Dille 2004: 147–149; Darr 1994: 110. 56 Schmitt 1985: 560–561. 57 Lam 2:19; Is 66:11. Low, citing Kathleen O’Connor, reads this verse negatively, in light of the larger lament in which the city has been destroyed and the children were lost: “The most salient feature of her pain is the children’s suffering and her separation from them” (O’Connor 1999: 286, quoted in Low 2013: 61). As elsewhere, Low’s argumentation focuses on the distinction between city and inhabitants, although she acknowledges elsewhere that the city as separate persona is sometimes closely identified with its inhabitants (2013: 62). 58 Meaning construal in general works through similarity and opposition. The Bible’s preference for portrayal through contrast when it comes to cities may explain why people 55

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children, playing out the undesirability of such an action as a violation to the parent-child relationship. Associations of safety and well-being can be found in Isaiah, focusing on the safe return of the children as a glorious and happy event. Passages in Nahum and Psalms, in which baby inhabitants are violently killed, evoke the opposite.59 In these verses, the referent of the city metaphor is multilayered. When Nahum and the psalmist imagine the fall of Nineveh and Babylon, respectively, they want all of it gone: the place, the people, the name, and the gods. Introducing the city as a mother in these passages is a strong statement, emphasizing the absence of continuity.60 A final association of the maternal city is familiarity: the city and its inhabitants are family; they belong together. This is expressed in, among others, Isaiah 49 (where the return of the children is described), Isaiah 66 (describing the birth of a son), and Ezekiel 16 (with the proverb “like mother, like daughter”).61 All the aforementioned traits—belonging, safety, continuity, and relationality—are found in another spatial concept, that of home space. Home is a concept hard to define, as several studies have shown.62 Rather than an objective list of characteristics, home space is about emotion and having an affective relationship with a place, which Yi-Fu Tuan has called “a sense of place.”63 In the Hebrew Bible, the mother-city acts like an emotional being toward its inhabitants. Sometimes these actions are loving and caring, and other times they are violent and destructive. But even then, the city is portrayed as an emotional rather than a rational being. It sacrifices the children because it worships idols; it forsakes its children because it is in love with another. On both occasions, the parent-child relationship suffers because another relationship intervenes at that point. However, under ideal circumstances, the maternal city shows close affinity with home space. Ultimately, that is also the message of the spatial journey within the Hebrew Bible: that one day Jerusalem will be home. The biblical text sometimes creates a temporary textual home, where the city space indeed ticks off all the speak of a negative view of the city in the biblical text (see, e.g., Aitken 2018: 4). However, the underlying metaphor is not about good or bad. Dille discusses contrast as a poetic technique in Is 49 (2004: 132). 59 Ez 16:20; Is 49:22; Na 3:10; Ps 137:9. 60 Remarkably, it is exactly in a psalm (Ps 137)—where Jerusalem is only present in the mind and Babylon has all of the features, at least initially, to qualify as home space (physically present, people, functionality)—that Jerusalem is the place that is developed as textual home and not Babylon (Vermeulen 2017a: 169–171). Whybray has made a similar observation for Is 40:1–2, where Jerusalem refers to the people of a city where they do no longer live, “show[ing] the intensity of their identification with their home” (1975: 49). 61 Is 49:17, 66:7; Ez 16:44. 62 These include, among others, Sixsmith 1986; Després 1991; Fox 2002. 63 Tuan defines “a sense of place” as an “affective bond between people and place or setting” (1990 [1974]: 4).

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required boxes mentioned above and evokes that desired sense of belonging. Although outside the scope of this article, I want to add that none of the other city conceptualizations in the Hebrew Bible matches the criteria of home space as well as the maternal city does. Even though wives and sisters are family too, the relationships they stand for and that the biblical text singles out do not bring out the same connotations as mothers do.64 What is more, the passages in which the mother metaphor is present also develop the home space topic on a larger scale. Home is at the core of their message. A nice example forms in Psalm 137, where the psalmist builds up a spatial narrative between an absent physical Jerusalem with a strong mental counterpart, primed as home space par excellence, and a present physical Babylon that is rejected as home space, now as well as in the future.65 3.3. Framing the city The mother-city as home space forms a particular way of framing the city, drawing upon associations the metaphor evokes by definition. In this final section, I will offer another, more detailed, example of this framing process, which is achieved by means of language and steers a reader’s interpretation. Consider Isaiah 49 for that matter, where personified Zion is addressed. They will yet say in your ears (‫)באזניך‬, the children (‫ )בני‬of your bereavement (‫)שכליך‬: “The place (‫ )המקום‬is too cramped for me, make room (‫ )גשה‬for me to settle.” And you will say to yourself (‫)בלבבך‬, “Who (‫ )מי‬bore (‫ )ילד‬these (‫ )את אלה‬for me(‫)לי‬ When I (‫ )אני‬was bereaved (‫ )שכולה‬and barren (‫)גלמודה‬, exiled (‫ )גלה‬and turned aside (‫)סורה‬, and these (‫ )אלה‬who (‫ )מי‬brought them up? I (‫ )אני‬was left on my own, and these (‫ )אלה‬where have they (‫ )הם‬been?” Thus said the LORD God: “Behold I will raise my hand to nations and to peoples I will lift up my standard; and they will bring (‫ )הביאו‬your sons (‫ )בניך‬in their bosom, and your daughters (‫)בנתיך‬ on their shoulder they will be lifted up (‫)תנשאנה‬. Kings will be your keepers (of your children) (‫)אמניך‬, and their queens your nurses (‫;)מיניקתיך‬ faces to the ground, they will bow down for you (‫)לך‬ 64 65

Vermeulen 2020. Vermeulen 2017a: 169–171.

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and the dust of your feet they will lick. And you will know that I am the LORD, those who wait for me will not be ashamed.”66 In these verses, Isaiah is depicting Jerusalem and its inhabitants as a mother with children. Initially, the relationship is in danger. The children are lost, raised, even borne by someone else,67 but then they return safely and happily to the mother. The text describes a journey in which the maternal city forms the focal point. Movements are generated both through vocabulary (motion verbs, such as ‫גלה‬, “exile”; ‫סור‬, “turn aside”; ‫הביא‬, “bring”; and ‫נשא‬, “lift up”) and directional prepositions (‫לי‬, “for me”; ‫לך‬, “for you”).68 The children bridge the literal and metaphorical gap that exists between them and the mother. From afar, they come to within hearing, brought back by others.69 In verse 21, the writer plays with the distance between mother and child: the relationship goes back and forth between lost (because bereaved) and impossible (because barren). Somewhere in between, a space exists where the children have been when not with the mother. Even though the relationship lingers at the borders of the surreal and unreal,70 the text keeps envisioning the mother-city as the space that defines the children. They were borne by an undefined ‫מי‬, “who,” for her,71 even though immediately afterward the prophet separates her from the children, as a mother (bereaved and barren) and as a space (exiled and turned aside). Similarly, the second half of verse 21 introduces the children and the “who” now in reversed order, to turn again to the mother on her own, wondering where the children are, this time without further mentioning the “who.” Despite the statement that she is alone, 66

Is 49:20–23. Scholars give various explanations for the odd use of the verb ‫ילד‬, in a masculine rather than a feminine form. As Low summarizes the discussion, “Is Zion asking whether a male subject begot her children or whether he bore her children for her?” (2013: 112). Is the phrase expressing the city’s total state of confusion (as argued by Blenkinsopp 2002: 312; and Dille 2004: 144–148), or is the envisioned subject of the verb God himself (as defended by Low 2013: 113, following Bonnard 1972)? 68 Is 49:21, 49:22, 49:23. 69 Is 49:20, 49:22. 70 This is a characteristic of the city that is fully explored in Christopher Meredith’s work on the city in Sg. He connects this with the notion of the uncanny or Unheimlich, as developed by Freud and with Benjamin’s phantasmagoria: “Cities are vibrant composites of the imagined-and-real, experienced, always, in the first person. … The City is always and inevitably a tension between opacity and transparency” (2013: 94–95). Isaiah’s cityscape plays with these elements, showcasing the flexibility of urban conceptualization as well as its complex nature. 71 In terms of grammar, the “who” is masculine, but it may be that this is as unimportant as the grammatical gender of the city. The passage plays with the opposition between the personified city and this unidentified other person. Who is the ultimate parent of the children? 67

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the mother of verse 21 never is: the children are on her mind and she wants to know their location. For what is a city without inhabitants; what is a parent without a child? In short, what happens to a concept when a fundamental characteristic is missing? Isaiah does not let his readers wonder. At the end of verse 21, the demonstrative ‫“( אלה‬these,” as referring to the children) changes into the personal pronoun ‫הם‬, “they,” thus becoming of the same linguistic category as the mother-city, represented by the personal pronoun ‫אני‬, “I,” in the text. From verse 22 on, the distance between mother and child is further reduced. Mother and child now appear as one word in the text: a noun with a pronominal suffix: ‫בניך‬, “your sons,” and ‫בנתיך‬, “your daughters,” in verse 22. This connection continues in verse 23, where the children are represented through the people who take care of them: the guardians and nurses. Again, the pronominal suffix referring to the city is attached to these words: ‫אמניך‬, “your keepers,” and ‫מיניקתיך‬, “your nurses.” Halfway through the verse, the children have returned; they are home. As Katherine Darr has put it, “addressing personified Jerusalem as a mother, the poem invites its readers to perceive Yahweh’s tender compassion through the metaphor of the exiles’ imminent homecoming—the reunion of barren, bereaved Jerusalem and her precious sons and daughters.” 72 What is more, at the end of verse 23, they have reached the ultimate home space, God.73 4. Conclusion The biblical writers have chosen a powerful image when they depict the city as a mother. It allows them to emphasize the relationship between city and inhabitants or between city and future city, and to explore the associations that come with the image, both linguistically (different dependency relations, play with distance) and conceptually (realized or unrealized). Mother-cities are emotional and so is violence against them (taking away children or killing them), even though they are at times perpetrators themselves (sacrificing children). Any city can be mother because all cities have inhabitants and a presumed future. Similarly, they all carry the potential of home space, but in the frame of the biblical text, only Jerusalem will live up to that potential, to become both home to God’s people and to God.

72

Darr 1994: 175. Dille argues that the failing motherhood of the city is contrasted with that of God, who may abandon but does not forget (2004: 148–51). She also sees the family metaphor here at work, with God as Zion’s husband (ibid.), a relationship that will be restored, according to Darr (1994: 175). 73

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Bibliography Aitken, J.K. 2018: Introduction: A City Perspective. In J.K. Aitken / H.F. Marlow (eds.): The City in the Hebrew Bible: Critical, Literary and Exegetical Approaches. London, 3–16. Anthonioz, S. 2014: Cities of Glory and Cities of Pride: Concepts, Gender, and Images of Cities in Mesopotamia and in Ancient Israel. In D.V. Edelman / E. Ben Zvi (eds.): Memory and the City in Ancient Israel. Winona Lake, Indiana, 21–42. Baker, D.W. 2009: Nahum, Habakkuk, and Zephaniah. Nottingham. Berges, U. 2001: Personifications and Prophetic Voices of Zion in Isaiah and Beyond. In J.C. de Moor (ed.): The Elusive Prophet: The Prophet as a Historical Person, Literary Character and Anonymous Artist. Leiden and Boston, 54–82. Bergmann, C.D. 2008: Childbirth as a Metaphor for Crisis: Evidence from the Ancient Near East, the Hebrew Bible and 1QH XI, 1–18. Beihefte Zur Zeitschrift Für die Alttestamentliche Wissensch. Berlin. Biddle, M.E. 1991: The Figure of Lady Jerusalem: Identification, Deification and Personification of Cities in the Ancient Near East. In K.L. Younger / W.W. Hallo / B.F. Batto (eds.): The Biblical Canon in Comparative Perspective: Scripture in Context IV. Lewiston, New York, 173–194. Blenkinsopp, J. 2002: Isaiah 40–55: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. Anchor Bible 19A. New York. Blessing, K. 1998: Desolate Jerusalem and Barren Matriarch: Two Distinct Figures in the Pseudepigrapha. Journal for the Study of Pseudepigrapha 18, 47– 69. Bonnard, P.E. 1972: Second Isaïe: Son disciple et leurs editeurs; Isaïe 40–66. Paris. Brenner, A. 1995: Introduction. In A. Brenner (ed.): A Feminist Companion to the Latter Prophets. London and New York, 21–37. Brenner, A. 2004: Some Reflections on Violence against Women and the Image of the Hebrew God: The Prophetic Books Revisited. In J. Schaberg / A. Bach / E. Fuchs (eds.): On the Cutting Edge: The Study of Women in Biblical Worlds; Essays in Honor of Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza. New York, 69–81. Burgers, C. / Konijn, E.A. / Steen, G.J. 2016: Figurative Framing: Shaping Public Discourse through Metaphor, Hyperbole, and Irony. Communication Theory 26, 410–430. Chapman, C. 2004: The Gendered Language of Warfare in the Israelite-Assyrian Encounter. Harvard Semitic Monographs 62. Winona Lake, Indiana. Darr, K.P. 1994: Isaiah’s Vision and the Family of God: Literary Currents in Biblical Interpretation. Louisville, Kentucky.

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Day, P.L. 1995: The Personification of Cities as Female in the Hebrew Bible: The Thesis of Aloysius Fitzgerald, F.S.C. In F.F. Segovia / M.A. Tolbert (eds.): Reading from This Place II. Minneapolis, 283–302. Després, C. 1991: The Meaning of Home: Literature Review and Directions for Future Research and Theoretical Development. Journal of Architectural and Planning Research 8, 96–114. Dille, S.J. 2004: Mixing Metaphors: God as Mother and Father in DeuteroIsaiah. Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 398. London and New York. Dobbs-Allsopp, F.W. 1993: Weep, O Daughter of Zion: A Study of the CityLament Genre in the Hebrew Bible. Biblica et Orientalia 44. Rome. Dobbs-Allsopp, F.W. 2009: Daughter Zion. In J.J. Ahn / S.L. Cook (eds.): Thus Says the LORD: Essays on the Former and Latter Prophets in Honor of Robert R. Wilson. Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 502. London, 125–134. Entman, R.M. 1993: Framing: Toward Clarification of a Fractured Paradigm. Journal of Communication 43, 51–58. Fitzgerald, A. 1972: The Mythological Background for the Presentation of Jerusalem as a Queen and False Worship as Adultery in the OT. Catholic Biblical Quarterly 34, 403–416. Fitzgerald, A. 1975: BTWLT and BT as Titles of Capital Cities. Catholic Biblical Quarterly 37, 167–183. Follis, E. R. 1987: The Holy City as Daughter. In E.R. Follis (ed.): Directions in Biblical Hebrew Poetry. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 40. Sheffield, United Kingdom, 173–184. Fox, L. 2002: The Meaning of Home: A Chimerical Concept or a Legal Challenge. Journal of Law and Society 29, 580–610. Galambush, J. 1992: Jerusalem in the Book of Ezekiel: The City as Yahweh’s Wife. Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series 130. Atlanta. Gavins, J., / Steen, G., eds. 2003: Cognitive Poetics in Practice. London and New York. Gordon, P. / Washington, H.C. 1995: Rape as Military Metaphor in the Hebrew Bible. In A. Brenner (ed.): A Feminist Companion to the Latter Prophets. London and New York, 308–325. Gordon, C.H. / Rendsburg, G.A. 1997: The Bible and the Ancient Near East. London and New York. Hallahan, K. 2008: Strategic Framing. In W. Donsbach (ed.): The International Encyclopedia of Communication. https://doi.org/10.1002/9781405186407. Accessed 30 April 2021. Heim, K.M. 1999: The Personification of Jerusalem and the Drama of Her Bereavement in Lamentations. In R.S. Hess / G.J. Wenham (eds.): Zion, City of Our God. Grand Rapids, Michigan, 129–169.

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James, E. 2017. Landscapes of the Song of Songs: Poetry and Place. New York. Jeffries, L. / McIntyre, D. 2010: Stylistics. New York. Keel, O. 1978: The Symbolism of the Biblical World: Ancient Near Eastern Iconography and the Book of Psalms. New York. Kelle, B.E. 2008: Wartime Rhetoric: Prophetic Metaphorization of Cities as Female. In B.E. Kelle / F.R. Ames (eds.): Writing and Reading War: Rhetoric, Ethics, and Gender in Biblical and Modern Contexts. Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series 42. Atlanta, 95–111. Kövecses, Z. 2010: Metaphor: A Practical Introduction. Oxford. Lakoff, G. / Johnson, M. 2003 [1980]: Metaphors We Live By. Chicago. Lakoff, G. 1996: Moral Politics: What Conservatives Know That Liberals Don’t. Chicago. Lakoff, G. 2006: Don’t Think of an Elephant: Know Your Values and Frame the Debate. White River Junction, Vermont. Lapsley, J.E. 2008: “Look! The Children and I Are as Signs and Portents in Israel”: Children in Isaiah. In M.J. Bunge (ed.): The Child in the Bible. Grand Rapids, Michigan, 82–102. Lewy, J. 1944: The Old West Semitic Sun God Hammu. Hebrew Union College Annual 18, 429–488. Low, M. 2013: Mother Zion in Deutero-Isaiah: A Metaphor for Zion Theology. Studies in Biblical Literature 155. New York. Maier, C.M. 2008: Daughter Zion, Mother Zion: Gender, Space, and the Sacred in Ancient Israel. Minneapolis. Maier, C.M. 2013: Whose Mother? Whose Space? Jerusalem in Third Isaiah. In G.T.M. Prinsloo / C.M. Maier (eds.): Constructions of Space V. Place, Space and Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean World. Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 576. London and New York, 107–124. McKinlay, J.E. 2013: The Usefulness of a Daughter. In A.T. Abernethy / M.G. Brett / T. Bulkeley / T. Meadowcroft (eds.): Isaiah and Imperial Context: The Book of Isaiah in Times of Empire. Eugene, Oregon, 85–106. Meredith, C. 2013: Journeys in the Songscape: Space and the Song of Songs. Hebrew Bible Monographs 53. Sheffield, United Kingdom. Meyers, C.L. / Meyers, E. M. 1993: Zechariah 9–14: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. Anchor Bible 25B. New York. Newsom, C. 1992: Response to Norman K. Gottwald “Social Class and Ideology in Isaiah 40–55.” Semeia 59, 73–78. Noegel, S.B. 2009: Nocturnal Ciphers: The Allusive Language of Dreams in the Ancient Near East. American Oriental Series 89. New Haven, Connecticut. O’Brien, J.M. 2008: Challenging Prophetic Metaphor: Theology and Ideology in the Prophets. Louisville, Kentucky. O’Brien, J.M. 2009: Nahum. London.

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O’Connor, K. 1999: Speak Tenderly to Jerusalem: Second Isaiah’s Reception and Use of Daughter Zion. Princeton Seminary Bulletin 10, 281–294. Sals, U. 2004: Die Biographie der „Hure Babylon“: Studien zur Intertextualität der Babylon-Texte in der Bibel. Forschungen Zum Alten Testament 2.6. Tübingen. Schmitt, J.J. 1985: The Motherhood of God and Zion as Mother. Revue Biblique 92, 557–569. Semino, E. / Steen, G. J. 2008: Metaphor in Literature. In R.W. Gibbs Jr. (ed.): The Cambridge Handbook of Metaphor and Thought. New York, 232–245. Sixsmith, J. 1986: The Meaning of Home. An Exploratory Study of Environmental Experience. Journal of Environmental Psychology 6, 281–298. Steck, O.H. 1992 [1989]: Zion als Gelände und Gestalt: Überlegungen zur Wahrnehmung Jerusalems als Stadt und Frau im Alten Testament. In O.H. Steck (ed.): Gottesknecht und Zion: Gesammelte Aufsätze zu Deuterojesaja. Forschungen Zum Alten Testament 4. Tübingen, 126–145. Repr. from ZTK 86 (1989), 261–281. Steen, G. 2008: The Paradox of Metaphor: Why We Need a Three-Dimensional Model of Metaphor. Metaphor and Symbol 23(4), 213–241. Steen, G. 2011: The Contemporary Theory of Metaphor—Now New and Improved. Review of Cognitive Linguistics 9, 26–64. Stockwell, P. 2002: Cognitive Poetics: An Introduction. London. Stockwell, P. / Whiteley, S. 2015: Introduction. In P. Stockwell / S. Whiteley (eds.): The Cambridge Handbook of Stylistics. Cambridge, United Kingdom, 1–9. Stockwell, P. 2015: Cognitive Stylistics. In R. Jones (ed.): The Routledge Handbook of Language and Creativity. London, 233–245. Strawn, B.A. 2008: “Israel, My Child”: The Ethics of a Biblical Metaphor. In M.J. Bunge (ed.): The Child in the Bible. Grand Rapids, Michigan, 103–140. Tuan, Y.-F. 1990 [1974]: Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes, and Values. New York. Vermeulen, K. 2016: The Construction of the Enemy City in the Hebrew Bible: A Case of Thirdspacing. University of Bucharest Review: Literary and Cultural Studies Series VI, 70–83. Vermeulen, K. 2017a: Home in Antwerp and Biblical City Poems—A Journey. Arcadia 52, 161–182. Vermeulen, K. 2017b: The Body of Nineveh: The Conceptual Image of the City in Nahum 2–3. Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 17, 1–17. Vermeulen, K. 2020: Conceptualizing Biblical Cities: A Stylistic Study. Cham. Vermeulen, K. 2021: Urban Metaphors: Conceptual and Literary Depictions of the City in the Bible. In D.F. Virdis / E. Zurru / E. Lahey (eds.): Language in Place: Stylistic Perspectives on Landscape, Place and Environment. Amsterdam and Philadelphia, 85–104.

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Vermeulen, K. / Hayes, E., 2022: How We Read the Bible: A Guide to Scripture’s Style and Meaning. Grand Rapids, Michigan. Whybray, R.N. 1975: Isaiah 40–66. New Century Bible Commentary. London. Wischnowsky, M. 2001: Tochter Zion: Aufnahme und Überwindung der Stadtklage in den Prophetenschriften des Alten Testaments. Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament 89. Neukirchen-Vluyn. Wouters, D. 2015: The Church as a Woman: The Gendered Rhetoric of the Feminine Divine. MA thesis, Ghent University.

Vanishing Point New Perspectivity on Women in the Book of Exodus Elizabeth B. Tracy 1

1. Introduction Exodus is the story of the emergence of a single family to the status of a nation of God’s elect people who enter into a “communal relationship with the Divine.”2 This “people” at the beginning of the book of Exodus, actively and impressively includes women. From that point on, however, the female presence declines dramatically; and yet, where mentioned, women are often a force to be recognized and/or reckoned with. In geometry, the term “perspectivity” refers to the proportional formation of an image as viewed from a fixed point. Biblical studies research in Exodus has, historically, focused primarily on patriarchal narrative or the reconstruction of individual female characters, while feminist studies of Exodus generally tend to focus on power relations in the text.3 The aim of this paper is to bridge the gap between biblical studies and gender and feminist studies by changing the traditional fixed viewing location from Moses, priesthood authority, and individual female representation to a holistic study of women throughout the book of Exodus.4 Exodus is “a document of faith, not a dispassionate, secular report of the freeing of an oppressed people.”5 If the narrative and laws of Exodus emphasize the theology and faith of a people, readers will never be satisfied if exploration of the text seeks only to value female presence in terms of societal status and subjectivity to male authority. Therefore, women in the book of Exodus must also be examined for their contributions within the realm of Israel’s faith and religious expression, where that representation is not focused on male cultic authority or male practices alone.

1

Independent scholar, Ph.D. St Andrews University, St. Andrews Scotland, [email protected]. 2 Berlin 2008: 319. 3 Junior 2012: 58. Susanne Scholz’s article “The Complexities of ‘His’ Liberation Talk” offers a feminist interpretation of the entire book. However, her article is “based on the belief that female characters in the Bible are male constructs and, as such, they illuminate issues of sexism, racism, ethnocentrism, or classism” (2000: 21). 4 Meyers states that, while women are no longer ignored in the study of Israelite religion, “none of the discussions succeeds … in truly understanding the part that religion played in the religious lives of all Israelites” (2005: 5). 5 Sarna 1991: xii.

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It is evident that Moses is the central human figure within the Exodus narrative6 and that women are read as secondary characters.7 While Moses is central in the text, however, he is not a solitary figure. His birth and prophetic beginnings are intertwined with the presence of women. He becomes “a particular embodiment of the larger community he represents,” 8 a society that contains women who, while portrayed in gender-specific roles, contribute to that sphere and affect cult ritual whether they officially participate or not. This paper will examine the mixed portraits of women and their power and influence through a study of the roles they play, the contributions they make, and the interconnectedness of that influence on the spirituality of Israel throughout the book of Exodus. First we will examine the prominent women in the opening chapters of Exodus, who, interestingly, if named can all be identified as the “only” or “first” women in a particular category. Next we will explore the role the presence of women play in Israel’s ability to fully worship their God. Then we will investigate the inclusion of women, although passive, in the laws, specifically the Decalogue, and how their presence also represents a linchpin connection in human/divine relations. Continuing on, women are mentioned with regard to the weakening of Israelite faith and faith practices but they are also represented in the building up of community worship. Both of these contributions will be studied. Finally, reflecting women in the opening chapters, we will study the “first”, “only”, and final mention of women in the vicinity of the Tabernacle, their specific contributions to the building of the Tabernacle and its furnishings, and the significance of that offering. This paper aims to show that, without women, Israel would not be able to truly function in a communal relationship with the divine. 2. Women, water, faith, and redemption The opening chapters of Exodus are replete with women whose presence demonstrates how the course of history can hinge upon a single event—the rescue of Moses. In Ex 1:7–14, as the children of Israel multiply and wax exceedingly mighty in the land of Egypt, Pharaoh, fearing they will rebel, commands the midwives Shiphrah and Puah to kill any male child born9: “When ye do the office of a 6

Larsson 2012: 83. Junior comments, “While the book of Exodus includes stories that feature women prominently, most scholars assume that biblical texts were written by and for men and preserve traditions that focus on men” (2012: 58). 8 Setel 1998: 32. See also Kramer 2000: 104. 9 Berlin states, “Israel’s oppression is directly linked to Israel’s fertility for as the family of Jacob grows into the nation of Israel, Pharaoh becomes concerned that Israel will become too numerous and thereby too strong. Although he tries various ways to limit population increase, he cannot stem Israel’s growth” (2008: 319). 7

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midwife to the Hebrew women, and see them upon the stools; if it be a son, then ye shall kill him: but if it be a daughter, then she shall live.”10 The women, however, fear God, defy the Pharaoh, and save the male children.11 Sarna notes an imbalance in the power juxtaposition, as much as the action. He states, What is remarkable is that the names of these lowly women are recorded whereas, by contrast, the all-powerful reigning monarch is consistently veiled in anonymity. In this way the biblical narrator expresses his scale of values. … Seven times in this brief episode the term “midwife” is repeated, an index of the importance that Scripture places upon the actions of the women in their defiance of tyranny and in their upholding of moral principles.12 With their defiant actions, the midwives become the only individuals in Exodus specifically blessed directly by the deity for their actions when he establishes households for them 13 —“And it came to pass, because the midwives feared God, that he made them houses.”14 The midwives’ defiance of Pharaoh “constituted history’s first recorded act of civil disobedience in defense of a moral imperative.”15 The Hebrew text can be translated as either “Hebrew midwives” or “midwives to the Hebrews.” With regard to the debate over whether the midwives were Hebrew or Egyptian, Exum notes, If Hebrew, the midwives, like Moses later, are deliverers of their own people. In that case it is important to note that their reason for defiance is “fear of God”, and not simply their loyalty to their people. If Egyptian, their fear of God leads them to defy their pharaoh, considered divine by the Egyptians.16 The text’s ambiguity, intentional or not, allows for the participation of two faithful women in Israel’s quest to progress toward religious freedom to extend beyond nationalistic concerns and ethnic boundaries. The third woman in the narrative, Moses’s mother, is introduced in an interesting way: she is not named but is identified as a “daughter of Levi”.17 Some scholars argue that she is not named in order to heighten the focus on Moses.18 10

Ex 1:16; translations are from King James Version. Ex 1:15–21. 12 Sarna 1996: 25. 13 Junior 2012: 58–59. 14 Ex 1:21. 15 Sarna 1996: 7. 16 Exum 1994: 48. 17 Ex 2:1. 18 Siebert-Hommes 1994: 67. 11

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However, by identifying both the father and mother as members of the tribe of Levi, the author is also emphasizing the family’s designation as members of a “tribe of priests” 19 and servants of God. 20 Her importance is also emphasized when she is later named: “And Amram took him Jochebed his father’s sister to wife; and she bare him Aaron and Moses.”21 Her name, Jochebed, makes Moses’s mother the first biblical personage to bear a name derived from elements of the divine Tetragrammaton (YHWH). Her name ‫ יוכבד‬means “Yo/Yah is glorified.” Subsequently, Moses’s mother gives birth, recognizes how good he is, and, to protect him from Pharaoh’s extermination order, saves his life by placing him in a basket caulked with bitumen and pitch in the Nile River.22 Although his mother is nameless in this early account, Nowell points out, She is described in terms that suggest major figures in the rest of Israel’s history. After she gives birth she looks at the child and sees how good (ki tob) he is. Just so God looks at the various elements of creation brought forth and says, “How good (ki tob)!” (Gen 1:4, 10, 12, 18, 21, 25). She saves the child from the river by means of a vessel (literally an “ark,” tebah) daubed with bitumen and pitch. Just so Noah saved human and animal life from the flood by means of an ark (tebah) covered with pitch (Gen 6:14). She endangers the child, turning him over to strangers, and then receives him back with payment (Exod 2:9). Just so Abraham endangers Sarah and then received her back with added riches (Gen 20:1– 18). This mother is described as a source of life for Israel like Noah and Abraham, even like God.23 The waters of the Nile, originally destined to be a grave,24 become a source of salvation for both a mother and her child, as well as a future nation.

19

Male members of the tribe of Levi are considered priests. In Ex 32:26–29, Levites are the ones who clean Israel of idol worshippers after the golden calf incident. Their actions lead Moses to declare them consecrated “to the Lord, even every man upon his son, and upon his brother” in verse 29. In Joshua 18:18, the tribe of Levi is not given a portion of land like other tribes. They are, instead, to serve as priests throughout all the territories. The main function is to perform sacrifices and teach the divine law (Dt 17:18; 33:10). 20 In the New Testament, John the Baptist’s parents are also both identified as members of this priestly genealogy, giving their lineage authority to their son as the forerunner of Christ. See Luke 1:5. 21 Ex 6:20. 22 Ex 1:16, 22; 2:2–3. 23 Nowell 1997: 49. 24 In Ex 1:22, Pharaoh demands that every boy child born should be thrown in the river: “And Pharaoh charged all his people, saying, Every son that is born ye shall cast into the river, and every daughter ye shall save alive.”

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Moses’s sister, 25 his fourth protector, propels him into the arms of his next savior, Pharaoh’s daughter. The sister’s presence in the story is essential, as it is she who connects the child with the princess and then reconnects the child with his mother. She stands at a distance watching over her brother’s basket as it floats in the river.26 When Pharaoh’s daughter discovers the basket, the sister takes the initiative that will shape Moses’s destiny. It is her persuasive suggestion to find a wet nurse that determines her brother’s future.27 Exum writes, “Her careful phrasing, ‘shall I call for you … to nurse for you the child’, provides the idea that the princess keep the infant.”28 The daughter of the wicked Pharaoh becomes the fifth woman in Moses’s early life to directly intervene on behalf of his well-being. In Ex 2, she knowingly defies the extermination order given by her father when she recognizes the child as Hebrew in verse 6 and rescues him in verses 8–9.29 As Nowell writes, “She simply reverses [the Pharaoh’s] command. Her action, like that of the midwives, renders the Pharaoh powerless.”30 She claims Moses as her own and takes on the responsibility of his welfare. In an unusual twist, Pharaoh’s daughter, an Egyptian, gives Moses, an Israelite, his name rather than his own mother.31 The princess explains her choice: “And she called his name Moses: and she said, Because I drew him out of the water.” The name is Egyptian in origin with a basic meaning of “to be born” and “a child, son”.32 However, the Hebrew origin is also given in the princess’s etymology. She “explains the name as though the form

25

While not named in the biblical text of Ex 2, the Septuagint, Syriac, and Samaritan texts add “and their sister Miriam” to the family list in Ex 6:20. Miriam is named and identified in the biblical text as the sister of Aaron in Ex 15:20. See also Ex 2:5–10. 26 Ex 2:4. 27 “Then said his sister to Pharaoh’s daughter, Shall I go and call to thee a nurse of the Hebrew women, that she may nurse the child for thee?” (Ex 2:7). 28 Exum 1994: 55. 29 Ex 2:5–10; Exum 1994: 51. 30 Nowell 1997: 50. 31 While women are the primary namers of children in the Hebrew Bible, it is unusual for a non-Israelite to name a Hebrew child. In the Hebrew Bible, the mother names the child twenty-five times. Of these times, only two are by non-Israelite women: Ex 2:10 and Gen 16:11, when Hagar names her son Ishmael. In Ruth 4:17, Ruth’s son Obed is named by female neighbors who reside in Bethlehem and are assumed to be Israelites. (See Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 247.) Furthermore, Meyers states that “naming a child can be construed as a ritual act that was usually part of women’s religious culture. Because a name in the biblical world was not simply a means of identification but rather signified the essence of a person, the anthroponymic (name-giving) process meant establishing the vitality of a new life” (2005: 42–43). This understanding adds weight to both the Egyptian and Hebrew etymology of the name Moses. 32 Ex 2:10. The roots ms and msy are frequent elements in Egyptian personal names, like Ahmose, Ptahmose, Ramose, etc. (Sarna 1996: 10).

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is mashui, [‫‘ ]משיתהו‬the one drawn out,’ a passive participle, whereas it is actually an active participle, ‘he who draws out.’”33 The Pharaoh’s daughter, then, “contributes to the exodus not only by saving Moses’s life, but also by designating him ‘the drawer out.’”34 Unbeknownst to her, she is foreshadowing his destiny and the future crossing of the Red Sea. Later in the same chapter, but now as a grown man, Moses sees an Egyptian beat a Hebrew slave. He kills the Egyptian and hides the body in the sand.35 Pharaoh seeks Moses’s life in retribution and Moses flees out of the country. In this first escape, Moses is again surrounded by women, seven to be exact, at a well in the land of Midian. We read in Ex 2, “Moses fled from the face of Pharaoh, and dwelt in the land of Midian: and he sat down by a well. Now the priest of Midian had seven daughters: and they came and drew water, and filled the troughs to water their father’s flock.”36 The women of Midian are not mother or sister to Moses; however, it is appropriate that these women introduce a new phase in the life of Moses. In biblical terms, this is a perfect number (seven) of women. When linked to the five powerful women who have saved him in the past, these seven Midian women make the ultimate number of twelve women who ensure his very survival.37 Later in Ex 4, after being called to lead Israel, Moses travels back to Egypt with his wife, Zipporah (one of the seven daughters mentioned in Ex 2:21), and son to take up his prophetic mantle. On their journey, they are stopped by the Lord who, for undisclosed reasons, seeks to kill Moses.38 In a scene that many scholars term a “thoroughly perplexing story,”39 his wife saves his life: “And it came to pass by the way in the inn, that the Lord met him, and sought to kill him. Then Zipporah took a sharp stone, and cut off the foreskin of her son, and cast it at his feet, and said, Surely a bloody husband art thou to me. So he let him go: then she said, A bloody husband thou art, because of the circumcision.”40 Interpretations of the ambiguous and confusing text vary widely. Albertz and Schmitt state that despite numerous “fanciful ideas, there nevertheless are several elements in the text that support the view that the story reflects an originally apotropaic meaning for the rite. … the text in its final form is in essence an apo33

Ibid.: 10. Exum 1994: 57. Ackerman notes, “For an ancient audience, the name Moses, because it is derived by an Egyptian princess from a Hebrew verb (‫משה‬, ‘to draw out’), carries within it connotations of a ‘mixing up’ of tongues, which in turn implies for Moses a ‘mixed-up’ or liminal identity” that causes him to be caught between worlds while growing up (2002: 72). Emphasis in original. 35 Ex 2:11–15. 36 Ex 2:15–16. 37 Scholz 2000: 24. 38 Ex 4:24. 39 Sarna 1996: 24. 40 Ex 4:24–26. 34

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tropaic act in which the blood and foreskin serve as ritual media to repulse the attack.”41 What scholars do agree on is that, with this story, Zipporah becomes the only woman to perform circumcision in the Torah42 and throughout the entire Ancient Near East,43 as far as we know. In essence, “[Zipporah] stands between Moses and an angry God. God gives her the moment and she becomes a mediator, just as Moses does when God threatens to destroy the people because of the golden calf.”44 Thus, Zipporah becomes the sixth specific woman to ward off Moses’s death in a very dramatic way and, in the process, makes him right with the deity, which is, consequently, what he will eventually do for Israel. Moses was originally saved in water and now, in the presence of a life-giving well of water and through circumcision blood, he is set on the path to his divine calling, which would not have been possible without the direct intervention of women. 3. Women and full fellowship In Ex 10, approximately halfway through the story of the plagues on Egypt, Pharaoh, in desperation, summons Moses and his brother Aaron.45 He demands to know, if they leave, who will go with the Hebrews to serve their God in the wilderness. Moses responds, “We will go with our young and with our old, with our sons and with our daughters … for we must hold a feast unto the Lord.”46 These daughters, he insists, will be included in the desert worship, indicating that they play a role in the spiritual destiny of the people.47 The Pharaoh seems to give permission for all to leave but then, suggesting they have evil intentions, states only the men can go, before driving Moses and Aaron from his presence. Pharaoh states, “Let the Lord be so with you, as I will let you go, and your little ones: look to it; for evil is before you. Not so: go now ye that are men, and serve the Lord; for that ye did desire.”48 In essence, Pharaoh threatens to hold the wives and daughters hostage.49 In studying the influence of women on the spirituality of Israel, we see that Pharaoh is giving permission for the men to leave Egypt but, at the same time, renders Israel unable to worship their God because,

41

Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 393–394. See Berlin 2008: 319; See also Nowell 1997: 57. 43 Setel 1998: 35. 44 Ex 32:1–14; Nowell 1997: 57. Junior argues that, while the origins of the story are lost to us, “Zipporah’s role hints at possible priestly leadership roles for women that are not included in other biblical texts” (2012: 60). 45 See Ex 7–12. 46 Ex 10:9. 47 Friedman 2001: 28. 48 Ex 10:10–11a. 49 Sarna 1996: 49. 42

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as Moses has stated, veneration of their God is impossible without women in attendance.50 Later in Ex 15, after the Hebrews have, through divine intervention, passed through the waters of the Red Sea, Miriam, now named and identified as Aaron’s sister,51 becomes the first woman to be titled a prophet in the scriptures.52 While it is true that female prophets are not well represented in scripture,53 it is interesting to note the use of the title within the book of Exodus. In Ex 7, the Lord says to Moses, “I have made thee a god to Pharaoh: and Aaron thy brother shall be thy prophet.”54 In this case, Aaron is called specifically to be a prophetic spokesman for Moses before Pharaoh. The term is actually never used to describe Moses in Exodus.55 For Miriam, unlike with Aaron’s calling, there are no specifications attached to her identifying title. While it is impossible to reconstruct the activities that could qualify Miriam to be a prophet,56 or reconstruct what her other prophetic activities might have been,57 “we can at least surmise that [her] words are somehow relevant.”58 Therefore, on the far side of the Red Sea, Miriam the prophet takes a timbrel in her hand to thank YHWH for the nation’s liberation, and all the women join her with timbrels and dances. “And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances. And Miriam answered them, Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.”59 Here, Miriam is not only the first female prophet in scripture but also the first woman in the scriptures to sing a 50

Ex 10:9. Ex 14:13–30; 15:20. 52 Elwell 2000: 140. For a more detailed examination of the first female prophet mentioned in the scriptures see Trible 1994. 53 Five women are titled a “prophet” (feminine form of ‫ )נביא‬in the Hebrew Bible. Besides Miriam, they are Deborah in Jgs 4:4; the wife of the prophet Isaiah in Is 8:3; Huldah in 2 Kgs 22:14 (and 2 Chr 34:22); and Noadiah in Neh 6:14. 54 Ex 7:1. 55 Moses is titled a prophet in Dt 18:15, 18 and 34:10. 56 Ackerman has an interesting argument regarding Miriam’s assigned prophetic role. She states, “Miriam is assigned the prophetic role in Exod 15:20 … because the narrative locates her prophetic identity as belonging to a liminal period of anti-structure. In narrative depictions of liminality, the gender conventions that more usually restrict women from holding positions of religious leadership can be suspended. Therefore, Miriam can be described as occupying a position as a prophetic functionary that, outside of liminal time and space, women are generally denied” (2002: 71). 57 When discussing female biblical prophets, Brenner-Idan reminds scholars that “only single oracles uttered by women have been preserved. Everything points to the conclusion that although prophetesses were accepted and acknowledged as such, their significance—when compared to that of their male colleagues—was marginal” (2015: 67). 58 Manori 2013: 172. 59 Ex 15:20–21. 51

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victory hymn.60 She may be a prophet with little information to underscore the importance of the title, but that does not detract from the fact that she leads the Hebrew women toward a spiritual understanding of the experience they have just been through.61 From these examples, before the Exodus from Egypt and directly afterward, we see that full fellowship in Israel requires the presence of women to begin the walk to religious freedom and specifically includes women in the completion and celebration of the nation’s escape. 4. Women and divine/human connection After the Lord’s appearance to Moses on Mount Sinai, Exodus chapters 20–23 focus on laws the Lord has revealed to the leader of Israel. Stepping out of the story of Moses in narrative form, Exodus continues with this list of laws, which include a number of admonitions that mention women, although they are not addressed directly.62 Here, we will focus on the presence of women in the Ten Commandments, or Decalogue, from Ex 20:2–17. Ex 20 includes women, listed as daughters and maidservants, who are commanded to keep the Sabbath day holy. “But the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gate.” 63 A close reading shows that, in a divine/human relationship, women can be active participants who are given a choice to follow God’s commandments or not. The final commandment in this list, “Thou shalt not covet” specifically lists the neighbor’s wife or maidservant. In this human/human commandment, “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s”,64 women are passive participants. The commandment is specifically directed toward keeping men focused on spiritual matters. The central example of female presence in the law code is found in Ex 20:12, where Israel is commanded to honor both parents. “Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee.” The commandments that precede this admonition are concerned with the divine/human relationship: having no other gods, making no graven 60

Kramer notes that Miriam’s role is “enriched by a further description of her joining the women in music and dance, a unique combination for a Pentateuchal female” (2000: 105). 61 Junior states that this passage may show that “Miriam represents a form of female leadership that is not represented in other Hebrew Bible texts but may have been part of Israelite society” (2012: 61–62). 62 See Ex 20:10, 12, 17; 21:3–5, 7–11, 15, 17, 20, 22, 26–29, 31, 32; 22:16–17, 22–24; and 23:12. 63 Ex 20:10. 64 Ex 20:17.

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images, taking the Lord’s name in vain, and keeping the Sabbath day holy.65 Commandments after this point instruct on the human/human relationship, with the admonitions to not kill, commit adultery, steal, bear false witness, or covet.66 The directive to honor parents is the linchpin commandment. It is central on the list and concerns both divine/human and human/human relationships. Women may be relatively passive participants, but they are not absent from the covenant.67 They are specifically mentioned in the instructions concerning not only divinely directed relationships but also human/human relationships. And, significantly, verse 12 is the only commandment in the Decalogue to include a promised blessing: “that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee.” This seemingly insignificant mention of women has a clear reflection in the ability of women to weaken the faith of Israel. 5. Women and weakening faith As Exodus turns back from the law code to a more narrative style to describe the building of the Tabernacle (beginning in chapter 25) and the golden calf incident (chapter 32), women are less prevalent than in the opening chapters and even less so than in the laws, but their effective presence within Israel is striking. In Ex 32, Moses is delayed on Mount Sinai while he receives instruction from the Lord. In the encampment the people approach Aaron and ask him to make gods for them. Aaron instructs those gathered to “break off the golden earrings, which are in the ears of your wives, of your sons, and of your daughters, and bring them unto me” in order to create an idol to be worshipped.68 Lippmann argues that women may not be willing participants in the golden calf episode. She states, “All the people” [in Ex 32:3] can refer only to the men. … Just as Moses separated the women from “the people” before giving of the Torah at Sinai by saying to “the people,” “Be ready for the third day [on which God would come down on Mount Sinai]: do not go near a woman” [Ex 19:15], so to build the golden calf, Moses’ brother, Aaron, excludes women from “the people” by saying, “Take off the rings of gold that are on the ears of your wives.”69 65

Ex 20:3–8. Ex 20:13–17. 67 To highlight the passive position of women in the Decalogue, Brenner crafts an interesting argument. She states, “Am I, a female reader, to view myself as unproblematically included in that form of address? Clearly, the text endows me and my like with hardly any measure of subjectivity. The lack of female subjectivity in the text is usually matched by its suppression into a non-problem by lay and scholarly exegesis alike” (1994a: 256). 68 Ex 32:1–2. 69 Lippmann 2000: 165–167. Lippmann also contends that the possibility of women 66

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Therefore, Aaron speaks to “the people”, yet instructs only the men to remove the jewelry of others. This interpretation interestingly suggests that it is the men who lose spiritual focus while wives and children maintain their spiritual footing and must endure having their jewelry taken from them to create a false deity.70 As the narrative continues, Moses comes down off Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments, he breaks the tablets of stone when he finds out about the golden calf, the community is cleansed of three thousand idol worshippers, and Moses pleads and intercedes for the people before God. He is then given the commandments again and hews new tablets of stone to replace the ones he destroyed.71 In chapter 34, the relationship with YHWH is renewed and references to the escape from Egypt are replaced with allusions to the future conquest of Canaan.72 Regarding the eventual land of inheritance, Ex 34 states, “Take heed to thyself, lest thou make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land whither thou goest, lest it be for a snare in the midst of thee”, warning that any “Canaanites remaining in the land would, especially through intermarriage, seduce the Israelites into participating in their idolatry.”73 While it may not be a flattering mention, foreign women are recognized as negatively affecting the strength and spiritual well-being of Israel: “And thou take of their daughters unto thy sons, and their daughters go a whoring after their gods, and make thy sons go a whoring after their gods.”74 The strong suggestion here is that gender and ethnicity affect the safeguards put in place to maintain Israelite religious practices.75 As the wording notes, daughters of the inhabitants of the land cause Israel to go whoring after other gods. “The Hebrew stem z-n-h, literally ‘to engage in prostitution,’ is often used figuratively to express infidelity to the covenant with God.”76 Meyers adds, “[It is] instructive to note that the verse depicts the religious (cultural) practices of women as being more powerful than those of their husbands. Such a view is consistent with what is known about the dynamics of being more faithful “is heightened when we look at the Aramaic translations for the word ‘rings’ in Aaron’s instruction, ‘Take off the rings of gold that are on the ears of your wives.’ In Hebrew, a ring is a nezem, plural n’zamim, and ‘rings of gold’ are nizmei hazahav. In Aramaic, though, seen in both Targum Onkelos and Targum Yonatan for Exod. 32:2–3, ‘rings’ are kadashei, whose root is k-d-sh, related to the Hebrew kadosh, kiddush, kiddushin. All are generally translated as something having to do with holiness, but the root originally meant ‘set apart,’ for that is the definition of holiness” (Ibid.: 167). 70 Junior 2012: 64. 71 Ex 34:1; 32:19. 72 McCarter Jr. 1988: 155 73 Ex 34:12; Tigay 2004: 190. 74 Ex 34:16. 75 Junior 2012: 65. 76 Sarna comments that the word used “here may allude to the sexual immorality often associated with pagan cults, and particularly with the popular excesses in connection with the golden calf, as mentioned in 32:6” (1996: 218).

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Israelite households: women dominated household religious praxis.”77 In effect, even these foreign women have power over Israelite men and their spiritual focus. The strength and influence of the Israelite religious household faith practices on men appears to extend to pagan women, which, in turn, affects the community as a whole. 6. Women and community contribution Exodus chapters 35–40 concentrate on the construction of the Tabernacle, which involved the whole nation under divine guidance.78 After Moses gives specific instructions regarding offerings and Tabernacle construction to the entire congregation,79 the reader gets a taste of the ways in which the community contributes to the vitality and maintenance of the nation’s spiritual life. And all the congregation of the children of Israel departed from the presence of Moses. And they came, every one whose heart stirred him up, and every one whom his spirit made willing, and they brought the Lord’s offering to the work of the tabernacle of the congregation, and for all his service, and for the holy garments.80 Both men and women alike “respond to Moses’ call with unstinting generosity, freely contributing their most precious possessions as well as their skilled services.”81 While not prominently mentioned individually, as was the norm at the bringing of Exodus, women are significant within the collective community. Chapter 35 “provides the only biblical example of active female participation in an activity related to the official cult.”82 Prior to the first mention of women, Ex 35 states, “And they came, every one whose heart stirred him up, and every one whom his spirit made willing, and they brought the Lord’s offering to the work of the tabernacle of the congregation, and for all his service, and for the holy garments.” The next verse states, “And they came, both men and women, as many as were willing hearted, and brought bracelets, and earrings, and rings, and tablets, all jewels of gold: and every man that offered offered an offering of gold unto the Lord.”83 In this instance, both men and women are described as bringing offerings of “bracelets, and earrings, and rings, and tablets, all jewels of gold” to be turned into Tabernacle furnishings. There is no doubt, according to

77

Meyers 2008: 514. Childs 1974: 541. 79 Ex 35:1–19. 80 Ex 35:20–21. 81 Sarna 1996: 223. 82 Setel 1998: 32. 83 Ex 35:21–22. 78

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the gender-specific wording, that the spirit of God works on and through the faithful, both men and women. This donation harkens back to a divine promise given to Abram in Genesis 15 and a divine commandment given to Moses in Exodus 3. In Gen 15, the Lord tells Abram in a vision, “Know of a surety that thy seed shall be a stranger in a land that is not theirs, and shall serve them; and they shall afflict them four hundred years; And also that nation, whom they shall serve, will I judge: and afterward shall they come out with great substance.”84 In this vision, which includes portions of the Abrahamic covenant, the Lord offered an assurance that after four hundred years of servitude (in Egypt) Abram’s lineage would come out with “great substance.” In Ex 3, the Lord tells Moses, “And I will give this people favour in the sight of the Egyptians: and it shall come to pass, that, when ye go, ye shall not go empty: But every woman shall borrow of her neighbour, and of her that sojourneth in her house, jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment: and ye shall put them upon your sons, and upon your daughters; and ye shall spoil the Egyptians.”85 In Ex 11, before the final plague of the death of the firstborn, both men and women are instructed to ask for these items. 86 The promise and the commandment were not to provide economic provisions for the Hebrews wandering in the wilderness, but a vehicle that would be a means to fulfill God’s promise of greater spiritual substance. Ex 35 repeats “the women” multiple times, describing them as “willing hearted” and “wise hearted”, women “whose hearts stirred them up in wisdom”, and “whose hearts made them willing”87, thus underscoring the importance of their participation in the construction of the community’s most sacred endeavor, the Tabernacle. Brueggemann states, The tabernacle evokes a sense of dramatic participation, so that the active verbs of making and doing, bringing and offering require Israelites to be actively, physically engaged in the practice of presence. … The active verbs make clear that participants in this ritual of relationship cannot be passive observers, but must expend energy before the assembly as an act of loyalty and acknowledgement.88 For women, contribution to the building of the Tabernacle includes working with textiles: “And all the women that were wise hearted did spin with their hands, and brought that which they had spun, both of blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, and of fine linen. And all the women whose heart stirred them up in

84

Gen 15:13–14. Ex 3:21–22. 86 Ex 11:2–3. 87 See Ex 35:22, 25, 26, 29. 88 Brueggemann 1997: 668. 85

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wisdom spun goats’ hair.”89 Bachmann notes, “Virtually every commentary on daily life in ancient Israel includes some lines on these activities [e.g., spinning and weaving] as typical of women of each household.”90 These highly skilled women are respected, as they complement men who are engaged in the construction of elements for the Tabernacle and its furniture.91 Those who contribute skilled labor are termed “wise hearted” (‫חכמה‬, hokmah) or literally, “wise of heart.” The use of the term “wise hearted” is interesting. In Exodus, the first three uses of the term are in a collective description, such as “thou shalt speak unto all that are wise hearted, whom I have filled with the spirit of wisdom.”92 The fourth time the term is used, women are separated out as those who are wise hearted: “And all the women that were wise hearted did spin with their hands. … And all the women whose heart stirred them up in wisdom spun goats’ hair.” 93 Only after the specific mention of wise-hearted women are men specifically described as being wise hearted. “Then wrought Bezaleel and Aholiab, and every wise hearted man, in whom the Lord put wisdom and understanding to know how to work all manner of work for the service of the sanctuary, according to all that the Lord had commanded.”94 Therefore, wise-hearted women are active participants who, with divinely bestowed wisdom, spin and weave portions of the future Tabernacle.95 Eventually, the outpouring of skilled work and donations produces more materials than needed. At this point it is not the general collective that is commanded to stop the offerings, but men and women separately. Ex 36 states, “And Moses gave commandment, and they caused it to be proclaimed throughout the camp, saying, Let neither man nor woman make any more work for the offering of the sanctuary. So the people were restrained from bringing.”96 Stern states that both genders are mentioned “probably because of the prominence of women contributing items for the Tabernacle.”97 There is no “probably” about the spe89

Ex 35:25–26. Bachmann 2012: 57–58. 91 Brenner-Idan 2015: 40. Brenner-Idan explains, “The use of ‘wise-hearted’ to mean ‘skilled’ is peculiar to the Tabernacle narrative of the book of Exodus. The same term, when it appears in biblical wisdom literature, namely Proverbs and Job (Proverbs 10.8; 11.29; 16.21; Job 9.4; 37.24), denotes intelligence, cleverness and good sense, not craftsmanship and skill. … Both meanings are included within the range of the Hebrew term” (Ibid.). 92 Ex 28:3a. See also Ex 31:6 (“In the hearts of all that are wise hearted I have put wisdom, that they may make all that I have commanded thee”) and Ex 35:10 (“And every wise hearted among you shall come, and make all that the Lord hath commanded”). 93 Ex 35:25–26. 94 Ex 36:1. 95 Junior 2012: 66. 96 Ex 36:6. 97 Stern 2008: 529. 90

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cific mention. Faithful women are strategically contributing to the community’s construction of the Tabernacle with divinely stirred hearts and willing spirits. This point is powerfully brought into focus with an examination of the final mention of women in Exodus. 7. Women, water, faith, and redemptive practices The final mention of women in the book of Exodus has a special reflection to the beginning of the book. In the beginning of Exodus, women, often near water, save the future leader from death.98 Chapter 38 is the first and only explicit mention of women in the vicinity of the Tabernacle in Exodus.99 It reads, “And he made the laver of brass, and the foot of it of brass, of the looking glasses of the women assembling, which assembled at the door of the tabernacle of the congregation.”100 This is also the final mention of women in the book. The donation is recorded not as a general public offering where both men and women contribute, but as a separate gift specifically from women. Stern states, “Women owned valuables and could make decisions, independently of their husbands or fathers, about using them as donations.”101 She argues that the female identification is essential due to the gender-specific ownership of the items being donated. In light of the other contributions women have made throughout Exodus, it is important to consider the faith and devotion women display when donating their mirrors, especially when we study the significance of the laver of brass made from their contributions. To understand the implications of this donation, we must take a quick look at the role of the laver within the structure of the Tabernacle. In Ex 30, the laver is described as a basin of brass filled with water to allow priests to wash their hands and feet so that they enter the sanctuary in a state of ritual purity and bodi98

Steinberg argues, “Feminists also note the frequent references to water and life in Exodus and argue for an association between water and amniotic fluid. For example, in Exodus 2:3 Moses is placed in the water by his mother to save him; later in the same chapter, Zipporah, Moses’ future wife, draws water at a well (Exod 2:15-–7); while the waters of the Sea of Reeds (Exod 15) save the Israelites from the Egyptians pursuing them in the wilderness. In Exodus 16:1–35 and 17:1–7, when the people have no food or water in the wilderness, God feeds them as a mother would feed her hungry children” (2010: 169). 99 There are several schools of thought within biblical studies as to the significance of women who assemble at the door of the Tabernacle of the congregation (‫הצבאת‬, hatsove’ot), all of which are beyond the scope of this paper. In short, most agree there is no scriptural evidence to support the notion that the women who assembled near the Tabernacle exercised any ritual or cultic function. However, for a thorough discussion on the translation of qedešah (‫)קדשה‬, a Hebrew word meaning “consecrated woman” but often translated as “prostitute” or “sacred prostitute” in Bible translations, see Bird 2019. 100 Ex 38:8. 101 Stern 2008: 526.

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ly cleanliness.102 The text reads, “When they go into the tabernacle of the congregation, they shall wash with water, that they die not; or when they come near to the altar to minister, to burn offering made by fire unto the Lord.”103 The instructions imply that “anything short of scrupulous and undeviating adherence to the detailed prescriptions disqualifies the officiant and renders his priestly service null and void.”104 While the laver stood in the courtyard outside the Tabernacle, its importance to the structure is recognized in two ways. First, it is included among the vessels that were consecrated with oil: “And thou shalt anoint the tabernacle of the congregation therewith, and the ark of the testimony, And the table and all his vessels, and the candlestick and his vessels, and the altar of incense, And the altar of burnt offering with all his vessels, and the laver and his foot.”105 Second, there is a divine warning given regarding its use; priests are cautioned regarding the proper administration of their office. Twice the priests are admonished to “wash with water, that they die not”: When they go into the tabernacle of the congregation, they shall wash with water, that they die not; or when they come near to the altar to minister, to burn offering made by fire unto the Lord: So they shall wash their hands and their feet, that they die not: and it shall be a statute for ever to them, even to him and to his seed throughout their generations.106 No other piece of furniture or Tabernacle building material carries the same warning.107 The laver, and the act of washing in it, becomes an indispensable requirement to the performance of sacred ritual.108 For the Exodus writers or editors, “the concrete form of the Tabernacle is inseparable from its spiritual meaning” and “every detail of the structure reflects

102

Ex 30:17–21. See also Childs, who writes, “Service to God requires a thing to be holy, it must be separated from all profane roles” (1974: 541). 103 Ex 30:20. 104 Sarna 1996: 183. 105 Ex 30:26–28. 106 Ex 30:21–22. 107 Ex 28:40–43 discusses the garments that Aaron and his sons should be wearing. Verse 43 carries a similar warning: “And they [the garments] shall be upon Aaron, and upon his sons, when they come in unto the tabernacle of the congregation, or when they come near unto the altar to minister in the holy place; that they bear not iniquity, and die: it shall be a statute for ever unto him and his seed after him.” 108 The death of Nadab and Abihu (Lv 10:1) underline the seriousness of offenses that are deemed unholy to God. According to Sarna, “Any deviation from the prescribed rules places the priest in the category of an unauthorized person and invalidates his service. He is thus an encroacher—Hebrew zar—in the sacred precincts. The formula expresses the severity with which such and offense is viewed” (1996: 183).

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the one divine will.”109 Why, then, would scholars consider the fact that women alone donate to make this vital piece of the Tabernacle as less important than contributions toward any other piece of furniture contained therein? For faithful women, their mirrors provide a way to obey God’s commandments to be specifically involved in the building of the Tabernacle and to deliver the spiritual wellbeing of their entire nation. The women who first saved Moses did so almost exclusively around water. They were defiers of oppression, givers of life, “wise and resourceful in situations where a discerning mind and keen practical judgement [were] essential.”110 But that was only the beginning. In the law code, women were shown to be an indispensable link between divine and human commands and blessings. Now, the last women in the book provide the materials needed to create the laver that is used to wash and purify priests before they enter the Tabernacle. In this final mention, women become the givers of spiritual life through their personal faith, obedience, and generosity. As Moses states before Pharaoh, worshipping the Lord in the desert is not possible without the presence of women.111 Here on the cusp of community worship, the saving ordinances that all of Israel have worked for and desired could not be performed without the laver of brass created with the specific involvement of women. 8. Conclusion While the final editing of the text of the book of Exodus focuses on concerns specific to the priesthood and Moses, there is a pivotal role women play in the faith and salvation of Israel, at the family level, in law, and in ritual.112 Beginning with Ex 1:15, the “concentration of women invites us to consider the significance of the fact that ancient Israelite storytellers gave women a crucial role in the initial stages of the major event in the nation’s history.”113 Once liberated from Egyptian bondage and in the wilderness, women participate and partake in the completion of the nation’s journey from slavery to full worship in the tabernacle in a unique way. In Exodus, it is the subtlest inferences to women that demonstrate their intimate involvement in the “activities that ensure that God will dwell among his people.”114 The irony of Exodus is that without Moses there would be no story, but without the early initiative of women there would be no Moses, and therefore no national savior. Without skillful, wise-hearted women, there would be no textiles or gilded furnishings for the Tabernacle, and therefore no sacred space in 109

Childs 1974: 540. Exum 1994: 60. 111 Ex 10:9. 112 Berlin 2008: 305. 113 Exum 1994: 43. 114 Junior 2012: 66. 110

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which to perform cultic rites. And without the women’s gift of brass mirrors, there would be no laver, and therefore no way to purify the priesthood to act on behalf of the nation. In Exodus, men and women are understood to have distinct roles; however, both have wise hearts, skills, and faith that cannot be complete without the presence of the other gender. Bibliography Ackerman, S. 2002: Why Is Miriam Also among the Prophets? (And Is Zipporah among the Priests?) Journal of Biblical Literature 121(1), 47–80. Albertz, R. / Schmitt, R. 2012: Family and Household Religion in Ancient Israel and the Levant. Winona Lake, Indiana. Bachmann, M.L.G. 2013: Women at Work in the Deuteronomistic History. Atlanta. Berlin, A. 2008: Giving Birth to a Nation. In T.C. Eskenazi / A.L. Weiss (eds.): The Torah: A Women’s Commentary. New York, 305–323. Berlin, A. / Brettler, M.Z., eds. 2004: The Jewish Study Bible. Oxford. Bird, P. 2019: Harlot or Holy Woman? Winona Lake, Indiana. Brenner, A. / Yee, G.A., eds. 2012: Exodus and Deuteronomy. Minneapolis. Brenner, A. 1994a: An Afterword: The Decalogue—Am I an Addressee? In A. Brenner (ed.): A Feminist Companion to Exodus to Deuteronomy. Sheffield, United Kingdom. Brenner, A., ed. 1994b: A Feminist Companion to Exodus to Deuteronomy. Sheffield, United Kingdom. Brenner, A., / Fontaine, C.R., eds. 2000: Exodus to Deuteronomy. A Feminist Companion to the Bible, 2nd series. Sheffield, United Kingdom. Brenner-Idan, A. 2015: The Israelite Woman: Social Role and Literary Type in Biblical Narrative. 2nd edition. London. Brueggemann, W. 1997: Theology of the Old Testament. Minneapolis. Childs, B.S. 1974: The Book of Exodus. Philadelphia. Dozeman, T.B., ed. 2010: Methods for Exodus. Cambridge. Elwell, S.L. 2000: Miriam’s Song, Miriam’s Silence. In E. Goldstein (ed.): The Women’s Torah Commentary: New Insights from Women Rabbis on the 54 Weekly Torah Portions. Woodstock, Vermont, 138–142. Eskenazi, T.C. / Weiss, A.L., eds. 2008: The Torah: A Women’s Commentary. New York. Exum, J. C. 1994: “You Shall Let Every Daughter Live”: A Study of Exodus 1.8–2.10. In A. Brenner (ed.): A Feminist Companion to Exodus to Deuteronomy. Sheffield, United Kingdom. Friedman, R.E. 2001: Commentary on the Torah. New York. Goldstein, E., ed. 2000: The Women’s Torah Commentary: New Insights from Women Rabbis on the 54 Weekly Torah Portions. Woodstock, Vermont.

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Junior, N. 2012: Exodus. In C.A. Newsom / S.H. Ringe / J.E. Lapsley (eds): Women’s Bible Commentary. 3rd edition. Louisville, Kentucky, 56–66. Kramer, P.S. 2000: Miriam. In A. Brenner / C.R. Fontaine (eds): Exodus to Deuteronomy. A Feminist Companion to the Bible, 2nd series. Sheffield, United Kingdom, 104–133. Larsson, M. 2012: In Search of Children’s Agency. In A. Brenner / G.A. Yee (eds): Exodus and Deuteronomy. Minneapolis, 79–94. Lippmann, E. 2000: The Woman Didn’t Build the Golden Calf—or Did They? In E. Goldstein (ed.): The Women’s Torah Commentary: New Insights from Women Rabbis on the 54 Weekly Torah Portions. Woodstock, Vermont, 164–171. Manori, E.J. 2013: Childless Female Diviners in the Bible and Beyond. In J. Stökl / C.L. Cavalho (eds.): Prophets Male and Female: Gender and Prophecy in the Hebrew Bible, the Eastern Mediterranean, and the Ancient Near East. Atlanta. Mays, J.L., ed. 1988: Harper’s Bible Commentary. San Francisco. McCarter, P.K., Jr. 1988: Exodus. In J.L. Mays (ed.): Harper’s Bible Commentary. San Francisco, 119–144. Meyers, C. 2005: Households and Holiness: The Religious Culture of Israelite Women. Minneapolis. Meyers, C. 2008: Another View. In T.C. Eskenazi / A.L. Weiss (eds): The Torah: A Women’s Commentary. New York, 53. Newsom, C.A. / Ringe, S.H., eds. 1998: Women’s Bible Commentary. Louisville, Kentucky. Newsom, C.A. / Ringe, S.H. / Lapsley, J.E., eds. 2012: Women’s Bible Commentary. 3rd edition. Louisville, Kentucky. Nowell, I. 1997: Women in the Old Testament. Collegeville, Minnesota. Sarna, N.M. 1991: The JPS Torah Commentary. Exodus. Philadelphia. Sarna, N.M. 1996: Exploring Exodus: The Origins of Biblical Israel. New York. Scholz, S. 2000: The Complexities of “His” Liberation Talk: A Literary Feminist Reading of the Book of Exodus. In A. Brenner / C.R. Fontaine (eds): Exodus to Deuteronomy. A Feminist Companion to the Bible, 2nd series. Sheffield, United Kingdom, 20–40. Setel, D.O. 1998: Exodus. In C.A. Newsom / S.H. Ringe / J.E. Lapsley (eds): Women’s Bible Commentary. 3rd edition. Louisville, Kentucky, 30–39. Siebert-Hommes, J. 1994: But If She Be a Daughter … She May Live! ‘Daughters’ and ‘Sons’ in Exodus 1–2. In A. Brenner (ed.): A Feminist Companion to Exodus to Deuteronomy. Sheffield, United Kingdom, 62–74. Steinberg, N. 2010: Feminist Criticism. In T.B. Dozemen (ed.): Methods for Exodus. Cambridge, United Kingdom, 163–192.

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Stern, E.R. 2008: Tablets, Calf, and Covenant: Mediating the Relationship with God. In T.C. Eskenazi / A.L. Weiss (eds): The Torah: A Women’s Commentary. New York, 495–513. Stökl, J. / Cavalho, C.L., eds. 2013: Prophets Male and Female: Gender and Prophecy in the Hebrew Bible, the Eastern Mediterranean, and the Ancient Near East. Atlanta. Tigay, J.F. 2004: Exodus. In A. Berlin / M.Z. Brettler (eds): The Jewish Study Bible. Oxford, United Kingdom, 102–202. Trible, P. 1994: Bringing Miriam Out of the Shadows. In A. Brenner (ed): A Feminist Companion to Exodus to Deuteronomy. Sheffield, United Kingdom, 166–186.

3. Ancient Beauties

The Aroma of Majesty Gender and the Hebrew Bible’s Olfactory Cultic Theology Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme1

1. Introduction The purpose of this study is to suggest a revision of our understanding of the use of luxurious and exotic aromas in the description of the cult of Yahweh in the Pentateuch. When interpreting the sacred anointing oil in Exodus 30:22–33 and the incense offerings in Exodus 30:7–9, Hebrew Bible scholarship has focused mainly on the capacity of these aromas to please the deity and to attract his attention. Some interpreters also note that the costly aromas may serve as indicators of divine presence in the sanctuary. My proposal does not dismiss these readings, which I find both reasonable and persuasive; I merely suggest that we expand the image we deduce from what I call the Hebrew Bible’s olfactory cultic theology so that it includes aspects of Yahweh’s divine majesty and masculinity. An important step in doing this is to let our understanding of the use of scents and aromas in the cultic texts in the Hebrew Bible be informed by the way luxurious smells are used in those Hebrew Bible texts that describe the erotic and sensual and the glamorous life at the royal court. In the following, I shall address three main topics: first, the use of scents and perfumes in the Priestly description of Yahweh’s fragrant sanctuary in the cultic texts in the Pentateuch; second, the important role that luxurious aromas play in Hebrew Bible texts about the erotic and about royalty; and third, what is communicated to the reader through the Hebrew Bible’s olfactory cultic theology. Initially, however, I would like to make a brief remark about how I view the cultic texts in the Pentateuch (roughly Exodus 25–Leviticus 16). In Hebrew Bible scholarship, these texts are commonly designated as the Priestly texts, because their strong focus on the details of temple ritual and on priestly privileges make it seem plausible that the authors were indeed priests of Yahweh by profession.2 Traditionally, the Priestly texts have been dated to the Persian period and it is often assumed that their authors were affiliated with the Jerusalem temple in postexilic Judah. This remains the majority view on the dating of the Priestly texts, but a growing minority sees these texts as preexilic or even pre1

Faculty of Theology, University of Oslo, [email protected]. The assumption that the Priestly texts in the Pentateuch have a priestly authorship goes back to the early years of historical-critical research on the Hebrew Bible, in the late eighteenth and first half of the nineteenth century, and to the documentary hypothesis. For a handy introduction to this history of research, see Davies 2001: 13–15, 18–20. 2

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monarchic and possibly connected with the sanctuary in Shiloh.3 In an earlier study, I have declared myself in favour of the majority view of an exilic or postexilic dating of these texts.4 I stand by this view primarily for two reasons: first, because of the peculiarly withdrawn figure of the ruler or prince in the Priestly texts,5 and second, because of the utopian nature of the Priestly tent sanctuary, which appears to be mobile sacred space that is tied to no particular place. Both of these aspects would fit a situation in the exilic or postexilic period, a kingless and temple-less age, where destruction of the Jerusalem temple—and possibly forced migration as well—would have compelled the Priestly authors to transfer their ritual activities from performances in a sanctuary to texts about ritual. The exact dating of the Priestly texts is not crucial to the point I wish to make in the following, but I would like to address what one could call the literary genre of these texts. Are the Priestly texts in fact a kind of “handbook” for priests, and as such, do they offer an accurate description of how temple rituals were performed in Iron Age Judah, or are these texts perhaps intended to be something else?6 I lean towards the latter option. Although it is likely that there is a substantial degree of overlap between the temple rituals that were performed in (pre- and postexilic) Iron Age Judah and the rituals described in the Priestly texts, I do not believe that these texts were written as ritual manuals for priests. I read them rather as a collection of texts that express theology through descriptions of ritual, and as such they contribute to the “ritual imagination” of the authors and their intended readers and to that of many subsequent generations of readers and interpreters.7 The Priestly texts contain descriptions of the ideal cult, as prescribed by Yahweh himself,8 and through these descriptions the Priestly authors convey information to their readers about the nature of their deity and their worldview. In this way, the Priestly texts express theology through descriptions of divinely sanctioned prescriptions for idealized forms of worship. 2. The fragrant sanctuary In the Hebrew Bible, the temple cult is pervaded by smell. Perhaps the most well-known examples are the sacrifices and offerings that are burned on the altar as “gifts of fire” and as “pleasing odors” to Yahweh.9 I have argued elsewhere 3

Milgrom 1991: 3–35; Grabbe 2001: 92–94; Nihan 2007: 1–17. Gudme 2014b: 13. 5 Cf. Lv 4:22–26. 6 Grabbe 2003; Watts 2007; Gilders 2020: 136–137. 7 Mary Beard writes, “Ritual is not solely performative. It exists as much in literary representation, in recollection, re-telling and imaginative fantasy as it does on the ground or at the altar” (2004: 125). 8 Cf. Ex 25:1–9. 9 See, e.g., Lv 1:9, 1:13, 1:17. The description of the smoke rising from the sacrifices as a “pleasing odor” (‫ ;ריח־ניחוח‬rêaḥ nîḥôaḥ) is not unique to the Priestly texts. See, for instance, Gn 8:21 (with a slightly different wording: ‫ ;את־ריח הניחח‬ʾet rêaḥ nîḥōaḥ), which 4

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that this stress on the deity’s sense of smell indicates that although Yahweh does accept and enjoy these food-gifts from his worshippers, he consumes them with his nose, not with his mouth, and this underlines both the similarities and the differences between divine beings and humans.10 In this study, however, I would like to focus on two other olfactory elements in the Priestly texts, namely the sacred oil laced with spices and aromatics with which the sanctuary and the priests are anointed,11 and the fragrant and luxurious incense, which is burned every day in front of Yahweh and is made using Yahweh’s own exclusive incense blend.12 The sacred anointing oil (‫ ;שמן משחת־קדש‬šemen mišḥat qōdeš) is made of olive oil mixed with liquid myrrh, cinnamon, aromatic cane—also known as calamus— and cassia (Tab. 1).13 The objects that are anointed with it become “most holy”, just as the special sacredness of the priests is derived partly from being anointed with this oil.14 Myrrh is a resin collected from a family of trees and shrubs called Commiphora. They can be found in arid regions such as North Africa and Arabia, and they usually have thorns and a milky sap that dries into an almost translucent resin. Myrrh comes both in liquid and solid form. Cinnamon is the fragrant spice, which we still know as cinnamon today. It is the bark from a shrublike plant called Cinnamomum verum, or “true cinnamon”. Sweet or aromatic cane is a grass- or reedlike plant, which is still used for perfume production today. Its underground roots, or rhizomes, are dried and used for oil production. Finally, cassia is related to cinnamon, but it comes from the plant Cinnamomum aromaticum, which is less intense and fragrant than true cinnamon.15

is usually classified as a text belonging to the Jahvist source of the Pentateuch. However, the term “a pleasing odor for Yahweh” does appear more frequently in the Priestly texts than in the rest of the Hebrew Bible. The term appears three times in the book of Exodus (all in chapter 29), seventeen times in Leviticus, eighteen times in Numbers, and four times in Ezekiel. 10 Gudme 2014a. 11 Ex 30:22–33. 12 Ex 30:34–38. This study is an updated and expanded version of the discussion of the Hebrew Bible’s olfactory cultic theology in Gudme 2018a: 30–33 and Gudme 2018b: 16–19. 13 Ex 30:23–24. Here and in the following tables, I have listed the aromatic ingredients alphabetically according to their names in English and not in the order that they appear in the text. 14 Ex 30:29; Lv 10:7, 21:10–12. 15 For Hebrew terms and a discussion of the spices, see Nielsen 1986: 51–67; Green 2011: 66–71. For information on the plants, see Musselman 2012: 32, 38, 96–97; Manniche 1999: 14–31

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Aromatic ingredient Aromatic cane / calamus Cassia Cinnamon Myrrh Spices16

Hebrew ‫קנה‬ ‫קדה‬ ‫קנמן‬ ‫מר‬ ‫בשם‬

Transliteration qāneh qiddâ qinnāmôn mōr bōśem

Table 1: The anointing oil. Yahweh’s incense (‫ ;קטרת‬qětōret) is made of pure frankincense mixed with stacte, onycha, and galbanum (Tab. 2). 17 It is described as “fragrant” or “sweetsmelling” incense (‫ ;סמים‬samîm) and it is to be burned on the incense altar in front of Yahweh every morning and every evening.18 Stacte is most likely a kind of resin, possibly from the plant Pistacia lentiscus, which is also known as a mastic tree. Onycha is a rather mysterious ingredient. It is sometimes thought to be the closing flap on a Strombus-genus mollusk, but the exact meaning of the Hebrew term šěḥēlet (‫ )שחלת‬is unknown. Galbanum is probably the resin from a plant belonging to the Ferula genus of the Apiaceae family, or umbrella plants, which the more well-known dill and coriander are also a part of. The resin is harvested from the cut roots and it is used in the present-day perfume industry. Finally, frankincense is made from the sap that flows from the bark of the trees belonging to the Boswellia genus. They grow in arid regions such as the southern Arabian Peninsula and northeastern Africa.19 Aromatic ingredient Frankincense Galbanum Onycha Stacte

Hebrew ‫לבנה‬ ‫חלבנה‬ ‫שחלת‬ ‫נטף‬

Transliteration lěbōnâ ḥelběnâ šěḥēlet nāṭāp

Table 2: The incense blend. Both the incense and the anointing oil mark out Yahweh’s cult place as a fragrant sphere, and in this way the Hebrew Bible’s description of Yahweh’s sanctuary corresponds with other Ancient Near Eastern and ancient Greek texts.20 In

16

The “chief spices” in Ex 30:23 seems to function as a collective description here, which is then elaborated upon. 17 Ex 30:34. 18 Ex 30:7–8. 19 Again, for Hebrew terms and a discussion of the spices, see Nielsen 1986: 51–67; Green 2011: 66–71. For information on the plants, see Musselman 2012: 59–62. For a focused discussion of the possible meanings of the Hebrew šěḥēlet, see Abrahams 1979. 20 Detienne 1977; Nielsen 1986: 3–33; Reinarz 2014: 25–38.

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ancient Greek literature, particularly in the Homeric Hymns (HH), both the deities and their temples are said to emanate a lovely smell.21 Particularly, the cult place of Aphrodite in Cyprus is explicitly associated with fragrance, but a number of gods and goddesses are described as beautifully fragrant in these texts.22 Neo-Assyrian temples were also characterized by pleasant smells that were produced through ritual practices, such as fumigation as a means of purifying and preparing ritual space and the offering of oils, resins, and foodstuffs.23 In ancient Egypt, incense was burned in the temples as part of the regular temple service and aromatic unguents were applied to the statues of the gods.24 In some texts, the gods themselves are also described as fragrant. In the account of the divine conception of Queen Hatshepsut, the scent of the god Amun floods the palace and wakes Queen Ahmose from her sleep.25 As these examples illustrate, the use of perfumed oils and aromatic incense is a common characteristic of ancient sanctuaries, and in some cultures, such as ancient Greece and Egypt, the gods themselves are described as being fragrant as well.26 In this way, the prescribed use of perfumed oil and incense is one example among many of how the Hebrew Bible’s description of the cult of Yahweh is aligned with ritual koine in the Eastern Mediterranean and Ancient Near Eastern cultural sphere. However, the function of the incense offerings in the Priestly description of the cult is not entirely clear. Unlike the sacrifices and other offerings that are burned on the altar, the incense offering is never called a “pleasing odor” for Yahweh.27 This probably indicates that the incense offering is not thought of as food for Yahweh, but rather serves a different function. As I mentioned above, it has been suggested that the incense offering is burned to please the deity and to make him feel at home and comfortable in the sanctuary.28 It may also be that the incense offering serves a double function, underlining both sacred space and divine presence: just like the anointing oil, the sweet-smelling incense marks the sanctuary as sacred space—as Yahweh’s space—and in turn this description of the sanctuary as beautifully fragrant may strengthen the reader’s experience of Yahweh’s presence in the sanctuary. In this way, the description of the luxurious

21

Petridou 2015: 32–49. In ancient Greek literature, the most common hallmarks of divine presence are beauty, fragrance, stature, radiance, and a sense of power (Petridou 2015: 21). 22 HH, Hymn to Aphrodite: 58–66; Grant 2014 (especially 216–255); Faulkner 2008: 142–143. 23 Neumann 2019. 24 Manniche 1999: 33–46 25 Urkunden des aegyptischen Altertum, vol. IV: p. 219, line 13, and p. 220, line 6; Matić 2018: 40. 26 Butler 2000: 102, fn. 42; Day 2013: 5812–5814; Tatomir 2016; Tatomir 2017. 27 Eberhart 2002: 309–331; Green 2011: 72. 28 Haran 1960; Houtman 1992; Green 2011: 73–77.

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aromas in the sanctuary becomes a means of mediating between the divine and human spheres as well as an indication of divine presence on earth.29 In addition to these functions, I think that the spices and perfumes in the special incense blend and in the sacred anointing oil inform us of the nature of Yahweh. Before we can reach that conclusion, however, it is necessary to consider a different group of texts in the Hebrew Bible, the ones that describe the partly overlapping spheres of erotic sensuality and the luxurious living of kings and queens at the royal court. 3. Scent and seduction As discussed above, luxurious scents and exotic aromas play a significant role in the Priestly descriptions of the cult, but the Priestly texts are not the only texts in the Hebrew Bible where scents and perfumes feature significantly. There is also a stress on olfaction and pleasing smells in texts that focus on seduction and sensuality and on royal luxury, such as the Song of Songs, the book of Esther, and selected passages in the Psalms and the book of Proverbs.30 These texts are a much more diverse group with regard to content, style, and genre than the Priestly texts, but their common denominator is their focus on sensuality, the erotic, and the thrilling lifestyle of the “rich and famous”—i.e., life at the royal court.31 This second group of texts illustrate that enticing scents and fragrances are an important component in the construction of sex appeal in the Hebrew Bible. For instance, in the book of Proverbs 7, the alluring “loose woman” attempts to seduce a young man and invites him to her bed, which is perfumed with

29

Cf. Kenna 2005. Green 2011: 93–100. 31 Presumably, these texts are also diverse with regard to their dating. Whereas Prv 1–9 and Est are commonly assumed to date to the Persian period, it is a lot more difficult to date Ps 45, the Sg, and the Sol passages in 1 Kgs (see below). The Sg is a timeless poetic erotic phantasy. Ps 45 is a fairy-tale-like description of an unnamed king’s wedding, and one could argue for both a preexilic “monarchic” date and a postexilic date for this text. Lastly, 1 Kgs 10 is part of the Deuteronomistic History, which was certainly edited after the exile but may contain earlier possibly preexilic traditions. However, the legendary and again fairy-tale-like character of the tales about the illustrious King Solomon in 1 Kgs makes them seem timeless. However, the exact dating of these texts is not crucial to how I use them in this study. These texts contribute to what one could call the general literary constructions of royal luxury and power, and of the erotic and the seductive, in the Hebrew Bible. In the case of the Sg, Ps 45, and Est, the erotic and the royal clearly overlap. One could argue that there is a seductive undertone in 1 Kgs 10 in the description of the encounter between the beautiful Queen of Sheba and the famous King Solomon of Israel. In Prv 7, we have attempted seduction by means of perfumes and no reference to royalty. 30

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“myrrh, aloes and cinnamon” (Tab. 3).32 Myrrh in this context may be either the liquid or the solid variety.33 Aloes (‫ ;אהלות‬ʾăhālôt), or aloeswood, is also known today by its Malay name, gaharu, or as eaglewood. Aloes is a kind of incense extracted from trees belonging to the genus Aquilaria, and the scented wood is caused by a fungus infection in the tree that turns the otherwise light and spongy wood hard and dark. In ancient times, aloes was used both as a fumigant and as a medicine, and it was highly valued.34 Aromatic ingredient Aloes Cinnamon Myrrh

Hebrew ‫אהלות‬ ‫קנמן‬ ‫מר‬

Transliteration ʾăhālôt qinnāmôn mōr

Table 3: The woman in Proverbs 7:17. The Song of Songs combines royal and regal imagery with natural and bucolic scenes.35 In the Song in general, there is an abundance of sensory imagery that addresses the sense of sight, the sense of touch, the sense of hearing, the sense of taste, and the sense of smell.36 The olfactory is stressed in the Song both in passages with royal imagery and with natural imagery. An example of the former is the description of the litter of Solomon that appears in the distance, accompanied by mighty warriors, and “perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, with all the fragrant powders of the merchant”.37 Examples of the latter are the repeated descriptions of the female lover as a garden, a poetic image of her and her sexuality,38 which emanates fragrance, or the description of the fields and vineyards, where the lovers go and where “the mandrakes give forth fragrance”.39 Myrrh

32

Prv 7:17. Musselman 2012: 97. 34 Musselman 2012: 19–21. 35 Munro 1995: 35–68, 80–116. 36 For sense of sight, see Sg 1:6, 1:15, 5:10–12; for touch, see 5:5, 8:3; for hearing, 2:8, 2:12, 2:14, 5:2, 5:6; for taste, 2:3, 2:5, 4:11, 5:1, 7:9; for smell, 4:6, 4:10, 4:16, 6:2, 7:8, 8:14. 37 Sg 3:6. 38 Cf. Sg 4:12, 1:6. See also Munro 1995: 50–52. 39 For the lover as garden, see Sg 4:16, 5:1, 6:2. For mandrakes, Sg 7:13. In Gn 30:14– 16, mandrake is used as an aphrodisiac, but in this story, there is no reference to the mandrake’s smell. It is not a plant that is commonly known for its scent in modern society, but A. Fleischer and Z. Fleischer describe it as follows: “The odor of mandrake is unique. It is not perceived as a smell of classic fragrant flowers like rose, lily or jasmine. There is a hint of subtle danger in it. Intoxicating and addictive, it makes a powerful impression on one’s memory and evokes images of unspoiled wilderness, desert wind, excitement of danger and romantic exaltation” (1994: 248). 33

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(‫ ;מר‬mōr) is the most commonly mentioned aromatic in the Song.40 Interestingly, myrrh is highlighted for its qualities as a fragrant oil or liquid in some passages, in which the sensory stress appears to be on touch and vision.41 In other passages, the stress is clearly on scent and olfaction. Compare, for instance, the description of fingers and lips dripping with liquid myrrh in 5:5 and 5:13 with the “mountain of myrrh” and “hill of frankincense” in 4:6. In the Song, the female lover is described as a fragrant garden that smells of “nard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frankincense, myrrh and aloes, with all chief spices” (Tab. 4).42 Calamus or aromatic cane, cinnamon, frankincense, myrrh, and aloes have all been explained above. Henna (Lawsonia inermis) is a many-branched shrub that produces small leaves and clusters of creamy white flowers that bloom practically all year. The leaves are used to produce a reddish dye, but it is the flowers that give off a lovely smell.43 Nard (‫ ;נרד‬nērěd), or spikenard (Nardostachys jatamansi), is a perennial plant that grows in alpine and subalpine regions of the Himalayas. It has hairy rhizomes that are used in different kinds of medicine and to produce fragrant oil, which is still used in perfume production today.44 The male lover is also described in terms of scent: “His cheeks are like beds of spices, yielding fragrance. His lips are lilies, distilling liquid myrrh” (Tab. 4).45 Earlier in the Song, the woman describes her lover as “a bag of myrrh that lies between my breasts” and as a “cluster of henna blossoms in the vineyards of En-gedi.”46 The sense of smell is very much part of the erotic fantasy in texts such as Proverbs 7 and the Song of Songs, and it is worth noting that the fragrant metaphors are not reserved for women. Although descriptions of women take up more space than descriptions of men, presumably because the texts were written by men and channel the male gaze, a luscious scent is part of both the masculine and the feminine ideal. So, unlike today, where scent is gendered into male and female kinds of sex appeal and where unisex scents remain the exception to the rule, it seems that in the Hebrew Bible—and indeed in most of the ancient world—scent was certainly perceived as erotic and sexually attractive, but perfumes and fragrances were not either masculine or feminine, nor was their use associated primarily with women.47

40

1:13, 3:6, 4:6, 4:16, 5:1, 5:5 (twice), 5:13. According to Musselman, liquid myrrh is most likely produced by crushing solid myrrh and dissolving it in a lipid such as vegetable fat (2012: 97). 42 4:14. 43 Musselman 2012: 72–73. 44 Ibid.: 100–101. 45 Sg 5:13. 46 Sg 1:13–14. 47 Cf. Butler 2010: 94, fn. 18; Reinarz 2014: 114. 41

The Aroma of Majesty

Aromatic ingredient Aloes Aromatic cane / calamus Cinnamon Frankincense Henna Lillies Myrrh Nard Saffron Spices48

Hebrew

Transliteration

Woman in Sg

‫אהלות‬ ‫קנה‬

ʾăhālôt qāneh

4:14 4:14

‫קנמן‬ ‫לבנה‬ ‫כפר‬ ‫שושן‬ ‫מר‬ ‫נרד‬ ‫כרכם‬ ‫בשם‬

qinnāmôn lěbōnâ kōper šûšan mōr nērěd karkōm bōśem

4:14 4:14 4:13 4:14 1:12, 4:13–14 4:14 4:14

225

Man in Sg

1:14 2:13 1:13, 5:13

5:13

Table 4: The lovers in the Song of Songs. The particular aromas and fragrances that we encounter in the cultic texts and in the erotic and royal texts do not entirely overlap. Some of the more peculiar ingredients, such as the possible mollusk component, onycha, only appear in the cultic repertoire, and saffron and nard only appear in the Song of Songs. However, many of the spices and aromatics appear both in the cultic and in the erotic and royal texts—for instance, myrrh, cinnamon, aromatic cane, cassia, and frankincense (Tab. 6). If we try to think in terms of “scent profiles”, there does not appear to be a distinct cultic scent pattern, which would be easy to distinguish from an erotic scent pattern. Both the erotic scent combinations and the cultic scent combinations appear to be a mix of sweet, heady, and spicy smells, and in a first millennium BCE context, certainly scents that would be considered as luxury products and expensive treats. In Exodus 30, it is stressed how both the sacred anointing oil and the special incense mix are strictly for cultic use and that any kind of non-cultic employment of this oil or incense is forbidden and punishable by death.49 This prohibition seems to indicate that the Priestly authors were familiar with a widespread non-cultic use of spices and precious scents.50 But the prohibition against profane use does not necessarily indicate a distinct “cultic” scent profile for the anointing oil or the incense. Perhaps it rather indicates the opposite, since it seems to be both possible and plausible according to the Priestly authors to imagine that a person would use the cultic aroma mixtures as one would use any other kind of perfume blend in a non-cultic setting. 48

In Sg 4:14, the “chief spices” seem to summarize all the lovely fragrances that emanate from the woman described as a garden. In this way, the use is similar to Ex 30:23 (Tab. 1). In Sg 5:13, bōśem is not used to sum up a list of aromas, but to describe the male lover’s cheeks as garden beds of spices. 49 Ex 30:32–3, 30:37–38. 50 Cf. Jensen 2000: 296–297; Green 2011: 71. For a description of ancient perfume production, see Brun 2000; Cuyler 2012; Cousin 2016.

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4. Yahweh’s masculine majesty In Hebrew Bible scholarship, these scent-related spheres, the cultic and the partly overlapping erotic and royal, are consistently treated separately, either simply as a means of categorization51 or because these two spheres are seen as incompatible.52 However, the Hebrew Bible’s non-cultic references to the use of scents may in fact inform our understanding of Yahweh as a fragrant god in the Priestly cultic texts. As I have mentioned above, the texts that refer to the sensual and erotic and that stress the allure of sweet smells are also to a large extent texts about royalty; thus, luxurious spices become an important part of descriptions of royal privilege and power in the Hebrew Bible.53 A good example of this is the character of King Solomon, who is mentioned several times in the Song of Songs,54 and who is described in First Kings as having been presented with spices (‫ ;בשם‬bōśem) worth a fortune by the Queen of Sheba and by other foreign rulers.55 In the book of Esther, the overlap between royalty, seduction, and scent is parodied in the description of the twelve-month beauty treatment that is to make Esther and the other virgins fit for a king. It consists of six months of bathing in oil of myrrh and six months of bathing in “spices” (‫בשם‬, bōśem).56 The symbol of becoming a king in the Hebrew Bible is to be anointed with (possibly fragrant) oil.57 In Psalm 45, a song about a royal wedding, the royal bridegroom is praised as exactly anointed, fragrant, powerful, and attractive; the king is “the most handsome of men”, his throne “endures forever”, his god has anointed him with “the oil of gladness”, and his clothes are “fragrant with myrrh and aloes and cassia” (Tab. 5).58 In short, this king embodies the Hebrew Bible’s ideal of a powerful male, and part of this portrait of privilege and power is to smell good. Aromatic ingredient Aloes Cassia Myrrh

Hebrew ‫אהלות‬ ‫קדה‬ ‫מר‬

Transliteration ʾăhālôt qiddâ mōr

Table 5: The king in Psalm 45:8.

51

E.g., Nielsen 1986: 68–100; Green 2011: 64–115. E.g., Jensen 2000: 297–298. 53 Green 2011: 87. 54 1:1.5, 3:7, 3:9, 3:11, 8:11, 8:12; see also 1:4, 1:12. 55 Sg 10:2, 10:10, 10:25. See also the description of King Hezekiah’s riches in 2 Kgs 20:13; 2 Chr 32:27; Is 39:2 (which includes spices). In 2 Chr 16:14, King Asa is buried with spices. 56 Sg 2:12. 57 Cf. Sg 1:3. See also, e.g., 1 Sm 10:1; 2 Sm 2:4, 5:3; 1 Kgs 1:39. See also Munro 1995: 48. 58 Ps 45:2, 45:6, 45:7, 45:8. Cf. Bowen 2003: 55–57. 52

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Considering that Yahweh himself is perceived as a king in some Hebrew Bible texts59 and that kingship was part of the standard “attire” for ancient Near Eastern deities,60 it seems likely that Yahweh’s fragrant cult corresponds with Yahweh’s supreme majesty. Therefore, I would suggest that we understand the scented symbolism of the Priestly texts’ description of cult as portraying Yahweh as the highest king and alpha male as well as expressing divine presence in the sanctuary. Masculinity has been on the agenda in Hebrew Bible scholarship for roughly two decades and, during this time, an outline of the Hebrew Bible’s hegemonic masculine ideal has taken shape.61 It includes traits such as physical strength and military prowess, leadership abilities, an ability to produce offspring, and last but certainly not least, physical beauty.62 It is my suggestion here that fragrance is an important part of the Hebrew Bible’s construction of masculine beauty and sex appeal, and that we should keep this piece of information in mind when we read the Priestly texts’ description of Yahweh’s fragrant sanctuary. As I mentioned above, scent and luxurious aromas function as erotic markers for both men and women in the Hebrew Bible, and therefore there is nothing intrinsic to the aromas in the cult that index specifically masculine identity. In principle, the olfactory elements of the cult could also point to feminine royal identity.63 Nevertheless, I do interpret the Hebrew Bible’s olfactory cultic theology as saying something about Yahweh as a majestic and masculine being, as a king and not as a queen. I base this partly on the distinctly androcentric and patriarchal perspective that we find elsewhere in the Priestly writings, with their focus on male privilege, male lineage, and even on male genitalia through the ritual of circumcision.64 I also base it on the general tendency in the Hebrew Bible to attribute masculine roles and characteristics to Yahweh. Although fem59

Ex 15:18; 1 Sm 8:7; Ps 47:8, 93:1, 96:10, 97:1, 98:6, 99:1, 146:10. Frankfort 1948; Smith 2002: 91–101; Moore 2006; Smith 2016: 6, 31–44. 61 See the helpful overview of research on Hebrew Bible masculinities in Haddox 2016. 62 In a groundbreaking study on masculinity in the David story, D.J.A. Clines drew the first contours of this outline and listed the prime masculine traits as an ability to fight, persuasiveness, beauty, male bonding, absence of women, and musicality (1995: 216– 228). In a recent monograph, S.M. Wilson has expanded this profile and specified that the ideal biblical male should possess both physical and psychological strength and youthful beauty, and that he should express his fertility within the boundaries of an endogamous marriage in order to secure his legacy through legitimate offspring (2015: 45– 46). For a helpful summary of the work of these two scholars on masculinity alongside some intermediary positions, see Haddox 2016. In his most recent study on biblical masculinity, Clines summarizes everyday language in the Hebrew Bible that carries an emphasis on maleness and hegemonic masculinity, such as strength and power, size and height, violence and killing, and honor and holiness (2019). 63 It could even point to a third gender, although this is rare in a Hebrew Bible context. 64 Cf. Eilberg-Schwarz 1990: 141–176. 60

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inine attributes, roles, and character traits are sometimes and importantly used to portray Yahweh and his actions, these occurrences are dwarfed by the many times that Yahweh appears in these texts as a clearly gendered male.65 Therefore, I read the cultic texts’ scented characterization of the worship of Yahweh as portraying the deity as a masculine and majestic figure, who resides in his royal dwelling, and thus expresses the Hebrew Bible’s hegemonic masculine ideal. Aromatic ingredient Aloes Aromatic cane / calamus Cassia Cinnamon Frankincense Galbanum Henna Lillies Myrrh

Hebrew ‫אהלות‬ ‫קנה‬

Transliteration ʾăhālôt qāneh

‫קדה‬ ‫קנמן‬ ‫לבנה‬ ‫חלבנה‬ ‫כפר‬ ‫שושן‬ ‫מר‬

qiddâ qinnāmôn lěbōnâ ḥelběnâ kōper šûšan mōr

Nard

‫נרד‬

nērěd

Onycha Saffron Spices Stacte

‫שחלת‬ ‫כרכם‬ ‫בשם‬ ‫נטף‬

šěḥēlet karkōm bōśem nāṭāp

Woman in Sg 4:14 4:14

Man in Sg

King in Ps 45:8

Woman in Prv 7:17

45:8

4:14

Incense in Ex

30:23

4:14 4:14 4:13

Oil in Ex

7:17

30:24 30:23 30:34 30:34

1:14 2:13 1:13, 5:13

45:8

7:17

30:23

1:12, 4:13–14 30:34 4:14 4:14

5:13

30:23 30:34

Table 6: Overview of aromatic ingredients in Song of Solomon, Psalm 45, Proverbs 7 and Exodus 30. Acknowledgements I have presented earlier versions of this paper at the Society of Biblical Literature’s meeting in Boston in November 2017, in the session Gender, Sexuality and the Bible; at the University of Copenhagen at the Faculty of Theology in spring of 2017; at the University of Copenhagen at the Faculty of Humanities in the autumn of 2017; at Religionshistorisk Forening (Society for the Study of the History of Religions) in Copenhagen in February 2019; and at the third GeMANE workshop in Ghent in April 2019. I am grateful to the students and colleagues who attended these presentations and challenged me to clarify and improve my thoughts on the topic. A special thank-you goes to the organizers of the GeMANE meetings, to the editors of the present volume, and to my anony-

65

Cf. Brenner 1996; Kalmanofsky 2016: 9–11; Clines 2019.

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mous reviewer. Needless to say, all remaining errors and inconsistencies in the argumentation are my sole responsibility. Bibliography Abrahams, A.J. 1979: Onycha, Ingredient of the Ancient Jewish Incense: An Attempt at Identification. Economic Botany 33(2), 233–236. Beard, M. 2004: Writing Ritual: The Triumph of Ovid. In A. Barchiesi / J. Rüpke / S. Stephens (eds.): Rituals in Ink: A Conference on Religion and Literary Production in Ancient Rome. Stuttgart, 115–126. Bowen, N.R. 2003: A Fairy Tale Wedding? A Feminist Intertextual Reading of Psalm 45. In B.A. Strawn / N.R. Bowen (eds.): A God So Near: Essays on Old Testament Theology in Honor of Patrick D. Miller. Winona Lake, Indiana, 53–71. Brenner, A. 1996: The Hebrew God and His Female Complements. In T.K. Beal / D. Gunn (eds.): Reading Bibles, Writing Bodies: Identity and the Book. London and New York, 56–71. Brun, J.-P. 2000: The Production of Perfumes in Antiquity: The Cases of Delos and Paestum. American Journal of Archaeology 104, 277–308. Butler, S. 2010: The Scent of a Woman. Arethusa 43, 87–112. Clines, D.J.A. 1995: Interested Parties: The Ideology of Writers and Readers of the Hebrew Bible. Sheffield, United Kingdom. Clines, D.J.A. 2019: The Most High Male: Divine Masculinity in the Bible. In O. Creangă (ed.): Hebrew Masculinities Anew. Sheffield, United Kingdom, 61–82. Cousin, L. Beauty Experts: Female Perfume-Makers in the 1st Millennium BC. In B. Leon / C. Michel (eds.): The Role of Women in Work and Society in the Ancient Near East. Berlin, 512–525. Cuyler, M.J. 2012: Rose, Sage, Cyperus and e-ti: The Adornment of Olive Oil at the Palace of Nestor. In M.L. Nosch / R. Laffineur (eds.): Kosmos: Jewellery, Adornment and Textiles in the Aegean Bronze Age. Leuven. Davies, G.I. 2001: Introduction to the Pentateuch. In J. Barton / J. Muddiman (eds.): The Oxford Bible Commentary. Oxford, 12–38. Day, J. 2013: Botany Meets Archaeology: People and Plants in the Past. Journal of Experimental Botany 64(18), 5805–5816. Detienne, M. 1977: The Gardens of Adonis: Spices in Greek Mythology. Hassocks, United Kingdom. Eberhart, C. 2002: Studien zur Bedeutung der Opfer im Alten Testament: Die Signifikanz von Blut- und Verbrennungsriten im kultischen Rahmen. Neukirchen-Vluyn. Eilberg-Schwartz, H. 1990: The Savage in Judaism: An Anthropology of Israelite Religion and Ancient Judaism. Bloomington, Indiana.

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Faulkner, A. 2008: The Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite: Introduction, Text, and Commentary. New York. Fleischer, A. / Fleischer, Z. 1994: The Fragrance of Biblical Mandrake. Economic Botany 48(3), 243–251. Frankfort, H. 1948: Kingship and the Gods: A Study of Ancient Near Eastern Religion as the Integration of Society and Nature. Chicago. Gilders, W.K. 2020: Social and Cultural Anthropology. In S.E. Balentine (ed.): The Oxford Handbook of Ritual and Worship in the Hebrew Bible. Oxford, 125–141. Grabbe, L.L. 2001: Leviticus. In J. Barton / J. Muddiman (eds.): The Oxford Bible Commentary. Oxford, 91–110. Grabbe, L.L. 2003: The Priests in Leviticus —Is the Medium the Message? In R. Rendtorff / R.A. Kugler (eds): The Book of Leviticus: Composition and Reception. Leiden, 207–224. Grant, G.L. 2014: The Greek Sense of Smell: Olfactory Perception and the Sociocultural Roles of Perfume in Antiquity. PhD dissertation, Department of Classics and Ancient History, University of Exeter. https://ore.exeter.ac.uk/ repository/bitstream/handle/10871/17556/GrantG.pdf?sequence=3&isAllowe d=y. Accessed 14 May 2021. Green, D. 2011: The Aroma of Righteousness: Scent and Seduction in Rabbinic Life and Literature. University Park, Pennsylvania. Gudme, A.K. 2014a: “If I were hungry, I would not tell you” (Ps 50,12): Perspectives on the Care and Feeding of the Gods in the Hebrew Bible. Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 28(2), 172–184. Gudme, A.K. 2014b: Dyed Yarns and Dolphin Skins: Temple Texts as Cultural Memory in the Hebrew Bible. Jewish Studies 50, 1–14. Gudme, A.K. 2018a: A Pleasing Odour for Yahweh: The Smell of the Sacrificial Smoke on Mount Gerizim. In G. Harvey / J. Hughes (eds.): Sensual Religion: Religion and the Five Senses. London, 19–36. Gudme, A.K. 2018b: A Pleasing Odour for Yahweh: The Smell of Sacrifices on Mount Gerizim and in the Hebrew Bible. Body and Religion 2, 7–24. Haddox, S.E. 2016: Masculinity Studies of the Hebrew Bible: The First Two Decades. Currents in Biblical Research 14, 176–206. Haran, M. 1960: The Uses of Incense in the Ancient Israelite Ritual. Vetus Testamentum 10(2), 113–129. Houtman, C. 1992: On the Function of the Holy Incense (Exodus XXX 34–8) and the Sacred Anointing Oil (Exodus XXX 22–33). Vetus Testamentum 42(4), 458–465. Jensen, H.J.L. 2000: Den fortœrende ild: Strukturelle analyser af narrative og rituelle tekster i Det Gamle Testamente. Aarhus. Kalmanofsky, A. 2016: Gender-Play in the Hebrew Bible: The Ways the Bible Challenges Its Gender Norms. London.

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Kenna, M.E. 2005: Why Does Incense Smell Religious? Greek Orthodoxy and the Anthropology of Smell. Journal of Mediterranean Studies 15(1), 1–20. Manniche, L. 1999: Sacred Luxuries: Fragrance, Aromatherapy, and Cosmetics in Ancient Egypt. Ithaca, New York. Matić, U. 2018: The Sap of Life: Materiality and Sex in the Divine Birth Legend of Hatshepsut and Amenhotep III. In E. Maynart / C. Velloza / R. Lemos (eds.): Perspectives on Materiality in Ancient Egypt—Agency, Cultural Reproduction and Change. Oxford. Milgrom, J. 1991: Leviticus 1–16. New Haven, Connecticut. Moore, A. 2006: Moving beyond Symbol and Myth: Understanding the Kingship of God of the Hebrew Bible through Metaphor. New York. Munro, Jill M. 1995: Spikenard and Saffron: A Study in the Poetic Language of the Song of Songs. Sheffield, United Kingdom. Musselman, L.J. 2012: A Dictionary of Bible Plants. Cambridge, United Kingdom. Neumann, K., 2019: Sensing the Sacred in the Neo-Assyrian Temple: The Presentation of Offerings to the Gods. In A. Hawthorn / A.C. Rendu Loisel (eds.): Distant Impressions: The Senses in the Ancient Near East. University Park, Pennsylvania, 23-62. Nielsen, K. 1986: Incense in Ancient Israel. Leiden. Nihan, C. 2007: From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch: A Study in the Composition of the Book of Leviticus. Tübingen. Petridou, G. 2015: Divine Epiphany in Greek Literature Culture. Oxford. Reinarz, J. 2014: Past Scents: Historical Perspectives on Smell. Champaign, Illinois. Smith, M.S. 2002: The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel. 2nd edition. Grand Rapids, Michigan. Smith, M. 2016: Where the Gods Are: Spatial Dimensions of Anthropomorphism in the Biblical World. New Haven, Connecticut. Tatomir, R.G. 2016: To Cause “to Make Divine” through Smoke: Ancient Egyptian Incense and Perfume; An Inter- and Transdisciplinary Re-Evaluation of Aromatic Biotic Materials Used by the Ancient Egyptians. In A. Panaite / R. Cîrjan / C. Căpiţă (eds.): Moesica et Christiana: Studies in Honour of Professor Alexandru Barnea. Brăila, 665–678. Tatomir, R.G. 2017: Incense. In R.S. Bagnall / K. Brodersen / C.B. Champion / A. Erskine / S.R. Huebner (eds.): The Encyclopedia of Ancient History. London. https://doi.org/10.1002/9781444338386.wbeah30047. Accessed 14 May 2021. Watts, J. 2007. Ritual and Rhetoric in Leviticus. Cambridge, United Kingdom. Wilson, S.M. 2015. Making Men: The Male Coming-of-Age Theme in the Hebrew Bible. Oxford.

Performing Beauty in Phoenician-Punic Cultures A Gender Perspective Meritxell Ferrer1 and Mireia López-Bertran2

1. Introduction Over the last two decades, several studies conducted from anthropological and cultural perspectives have stressed that beauty is a social and cultural phenomenon, and is therefore constructed following specific criteria. 3 Some of these studies have used the expression “beauty practices” to underline the active and repetitive nature of these actions that strive to attain the beauty standards of each particular group—that is, its normative ideal of beauty.4 The space par excellence where these beauty practices are performed is the human body, which has been the main focus of these analyses. Feminist and queer studies, as well as studies carried out from postcolonial perspectives, have examined how, in certain historical circumstances, dominant ideologies have shaped and controlled people’s bodies and have made them primary historical agents. Bodies have multiple meanings, because there is no single way of understanding them. In fact, studies in recent years have stressed a multimodal perspective that highlights the multiple ways of conceiving bodies and how, within a particular group, different ways of understanding them coexist in accordance with specific social characteristics. In other words, the bodies of a particular group also change over the life cycle of those people, with regard to gender, sex, status, or ethnicity.5 This multimodal perspective can be applied to beauty practices, which differ in relation not just to a specific cultural context but also to other identities such as gender, age, or ethnicity; it thus offers a more complex construction of beauty.6 Our proposal emerges from the idea that beauty is a clearly corporal concept, an ongoing project characterized by temporary or permanent body modifications, which, in many cases, are repeated over time and which play an active role in the construction of different social and cultural identities. Therefore, the exploration of beauty practices in ancient societies requires a multidisciplinary focus that brings together literary, iconographic, and archaeological sources with the aim of providing a fuller vision. The study of this topic in the Phoenician1

Universitat Pompeu Fabra, [email protected]. Universitat de València, [email protected]. 3 See, among others, Zeglin Brand 2000; Sorokowski 2010; Bryant 2019; Hernández 2017. 4 See, among others, Brown 2008; Vanderberg 2018. 5 See Robb and Harris 2012. 6 See, for other cultures, Lee 2009: 155–180; 2015. 2

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Punic world is no exception. In this article, we focus on two kinds of archaeological data: first, objects directly associated with certain beauty practices, such as boxes used to store cosmetics, oil, and perfume bottles, and also scrapers; and second, artistic objects, mainly anthropomorphic clay figurines and ivory pieces representing women engaged in beauty practices or reproducing the Levantine beauty canon. Finally, we examine literary sources from the Levant, from Ugarit and Canaan (second millennium BCE), and from the Old Testament (first millennium BCE), which also offer us information relating to the importance of beauty practices in Phoenician-Punic society, and to the construction and establishment of an ideal of beauty. 2. The Phoenician-Punic world and the study of beauty In the mid-ninth century BCE, peoples from the Levant embarked on a diaspora that would take them all over the Mediterranean, from the eastern coasts of Cyprus and Crete to the Atlantic shores of the Iberian Peninsula and northern Africa. These groups of men, women, and children settled permanently in enclaves throughout the Mediterranean, engaging in diverse interactions with local populations that generated a wide range of heterogeneous and complex processes of cultural contact.7 From the sixth century BCE onwards, Carthage, an old Phoenician colony, began a process of commercial and economic expansion through the central and western Mediterranean that brought the material cultures and ideas of African peoples to these new lands. As a result of this historical process, the label “Phoenician” has been used to refer the diaspora dated between the tenth and the sixth centuries, while the label “Punic” alludes to a later period, lasting from the sixth century BCE until the end of the Punic Wars in the second century BCE, during which the influence and hegemony of Carthage is clearly evidenced in the central and western Mediterranean. Consequently, the label “Phoenician-Punic” is used to embrace a range of social, economic, and cultural dynamics in the space and time that share as their main unifying feature the use of the Phoenician language (Fig. 1).8 The study of the Phoenician-Punic world has traditionally been dominated by the analysis of activities related to power and economics, such as trading activities, institutional religious practices, or the processes of domination and conquest. Furthermore, these activities have been exclusively interpreted from an androcentric perspective, offering a wholly biased interpretation of the Phoenician and Punic realities in which the only possible historical actors are imagined as heterosexual adult males belonging to the elite. Within this hegemonic trend, very little attention has been paid to other agents—women, children, the elderly, the sick, or commoners—to the material culture, or to other topics. However,

7 8

See Aubet 2001; 2019. See Quinn 2013.

Figure 1. Map of the Mediterranean show the most important Phoenician sites.

Performing Beauty in Phoenician-Punic Cultures 235

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Meritxell Ferrer and Mireia López-Bertran

postcolonial and feminist perspectives in recent years have begun to generate studies related to other aspects of Phoenician-Punic life, including the domestic arena and noninstitutional rituals, and have encouraged the creation of a more multivocal discourse in which women, children, and/or commoners are given a more visible profile and recover their own voice.9 The material culture related to beauty practices ranges quite widely in terms of both quantity and quality. However, the artefacts involved have mostly been studied from formalist and descriptive approaches, and the importance of the beauty practices themselves has been largely ignored. Few of the artefacts related to personal ornamentation and to the beautification of the body have been studied in detail, and are usually described only at the end of archaeological reports under headings such as “other or minor findings”, or, pejoratively, as “trinkets”. 10 In the various classifications, they appear as second- or thirdcategory objects, belittled in comparison to other objects analysed in relation to those traditionally related to the hegemonic themes in the Phoenician-Punic narratives, such as trade, conquest, and religious institutions. Furthermore, while these objects could be analysed as works of art in their own right, their aesthetic and artisanal qualities have been ignored, and they have been studied only in the context of defining commercial networks or establishing chronologies based on their type and form.11 Without detracting from the importance of studies like the ones just mentioned, this paper aims to stress the practical perspective of these artefacts by considering aspects of these pieces other than their morphology and distribution, for example, the aromatized oil in beauty practices. In addition, we also consider female figurines as material culture and look at them as visual strategies in the construction and legitimation of a canon of beauty.12 The literary and iconographic sources available suggest that the normative model of beauty in the Phoenician-Punic world was of Eastern origin.13 This model was created and established through a set of body-care practices, both temporary and permanent. Prominent among the permanent practices were ear and nose piercing for inserting rings and earrings (known as nezem), as shown by the large number of terracotta figurines and by recurrent references in the literature (Fig. 2). 14 The temporary practices were more common, and more 9

See López-Bertran and Garcia-Ventura 2012; Delgado 2016; Ferrer and Lafrenz 2016; Ferrer and López-Bertran 2020; Rivera Hernández 2020. 10 As a matter of guide see Deyagi-Mendels 2002; Pellicer Catalán 2007. 11 See Orsingher 2010; Gomes 2019; Regev 2021. 12 In this occasion, we intentionally avoid studying these figurines from a technical and manufacturing point of view, as well as discussing if they represent goddesses or real women. For the first topic, see Bisi 1997. For the second see, among others, Morris 2006; López-Bertran and Garcia-Ventura 2012. 13 See, among others, Riis 1949; Budin 2002; Wriedt Sorensen 2002. 14 See, for example, Gn 24:22, 24:47; Ex 32:3; Nm 31:50; Is 3:21; Ez 16:12.

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material evidence of them has survived, because they had to be repeated over time. Likewise, because of their wide variety, we can distinguish three kinds of practices depending on the part of the body considered. The first corresponds to practices related to skin care, such as bathing, the use of oils and perfumes, and body and facial makeup. The second group comprises practices of hair care, including grooming, the creation of different hairstyles, or the partial or complete removal of body hair. The third type covers the practices that directly allude to the creation of a second skin through the use of artefacts such as dress or jewellery. Given the large amount of information available and the limitations of space, here we focus exclusively on the first group of these practices: the care of the skin and its beautification.

Figure 2. Female terracotta from Puig des Molins wearing nose-rings, or nezem. Museo Arqueológico Nacional, Madrid, 1923/60/510. Photograph: Fundación ITMA, Santiago Relanzón.

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3. Building a model of normative female beauty Near Eastern literary and iconographic sources suggest that during the second millennium BCE a standardized model of female beauty was created, which was shared by all the peoples of the area, including the Levantines. This normative ideal presents women in fertile age, with soft, smooth skin, a curvilinear body and large breasts, narrow waists, slightly protruding bellies, and round buttocks. Moving to the material culture, this stereotype appears on small ivory objects where female representations are modelled either in full or partial relief. Among them, we find the “lady at the window”, a female face looking through a window frame15, as well as dressed women (some with wings) in feasting scenes or holding flowers. Other women appear naked, showing their bodies frontally with their hands at their sides, or reproducing the “mistress of animals” motif, holding lions by their tails.16 The same ideal of beauty appears in Levantine culture, mainly through female representations in terracotta plaques and figurines that incorporate new motifs such as the “goddess holding her breasts” (full-body figures of a naked woman clutching her breasts), also known as Judean pillar figurines.17 Regarding the Phoenician corpus, the so-called Dea Gravida, pregnant women (as suggested by their bulging bellies) either enthroned or standing,18 is also a remarkable example. In addition, the Judean iconographical type of figurines holding their breasts is also attested in Phoenicia, with the “Breast Astarte” figurines, located exclusively on the Akkar Plain between the seventh and sixth centuries BCE, and pillar-shaped figurines dated at the fifth and fourth centuries BCE.19 This ideal of female beauty also appears in literary sources. Keeping in consideration the scarcity of the Phoenician literary sources, Phoenician-Punic scholars use both Ugaritian and Biblical texts to reinforce the ideas that emerged from material culture because, it is argued, similarities and continuities exist between these cultures.20 In this sense, in the Ugaritian Legend of Keret, women’s eyeballs are described as lapis lazuli gems and their pupils as gleams of garnet,21 while in the Song of Songs, several passages describe this same normative model.22 The interpretation of these and other literary passages show that this physical beauty is presented not just as something that evokes pleasure, but 15

See Winter 2016 for a comprehensive analysis of this iconographical type. See Gansell 2014: 46–47; Rossberg 2018: 231–233. 17 For terracotta plaques, see Alpert Nakhai 2014, 2015. For the Judean pillar figurines see Kletter 1996; Darby 2014. 18 See Culican 1969; Bisi 1997. 19 See Bolognani 2020 for a chrono-typological classification of the Phoenician clay figurines of the Iron Age. 20 Sg 4:1–6. See Zamora 2017–2019, especially 108–111, for the explanation of using Ugaritic texts to analyse Phoenician-Punic masculinities. 21 CAT 1.14 III 43–45. 22 See Gansell 2014: 50. 16

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also as the materialization of an internal beauty. Furthermore, this normative ideal celebrates female qualities related to fertility and birth by exaggerating the forms of the body and, in some cases, by including plant elements and feasting scenes that reinforce this idea of abundance and fecundity. Certainly, in the Phoenician world, as in Ancient Israel and Ugarit (or Canaan), the idea of beauty is associated with the good and the pleasant.23 Attaining this ideal image of beauty requires regular dedication to certain practices of body beautification.24 In what follows, we focus on nonpermanent practices related to care for the skin, such as bathing and the application of oils, perfumes, and makeup. We examine these activities in domestic contexts from the Levant and from the Phoenician-Punic colonies. 4. Bathing as a beautification practice Among the practices that allude directly to care for the skin, one of the most recurrent is bathing or washing—either of the whole body or of a specific part, such as the hands, feet, or face.25 The importance of bathing among Levantines of both genders and all ages and social ranks is well documented in the literary sources26 and is represented in clay figurines. The preeminence of bathing and washing in this society was probably due to the habitat and climate. In both urban and rural settings, dust would have been a regular feature, and the complete or partial bathing of the body would have been an essential hygienic practice. Likewise, bathing appears as a fundamental part of certain ritual purification processes, usually marking the end of a period of contamination for men and women alike.27 Examples of this practice is the bath of purification that neutralized the “contamination” caused by menstruation,28 or the cleaning of men after eating an animal that was killed by another animal.29 So bathing was of functional and ritual importance, but also initiated processes of beautification, especially of women; a fine example is found in a passage from Judith, where bathing begins a sequence of modification and beautification of the body that transforms the subject from a widow into a sexually active

23

We thank Dr. José Ángel Zamora for the information on the Phoenician words possibly related to the current meaning of beauty. 24 Due to space restrictions, we do not study permanent beauty practices such as tattoos or scarification. About this topic for the biblical Levant, see Fox 2019. For the Phoenician and Punic materials, see López-Bertran and Garcia-Ventura 2016: 211. 25 See Naufeld 1971; Dayagi-Mendels 1989. 26 Among others, see Gn 18:4, 19:2, 24:32; Ex 30:19; Ru 3:3; 2 Sm 12:20; Sg 4:2, 6:6. 27 See Katz 2012. 28 See, for example, 2 Sm 11:2–4. This is a controversial theme, as evidence for contamination in the Ancient Near East has been highly contested. See Couto-Ferreira and Garcia-Ventura 2013. 29 For example, in Lv 17:15.

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woman.30 This bathing (either complete or partial) was carried out in a range of locations, either in bucolic settings such as rivers, streams, or natural springs,31 or inside the home. In the domestic sphere, bathing was performed in the inner courtyards, using bowls, large vessels, or mobile terracotta bathtubs. These bathtubs are documented in Carthage,32 and their use is evidenced by two clay figurines recorded in funerary contexts from the Levant and the western Mediterranean. One is documented in a seventh-century tomb from Er-Ras cemetery (in Achziv, modern-day Israel), and represents a woman sitting inside an open vessel that appears to be a mobile bathtub.33 And a terracotta figurine from a tomb in the cemetery of Carthage, dated to the sixth century BCE (Tomb 90, Sector Dermech) represents a person taking a bath within a tub that seems to use a small open vessel (Fig. 3). 34 Furthermore, following a Near Eastern tradition that started in the mid-second millennium, the presence of drain systems together with plastered floors and walls in the rooms of certain houses suggests that these houses had fixed bath installations. In the Levant, these installations are documented from the end of the second millennium BCE, mainly in houses that, in view of their size and the quality of the materials recorded in their interior, have been interpreted as elite residences, such as the “palace” of Tell Jemmeh (thirteenth century BCE) and a large contemporary residence from Megiddo.35 However, the recent reappraisal of some of the domestic structures in Ras Shamra suggests that installations of this kind may also have been located in humbler dwellings.36 In spite of this long tradition, in Phoenician-Punic contexts, the presence of fixed bath installations is not documented until some time later, at the beginning of the Hellenistic period. These installations have been documented in the Levant in Ashkelon37 and Tel Anafa,38 both dated to the fourth century BCE, while in Carthage the first private baths have been recorded from the fifth century BCE.39 In the Punic towns and cities, the spread of these installations in domestic contexts starts slightly later (fourth to second centuries BCE), and is documented in Mozia,40 Solunto,41 Selinunt,42 Monte Sirai,43 and Kerkouane.44 The 30

Jdt 10:3–4. See Dayagi-Mendels 1989: 18. 32 See Ferron and Pinard 1955: 74; Fumadó 2007. 33 See Dayagi-Mengels 2002: fig. 7.10. 34 See Glaukler 1915: pl. CXXXV; Fantar 1982: pl. 4. 35 See Dayagi-Mendels 89: 18. 36 See Fumadó 2007. 37 See Birney 2017. 38 See Herbert 1994. 39 See Tang 2005; Fumadó 2007. 40 See Famà 2002. 41 See Wolf 2003. 31

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wide use of these installations at this time is well demonstrated in Kerkouane,45 where they have been identified in forty-four houses (96 percent of all those documented to date), among them elaborate residences probably belonging to the wealthy families of the city, as well as more humble abodes.46

Figure 3. Terracotta figurine representing a woman bathing in a tub, from Akhziv, seventh century BCE (adapted from Dayagi Mendels 1989: 14). Israel Museum, Jerusalem. 5. Oils and perfumes as beauty enhancers After bathing, the beautification process continued with the anointing of the skin with oils, ointments, and perfumes in order to soften, smoothen, and aromatize the skin. This action appears repeatedly in the constitution of normative female beauty. The scents could be obtained through the combustion of aromatic woods, residues, or roots. Flowers, stems, or fruits of aromatic plants would be chopped and ground for boiling and were later mixed with mineral oils or animal fats.47 Residue analysis of small vessels has identified perfumes and oils made with roots of lilies, cinnamon, myrtle, cardamom, myrrh, and honey and flowers such as jasmine mixed with olive, sesame, or flax oil.48

42

See Helas 2011. See Fumadó 2007. 44 See Fantar 1985. 45 Ibid. 46 See Fumadó 2007; Truemper 2010. 47 See Carreras Rossell 2010: 12; Pardo Mata 2009. 48 See Pardo Mata 2009; Jacob 2011: 12–16. 43

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In Levant, these products were used to anoint divine images, as illustrated by the Cycle of Baal, in which Baal, one of the main Canaan and Phoenician deities, was anointed with “oyster oil”.49 Perfumes were also used to anoint monarchs, transferring their sacred character through the use of oils.50 Furthermore, this practice is also documented to other members of the society, firstly to the priests and, gradually, to the whole community, both the living and the dead.51 Beyond these religious uses, the strong presence of oil and perfume containers in domestic contexts suggests both their importance and their multifunctionality. Along with their use in domestic ritual practices, literary sources also record that oils and perfumes were used to cook, to illuminate, to purify the air, and even to heal members of the household in times of sickness.52 As for the practices of beautification, these products would be applied with the purpose of hydrating, smoothening, and perfuming the skin—an essential practice in a hot, dry area like the Mediterranean.53 Although literary and visual sources suggest that these products were used by all members of the community, they were used mainly by women: indeed, one of the most frequently repeated features of the Levantine beauty ideal is a soft, perfumed skin. The story of Esther exemplifies this well. Before being accepted by the Persian court, she beautified and purified her body at length, anointing herself with myrrh oil and using perfumes and other cosmetics.54 This beautification practice is also well documented in the material culture. Oil, ointment, and perfume containers have been documented in tombs and sanctuaries, and also in large quantities in domestic contexts. The shape of these objects varies widely, as do the materials used in their production.55 This diversity may represent differences in the quality of the both the containers and the contents. In this regard, the small receptacles made of alabaster—known as alabastra—were ideal for preserving the qualities of the scents, because this material is opaque and impermeable. 56 These containers were produced mainly in Egypt and the Levant, especially in Ugarit.57 As their distribution is scarce and mostly concentrated in these two areas, it is quite likely that they were luxury goods used mainly by the elites during funerals.

49

CAT 1.3 III 40–41. 1 Sm 27:7. 51 See Almagro Gorbea 2009: 29. 52 See Quick 2019: 218. 53 See Dayagi-Mendels 1989. 54 Est 2:12. See also de Troyer 2004; Gansell 2014: 50. 55 See Gran Aymerich et al. 2010. 56 See Carreras Rossell 2010. 57 See Mustafa 2015: 214. 50

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Figure 4. Several oil bottles recorded in different western Phoenician sites: A, B, and C from Motya, Sicily (adapted from Orsingher 2010: tav. 1); D from Olival do Senhor, Portugal (adapted from Gomes 2019: figs. 2, 27); E from Beja, Spain (adapted from Gomes 2019: figs. 2, 29); F from Palhais, Portugal (adapted from Gomes 2019: figs. 2, 28). Clay containers were more widely used than alabastra both in the East and West. The study of oil bottles is a key element in the analysis of the trade networks of the Mediterranean Phoenician communities. These small vessels have been studied in detail from a chrono-typological perspective.58 Dating between the eighth and the sixth centuries BCE, they have a globular shape, a handle, and a narrow neck to slow the quantity of liquid to be poured.59 Contextual analysis of these vessels in the Iberian Peninsula has drawn attention to their strong presence in domestic settings in Cádiz, Morro de Mezquitilla, and Sa Caleta.60 Their presence in these sites underlines the wide use of these ointments among the western Phoenician communities, who kept alive a traditional eastern practice in their new surroundings. In fact, although the first oil bottles documented in the western Phoenician colonies are importations from the East, local productions became very popular within a short time (Fig. 4).61

58

See Orsingher 2010; Gomes 2019. See Orsingher 2010: 39. 60 See Gomes 2019: 99. 61 See Aubet 2009: 171–172; Martín Ruiz and García Carretero 2015; Gomes 2019: 99. 59

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From the sixth century BCE onwards, as the Carthaginian hegemony became established in the western Mediterranean, these receptacles grew larger, the materials used more varied, and the workshops more productive.62 Around this time, we find traces of containers made of vitreous paste and ostrich eggshell, two materials characterized by their impermeability.63 Greek toiletry items were more widely used along with oils, ointments, and perfumes. The iconography of some of these containers (and also their shape, reproducing female heads) suggests that they were used exclusively by women.64 In sum, these containers are frequently found in domestic contexts from the Levant and the western Mediterranean. This suggests that while the use of oils, perfumes and ointments had originally been restricted to religious and funerary activities, it had now become an everyday practice of wide social access not performed exclusively by the elite. Besides, in the case of women, the hydration and perfuming of the skin was an important part of the beautification process to obtain the smoothness, softness and aroma that triggered pleasure and desire, which were among the central features of the Phoenician-Punic canon of female beauty. 6. Female makeup After the cleaning and anointing of the body, the last stage in the beautification practices applied exclusively to the skin involved the use of body and, especially, facial makeup. In this nonpermanent form of embellishment, the face —so important in the Phoenician beauty model—was enhanced through the whitening of the skin and the highlighting of the eyes, mouth, and cheeks. In fact, the literary and iconographic sources suggest that the face was the main focus of this model of beauty and, consequently, the part that received the most attention in beautification practices. Several Near Eastern sources describe how women whitened their bodies and faces with flour, and how they applied red makeup to their cheeks and lips.65 The result is recorded, for example, in the Song of Songs, where the lover’s lips are described as “crimson cord” and “lilies,” and her cheeks as roses. 66 The same makeup is also documented in some Phoenician-Punic female terracotta figurines that still preserve polychrome remains; they have a white clay surface on their face, and their lips and cheeks are painted in red. Some of the figurines also present red circles on the forehead and the chin. This iconographic motif appears in some female drummers, and also in some masks and protomes. 67 62

See Orsingher 2010: 57. See Dayagi-Mendels 1989: 34. 64 See Rodríguez-Pérez 2015. 65 See Dayagi-Mendels 1989: 34. 66 Sg 4:3, 5:13, 6:7. 67 See López-Bertran and Garcia-Ventura, unpublished manuscript. 63

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Likewise, some ostrich eggshells are decorated with painted faces that reproduce the same beautification practices. In this case, the white surface of the eggshell reproduces the whitened face, while the mouth and the lips are highlighted in red. The last facial features highlighted through these practices are the eyes, the central elements of the face according to the written sources.68 The iconographic representations also enhance the eyes by enlarging them and reproducing an almond shape. Sometimes the eyes are framed by eyelashes and eyebrows, while in the ivory sculptures the gaze is intensified by the existence of central holes that might be fitted with colourful stones, thus increasing its intensity even more and also giving material form to the literary simile of the eyes as precious stones.69 The vivacity of the eyes and the gaze is also highlighted by the application of kohl, as described in the literary sources—for example, when Jezebel makes up her eyes before standing at the window70—and reflected in some terracotta and ivory figurines that present the eyes outlined in black. Like bathing and anointing, the application of kohl around the eyes has an aesthetic function but a medicinal one as well, acting as insect repellent and preventing inflammation and irritation. This beautification practice is also related to magical-religious issues, believed to deter the evil eye.71 Indeed, one of the most powerful amulets of the whole of the Near East is the “eye of Horus”, represented by a large eye highlighted by black or blue lining, which recalls the application of kohl. Although this amulet is from Egypt, it was very popular in the Phoenician-Punic world and was included in the apotropaic Phoenician-Punic heads, 72 small pendantamulets made with vitreous paste that represented encircled eyes. Kohl was applied around the eyes by men as well as women, but the written and visual sources draw attention to its key role in the construction of the ideal of female beauty. Both in the Levant and the western Mediterranean, the instruments used to embellish the face— especially the eyes—are extremely diverse. Unlike the tools used in bathing and anointing the skin, most of these artefacts related to makeup have been recorded in funerary contexts. The scarce presence of these tools in other contexts, such as the home, may be due to the fact that most of them—mainly storage boxes, palettes of makeup and sticks—were made out of organic materials like wood.73 Another ideal material for creating containers to store makeup was stone, which would have helped to keep the product fresh. 68

Gn 29:17; Sg 29:17. See Gansell 2014: 54–55; Sg 29:17. 70 2 Kgs 9:30. 71 See Dayagi-Mendels 1989: 36. 72 See Seefried 1982. 73 See Dayagi-Mengels 1989: 44. 69

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Rooms in the palaces of Megiddo and in other elite domestic contexts from Hazor and Tell Abu al-Kharaz contained stone circular palettes with a central hole that could be used to mix makeup powders.74 Similar objects made out of other materials such as ivory, vitreous paste, and glass, are also documented. To these objects we could add fine ivory spoons engraved with plant motifs and with female heads on their handles, found in several Levantine domestic contexts, mainly in Hazor. 75 Along with these luxuries, some small bronze spatulas have been found bearing one edge in the shape of a small spoon— probably used to remove the makeup from the box—and the other slightly enlarged, maybe to apply the powder (Fig. 5).76

Figure 5. Different cosmetic tools. A: Ivory khol spoon from Hazor, first half of eight century BCE (adapted from Dayagi Mendels 1989: 40); B and C: Cosmetic palettes of Phoenician type (adapted from Dayagi-Mendels 1989: 41).

74

See Dayagi-Mendels 1989: 51; Novacek 2011: 95; Fisher 2013: 537. See Yadin 1960: 41–43. 76 See Dayagi-Mendels 1989: 40–42. 75

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In the Phoenician-Punic sites in the western Mediterranean, makeup tools have mostly been recorded in funerary contexts. Boxes made of clay, alabaster or lead retrieved from tombs in Carthage and on the islands of Sardinia and Eivissa might have contained makeup pigments used to embellish both the living and the dead.77 Along with these boxes, ostrich eggshell containers were found, as well as seashells, which could have been used as palettes without any adaptation.78 Chemical analyses of samples of makeup recovered inside these boxes from the Carthaginian cemeteries have proved that the red colour is due to the presence of cinnabar and haematite, and some of the samples contain a large quantity of calcite, probably mixed to obtain a paler shade.79 In spite of the absence of anthropological studies able to determine the sex of the deceased, most of these containers were found along with mirrors and combs, two artefacts that in the Phoenician-Punic world have been traditionally associated with the female domain.80 An example is a large shell of a saltwater clam called a tridacna (Tridacna squamosa), native to the Red Sea, the Persian Gulf, and the Indian Ocean, which was used as makeup container; its nodule bears a woman’s head with the body or wings extending to the outer surface, while engraved decorations on the inner part reproduce women or fantastic animals.81 7. Conclusions The study of beauty in the Phoenician-Punic world sheds light on new aspects of the lives of these peoples, which until now have barely been studied at all. The ideal of Levantine female beauty seems to have spread throughout the Mediterranean, where it was maintained as a sign of identity shared by all the Phoenician-Punic communities who settled far from their lands of origin. Likewise, the attainment of this ideal presents a continuum with the practices of body modification—either temporary or permanent—that strengthened this common identification based on the Levant, and also idealized and constructed a normative image of femininity. We should also highlight two more ideas: first, that the beautification practices intersect with other significant activities related above all to healing and magic; second, that a notion as apparently ephemeral as beauty can be traced through the recovery of the material evidence left behind—not just through objects used to contain the products applied to the skin, but also through artistic creation and literary sources. The wide-ranging presence of these remains across time and space exemplifies the social value that the PhoenicianPunic communities attributed to female beauty. 77

See Fernández and Fuentes 1989. See Bergeron 2011. 79 See Huq et al. 2006. 80 See Bergeron 2011: 172. 81 See Kiely 2019: 100. 78

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Embodying the Past The Case of the Goddess on Lion at Hasanlu Letteria Grazia Fassari 1 and Raffaella Frascarelli 2

1. A rhizomatic approach The aim of this research is to analyse the image of a woman considered a goddess riding a lion, an image that is depicted on the Hasanlu Gold Bowl,3 hereinafter referred to as the “goddess on lion” (Fig. 1). Originally part of Central Asian iconography, the image is the subject of a syncretistic process found commonly in different geocultural and chronological contexts: in the third millennium BCE, in the Oxus Civilization and in Susa, areas corresponding to modern Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Iran; in the early centuries of the first millennium BCE, at Hasanlu in Iran; and in the later centuries of the first millennium BCE and early centuries of the first millennium CE, in the coinage of the Kushan Empire4 (second century BCE to third century CE) ruling Bactria, the area corresponding to modern Afghanistan, Pakistan, and northern India; during the fifth to sixth centuries CE, at Pendjikent in Sogdiana, the Central Asian region north of the River Oxus / Amu Darya. Furthermore, her presence in the Kushan Empire may have historical ties to Xi Wang Mu, one of the main goddesses of the Han Empire (202 BCE–220 CE). A millennia-long, multicultural iconographic tradition embracing a vast space-time dimension invites us to reflect on the symbolic aspects that determined its transmission and transformation, and to understand the relations between social practices and its popularity. The iconographic issues relating to the Hasanlu goddess on lion are the central axis from which we can analyse the “natureculture” aspects,5 revealing a mobile man-woman and human-animal reflexive perspective.

1

Department of Economic and Social Sciences, Sociological Aesthetics Research Unit, Sapienza University of Rome, [email protected]. 2 Department of Economic and Social Sciences, Sociological Aesthetics Research Unit, Sapienza University of Rome, [email protected]. 3 It is not in fact a bowl, but a beaker, as specified by Muscarella 2006: 78. 4 Regarding the debate on Kushan chronology, see Falk 2014. 5 A sign that “companion species living in naturecultures” (Haraway 2003: 65) always existed.

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Map of the geocultural references to the goddess on lion (third millennium BCE–fourth century CE). In this sense, the research highlights the ways human documentation may be collected, organized, and preserved using a rhizomatic approach.6 From the first pages of Mille plateaux onwards, one of Deleuze and Guattari’s intentions is to reorganize the movement of thinking in a procedural rather than substantive manner. Using suggestions from different cultural situations, Deleuze and Guattari extend their gaze both to the superficial landscape, identifying the multiple relationships and figurations that each topos has with other points and, using a genealogical perspective, to the stratifications that have taken place in a game of difference and persistence.7 The geophilosophy of the aforementioned authors is the setting for our proposal. In line with other contributions,8 we have problematized gender binarism and the hegemony of the humanist reading that restrains our interpretation of some archaeological artefacts. Instead, we have tried to introduce a more mobile epistemic position to filter out interpretations that are taken for granted in the classification/placement of archaeological artefacts. Our intention was to materialize and contextualise the body by removing it from the temptation to extremize both the biological and the social frames. The body itself has allowed us to reflect more freely on the meanings attributable to the goddess on lion. The issues we

6

Deleuze and Guattari 1980. Retrieved from http://www.studiculturali.it/dizionario/pdf/rizomatica.pdf. 8 Dowson 2000; Cobb and Croucher 2016; Moral de Eusebio 2016. 7

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have covered concern the performance9 of the woman who rides the lion—and her metamorphoses—and the communication between her and the animal she rides.10 Based on these arguments, we have attempted to understand if the unitary subject’s “crisis” of humanism11 affecting the postmodern subject might also be a chance to interpret the past, associating the subjectivity of the past with the same structural, relational capacity and the transformative ability of becoming. Within the frameworks of disciplinary interpretation, this perspective leads us to reconsider some boundaries that are usually taken for granted: that between the natural and the social12 and, more generally, the overcoming of dualisms, especially those pertinent to subject/object and mind/body, which place limits on the adequacy of the human body’s accounts, in the past as much as in the present. Our perspective warns us against automatisms, stereotypes, and distortions derived from conventional and still dominant interpretations in any disciplinary field. We suggest a shift away from a disciplinary credo and, instead, endorse a less comfortable, non-hegemonic, interdisciplinary uncertainty capable of formulating theoretical frames that are more inclusive.

Figure 1. After De Schauensee 2011: 66 fig. 3.5. 2. The iconographic legacy of the goddess on lion The iconography of the goddess on lion can be associated with several cultures. It is known from Central Asia to Mesopotamia, from Anatolia to India and China, and from the third millennium until the advent of Islam—a popularity that attests its multicultural strength and syncretistic communicative capacity. The 9

Butler 1990, 1993. Braidotti 2013. 11 Braidotti 2006. 12 Haraway 1991. 10

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first evidence of this millennia-old historical iconography can be seen in a Central Asian seal found at Susa (Fig. 2), later in the Oxus Civilization compartmented seals (Fig. 3) and, much later, both in Kushan coinage (Fig. 4) and at Pendjikent in Sogdiana (Fig. 5). With regard to the Kushan tradition, syncretism between the goddess on lion and Xi Wang Mu (Fig. 9), main goddess of the Han pantheon, should be taken into consideration as a potentially vital influence on Kushan kingship ideology.

Figure 2. After Porada 1965: 38 fig. 13.

Figure 5. After Škoda 2009: 256 fig. 121.4.

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Dressed in a kaunakes while sitting sidesaddle on the lion, on the Hasanlu Gold Bowl the goddess holds a mace head in her right hand and both a mirror and the lion’s reins in her left hand. The lion has wide-open jaws, a thick mane, and a swastika on his right loin (Fig. 6).

Figure 6. After De Schauensee 2011: 66 fig. 3.5 (detail). The narrative and visual style of the Gold Bowl highlight the multicultural intersection among Assyrian,13 Syro-Hurrian,14 Hurro-Urartian,15 Transcaucasian and Central Asian,16 and Iranian17 influences. The exquisite manufacture of the Gold Bowl paints a cultural and economic portrait of an elite that collected luxury goods to reinforce its local status and hierarchy. Although it is still difficult to establish if it was locally made, imported, or arrived as booty,18 it is undoubtedly an object of ancient veneration.19 Found in the hands of an individual discovered inside the Burned Building I that collapsed during the destruction of Hasanlu, today the Gold Bowl remains a mysterious object of uncertain and controversial interpretation.20 13

Dyson et al. 1969. Porada 1959. 15 Winter 1989. 16 Rubinson 2003, 2006. 17 Vanden Berghe 1961. 18 Porada 1959: 19. 19 The vessel was produced using a sophisticated embossing and chiseling process. Main studies include Porada 1959; Barrelet 1984; Duchesne-Guillemin 1984; Winter 1989; Dyson 2003. The cultural horizon is that of Ziwiye, Denḵa Tepe, Qalatāgh, and Agrab Tepe—refined metallurgy capable of expressing its political-religious independence. Along with the Assyrian ideological influence (Muscarella 2006), this cultural independence is also inspired by a multicultural language with Eurasian influences. 20 Since the Chalcolithic period, the area around Lake Urmia has been considered a sensitive route for the metal trade, due in part to its proximity to the Caucasian and Trans14

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2.1. Susa and the Oxus Civilization Dating to the end of the Archaic Dynasties (2500 BCE), the earliest trace of the goddess on lion iconography can be seen in a Central Asian seal found at Susa21 (Fig. 2). It consists of an image of a woman seated alternatively on one or two lions22 while taking part in various ceremonies.23 In addition to the cylinder seal from Susa, the same iconography is also found in the Oxus Civilization compartmented seals, 24 though there are significant changes in these renderings: variously, she is seated sidesaddle on a hybrid animal with a feline body and an ophidian head (Fig. 3a);25 equipped with wings and open and raised arms in a gesture of welcome (Fig. 3b);26 seated on a dragon, her hands folded, with Hathorian wings, long flowing hair, wearing a kaunakes (Fig. 3c);27 seated on a fantastical animal (Fig. 3d);28 and winged, arms across her chest, seated on two lions (Fig. 3e).29 The hypothesis that all these divinities represent a sole goddess should not be underestimated. 30 The iconography of the goddess seated on a

caucasian metallurgical areas. In a diachronic sense, it bears traces of Maikop and KuraAraxes people: metallurgy, mobility on animal-drawn carts, and breeding. The dating of metal objects of symbolic and religious value is not as obvious. Once again, it is important to highlight the complex, incomplete, and controversial chronological framework of these areas throughout the Bronze Age, which, even with meticulous stratigraphic excavation, may give rise to erroneous dating. That said, the case of Hasanlu is the perfect example of how excavation can give rise to complex, perilous evaluations. On this issue, see Muscarella 2013. 21 Porada 1965: 38 fig. 13; Amiet 1986: 128 fig. 71; Collon 1990: 45 fig. 31; Collon 2005: 165 fig. 758. 22 We are dealing here with the reconstruction of a series of impressions of the same seal. See Porada 1965: 38 fig. 13; Pittman 2002: 211–235; Amiet 2005: 1–12. 23 At top left, the cylinder seal bears the inscription E-gi-…,…-dim (gold and pure silver). See Collon 1990: 45; Amiet 2004: 8. 24 Amiet 1978: 162 fig. 34; Pottier 1980; Ligabue and Salvatori 1988: 58; Winkelmann 2004: 71–73. 25 The animal resembles a bearded, one-horned dragon. The goddess’s bust is bare and she wears a long kaunakes, her arms crossed over her chest, her hair gathered at the nape, while two goats protrude from her arms. A detailed analysis is given in Pottier 1980. 26 Winkelmann 2004: 71–73. However, there is also a representation of a goddess seated on a dragon, her hands to her chest, that recalls the image of the Susa seal (Amiet 1978: 162 fig. 34). 27 Sarianidi 2002: 261. 28 “Fabuleux, qu’à première vue on pourrait prendre pour un éléphant, mais qui s’apparente davantage à un félin au cou démesuré tel qu’il en apparaît à l’époque protourbaine” (Amiet 1978: 162 fig. 34). 29 Ligabue and Salvatori 1988, pl. 58; Francfort 2007: 113 fig. 16. 30 Francfort 1992: 189–192; 2005: 282–285; Winkelmann 2004: 50.

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wild or mythological animal might express different sociopolitical needs,31 confirmed by its dissemination in Central Asia for millennia.32 A further comment on the figurative theme of the lion as iconography originating in Central Asia, rather than Mesopotamia, will be discussed below. The figurative system of the Oxus Civilization is only in part a local apparatus,33 since it also has ties with China, where lions and dragons play a relevant symbolic role, with India, and with a vast network of mobile boundaries overlapping with the Eurasian steppe inhabited by nomadic people.

31 The Mesopotamian sources, though biased at times, nonetheless describe a rich and varied religious world that extends beyond Elam. Aratta is a fantastical land where temples are made of lapis lazuli (Potts 1994: 13), and, despite the fact that some enemies are said not to have divinities, the exaggerated propagandistic tone indicates the absence of real knowledge of the religious practices of these distant lands. This kind of disinformation leads to the affirmation “Gutium, people who know no inhibitions, with human instinct but canine intelligence and monkey’s features” (description of the Gutians in Potts 1994: 25) or “who lives in a tent and knows not the places of the gods” (speaking of Shimashki, Kramer 1987: 15). Although the language and lifestyle of these people are not always understood, the same sources disparaging them as “uncivilized” also say they are able to rule Akkad (the Gutians) and create dynasties in Elam (sukkalmak). In this controversial and ideological Mesopotamian attitude, one can detect the unequivocal detachment of hegemonic prejudices towards other cultures. 32 The pantheon of the Civilisation de l’Oxus “donne la prééminence à l’image d’une divinité féminine maîtresse des animaux et du dragon (léonin ou ophidien), une grande déesse qui semble symboliser une fonction dispensatrice d’eau, de fertilité des végétaux et de fécondité du bétail, sauvage et domestique. Elle est toujours représentée dans des attitudes nobles, et seule apparaît en matériaux précieus, pierre fines, or ou argent, comme ici où, au dos de sceaux compartimentés, elle maîtrise des lion ou, trônant sur un dragon, elle donne naissance à des chavreaux qui jaillisent de ses épaules” (Francfort 2007: 113 fig. 16). 33 “One point for the reader to begin with, that has not been noticed until now, is that deeply rooted locally in the iconography and ideology of the Oxus Civilization is an original system of images that represent cycles in nature and life. These are notably different from those known in Mesopotamia or Avestic mythology but may be related to some Elamite beliefs. The Oxus iconography is not comparable with what we know of the Indus representations” (Francfort 1992: 181). In these considerations, while the observation on the independence of the Oxus Civilization repertoire is viable, it is also true that when mentioning the “Elamite beliefs”, the figurative influence of the Indian world on Elam must be taken into consideration. Elam is a vast confederation that also includes Shahdad, Jiroft, and, more generally, the area of Kerman. The latter is well known for its narrow interaction with the Indus valley (Ascalone 2008).

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Figure 3a. After Pottier 1980: 175 pl. 1.

Figure 3b. After Winkelmann 2004: 71.

Figure 3c. After Sarianidi 2002: 261.

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Figure 3d. After Amiet 1978: 162 fig. 34.

Figure 3e. After Ligabue, Salvatori 1988: pl. 58.

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2.2. The relationship between the goddess on lion, the Kushan Nana, and Xi Wang Mu In the first millennium BCE, when Hellenism merged the figurative heritage of Mesopotamia, Anatolia, Elam, Iran, Central Asia, China, and India within a syncretistic framework, the iconography of the goddess on lion was part of a semantic rereading that favoured the manifestation of the kingship’s authority. The first stage in this ideological transformation can be found during the Kuṣāṇa period, when the iconography of the goddess on lion was associated with the goddess Nana34 (Figs. 4a–c), portrayed in Kushan coinage.35 One can tackle the issue of mechanically associating the Kushan Nana with the Nanaia36 of Sumerian origin, simply because of the theonyms’ resemblance, by analyzing the history of Kushan culture itself.37 Kushan religious eclecticism is the result of an economic and political strategy that would lead the empire to worship Chinese, Iranian, Indian, Central Asian, Greek, and Roman deities.38 Yet to better understand such a syncretistic approach, we must outline the tie between the Kushan and the Yuezhi, the latter a nomadic tribe that lived in vassalage under the Han Empire (202 BCE–220 CE).

Figure 4a. After Rosenfield 1967: VII.144. 34

Rosenfield 1967: 83–91; Mukherjee 1969; Falk 2015: 265–299. Rosenfield 1967: 83–91; 1969. 36 Nanaia appears for the first time in the archive of Sumerian queen Šulgi-simti (Sigrist 1992: 222–246): she is one of the most prominent goddesses of Mesopotamia. 37 “The notion of a Kushan Dynasty or of a Kushan Period is entirely that of modern historians. Although the term Kushan is known in ancient sources, it is often used to refer to a dynasty other than the one designated by modern historians. Chinese chronicles employed the term Yuezhi, and at least one Indian source (Pargiter, 1913: 72) likely designated the dynasty we are discussing as muruṇḍa” (Bracey 2016). 38 Multiculturalism and syncretism are used by the empire to strengthen economic relations, gather consensus, and exercise power. The Kushans’ commercial vocation develops and is consolidated primarily through the great project of religious inclusion, reflecting a liberal (though clearly elitist) vision of the economy that reemerges in their coinage. The formal, stylistic, conceptual re-elaboration of Greek, Iranian, Buddhist, Brahman, and Jain divinities characterizes the rich iconography associated with the image of the sovereign himself (Bracey 2016). 35

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Figure 4b. After Rosenfield 1967: VIII.146.

Figure 4c. After Rosenfield 1967: VIII.14. The history of the Yuezhi starts in the third century BCE, when the Xiong-nu,39 a formidable confederation with a mixed nomadic and seminomadic background, exerted military pressure that forced the five nomadic Yuezhi tribes to migrate westwards.40 Chinese sources in the Hou-han-shou tell us that, due to the conflict, one of the five tribes that would settle in Bactria was the Kueishang (kuṣaṇā),41 forced to relocate by the powerful Xiong-nu. Before they migrated west, the Yuezhi were a nomadic force that practiced significant trade 39

Most likely ancestors of the Huns (Bivar 2009). The Chinese book Mu Tianzi zhuan (The Story of King Mu, the Son of Heaven) underlines that, before their arrival in Bactria following conflict with the Xiong-nu, the Yuezhi were a powerful nomadic tribal confederation, whose territory took “seven days of walking” to cross (Thierry 2005: 29). All the Chinese sources quoted onwards are those reported in Thierry 2005, among them Hou-han-shou, Yi Zhoushu, Guanzi, Shiji, Hanshu, Zhuangzi, and Shan hai jing. 41 Bivar 2009. 40

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with the most powerful ideological system of the time, the Han Empire.42 If the Yi Zhoushu considers them vassals who pay tribute in horses to the Zhou dynasty (1050–256 BCE),43 an account concerning control of the jade trade is particularly relevant. The Guanzi reports that, thanks to their strategic position on the border with the Kunlun Mountains and the Tarim Basin, the Yuezhi controlled jade mining, while Shiji and Hanshu texts state that their original homeland lay between the Qilian and Tian Shan mountains,44 famously rich in this precious stone. The economic link with the Han Dynasty suggests a cultural permeability that may have inspired a shared vision of the cosmic order, to the point of developing a special religious devotion to one of the main goddesses of the Han pantheon, Xi Wang Mu (Fig. 9).45

Figure 9. After Knauer 2006: 70 fig. 3.6. This pre-migratory worship might be explained by information from Chinese sources (the Zhuangzi and Shan hai jing), which state that Xi Wang Mu resided in the immortal mountains of the West, the Kunlun Mountains, where the most precious jade can be found. Given the Yuezhi’s control of western jade, it is 42

Chinese sources can be considered a valuable voice for understanding the relations between the Yuezhi and the Han Empire. Their frequent ideological intent, manipulations by compilers and publishers, and the misinterpretations made by modern scholars in deciphering their complex historical meaning—often incapable of correctly rendering proper names, toponymy, and ethnonyms—do not help to shed any light (Thierry 2005). 43 Ibid.: 29. 44 Ibid.: 30–31. 45 For a comprehensive study on Xi Wang Mu, see Loewe 1979 and Fracasso 1988.

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impossible that the tribe did not know of the tradition: according to the Han Dynasty map of sacred geography, Xi Wang Mu lived precisely within the regions controlled by the Yuezhi.46 The question is why they chose Xi Wang Mu and not another deity of the Han Dynasty. Jade trading might have favoured Xi Wang Mu in the eyes of Yuezhi’s leaders, a tradition that would later inspire Kushan sovereigns to adopt the iconography of the goddess on lion for their goddess Nana. The goddess on lion, Nana, and Xi Wang Mu share a feline attribute, but more importantly there are linguistic remarks that clearly allude to a special form of kingship ascribed to these female figures. 2.3. Nanašao and Xi Wang Mu: the goddesses who are kings In China, Xi Wang Mu appears for the first time in the Shang period (1600– 1046 BCE) and, after a long pause, during the Warring States period (453–221 BCE). Shan Hai Jing associates her with happiness, longevity, and immortality, defining her as builder of the cosmos, guarantor of annual rebirth, guardian of nature.47 Considering Xi Wang Mu as Kubaba might make sense if one considers that the origin of Kubaba always lies in the iconography of the Central Asian goddess on lion. This iconography leaves its visual imprint on the figure of Xi Wang Mu sitting on a feline,48 also called Queen Mother of the West.49 Upon their arrival in Bactria, the Yuezhi meet the goddess on lion, a figure not only venerated by the local population for millennia but also endowed with religious qualities that naturally fit with worship of Xi Wang Mu. The Yuezhi’s need to gain authority in a foreign territory they wanted to rule might have been the engine transforming the goddess on lion into a powerful instrument of politi46 Beyond this aspect of an identity and territorial nature, and since she represents the imperial authority, Xi Wang Mu may also have inspired the Yuezhi’s desire to emulate the Han dynasty. 47 “The Shan Hai Jing is the oldest written source for descriptions of weird beings, spirits, and Xiwangmu. It is an imaginative geography of China listing mountains, rivers, and beings who inhabit them including one called Xiwangmu who dwells far away to the west, either west to the Jade mountain (SHJ 2/14b), or north of the Kunlun mountain (SHJ 12/1a). She is a therianthropic being, in part human, but with a leopard’s tail and a tiger tooth, who wears a jade sheng in her untidy hair (SHJ 2/14b). Three birds bring food to her (SHJ 12/1a). She is also one of a number of mythical persons who obtains the Dao, but no one knows her origin or her ending (Zhuangzi 6:3/11a). The Western Han poet Sima Xiangru (179–117 B.C.) describes her as living in a cave, believing that her longevity in such uncomfortable accommodation is unenviable (HS 57B; 17b–18a). In the Huainanzi, written around 122 B.C.E., she gives the potion of immortality to the archer Yi but his wife, Chang’o steals it and flees with it to the moon (HNZ 6/8a)” (James 1995: 18). 48 In reality, her throne is composed of a tiger and a dragon, but in the later artistic representation she is seated on the tiger. 49 Knauer 2006: 62.

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cal-religious propaganda. The syncretism between the Chinese Xi Wang Mu and the goddess on lion worshipped in Bactria seems to be the prime mover for the veneration of the Nana Kuṣāṇa, her figure becoming evidence of tribal interaction between the Yuezhi and Kushans that influenced the ideological choices of the confederation founded by Kanishka.50 In the Rabatak inscription,51 Kanishka celebrates a dynastic, territorial, cultural, and personal history, commemorating the figure of his father, Vima Kadphises; his grandfather Vima Taktu; and his great-grandfather Kujula Kadphises.52 Nana, the goddess from whom he “has obtained the kingship”, seems to gather echoes from China, Mesopotamia, Iran, and Central Asia, symbolizing the Kushans’ determination to combine different cultural legacies into a single divine figure. What deserves careful analysis are the puzzling titles attributed to Nana. On the reverse of some Kanishka coins, the goddess bears the male title Nanašao, that is “Nanā the king” (Figs. 4a–c). Returning to the ties between the Kushans and Yuezhi, it is interesting to note how Chinese sources allude to the Yuezhi tradition allowing the queen of a deceased king to rule on his throne.53 This twofold feminine-masculine role embodied by a single figure, a goddess as much as a nomadic “female king”, might also be an original aspect of the yinyang dualism belonging to Xi Wang Mu. Indeed, her name is composed of xi (west), wang (king), and mu (mother).54 While Kominani deals with her androg50

Having analyzed in detail the settlements of different Yuezhi tribes, François Thierry asks: “Pourquoi vouloir que les xihou et donc le xihou de Guishuang, soient des Yuezhi si l’on n’a pas déjà une théorie sur la question? .… Chacune des cinq principautés xihou constituait probablement un groupe tribal dirigé par un yabghu qui reconnaissait la prééminence des Yuezhi. … La composition ethnique de la population, pas forcément similaire, de chacune des cinq principautés est probablement formé de divers groupes amalgamés au cours de l’histoire, nomades yuezhi, nomades se et autres tribus, populations migrantes iranienne et grecque résiduelles, et autochtones bactriens refoulés dans les hautes vallées, etc.” (2005: 61–62). 51 The inscription of Rabatak has been the subject of many studies: Sims-Williams 1996, 1998, 2005, 2008, 2012; Sims-Williams and Cribb 1996; Mukherjee 1995; Fussman 1998. 52 Sims-Williams and Falk 2014. 53 Thierry 2005: 13, 46. 54 Indeed, the word commonly used to translate “queen” or “empress” is hou. As Paper underlines, “So why is her title always translated as ‘Queen Mother of the West’? She was known well before the Han dynasty, but to continue the balance so important in Han ideology, there was added Dungwangfu, ‘King Father of the East’. In Western values, when there is both a king and queen, they are not thought to have equal power. The standard, incorrect English translation automatically reduces Xiwangmu’s power in comparison to that of the King Father of the East, yet the opposite is actually the case. Here we have a clear example of Eurocentric-androcentric values, whether conscious or not, belittling the importance of a female Chinese divinity. I decided to translate the term

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ynous role as primordial creator, 55 Seidel underlines that her unpartnered supremacy over the cosmos is the result of being both a primordial cosmic demiurge and a mother goddess:56 in short, she does not merge yin and yang but creates both. The role of Xi Wang Mu as a symbol of immortality, mistress of wild animals, and a bisexual figure is highly intriguing.57 Benefitting the birth of the Kuṣāṇa empire in the geopolitical scene of Central Asia, the rise of the tribal element not only combines economic interests and political aspirations, but also traditions and cults such as that of Xi Wang Mu and the goddess on lion. It visually defines a syncretistic tradition empowered by the Hellenistic attitude towards transforming iconographies by creating new divine figures with as many functions as possible.

Figure 10. After Ambos 2003: 239 abb. 2. The impact of such dynamism creates a no-borders figurative space, a speculative laboratory that selects, elaborates, and transmits notions, traditions, and rituals belonging to thousand-year-old histories. 58 The goddess, who is not literally: King Mother of the West. Wang is a term for a male ruler; what right do we have to abrogate her holding a male title? The few women who were emperors in China held the male title of Emperor, not Empress. I do not accept the objection of some of my sinological colleagues that the Chinese really meant hou rather than wang, and, because she is female, we must translate her name with ‘Queen’” (2016: 261–262). 55 Kominami 1974: 62–74. 56 Seidel 2008: 104. 57 Mori 1990. 58 The free circulation of ideas spread along merchant roads, more precisely the route that unwinds from Zeugma on the Euphrates towards Seleucia, Ctesiphon, and Artemita, and from there to Ecbatana towards Bactria and northwestern India, or to Susa, Sistan,

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queen but king, also returns in a fragment of a pithos from Assur59 (Fig. 10). The Aramaic inscription explains that offerings are made to Nana mlk, Nana “the king”, once more evoking the Kushan Nanašao60 as much as Xi Wang Mu, considered the Western king-mother. Although difficult to decode, does this coincidence allude once again to the feminine and masculine role symbolised by the goddess on lion? 2.4. Pendjikent Sogdiana is the last phase in thousands of years of figurative changes to the iconography of the goddess on lion, with her image found at the sanctuary of Pendjikent61 (Fig. 9). In Sogdiana, Hellenism accelerates the religious syncretism capable of transmuting and even transfiguring divinities, breaking down ideological borders and allowing traditions rooted not only in the local Iranian– Central Asian repertoire, but also from Mesopotamia, India, and China, to converge.62 The composite religious beliefs expressed by the pictorial cycles and findings from Pendjikent are such that any attempt to establish a single iconographic-religious local repertoire risks failing under an initial comparative analysis. At Pendjikent, the cult of the goddess on lion is one of many practiced by the local population.63 Within this syncretism, any efforts to recognize mutual influences remain extremely delicate and complicated.64 Beside a strong iconographic core that respects her traditional posture on the lion, Indian ideological and visual influences can be seen in her four arms.65 During the centuries when the doctrines of Buddhism, Manichaeism, Christianity, and Hinduism are mutually interwoven, surely influencing Sogdiana’s local traditions, they are also assimilated from the local religious substratum: this results in astonishing visual syncretism. Once more, Central Asia appears to be a laboratory of tireless experimentation and research, where communities seem to be less prone to discrimination and more willing to include new experiences.

and the lower Indus Valley. From the Indian side, the route led towards the river Oxus and from there to the Caspian Sea and the Black Sea. The meeting points of Indian and Chinese merchants as well as of caravans from the Mediterranean can be seen in places like Tashkurgan and Kandahar. Regarding the question of the routes travelled by merchants, and their relation to ancient thought, see McEvilley 2002: 349–402. 59 Ambos 2003: 239. 60 Drijvers 1980: 47. 61 Marshak 2002; Azarpay 1976: 536–542; 1981: 130–140; Grenet and Marshak 1998: 5–18; Škoda 2009: 256, figs. 121.1, 121.3, 121.4. 62 Škoda 2009. 63 Azarpay 1981; Grenet and Marshak 1998. 64 Marshak 2002. 65 Škoda 2009: 256, figs. 121.1, 121.3, 121.4

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3. Motus: riding as collective strategy In Central Asia, the popularity of the iconography of riding is connected to nomadic practices, more precisely to the human figure riding horses and other animals. With good reason, one should include it in the huge visual dictionary of petroglyphs scattered over an immense area from Siberia to Central Asia, dating from the fourth millennium BCE, but possibly much earlier.66 As authentic epistemic codes, 67 the semiotics of petroglyphs visually translate and explain the surrounding landscape, creating a world map with functional and sacred symbols comparable to our road signs, providing useful information on finding food and avoiding natural dangers and enemy territories, and revealing unusual events.68 Anticipating the cultural impact of a powerful technology such as writing, the visual cartography of symbols and images reveals the millennia-long legacy of people who see mobility and migration as their main forms of subsistence and prominent cultural background. Strengthened by the steppe’s natural toughness, these communities established deep ties with the animal kingdom as the centre of their aesthetics, giving birth to a Warburghian atlas where riding an animal is among the most intimate gestures revealing the single dimension of belonging to human nature. Before the symbiotic human-animal gaze, our modern nature-culture divide is a superimposed interpretation: petroglyphs show how riding an animal is not just a functional requirement, but the natureculture69 that forms an ecological relationship with wild and domestic animals, in particular with the horse.70 The horse’s central role in Eurasian steppe communities is reflected in nomads’ he worship and devotion towards this animal.71 Riding is a figurative heritage recorded in

66

There is a huge amount of documentation on petroglyphs scattered from Siberia to Kazakhstan. This study has only considered images that are associated with animal riders. Several researchers authored “Répertoire des pétroglyphes d’Asie Centrale”, Tome V.1–7 (published in Mémoires de la Mission Archéologique Française en Asie Centrale), an account of research conducted in southern Siberia (Russia, Khakassie, Altai), in Kazakhstan, and in northwestern Mongolia; the outstanding analysis and decryption of the petroglyphs found in Central Asia was the compass for the following considerations. The visual legacy of the Eurasian steppe interacts with many cultures: it is still an underexplored material that might help us understand the insufficiently researched relationship between the cultures of China, Mesopotamia, Anatolia, Egypt, and India. 67 Frascarelli 2020. 68 Inhabited by the spirits of nature, supernatural presences, and magic rituals, nomadic traditions periodically overcome the boundaries of the steppe to infiltrate the IndoAryan, Buddhist, and even monotheistic worlds. 69 A sign that “companion species living in naturecultures” (Haraway 2003: 65) always existed. 70 Anthony 2007: 197–201. 71 The earliest practice of horseback riding can be traced to Dereivka (Drews 2004: 12–19).

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Early Bronze Age petroglyphs,72 and surely practiced much earlier in the fourth millennium BCE.73 In some cases, with graphism reminiscent of modern abstract art (Fig. 7), the figuratively stylized petroglyphs do not allow us to establish with certainty if the animal is a deer or rather a horse equipped with false deer antlers,74 or if the rider mounting huge horned cattle,75 yak,76 horses, 77 camels, 78 or portrayed while hunting79 or traveling80 is female or male.81 Riding an animal reveals the concept of nomadism as a sacred collective life strategy. Whatever the animal, the mutual belonging to human nature enables people to move quickly and easily, carrying both material goods and the immaterial apparatus made up of beliefs, rites, and traditions that transform riding into a magical gesture.

Figure 7. After Jacobson, Kubarev, and Tseevendorj 2001: fig 398. 72

Jacobson et al. 2006: 32–41. Drews 2004: 12. 74 Ibid.: 256 fig. 486 (Early Iron Age). 75 Ibid.: 149 fig. 50. 76 Ibid.: 332 fig. 781 (Late Bronze Age). 77 Ibid.: 214 fig. 310; 233 fig. 391; 234 fig. 394; 235 fig. 397 (Iron Age), fig. 398 (Bronze Age); 238 fig. 411 (Iron Age); 378 figs. 954–955 (Early Iron Age); 411 fig. 1077 (Bronze Age); 442 fig. 1180 (Bronze Age or Iron Age); 466 fig. 1275 (Iron Age); 472 fig. 1296 (Iron Age). 78 Ibid.: 249 fig. 455 (Late Bronze Age or Early Iron Age), 416 fig. 1093 (Late Bronze Age), 458 fig. 1248 (Late Bronze Age, Early Iron Age). 79 Jacobson et al. 2001: 142 figs. 28–29 (Iron Age), 148 fig. 46 (Bronze Age), 260 fig. 507 (Iron Age), 277 fig. 570 (Iron Age), 280 fig. 582 (Late Bronze Age). 80 Ibid.: 148 fig. 46 (Bronze Age). It is difficult to say here if the scene represents a ritual action or rather a form of training for animal riding. 81 There is, however, the case of a female figure who masters a bull ridden by another human figure. See Jacobson et al.: 294 fig. 631 (Bronze Age). 73

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The strong visual influence describing the figure of a rider is also found in Level II of the kārum at Kültepe, ancient Kanesh (1945–ca. 1835 BCE). A seal impression shows a horseman, or a deity seated sidesaddle on an animal that can be considered a horse or a large wolf (Fig. 8). In his hands, the horseman holds what appear to be reins directly linked to the animal’s nose.82 Regardless of the animal species, what is relevant is the riding style, recalling the typical posture of Eurasian steppe nomads seen in the petroglyphs. Since the kārum at Kanesh is nothing more than a trading station where goods arrive and depart not only along the Mesopotamia-Anatolia axis, but potentially also from Central Asia towards Anatolia,83 it is more than likely that the traders also included Eurasian steppe nomads. The hypothesis is reinforced by the fact that, from the Chalcolithic period (ca. 4500–3600 BCE) to the Iron Age (ca. 1140–550 BCE) and from the Levantine cultures to the royal tombs of Ur (2600–2350 BCE), the social structure of the Ancient Near East is often altered by a foreign ethnic presence: the treasure of Nahal Mishmar,84 the Kura-Araxes85 at Arslantepe in Anatolia,86 and in the Levant,87 the influence of Andronovo on the Oxus Civilization 88 and the hegemony of Mitanni 89 are just some examples of recurrent influences from outside the alluvium.

Figure 8. After Drews 2004: 43 fig. 3.8. 82

Drews 2004: 43 fig. 3.8. Liverani 1988: 358–371. 84 Bar-Adon 1980. 85 Kushnareva 1997: 43–78. 86 Frangipane 2014. 87 Philip and Baird 2000: 9, 19–24. 88 Cattani 2008; Luneau 2015. 89 Freu 2003. 83

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Our knowledge of traditions from Eurasian ethnic groups defined as nomadic still demands tireless research. Devoid of any form of writing at least until the first millennium BCE, part of their history is still hidden within their visual apparatus, in which riding conveys a sense of strategic collective belonging. 4. The visual narrative of the Hasanlu gold bowl What is the connection between all the female deities riding animals and felines and the goddess on lion portrayed in the Hasanlu Gold Bowl? As mentioned before, the narrative style of the Gold Bowl seemingly alludes to a multicultural mythological heritage. Depicted in the hands both of a priest who performs a libation in front of a bovine, and of a figure who performs a ritual in front of a bovine-legged throne, 90 the vessel’s figurative themes show ceremonies that were not held inside architectural spaces like traditional temples—on the contrary, these practices were carried out in the open air. 91 Furthermore, visual features such as heroes/warriors wearing short skirts decorated with long fur tails, 92 weapons floating in space,93 and bovine-legged (perhaps even equine) altars all unequivo-

90 Since the vessel was completely flattened when found, the reconstruction of its original shape reveals that it resembled a jug more than a cup (Winter 1989: 89). 91 According to Mesopotamian sources, at Aratta sacrifices and prayers were also held outdoors “in the highlands” (Vanstiphout 2003: 71). A lack of religious buildings, an obvious condition for nomadic people, brings first to Elam and later to Persia two interdependent religious traditions that worship both in temples and the open air. Elam’s role in the ethnogenesis of Persia is demonstrated by the crucial legacy of water worship, a cult necessarily performed outdoors that would not just influence the religious tradition around Anāhitā, the most prominent goddess of the Mazdaean faith, but early Greek philosophy as well. Regarding the influence of Avestan “scientific thought” on Thales’s doctrine, see Frascarelli 2015. These open-air rituals also find an echo in Herodotus’s account of the Persians’ religious customs (I.131.2). 92 A character equipped with bow and arrows wears this special attire, perhaps the figure engaged in fighting the three-headed anguiped creature. According to the cliché of Mesopotamia, fur tails hanging from male kilts, musical instruments, trophies, and quivers might suggest an ethnogeographical connotation referring to the peoples of the mountains. In the famous Akkadian seal of Kalki (Frankfort 1939: 140; Collon 1982: 73; 1990: 23 fig. 9), a figure carries a quiver decorated with the same fur tails and wears particular shoes with upturned toes. A very similar fur decoration reappears in a musical instrument played by a figure wearing upturned shoes (Francfort 2003: 44 fig. 1). Another fur-tailed kilt and the same upturned shoes are worn by a figure depicted on silver vessels found at Trialeti and Karashamb (Rubinson 2003: 237; Kohl 2007: 115–117). In the seal of Kalki, it is possible that the figure equipped with a quiver and wearing upturned shoes is a chief, perhaps of Hurrian ethnicity, possibly of Transcaucasian origin. 93 Weapons and shields reproduced in the Karashamb vessel are in the same style (Kohl 2007: 116 fig. 3.28).

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cally recall themes and styles typical of Transcaucasia.94 When compared to the iconography of the goddess on lion from the Oxus Civilization, the lion rider of the Hasanlu Gold Bowl has been radically transformed. The ancient prayerful aspect is replaced by a horsewoman holding reins and a mace-head in her right hand95 and a mirror in her left hand.96 The lion is no longer a mere support, but is harnessed by reins like those used for horses:97 on its right loin it bears a prominent swastika identical to that depicted on the lion’s body in the Kalardasht gold bowl.98 Such a semantic transfiguration from wild untamed animal to domestic tamed animal deserves further consideration, particularly when analysing the multicultural linguistic settings of Hasanlu, more precisely the connections between Hurro-Urartian, Northern Caucasian, and Indo-European linguistic data. In a Hurrian-Luwian-Hittite bilingual text belonging to the hippological cycle, the goddess Pirinkar, “Pferdegottheit”, also known as great lioness, is invoked.99 One of the names attributed to the Hurrian Pirinkar/Firingar, i.e., arta/du-ma-an-zi=URUKI (“of the city, belonging to the city”, which in turn comes from the Hurrian ardi, “city”)100 might be the origin of the teonimic Artemis.101 Is it possible that the goddess riding the lion like a horse might be Pirinkar?102 94 A figure raises a glass in front of this altar: the object is very similar to those found in Karashamb (ibid.) and Trialeti (Rubinson 2003: 238 fig. 21.2). 95 The mirror and scepter are two elements that remain unaltered in the goddess on lion until the Kuṣāṇa period, alternating with other emblems. According to one hypothesis, the two objects could be a distaff and spindle (Rova 2008: 561). 96 The so-called Sarmatian metal mirrors are typical offerings found in female Sarmatian burials, placed next to weapons (arrowheads and daggers) and amulets. The function of these mirrors is not entirely clear, but it is worth noting that the “Shin-ear” Chinese mirrors have perforated handles that allowed the holder to wear them as a necklace: the strong analogies between Chinese (Xinjiang) and Central Asian productions are already evident in Andronovo culture (Kuz’mina 2007: 263–264). 97 At Hasanlu, the presence of equestrian objects indicates the socioeconomic and cultural importance of the horse for the local community. Regarding the study of harnesses and equestrian trappings, see de Schauensee 1989. 98 Both vessels have an identical guilloche band encircling the rim, a decoration similar to the Marlik gold bowl (Negahban 1996: 61, 63). The gold bowl of Kalardasht is an object of refined toreutics: four lions with protruding heads are proof of the highest technical manufacture. One of the felines also has a swastika on its loin and snout, a detail that recalls the lion of the Hasanlu Gold Bowl (Porada 1965: 91, 94 fig. 61). It is impossible to determine the geographical origins of this ancient symbol, widespread in Mesopotamia, India, Africa, Europe, and Asia since the Neolithic age. In Central Asia, the swastika appears both on the stamps of the Oxus Civilization and on the Andronovo ceramic (Kuzmina 2008: 168, 170). 99 Manifestation of Ištar, in turn equivalent to the Hurrite Shaushka, but also of the Babylonian Ninsianna and of the Hurrite Piringir (Ivanov 1999). 100 The capital of Urartu is ardi-ni—that is to say, Musasir.

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These hypotheses and considerations are in no way intended to provide certainties, but rather to suggest the cultural polysemy of the Hasanlu Gold Bowl. Multiculturally interactive communities with access to languages concentrated in contiguous areas (Hittite, Luwian, Hurrian, Transcaucasian, Urartian) might have created the vessel as a propaganda tool designed to indicate socioreligious and political cohesion. The vessel might be an illustrated manual of devotional practices from numerous traditions, a visual manifesto intended to combine the pantheons of several peoples, possibly the transposition of a collective imagination of myths, religious ceremonies, and secular episodes, all merged to promote cultural continuum and mutual sociopolitical recognition. Further research might shed light on the connection between Hasanlu and the Eurasian steppe network, notably the shamanic cultural heritage rooted in nomadic cultures that consider taming and riding a lion to be a magical ability.103 5. Archaeological data So far, we have dealt with the legacy and metamorphoses of a visual device depicting a woman riding a lion. We have tried to analyze semantics and semiotics arising from a strongly syncretized iconography spanning about five thousand years, from Central Asia to Anatolia, Mesopotamia, China, and India. 101

Ivanov 1999: 58–59. Some places dedicated to Artemis bear names associated with the horse. The Mycenaean epithet “[po-]ti-ni-ja i-qeja= Potniâi hiqqweiai”, “(to) The Lady of horses” (variant: πότνια θηρῶν, “Lady of the wild beasts” with reference to a Cretan goddess assimilated in Asia Minor with Cybele and Artemis) suggests ties both with the horse and with wild animals, including the lion. In the pantheon of Iran, the figure of Anāhitā has numerous connections with the horse: the arms of the goddess are as strong as the legs of the horse, she leads a chariot drawn by four stallions, and she is the goddess who ensures the speed of the animal (although the description of Yašt 5 may also refer to epithets not specifically related to the iconography of the goddess). In the hippological treatise, the invocation “Pirinkar (and) (Hurrian) Isht [ar] (= Shaushka)! ([make] the horses prosp[erous!])” reminds us that Anāhitā, Pirinkar, and Shaushka are all deities invoked for a herd of fast-moving horses, a power shared by all the goddesses who therefore have a direct link with the animal. Taming a wild horse is not a simple undertaking: in this sense, the epithets “the Lady of horses” and “the Lady of the wild beasts” would express the ability to dominate and tame the animal world, be it the horse or the lion. 102 Certainly known in the area around Lake Urmia, this divine figure may have connected the Horse Goddess, known as Great Lioness, with the goddess on the lion who tames and bridles the fierce lion as if it were a horse, a hypothesis that at the moment needs further investigation. 103 In the paper presented at the ASOR Annual Meeting in 2018 in Denver, entitled “The Iranian Legacy of the Sacred between Liberty and Prohibition”, Fassari and Frascarelli raised the hypothesis that for thousands of years central Asian nomadic horsewomen worshipped the unknown goddess on lion. See https://www.asor.org/wp-content/up loads/2018/10/2018-Abstract-Book_updated_10-15-18.pdf.

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In addition to these iconographic and linguistic considerations, archaeological data are crucial to further explain certain issues. The first issue regards the lion. The practice of calling Mesopotamia into play every time a lion makes its appearance should be avoided for a reason. Beyond the iconography of this tamed animal, archaeozoology confirms that lions were as common to Central Asia as they were to other areas during the preIslamic period.104 In Greek sources, the lion is considered both a dangerous and highly valued carnivore, a beast that attacks domestic animals as well as a trophy of power.105 In the iconography of the goddess on lion portrayed in the Hasanlu Gold Bowl, the supernatural skill of controlling such a wild force might also be related to the magical dimension represented by the mirror the deity holds in her hand, an object seen as a traditional shamanic device. The second issue revolves around the mirror itself. In the Oxus Civilization, it is an important aspect of funerary practices,106 sometimes imported, as were Scythian mirrors.107 Among Sarmatians, mirrors are part of several female burials108 and later, in Saka burials from Kazakhstan, female funerary equipment also includes mirrors associated with weapons.109 The latter detail endorses the existence of a warrior-woman who does not simply carry weaponry as a matter of social belonging but also bears physical injuries typical of combat.110 More generally, in the mid- and late first millennium BCE, mirrors are found both in female and male burials.111 Although their significance and function are not yet entirely clear, the “intangible elements of the nomadic life that cannot be captured archaeologically”112 would suggest that mirrors have multiple meanings. In the hand of the goddess on lion, one can assume that it is a symbol of protection and divination, an idea not too far from the Chinese Shang (1600–1046 BCE) and Han (202 BCE–220 CE) traditions that consider them a cosmic device enabling healing, magic powers, and even immortality.113 Furthermore, the figure of a woman who can tame, ride, and fight recurs in Greek sources. Herodotus tells us that Amazons go hunting on horseback, both with men and alone, go 104

Bartosiewicz 2009. Ibid.: 759. 106 For a classification of mirrors from the Ancient Bronze Age found in Central Asia, see Kuz’mina 2007: 407–410. For those found at Gonur, see Sarianidi 2007: 52, 76, 87, figs. 25, 93, 94. On the origin and diffusion of mirrors in ancient China, see Kuzmina 2008: 103–105. 107 Davis-Kimball et al. 1995: 20 fig. 24; 158 fig. 24; 186; 111; 113 figs. 22–23; 129 fig. 27 (a–h); 144–145 fig. 17 (a–e); 169–170 figs. 11–13; 174–176 figs. 29, 33c. 108 Surely for high-ranking women (ibid.: 46, 51 fig. 59, 69). 109 Ibid.: 205, 207 fig. 22, 218 fig. 52. 110 Jones-Bley 2008: 40–43. 111 Linduff and Rubinson 2008. 112 Ibid.: 68. 113 Seidel 2008. 105

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to war, dress like men, and cannot get married until they have killed an enemy.114 Atalanta and Cybele might be an eloquent example of the influences a divine figure like the goddess on lion has on Greek mythology, especially considering archaeological elements referencing lions, horses, mirrors, and weapons found in female burials.115 The social profile of nomadic women shaped by Herodotus would match the archaeological findings. Scythians, Sarmatians, Sargat, Saka women, and most probably nomadic women from other tribes, were buried along with what we can indeed define as “warrior’s equipment”.116 The third issue that must be taken into consideration is the evidence of female burials with horses, horse harnesses, and even wagons.117 The ability of nomadic horsewomen to command an animal and to move freely is the very same as that expressed by the iconography of the goddess on lion. It conveys a concept of mixed feminine-masculine aspects in the sense of a figure who can play different roles and hold multiple social responsibilities. The Hasanlu Gold Bowl clearly shows the multilayered, gender-rich differentiation. If one compares the Gold Bowl’s naked female figure “standing” on two caprids to the rider “seated” sidesaddle on the lion, it is clear that we are dealing with two different social models. While the naked female figure emanates a sensual and erotic appeal, on the contrary, the goddess on lion creates the opposite impression. The jewels and provocative attire of the seductive naked goddess are replaced by the figure of a woman who is well equipped to face danger, enemies, and power (the mace head) and, in the meantime, cope with magical or even shamanic practices (the mirror). The result is docility, complicity, and charm for the naked goddess, and strength, leadership, and vigour for the goddess on lion. This does not mean that her figure inspires her worshippers to chastity, but quite the opposite. Compared to settled women, nomadic women were more independent and enjoyed greater sexual emancipation than their settled sisters, as polyandry and polyamory demonstrates,118 as much as they assumed a leadership role.119 That said, the embodied subjectivity of the goddess on lion asserts a sense of physical and intellectual authority for both female and male worshippers. Could her image be a symbol of gender fluidity? Regardless of whether the Hasanlu Gold Bowl was produced locally and was an object of ancient veneration, or whether it was imported and considered a relic because it matched local ideological interests, by chance or by choice, the figure of the goddess on lion appears 114

I. IV: 110–117 (Corcella et al. 1993). Mayor 2014. 116 Jones-Bley 2008: 40. 117 Ibid.: 42. 118 Mayor 2014: 130. According to Greek sources, Amazons enjoyed a free sexuality (ibid: 8, 10, 26, 129, 135, 137, 138, 144, 268). 119 As in the story of Queen Tomiris. See I. I: 205–214 (Asheri 1988). 115

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to be in line with the social forces in place during Period IVB at Hasanlu. In five female burials, in fact, the typical military equipment of elite males, more precisely northern-style copper alloy and iron armour scales, has been clearly adopted as feminine attire. Introjected as a social norm by women, the male militarized habitus might point to entangled relations across gender and geographical boundaries.120 If personal adornments are mechanisms that help shape social roles, status, inclusion, and authority, they might also translate the individual’s determination to reveal a particular personality. In the case of pins and bronze breast plaques, gender performance and militarization emerge in both the material and visual dimension.121 Indeed, the presence of a third gender at Hasanlu is a matter that warrants more in-depth analysis. The young adult male in Burned Building I (SK37), the adult male in Burned Building II (SK260), the male skeleton from the Warrior Graves (SK493), and another old adult male (SK505) all wear pins typical of female dress. 122 In particular, SK505 and SK260 validate some figurative aspects of the Gold Bowl and provide a chance to reopen the question of the vessel’s dating. As Cifarelli observes, “The presence on these male bodies of objects characteristic of women’s dress at Hasanlu complicates our picture of gendered performance at this site”.123 In this sense, three of the figures portrayed in the vessel wear garments fastened with pins:124 the goddess on lion on either shoulder, the seated female holding a child, and the male seated on the ground who raises a beaker before an equine-legged throne. On the other hand, the male with no well-defined boundaries also corresponds to a female concerned with showing physical power, as in the case of the goddess on lion. Indeed, the history of this iconography crosses an original path that seems to unify certain masculine and feminine traits, an androgynous protoqueer125 aspect that is clearly represented in the Hasanlu Bowl. Should we consider such visual evidence a marker of gender equality? If this were the case, it would enrich the critical debate and strengthen the social impact of women’s studies when attempting to understand the past.

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Cifarelli 2018a. Cifarelli 2014. 122 Cifarelli 2014: 304–305; 2016: 202–203; 2018: 91–92. 123 Cifarelli 2016: 203. 124 Cifarelli 2018b: 83–85. 125 The term “proto-queer” alludes to an embryonic form of queerness. “Queer” and “queering” are political terms that provide a means of legitimizing the embodied realities of people who do not identify as heteronormative. In this research, the “proto-queer” is used as an umbrella term to hypothesize that queerness is and has been present across space, time, and cultures. 121

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6. On the nomadic Body Although a gender system apparently based on biological binary classification can be seen in the burials of these nomadic groups, one should consider that categorization might easily fade to the point of disappearing within a barely stratified community such as the nomadic one. As a matter of fact, when dealing with socioeconomic conditions requiring the functional dynamic employment of human resources due to the natural environment, the gender role does not seem peremptory, but strategic. When women act as leaders capable of taming wild animals, one might advance a theory of specific gender fluidity, as revealed by the symbols of a community practising nonbinary collective access to the steppe. Associating riding an animal with the one-dimensional logic of the male identity can be misleading. In the steppe, adaptive aspects towards the natural environment and social context suggest that binary dichotomy is likely to be absent within some activities practiced invariably by both sexes. The steppe is the common good people can draw on without gender rigidity. It is exactly this visual Eurasian steppe repertoire that the iconography of the goddess on lion comes from, and it is from this nomadic geocultural space that it spreads out to Central Asia, Anatolia, Mesopotamia, China, India, and Greece. Such a transferable, flexible, fluid competence expressing a sense of unity, strength, and leadership gives the iconography of the goddess on lion a natureculture syncretistic attitude, perhaps explaining its formidable popularity among so many cultures in different periods. 6.1. Becoming animal Since the third millennium BCE, communities practicing mobility, migration, and relocation as their life strategies have created a special relationship with animals. For a long time, animal exploitation has been considered exclusively along a nature-culture divide rather than an empathy. 126 When reflecting on animal domestication, and more precisely horse domestication, one should take into consideration the time needed to reach such a goal—that is, a precedence of reciprocal human-animal interactions127—probably a stage when the symbolic capital involving this connection takes shape. Within this nomadic natural and cultural environment, the image of a human being riding an animal becomes the emblem of an embodied experience, revealing a profound interaction between two living beings. In pre-Islamic Central Asia, communication between the species was also conveyed by the iconogra-

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In reality, nonhuman agency has a fundamental role in our society, with implications and consequences we must understand if we want to trace a new relationship with all the other organisms that share a life in the biosphere. On this matter, see McFarland and Hediger 2009. 127 Anthony 2007: 197–201.

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phy of women riding animals, an image that gathers data on gender performance and lifestyle. The iconography of the Hasanlu Gold Bowl’s goddess, including her previous and subsequent metamorphosis, is considered a potential introduction to Eurasian steppe nomadism. Such a visual repertoire contributes to an embodied perspective of the human-animal relationship, one that is not abstract but rather material and affective. 128 Becoming animals 129 is the Deleuzian intellectual provocation that pushes us to investigate metamorphosis as a construct for breaking identities. It paves the way for unexpected forms of intercorporeality that upset the arbitrary centrality of humans within a humanist framework. As Braidotti130 states, organisms are moved by vital forces that flow in the environment. The issue of animals is not a harmless one, but a central investigation of critical humanist thought as a frame for both a break with the environment and a logical exclusion of everything that falls within the human domain. According to Braidotti, it is possible that the humanistic frame, including interpretations of the past, artefacts, and scientific imaginaries, denies how identities emerge from our relationships with others, human and non-human. Braidotti’s nomadism recalls an ontology of the relationship forcing us to read the singularplural relational process characterized by the strange paradox of being “one and yet many”.131 Blackman’s concept of the “communicating body” has been used to refer to the relationship between the horse and its owner, marking not a separation but rather a reciprocal bond which results in mutual coordination. If we try to imagine the coexistence and interdependence between the human and the animal in the nomadic world, Blackman’s “communicating body” 132 captures the contiguity of the body, whereby the relationship is not mediated by intelligence but by affection. Through their reciprocal ability to grasp each micromovement, replacing the pattern of influence with the pattern of separation between bodies, the horse and the human achieve synchronic consonance: perhaps we should imagine the nomadic world as intercorporeal and transsubjective. 7. Conclusion Originally conceived to express symbiosis with the natural environment during the crucial historical passage towards domestication, nomadism transforms the image of the goddess on lion by giving it the status of authority. Riding a wild animal becomes a significant symbol that crosses different cultures and supports a deep natureculture bond. This device is used to reinforce the ancestral notion 128

Blackman and Couze 2010. Gardner and MacCormak 2017. 130 Braidotti 2006: 197–208. 131 Blackman 2008: 37. 132 Ibid. 129

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of territorial control, to convey male-female contiguity, to manifest the symbiotic relationship with the environment, and to express the supremacy of royalty. In this perspective, the woman-lion association enables us to deconstruct the historical and anthropological narrative based on the separation between manwoman and human-animal, one that has simplified the irreducible complexity implied by embodied positionality. The assonance of Braidotti’s133 nomadic subject with a concrete historical experience leads us to reinterpret nomadic cultures as embodied and distinguished by communicating bodies, making the link between human and environment particularly osmotic. In conclusion, this study suggests that a reflexive perspective on the knowledge and methodologies used to investigate the past is enriching them with a multidisciplinary approach, possibly contributing to the theoretical positions investigating women and gender in Ancient Near Eastern studies.134 Finally, the theories inspired by Deleuze and Guattari’s significant contributions suggest a need to decentralize discourse beyond the self, rationality, and reason. Based on these challenges, this study of the visual legacy of the Hasanlu Gold Bowl’s goddess on lion probably reveals how ancient societies lived their experience of integrated otherness, human or animal, merging it into a single experience. Bibliography Ambos, C. 2003: Nanaja – Eine ikonographische Studie zur Darstellung einer altorientalischen Göttin in hellenistisch-partischer Zeit. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 93, 231–272. Amiet, P. 1978: Antiquités de Bactriane. La revue du Louvre et des Musées de France 3, 153–164. Amiet, P. 1986: L’âge des échanges inter-iraniens 3500–1700 avant J.-C. Paris. Amiet, P. 2004: De l’Élam à la Margiane. In S. Winkelman (ed.): Seals of the Oasis from the Ligabue Collection. Venice, 9-21. Amiet, P. 2005: Les sceaux de l’administration princière de Suse à l’époque d’Agadé. Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologie orientale 99.1, 1–12. Anthony, D.W. 2007: The Horse, the Wheel, and Language: How Bronze-Age Riders from the Eurasian Steppes Shaped the Modern World. Princeton. Ascalone, E. 2008: Cultural Interactions among Mesopotamia, Elam, Transelam and Indus Civilization: The Evidence of a Cylinder-Stamp Seal from Jalalabad (Fars) and Its Significance in the Historical Dynamics of South-eastern Asia. In H. Küne / R.M. Czichon / F.J. Kreppner (eds.): Proceedings of the 4th International Congress of the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East, 29 March–3 April 2004. Vol. 1: The Reconstruction of Environment. Natural 133 134

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Resources and Human Interrelations through Time; Art History: Visual Communication. Wiesbaden, 255–275. Asheri, D. 1988: Erodoto, Le Storie. Libro I, La Lidia e la Persia. Rome. Azarpay, G. 1976: Nana, the Sumero-Akkadian Goddess of Transoxiana. Journal of the American Oriental Society 96, 536–541. Azarpay, G. 1981: Sogdian Painting: The Pictorial Epic in Oriental Art. Berkeley and Los Angeles. Bar-Adon, P. 1980: The Cave of the Treasure. Jerusalem. Barrelet, M.T. 1984: Le décor du bol en or de Hasanlu et les interprétations proposées à son sujet. In M.T. Barrelet / S. Besques / J. Duchesne-Guillemin / C. Kepinski / D. Parayre (eds.): Problèmes concernant les Hurrites. Paris, 13–176. Bartosiewicz, L. 2009: A Lion’s Share of Attention: Archaeozoology and the Historical Record. AAASH 59, 759–773. Bivar, A.D.H. 2009: Kushan Dynasty i: Encyclopaedia Iranica, Online Edition. 15 July 2009. https://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/kushan-dynasty-i-histo ry. Accessed 23 June 2021. Blackman, L. 2008: The Body. Oxford and New York. Blackman, L. / Couze, V. 2010: Affect. Body & Society 16(1), 7–28. Bracey, R. 2016: Kushan Dynasty iv: Coinage of the Kushans. Encyclopaedia Iranica, Online Edition. 10 August 2016. http://www.iranicaonline.org/ articles/kushan-dynasty-04. Accessed 23 June 2021. Braidotti, R. 1994: Nomadic Subjects. Embodiment and Sexual Difference in Contemporary Feminist Theory. New York. Braidotti, R. 2006: Posthuman, All Too Human: Towards a New Process Ontology. Theory, Culture & Society 23(7–8), 197–208. Braidotti, R. 2011: Nomadic Theory: The Portable Rosi Braidotti. New York. Braidotti, R. 2013: The Posthuman. Cambridge, United Kingdom. Budin, S.L. / Cifarelli, M. / Garcia-Ventura, A. / Millet Albà, A., eds. 2018: Gender and Methodology in the Ancient Near East: Approaches from Assyriology and Beyond. Barcino Monographica Orientalia 10. Barcelona. Butler, J. 1990: Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York and London. Butler, J. 1993: Bodies That Matter. New York. Cattani, M. 2008: The Final Phase of the Bronze Age and the “Andronovo Question” in Margiana. In S. Salvatori / M. Tosi (eds.): The Bronze Age and the Early Iron Age in the Margiana Lowlands: Facts and Methodological Proposals for a Redefinition of the Research Strategies. The Archaeological Map of the Murghab Delta Studies and Report Vol. II. Oxford, 133–151. Cifarelli, M. 2014: Personal Ornaments at Hasanlu, Iran. In A. Golani / Z. Wygnańska (eds.): Beyond Ornamentation. Jewelry as an Aspect of Material

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Culture in the Ancient Near East. Polish Archaeology in the Mediterranean 23/2, Special Studies. Warsaw, 297–316. Cifarelli, M. 2016: Masculinities and Militarization at Hasanlu, Iran: A View from the Burials. Near Eastern Archaeology 79(3), 196–204. Cifarelli, M. 2018a: Entangled Relations over Geographical and Gendered Space: Multi-Component Personal Ornaments at Hasanlu. In S. Di Paolo (ed.): Composite Artefacts in the Ancient Near East: Exhibiting an Imaginative Materiality, Showing a Genealogical Nature. Ancient Near Eastern Archaeology 3. Oxford, 51–61. Cifarelli, M. 2018b: Gender, Personal Adornment, and Costly Signaling in the Iron Age Burials of Hasanlu, Iran. In S. Svärd / A. Garcia-Ventura (eds.): Studying Gender in the Ancient Near East. University Park, Pennsylvania, 73–107. Cobb, H. / Croucher, K. 2016: Personal, Political, Pedagogic: Challenging the Binary Bind in Archaeological Teaching, Learning and Fieldwork. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 23, 949–969. Collon, D. 1982: Catalogue of the Western Asiatic Seals in the British Museum: Cylinder Seals II; Akkadian-Post Akkadian-Ur III Periods. London. Collon, D. 1990: Near Eastern Seals. London. Collon, D. 2005: First Impressions: Cylinder Seals in the Ancient Near East. London. Corcella, A. / Fraschetti, A. / Medaglia, S.M. 1993: Erodoto, Le Storie. Libro IV, La Scizia e la Lidia. Milan. Davis-Kimball, J. / Bashilov, V.A. / Yablonsky, L.T. 1995: Nomads of the Eurasian Steppes in the Early Iron Age. Berkeley. Deleuze, G. / Guattari, F. 1980: Mille plateaux: Capitalisme et schizo-phrénie. Paris. De Schauensee, M. 1989: Horse Gear from Hasanlu. Expedition 31(2–3), 37–52. De Schauensee, M. 2011: Contexts of Textiles from the Hasanlu IVB Destruction Level. In M. De Schauensee (ed.): Peoples and Crafts in Period IVB at Hasanlu, Iran. Philadelphia, 57–86. Dowson, T.A. 2000: Why Queer Archaeology? An Introduction. World Archaeology 32(2), 161–165. Drews, R. 2004: Early Riders: The Beginning of Mounted Warfare in Asia and in Europe. New York. Drijvers, H.J.W. 1980: Cults and Beliefs at Edessa. Leiden. Duchesne-Guillemin, J. 1984: Les interpretations iranisantes du vase de Hasanlu. In M.T. Barrelet / S. Besques / J. Duchesne-Guillemin / C. Kepinski / D. Parayre (eds.): Problèmes concernant les Hurrites. Paris, 187–190. Dyson, R.H. 2003: Ḥasanlu Teppe ii: The Golden Bowl. Encyclopaedia Iranica, Online Edition. 15 December 2003. Accessed 23 June 2021. http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/hasanlu-teppe-ii.

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Dyson, R.H. / Muscarella, O.W. / Voigt, M.M. 1969: Hasanlu Project 1968: Hajji Firuz, Dinkha Tepe, Sé Girdan, Qalatgah. Iran 7, 179–181. Falk, H. 2014. Kushan Dynasty iii: Chronology of the Kushans. Encyclopaedia Iranica, Online Edition. 8 December 2014. Accessed 23 June 2021. http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/kushan-03-chronology. Falk, H. 2015: Kushan Rule Granted by Nana: The Background of a Heavenly Legitimation. In H. Falk (ed.): Kushan Histories: Literary Sources and Selected Papers from a Symposium at Berlin, December 5 to 17, 2013. Monographien zur Indischen Archäologie, Kunst und Philologie 23. Bremen. Fracasso, R. 1988: Holy Mothers of Ancient China: A New Approach to the His-wang-mu Problem. T’oung Pao 74, 1–46. Francfort, H.P. 1992: Dungeons and Dragons: Reflections on the System of Iconography in Protohistoric Bactria and Margiana. In G.L. Possehl (ed.): South Asian Archaeology Studies. New Dehli, 179–208. Francfort, H.P. 2003: Gobelet cylindrique avec scène de banquet. In O. Bopearachchi / C. Landes / C. Sachs (eds.): De l’Indus à l’Oxus: Archéologie de l’Asie Centrale. Lattes, 43–44. Francfort, H.P. 2005: La civilisation de l’Oxus et les indo-iraniens et indoaryens en Asie centrale. In G. Fussman / J. Kellens / H.P. Francfort / X. Tremblay (eds.): Āryas, Aryens et Iraniens en Asie Centrale. Paris, 253–328. Francfort, H.P. 2007: Représentations mythologique et représentations artistiques en Asie centrale de l’âge du bronze au périodes historiques: Les déesses centroasiatiques. Archéologie de l’Asie intérieure de l’âge du bronze a l’âge du fer. EPHE Section des sciences historiques et philologiques Livret Annuaire 21, 511–520. Frangipane, M. 2014: After Collapse: Continuity and Disruption in the Settlement by Kura-Araxes-Linked Pastroral Groups at Arslantepe-Malatya (Turkey); New Data. Paléorient 40–42, 169–182. Frankfort, H. 1939: Cylinder Seals: A Documentary Essay on Art and Religion of the Ancient Near East. London. Frascarelli, R. 2015: Arǝdvī Sūrā Anāhitā: Considerations on the Greek ἀρχἡ. In A. Krasnowolska / R. Rusek-Kowalska (eds.): Studies on the Iranian World I: Before Islam. Krakow, 139–151. Frascarelli, R. 2020: At the Fringe of Human Freedom: The Concept of Space and Time within Urban Settlements and among Nomads in Antiquity. In E. Macrì / V. Morea / M. Trimarchi (eds.): Cultural Commons and Urban Dynamics: A Multidisciplinary Perspective. Berlin and Heidelberg, 281–296. Freu, J. 2003: Histoire du Mitanni. Paris. Fussman, G. 1998: L’inscription de Rabatak et l’origine de l’ère saka. Journal Asiatique 286, 571–651. Gardner, C. / MacCormack, P. 2017: Deleuze and the Animal. Edinburgh.

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Grenet, F. / Marshak, B. 1998: Le mythe de Nana dans l’art de la Sogdiane. Arts Asiatiques 53, 5–18. Haraway, D. 1991: Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. New York. Haraway, D. 2003: The Companion Species Manifesto. Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness. Chicago. Ivanov, V.V. 1999: Comparatives Notes on Hurro-Urartian, Northern Caucasian and Indo-European. In V.V. Ivanov / B. Vine (eds.): UCLA Indo-European Studies 1, 147–264. Jacobson-Tepfer, E. / Kubarev, V. / Tseevendorj, D. 2001: Répertoire Des Pétroglyphs d’Asie Centrale: Sous la direction de Henri-Paul Francfort et Jakov A. Sher. Fascicule N. 6. Mongolie du Nord-Ouest Tsagaan Salaa/Baga Oigor, Mémoires de la Mission Archéologique Francaise en Asie Centrale 6. Paris. Jacobson-Tepfer, E. / Kubarev, V. / Tseevendorj, D. 2006: Répertoire Des Pétroglyphs d’Asie Centrale: Sous la direction de Henri-Paul Francfort et Jakov A. Sher. Fascicule N. 7. Mongolie du Nord-Ouest Haut Tsagaan Gol. Mémoires de la Mission Archéologique Francaise en Asie Centrale 7. Paris. James, J.M. 1995: An Iconographic Study of Xiwangmu during the Han Dynasty. Artibus Asiae 55 (1–2), 17–40. Jones-Bley, K. 2008: Arma Feminamque Cano: Warrior-Women in the IndoEuropean World. In K.M. / Linduf / K.S. Rubinson (eds.): Are All Warriors Male? Gender Roles on the Ancient Eurasian Steppe. Lanham, Maryland. Knauer, E.R. 2006: The Queen Mother of the West: A Study of the Influence of Western Prototypes on the Iconography of the Taoist Deity. In V.H. Mair (ed.): Contact and Exchange in the Ancient World. Honolulu, 62–115. Kohl, P.L. 2007: The Making of Bronze Age Eurasia. New York. Kominami, I. 1974: Seiōbo to schichi densho (Hsi wang mu and the Legend of the Oxerd and the Weaving Lady). Tōhō gakuhō 46, 33–81. Kramer, S.N. 1987: Ancient Sumer and Iran: Gleanings from Sumerian Literature. Bulletin of the Asia Institute 1, 9-16. Kushnareva, K.K. 1997: The Southern Caucasus in Prehistory: Stages of Cultural and Socioeconomic Development from the Eighth to the Second Millennium B.C. Philadelphia. Kuzmina, E. 2001: Pre-history of the Great Silk Road: Cultural Connections of Xinjiang Population with Andronovo Culture Tribes in the Bronze Epoch. Silk Road Art and Archaeology 7, 1–21. Kuzmina, E. 2008: The Prehistory of Silk Road. Philadelphia. Kuz’mina, E.E. 2007: The Origin of the Indo-Iranians. Leiden Indo-European Etymological Dictionary Series 3. Leiden and Boston. Ligabue, G. / Salvatori, S. 1988: Bactria: An Ancient Oasis Civilization from the Sands of Afghanistan. Venice.

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Entangled at Death Beads, Gender, and Life Cycles during the Central Anatolian Early Neolithic; Aşıklı Höyük as a Case Study Sera Yelözer1 and Mihriban Özbaşaran2

1. Introduction The Neolithic period, which began during the tenth millennium BCE in southwest Asia, marks the transition from a mobile hunter-gatherer way of life to sedentism, as well as an increasing dependence on farming and herding. This process spanned the seventh to sixth millennia BCE, when the early village communities were fully established (Tab. 1 and Fig. 1). The initial steps towards the establishment of this new way of life were already in motion by the Late Epipalaeolithic, following the onset of warmer and wetter climatic conditions at the end of the Last Glacial Maximum. It was around 13,000 BCE that the Late Epipalaeolithic Natufian communities in the resource-rich Mediterranean belt began to live in open-air sites, caves, and rock shelters on an increasingly sedentary scale. The communities tended to build durable structures and bury their dead in specific locations, i.e., inside caves and rock shelters or inside structures that were used as dwellings,3 an ever-growing pattern that would have brought a sense of belonging. It was, as Hodder defined, “a generative spiral leading to sedentism and domestication,”4 and from the tenth millennium BCE onwards, communities began to occupy sites on a year-round basis, with the number of settlements and their sizes increasing.5 There was an increasing dependence on cultivation and management of certain animal species. 6 Food-storage mechanisms changed, from less pronounced, small-scale storage activities to communal storage facilities, and eventually secluded storage units within houses.7 Certain commonalities were practiced in the symbolic sphere, especially in burial rituals, yet with a pronounced regional variety.8 These changes brought about eventual transformations both on a collective and an individual scale; social life

1

Department of Prehistoric Archaeology, Istanbul University, [email protected]. Department of Prehistoric Archaeology, Istanbul University, ozbasaranmihriban@gm ail.com. 3 See, e.g., Grosman and Munro 2016; Maher et al. 2021. 4 Hodder 2018: 155. 5 Byrd 2005; Duru 2016; Kuijt 1996, 2001; Watkins 2004, 2010. 6 Portillo et al. 2019, 2020; Stiner et al. 2014. 7 Kuijt 2015. 8 Goring-Morris and Belfer-Cohen 2014. 2

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was reorganized, individuals gained new roles and tasks, and new identities began to emerge.

9800–8600

13,000-9800

~cal BCE*

8600–6900

Early Neolithic (Pre-Pottery Neolithic B/PPNB)

Early Neolithic (PrePottery Neolithic A/PPNA)

Late Epipalaeolithic (Natufian)

Period

Sites and regions mentioned in the text** Nahal Oren; Ain Southern Mallaha; El Wad; Levant Hayonim; Kebara

Materials and methods***

References

Osteology; spatial and Human remains statistical analyses

Benz 2009; Peterson 2002

Abu Hureyra

Middle Euphrates

Human remains; Osteology; material culture; spatial architecture analysis

Molleson 1994, 2000

Pınarbaşı

Central Anatolia Human remains Osteology

Baird et al. 2013

Hatoula

Southern Levant Human remains Osteology

Peterson 2002

Human remains; mortuary customs and grave goods; figurative art; architecture

Osteology; isotopic analysis; spatial analysis

Benz et al. 2016; Croucher 2005, 2006; Delibaş 2016; Hodder and Meskell 2011

Jericho; Ain Ghazal; Kfar HaHoresh; Nahal Hemar; Tell Southern Ramad; Levant Beisamoun; Tell Aswad; Abou Gosh; Basta; Yiftahel; Ba’ja

Human remains (e.g., modified skull burials); mortuary customs and grave goods

Osteology; spatial and statistical analyses

Benz 2009; Benz et al. 2020; Bonogofsky 2001, 2006; Peterson 2002

Abu Hureyra; Tell Middle Halula Euphrates

Human remains; architecture; mortuary customs and grave goods; material culture

Osteology; spatial and statistical analyses

Alarashi 2014; Benz 2009; Benz et al. 2020; Molleson 1994, 2000

Çayönü; Nevali Çori

Southeastern Anatolia

Osteology; isotopic Human remains; analysis; mortuary spatial and customs statistical analyses

Benz 2009; Croucher 2006; Pearson et al. 2013

Boncuklu; Aşıklı (presented in this study);

Human remains; Osteology; Central Anatolia mortuary fingerprint customs; analysis;

Arslan 2014; BennisonChapman and

Körtik Tepe; Çayönü; Göbekli Tepe

Southeastern Anatolia

Entangled at Death Period

~cal BCE*

Sites and regions mentioned in the text**

6900–5700

Late Neolithic (Pottery Neolithic)

Çatalhöyük

291

Materials and methods*** material culture spatial and and grave goods statistical analyses

Figurative art (e.g., figurines, wall paintings); Çatalhöyük; Köşk Central Anatolia human remains; Höyük; Hacılar mortuary; customs and grave goods

Osteology; isotopic analysis; spatial and statistical analysis

References Hager 2018; Bonogofsky 2006 Agarwal et al. 2015; Arslan 2014, 2019a, 2019b; Bonogofsky 2006; Hamilton 2005; Meskell 2007; Molleson 2007; Nakamura and Meskell 2009; Pearson and Meskell 2015; Pearson et al. 2015; Voigt 2007

*Before

Common Era. Date ranges are compiled from the Platform for Neolithic Radiocarbon Dates (PPND) Project of exoriente (https://www.exoriente.org/associated_projects/ppnd.php). **Sites mentioned in the text or included in the studies summarized in the text are listed here with their regional and chronological affiliations (see also Fig. 1). Names of some sites are not mentioned in the text, but the overall results from relevant studies are summarized. ***Materials and methods applied to the interpretation of gender roles and identities in the studies discussed in the text.

Table 1. Archaeological chronology of the periods, sites, and regions discussed in this study and the material and methods applied for the interpretations of gender roles and identities. To understand how social life was reorganized during this period of dynamic changes, and how identities of gender and age transformed, research questions can be summed up in three groups: (a) Did the daily tasks of different sex and age groups change and, if so, how? (b) Did these changes influence the identities of different sex and age groups? And (c) How and by which practices were identities manifested in the burial rituals? As rites of passage, death and mortuary rites bore witness to the alteration of identities. Often being communal affairs, mortuary rites brought together members of the community and became a venue for public performances in which identities are reconfigured. 9 By tracing the available evidence on the burial patterns of past communities, archaeologists attempt to reconstruct the nature and content of the mortuary rituals that took 9

Fowler 2004: 79–81.

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place within the community in question. For Neolithic southwest Asia, bioarchaeological and figurative data, and the social aspects of burials, can provide multiple lines of evidence that could be integrated to answer the abovementioned questions. These data groups include figurative art such as figurines, wall paintings, and other human depictions; grave goods; task-related markers on human remains; and various treatments of the human body, including the removal, painting, plastering, and circulation of crania, as well as secondary burials.10 Bringing together studies concentrating on bioarchaeological, mortuary, and figurative data from the Late Epipalaeolithic and Neolithic sites, this study provides a brief overview of the current picture of gender research in early sedentary communities of southwest Asia (Tab. 1 and Fig. 1), followed by a sitespecific analysis of Aşıklı Höyük. The site of Aşıklı Höyük, occupied between 8350 and 7350 cal BCE on the Cappadocian plateau in east-central Anatolia, provides an intriguing case study for attempting to understand the construction of new identities and their reflections in the mortuary rituals during the onset of the Neolithic period. Using background literature on temporal changes, brought together by the work of various specialists at the site, we concentrate on comparisons of multiple lines of evidence and aim to understand aspects of material culture and practices that were employed for the expression of identities during the funerary rituals at Aşıklı Höyük. The data groups include sex- and age-based patterns of certain mortuary variables, such as wrapping the body, placement of ochre, and personal items found with burials. Among the personal items found with burials, beads constitute the majority. Thus, at its core, this article discusses the role that beads played in manifesting identities at Aşıklı Höyük, namely the distribution of the raw materials, colours, and forms of the beads that belong to the ornaments found with burials. With an intersectional approach, the data groups are interpreted in correlation with the bioarchaeological data, including demographic profiles, task-related pathologies, and traumas, based on the results of the physical anthropologists working at the site.11 2. Theoretical frameworks and a brief summary of the state of gender research in Neolithic southwest Asia Gender archaeology, which, especially in the recent decade, began to emphasize the integration of multiple lines of evidence and shifted its focus from “issues of inequality to issues of difference”,12 provides a multifaceted theoretical framework for understanding the dynamics of gender and age in the distant past. It was more than thirty years ago when Conkey and Spector 13 published the 10

For detailed discussions of the Late Epipalaeolithic and Early Neolithic mortuary rituals, see Kuijt 1996; Goring-Morris and Belfer-Cohen 2014. 11 Özbek 1991, 1993, 2011; Erdal 2004, 2018. 12 Gilchrist 2004: 145; see also Geller 2009. 13 Conkey and Spector 1984.

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groundbreaking article that emphasized how the past was diversely peopled, dynamic, and complex beyond the duality of maleness and femaleness. In a relatively recent overview article, Geller states that these key points are still relevant in archaeology.14 In fact, the state of research on the dynamics of gender during the Neolithic in southwest Asia, especially in Anatolia, is still in its initial stages. Nevertheless, recent studies focus on exploring the connectedness of multiple identities. The theoretical metamorphosis of gender archaeology brought about the development of new methods, aiming to reach an understanding of individuals in past societies (Tab. 1). Molleson’s work in Abu Hureyra was especially pioneering in that sense, showing that both the Late Epipalaeolithic and Early Neolithic inhabitants of the site were engaged in activities that affected their shoulders, hips, toes, and knees; and during the Early Neolithic period, especially the adult and subadult females were engaged in grinding activities (e.g., of grain) on a daily basis.15 Spatial distribution of querns furthermore suggests that this domestic craft was organized at the household level, and Molleson concluded that the division of labour was a consequence of the newly established sedentary way of life.16 Peterson applied a similar bioarchaeological approach to a larger dataset from fourteen sites, including Late Epipalaeolithic (Natufian) and Neolithic sites in the southern Levant.17 Her results for the Natufian and Early Neolithic communities painted a different picture of daily life during the same period in a different setting, at Abu Hureyra. She noticed that the sexually dimorphic patterns were pronounced during the Late Epipalaeolithic, evidenced by the asymmetry in the musculoskeletal structures of Natufian males and females. Male musculature became increasingly bilateral and began to resemble the female pattern with the onset of the Neolithic. Through the analysis of the musculoskeletal stress markers, she suggested that daily tasks were shared between the sexes during the Neolithic, and compared to the previous period, male labour experienced more significant changes during this time. Contrary to the developments in Abu Hureyra suggested by Molleson’s conclusions above, about the initial stages of sedentism and domestication of plants and animals in the southern Levant, there were no differences in workload or activity between males and females. 18 Emphasizing that males and females were equally participating in physically demanding daily activities during this period, Peterson’s later synthesis of the skeletal, mortuary, figurative, and architectural data on gender relations in the Neolithic Levant suggests that although some tasks were divided

14

Geller 2009. Molleson 1994, 2000, 2007. 16 Molleson 2000: 314. 17 Peterson 2002. 18 Peterson 2002: 124. 15

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based on biological sex in some contexts, there were no hierarchies, production control, or power relations based on gender.19 Körtik Tepe in southeastern Anatolia, a Late Epipalaeolithic and Early Neolithic (PPNA) site near the Tigris River, was inhabited by a hunter-fishergatherer community, which began practicing the initial steps of sedentism around 10,000 cal BCE. The site is well known for its high number of intramural human burials, the diversity of burial customs, and the variety of grave goods, which led some researchers to suggest differences of social status between individuals and emerging hierarchies.20 However, the application of refined methodologies to tackle questions of hierarchy, status, power, and gender relations result in a contrasting picture. The study of musculoskeletal markers of habitual stress points to the lack of a strict division of labour based on biological sex at Körtik Tepe.21 In a study comparing the burial patterns with the bioarchaeological data for daily practices, mobility patterns, and diet, Benz and colleagues came to the conclusion that the correlation between more elaborate burial rituals and some individuals was not based on the individuals’ age, class, sex, or affiliation to a spatially segregated group within the community, and that all members of the community had access to particular social roles.22 Burying crania or plastered and modified skulls individually or in caches, as well as skeletons without cranial elements, became a common funerary practice in southwest Asia, especially in the southern Levant during the eighth and seventh millennia BCE (PPNB). Bonogofsky studied the age, sex, and contextual distribution and funerary associations of plastered and undecorated crania from several sites in the southern Levant and central Anatolia (Tab. 1), and discovered that all age and sex groups were selected for treatment; there was no differentiation between age and sex groups for this ritual.23 Some were buried individually, while some were buried in groups (e.g., adult and infant crania buried in caches), and some were buried with grave goods (e.g., ornaments, bowls, and tools). 24 Focusing on the possible links between infant and child burials and isolated skulls, Benz noticed that the skulls belonging to adults of both sexes were buried with infants during this period. 25 Several Neolithic sites in the southern Levant and the middle Euphrates provide further evidence of how age played a prominent role in the construction of social relations and identities. Certain subadult burials at, e.g., Ba’ja, Basta, and Tell Halula, had the highest

19

Peterson 2010. Özkaya and San 2007: 24; see also Benz et al. 2016: 147, referencing Özdoğan 2014. 21 Delibaş 2016: 161. 22 Benz et al. 2016. 23 Bonogofsky 2001, 2004, 2005, 2006. 24 Bonogofsky 2006: 24–25. 25 Benz 2012. 20

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number of ornaments, or more unique forms of mortuary treatment, in comparison to the adult burials of both sexes.26 Moving to the north, to southeastern Anatolia, Croucher approached the mortuary evidence—specifically the deposition of human remains in the so-called skull building—from the Early Neolithic site of Çayönü within the framework of queer theory and the theme of “performance”.27 The skull building, with at least five building phases, housed secondary burials of over 450 individuals and also aurochs remains. The skulls were deposited into the building at different times, as a result of repeated activity. They belonged to adults and juveniles, males and females. Only children aged under about 2.5 years old were absent. By bringing together all lines of evidence available, she applied a multisensorial approach, discussing how the activities that took place in the building might have smelled, sounded, and been experienced. She suggested that “through such an approach to individual sites, as well as individual features therein, we can counter heteronormative practice in archaeology and extend the potential of queer critique in archaeology”. 28 Also at Çayönü, but in a different context, Pearson and colleagues revealed a distinction between the diets of males and females buried under the floors inside the houses.29 However, it was with Hodder’s project at Çatalhöyük in central Anatolia that specialists studied a vast corpus of evidence—including human remains, burial practices, figurines, grave goods, and wall paintings—through the prism of gender, in a spatial and temporal scale. Mellaart’s earlier research at the site instigated the debate over a “mother goddess” cult and a matriarchal society during the Neolithic period, based on the figurines depicting females with big breasts, bellies, and buttocks.30 However, the bioarchaeological analysis conducted by Molleson31—and later the research of Agarwal and colleagues,32 Pearson and colleagues 33 , and Pearson and Meskell 34 —revealed that there was a minimal difference between males and females in terms of daily activities and diet. Pathological conditions suggest both sexes took part in similar daily activities, as well as consumed similar food types. Changes in food consumption were, however, prominent across the life course with differences during older childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood.35 Burial customs also show a similar picture, where sex was not the determining factor in various treatments and 26

Alarashi 2014; Benz et al. 2020, with references. Croucher 2005, 2006. 28 Croucher 2005: 618. 29 Pearson et al. 2013. 30 Mellaart 1964. 31 Molleson 2007. 32 Agarwal et al. 2015. 33 Pearson et al. 2015. 34 Pearson and Meskell 2015. 35 Pearson et al. 2015: 75. 27

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grave goods. Contrary to Mellaart’s assumption that necklaces were found with women and children, while men could be buried with a few beads and pendants,36 Hamilton’s research on the social aspects of burials found no such patterns concerning sex.37 In fact, children were buried with various items, the adolescents (individuals between the ages of twelve and nineteen) had the most variety in terms of different raw materials used per ornament, 38 and the old adults were buried with items that bear the most extensive use-wear traces.39 Russell also notes that only the newborns were buried with items manufactured from bird bones,40 probably related to a symbolism established between these animals and the newborns. Regarding figurines, sexual ambiguity and an emphasis on the life cycles of the individuals stand out. While the pillar-like figurines from Çatalhöyük create the impression of a blurring of sexual features, which suggests sexual ambiguity,41 anthropomorphic figurines indicate a symbolism constructed around age, in this case, maturity and the aging body of women.42 Integration of multiple lines of evidence suggests that gender differentiation was not strongly marked in the mortuary customs and figurative art at Çatalhöyük, nor in daily practices and diet, and age may have been the most prominent social mechanism. Other forms of imagery at Çatalhöyük, such as the wall paintings, concentrate on the depiction of wild animals, in some cases with marked masculinity in the form of emphasized phallic features. This form of imagery led Hodder and Meskell to suggest a dominance of male sexuality in Neolithic symbolism. 43 However, by drawing attention to the fact that most animal images do not indicate sex, and to the presence of wall paintings depicting sheep and plantgathering activities, Croucher aptly accentuates that with such generalizations we risk returning to binary oppositions in our interpretations.44 At Boncuklu, the mid-ninth millennium BCE early sedentary settlement in the same region, a recent study was conducted on the fingerprints on clay artefacts, including small geometric clay objects, figurine fragments, clay beads/ pendants, and pottery fragments, which revealed that these objects were produced mainly by adult females.45 But this pattern waits to be coinvestigated with other lines of evidence from the site. Arslan did another study in the same region 36

Hamilton 2005: 303, referencing Mellaart 1964: 95. Hamilton 2005. 38 Bains 2012: 202. 39 Agarwal et al. 2015. 40 Russell 2018. 41 Meskell 2007. 42 Nakamura and Meskell 2009. 43 Hodder and Meskell 2011. 44 Croucher 2012. 45 Bennison-Chapman and Hager 2018. 37

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for her master’s thesis and brought together the published data from several Neolithic sites in central Anatolia.46 In Voigt’s study of the figurines from the Late Neolithic Hacılar in the Lake District to the southwest of central Anatolia, she noticed a differentiation in the way females were represented based on their life cycles.47 For example, representation of body types was different for young and mature women; young women were depicted as slim with small breasts and narrow hips, whereas mature women were portrayed with enlarged upper arms, larger breasts, stomachs, hips, and buttocks. Voigt’s interpretation gives further clues into understanding how Neolithic communities identified and perceived the body based on identities of gender and age, and how they embodied different cycles of life through material culture. The general picture we have so far is that during the Neolithic, there were no strongly defined sexual divisions of labour,48 and labour organization possibly varied on a community basis. Identities were fluid, i.e., gender identities were not formally defined and reinforced ideologically, and they also varied contextually, as is especially evident in the variety of burial rituals. There was a marked emphasis on the embodiment of different cycles of life. Croucher’s queer critique of the evidence from several Neolithic settlements, with a bottomup approach, emphasizes the sexual ambiguity in figurative art and mortuary practices, and she concludes that the examination of individual sites brings forth the complex and ambiguous nature of gender identities. 49 The ambiguity and connectedness of identities during the Neolithic period in southwest Asia is also discussed in holistic studies that bring together data from various sites, under the themes of task allocation and symbolism, such as the work of Bolger.50 Within this state of research, it is essential to emphasize the importance of site-specific analyses concentrating on comprehensive comparisons of multiple lines of evidence, to be able to understand the construction of new identities and their reflections in the mortuary rituals as the new Neolithic way of life took hold. Besides some exceptions, gendered readings of the archaeological evidence rely mainly on published data, instead of a specialist contextual evaluation of the archaeological material. Furthermore, there are still a number of sites across southwest Asia, especially in Anatolia, that have not been investigated in that sense (Fig. 1).

46

Arslan 2014. Voigt 2007. 48 Peterson 2002: 127; 2010: 260. 49 Croucher 2008. 50 Bolger 2008, 2010, 2013. 47

Figure 1. Map of Southwest Asia with major Neolithic sites. The numbers (1–22) indicate the sites that have been studied in terms of gender and age-related roles and identities. Relevant studies for each site can be found on the bottom left.

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Leaving aside a microscale and contextual approach, some of these sites have not published relevant evidence for researchers to be able to put pieces together. One of the major obstacles for such an attempt is the inconsistency in excavation methodologies of different research projects across this geographic area. The small number of studies shows that the recognition of gender archaeology as a theoretical and methodological approach in Turkey’s archaeological academia is in its infancy.51 For years, a gendered view of the past was hindered by the sociopolitical and historical paradigm of the mainstream archaeological academia in Turkey; it is only now being encouraged by the recently increasing number of lectures on archaeological theory at the undergraduate and graduate levels of university archaeology departments.52 3. Case study: gendering Aşıklı Höyük 3.1. Regional background The central Anatolian Neolithic differed from the southern Levant and southeastern Anatolia in terms of cultural choices, adaptations, and symbolic behaviours of the early sedentary communities. Although both the mobile huntergatherer and the early sedentary communities from all over southwest Asia were in contact as early as the Upper Palaeolithic, the dynamics that operated during the establishment of this new way of life differed between regions. This is true even for the different ecological and cultural niches in the region: the Konya Plain to the west and the Volcanic Cappadocia region to the east. Until very recently, information on the Late Epipalaeolithic period in central Anatolia was based solely on the evidence from the Pınarbaşı rock shelter in the Konya Plain. A recent survey project, on the other hand, concentrating on the Epipalaeolithic of Volcanic Cappadocia, began to give further insights into the Late Pleistocene mobile hunter-gatherer groups and the differences between these two subregions, especially in terms of chipped-stone technologies.53 The excavations at Pınarbaşı yielded evidence on the burial customs of the Late Epipalaeolithic community who inhabited the rock shelter. The results of the bioarchaeological analysis conducted on the human remains from the rock shelter indicated an asymmetry in the arm musculature of a male burial, which was

51

For recent studies on gender archaeology in Turkey, see Arslan 2014, 2016, 2019a, 2019b; Sezgin 2019; Yelözer 2017. 52 The anthropology departments in universities in Turkey have gender anthropology courses taught at undergraduate and graduate levels; however, the archaeology departments still lack courses devoted to gender and feminist archaeologies. In archaeology departments, gender archaeology and feminist approaches in archaeological studies are currently being taught at an introductory level within the scope of the archaeological theory courses at, e.g., Istanbul University, Koç University, and Ege University. 53 Duru and Kayacan 2018.

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interpreted as being similar to what was noted by Peterson54 for the contemporaneous Natufian males in the southern Levant. This may be an indication of similarities in hunting techniques between different regions. Similarities with the southern Levantine Epipalaeolithic also include the symbolic practices, illustrated by the tortoise shell containing Tritia gibbosula and Dentalium sp. shell beads placed behind the head in another burial in the rock shelter.55 Despite such similarities between these two regions, the early sedentary life in central Anatolia exhibits local characteristics, supported by the recent strontium isotope56 and genetic analyses57 that also indicate a local origin for the Late Epipalaeolithic and early Neolithic communities in the region. Bearing in mind the different dynamics that operated in the establishment of this new way of life, one could question if aspects of gender and age were also different. One way to answer this question is to investigate a case study using a contextual and microscale approach, bringing together all lines of evidence possible. Below, we will use such an approach to investigate Aşıklı Höyük, an early Neolithic site dating to the mid-ninth and eighth millennia BCE. 3.2. Aşıklı Höyük The inhabitants of Aşıklı Höyük were one of the earliest sedentary communities of the Volcanic Cappadocia region in east-central Anatolia. Habitation at the site began during the mid-ninth millennium BCE, by a hunter-gatherer community that decided to settle nearby the western bank of the Melendiz River. The river, flowing from the Ihlara Valley, and the volcanic landscape provided a rich habitat for various animal and plant species. A warm climate and park-woodland vegetation were dominant in this region during the beginnings of the Holocene.58 The Aşıklı community could be defined as a community in transition, providing evidence on the dynamics of the newly established Neolithic way of life. During the mid-ninth millennium BCE, the inhabitants were sedentary hunter-gatherers, who hunted a variety of game species and gathered various plants, alongside cultivating cereals. 59 Although they were hunters, they kept sheep/goat within the settlement, inside enclosures. This early practice of animal management was the initial step that would eventually lead to the domestication of caprine during the latest phases of the settlement.60 They lived in oval, semisubterranean kerpiç buildings, and daily activities were conducted collectively in 54

Peterson 2002. Baird et al. 2013. 56 Pearson 2019. 57 Feldman et al. 2019. 58 Woldring and Bottema 2003; Roberts 2014. 59 Stiner et al. 2014, 2018; Ergun et al. 2018. 60 Stiner et al. 2014, 2018; Buitenhuis et al. 2018; Peters et al. 2018. 55

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the external activity areas. During the eighth millennium BCE, life continued with minor changes. Rectangular, planned aboveground buildings replaced the oval, semisubterranean ones. Through time, the settlement pattern became increasingly dense, which would eventually create building groups and neighbourhoods. A special-purpose buildings area, where collective ceremonies took place, was constructed to the south of the settlement.61 During the mid-ninth millennium BCE, the dead were buried under the floors of buildings in a tightly flexed (hocker) position. No exceptional burial practices are evident. Towards the earlier phases of the eighth millennium BCE, the same burial custom continued; however, some individuals began to be buried with personal items. This practice became more widespread during the latest phases of the millennium.62 Interaction with other regions and communities decreased through time, as evidenced particularly by the homogenous material culture, along with the increasing focus on the full establishment of sedentism and caprine management. However, during the last two hundred to three hundred years of the site’s occupation, corresponding roughly to the second half of the eighth millennium BCE, there was increased interaction, evidenced by the presence of nonlocal materials, including carnelian beads, shell beads made from Mediterranean taxa, and other aspects of theretofore foreign material culture (for temporal changes in ornaments, burial customs, and insights into the social organization at Aşıklı Höyük, see Fig. 2).63 This interaction should have brought either the inclusion of new individuals into the community, who were buried with different customs—including being buried with ornaments—or a new sense of identity to the inhabitants of Aşıklı Höyük that was manifested by the incorporation of new elements in bodily ornamentation and their presence in mortuary contexts. Figurative evidence, such as human figurines and wall paintings depicting humans, are almost nonexistent at Aşıklı Höyük. There are rare, stylized examples of anthropomorphic figurines with ambiguous sex features.64

61

For a discussion of the architecture and settlement layout, see Esin and Harmankaya 2007; Duru 2013; Özbaşaran et al. 2018. 62 Yelözer 2018. 63 Yelözer 2016, 2018; Sönmez 2018. 64 Özbaşaran 2017.

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Figure 2. Temporal changes in ornaments, burial customs, and social organization during the overall occupation sequence at Aşıklı Höyük.

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Figure 3. Age and sex distribution of burials from the mid-9th and 8th millennium BCE settlement phases at Aşıklı Höyük.

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3.3. Bioarchaeological insights A total of 96 burials have been excavated so far at Aşıklı Höyük; 82 of them have been subject to bioarchaeological analysis, with adults constituting 60 percent and children making up 40 percent of the burials (see Tab. 2 for age ranges of infants, children, and adult individuals). Of the forty-six adults for whom sex can be determined, females constitute 65 percent while males constitute 35 percent.65 Considering the size of the settlement and the number of buildings excavated so far, the number of burials indicates that not every member of the community was buried within the settlement. However, although there is a slight tendency towards females, all sex and age groups are reflected within the dataset. This demographic pattern in burials does not change between settlement phases. The only difference is that while no newborns are found in contexts dating to the mid-ninth millennium BCE settlement phase, two newborns were buried in the settlement during the eighth millennium BCE (Fig. 3). Age in yrs. Birth–2 yrs. 2–15 15–30 30–45 45–65

Age class Infant Child Young adult Middle adult Old adult

Table 2. Age ranges for infants, children, and adult individuals at Aşıklı Höyük (data after Erdal 2018). In terms of task-related pathologies, the presence of joint diseases, and specifically osteoarthritis, has provided insights into the activities of the site’s inhabitants. Both sexes were routinely engaged in tasks that required physical force.66 Identification of degenerative joint diseases in adults has shown that the shoulders, hips, ankles, elbows, and knees were affected by osteoarthritis, possibly stemming from habitual stress. Males exhibit significant degrees of osteoarthritis in their shoulders, followed by their elbows and hips, indicating that they were engaged in activities such as carrying heavy loads, throwing, walking, and kneeling. Females were mostly affected by this disease in their ankles, followed by shoulders and hips, suggesting that they were probably engaged in activities that involved walking and squatting (Tab. 3). It is also indicated that young adult males buried in the settlement (n=4), aged between 15 and 22, show no signs of postcranial trauma and degenerative joint diseases, while females have osteoar-

65 66

Erdal 2018. Erdal 2004.

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thritis related to daily tasks from young adulthood (between 15 and 30 years of age) onwards.67 Throwing, lifting, carrying

Crouching, walking

Shoulders Elbows Ankles Hips ♂ *** ** * Middle adulthood onwards | Reaches 38.3 percent during mid-adulthood ♀ ** *** * Young adulthood onwards | Reaches 32 percent during mid-adulthood, decreases in old adults ***Principally affected areas. **Second-most affected areas. *Third-most affected areas.

Table 3. Joint areas with signs of osteoarthritis in male and female adult individuals at Aşıklı Höyük, and related daily activities (data after Erdal 2018). 3.4. Mortuary variables The mortuary variables include ornaments, wrapping the body, placement of ochre, double burials, and body manipulation. To understand the nature of funerary rituals and how they changed, we will begin with the evidence from the mid-ninth millennium BCE settlement phase. In terms of funerary rituals during the mid-ninth millennium BCE settlement phase, particularly significant evidence comes from two semisubterranean oval buildings: Building 3 and Building 1. Unfortunately, both buildings have been only partially excavated, since half of the buildings lie under the sections. Inside Building 3, two individuals were buried. One is a young adult female, who died at the age of 24–25, and the other is a 10-year-old girl. Both were wrapped in organic materials, as evidenced by the phytolith and dung remains on their bones. The second building, Building 1, dated slightly later than Building 3, yielded five individuals. Two of them, both infants, were buried in the same pit and covered with a reed mat. Another individual, a 30-year-old female, shows evidence of osteoarthritis on her shoulders and healed fractures in her fingers. Another adult female, who died at the age of 65, is the oldest member of the community. She also had heavy joint diseases, heavy tooth wear, and healed fractures in ribs and fingers. The last burial in the house was a 9-year-old girl, who exhibits a different burial location and position. She was lying on the hearth of the building and died probably during the collapse of the building, which was abandoned right afterwards.

67

Erdal 2018.

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The mid-ninth millennium BCE burials have no grave goods; however, phytolith analysis, combined with the data from physical anthropologists, reveals the presence of some treatments. Children and infants were covered with reed mats, sometimes lined with dung. Females were also wrapped, and their heads were possibly covered additionally with plants and dung, as suggested by the microscopic identification of phytoliths and faecal spherulites.68 During the eighth millennium BCE, some new mortuary treatments began to be practiced. Among them, burials with ornaments are in the majority. Rare cases include burials with ochre traces, double burials, and manipulation of the body. Below, the focus will be on the burials with ornaments, since they represent the majority of the grave goods. 3.4.1. Burials with ornaments: some patterns The first adorned burials were two children, each buried with a single, discshaped green bead (Levels 2F–H). Later, adults also began to be buried with ornaments (Level 2D). Towards the end of the settlement, the adornment of the deceased became more complex in terms of the quantity of the beads, raw materials, and combinations (Levels 2A–C). Burials with ornaments constitute 31 percent of the overall number of burials. This prompts further questions regarding the identities of these individuals—for example, did ornamentation vary according to the social roles and identities of the deceased? Age and sex distribution of the burials with ornaments reveal that no young adult individuals—individuals between the ages of 15 and 30—from either sex, and no newborns, were buried with ornaments. Apart from that, adults of both sexes, from the age of 30 onwards, as well as children and infants, were buried with ornaments (Fig. 4). Statistical analysis on the distribution of the number of different raw materials, forms, and colours of the beads that the ornaments were made of reveals further patterning. As concerns the question of whether these variables differed according to sex and age, the individuals who exhibit variety with a mean value of ≥5 percent were considered to be statistically significant. Accordingly, the individuals with the most variety in terms of raw materials were an adult female (SK104) and two adult males (SK11 and SK109) (Fig. 5a). Bead form variety is found primarily on one individual, an adult male, who also exhibits raw material variety (SK11) (Fig. 5b). In terms of bead colour variety, another adult male (SK109), who also exhibits raw material diversity, stands out as significant (Fig. 5c). The number of beads in a single ornament also appears to be higher (≥100 beads) in certain individuals: the abovementioned adult male (SK11), the adult female (SK104) with the high diversity of raw materials, and two children (SK124 and SK148) who were around the age of 3 at the time of their death (Fig. 5d). 68

Tsartsidou 2018.

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The two adult males (SK11 and SK109) who statistically stand out in terms of raw material, colour, and form diversity, as well as quantity of the beads, were buried in the same building with five other individuals. This building also has the highest number of burials, with seven burials in total. One of the adult males (SK109) was buried in the same pit with an infant. First, the infant was buried, and then the adult male was buried inside the same pit. The bead group that belongs to the adult male (SK109) includes a bead made from a soft stone (possibly meerschaum) with traces of use (Fig. 6a). The other adult male (SK11) had an ornament consisting of beads made from nonlocal materials, including 5 carnelian beads and 86 beads made from two different species of Mediterranean shells (Fig. 6b). It should also be noted that, when this bead group is excluded, the total number of beads made from Mediterranean shells, found in various contexts dating to all phases, is 29. This bead group consists of three times the number of shell beads of the entire shell bead corpus of the site.

Figure 4. Distribution of the burials with and without ornaments to the total number of 8th millennium BCE burials at Aşıklı Höyük. (+) indicates individuals with and (-) indicates individuals without ornaments.

Figure 5. 8th millennium BCE burials which statistically stand out among others in terms of raw material, bead form and colour diversity, and the number of beads composing the ornaments they were interred with.

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In addition to the variety of bead colours statistically associated with a single adult male, single beads of a green colour reveal a different patterning. Only females, infants, and children were buried with single beads, and these beads share one common element; they are all green (Tab. 4). One example of such beads, a barrel-shaped bead made from steatite that was found with an adult female (SK8), has a polished surface and partially erased technical traces that possibly stemmed from use (Fig. 6c). This could suggest the use and circulation of ornaments prior to being buried with the dead, as opposed to being produced for burial rituals as “gifts”, a practice observed also as concerns beads and pendants made from animal bone and tooth.

Figure 6. Examples of beads with use-wear traces and a bead group consisting of non-local materials. a) Sepiolite/meerschaum bead (AH 95-116a) found with an adult male burial (SK109). Notch on the perforation indicates use-wear, possibly result of continuous contact with a string, b) Bead group of Mediterranean shells, steatite disc beads, carnelian and chrysoprase “butterfly” beads, a limestone barrel bead, a limestone disc bead and a disc bead made from red stone (AH 89-281) found with an adult male burial (SK11), c) Steatite barrel bead (AH 89-93) found with an adult male burial (SK8). Polished look and erasure of technical traces relates to use-wear, d) Bead group of reused/reperforated red deer canine pendants (AH 92-105) found with an adult female burial (SK35).

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SK27

Age class Adult Old adult Midadult Midadult Adult

SK39

Infant

SK12

Infant

SK135

Infant

SK# SK125 SK40 SK8 SK9

SK Age in yrs. Indet.

Sex

Colour

Form

♀

Green

Oval/flat

Bead Raw material Quartz

58

♀

Green

Pendant

Steatite

2A–C

42–44

♀

Green

Barrel

Steatite

2A–C

42

♀

Green

Disc/flat

Steatite

2A–C

Indet. 0 (1 month) 2–3 0 (0–1 month)

♀

Green

Oval/round

Copper

2A–C

Indet.

Green

Oval/round

Steatite

2A–C

Indet.

Green

Disc/flat

Steatite

2F–H

Indet.

Green

Disc/flat

Steatite

2F–H

Level/phase 2A–C

Table 4. Single green beads found with infants and adult females at Aşıklı Höyük (age and sex data after Erdal 2018). 3.4.1.1. Exceptional cases There are also some exceptional cases. The bead corpus of the site, regardless of context and phase, was produced from a variety of raw materials, including animal bone and tooth. However, a vast majority of the beads found with burials were made from stones and minerals. A bead group consisting of 7 native copper/malachite beads and 52 pendants made from deer canines that were found with an adult female burial is the only example of deer canine pendants with a burial, throughout the settlement sequence. Some of these pendants were broken at some point in their use-life, then reperforated and reused (Fig. 6d). Another exceptional case is the two children buried with bead assemblages, possibly necklaces, found around their necks. These two children (SK124 and SK148) are the only ones among the children and infant burials with bead groups. The rest of the adorned children and infants were buried with single beads or a pair of beads. Furthermore, they are the oldest amongst the adorned children and infant burials (≥3 years old), and one of them was also buried with red ochre in the mouth. The distribution of single beads, bead pairs, and bead groups among children and infant burials reveal that the ones buried with single beads and a pair of beads range from 1 month to 2–3 years of age (Tab. 5). The two children buried with a bead group were around the age of 3 when they died. Similarities are also evident concerning the composition of the ornaments they were buried with; both had more than 100 small, disc-shaped red limestone and green steatite beads accompanied by larger beads, again red and green, made of carnelian, steatite, limestone, and possibly native copper/malachite (Fig. 7a–b).

Entangled at Death SK#

Age class

Age in yrs.

Level/phase

SK39 SK28 SK31 SK52 SK124 SK148 SK135 SK12

Infant Infant Infant Child Child Child Infant Child

1 month 1.5 1.5–2 2.5 3.5 ~3 0 (0–1 month) 2–3

2A–C 2A–C 2A–C 2A–C 2A–C 2A–C 2F–H 2F–H

311 Single bead + +

Bead pair

Bead group

+ + + + + +

Table 5. Infants and children buried with single beads, bead pairs, and bead groups at Aşıklı Höyük (age data after Erdal 2018).

Figure 7. Schematic illustration of the adorned child burials and the bead groups they were interred with.

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3.4.2. Comparison with other mortuary variables at Aşıklı Höyük Other mortuary variables include rare instances of ochre use, double burials, and body manipulation. Considering the relationship between these mortuary variables and the adorned burials, the patterns could be summarized as follows: Ochre use: Only three individuals were buried with ochre placed close to certain parts of their bodies: an infant (SK39), a child (SK124), and an adult female (SK22). All had ornaments. Although the sample number is small, it is important to underscore here that children and female adults, but not males, were chosen for burial with ochre. Double burials: During the mid-ninth millennium BCE, two infants were buried together. During the eighth millennium BCE, there is a single example of two adults buried together, a 28-year-old female (SK2) and an adult male who was 40–44 years old (SK3). In other cases, infants were buried with adult males or females. This is illustrated in three instances: an infant (SK5) buried with a female who died between the ages of 20 and 22 (SK4), an infant (SK107) buried with an old adult male (SK106), and another infant (SK28) buried with an adult female (SK27). Except for the infant buried with the female who died at the age of 20 to 22, the two infants and the male and female adults they were buried with all had ornaments. Body manipulation: Three individuals showed signs of pre- or postmortem manipulation. One of them (SK4), the same young adult female who was buried with an infant, had gone through trepanation, which was not the cause of death.69 Another female’s (SK29) head was scraped after death;70 she was about 47–48 years old when she died and was buried with a bead group. However, these treatments have been interpreted as surgical rather than related to mortuary rituals. The third example is the 3.5-year-old child (SK124) buried with a bead group and with red ochre placed in his/her mouth; the child’s head had been— possibly intentionally—deformed, evidenced by his/her dolichocephalic skull.71 4. Entangled at death at Aşıklı Höyük: manifesting life cycles and identities in mortuary rituals During the eighth millennium BCE, ornaments served as devices to signify the identities of some of the individuals at Aşıklı Höyük. The selection of who was going to be buried with ornaments was possibly related to the life cycle of the individuals, as indicated by the age-related patterning of the burials with ornaments. Individuals between the ages of 15 and 30, regardless of their sex, were not buried with ornaments. Also, no newborns were buried with ornaments. Some adults, from age 30 onwards, regardless of their sex, were buried with ornaments that consisted of a variety of raw materials, types and colours, and 69

Özbek 1991. Özbek 1993. 71 Özbek 2011: 4–5. 70

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quantity of beads. Only adult females above the age of 40, infants, and children up to 2–3 years of age were buried with single beads made from green-coloured minerals. Some individuals stand out in terms of quantity of the beads, raw material, type and colour diversity, the use of deer canine pendants in the ornament, or placement of ochre in addition to ornaments. As suggested by the presence of use-wear on some of the beads composing these ornaments, these items were used and circulated in daily life, either by the individuals they were interred with or by other members of the community, as opposed to being produced solely for burial rituals. Another pattern concerns some of the adult females, infants, and children up to 2–3 years old who were buried with single, green beads. The choice of green beads as single items in some of the adult female, infant, and child burials could suggest a correlation between these “social groups”. Considering the beginning of the weaning process, the age of 1 was a crucial period for both the mothers and infants at Aşıklı.72 The two children with bead groups were around the age of 3 when they died and had commenced the weaning process, which is also supported by the evidence of malnutrition detected by anthropologists. 73 Although based on a small sample number, the patterning between some adult females and children up to 2–3 years old being buried with single green beads, and children above the age of 3 being buried with bead groups, is interesting enough to further investigate in terms of “social age” and childhood at Aşıklı Höyük and its relation to ornamentation. The individuals who statistically stand out in terms of the number of beads, raw material, colour, and bead form diversity do not belong to a certain sex group. Males and females both stand out in terms of the number of beads, and diversity of materials, colours, and types of beads. What they share in common is that they are adults above the age of 30. However, the use of deer canines is associated only with an adult female, while only a female and two children were chosen to be buried with ochre placed in their body parts in addition to having been buried with ornaments. This correlation may relate to adult females and children having certain social identities within the community, based on gender and age, which were in some cases manifested in the funerary rites. 5. Concluding remarks The burial customs of the mid-ninth millennium BCE hunter-gatherers at Aşıklı Höyük, one of the earliest sedentary communities in the region, exhibit a collective way of life with no segregation between the sexes or age groups. Although there was a tendency towards females of all ages in regard to the selection of who was going to be buried within the settlement, the lack of any kind of personal items with burials—despite the presence of beads and pendants made 72 73

Pearson et al. 2010. Özbek 2011.

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mainly from animal bone and tooth, and Mediterranean shells in other contexts—suggests the dominance of a “hunter-gatherer communal identity”, which the community preferred not to manifest in the mortuary sphere. This preference changed through time, especially towards the end of the settlement during the mid-eighth millennium BCE, when some individuals began to be buried with ornaments consisting of beads made from raw materials that came from sources at various distances from the settlement. The adorned individuals, as discussed above, were from both sexes but only certain age groups: infants and children up to ~3 years old, and males and females above the age of 30. As previously suggested by various researchers,74 tasks such as the acquisition of raw materials for the production of beads and/or the importation of certain forms of beads in a finished state may have been embedded within expeditions for hunting, gathering, shepherding, or trading during the Neolithic. At Aşıklı Höyük, the differentiation between beads made from different raw materials and the techniques required for their production provides further clues into the organization of production and the component tasks embedded within. Ethnographic evidence75 indicates certain processes for such productions: selecting the source, travelling to the source, initial flaking, returning from the source with preforms, final flaking, and polishing. Each task requires different degrees of knowledge, skill, and experience, some of which were conducted with the participation of more than one individual. Such examples further urge one to see prehistoric material culture and its entangled ties with the producers, users, and—in mortuary contexts—the mourners as well, as a multidimensional process that most probably included the reflections of roles and identities of the individuals from different gender and age groups. The Aşıklı males, from the age of 30 onwards, and females from the age of 15 onwards engaged in various tasks and were active members of the community.76 It can be hypothesized that for adults of both sexes—or at least for some of them—ornamentation was related to active participation in daily tasks, some of which included the production and/or acquisition of the beads. The ornaments they were buried with consisted of a variety and number of beads, which could be items that they had “gained” during their life cycles. At first glance, the data from Aşıklı and other Neolithic sites presented in this study may seem to reflect yet another dichotomy produced: the young versus the old, the child versus the adult, and so on. However, as Gilchrist states, the overall picture we have affirms “a more holistic approach to gender archaeology … to understand the experience of human life as a continuum”.77 Indeed, societies witnessed profound changes in social relations during the transition to 74

Bains 2012: 211; Bains et al. 2013: 333; Hamilton 2001: 332. Hurcombe 2000: 95. 76 Erdal 2018. 77 Gilchrist 2004: 114. 75

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sedentism in southwest Asia. These changes can be tracked through the integration of multiple lines of archaeological evidence, including osteological, mortuary, and figurative data. As discussed above, males and females in Neolithic communities took equal parts in labour, and there were no reinforced hierarchies based on gender relations. Gender identities were embodied in figurative art with an emphasis on different courses of human life. It seems age played a prominent role in assuming and attributing identities to individuals. By focusing on the snapshots from the lives of the Aşıklı individuals—and in fact, from the end of life—it could be suggested that ornaments signified the identities of at least some of the adults above the age of 30 and of some children and infants. However, the presence of only certain individuals with ornaments suggests that social identities—and how they were reconstructed during the funerary rituals— were diverse, and within that diversity, age, rather than sex, was more prominent. The marking of identities of certain age groups during burial rituals was not uncommon during this period, especially around the eighth millennium BCE. The abovementioned special burial of infants and children with removed crania and plastered skulls hint at social ties between age groups. Similar to Aşıklı in central Anatolia, certain subadults in the eighth millennium BCE sites of the southern Levant and the middle Euphrates were differentiated from the rest of the community members with the elaborate adornment they were interred with. Within this framework, Aşıklı Höyük provides substantial evidence on the changing attitudes towards the display of identities during times of change, and how the construction of gender identities in funerary rituals was intertwined with the life course. Acknowledgements An important part of this research was conducted at the University of Edinburgh School of History, Classics and Archaeology. The technological and use-wear analysis on a sample of beads was conducted at the Université Cote d’Azur, CNRS-CEPAM (UMR 7264). Both study missions were supported by a 2018 G. Hanfmann Fellowship of ARIT awarded to the first author. We would like to thank all institutions for their academic and financial support. The first author would also like to thank Dr. Diane Bolger from the University of Edinburgh, for stimulating discussions on gender archaeology and for her valuable input on an earlier version of this manuscript; Dr. Hala Alarashi, for sharing her experience and knowledge on the study of prehistoric stone bead technologies; and Dr. UlfDietrich Schoop and Dr. Sylvie Beyries, for their generous hospitality at the abovementioned institutions. We are grateful to Konstantine Alexopoulos, who helped improve the language of the text, and to the volume editors for their valuable comments and suggestions. We would also like to thank the organizing committee of GeMANE3. Lastly, we would like to thank the General Directorate of Cultural Assets and Museums, Ministry of Culture and Tourism – Tur-

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Özbek, M. 1993: Aşıklı Höyük İnsanları (1990 ve 1992 Buluntuları). In IX. Arkeometri Sonuçları Toplantısı. T.C. Kültür Bakanlığı Anıtlar ve Müzeler Genel Müdürlüğü. Ankara, 23–31. Özbek, M. 2011: Aşıklı Höyük’te 2007 ve 2008 Yılı Kazı Çalışmalarında Bulunan İki İlginç İnsan İskeleti. In 26. Arkeometri Sonuçları Toplantısı. T.C. Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı Yayın 3268, Kültür Varlıkları ve Müzeler Genel Müdürlüğü Yayın 149, 1–12. Özdoğan, M. 2014: A New Look at the Introduction of the Neolithic Way of life in Southeastern Europe: Changing Paradigms of the Expansion of the Neolithic Way of Life. Documenta Praehistorica 41, 33–49. https://doi.org/ 10.4312/dp.41.2. Accessed 26 May 2021. Özkaya, V. / San, O. 2007: Körtik Tepe: Bulgular Işığında Kültürel Doku Üzerine İlk Gözlemler. In M. Özdoğan / N. Başgelen (eds.): Türkiye’de Neolitik Dönem. Istanbul, 21–36. Pearson, J. 2019: Building Communities: Multi-isotope Evidence of Diet and Kinship in Neolithic Anatolia. Paper Presented to the BANEA 2019— Liverpool. University of Liverpool, 22–24 February. Pearson, J. / Grove, M. / Özbek, M. / Hongo, H. 2013: Food and Social Complexity at Çayönü Tepesi, Southeastern Anatolia: Stable Isotope Evidence of Differentiation in Diet According to Burial Practice and Sex in the Early Neolithic. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 32, 180–189. https://doi.org/ 10.1016/j.jaa.2013.01.002. Accessed 26 May 2021. Pearson, J. / Hedges, R.E.M. / Molleson, T.I / Özbek, M. 2010: Exploring the Relationship between Weaning and Infant Mortality: An Isotope Case Study from Aşıklı Höyük and Çayönü Tepesi. American Journal of Physical Anthropology 143, 448–457. https://doi.org/10.1002/ajpa.21335. Accessed 26 May 2021. Pearson, J. / Meskell, L. 2015: Isotopes and Images: Fleshing out Bodies at Çatalhöyük. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 22, 461–482. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10816-013-9184-5. Accessed 26 May 2021. Pearson, J. / Meskell, L. / Nakamura, C. / Larsen, C.S. 2015: Reconciling the Body: Signifying Flesh, Maturity, and Age at Çatalhöyük. In I. Hodder / A. Marciniak (eds.): Assembling Çatalhöyük. London, 75–86. Peters, J. / Neuberger, F. / Wiechmann, I. / Zimmermann, M. / Balasse, M. / Pöllath, N. 2018: Shaping the Sheep: Human Management and DecisionMaking at Aşıklı Höyük, Central Anatolia. In M. Özbaşaran / G. Duru / M.C. Stiner (eds.): The Early Settlement at Aşıklı Höyük: Essays in Honor of Ufuk Esin. Istanbul, 325–345. Peterson, J. 2002: Sexual Revolutions: Gender and Labor at the Dawn of Agriculture. Walnut Creek, CA.

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Peterson, J. 2010: Domesticating Gender: Neolithic Patterns from the Southern Levant. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 29, 249–264. https://doi. org/10.1016/j.jaa.2010.03.002. Accessed 26 May 2021. Portillo, M. / Garcia-Suarez, A. / Klimowicz, A. / Baranski, M.Z. / Matthews, W. 2019: Animal Penning and Open Area Activity at Neolithic Çatalhöyük, Turkey. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 56, 101–106. https://doi. org/10.1016/j.jaa.2019.101106. Accessed 26 May 2021. Portillo, M. / Garcia-Suarez, A. / Matthews, W. 2020: Livestock Faecal Indicators for Animal Management, Penning, Foddering and Dung Use in Early Agricultural Built Environments in the Konya Plain, Central Anatolia. Archaeological and Anthropological Sciences 12, 40. https://doi.org/10.1007/ s12520-019-00988-0. Accessed 26 May 2021. Roberts, N. 2014: The Climate of Neolithic Anatolia. In M. Özdoğan / N. Başgelen / P. Kuniholm (eds.): The Neolithic in Turkey. 10500–5200 BC: Environment, Settlement, Flora, Fauna, Dating, Symbols of Belief, with Views from North, South, East and West. Istanbul, 67–94. Russell, N. 2018: Spirit Birds at Neolithic Çatalhöyük. Environmental Archaeology 24(4), 377–386. Accessed 26 May 2021. https://doi.org/10.1080/14614103.2017.1422685. Sezgin, E. 2019: Toplumsal Cinsiyet Rolleri Açısından Erken Tunç Çağında Ege Dünyası. MA thesis, Ege University. Istanbul. Sönmez, D. 2018: Küçük Buluntular Yoluyla Aşıklı Höyük Topluluğunun Çağdaşı Topluluklarla Etkileşimi. MA thesis, Istanbul University. Stiner, M.C. / Bailey, K.S. / Christidou, R. / Munro, N.D. 2018: Spatial and Zooarchaeological Evidence of Human-Animal Interactions in the Early PPN Settlement at Aşıklı Höyük. In M. Özbaşaran / G. Duru / M.C. Stiner (eds.): The Early Settlement at Aşıklı Höyük: Essays in Honor of Ufuk Esin. Istanbul, 219–259. Stiner, M.C. / Buitenhuis, H. / Duru, G. / Kuhn, S.L. / Mentzer, S.M. / Munro, N.D. / Pöllath, N. / Quade, J. / Tsartsidou, G. / Özbaşaran, M. 2014: A Forager-Herder Trade-Off, from Broad-Spectrum Hunting to Sheep Management at Aşıklı Höyük. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 111(23), 8404–8409. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1322723111. Accessed 26 May 2021. Tsartsidou, G. 2018: The Microscopic Record of Aşıklı Höyük: Phytolith Analysis of Material from the 2012–2016 Field Seasons. In M. Özbaşaran / G. Duru / M.C. Stiner (eds.): The Early Settlement at Aşıklı Höyük: Essays in Honor of Ufuk Esin. Istanbul, 147–189. Voigt, M. 2007: The Splendour of Women: Late Neolithic Images from Central Anatolia. In C. Renfrew / I. Morley (eds.): Material Beginnings: A Global Prehistory of Figurative Representation. Cambridge, United Kingdom, 151– 169.

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Watkins, T. 2004: Building Houses, Framing Concepts, Constructing Worlds. Paléorient 30(1), 5–24. https://doi.org/10.3406/paleo.2004.4770. Accessed 26 May 2021. Watkins, T. 2010: New Light on Neolithic Revolution in South-West Asia. Antiquity 84, 621–634. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0003598X00100122. Accessed 26 May 2021. Woldring, H. / Bottema, S. 2003: The Vegetation History of East-Central Anatolia in Relation to Archaeology: The Eski Acıgöl Polen Evidence Compared with the Near Eastern Environment. Palaeohistoria 43/44, 1–34. Yelözer, S. 2016: Aşıklı Höyük Boncukları: Tipoloji, Tanım ve Sosyal Açıdan Değerlendirme. MA thesis, Istanbul University. Yelözer, S. 2017: Şey-Özne-Arkeolog: Geçmişin Cinsiyetlendirilmesi ve Eril Önyargılar. In G. Duru / K. Eren / E. Koparal (eds.): Arkeolojik Şeyler: TAG-Türkiye Toplantısı Bildirileri. Istanbul, 83–96. Yelözer, S. 2018: The Beads from Aşıklı Höyük. In M. Özbaşaran / G. Duru / M.C. Stiner (eds.): The Early Settlement at Aşıklı Höyük: Essays in Honor of Ufuk Esin. Istanbul, 383–405.

4. Networks and Powers

Zinu, Wife and Manager in Old Babylonian Larsa Baptiste Fiette1

1. Introduction In 1763 BCE, the troops of Hammu-rabi, king of Babylon (1792–1750 BCE), conquered the kingdom of Larsa,2 which dominated the entire southern Mesopotamia during the reign of its last king, Rim-Sin (1822–1763 BCE). A new provincial administration was established in this region, henceforth called Yamutbal, with many Babylonian dignitaries among the high officials. One of them was Šamaš-hazir, the manager of the palace-owned lands in the southern district of Yamutbal, called lîtum šaplîtum.3 He resided in Larsa, the former royal capital. The Šamaš-hazir archives were discovered at Tell Senkereh (ancient Larsa) during the first third of the twentieth century, through illegal excavations. They currently include 337 tablets, all dated to Hammu-rabi’s reign, except 1 tablet from the very beginning of Samsu-iluna’s reign (1749–1712 BCE). 4 Threequarters of these documents deal with his professional activities. The remaining 88 texts are related to his own domain, located in the Larsa area. Šamaš-hazir owned fields, palm groves, orchards, sheep and goat flocks, and cattle. Fourteen letters, as well as 74 legal and accounting texts, broadly document agriculture, animal husbandry, product storage, and various transactions within his domain. Thirteen letters, 2 loan contracts, and 7 accounting documents—that is, one-quarter of this corpus—mention his wife called Zinu.5 It is first important to stress that we are dealing with the “dead” archives of Šamaš-hazir:6 therefore, we do not possess any legal document of permanent character, such as purchase contracts of real estate, partitions of inheritance, or judicial decisions confirming some right of ownership. Second, fields and orchards of the domain are almost always designated as property of Šamaš-hazir. Zinu seems to have owned nothing on her own behalf in the Larsa area. Moreover, there are neither direct or indirect references to Zinu’s dowry, nor evidence of transfer of any Zinu’s patrimonial possessions to Šamaš-hazir’s property. However, given the Babylonian origin of Šamaš-hazir,7 he may have owned another domain in northern Babylonia, which could have been enriched by Zinu’s dowry. 1

UMR 7192, Collège de France (Paris), [email protected]. Charpin 2004: 317–324. 3 Fiette 2018. 4 OECT 15 127 is dated to v/20/Samsu-iluna 2; see Fiette 2018: 297–299. 5 See in the appendix the index of texts mentioning Zinu, with references to their digital editions in the Archibab database. 6 Jacquet 2013: 70–77. 7 Lion 1994: 229; Fiette 2018: 90–92. 2

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The documentation relating to Zinu is one of the richest to illustrate the economic role of a Mesopotamian wife in the Old Babylonian period, with a large variety of texts. Her case study, which has never been examined before,8 shall contribute to our understanding about the socioeconomic status of wealthy women as wives in ancient Mesopotamia.9 Through the study of Zinu’s economic activities, based on cuneiform documents, the main objective of the present contribution is to investigate her degree of autonomy by examining her capacity to act herself as an economic player for the management of her husband’s domain and their household. In order to address this issue, Zinu’s involvement in the different economic sectors of Šamašhazir’s domain will be studied (sec. 2), as well as her functions in their household (sec. 3), and her relationship with her husband and their economic partners (sec. 4). Upon this study, a comparison between her economic role and that of other contemporary wives will be established. 2. Zinu’s economic activities in her husband’s domain The dossier of texts mentioning Zinu shows that she took part in economic activities of all sectors of Šamaš-hazir’s domain: agriculture (sec. 2.1), stockbreeding (sec. 2.2), management of storehouses and granaries (sec. 2.3), and transactions (sec. 2.4). 2.1. Agriculture Zinu was involved in the cultivation of fields, in which Šamaš-hazir grew barley and sesame. A first letter written by Šamaš-hazir to Zinu, AbB 4 156, shows that she was entrusted by her husband with the preparation of soil for seeding sesame: “[10–11] About the sesame field of Ašdubba: the harvest season for barley is over. [12] Let’s prepare the field for sesame! [13–15] In addition, write to the town of Rakabat so that [x] sar (ca. 36 m2) of field [for each bur (ca. 6.48 ha)] can be prepared for [seeding] sesame!”10 The sesame seeding took place in early summer,11 immediately after the barley harvest12 and the soil irrigation that fol8

See, however, Fiette for a summary of Zinu’s activities within the domain of Šamašhazir (2018: 317–319). 9 See Svärd for her important synthesis on gender studies in Assyriology (2015: 8–15); see also Langlois for a short and useful historiography (2017: 4–5), which has to be complemented with Lion and Michel 2016; Svärd and Garcia-Ventura 2018; Budin et al. 2018; and Anthonioz and Fink 2019. 10 AbB 4 156: 10–15: [10] aš-šum ⸢a⸣.[š ] à [š e . g i š . ì ] ša a š . d u b . b a k i [11] ⸢x x šaat-tum(?) i-zi-bu [12] a . [ š à -lam] ⸢a-na⸣ š e . g i š . ì li-is-pu-nu [13] ⸢ù⸣ [a-na] ⸢u r u ⸣raka-bat⸢k i šu-up⸣-[r]i-ma [14] [1,0.0 g á n . t a a . š ] à -lam a-na š e . g i š . ì [15] [e-pe-šiim x] ⸢s a r li-is⸣-pu-nu. See Fiette for the restorations on these lines (2018: 257). 11 As AbB 4 156: 14–15 shows, the cultivation of sesame took place in fields where barley also grew; see Pomponio 1978: 40–41. Small plots of land (measured with the sar surface unit, ca. 36 m2) were devoted for seeding sesame, during the ploughing of fields

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lows the flooding of the rivers. In a second letter written by Šamaš-hazir, AbB 14 163, Zinu received first instructions about barley harvested on a field where sesame was to be seeded. Given that Sin-muštal, the overseer of the merchants of Ur,13 is mentioned in this passage, the barley was probably the object of some commercial transaction, in which Zinu was concerned: [5–7] About the 65 hectares field on which Apqummam seeded sesame: 15.000 litres of barley, part (of the harvest), (are) with him. [8–9] I ordered him to give the barley to Sin-muštal, and he replied as follows: [10–13] “I have just given the grain (to him). He has nothing left in my account.” [14–15] He (also) said that to Sin-muštal.14 In lines 16–23, Zinu was involved in managing the cultivation of a sesame field and the storage of its harvest in Ašdubba: “[16–19] (About) the sesame of this 10 bur field, all there is, let him (Apqummam) give it to a farmer (or) let him cultivate it himself. [20–22] Bring it, whether it is to be taken by us or by him, and lock it up in Ašdubba. [23] Do not give him even 10 litres of sesame.”15 Lines 24–29 concern another field that Šamaš-hazir wanted to cultivate himself. He mentioned Nur-Ilabrat, who was the author of the letter AbB 4 141, written to Zinu about crushing sesame for producing oil (see below, sec. 2.5). It therefore appears that the field in question in these lines was also intended for cultivating sesame: “[24–25] Furthermore, I have just sent my tablet to NurIlabrat. [26–27] This field, I will cultivate it myself! [28–29] Do not […] anybody for this field.”16 At last, lines 30–34 are instructions given to Zinu about a farmer who must cultivate a field; given the previous passages, it should be a sesame field: “[30– in summer (which surfaces were measured with the bur unit, ca. 6.48 ha.). 12 The expression šattum ezêbum (line 11) indicates the end of the harvest season of barley. It is also attested in two other letters belonging to the Šamaš-hazir archives: AbB 4 30: 12 and AbB 4 154: 31. 13 See Földi 2011 and Fiette 2020. 14 AbB 14 163: 5–15: [5] aš-šum 10,0.0 g á n a . š à ša ap-qum-ma-am [6] š e . g i š . ì ipu-šu [7] 50,0.0 g u r š e n ì . k u ₅ it-ti-šu [8] še-a-am a-na de n . z u -mu-uš-ta-al [9] na-da-nam aq-bi-šum-ma [10] um-ma šu-ú-ma [11] še-a-am at-ta-di-in [12] mi-im-ma eli-ia [13] ⸢ú⸣-ul i-šu [14] a-na de n . z u -mu-uš-ta-al [15] ki-a-am iq-bi. 15 AbB 14 163: 16–23: [r.16] š e . g i š . ì ša 10,0.0 g á n . e (!) a . š à ša-⸢ti⸣ [17] ša ib-baaš-šu-ú [18] a-na er-re-ši-im lu-ú id-di-in [19] šu-ú lu-ú i-ri-iš [20] ša le-qí-ni ù le-qíšu(!) [21] šu-ri-ba-ma i-na u r u ra-ka-batk i [22] pi-hi-a [23] 0,0.1 š e . g i š . ì la ta-naad-di-na-/šum. 16 See Veenhof, who suggests translating line 28–29 as follows: “Do not [give] anybody [access] to that field” (2005: 155). AbB 14 163: 24–29: [24] ù a-na nu-úr-dn i n . š u b u r [25] ṭup-pí uš-ta-bi-lam [26] a . š à -lam ša-{x}ti [27] a-na-ku-ú-ma e-er-ri-iš-sú [28] ma-am-⸢ma-an a-na a . š à ⸣ [u.e.29] la ta-[x x x x x x].

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31] Finally, concerning the [sesame field] in the locality of Rakabat: [32] Šamaš-abi is carrying my tablet to Šep-Sin. [33–34] Send him the information that he should not return until he has cultivated it.”17 Letters AbB 4 156 and AbB 14 163 show Zinu’s economic role in the management of sesame cultivation and agricultural staff. Some passages allude to her functions in the storage and trade of barley and sesame that will be studied below (secs. 2.3 and 2.4). There is no direct evidence for a similar role of Zinu in barley cultivation. However, the letter AbB 14 162, written by Šamaš-hazir, describes the preparations that she had to make as part of a ceremony related to agricultural fertility: [5–6] About “making green” the field, which is why you wrote to me: [7– 9] go and “make” the field of the locality of Hudu and the field of the locality of Rakabat “green.” [10–11] Let take for you some ala[ppanum]grain 18 (for brewing beer) and let dispose it to grind it. [12–15] Let (someone) take [for you] two beer pots for the town of Hudu, two beer pots for the town of Rakabat, oil and dates, [then] [16] “make” the field properly “green”!19 Zinu had to obtain beer, oil, and dates, obviously to prepare a banquet in order to “make green” the fields.20 This ceremony must have taken place at the spring equinox,21 when the first cereal shoots emerge through the soil, with a green colour as sign of their vigour.22 17

AbB 14 163: 30–34: [30] ù aš-šum [a . š à š e . g i š . ì ] [31] ša u r u r[a-ka-batk i ] [32] u t u -a-bi ṭup-pí a-na še-ep-de n . z u uš-ta-bi-/il [33] ta-hi-it--am ṭù-ur-di-ma [34] a-di la i-ri-šu la i-il-la-kam. 18 For this restoration, see Fiette 2018: 254. 19 AbB 14 162: 5–16: [5] aš-šum a.šà-im ur-ru-qí-im [6] ša ta-aš-pu-ri-im [7] al-ki-i-ma a . ⸢ š à ⸣ -el u r u hu-du-úk i [8] a . š à -el u r u ra-ka-b[atk i ] [9] ur-ri-qí a-la-[pa-na-am(?)] [10] li-il-qú-ni-ik-ki-[im-ma] [11] a-na sa-ma-di li-iš-ku-nu [12] 2 d u g . ú . s a . k a . d ù a-na u r u hu-du-úk i [13] 2 d u g . ú . s a . k a . d ù a-na ⸢u r u ra⸣-ka-batk i [14] ì . g i š ù z ú . l u m [15] li-il-qú-ni-[ki-im-ma] [16] a . š à -lam(!) i-ša-ri-iš ⸢ur-ri⸣-qí. 20 The Akkadian verb translated as “to make green” is wurruqum (warâqum D). See CAD A/2, 232 s. v. arāqu § 2b, to be complemented with Veenhof 2005: 220 and Fiette 2018: 254–255. 21 On agricultural rituals from Umma, dated to the Ur III period, see Maeda 1979 and Sallaberger 1993: 264–270. 22 See Fiette 2018: 190–191. The yield table Archibab 3 5, dated to the i/27/Hammu-rabi 36, shows that agricultural yield rates, called šukunnûm (n ì . g a r ), were established at the spring equinox, when farmers could examine the first visible shoot of barley in furrows; this operation is explicitly expressed in the header section of OECT 15 121: 1–4: “[1] Estimated yield (šukunnûm) of the district Ayyaniatum and of the district Šahlaganu(m); [2] fields of the temple of Nanna and of soldiers, whose furrows have been examined; [3] town of Šunna-mundim; [4] on the banks of Laganna canal, its two sides.” Id

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2.2. Stockbreeding Moreover, Zinu was involved in the management of the domain’s livestock. She is mentioned in the two annual summaries of sheep and goat flocks belonging to the Šamaš-hazir archives. First, she appears to have been responsible for animals leaving their herds, in OECT 15 8: 11–18: [11] 1 ram, for Muhaddum’s wife, received (previously) by Zinu; [12] 1 buck, for the râhiṣum23 of Purussa, received (previously) by Aplum; [13] 1 goat, for the râhiṣum of Rakabat; [14] 1 goat(?) for the pûdum-ceremony24 of Sin; [15] 1 buck, when Muhaddum’s wife went; [16–17] 1 buck, hubuttatum-loan,25 which one has reimbursed to Iliippalsam; [18] received by Zinu.26 Zinu is also mentioned in TCL 11 178: 13 as having been responsible for a weak ram (ša wanû) recorded among dead animals. She may have perhaps provided this ram with veterinary care: “1 ram that is weak; responsible person: Zinu.”27 In addition, Zinu had to pay attention that plough oxen were fed with barley and bran,28 as requested by Šamaš-hazir in AbB 4 156 after his instructions concerning the seeding of sesame (see above, sec. 2.1):

23 Given that a bath was given to small flocks before shearing (see Cassin 1959), and according the etymology of the substantive râhiṣum, which derives from the verb rahâṣum “to wash, to bathe” (CAD R, pp. 72–74 s. v. raḫāṣu B), the title of râhiṣum should have designated people who bathed these animals (see Fiette 2018: 310–311). 24 See Yamada 2011: 152: “To sum up, in the majority of the attestations, the pudûm may mean either the offerings made or the rite performed in front of a deity with an appeal for the divine favour of releasing a person from misfortune or sin, which may have been caused by divine anger. The rite was apparently practised broadly in Mesopotamia and Syria for the king or high-ranking personages in the second millennium BC.” OECT 15 8: 14 is to be added to references gathered by S. Yamada. See also Jacquet 2011: 57–59. 25 The hubuttatum-loan is a specifically interest-free loan, to which default interest may, however, be applied if the debtor does not repay on the agreed reimbursement date; see Skaist 1994: 52–56. 26 OECT 15 8: 11–18: [11] 1 u d u . n i t a ₂ ⸢a-na⸣ d a m mu-ha-d[u-u]m [ š ] u . t i . a zinu-ú [12] 1 ⸢ m á š ⸣ . g a l a-na ra-hi-ṣí ša u r u b u r u ₅ . ú s . s a k i š u . t i . a ap-lum [13] 1 ⸢ ù z ⸣ a-na ra-hi-ṣí ša u r u ra-ka-batk i [14] 1 ⸢ ù z (?)⸣ a-na pu-di-im [ša] de n . z u [15] 1 ⸢ m á š ⸣ . g a l i-nu-ma d a m ⸢mu⸣-ha-⸢du-um⸣ il-li-kam [16] 1 ⸢ m á š . g a l ⸣ [h]u-buta-tum ša a-na ì-lí-ip-pa-al-sà-am d u m u da-da-a [17] ú-te-er-⸢ru⸣ [18] [ š u . t i . a ] zinu-⸢ú⸣. 27 TCL 11 178: 13: 1 {x} u d u . n i t a ₂ ša wa-nu-ú g ì r zi-nu-ú. 28 On the feeding of oxen, see Stol 1995: 195–197.

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[1’–3’] [PN] [said] this: “Atamrum brought these oxen to (the city of) Rakabat.” [4’–5’] Why were the oxen that I sent for (their) fattening brought to Rakabat? [6’] Is such action appropriate? [7’–9’] Let these oxen be fed with 10 litres of grain and 30 litres of bran each, as I had ordered, and we will pay a 10 litres-measure [of …]. [10’–11’] The oxen that graze there are weak, and they should not be transported!29 Zinu was as much concerned with supplying her own household as she was with the farm for fattening small and large livestock, called bît namriâtim. Thus, she wrote in another exchange of correspondence with Šamaš-hazir, AbB 14 164: “[5–7] There is no more grain for the food supply of the farm for the fattening of small and large livestock, nor for the food supply of the house and your servants. It’s over!”30 In summary, Zinu’s functions concerning livestock of the domain were herd management, animal feeding, and perhaps veterinary care. She also controlled the wool produced by the shearing of the sheep flocks (see below, sec. 2.3).31 2.3. Storehouses and granaries Zinu was responsible for the granaries and storehouses in which grain, sesame, dates, and wool were stored. She obviously controlled the deliveries and expenditures of these commodities, as shown by accounting texts drafted as part of her management. Documents quoted below show the variety of products, as well as of granaries and storehouses that Zinu has to manage as part of her economic activities for her husband’s domain. A first text, OECT 15 32, is a daily inventory of grain stored in a storehouse called bît kunukkim. The word kunukkum refers here to the sealing of the door that ensures its closure and allows potential intrusions to be noticed. The document records a first volume of grain, to which two deliveries are added, giving the total amount of grain available on the date indicated: [1–2] 1.280 (litres of grain) in the bît kunukkim storehouse, under Zinu’s responsibility; [3] 100 (litres of grain), which Aplum brought for sowing; 29

AbB 4 156: 1’–11’: [r.1’] ⸢x-x-x-x-x um-ma-mi⸣ [2’] g u ₄ . h i . a šu-nu-ti ⸢a(!)-na(!)⸣ ra-ka-batk i [3’] ⸢a-ta-am-ru⸣-um it-ru-šu-nu-ti [4’] g u ₄ . h i . a ša a-na na[m]-ri-atim ú-ša-ri-a-am [5’] am-mi-ni a-na u r u ra-ka-batk i ir-du-ú [6’] ⸢e⸣-pe-šum an-nu-ú-um i-⸢re⸣-ed-du-ú [7’] g u ₄ . h i . a šu-nu ki-ma aš-pu-ra-a-am [8’] 0,0.1.t a . à m še-a-am ⸢ù 0,0.3(?)⸣.t a . à m d u h [9’] li-ku-lu-ú-ma sú-ú-⸢tam⸣ [o o] ⸢x⸣ ni-pu-ul [10’] ⸢ g u ₄ ⸣ . h i . a ul-lu-tum ša i-⸢ik⸣-ka-lu [11’] ⸢la⸣-ab-bu-ma ú-ul ib-ba-la-ka-tu. 30 AbB 14 164: 4–7: [4] aš-šum še-e-im ša ta-aš-pu-ri-im [5] um-ma at-ti-ma a-na š à . g a l é . u d u . g u ₄ . n i g a [6] š à . g a l é ù ⸢ṣe⸣-eh-ru-ti-ka [7] še-um ú-ul i-ba-ašši ga-me-⸢er⸣. 31 The Šamaš-hazir archives do not provide any information about dairy products in his domain. uru

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[4] 28 litres (of grain), price of cress; [5] (total:) 1.408 litres; [6] Capital of available grain; [7–8] Date: x/23/Hammu-rabi 43.32 TCL 11 165 is a second document that mentions the bît kunukkim. Zinu received several food deliveries, the nature of which is not indicated. The absence of this information is probably justified by the fact that this document was produced to indicate a problem of different capacity measurements, carried out with the use of two different tools (lines 1–2) that did not allow Zinu to achieve the same result (lines 3–9). This is a testimony that Zinu was very concerned about the measuring and accounting of the domain’s products: [1] 3.600 litres: Annum-pi-Šamaš, (measured with a) sûtum-measuring tool; [2] 3.900 litres: temple of Šamaš,33 (measured with a) standard parsiktum-measuring tool; [3] 7.510 litres, supply for the bît kunukkim storehouse; [4–5] Zinu, a first time, which have been measured with the ṣimdummeasuring tool; [6] 7.250 litres, supply for the bît kunukkim storehouse; [7–9] Zinu, a second time, which have been measured with the parsiktummeasuring tool of the supply; [10–12] Date: v/–/Hammu-rabi 38.34 TCL 11 240 is a receipt of dates by Zinu during the seventh month corresponding to the harvest season of dates, from Diqqum, who is well known as a date harvester working for the domain of Šamaš-hazir:35 [1–2] 6.970 (litres of) dates, cultivation agreement of the palm grove; [3–5] service of Diqqum, receipt by Zinu;

32

OECT 15 32: [1] 4,1.2 š à é . k i š i b . b a [2] g ì r zi-nu-ú [3] 0,1.4 ša ap-lum a-na š e . n u m u n ub-lam [4] 0,0.2 8 s i l a ₃ š á m z à . h i . l i . a [5] 4,3.2 8 s i l a ₃ [6] s a g . n ì . g a š [ e . b ] i [7] i t i a b . è u ₄ 23.k a m [8] m u u d . k i b . n u n k i . 33 For the economic ties between the temple of Šamaš and Šamaš-hazir’s domain, see Fiette 2018: 297–300. These links can be explained by the fact that Šamaš-hazir became the wakil bîtim-intendant of this sanctuary, at the end of Hammu-rabi’s reign; see also Fiette 2018: 106. 34 TCL 11 165: [1] 12,0.0 g u r a n -pi₄-du t u g i š b a . a n [2] ⸢13,0.0⸣ g u r é du t u giš b a . r í . g a ( ! ) g i . n a [3] ⸢25⸣,0.1 g u r m u . d u é k i š i b . b a [4] Izi-nu-ú k i .1 [5] ša i-na g i š b a n e š im-ma-du [6] 24,0.5 g u r m u . d u é . k i š i b . b a [7] Izi-nu-ú k i .2 [8] ša ⸢i⸣-na g i š b a . r í . g a m u . d u [9] im-ma-ad-du [10] i t i n e . n e . g a r [11] m u è š . ⸢ n u n ⸣ . n a k i [12] ⸢ a g a l . g a l . l a ⸣ b a . g u l . 35 On Diqqum, see Fiette 2018: 316.

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[6] Date: vii/28/–.36 According to the letter AbB 11 171, dates were stored in a storehouse designated as našpakum. Munawwirum, also known as a date harvester,37 alerts Zinu to the fire in a storehouse: “[14–15] The storehouse has been on fire; the dates must not be lost! [16–18] If you want to do me a favour, send [people] so they can take them away.”38 At last, OECT 15 101 is a receipt of sesame by Zinu, brought in three stages by Šamaš-gamil and Šamaš-dayyan, who were probably the sesame harvesters:39 [1–3] 760 litres of sesame, first time; 1.983 litres, second time; 1.842 litres, third time; [4–6] total: 4.585 litres,40 receipt by Zinu; [7–8] responsible persons: Šamaš-gamil and Šamaš-dayyan; [9–11] Date: ix/–/Hammu-rabi 39.41 It is worth observing that a nail print is visible on the blank space between the end of the text and the date. This space is typically reserved for seal impressions. Could this be Zinu’s fingernail impression? This raises the question of whether Zinu owned a seal or not. Evidence of its existence has not yet been found.42 2.4. Transactions Because she managed granaries and storehouses, Zinu was involved in several transactions of silver and agricultural products in Šamaš-hazir’s domain. The letter AbB 4 140 shows that Šamaš-hazir instructed her for distributing rations of barley and dates to workers at a shipyard in his absence: “[10–11] Do

36

TCL 11 240: [1] 23,1.1 z ú . l u m [2] n ì . g a r g i š k i r i ₆ [3] n ì . š u di-iq-qú [4] ⸢ š u ⸣ . t i . a [5] Izi-nu-ú (r.6) i t i ⸢ d u ₆ ⸣ . k ù u ₄ 28.k a m . 37 See Archibab 3 6: 22, and OECT 15 48: 8. 38 AbB 11 171: 14–18: [14] na-aš-ba-ku i-ša-tam [15] i-šu-ú z ú . l u m la i-ha-li-qú [16] šum-ma ta-ga-mi-li-in-ni [17] ṭù-ur-di-im-ma [18] li-it-ba-lu-šu-nu-ti. Line 14, na-aš-ba-ku for našpakum, is a southern Mesopotamian dialectal variation of the labial consonant /b/ for /p/; see Stol (1971: 366) and Fiette (2018b: 19n14) for other examples. Našpakum is a substantive formed on the verb šapâkum, one of the meanings of which is “to store”; see CAD Š/1, 415–417 s. v. šapāku 1b. 39 Šamaš-dayyan is well known as a farmer of the Šamaš-hazir’s domain; see Fiette 2018: 282. 40 The total given on the tablet: 16,1.2 5 gur = 4.885 litres, is wrong; 15,1.2 5 gur = 4.585 litres are expected. 41 OECT 15 101: [1] 2,2.4 g u r š e . g i š . ì k i .1 [2] 6,3.0 3 s i l a ₃ g u r k i .2 [3] 6,0.4 2 s i l a ₃ g u r k i .3 [4] š u . n i g i n 16,1.2 5 s i l a ₃ g u r [l.e.5] na-am-ha-ar-ti [6] Izi-nu-ú [r.7] g ì r du t u -ga-mil [8] ù du t u -da-a-⸢a⸣-[a]n [9] i t i g a n . g a n . è [u.e.10] m u k i l i b ₃ g ú . d à . a [11] k u r s u . b i r ₄ k i . k e ₄ . 42 See Patrier 2017: 40–41.

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not hold back grain and dates that he (Igmil-Sin)43 will demand from you for the hired men. [12] Give it to him! [13–14] According to the salary that will be given, let the work be done! [15] Let grain and dates be distributed in my absence.”44 Zinu was also involved in several commercial operations. Šamaš-magir, a servant of Šamaš-hazir’s domain,45 received grain to trade for bran from Zinu, according to OECT 15 63. The bran was likely intended to feed cattle, as previously observed (sec. 2.2): [1] 10 gur of barley (to be exchanged) for bran; [2–4] received by Šamaš-magir, from Zinu; [5–8] Date: iv/4/Hammu-rabi 42.46 In the letter AbB 4 142, Alitum, a woman whose status is not known, discusses with Zinu buying garlic for one shekel of silver: “[13–15] I obtained garlic for a value of one shekel of silver in the locality of [GN]. [15–16] Do not argue with the gardener! [17–19] During your travel, I will make one shekel of silver available to you, [20–21] or I will make grain equal to the value of one shekel of silver available to you.”47 Finally, the extent of Zinu’s responsibilities is obvious when she acted as creditor in loan contracts, according to two texts. The first one is OECT 15 55, a loan contract for dates: [1–3] 1.680 litres of dates from Diqqum, received by Sin-iqulam; [4–6] He (the debtor) will measure barley for Zinu, during the third month; [7–8] Date: ix/Hammu-rabi 39.48 43

In the Šamaš-hazir’s domain, Igmil-Sin has performed some functions of stewardship, even though his exact title is still unknown. He is mentioned besides Zinu in the loan contract OECT 15 55 (see sec. 2.4). See Fiette (2018: 316–317) for a summary of his activities. 44 AbB 4 140: 10–15: [10] še-a-am ù zú.lum ša a-na l ú . h u n . g á [11] i-ir-ri-šu-ki la ta-ka-al-le-e [12] id-ni-i-šu [13] a-na pí-i i-di-im ša in-na-ad-⸢di⸣-nu [14] ši-ip-ru-um lika-ši-id [15] še-um ù z ú . l u m ba-lu-⸢a⸣ li-na-di-⸢in⸣. 45 See Fiette 2018: 267, 278, 295. Šamaš-magir is also mentioned as witness in two orchard cultivation contracts, TCL 11 144 and TCL 11 176. 46 OECT 15 63: [1] 10,0.0 g u r še a-na d u h [2] nam-ha-ar-ti [3] Idu t u -ma-gir₁₄ [4] k i zi-nu-ú [r.5] i t i š u . n u m u n . a u ₄ 4.k a m [6] m u b à d g a l k a r . du t u [u.e.7] ù b à d ra-pí-qum [8] m u . u n . d ù . a . 47 AbB 4 142: 13–21: [13] ⸢ s u m ⸣ s a r ša 1 g í n ⸢ k ù . b a b b a r ⸣ [14] i-na u r u (!)k i (!) x.x.x [15] ap-pu-ul n u . g i š [ k i ] r i ₆ [16] la tu-da-ba-⸢bi⸣ [17] i-na a-li-ki-ki [18] 1 g í n k ù . b a b b a r [19] re-eš₁₅-ki ú-ka-al [20] lu še-a-am ša 1 g í n k ù . b a b b a r [21] re⸢eš₁₅⸣-ki ú-ka-al. 48 OECT 15 55: [1] 5,3.0 g u r z ú . l u m [2] ⸢ k i ⸣ {x} di-iq-qum [3]

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The second text is OECT 15 87, a loan contract for wool: [1–3] 1.500 litres of barley, (equivalent) to 10 kilos of wool, guarantee of Šunuma-ilum;49 [4–7] (that) Šamaš-gamil has received from Zinu and Igmil-Sin; [8] He (the debtor) will measure barley during the third month; [9] He (the debtor) has impressed his seal; [10–12] Date: i/1/Hammu-rabi 39.50 In these loan contracts, both debtors had to reimburse Zinu with barley at the time of the harvest in the third month of the Babylonian calendar, which corresponded to the end of spring. Furthermore, these contracts do not have any witnesses, which may mean that the loans were made between direct partners of Šamaš-hazir’s domain, without any recourse to a higher legal authority.51 In summary, the product transactions in which Zinu was involved were intended to maintain workers employed for the domain, as well as to make the capital of goods grow through commercial exchanges or loans. In the second case, Zinu was always the person who collected the gains of a sale or the reimbursement of a loan. The role played by Zinu in these documents is explained first by the fact that she was responsible for the storehouses from which these goods moved, but also and above all because she became the manager of the domain whenever her husband was absent, as explicitly expressed in the letter AbB 14 140: 15, quoted above. 2.5. Summary of Zinu’s economic activities in the domain Upon the examination of her functions, it first appears that Zinu was a versatile woman, working in all sectors of activity in Šamaš-hazir’s domain. [ š u . t ] i . a de n . z u -i-qú-⸢lam⸣ [4] [a]-⸢na⸣ zi-nu-ú [5] [ i t ] i s i g ₄ . a [6] [ š e ì ] . á g . e [r.7] i t i g a n . g a n . è [8] m u k i l i b ₃ g ú . d à . a . 49 Šunuma-ilum was a herdsman of Šamaš-hazir’s domain; see Fiette 2018: 300–301. 50 OECT 15 87 (case): [1] 5,0.0 g u r š e [2] ša 20 m a . n a s í g . h i . a [3] š u . d ù . a šu-nu-ma-d i n g i r [4] k i zi-nu-ú [5] ù ig-mil-d[e n . z u ] [6] Idu t u -⸢ga-mil⸣ [l.e.7] š u . b a . a n . t i [r.8] i t i s i g ₄ . a [š e ì . á g . e ] [9] k i š i b . b a . n i [í b . r a ] [10] i t i b á r . z à . g a r u ₄ 1.k a m [11] m u k i . 2 è š . n u n . n a k i [u.e.12] a g a l . g a l . l a ba.gul. There is an important variant in line 11 of the tablet: the signs “k i .2” are missing in the year-name formula. In other words, this document could have been dated to the year Hammu-rabi 38, if we did not have its case. See Charpin: “Le scribe s’est rendu compte qu'il avait oublié le changement d’année (ce qui est fréquent au mois i : cf. FM 5, p. 165 n. 615); sur l’enveloppe, il a corrigé en indiquant un ‘-bis’ qui montre qu’il ne connaissait pas encore le nom de la nouvelle année [. . . ]” (2007: 150). 51 According to a suggestion from Beth Alpert Nakhai (personal communication, 8 December 2020), this may also indicate the strength of Zinu’s authority, that she does not need any witnesses to oversee the arrangements she has made with debtors.

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The letters that Zinu received from Šamaš-hazir contain instructions from her husband, which she was supposed to obey. They show that she played an important role in the agriculture and livestock sectors. However, the documentation relating to the storage and transactions of goods produced in the domain largely shows Zinu’s responsibilities and her ability to control measurements, accounts, and transactions of grain, sesame, dates, and wool. In other words, her functions then appear to have been active, as she managed storehouses and granaries and exercised control over receipts and expenditures on various occasions. Finally, one could consider that Zinu held a stewardship function in her husband’s domain. She acted with a relative autonomy that depended on the frequent absences of Šamaš-hazir, due to his status of high dignitary of the Yamutbal province. Moreover, Zinu was also involved in the economic activities in their household, discussed in the following section. 3. Zinu’s economic activities in the household Zinu and Šamaš-hazir regularly exchanged news of their well-being and instructions concerning their household, as evidenced by these common phrases in their letters. AbB 4 156: 12’–13’, from Šamaš-hazir to Zinu, reads, “Do not be careless with the house and the servants! We are fine, nothing is missing.”52 And AbB 11 168: 15–17, from Zinu to Šamaš-hazir, reads, “The house is going well. Write to me about your health, so that my heart may finally stop worrying.”53 Zinu’s economic responsibilities for the household included providing for her home (sec. 3.1), processing products into food and textile (sec. 3.2), and supporting members of her own family (sec. 3.3). 3.1. Providing for the home Zinu was responsible for providing for her home. In the letter AbB 14 164, she was concerned that there should be enough barley to support her family and domesticity, as well as to feed livestock. She proposed to her husband to go out and borrow grain on the street: “[8–10] I want to go out on the street. Write to me from whom we could borrow grain for the food of your house and, [11–12] at the place you will indicate to me, let someone give me 3.000 litres of barley.”54

52

AbB 4 156: 12’–13’: [12’] ⸢a-na⸣ é ù ṣú-ha-re-e la te-eg-gi-i [13’] ša-al-ma-nu(!) hiṭù-um ú-ul i-ba-aš-ši. 53 AbB 11 168: 15–17: [15] bi-tum ša-li-im [16] šu-lu(!)-um-ka šu-up-ra-am [17] li-ib-bi la it-te-né-eh-[p]i. 54 AbB 14 164: 8–12: [8] a-na sú-qí-im lu-ú-ṣi ma-an-nu [9] ša še-a-am a-na šà.gal bi-tika ni-ha-ab-ba-ta-am [10] šu-up-ra-am-ma 10,0.0 g u r še-a-am [11] a-šar ta-ša-ap-para-am [12] li-id-di-nu-nim.

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The word “street” is suqûm in Akkadian, a term that can also be translated as the Arabic souk (sūq).55 In response to her request, Šamaš-hazir informs Zinu that he sent two men to Ur in order to obtain barley. In addition, he concludes his letter by stating that he can obtain flour and malt preparations for Zinu: [25] I just sent my tablet to Šamaš-gamil. [26–28] Let him, Abi-ili, and Sin-magir go to Ur in order to take 3.000 litres of barley for you. [29–31] In addition, they will write to me from the palace, if necessary. [32–33] 1.500 litres of tappinnum-flour and some simmânûm-malt could be at your disposal.56 At last, this letter shows the solidarity between Zinu and Šamaš-hazir for providing for their home, in a context of economy difficulties that may have temporarily affected the entire town of Larsa, since Šamaš-hazir has designated Ur as the marketplace where their servants could have found barley. 3.2. Processing products into food and textile This mention of flour and malt means that Zinu was also responsible for processing these products into bread and beer, for which there is no other evidence. However, the letter AbB 4 141, written by Nur-Ilabrat, shows that Zinu was involved in the production of oil from sesame seeds: [5–6] Concerning the sesame that I told you about: 900 litres of sesame are enough. [7–9] Let Sin-qerub hurry up and crush them in the morning! [10–11] Finally, let him make (sesame) available for them. [12–14] The oxen, which have done the ploughing, are yours and the seeds are yours. (Thus,) the sesame belongs to you. [15–17] Give (it) to Sin-qerub in large quantities, so that he can finish the crushing operations, and [18–19] the sesame will not be in contact with the rain.57 [20] Examine (the result) of crushing!58 55

See Joannès 2016. AbB 14 164: 25–33: [25] ṭup-pí a-na du t u -ga-mil uš-ta-bi-lam [26] šu-ú a-bili-i ù de n . z u -ma-gir₁₄ [27] a-na š e š . u n u k i li-il-li-ku-ma [28] 10,0.0 g u r še-a-am li-il-qú-ni-ik-ki [29] ù pi-qá-at ṣi-bu-tum [30] ib-ba-aš-ši-ma iš-tu é . g a l -lim [31] i-šaap-pa-ru-ú-ni [32] 5,0.0 g u r d a b i n ù sí-im-ma-nu-ú [33] ša i-ba-aš-šu-ú re-ša-am liki-il. 57 The sesame harvest took place in autumn, just before the rain-heavy season; see Bedigian 1985: 159, to be complemented with Fiette 2018: 261n902. 58 AbB 4 141: 5–20: [5] aš-šum š e . g i š . ì ša aq-bu-ki [6] 3,0.0 g u r š e . g i š . ì maṣú-ú [7] Ide n . z u -qé-ru-⸢ub še₂₀⸣-er-tam-ma [8] li-ih-mu-ṭa-am-ma [r.9] li-ip-pu-sú-nu-ti [10] ù re-eš ma-ak-ku-ri-im [11] li-ša-⸢ar⸣-ši-šu-nu-⸢ti⸣ [12] g u ₄ . h i . a ⸢ku⸣-{x x}umma ša ma-a-a-ra-am [13] im-ha-ṣú ù š e . n u m u n ku-um-ma [14] š e . g i š . ì ša le-qée-ki [15] Ide n . z u -qé-ru-ub ⸢ma⸣-di-iš [16] i-di-iš-šu ù i-n[a na-pa-ṣi-im] [17] li-ig-muur-ma [u.e.18] š e . ⸢ g i š ⸣ .[ì] ša-mu-ú [19] ⸢la i-ka-da-am⸣ [20] ša ⸢na-pa-ṣi am56

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The letter AbB 14 165, sent by her son Iddin-Sin, examined below in detail (sec. 4.4), shows that she was responsible for making clothes for her children, possibly providing wool produced in the domain: “[16–17] While in our house, wool is consumed like bread, [18] you have depreciated the quality of my clothes!”59 In summary, Zinu’s economic activities in the household are quite comparable to those of contemporary women of royal rank, who were wives of high dignitaries of their kingdom, such as Yamama, daughter of Yahdun-Lim, king of Mari (1810–1794 BCE), and wife of the diviner Asqudum in the kingdom of Zimri-Lim (1775–1762 BCE), or Iltani, sister of King Asqur-Addu of Karana and wife of the diviner Haqba-hammu, to mention only well-documented examples. 60 These women’s activities were related to the processing of grain into flour and then bread, sesame into oil, and wool into textiles,61 these products having been the basis of the Mesopotamian domestic economy. These women also managed their households. 3.3. Supporting her own family members Zinu was also able to draw on resources of the domain to take care of her own mother, according to AbB 11 178. Her mother’s name is unknown; in this letter, she calls herself “your mummy” (line 3: ba-ba-ki). In a first passage, Zinu’s mother appears to have been an elderly woman, obviously widowed and in poor health,62 who supported another daughter named Iltani, to whom she gave grain “because of her arbûtum-condition”: “[8–9] In the city where I am honoured with your rations, [10–12] concerning the fact that I gave 1.800 litres of barley because of the arbûtum-condition of Iltani your sister; [13–15] in the city where I live, you let me down and my body is sick. [16] I can no longer move.”63 The meaning of the word arbûtum is not clearly identified in this passage. It could indicate a kind of physical or mental disability, given that arbûtum means “flight” or “rout” in a military context, or “ruins and desolation”.64 ri⸣. Line 7 (⸢še₂₀⸣-er-tam-ma) contains an adverbial accusative designating the morning; see CAD Š/2, 322 s. v. šērtu A. This lecture is contra Fiette 2018: 261n900. 59 AbB 14 165: 16–18: [16] i-na s í g . h i . a i-na bi-ti-ni [17] ki-ma a-ka-lim in-na-ka-la [18] at-ti túgṣú-ba-ti tu-qá-al-li-li. 60 See Charpin (1985: 455–461) on Asqudum’s family and the management of his house close to the royal palace of Mari, including activities of his wife Yamama. See Langlois (2017: 171–221) on the activities of the princess Iltani of the kingdom of Karana, well documented by her archives found at Tell al-Rimah (Qaṭṭara). 61 See Stol 2016: 339–341, 344–353. 62 See Stol (2016: 275–295) on widows. 63 AbB 11 178: 8–16: [8] i-na a-li-im ša aš-šu sú-ti-ku-nu [9] qá-aq-qá-di ka-ab-tu [10] aš-šum a-na ar-bu-ti-ša [11] ša il-ta-ni a-ha-ti-ki [12] 6,0.0 g u r še-a-am ad-di-nu-ši-im [13] i-na a-li-im ša wa-aš-ba-a-ku [14] ta-am-qú-ta-am-ma [15] pa-[a]g-ri na-di [16] [ala-k]a-am ú-ul e-le-i. 64 See CAD A/2, pp. 240–241 s. v. arbūtu, which gives a third meaning of this word:

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In the second part of her letter, Zinu’s mother gives a speech that aims to make her daughter feel sorry for her. One sentence is interesting for the present topic (lines 19–21): “On the orders of Šamaš-hazir, will they bring locusts to you?”65 This must mean in colourful language that Zinu had Šamaš-hazir’s resources at her disposal and could provide her mother with barley belonging to her husband’s domain. The rest of the letter is a complaint, noteworthy for any study on the care of elderly in Mesopotamia:66 “[22–26] If in truth you are (really) my daughter, send me an answer to my letter and (write) this: [27] ‘Mother, why do you let yourself go? [28–30] Because of (lit. ‘in the hand of’) whom did you see this way of killing (somebody)? [31–32] I pray for you all the time, day and night!’ [33] Please!”67 As can be seen through the letter AbB 11 178, Šamaš-hazir and Zinu’s home did not seem to have housed other members of their respective extended families. It appears that it was a nuclear family—i.e., the spouses, their children, and possibly their servants lived together, such as most Mesopotamian families, according to L. Battini.68 4. Zinu’s relationship with members of her family and with economic partners of the domain The study of Zinu’s economic activities shows that her entourage included: • her family: her husband, Šamaš-hazir; her son, Iddin-Sin; her old mother; and her disabled(?) sister, Iltani; • staff of the domain: workers, farmers, gardeners, herdsmen, oil-pressers; • commercial partners: Sin-muštal, the overseer of the merchants of Ur; and other individuals including two women, Alitum and Muhaddum’s wife; • palace officials: Ud-balana-namhe; • temples: the temple of Šamaš and the temple of Sin.

“status of a person without family (arbu)”, but it is based only on letter AbB 11 178, showing that Iltani was not alone, since she had a mother and a sister. It is likely that she had been a single woman, but this condition could have been related to a disability that prevented her from being married or autonomous (as a nadîtum women, for example). 65 AbB 11 178: 19–21: [19] ⸢a⸣-ga-na a-na qá-⸢bé(!)⸣-[e] [20] du t u -ha-zi-ir er-b[e-e] [21] ú-še-er-re-e-bu-ki-i. 66 See Stol 1998: 79–80; AbB 11 178 should be added to his study. 67 AbB 11 178: 22–33: [22] šum-ma i-na ki-it-ti-im [23] ma-ar-ti at-ti [24] me-hi-ir unne-du-uk-ki-ia [25] šu-bi-li-im-ma [26] um-ma at-ti-ma [27] um-mi am-mi-ni ta-na-di [28] i-na qá-ti ma-an-ni [29] da-ka-am an-ni-a-am [30] ta-mu-ri [31] a-na-ku mu-šu-úrri [32] ak-ta-na-ar-ra-ba-ak-/ki [33] ap-pu-tum. 68 Battini 2014.

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Zinu’s correspondence sheds further light on the nature of her relations with Šamaš-hazir and with their economic partners and gives further information on the way each of them has considered her status and autonomy of action. We will first observe the greeting formulas in Zinu’s correspondence, which allow us to understand how this woman positioned herself towards her husband, and how her business partners respected her status as a wife (sec. 4.1). Through her letters, the nature of her relations with Šamaš-hazir (sec. 4.2), then with her business partners (sec. 4.3), and then her son (sec. 4.4) will be examined. The main objective is to observe Zinu’s capacity of action through interactions with her entourage. 4.1. Greeting formulas in Zinu’s correspondence In their greeting formulas, Zinu and Šamaš-hazir constantly invoke the gods Šamaš and Ilabrat for each other—from Šamaš-hazir to Zinu: “May Šamaš and Ilabrat keep you alive”; 69 and from Zinu to Šamaš-hazir: “May Šamaš and Ilabrat keep you alive forever, for my sake.”70 According to K. van der Toorn, Šamaš was invoked not only in his capacity as city god of Larsa, but above all as a universal god, because of his omnipresence as a sun god.71 More interesting is the presence of Ilabrat, the heavenly vizier associated with An(um), the sky god, or with Inanna/Ištar, the goddess of love and war.72 Ilabrat was obviously Šamaš-hazir’s family god, as his personal seal testifies: “Šamaš-hazir, son of Sin-bel-ili, servant of Ilabrat.”73 According to D. Charpin, the family tradition imposed the god for which somebody proclaimed himself as a servant.74 His worship was transmitted from paterfamilias to paterfamilias, and K. van der Toorn has pointed out that a wife adopted her husband’s family god as soon as they married.75 Moreover, her son, Iddin-Sin, invoked Marduk, the patron deity of Babylon, besides Šamaš and Ilabrat, which is another testimony of the Babylonian origin of Šamaš-hazir’s family (AbB 14 165: lines 4–6): “May Šamaš, Marduk and Ilabrat keep you alive forever, for my sake.”76 How69

AbB 4 140: 3; AbB 4 156: 3; AbB 4 162: 4; AbB 4 163: 3–4; AbB 4 164: 3: du t u ù n i n . š u b u r li-ba-al-li-ṭú-ki. 70 AbB 11 168: 4–6; AbB 14 166: 4–6: [4] du t u ù dn i n . š u b u r [5] aš-šum-ia a-na da-ri-(i)a-tim [6] li-ba-al-li-ṭú/ù-ka. 71 van der Toorn 1996: 70. 72 Wiggermann 1998–2001: 491. The gender of Ilabrat (sum. Ninšubur) was particular: it could have been male or female during the Old Babylonian period. 73 OECT 15 65–68 and 85: du t u -ha-zi-ir / d u m u de n . z u -be-el-ì-lí / ì r d nin.šubur. 74 See Charpin 1990. 75 van der Toorn 1996: 75. 76 AbB 14 165: 4–6: [4] du t u da m a r . u t u ù dn i n . š u b u r [5] aš-šum-ia a-na da-ria-tim [6] li-ba-al-li-ṭù-ki. d

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ever, Zinu’s mother blessed her daughter by Inanna and Šamaš (AbB 11 178: lines 4–7): “May Inanna and Šamaš keep you alive forever, for my sake.”77 This formula shows probably that Zinu’s family god was Inanna, the Sumerian goddess of love and war who was worshipped in many towns of Babylonia, such as Uruk and Zabalam in the south, or Akkad, Babylon, and Kiš in the north under her Akkadian aspect of Ištar. It is highly speculative to establish the origin of her family based on the location of a temple of Inanna. But another piece of evidence may prove that Zinu’s mother came from southern Mesopotamia. She used the Akkadian word unnedukkum for “letter” in AbB 11 178: 24, which is a specific term of this area. Other greeting formulas are used in three letters from business partners to Zinu—Nur-Ilabrat (AbB 4 141: line 4): “May Šamaš and Ilabrat keep you alive”78; Alitum (AbB 4 142: line 4): “May Šamaš keep you alive”79; Munawwirum (AbB 11 171: lines 4–5): “May Marat-umi and Ilabrat keep you alive.”80 The simplicity of Alitum’s formula could indicate a lack of kinship with Zinu, which would be an indication that she did not work specifically for the Šamaš-hazir’s domain. In contrast, Nur-Ilabrat and Munawwirum, both of whom were obviously members of the domain staff given the content of their letters, knew the familial god of Šamaš-hazir and Zinu and invoked him in their own blessing formula. 81 It is possible that the goddess Marat-umi was the family deity of Munawwirum. 82 Moreover, it cannot be overlooked that the proper name Nur-Ilabrat was formed in reference to Ilabrat, who was perhaps also the family god of Nur-Ilabrat. In this sense, it can be observed that the private archives of Šamaš-hazir mention many individuals, linked to his domain, who have a proper name including Ilabrat,83 whereas this type of proper name was not so common in the Larsa area at this time. The question therefore arises as to whether Nur-Ilabrat was a member of Šamaš-hazir’s family or not, for which there is no other evidence. 4.2. Zinu’s relationship with Šamaš-hazir Letters exchanged between Zinu and Šamaš-hazir illustrate their relationship and level of mutual confidence concerning their economic affairs. The study of 77

AbB 11 178: 4–7: [4] di n a n n a ù du t u [5] aš-šum-mi-ia [6] a-na da-ri-a-tim [7] liba-al-li-ṭù-ú-ki. 78 AbB 4 141: 4: du t u ù dn i n . š u b u r li-ba-al-li-ṭú-ki. 79 AbB 4 142: 4: du t u li-ba-al-li-iṭ-ki. 80 AbB 11 178: 4–5: [4] dma-ra-at-ú-mi ù dn i n . š u b u r [5] li-ba-al-li-ṭù-ú-ki. 81 Note also that Ud-balana-namhe mentioned Šamaš and Ilabrat in the blessing formula of his letter AbB 4 138, written to Šamaš-hazir. 82 Marat-umi, whose name means “daughter-of-days”, is only attested in AbB 11 171; see Krebernik 1987–1990. 83 See Fiette 2018: 94.

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these documents makes it possible to understand the degree of Zinu’s autonomy in the domain’s management. Two examples found in her active correspondence show that Zinu was able to take initiatives and advise her husband. A first letter to Šamaš-hazir testifies to the attention Zinu paid to the proper functioning of the domain. She wrote about the surveillance of sesame fields lacking guards, in AbB 11 168: “[7–8] About the sesame field of Ašdubba: [9– 10] you have not placed anyone in it and the sesame may be stolen! [11–12] Send me Šulpae-naṣir, so that [13–14] he can keep an eye on the sesame in order to make sure that it is not lost to you.”84 In AbB 14 166, Zinu supervised the choice of rams able to be good herd leaders, to be sent to Ud-balana-namhe, who is known as one of the governors of Ur area. 85 She wrote: “[15] Concerning your colleague’s rams: [16–21] you neglected to check that these two rams are over three years old and that they would be good leaders of their herd. [22–27] Write to Sin-muštal86 so that two rams who are over three years old may be taken for you, and they may be the leaders of your flock.”87 Šamaš-hazir sometimes reprimanded Zinu. In response to her announcement of the grain shortage in their house and in the farm for fattening livestock, quoted in AbB 14 164 (see sec. 2.2), Šamaš-hazir accused her of wasting barley, with annoyance: “[20–21] What? Is it about grain you are writing to me? How much should (the volume of) a daily ration be, [22–24] (whereas) 6.000 litres of grain are consumed so far? The grain in this house keeps flying away!”88 Another reproach is contained in the letter AbB 4 156, in which Šamaš-hazir criticised Zinu for not informing him about the grain to be recovered: “[4–6] About the grain that was given to Uballiṭ: a tablet has just left, ordering to return this grain. [7–9] Why did you not write me any reports about this grain to return

84

AbB 11 168: 7–14: [7] aš-šum a . š à š e . g i š . ì [8] ša a š . d u b . b a k i [9] ma-amma-an ú-ul ta-aš-ku-um-ma [10] š e . g i š . ì im-ma-ša-ah [11] Idš u l . p a . è -na-ṣir [12] ṭù-ur-dam-ma [13] š e . g i š . ì li-iṣ-ṣú-ur-ma [r.14] la [i]-ha-li-⸢kum⸣. 85 See Fiette 2018: 67–70. 86 Sin-muštal is surely the overseer of the merchants of Ur, given his mention beside Udbalana-namhe in AbB 14 166. See fn. 12 for bibliography. 87 AbB 14 166: 15–27: [r.15] u d u . n i t a ₂ . h i . a ša a-li-ik i-di-ka [16] u d u . n i t a ₂ . h i . a 2(!). t a . à m [17] m u 3.k a m na-ba-al-ku-tu-tu [18] ša i-na pa-ni u d u . n i t a ₂ -šu-nu [19] i-il-la-ku [20] ú-ul ta-mu-ur-ma [21] a-ah-ka na-di [22] a-na d e n . z u -mu-uš-ta-a[l] [23] šu-pu-ur-ma 2 u d u . n i t a ₂ [24] m u 3.k a m na-ba-al-kutu-ti [25] li-il-qú-ni-ik-ku-um-ma [26] i-na pa-ni u d u . n i t a ₂ .⸢h i (?).a (?)⸣-ka [27] li-illi-ku. 88 AbB 14 164: 20–24: [r.20] mi-nu ša a-na še-e-im ta-aš-pu-ri-im [21] ki ma-ṣi i-na u₄ 1.k a m ku-ru-ma-tu-um-ma [22] 20,0.0 g u r še-um a-di i-na-an-na [23] ig-ga-ma-ar šeum i-na bi-ti ša-a-ti [24] i-ta-ap-ru-šu-ú it-ta-na-ap-ra-aš.

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or not to return?”89 However, it seems that it is with complete confidence that Šamaš-hazir entrusted the management of his domain to Zinu when his duties required him to be absent and to make trips within the Yamutbal province, to Babylon or even Sippar. This is illustrated by the letter AbB 9 19, written by Šamaš-hazir to two debtors named Sin-eriš and Ibbi-Sin. It concerns a dispute about a grain loan. Šamaš-hazir ignores the allegations of his debtors against Zinu for allegedly not having recovered the grain in question:90 [18–20] In addition, why did you say this to Igmil-Sin, in the presence of Sin-iddinam: [21–22] “In Adab, they made grain available to Zinu, but she did not receive/accept it”? [23–24] However, Šamaš-naṣir sent me his tablet for testimony. [25–27] If grain has not been made available to Zinu, and [if(?)] Šamaš-naṣir, in the temple of Marduk, is not found responsible for making this grain available, [28–29] [then …]. [30–32] [To/by] Hammu-rabi my lord, (concerning) the grain and its interest that has been refused to be given back to me until now, [33–34] if you do not give the grain and its interest, [35–36] I will speak to my lord so that he may examine your case. This document should show the trust that Šamaš-hazir placed in his wife. He surely considered Zinu as his foremost trusted economic partner for the management of his domain. 4.3. Zinu’s relationship with the economic partners of the domain Another element showing the importance of Zinu’s economic role is the fact that economic partners of Šamaš-hazir’s domain wrote to her in person. Their letters testify that she was truly competent and essential in the absence of her husband, as when Munawwirum alerted her about the fire in a storehouse and the transfer of the stock of dates (AbB 11 171: 14–18; see sec. 2.3). However, the relative authority that Zinu exercised over the servants of the domain was felt differently. This is the case, for example, of Nur-Ilabrat, who 89

AbB 4 156: 4–9: [4] aš-šum še-e-i[m š]a ⸢a⸣-[na ú-b]a-⸢al-lí⸣-iṭ(!) [5] in-na-ad-nu an[a še-e-i]m ša-a-ti tu-ur-ri [6] ṭup-pu it-ta-[al-k]a-am [7] ṭe(!)-e-em(!) še-e-im ša-a-⸢ti⸣ ša tu-ur-ri [8] ù ⸢la⸣ [tu]-ur-⸢ri⸣-im [9] am-mi-[nim l]a ta-aš-pu-ri-im. 90 AbB 9 19: 18–36: [18] ù i-na ma-har Ide n . z u -i-dí-nam [l.e.19] [a]-na ig-mild e n . z u [r.20] mi-nu-um ša ki-a-am ta-ad-bu-⸢ba⸣ [21] um-ma at-tu-nu-ma še-a-am ana zi-nu-ú [22] i*-na u d . n u n k i ú-ki-il-lu-ma ú-ul im-hu-ur [23] ù du t u -na-ṣi-ir a-na ši-bu-tim [24] ṭup-pa-šu ú-ša-bi-lam [25] šum-ma še-a-am a-na zi-nu-ú la ú-ki-lu-ma [26] [šum-ma(?)] ⸢d⸣u t u -na-ṣir i-na é da m a r . u t u [27] [a-na še]-⸢e⸣-im ku-ul-li-im la ub-ti-ir [28] [o o o o o] ⸢x⸣ [o o o] ⸢x x x⸣ [29] [o o o] da ad ⸢na⸣ a [30] [o o ha]-am-mura-bi be-lí-ia [31] [še-a-a]m ⸢ù⸣ m á š -sú ša a-di i-na-an-na [32] [i-p]a-[r]i-ku-ni-in-ni la i-na-ad-di-nu [33] šum-ma še-a-am ù ṣi-ba-as-sú [34] la ta-na-ad-di-na [35] a-na be-líia a-qá-ab-bi-ma [36] [l]i-is-ni-ik-ku-nu-ti-ma.

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seems to have mocked Zinu with a dismissive tone about the sesame seeds to be pressed for obtaining oil that should be in her possession (AbB 4 141: 12–17; see sec 2.5): “The oxen are yours, which have done the ploughing, and the seeds are yours. (Thus,) the sesame belongs to you.” In contrast, Alitum thanked Zinu, with a much more respectful tone, for having anointed her with Šamaš-hazir’s fine oil, in AbB 4 142: “[9–11] Moreover, you opened the boss’s qullum (closure element of door) and [12] you anointed me with fine oil.”91 Despite the fact that anointing is a well-documented ceremonial gesture in the Ancient Near East, which marked the engagement of a betrothed girl entering her new family,92 it seems rather that the gesture described by Alitum is a social sign of welcome given by Zinu.93 No family bond is known between these two women, and Alitum did not seem to know that the family god of Šamašhazir and Zinu was Ilabrat (see sec. 4.1). Another hypothetical solution would be to say that Alitum is a young married woman to whom Zinu offered the symbolic gift of anointing. 4.4. Zinu’s relationship with her son The examination of the relations between Zinu and her entourage ends with an anecdote about her son, Iddin-Sin. He wrote the letter AbB 14 165, in which he reproached his mother for making cheaper the quality of his clothes, compared to what other notables wear: “[7–9] (While) the clothes of the notables are getting more and more beautiful from year to year, [10–12] you make cheaper the quality of my clothes! [13–15] By making cheaper and stopping sending me my clothes, you will become rich!” 94 The unfortunate mother is accused of all evils: Zinu saves wool at the expense of quality of Iddin-Sin’s clothes; even worse, the son of a servant of his father is better dressed than he is: “[16–17] While in our house, wool is consumed like bread, [18] you have made cheaper the quality of my clothes! [19– 22] Adad-iddinam’s son, whose father is my father’s servant, has two new clothes to wear. [22–23] (But) you would you worry all the time about that one and only piece of clothing for me?”95 91

AbB 4 142: 9–11: [9] ù qú-ul-la-a[m] [10] ⸢ša⸣ a-wi-lim [11] te-ep-⸢te⸣-ma [r.12] ⸢ ì ⸣ . s a g (!) ta-ap-šu-⸢ši-ni⸣. 92 See Stol 2016: 79–82. 93 See Malul 1988: 175–177. 94 AbB 14 165: 7–15: [7] t ú g ṣú-ba-a-at a-wi-le-e [8] ša-at-tam a-na ša-at-tim [9] i-daam-mi-qú [10] at-ti t ú g ṣú-ba-a-ti [r.11] ša-at-tam a-na ša-at-tim [12] tu-qá-al-la-li [13] i-na t ú g ṣú-ba-ti-ia [14] qù-ul-lu-lim ù ku-us-sí [15] ta-aš-ta-ri-i. 95 AbB 14 165: 16–23: [16] i-na s í g . h i . a i-na bi-ti-ni [17] ki-ma a-ka-lim in-na-ka-la [18] at-ti t ú g ṣú-ba-ti tu-qá-al-li-li [19] d u m u Idi š k u r -i-dí-nam [20] ša a-bu-šu ṣú-haar a-bi-ia [21] ⸢ši-na⸣ t ú g ṣú-ba-te-e eš-šu-tim [22] [la-b]i-iš a[t-ti] ⸢a⸣-na t ú g ṣú-ba-ti-ia [23] [iš]-te-en ta-ta-na-ah-da-ri.

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Iddin-Sin concludes his letter with this remark challenging Zinu’s maternal love: “[24–25] Whereas you gave birth to me, [26–28] his mother adopted him. [29–30] But, while his mother loves him, [31] you, you really do not love me!”96 We are dealing here with one example of filial ingratitude, through what seems to be a pathetic teenage complaint. Although its content may be pathetic, this letter effectively shows the extent of Zinu’s role as a Mesopotamian wife, who had to support the wishes of her children in addition to maintaining her house and helping her husband in his economic ventures. 5. Conclusion: Zinu and the cconomic role of Mesopotamian wives The figure of Zinu, only known thanks to the Šamaš-hazir archives, recalls to some extent that of contemporary Assyrian women whose husbands left Aššur to trade and live part of the year at Kaneš in Cappadocia.97 As C. Michel wrote, “The women left in Aššur manage their houses while staying in touch with their husbands by letter. This exceptional situation results in an important correspondence, sent or received by women, which is extremely rich in information about their daily lives, social status and activities.”98 Although legally subject to their husbands, these Assyrian women enjoyed a certain financial autonomy and had their own budget. With their money, they took care of their children, their servants, and their house. They also participated in their husbands’ business activities. These Assyrian women thus are true “businesswomen”. S. Démare-Lafont provided an overview99 of the economic activities of the wives of Old Assyrian merchants, but also those of nadîtum women 100 and sabîtum-female innkeepers,101 to which can be added some royal figures such as the princess Iltani of Qaṭṭara, recently highlighted by A.-I. Langlois.102 However, it is preferable to avoid comparing Zinu to these women, who had a particular status within the Mesopotamian society. Princesses and nadîtum 96

AbB 14 165: 24–31: [24] ki-ma at-ti ia-ti [25] tu-ul-di-in-ni [left e.26] [š]a-a-ti umma-šu [27] ⸢a⸣-na le-qí-tim [28] [il-qé]-e-šu [29] ù ki-ma ša-a-ti [30] um-ma-šu ra-amu-šu [31] at-ti [ia]-a-ti ú-ul ta-ra-am-mi-in-ni. Line 27: a-na le-qí-tim; see Veenhof (2005, 157n165): “Leqītum is unique (CAD L 206 s.v. liqītu), one expects ana leqūtim.” 97 Michel 2001: 419–425. 98 Translation of Michel (2001: 419): “Les femmes demeurées à Aššur gèrent leur maison tout en restant en contact épistolaire avec leur époux. Cette situation exceptionnelle a pour conséquence une importante correspondance, envoyée ou reçue par les femmes, extrêmement riche en renseignements sur leur vie quotidienne, leur statut social et leurs activités.” 99 Démare-Lafont 2008. 100 See most recently Barberon 2012 about the nadîtum women devoted to Marduk in the kingdom of Babylon, and lastly De Graef 2018 about the nadîtum women of Sippar. 101 See Langlois 2016 and De Graef 2018 about the role of nadîtum women as innkeepers. 102 Langlois 2017.

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women managed their own patrimony, constituted by the dowry they received when they entered their husband’s palace or the gagûm, while innkeepers were probably servants of the tavern owners, but this is especially visible for the Achaemenid period. If we return to a comparison between Zinu from Larsa and these Old Assyrian women, we can conclude that the independence of each was due to the distance from her husband in space and time. Zinu was involved in the activities of Šamaš-hazir’s domain, just as Assyrian women contributed to their husbands’ business activities. All of them took care of their houses and provided for their families and servants. But the parallel between Zinu and the Old Assyrian women ends here, because the first was not financially autonomous. The reason is simple: Šamašhazir may have been frequently absent because of his duties as a high dignitary of the Babylonian kingdom, but he never went too far or too long to leave his wife and family out on their own. Zinu thus appears to have been involved in the affairs of Šamaš-hazir’s domain, but as an auxiliary of her husband. Moreover, one can assume that Zinu was similarly competent and essential when Šamašhazir was home. This interdependent relationship should be assumed as a permanent status, and not as an intermittent one. The comparison between Zinu and Assyrian women allows us to observe that in Mesopotamian patriarchal society the roles of married women in everyday life can almost only be observed by modern researchers through periods when their husbands were absent—that is, when it became necessary for wives to ask and receive instructions in writing for the needs of their house and of their husbands’ economic activities. In this regard, it is worth highlighting a methodological matter in our epigraphic research work. The female figures whose economic roles are best known appear in archives that have been reconstructed and studied in the most exhaustive way possible. However, there are many other wives whose economic activities emerge from our cuneiform documentation, but in a more sporadic way and as the texts are published. Several women can be dated to the reign of Samsuiluna, making them near contemporaries of Zinu. Unnubtum and Elmeštum were both wives of Babylonian high dignitaries residing in Lagaba and Damrum in northern Babylonia, whose archives will be published soon.103 Their economic roles and relationships with their husbands echo what has been observed with Zinu and Šamaš-hazir. It can thus be concluded that Zinu’s activities as a wife are more or less the same as those of wealthy married Mesopotamian women, whose strength and influence depended on their family’s level of richness. Zinu’s involvement in the affairs of the Šamaš-hazir’s domain also reflects the solidarity of any wife with her husband’s economic activities. 103

See, respectively, Jacquet, forthcoming, and Charpin, forthcoming.

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Acknowledgements I warmly thank L. Cousin and C. Schmidhuber for proofreading this article. Appendix: List of Texts Mentioning Zinu See www.archibab.fr/Txxxxx, for digital editions of the texts. Text (Archibab T-number) AbB 4 140 (T695)

Date

Content

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 4 141 (T696)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 4 142 (T697)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 4 156 (T716)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 9 19 (T15112)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 11 168 (T14080)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 11 171 (T14083)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 11 178 (T14091)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 14 162 (T15376)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 14 163 (T15409)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 14 164 (T15410)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 14 165 (T15411)

(Ha 31–43)

AbB 14 166 (T15412)

(Ha 31–43)

OECT 15 8 (T20062)

xii/–/Ha 39

OECT 15 32 (T20349)

x/23/Ha 43

OECT 15 55 (T20313) OECT 15 63 (T20353)

ix/–/Ha 39 iv/4/Ha 42

OECT 15 87 (T20430) OECT 15 101 (T20360) TCL 11 165 (T20351)

i/1/Ha 39 ix/–/Ha 39 v/–/Ha 38

TCL 11 178 (T20435)

xii/–/Ha 41

TCL 11 240 (T9966)

vii/28/(Ha 31–43)

Letter from Šamaš-hazir to Zinu: grain and date rations to be distributed to workers on a shipyard. Letter from Nur-Ilabrat to Zinu: sesame to be crushed for producing oil. Letter from Alitum to Zinu: some commercial transactions. Letter from Šamaš-hazir to Zinu: grain harvest, sesame field culture, feeding of ploughing oxen. Letter from Šamaš-hazir to Sin-eriš and Ibbi-Sin: litigation about grain, involving Zinu. Letter from Zinu to Šamaš-hazir (ana awîlim): guarding a sesame field. Letter from Munawwirum to Zinu: fire on a storehouse of dates. Letter from Zinu’s mother to Zinu: subsistence to be brought to Zinu’s mother. Letter from Šamaš-hazir to Zinu: preparation of a ceremony for “making green” a field. Letter from Šamaš-hazir to Zinu: sesame field cultivation. Letter from Šamaš-hazir to Zinu: providing grain for the house and the farm for fattening herds. Letter from Iddin-Sin to Zinu: complaint of her son about his clothes. Letter from Zinu to Šamaš-hazir (ana awîlim): rams to be given to Ud-balana-namhe. Annual summary of sheep and goat flocks: Zinu received some animals (lines 11–18). Daily inventory of grain in a bît kunukkimstorehouse, under Zinu’s responsibility. Date loan contract; reimbursement to Zinu. Receipt of barley to be exchanged with bran, to be delivered to Zinu. Wool loan contract; Zinu is creditor. Three deliveries of sesame, received by Zinu. Several measurements of an unspecified produce, performed by Zinu. Annual summary of sheep and goat flocks: Zinu is responsible for a weak ram. Receipt of date harvest by Zinu.

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Bibliography Anthonioz, F. / Fink, S., eds. 2019: Representing the Wise. A Gendered Approach. Proceedings of the 1st Melammu Workshop, Lille, 4–5 April 2016 1. Münster. Barberon, L. 2012: ARCHIBAB 1: Les religieuses et le culte de Marduk dans le royaume de Babylone. Mémoires de NABU 14. Paris. Battini, L. 2014: Famille élargie ou famille nucléaire? Problème de démographie antique. In L. Marti (ed.): La famille dans le Proche-Orient ancien: Réalités, symbolismes, et images. Compte rendu de la Rencontre Assyriologique lnternationale 55. Paris, 3–26. Bedigian, B. 1985: Is še-giš-ì sesame or flax? Bulletin on Sumerian Agriculture 2, 159–178. Budin, S.L. / Cifarelli, M. / Garcia-Ventura, A. / Millet Albà, A., eds., 2018: Gender and Methodology in the Ancient Near East: Approaches from Assyriology and Beyond. Barcino Monographica Orientalia 10. Barcelona. Cassin, E. 1959: Le bain des brebis. Orientalia 28, 225–229. Charpin, D. 1985: Les archives du devin Asqudum dans la Résidence du chantier A. Mari. Annales de Recherches Interdisciplinaires 4. Paris, 453–462. Charpin, D. 1990: Les divinités familiales des Babyloniens d’après les légendes de leurs sceaux-cylindres. In Ö. Tunca (ed.): De la Babylonie à la Syrie, en passant par Mari. Mélanges offerts à Monsieur J.-R. Kupper à l’occasion de son 70e anniversaire. Liège, 59–78. Charpin, D. 2004: Histoire politique du Proche-Orient ancien (2002–1595). In P. Attinger / W. Sallaberger / M. Wäfler (eds.): Mesopotamien: Die altbabylonische Zeit. Annäherungen 4. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 160(4), 25–480. Charpin, D. 2007: Chroniques bibliographiques 10: Économie, société et institutions paléo-babyloniennes; nouvelles sources, nouvelles approches. Revue d’Assyriologie et d’Archéologie Orientale 101, 147–182. Charpin, D. Forthcoming: ARCHIBAB 5: Les archives d’Alammuš-naṣir. Mémoires de NABU. Paris. De Graef, K. 2016: Cherchez la femme! The Economic Role of Women in Old Babylonian Sippar. In B. Lion / C. Michel (eds.): The Role of Women in Work and Society in the Ancient Near East. Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 13. Boston and Berlin, 270–295. De Graef, K. 2018: In Taberna Quando Sumus: On Taverns, Nadītum Women, and the Gagûm in Old Babylonian Sippar. In S.L. Budin / M. Cifarelli / A. Garcia-Ventura / A. Millet Albà (eds.): Gender and Methodology in the Ancient Near East: Approaches from Assyriology and Beyond. Barcino Monographica Orientalia 10. Barcelona, 77–116. Démare-Lafont, S. 2008: Quelques femmes d’affaire au Proche-Orient ancient. In A. Girollet (ed.): Le droit, les affaires et l’argent: Célébration du bicentenaire du Code du commerce. Mémoires de la Société pour l’Histoire du Droit

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et des institutions des anciens pays bourguignons, comtois et romands. Dijon, 25–36. Fiette, B. 2018: ARCHIBAB 3: Le Palais, la terre et les hommes: La gestion du domaine royal de Larsa d’après les archives de Šamaš-hazir. Mémoires de NABU 20. Paris. Fiette, B. 2018b: Vaches d’Ur. Le Journal des Médecines Cunéiformes 32, 17–23. Fiette, B. 2020: Ur et ses habitants dans les archives de Šamaš-hazir et de Siniddinam. In D. Charpin (ed.): Archibab 4: Nouvelles recherches sur la ville d’Ur à l’époque paléo-babylonienne. Paris. Földi, Z. 2011: Sîn-muštāl, the Overseer of Merchants of Ur. In P. Jutail (ed.): Lectures held at the 6th conference of Collegium Hungaricum Societatis Europaeae Studiosorum Philologiae Classicae, 28–29 May 2011. Budapest, 96– 103. Jacquet, A. 2011: Florilegium marianum XII: Documents relatifs aux dépenses pour le culte. Mémoires de NABU 13. Paris. Jacquet, A. 2013: Family Archives in Mesopotamia during the Old Babylonian Period. In M. Faraguna (ed.): Archives and Archival Documents in Ancient Societies, Trieste 30 September–1 October 2011. Legal Documents in Ancient Societies 4. Trieste, 63–85. Jacquet, A. Forthcoming: Texts from Lagaba. Babylonian lnscriptions in the Collection of J.B. Nies 11. Joannès, F. 2016: By the Streets of Babylon. In B. Perello / A. Tenu (eds.): Parcours d’Orient: Recueil offert à Christine Kepinski. Oxford, United Kingdom, 127–138. Krebernik, M. 1987–1990: Marat-umi. Reallexikon der Assyriologie 7, 355. Langlois, A.-I. 2016: The Female Tavern-Keeper in Mesopotamia. In S.L. Budin / J. Macintosh Turfa (eds.): Women in Antiquity. London, 113–125. Langlois, A.-I. 2017: ARCHIBAB 2: Les archives de la princesse Iltani découvertes à Tell al-Rimah (XVIIIe siècle av. J.-C.) et l’histoire du royaume de Karana/Qaṭṭara. Mémoires de NABU 18. Paris. Lion, B. 1994: Des princes de Babylone à Mari. In D. Charpin / J.-M. Durand (eds.): Florilegium marianum II: Recueil à la mémoire de Maurice Birot. Mémoires de NABU 3. Paris, 221–234. Lion, B. / Michel, C. (eds): 2016: The Role of Women in Work and Society in the Ancient Near East. Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 13. Boston and Berlin. Maeda, T. 1979: On the Agricultural Festivals in Sumer. Acta Sumerologica 1, 19–33. Malul, M. 1988: Studies in Mesopotamian Legal Symbolism. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 221. Michel, C. 2001: Correspondance des marchands de Kanish au début du IIe millénaire avant J.-C.. Littératures anciennes du Proche-Orient 19. Paris.

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Patrier, J. 2017: Entrusting One’s Seal in the Ancient Near East in the First Half of the 2nd millennium BC. Ash-sharq 1(1), 40–47. Pomponio, F. 1978: I Contratti di affitto dei Campi per la coltivazione di cereali pubblicati in YOS 13. Annali dell’Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli. Supplement 14. Naples. Sallaberger, W. 1993: Der kultische Kalender der Ur III-Zeit. Untersuchtungen zur Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 7(1). Berlin and New York. Skaist, A. 1994: The Old Babylonian Loan Contract: Its History and Geography. Jerusalem. Stol, M. 1971: Notes brèves 4. Revue d’Assyriologie et d’Archéologie Orientale 65, 95. Stol, M. 1995: Old Babylonian Cattle: Domestic Animals of Mesopotamia, Part II. Bulletin on Sumerian Agriculture 8, 173–213. Stol, M. 1998: The Care of the Elderly in Mesopotamia in the Old Babylonian Period. In M. Stol / S.P. Vleeming (eds.): The Care of the Elderly in the Ancient Near East. Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East 14. Leiden, Boston, and Cologne, 59–117. Stol, M. 2016: Women in the Ancient Near East. Boston and Berlin. Svärd, S. 1995: Women and Power in Neo-Assyrian Palaces. State Archives of Assyria Studies 23. Helsinki. Svärd, S. / Garcia-Ventura, A., eds. 2018: Studying Gender in the Ancient Near East. University Park, Pennsylvania. van der Toorn, K. 1996: Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria and Israel: Continuity and Change in the Forms of Religious Life. Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East 7. Leiden, New York, and Cologne. Veenhof, K.R. 2005: Letters in the Louvre. Altbabylonische Briefe in Umschrift und Übersetzung 14. Leiden. Wiggermann, F.A.M. 1998–2001: Nin-šubur. Reallexikon der Assyriologie und vorderasiatischen Archaologie 9, 490–500. Yamada, S. 2011: A pudûm Rotation List from Tell Taban and the Cultural Milieu of Ṭabatum in the post-Hammurabi Period. Revue d’Assyriologie et d’Archéologie Orientale 105, 137–156.

Grandmother’s Tablets Some Reflections on Female Landowners in Nuzi Brigitte Lion1

Excavations at Nuzi (Yorghan Tepe), east of the Tigris, near Kirkuk, carried out between 1925 and 1931 have yielded about eight thousand cuneiform tablets and fragments,2 written in Akkadian, dating from the late fifteenth and early fourteenth centuries BCE. The material concerning women and their economic activities is, in fact, abundant, and shows that, unlike in the Old Babylonian period, women could own land without having a special status as princess or priestess. Wealthy married women are well attested as landowners.3 They acquired land by the same ways as men did: through donations; real estate adoptions, which were labelled ṭuppi marūti even when the adoptee was a woman;4 pledges; and, sometimes, inheritance. There were also two other ways, specific to women: dowries, and adoptions as sons by their own fathers. Being owners, they also sold, gave, or pledged their estates. Their partners in the transactions were men or women. From this point of view, gender does not seem to have been a fundamental factor in this economic realm, as men and women made the same kinds of transactions and real estate ownership was primarily linked to economic means—or if one prefers, class was the main factor. However, gender distinctions did exist in two key ways. First, and as usual, women appear by far less frequently than men as real estate owners; they owned only a small part of the land, even if it is impossible to quantify it. Second, the transmission of land within the families took into account the gender of the inheritors. This paper will show how these two issues were linked, examining the land transfers held by women in the context of family strategies. For this purpose, it will follow the transactions of women in the best-known family of Nuzi, that of Tehip-Tilla, a large landowner, and his descendants, whose archives have been discovered in a house. This family has already been the subject of many studies, 1

Université Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne, UMR 7041 Archéologies et Sciences de l’Antiquité, [email protected]. 2 According to Maidman 2020: 10. 3 Some years ago, while in the Japanese and French Program REFEMA (le Role Economique des Femmes en Mesopotamie Antique), I undertook a research project about women as landowners in the kingdom of Arraphe (Lion 2017). This first study tended to highlight the agency of women in the economic sphere. 4 Lacheman 1973 explains this terminology by the fact that women could not inherit land, which is precisely the point developed in the present paper.

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especially those of Maynard P. Maidman, and I will rely largely on his work.5 The terms “archive of Tehip-Tilla” or “house of Tehip-Tilla” can be confusing: as is often the case, the archives are only those of a branch of the family, that of Enna-mati, son of Tehip-Tilla, and his descendants. But Enna-mati also kept archives in Turša, another town of the kingdom, and a part of the family lived there. Thus, our vision of family affairs remains very partial.6 However, the great number of tablets found in that place—more than one thousand—has allowed researchers to reconstruct an impressive genealogical chart (Fig. 1), and it is possible to track the transactions of women of all generations, starting from the ancestors, Tehip-Tilla’s parents. 1. fWinnirke’s estates 1.1. Acquisitions by fWinnirke Both parents of the famous Tehip-Tilla are known: his father was Puhi-šenni and his mother was fWinnirke. Puhi-šenni is an active party in only one tablet: he bought a very large area of fields, 100 a n š e (about 180 ha), in order to give it to his sons, the children of f Winnirke.7 He also made other transactions, one of which is referred to in a tablet dating back to subsequent generations.8 His wife, fWinnirke, appears more frequently and her activities are better documented than those of her husband. She acquired an astonishing number of plots of land.9 The tablets pertaining to each transaction are not known, but four summary tablets have been found, recording her real estate adoptions—that is, the adoptions in which the adopter gave his fields to fWinnirke, the adoptee, in exchange for an amount of silver.10 To sum up the content of these four tablets, two of which have been sealed by her,11 she was adopted 31 times; M.P. Maidman has pointed out that “after Tehip-Tilla himself, Winnirke is involved in more real estate adoptions than is any other member of this family.”12 By this means, she obtained 2 houses in Nuzi and 29 fields. Some parts of the tablets are

5

Maidman 1976a, 1976b, 1979. JEN 256: 15–16 mentions the tablets kept in the house at Turša, as pointed out by Maidman 1976a: 439, n. 985, and Maidman 1976b: 153, n. 97. 7 JEN 552, transliterated and translated by Smith 2007: 307–308: He bought these 100 a n š e of fields in Natmane with 1 shekel of gold—an extremely low price. 8 JEN 364; Maidman 1976a: 149–151. 9 Maidman 1976a: 151–154. 10 JEN 82, transliterated and translated by Smith 2007: 266–268: She gets at least 2 houses. JEN 560, transliterated and translated by Smith 2007: 309–319: She gets 14 fields. JEN 561, transliterated and translated by Smith 2007: 316–317: She gets 6 fields. JEN 562, transliterated and translated by Smith 2007: 318–320: She gets 9 fields. 11 Porada 1946. 12 Maidman 1976a: 152. 6

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damaged, but the total surface area of the fields is at least 54 a n š e 7 epinnu,13 or about 98 ha. In addition to that, there is some information about other fields she possessed, which are not included in the summary tablets.14 In all these transactions, she was acting alone, and it has been suggested that Puhi-šenni died early.15 This is quite possible, but in Nuzi at least one married woman, fTulpun-naya, made transactions on her own account while her husband was alive.16 In fWinnirke’s family, two generations later, fUzna, the wife of one of fWinnirke’s grandsons, seems to have had the same capacity.17 In any case, f Winnirke was a businesswoman who invested her silver very systematically in land. As usual, it is not known how she acquired that silver; but it is also not known how her husband acquired gold. One of the summary tablets (JEN 562) records an adoption of Tehip-Tilla, beside the 9 adoptions of fWinnirke. Maybe this was one of his first transactions, as a young man guided by his mother. In fact, Tehip-Tilla is famous for having been adopted more than 250 times, acquiring more than 250 parcels of land, a record in the documentation from Nuzi. If his economic model was his mother, he applied her lessons quite well. But f Winnirke, for her part, never acted under the control of her sons, nor with them. 1.2. Two generations later: fWinnirke’s undivided inheritance These large plots of land acquired by fWinnirke were later transmitted within the family. The subsequent destiny of two of her fields is known by two tablets referring to her grandsons. One, JEN 164, is a declaration by two men, concerning a field formerly given by a certain Ahliya18 to fWinnirke; they promise to 13 JEN 560: 91: The total surface of fields is at least 34 a n š e . JEN 561: The surface of fields is at least 5 a n š e 7 epinnu. JEN 562: 35: The total surface of fields is at least 15 a n š e . The total is at least 54 a n š e 7 epinnu. 14 JEN 164, transliterated and translated by Gordon 1935: 126, Text IX, and JEN 324, transliterated and translated by Hayden 1962: 101–105, are lawsuits concerning her estates (see section 1.3 below). JEN 647, transliterated and translated by Smith 2007: 332, refers to a field she received as terhatu. The terhatu was paid on the occasion of a marriage, by the groom, to the family of the bride, but we know of no daughter of f Winnirke; it might be for an adoptive daughter, or perhaps even for a female slave. Usually the terhatu is paid in silver or in movable goods (Grosz 1981: 176–177), but there are five examples, gathered by Breneman 1971: 180–189, and Pfeifer 2009: 383 and n. 189, where it was paid with houses (HSS 19 98, JEN 436) or fields (HSS 19 93: 3 a n š e ; HSS 19 97+EN 10/2 167: 5 a n š e ; JEN 438: 1 a n š e 3 g i š . a p i n , paid to Tehip-Tilla for one of his female slaves). 15 Purves 1940: 164 supposed “that Puḫi-šenni had died and that Winnirke, while a widow, conducted the affairs of the family before their sons Teḫip-tilla and Haiš-tešup attained majority.” See also Maidman 1976b: 151. 16 Abrahami and Lion 2012. 17 See section 3.2 below. 18 Or Ehliya, as suggested by Gelb et al. 1943: 10.

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sue neither Tehip-Tilla’s sons nor Haiš-Teššub’s sons about this field. The other, JEN 324, is a lawsuit initiated by five grandsons of fWinnirke—Enna-mati, Šurki-Tilla, and Akip-tašenni (sons of Tehip-Tilla), and Arrumti (a short form of the name Aril-lumti) and Tuppiya (sons of Haiš-Teššub)—about a field that fWinnirke acquired by an adoption.19 Two generations later, the fields of fWinnirke were thus still in the family. Her two sons, Tehip-Tilla and Haiš-Teššub, had inherited real estate from their mother, and then the fields passed to fWinnirke’s grandsons. But these fields, or part of them, were kept undivided, since the five grandsons appear as joint owners. 1.3. The division of the tablets and of the inheritance However, this inheritance was divided at some point between the five grandsons. Two other tablets alluding to fWinnirke do not directly mention her estates but refer to her tablets: JEN 504 reads, “Arrumti son of Haiš-Teššub received a tablet of fWinnirke. Seal of Arrumti,” and JEN 575 reads, “Arrumti son of HaišTeššub received 2 tablets from Enna-mati. The first one (pertains) to Kuntanu, the second one to fWinnirke. Seal of Arrumti.” These two short notes are receipts sealed by Aril-lumti and were probably kept by his cousin Enna-mati. Both were found in Room 16 of the so-called “Tehip-Tilla’s house,” where the archives (or rather, part of the archives) of Tehip-Tilla, his son Enna-mati, and their descendants were kept. One can guess that Aril-lumti had wished to receive his share of inheritance of his grandmother’s estate. The principles of transmission of the tablets were exactly the same as during the Old Babylonian period: the tablets followed the properties to which they related.20 Thus, Aril-lumti probably took the tablets corresponding to the acquisition, by fWinnirke, of the fields he received, and of course, these tablets have not been found, precisely because they left Enna-mati’s archive. JEN 82, the tablet of adoption by which fWinnirke acquired two houses, was found in Room 15 of “Tehip-Tilla’s house,” as was one of the summary tablets concerning fields, JEN 562. The provenance of another summary tablet, JEN 560, has not been recorded, and the last one, JEN 561, is recorded as found in Room 11, but this room belongs to a neighbouring house and an error of registration may have occurred.21 It is thus probable that all four tablets were transmitted from fWinnirke to Tehip-Tilla, then to Tehip-Tilla’s elder son, Ennamati. These summary tablets may represent the inheritance of fWinnirke’s sons and grandsons, kept undivided. But one might also propose, as hypothesis, two other 19

They sue a certain Kāni, who pretends to have rights to this field, but they win the case. This has been underlined by Maidman 1979: 182. 21 Lacheman 1958: vi: “Not a single document of Teḫip-tilla was found elsewhere. (Other rooms listed in JEN publications are definitely errors in cataloguing.)” “Elsewhere” means outside Tehip-Tilla’s house, Rooms 15–22. 20

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scenarios. (1) They may represent the share of Tehip-Tilla, kept undivided by his three sons. The tradition in Nuzi was to give a double share to the firstborn son.22 If this also applies to the houses and fields inherited from a mother, it means that Tehip-Tilla, the elder son of fWinnirke, should have got two-thirds of her estates (two houses and at least 54 a n š e 7 epinnu), and Haiš-Teššub, her younger son, only one-third (one house and at least 27 a n š e 3 epinnu). In that case, fWinnirke should have possessed three houses and at least about 82 a n š e of fields (ca. 148 ha). Enna-mati was the firstborn son of Tehip-Tilla and had two brothers. If he managed for them the undivided estates of Tehip-Tilla when his cousin Arillumti claimed his share of fWinnirke’s inheritance, Aril-lumti had rights to twothirds of Haiš-Teššub’s share—that is, a part of a house and at least 18 a n š e 2 epinnu. (2) The summary tablets may also represent Enna-mati’s inheritance, since at some point, according to JEN 504 and JEN 575, the grandsons of fWinnirke divided her estate. Enna-mati, as the firstborn son of Tehip-Tilla, should have had a double share—that is, half of the part of his father (one-third of fWinnirke’s estate)—and each of his two brothers only a quarter (one-sixth of fWinnirke’s estate). If the two houses and 54 a n š e 7 epinnu were only one-third of f Winnirke’s estate, she could have been the owner of six houses and more than 164 a n š e (ca. 295 ha). Aril-lumti, as firstborn son of Haiš-Teššub, would have received as his share two-thirds of Haiš-Teššub’s share—that is, two-ninths of Winnirke’s inheritance, or at least one house and 36 a n š e 4 epinnu. These are, of course, speculations, but we can suggest that the summary tablets correspond only to a part of fWinnirke’s property, the one inherited by Enna-mati, and that she might have been far richer than she looked at first glance, her large areas of fields having considerably contributed to the initial wealth of this family group. 2. What about fWinnirke granddaughters? No daughter of Puhi-šenni and fWinnirke is known, but Tehip-Tilla had at least two, fTieš-naya and fZilim-naya. But, according to JEN 164 and JEN 324 (see section 1.2), they were not concerned with the fields acquired by fWinnirke and kept undivided by their brothers. They probably did not inherit them. The situation then seems paradoxical, since there is nothing to prevent women from acquiring or owning land. But they did not inherit real estate, which is certainly due to the prohibition against allowing land leave the family when girls marry. The meagre information we have on the daughters of Tehip-Tilla confirms this situation. They are known by five tablets, 23 three of which mention the 22

Paradise 1972: 260–261; Zaccagnini 2003: 600. Tieš-naya: Genava 4; fZilim-naya: Genava 5, probably Genava 7, Genava 8, and JEN

23 f

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transactions they made on movable property, namely their slaves, but only in a family context. So even if the sisters also look rich, as slave owners, they are excluded from the inheritance of real property. These tablets, obtained through illegal excavations, are housed in the Geneva Museum; they are related to Ennamati’s business and may come from his house, but were perhaps kept together in some special place in antiquity. In one of them (Genava 4), fTieš-naya gives a female slave to her son Tupkiya, and a male slave to her daughter fTieš-nurhe: contrary to land, slaves might be given to both daughters and sons. fTieš-naya was probably married and, since she lived with her husband, she is not elsewhere documented in the family archive. This tablet of donation has been kept because she entrusted her two children, who might have been quite young, and the slaves, to the care of her mother, fHinzuri. In another tablet (Genava 8), the other sister, [fZilim]-naya, gives male and female slaves with their children to her brother Enna-mati. JEN 16324 is a declaration of Enna-mati concerning a male slave who belongs either to his mother, f Hinzuri, or to his sister fZilim-naya. In these two tablets, neither husband nor children of Zilim-naya are mentioned. Can we conclude that fZilim-naya was not, or not yet, married? If so, even unmarried daughters could have had personal assets. A great-granddaughter of fWinnirke, fTulpun-naya, daughter of Šurki-Tilla, is also attested. 25 She was given in marriage to Ith-apu by her brother Zike, probably after the death of their father, Šurki-Tilla; a clause specifies that all the properties of Ith-apu, including real estate, will go to the children he will have with fTulpun-naya.26 Later, with her son Wirrahhe, she borrowed 3 a n š e (ca. 2 hl) of barley from her nephew Puhi-šenni, a son of Zike; at that time, she was probably either widowed or divorced. Wirrahhe and fTulpun-naya sealed the tablet.27 There is no evidence of her involvement in any real estate transaction. None of these female descendants of fWinnirke seems to have owned land. According to what is known from other families, daughters sometimes inherited immovable property, but only under very particular circumstances, usually because there was no male heir. Their father could adopt them with a male gender, in order to preserve the heritage for the men of the next generation. When daughters inherited real estate while they had brothers, they had access only to houses, or to small plots of land.28 There was, therefore, no absolute prohibition 163. The tablets kept in the Musée d’Art et d’Histoire de Genève (here “Genava”) are published by Lacheman 1967. 24 Transliteration and translation by Saarisalo 1934: 45–46. 25 On this branch of the family, see section 3.3 below. 26 Müller 1998: 232–234 and pl. XCVI, n° 152. 27 Müller 1998: 117–118 and pl. XLVII, n° 45; seal of fTulpun-naya pl. CX, n° 45B. 28 Lion, forthcoming.

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but rather a custom that tended to exclude girls from landownership. A female rich landowner, fTulpun-naya, inherited at least one field that belonged to her mother, and the reason might be that she had no brother.29 3. Transactions of women who entered the family by marriage The case of women who joined Tehip-Tilla’s family by marriages is therefore interesting. They were probably not landowners when they entered the family, and most of the tablets mentioning them concern their movable assets. But one and perhaps two of these women appear to own land, and in one case, that land was bought after her marriage. 3.1. fHinzuri, wife of Tehip-Tilla f Hinzuri, Tehip-Tilla’s wife, is mentioned in only four tablets. She survived Tehip-Tilla, since an agreement was concluded between her and her two sons who had to support her until her death.30 The tablet mentions 7 slaves, male and female, as well as her dowry (mulugu, line 13), but it is broken; it is possible that these slaves represent all or part of this dowry (so, once more, movable property). Each of her two sons gives her 20 sheep, which she can slaughter, whose wool she can use, but which she cannot sell or give away.31 When she dies, her two sons will share slaves and sheep, the number of which will probably have increased with births over time. Two other tablets mention her slaves,32 and in both cases Enna-mati interferes in his mother’s business. fHinzuri is thus a rather discreet personality in this archive; she seems much less independent than her mother-in-law, fWinnirke, was, and never appears as a landowner. 3.2. fUzna, wife of Enna-mati On the contrary, fUzna, Enna-mati’s wife, seems to be the most active woman in the family after fWinnirke.33 And, like fWinnirke, she owned land. The tablet HSS 13 232,34 partially broken, is a statement of Hišmeya son of Ithišta, who declares: “I received a cloth from fUzna. And I give fUzna 4 a n š e (ca. 7.2 ha) of field. And I will receive (later) from fUzna the rest of the amount corresponding to the field.” As did fWinnirke, fUzna acquired land outside the 29

EN 9/1 500+; see Abrahami / Lion 2012: 41–42. This lady fTulpun-naya (previously mentioned in section 1.1) is a namesake of fWinnirke’s great-granddaughter. 30 Published by Maidman 1995, then by Müller 1998: 56–59 and pl. XII–XIII, n° 15. 31 Maidman 1995: 63: “This suggests that the widow did not inherit land. … Bequeathal of real estate to male offspring is the customary pattern at Nuzi.” 32 JEN 163 (see section 2 above) and JEN 655. The fourth tablet referring to her is Genava 4 (see section 2 above). See also Maidman 1976b: 152. 33 Maidman 1976a: 250–252; Maidman 1976b: 152–153. 34 Maidman 2010: 157, n° 69.

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family circle. M.P. Maidman has reconstructed the history of the relationship between Enna-mati and the family of Ithišta, an impoverished family that transferred several fields to Enna-mati by the means of real estate adoptions. He tried to put in chronological order the different documents of this dossier; according to him, fUzna made this transaction when her husband was still alive.35 Another tablet mentions barley to be sown in a 5 a n š e (ca. 9 ha) field belonging to fUzna,36 which was probably not the field she acquired from Hišmeya, since the surface is different. Another reference to barley she gave to be sown in a 5 a n š e field probably also pertains to her estates.37 She lent emmer,38 and an important loan of more than 56 a n š e of wheat (ca. 37.52 hl) was partly repaid to her.39 The cereals she lent should have grown in her fields. She exchanged letters with her son Takku about the management of grain produced on her (or their?) estates.40 She provided antichretic loans (tidennūtu) and, to secure them, took people as pledges: a young girl, for 15 heads of small livestock (sheep and goats) lent to their parents;41 and a man, for 35 minas of a n . n a (17.5 kg of lead42), 1 a n š e (67 L) of barley, and 1 a n š e (67 L) of wheat. 43 She also acquired several slaves, by donation,44 adoption,45 or by purchase that she paid in barley.46

35

Maidman 2010: 143–145. AASOR 16 87: “5 a n š e of barley have been given to Kipali as seed for 5 a n š e of land belonging to fUzna. And Kipali may not rent out the fields of fUzna in partnership. Seal of Kipali.” 37 HSS 13 267. 38 HSS 13 55, EN 9/1 314. Another loan she made seems to be recorded in JEN 958 (published by Maidman 2003: 126), but the tablet is badly broken. 39 HSS 14 558. 40 HSS 13 405, letter from fUzna to Takku, and HSS 14 578, letter from Takku to fUzna. 41 HSS 13 418, translated by Eichler 1973: 131–132, n° 39, and Justel 2014 : 203–204, n°184. 42 The meaning of a n . n a , “tin” or “lead,” in Nuzi texts, is debated. See Lion 2013: 134, n. 28. 43 AASOR 16 60. Comments on this text by Zaccagnini 2001: 233. 44 JEN 192, transliterated and translated by Saarisalo 1934: 47–48: A Nullu slave is given to her, perhaps to repay a debt, and another man is given to her as pledge. 45 HSS 19 38, transliterated and translated by Paradise 1972: 182–185, Stohlman 1972: 191–193; translated by Justel 2014: 100–101, n° 75. fUzna is adopted (ṭuppi marūti) by a woman, fMenni, who gives her, as her “inheritance share,” 4 young male slaves, and f Uzna has to provide fMenni with barley rations as long as she lives. This adoption creates some kind of family links, since fUzna is in charge of mourning and burying fMenni when she will die. 46 JEN 120, transliterated and translated by Saarisalo 1934: 42–43. fUzna buys a young girl to give her as wife to a slave of her son Takku; she pays with barley a part of the price, the rest has still to be given. 36

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f

Uzna therefore had very diversified activities.47 As landowner, she used the grain of her fields to make loans, sometimes taking people as pledge, or to buy young girls. She also owned lead, livestock, and slaves. Like fWinnirke two generations earlier, she always acted as an independent woman.48 3.3. Šurki-Tilla’s family Another branch of the family, that of Šurki-Tilla and his son Zike, is documented by tablets mainly found in illicit excavations and kept in the British Museum. Some of these tablets provide information about the economic activities of Šurki-Tilla’s female relatives, especially his wife, fAllai-turahe, and his daughter-inlaw fWištanzu.49 3.3.1. fAllai-turahe, wife of Šurki-Tilla Allai-turahe is not directly attested as a landowner, but the fact that she manages very important quantities of grain most likely indicates that she had fields.50 For example, she received 272 a n š e (ca. 182.24 hl) of barley, with her two sons Tarmi-Tilla and Zike, who received lower quantities, 11 a n š e (ca. 7.37 hl) and 50 a n š e (ca. 33.5 hl), respectively.51 Her accounts were therefore separate from those of her sons. In another document, Nai-šeri, who worked for her,52 recorded (literally “made an accounting of”), in her presence, large quantities of barley, coming from different districts and towns; the total exceeds 300 anše (ca. 201 hl).53 Other tablets concern smaller quantities: she received 3 anše (ca. 2 hl),54 or 23 anše (ca. 15.41 hl);55 she also lent 1 anše of barley (ca. 67 L).56 f

47 She also adopts a young girl to marry her to one of her slaves: JEN 431 (transliteration and translation: Cassin 1938, 301–302). She adopts fHašillu, the daughter of one of her slaves, Hanizu, and gives the father barley and a textile; fUzna shall not make fHašillu a slave girl: AASOR 16 52 (Breneman 1971: 144–145). 48 Maidman 1976a: 252: “All these texts attest Uzna’s independence of action, probably following Enna-mati’s death and, apparently, into the majority of Takku.” 49 On his daughter fTulpun-naya, see section 2 above. 50 Wilhelm 2020: 492 has gathered all the references to that woman. 51 Müller 1998: 119–120 and pl. XLVIII, n° 47. 52 He is also known from Gadd 78, for example. 53 CT 51 5, transliterated and translated by Mayer 1976: 198–199: 137 a n š e came from the dimtu Tarmi-Tilla, 110 a n š e from the dimtu Aripapulli, [x]+22 a n š e from the town of Akmarše and 37 a n š e from the town of Unmatal. 54 Gadd 55, a barley account that concerns mainly her son Zike. 55 Gadd 78, Nai-šeri has received barley and has to deliver it to fAllai-turahe. The tablet CT 51 14, transliterated and translated by Mayer 1976: 205, should probably be added to her dossier: A woman named fAllai-turari receives 7 a n š e 5 b á n of barley (ca. 5,02 hl). The name fAllai-turari is not otherwise attested and CT 51 14 belongs to the British Museum collection, like most of the tablets mentioning fAllai-turahe; it is therefore possible that the scribe made a mistake on the last sign, even if the signs “ri” and “hé” or

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Carlo Zaccagnini has devoted two studies to the yield of the fields in Nuzi.57 These yields are obviously very diverse, depending on the location of the fields and their access to water, but he concludes that an area of 1 a n š e (1.8 ha) should produce between 4 and 10 a n š e of barley (2.68–6.7 hl). Assuming that the highest figure, the one exceeding 300 a n š e of barley, represents the crops of fAllai-turahe’s fields, they must reach an area between 30 and 75 a n š e of fields (54–135 ha), and it might correspond to only a part of her estates. She used her barley to order thousands of bricks,58 to buy a ewe and to make loans.59 She is also well attested as owner of sheep and goats, with 28 animals at least, 60 and bought a female slave, paying for her price with 2 ewes and 2 sheep.61 Thus she used barley to buy livestock, and livestock to buy slaves. But we do not know how she acquired her fields. 3.3.2. fWištanzu, wife of Zike The case of fWištanzu is complex, because there are perhaps two homonyms. f Wištanzu, wife of Zike, is attested in four tablets. In one of them, she entrusted 11 sheep and 1 ewe to a man, probably a shepherd: like nearly all the women of the family, she owned small livestock.62 In the other three, her activities seem to have been related to Zike’s business: she received a delivery of sesame for her husband,63 she is mentioned in an account of honey jars belonging to Zike,64 and she made a statement indicating that her husband had cancelled transactions regarding silver and slaves. She sealed the tablet.65 Three more documents, which do not mention her husband, should, however, be added to her dossier. On a list of 10 harvesters (4 men and 6 women), placed under the responsibility of a man, the “seal of fWištanzu” is impressed, and it “he” are quite different. 56 JEN 978: Maidman 2003: 160. 57 Zaccagnini 1975, 1990. 58 Gadd 68, studied by Mayer 1977: 200, and by Lion–Sauvage 2005: 77: 120 a n š e (ca. 80.4 hl) of barley are given, of which 11 a n š e 5 b á n (ca. 7.7 hl) are used to order 60,000 bricks. The tablet is sealed by fAllai-turahe, Nizzuk and Zilip-apu; these two men also seal Müller 1998: 93–96 and pl. XXXV, n° 30. 59 Müller 1998: 93–96 and pl. XXXV, n° 30. 60 Müller 1994: 247, n° 14: She entrusted 28 sheep and ewes to Ariwalti, probably a servant or a shepherd, who sealed the tablet. Müller 1998: 164–165 and pl. LXVII, n° 81: She received 7 sheep and ewes and one goat. 61 Müller 1998: 158–159 and pl. LXVIII, n° 76. 62 WHM 170489, edited by Millard 1981: 440–441. 63 Müller 1998: 161–162 and pl. LXX, n° 78. 64 Müller 1994: 246, n° 12: About one of them, the scribe notes, “when fWištanzu was in the town of Akmašar.” 65 Gadd 61; no indication is given about the seal she used, but a photo of the tablet may be seen on the CDLI website (P469221).

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seems identical to the one of Zike’s wife.66 A count of 16 sheep, belonging to f Wištanzu and entrusted to Halukka, recalls the activities of Zike's wife; and Halukka is attested elsewhere as working for Zike and his brother Tarmi-Tilla. 67 The last tablet is a distribution of barley to different persons, the first one being Wirrahhe, a nephew of Zike and fWištanzu;68 the seal is different from the one she used on the other tablets. A fWištanzu daughter of Kettura is known from two tablets. One is interesting regarding real estate, since it is an antichretic loan of 4 shekels of gold, for which she took a field as pledge, but the surface of the field is lost; the tablet was written in Nuzi69 and was probably found there. One of the witnesses, Zike, son of Laqepu, is known as a contemporary of Tehip-Tilla, son of Puhi-šenni;70 this fWištanzu must therefore have lived two generations before Zike, grandson of Tehip-Tilla and his wife. According to the other tablet, Akkul-enni, son of Arwiya, was indebted to fWištanzu and had to pay her a quantity of wool. 71 J. Fincke, after K. Grosz, considers that this document belongs to the groups of tablets that were found at Arraphe (Kirkuk), and not at Nuzi (Yorghan Tepe).72 M.P. Maidman, when reconstructing the genealogical chart of the Tehip-Tilla family, was cautious and noted, “If there is but one Zike and one Wištanzi …”73 G.G.W. Müller took for granted that there was only one fWištanzu: “Die Frau des Zike und die Tochter des Kettura.”74 But it is more prudent to distinguish two different figures, in particular because of the temporal gap of two generations that seems to separate the daughter of Kettura from the wife of Zike. And in that case, the latter would not have carried out any transaction involving real estate.

66

Müller 1998: 100–101 and pl. XVII, n° 34; seal pl. CIX, 34A. Photo on the CDLI website (P480235). 67 Müller 1998: 133–134 and pl. LIV, n° 58. Halukka receives ewes from Zike and Tarmi-Tilla, according to Müller 1998: 219 and pl. XC, n° 138. 68 Müller 1998: 180 and pl. LXXVI, n° 96; seal pl. CXVI, 96A. On Wirrahhe, see section 2. 69 Gadd 62. 70 According to Müller 1998: 65–67 and pl. XVIII-XIX, n° 18, a tablet by which Laqepu gives his daughter ana mārtūti u ana kallūti to Tehip-Tilla son of Puhi-šenni. 71 Fincke 1998: 59-60, who joined a fragment from the British Museum (BM 102374) with another one housed in the collection of St. Petersburg (I. 8412). Akkul-enni is also known from CT 51 3. 72 Fincke 1998. The fragment BM 102374 was first published by Grosz 1988: 146 (translation) and 160–161 (transliteration) with the tablets she assumed to come from Arraphe. 73 Maidman 1976b: 143. 74 Müller 1998: 101, 134.

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4. Women and real estate: some conclusions At the end of this survey, it is clear why women owned less land than men: if they did not inherit it, the situation was unequal from the very beginning. In a family, the sons inherited a capital of land; if the parents were rich, this capital could be enormous (tens of hectares, or more), especially if they were the elders of the siblings. But for the daughters, their starting capital in land was nonexistent. Dowry could be a way for women to acquire land: it was movable property that they could convert. In Nuzi, the prices were not systematically paid in silver or barley, but in any other commodity. In Tehip-Tilla’s family, women thus bought slaves with sheep, or a field with textiles. The growth of a herd, the work of a slave who could be rented, were all means for women to increase their assets. They therefore had the possibility of investing part of it in real estate, for example by real estate adoptions. They could do all these transactions on their own. In this case, as for men, the product of the fields brought them an income that they could also invest. But the example of the Tehip-Tilla family shows that, while some women did actively practice these strategies, others, such as f Hinzuri and probably fWištanzu, did not do so, and only managed movable property. It is not known what factors dictated these choices, but it is possible that personal factors played a role. Since the land acquired by the women of a family reverted to the sons or grandsons, and not to daughters or granddaughters, each generation of women had to start the process over again, while the sons inherited the land wealth accumulated by the men and women of several generations. The process was therefore cumulative. The whole dossier shows that, even if the transactions of men and women were identical, and if the land owned by women did not constitute a particular category, the gender issue created a great inequality in terms of land wealth. And it gives an explanation for the initial observation that women had a lesser share in landownership.

Figure 1. The Tehip-Tilla family (simplified family tree, after Maidman 2010: xxiv; women in bold).

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Bibliography Abrahami, P. / Lion, B. 2012: L’archive de Tulpun-naya. In P. Abrahami / B. Lion (eds.): The Nuzi Workshop at the 55th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale (July 2009, Paris). Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians 19. Bethesda, Maryland, 3–86. Breneman, M. J. 1971: Nuzi Marriage Tablets. PhD dissertation, Brandeis University. Waltham, Massachusetts. Cassin, E. 1938: L’adoption à Nuzi. Paris. Eichler, B. 1973: Indenture in Nuzi: The Personal tidennūtu Contract and Its Mesopotamian Analogues. Yale Near Eastern Researches 5. New Haven, Connecticut. Fincke, J. 1998: More Joins Among the Texts from Arrapḫa (Kirkūk). In D.I. Owen / G. Wilhelm (eds.): General Studies and Excavations at Nuzi 10/1. Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians 9. Bethesda, Maryland, 49–62. Gelb, I.J. / Purves, P.M. / MacRae, A.A. 1943: Nuzi Personal Names. Oriental Institute Publications 57. Chicago. Gordon, C. H. 1935: Fifteen Nuzi Tablets Relating to Women. Le Museon 48, 113–132. Grosz, K. 1981: Dowry and Brideprice at Nuzi. In M. A. Morrison / D. I. Owen (eds.): Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians in Honor of Ernest R. Lacheman. Winona Lake, Indiana, 161–182 Grosz, K. 1988: The Archive of the Wullu Family. Copenhagen. Hayden, R.E. 1962: Court Procedure at Nuzu. Phd dissertation, University of Michigan. Ann Arbor. Justel, J.J. 2014 : Mujeres y derecho en el Próximo Oriente Antiguo: La presencia de mujeres en los textos jurídicos cuneiformes del segundo y primer milenios a. C. Zaragoza. Lacheman, E.R. 1958: Excavations at Nuzi. Vol. VII : Economic and Social Documents. Harvard Semitic Series XVI. Cambridge, Massachusetts. Lacheman, E.R. 1967: Les tablettes de Kerkouk au Musée d’Art et d’Histoire de Genève. Genava New Series 15, 5–23. Lacheman, E.R. 1973: Real Estate Adoptions by Women in the Tablets from Nuzi. In H. A. Hoffner (ed.): Orient and Occident: Essays Presented to C. H. Gordon. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 22. Neukirchen-Vluyn, 99–100. Lion, B. 2013: Le bronze et ses usages économiques en Mésopotamie: Le cas de Nuzi (XIVe s. a.C.). In C. Grandjean / A. Moustaka (eds.): Aux origines de la monnaie fiduciaire: Traditions métallurgiques et innovations numismatiques ; Actes de l’atelier international des 16 et 17 novembre 2012 à Tours. Bordeaux, 129–143. Lion, B. 2017: Les femmes et les terres dans les archives de Nuzi et Arraphe (XIVe s. av. J.-C.). Studia Mesopotamica 4, 89–115.

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Lion, B. / Sauvage, M. 2005: Les textes de Nuzi relatifs aux briques. In D.I. Owen / G. Wilhelm (eds.): General Studies and Excavations at Nuzi 11/1. Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians 15. Bethesda, Maryland, 57–100. Maidman, M.P. 1976a: A Socioeconomic Analysis of a Nuzi Family Archive. PhD dissertation, University of Pennsylvania. Philadelphia. Maidman, M.P. 1976b: The Teḫip-tilla Family of Nuzi: A Genealogical Reconstruction. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 28, 127–155. Maidman, M.P. 1979: A Nuzi Private Archive: Morphological Considerations. Assur 1, 179–186. Maidman, M.P. 1995: A Unique Tehip-tilla Family Document from the British Museum. In D.I. Owen / G. Wilhelm (eds.): Edith Porada Memorial Volume. Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians 7. Bethesda, Maryland, 57–63. Maidman, M.P. 2003: Joint Expedition with the Iraq Museum at Nuzi VIII. Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians 14. Bethesda, Maryland. Maidman, M.P. 2010: Nuzi Texts and Their Uses as Historical Evidence. Writings from the Ancient World 18. Atlanta. Maidman, M.P. 2020: Life in Nuzi’s Suburbs: Text Editions from Private Archives (JEN 834–881). Antichistica 26. Studi orientali 9. Venice. Mayer, W. 1976: Nuzi-Texte aus dem British Museum. Ugarit-Forschungen 8, 193–208. Mayer, W. 1977: Zur Ziegelherstellung in Nuzi und Arrapḫe. Ugarit-Forschungen 9, 191–204. Millard, A.R. 1981: Strays from a “Nuzi” Archive. In M.A. Morrison / D.I. Owen (eds.): Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians: In Honor of Ernest R. Lacheman. Winona Lake, Indiana, 433–441. Müller, G.G.W. 1994: Studien zur Siedlungsgeographie und Bevölkerung des Mittleren Osttigrisgebietes. Heidelberger Studien zum Alten Orient 7. Heidelberg. Müller, G.G.W. 1998: Londoner Nuzi-Texte. SANTAG: Arbeiten und Untersuchungen zur Keilschriftkunde 4. Wiesbaden. Paradise, J.S. 1972: Nuzi Inheritance Practices. PhD dissertation, University of Pennsylvania. Philadelphia. Pfeifer, N. 2009: Das Eherecht in Nuzi: Einflüsse aus altbabylonischer Zeit. In G. Wilhelm (ed.): General Studies and Excavations at Nuzi 11/2. Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians 18. Bethesda, Maryland, 355–420. Porada, E. 1946: The Origin of Winnirke’s Cylinder Seal. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 5: 257–259.

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Purves, P.M. 1940: The Early Scribes of Nuzi. American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures 57, 162–187. Saarisalo, A. 1934: New Kirkuk Documents Relating to Slaves. Studia Orientalia 3. Helsinki. Smith, S.P. 2007: Hurrian Orthographic Interference in Nuzi Akkadian: A Computational Comparative Graphemic Analysis. PhD dissertation, Harvard University. Cambridge, Massachusetts. Stohlman, S.C. 1972: Real Adoption at Nuzi. PhD dissertation, Brandeis University. Waltham, Massachusetts. Wilhelm, G. 2020: Allaituraḫe. In M. Cammarosano / E. Devecchi /M. Viano (eds.): talugaeš witteš: Ancient Near Eastern Studies Presented to Stefano de Martino on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday. Kasion 2. Münster, 489–500. Zaccagnini, C. 1975: The Yield of the Fields at Nuzi. Oriens Antiquus 14, 181– 225. Zaccagnini, C. 1990: Again on the Yield of the Fields at Nuzi. In J.N. Postgate / M.A. Powell (eds.): Irrigation and Cultivation in Mesopotamia. Pt. 2. Bulletin on Sumerian Agriculture 5. Cambridge, United Kingdom, 201–217. Zaccagnini, C. 2001: Nuzi. In R. Westbrook / R. Jasnow (eds.): Security for Debts in Ancient Near Eastern Law. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 9. Leiden, Boston, and Köln, 223–236. Zaccagnini, C. 2003: Nuzi. In R. Westbrook (ed.): A History of Near Eastern Law. Handbuch der Orientalistik 72(1). Leiden and Boston, 565–617.

Women and Their Weight Incorporating Weighted Edges in a Network Analysis of the Central Redistributive Household of Nippur (Eighteenth Century BCE) Anne Goddeeris1

1. Introduction Even when they are preserved in large numbers, administrative documents are extremely frugal with information concerning the inner structure of the organization they administer. Keeping track of and accounting for the flow of commodities, lists, receipts, and memos do not offer an overview of the tasks and responsibilities of the individual agents, of the internal division of labor. However systematic an administration is kept and preserved —with daily accounts or monthly overviews—this accounting focuses on the assets, and only indirectly on the agents. At best, we are able to reconstruct an organizational chart, but only with respect to the processes that are administered, and therefore not necessarily representing the actual hierarchical authority. Only in exceptional cases, when the administrative documents are supplemented with correspondence and bilateral contracts, can we reach a more nuanced picture of pieces of the society. When studying the files of the so-called “central redistributive authority of Nippur”, the problem described above is encountered to the hilt. This administrative structure managed several aspects of the distribution of animal offerings to the various temples in Nippur during the early eighteenth century BCE and was also involved in the diplomatic affairs of the city, in the management of agricultural lands, and in the maintenance of urban edifices such as the city wall and the canals. In the extremely laconic documents, the agents and dependents of the household appear as recipients and intermediaries, but it is impossible to determine their exact position. Already when its administrative files were first put together, Robertson observed the prominence of women in the management of the bureau.2 However, while acknowledging that he has no insight whatsoever into the kind of relationship the guennakkum, a high-ranking figure who repeatedly appears in these documents, enjoyed with Damiqtum, Duššuptum, and Inbatum, he qualifies the latter tentatively as “dependents of the guennakkum’s household”. This interpretation has even led to Damiqtum, the best documented of these women, being described as “one of the guennakkum’s wives”.3 Along 1

Department of Languages and Cultures, Ghent University, [email protected]. Robertson 1984: 157, 159. 3 Sharlach 2009: 299. 2

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the same lines, Robertson considers the guennakkum to be the head of this household, not because of his activities, but because he occurs in the records on several occasions, and because the title refers to a high authority in Nippur.4 In this contribution, I will reconsider the position of these female agents—and, in their wake, the position of the guennakkum—in the files of the central redistributive authority of Nippur, by approaching the documents in which these agents appear from a different point of departure. The entries of the administrative documents will be analyzed through a network perspective. Network graphs may reveal otherwise unnoticed patterns, “patterns which can then be tested through close readings in a structured, contextualized, relational setting”.5 I will first discuss the methodology, by describing the basic principles of the network approach, and by considering some exemplary applications in the field of Assyriology. Then, I will introduce the central redistributive authority of Nippur and its dossiers. I will cast these data in a network analysis and investigate the position of the female agents of the household from that perspective. As a conclusion, I will present the findings of my analysis and assess the use of network methodology for the analysis of administrative files. Did we find answers that we would not have found without a network approach? Was it worth the effort? Thus, two issues will be addressed in this article: the role of the women in the Nippur administration during the reign of Rīm-Sîn, but also the prospects of network analysis for the field of cuneiform studies. One thing can be stated now already: think twice before you claim anything about women and their weight. 2. Network perspectives on Assyriology 2.1. A short introduction Within the last few decades, network approaches have increasingly featured both in Humanities, and in the field of Assyriology. In the 1960s, progress in graph theory offered new perspectives for the fields of sociometry and anthropology. Gradually, Social Network Analysis (SNA) developed increasingly sophisticated tools and paradigms to define and measure the quantifiable aspects of power, friendship, etc. 6 These quantifiable aspects of the relationships be4

This assumption is taken over by Huber-Vulliet 2010: 136–137. Anderson 2017: 147. 6 For reasons of clarity, the most important terms specific to SNA jargon are listed here, with a short definition, mainly based on the glossary of Juloux et al. 2018 (373–421). Attribute: Extra columns of information in the nodes and edges lists from which data can be filtered, such as by time period, transaction verb, or node category. Centrality measures: Algorithms that use graph theory to calculate the importance of any given node in a network. Thus, degree centrality is based simply on the number of links held by each node. Betweenness centrality counts the number of times a node lies on the shortest path between other nodes, telling us which nodes are “bridges” between 5

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tween a distinct set of individuals are represented in a network or a network graph, with the individuals or entities represented as nodes and the relationships as edges linking the nodes, thus representing every single relation as a triple consisting of two nodes linked by an edge, the basic structure of any network. Both nodes and edges may be qualified by attributes. In addition, edges can be directed—i.e., representing a relationship from a source node to a target node— and weighted.7 The nodes can belong to the same type of entity, resulting in a one-mode network, or to two different types (e.g., individuals and cuneiform documents in which they appear), giving a two-mode or bipartite network. It may be useful to make a one-mode projection of a bipartite graph, because analytic measures that may help to quantify and objectify the social relations—for example, density, and centrality indices—can be calculated within one-mode graphs only. In historical case studies, the possibilities of SNA are determined and limited by the available data. Panoramic sources such as census or army records, biographical dictionaries, or baptismal registers offer a survey of the whole population and allow to draw a so-called “whole network”. Private archives with letters, title deeds, and other records relating to the activities of the archive owners, on the other hand, hardly ever shed light on a representative section of the society, but often contain more details about the nature of the relationships between the individuals. These sources may form the basis of a socalled ego-network.8 Both network types offer useful insights; it is important to acknowledge the limitations of the dataset and to formulate relevant research questions accordingly. networks. Edge: Connection between two nodes that corresponds to the relationship investigated in the graph in question. Network graph: The total of all data points, the nodes, and their relationships—i.e., the edges. Together, connected and disconnected nodes form the network graph. Network graphs are composed of nodes and links; nodes are data points representing entities. Edges link nodes, representing the relationships between those nodes. This data takes the form of “triples” comprising two nodes and an edge that connects them. Node: Entities that can be of one or more types, such as people, institutions, places, or commodities. Triple: Two nodes linked by an edge. Weight: The quantitative value attributed to an edge, often corresponding to the total sum of relations between the two nodes linked by the edge in question, but sometimes a substantial value, such as here the amount of barley involved in the transaction linking the two nodes. 7 For an introduction into the development of Social Network Analysis and a discussion of its position with respect to network approaches in physical sciences, cf. Borgatti et al. 2009. For a recent overview of the practical aspects of network approaches, cf. Zweig 2016. 8 Waerzeggers 2014a: 214–216.

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Many SNA tools have been developed to investigate the relations between individuals or between groups of individuals, but as the overview below demonstrates, they can be used for other entities and for other specific research questions. These tools and concepts have inspired network approaches that do not directly pertain to social relations. Pagé-Perron makes the following distinction: Network theory refers to the study of systems and patterns found in network graphs, whereas social network analysis uses network theory to understand social relationships.9 However, this distinction is not used consistently in the professional literature. Thus, Wagner and his colleagues use the term “quantitative social network analysis” while investigating text-to-text relations.10 Since the 1990s, network studies function as an arena where researchers from all areas find methods to address their data.11 Through a network perspective, the focus shifts from the attributes of the data towards the relations between the data, and the position of the data in the network. The difficult part is establishing and keeping the link between the historical data (in our case) and the abstract nodes and edges. For each individual research project, research goals, questions, and methods must be spelled out unambiguously. 2.2. The first testing ground: the mid-first millennium BCE In Assyriology, SNA was first tested on data from the Neo-Babylonian (626– 539 BCE) and Persian (539–331 BCE) periods. In an article that was written in 2009, and already circulating and cited before its publication in 2014, Waerzeggers plotted the lines for the use of SNA in Assyriology, and introduced its main concepts, methods, and perspectives.12 After a synopsis of some interesting case studies in which SNA is used to analyze historical data, she addresses the question of whether SNA could offer useful perspectives in the field of Assyriology. Do the archival records offer a good point of departure for SNA? The sources from the Neo-Babylonian period, which Waerzeggers uses as point of departure, lack both panoramic records (cf. above) and details on the largest part of the individuals mentioned in the archives. At the same time, the sources do specify different types of relationships such as kinship, economic relations, patronage, property, trust, residential relations, enmity, etc. Therefore, the data seem more suited for the study of ego-networks 13 . However, various NeoBabylonian cities have yielded archive clusters belonging to families from the higher echelons of society, allowing researchers to draw social maps that come close to whole networks. Once a complete prosopography exists, we can begin to see intercity contacts and aim to reconstruct whole networks of the upper 9

Pagé-Perron 2018: 195 n. 5. Wagner et al. 2013; cf. below. 11 Borgatti et al. 2009: 892–893. 12 Waerzeggers 2014a. 13 E.g., Waerzeggers 2014b. 10

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echelons of some Neo-Babylonian cities—keeping in mind the well-known limitations. As a small test case, Waerzeggers tries to check Abraham’s notion14 about the close interaction between the individuals occurring in a small group of texts (twenty-seven), and actually finds three completely unconnected networks and two isolated actors. The relationship investigated here is co-occurrence, an approach that is bound to create a huge amount of noise as soon as we start investigating larger datasets and try to apply some more complex SNA tools such as density and centrality. More detailed research requires specifications of the relationship and additional information about the attributes of actors. Thus, a complete prosopography is wanted, a project hampered by the well-known pitfalls of disambiguation, i.e. that only members of the highest echelons are identified by a family name15 and patronymics are not given systematically either, that personal names may be abbreviated, and homonyms are all over the place, to name some. In addition, i order to get significant result, SNA also requires sophisticated relational data, transcending the relation “appears in the same text”. Finally, one must take into account the missing data, which form a caveat in any historical analysis. Waerzeggers’s conclusions are cautious, questioning the usefulness of the time-consuming process of preparing data for SNA. Rather, she focuses on the new research avenues that are opened by a network approach. “In the end it is perhaps not always desirable or feasible to go through the demanding process of data preparation for network software. The appendix contains many examples of fresh approaches to old data that were merely inspired by the network approach and the particular perspective on society that it offers, without making use of the software and complicated mathematical calculations.”16 Network analysis can be used to direct research. Since 2009, when Waerzeggers wrote this article, the situation has certainly improved with respect to research data management, not only for the NeoBabylonian period with an initiative like Prosobab,17 but also for other periods. Oracc contains a long list of initiatives,18 and the Old Babylonian corpus included in Archibab keeps growing. 19 Waerzeggers’s team in Leiden continues to

14

Abraham 2004: 106–111. Cf. Still 2019: 9. 16 Waerzeggers 2014a: 226–227. 17 Waerzeggers et al. 2019, an open access prosopography of Babylonia in the NeoBabylonian and Persian periods (c. 620–330 BCE). 18 The open, richly annotated cuneiform corpus, http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/project list.html, accessed 30 March 2021. 19 http://www.archibab.fr, accessed 30 March 2021, covering the period between ca. 2000–1600 BCE. 15

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explore avenues of research offered by SNA.20 This nuanced assessment forms an ideal point of departure for functional applications of SNA in Assyriology in general, and for the following critical overview of a number of representative Assyriological publications relying on the method. In 2013, Wagner and colleagues have demonstrated the use of quantitative SNA on data from cuneiform documents by means of a case study consisting of a set of seventy-five texts from the Murašu archive (fifth century BCE). They illustrate the practical advantage of transforming a two-mode network into a one-mode network. At the same time, they acknowledge the shortcomings of this method, in which different roles of the individuals are lost. For the twomode network, they manually link all the participants to a transaction to the texts in which this transaction is recorded.21 The two-mode network is transformed to a text-to-text network rather than a person-to-person network, thus only indirectly pertaining to social relations. The application of a clustering algorithm on the network results in a network visualization in which the computer has assigned nearly all the texts to one of two so-called communities (unsupervised clustering). These communities appear to correspond to two chronological phases of the archive. This method allows to situate undated or damaged texts, to identify ambiguously named individuals and to correct mistakes that have sneaked in. However, the obvious question here remains: Would this chronological division not be achieved on the basis of a sound proposopography, without the complex data preparation required for SNA? 2.3. Network approaches for earlier corpora Since the publication of the Neo-Babylonian ventures, SNA has successfully been used to study aspects of other periods of the Mesopotamian civilization. In his dissertation, Anderson has investigated the possibilities of digital analysis of another promising dataset, the Old Assyrian letter corpus (ca. 1950–1750 BCE).22 Through their frequent correspondence, the network of Assyrian merchants in Kaneš in Anatolia and Assur is intensely interconnected, and they form what is called a small world in SNA. Anderson’s primary goal is the disambiguation of individuals in order to facilitate both archival reconstruction and further research on the activities of the merchants and their families. The abovementioned problems such as homonymy—the practice of abbreviating names and of omitting the patronymics in the letters—are omnipresent in the Old Assyrian letters and make this an extremely complicated matter. At the same time, Anderson explores the possibilities of various digital analytical tools for the 20

Most recently with publications by, e.g., Still (2019) and Seire (2020). Witnesses that do not have an active role, such as writing or sealing the document, are not included as participants in order to reduce the noise in the network (Wagner et al. 2013: 123–124). 22 Anderson 2017. 21

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study of cuneiform archival documents. In collaboration with specialists in natural language processing, Anderson has developed an algorithm to calculate the relative rank of individuals on the basis of the introductory formula of the letters, and he uses this rank in the disambiguation process.23 In order to assess the accuracy of unsupervised disambiguation, he keeps track of two different networks. The computer has disambiguated individuals on the basis of the calculated rank in what he has labeled the “epistolary network”. In his “attestation network”, Anderson manually merges the attestations of the same individual across multiple texts, an ongoing process that involves constantly going back and forth between close text reading and quantitative digital analysis. On top of that, this work addresses smaller research questions through specific graphs that take a selection of the data, which makes them easier to handle and to read. In his last chapter, Anderson also tries to assess the social structure of the merchant colony and to pinpoint key figures with the help of statistical SNA metrics.24 The rank calculated on the basis of the introductory formulas of the letters offers him a tool to evaluate the SNA results, and he quite rightly points out that SNA offers only part of the picture, since it is based on the information contained in the preserved documents. Maybe it reflects a more subconscious ranking. The introductory formulas are explicitly and overtly provided by the Assyrian merchants themselves. 25 Society operates on multiple levels at the same time, and historical data do not display all these levels explicitly, to put it mildly. SNA may reveal a previously hidden level, but that does not mean this is a more objective level. Rather than offering final answers, this work explores the possibilities of a digital bird’s eye view on the corpus and indicates the numerous factors that have to be taken into account in this process. Also, Anderson points out potential avenues of research on the basis of his quantitative analysis, such as demographic research and geographical applications. In her 2018 contribution to the CyberResearch on the Ancient Near East volume, Pagé-Perron explores the prospects of using SNA in the analysis of large data. Out of the transliterations, which use standardized formatting, preferably in ATF,26 and which are provided with systematic tagging and lemmatizing, she is able to extract a list of the entities that will appear in the graph—in this case, individuals—and a list of the relationships between these entities through an automated process. 27 However, I should speak of personal names rather than individuals, because Pagé-Perron, investigating the possibilities of automated 23

Banman et al. 2013. Anderson 2017: 148–171. 25 Adams 2017: 155. 26 A format created by CDLI and Oracc as a stable archiving format for the long-term storage of transliterations of cuneiform texts. 27 Pagé-Perron 2018: 206–208. 24

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processes, intentionally leaves the disambiguation of homonyms for the next phase.28 She presents a case study of 2,700 administrative documents from Late Early Dynastic and Old Akkadian Adab (a site in southern Iraq, ca. 2400–2200 BCE). The relationship investigated is co-occurrence of personal names, the only type of relationship that can be investigated on the basis of this type of automated processing. The corpus contains 800 personal names, which are connected by 7,000 relations. Pagé-Perron demonstrates how to manipulate the network visualization in order to identify individuals of interest and group cores with the help of quantitative tools.29 As a means to highlight groups, edges that have a lower weight (between names co-occurring less often) can be removed30 and nodes that become isolated in the process can be discarded.31 In order to disambiguate individuals bearing the same name, one may look for bridges, nodes that have relations with nodes of different clusters. These bridges often represent either high-ranking officials or homonyms. Removing the bridges from the graph will, on the one hand, articulate the clusters much more clearly, and thus help to isolate dossiers. On the other hand, the bridges point us to personal names that possibly belong to different individuals, which can be disambiguated. However, only part of the homonyms comes to the surface through this method. A network based on co-occurrence of personal names forms a base to get a grip on large datasets, but at the same time generates a lot of noise. The manipulations proposed by Pagé-Perron may help to enhance the results, but genuine fine-tuning requires assigning additional attributes to nodes or investigating a more specific type of (directed) edge. Although Pagé-Perron proposes to base these on the metadata collected from the texts, both entering the metadata and specifying the edges involves close reading of the original texts, so I would conclude that the automated generation of an SNA graph can only function as the point of departure for further research. As it is, Pagé-Perron’s analysis of the Early Dynastic / Old Akkadian text corpus from Adab confirms research that has already been done on the basis of transliterating, cataloguing, and prosopography.32 28

Pagé-Perron 2018: 213. For the technical aspects of calculating and using the edge betweenness, the maximal clique, the k-plex and other mathematical attributes of a graph, I refer to Pagé-Perron 2018: 209–216. 30 Only temporarily, however, for the sake of highlighting groups. The removed edges and nodes may represent a structurally crucial tie. 31 Wagner and colleagues (2013) attempt the same thing—reducing the noise in a graph—on a qualitative rather than a quantitative basis, by excluding the witnesses from their analysis. Again, this means manual and time-consuming interference, but a more precise result. 32 Cf. Pagé-Perron 2018: 212 n. 63. 29

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In this article, Pagé-Perron makes a strong case for “preparing data in a machine-actionable way [that] enables researchers to explore a corpus using a large array of alternative and complementary approaches, from simple statistical models to machine learning algorithms. … Looking at larger sets of data, quantitative approaches also offer new means to systematically store information in a manner that retains factors that are not already known to be meaningful.” 33 “Aššur and His Friends” and “Fear in Akkadian”, the case studies discussed next, are excellent examples of this. 2.4. Specific applications of network approaches In line with these conclusions, several studies have worked with more specific research questions. In “Aššur and His Friends”, Alstola and his colleagues from Helsinki have studied the role of the god Aššur in the Mesopotamian pantheon.34 More precisely, they ask if Aššur’s central position can be confirmed on the basis of statistical evidence. Hence, they do not offer a comprehensive study of the matter, but an investigation of how computational methods can contribute to the analysis of cuneiform texts and Mesopotamian culture. Extensive previous research has demonstrated how Aššur’s prominence in the Neo-Assyrian texts reflects the ideology and identity-building processes in the Assyrian Empire, while other gods still remain important. The Helsinki team can rely on this preceding scholarship; all sources have received thorough philological analysis. This also provides them with a benchmark against which their findings can be measured. The dataset consists of 1,532 nonlexical texts from the Neo-Assyrian period (from the late tenth to the late seventh century BCE), mined from the Oracc database, which all contain the name of Aššur and the name of another god.35 These texts form the basis of three different networks. The first one analyzes Aššur’s co-occurrence with other gods within a text, the weight of an edge representing the number of texts in which they occur together. The second one investigates the co-occurrence of Aššur with one of his friends within a ten-word window, which would offer a more semantic relationship than the previous one. However, the results of both these network analyses do not display clear-cut semantic ties. Therefore, just as Anderson attributed rank to the individuals on the basis of an algorithm in order to refine his network on a quantitative basis, the team of Alstola uses the pointwise mutual information (PMI) algorithm to

33

Pagé-Perron 2018: 217. Alstola et al. 2019a: 159. The dataset used in the article is freely available online (Alstola et al. 2019b). 35 In order to reduce the number of variables, gods occurring less than three times in combination with Aššur have not been taken into account. In spite of Oracc’s standardized system of formatting and tagging, the list still had to be systematized manually. 34

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calculate the strength of the semantic relationship between pairs of gods.36 In the third graph, the strength of the tie reflects the PMI score instead of the number of attestations. A range of SNA tools are tested on these three graphs: in both full networks and ego-networks, the Helsinki team has calculated analytic measures such as degree (the number of edges linking a node to another node) centrality, betweenness centrality, eigenvector centrality, density, and modularity. Three striking peculiarities that were highlighted via the network structure are further investigated through traditional philological methods. First, Aššur thanks his relatively high betweenness centrality37 in the PMI graph (fourth place) solely to the fact that he is the only link between the gods of the Arabs and the rest of the pantheon. Otherwise, in spite of his frequent occurrence, Aššur remains relatively unconnected. On the basis of the modularity algorithm of Aššur’s egonetwork based on PMI scores, the gods can be divided into four communities: a stable one consisting of the prominent Mesopotamian deities, a second stable one consisting of the gods of the Arabs, and two unstable communities composed of four stable subunits. The unexpected position of Ninurta in one of these subunits rather than with the prominent Mesopotamian deities forms the subject of the second case study. Third, the position and identity of Aššur’s wife, Šerū’a or Mulissu, is further investigated. These three investigations confirm Aššur as a newcomer whose position is not yet firmly established. Through a combination of quantitative methods, digital tools, and traditional philological analysis, this article demonstrates that Aššur’s position in the pantheon, in spite of his frequent mentions, is less central than expected. Very recently, the team of Helsinki has published a semantic study of the terms denoting fear, using a comparable methodology.38 Basically, they offer a quantitative network analysis of these words, by focusing on the words with which they most often co-occur in a ten-word window and in a fifty-word window. Again, Svärd and her colleagues construct several sets of SNA graphs for both windows. In the first one, the weight of the edges reflects the score of an adapted version of the PMI2 algorithm.39 In the second set, the edge weight is

36

PMI is a statistical calculation measuring the chance of co-occurrence of two given words. A high PMI score within a small window of words points to fixed expressions or compound words. A high PMI score within a larger window shows that the words are semantically related. Alstola and colleagues have used an adapted version of the algorithm PPMI2 (w1 , w2 ) = 2log2

p(w1 , w2) 2 p w1 p(w2 )

, reducing the noise as much as possible (Alstola et

al. 2019a: 167). A score designating a node as a bridge between otherwise unconnected communities. 38 Svärd et al. 2021a. 39 In order to reduce the significance of repeating content, which is very common in the dataset, and to highlight more interesting and free use of language, the PMI2 score is 37

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calculated on the basis of so-called word vectors, a numerical representation of the words in a (set of) text(s). Through this method, words appearing in comparable linguistic contexts get similar coordinates and cluster near each other. Thus, word vectors allow us to identify words that appear in similar contexts as the words under investigation and form another way to find semantic similarities.40 Finally, the whole process is conducted on two levels. In the graphs of the first level, the nodes correspond to dictionary entries. In the second level, homonyms are manually disambiguated, and the words derived from the same root are combined. The combinations of these three distinct approaches result in eight SNA graphs,41 on the basis of which the semantic contexts of the different words are quantified. These contexts are then investigated by looking at the original textual contexts and by comparing the results to the analysis of the word in the dictionaries. At the end of the article, the authors offer an assessment of the methods tested and note that not all the processes appear to be useful. Thus, disambiguating the homonyms and combining the words derived from the same root (level 2) has not offered new insights. Also, the dataset should be larger in order to fully appreciate the additional value of word vectors. The outcome of the investigation confirms the translations found in the dictionaries but adds a quantitative dimension. The last application of SNA in Assyriology reviewed here is Still’s investigation into the marriage practices of the priestly families in Borsippa during the Neo-Babylonian and early Persian rule (the so-called long sixth century, ca. 620–484 BCE). 42 Still produced an SNA graph on the basis of a dataset of eighty-one marriages in which the nodes are families rather than individuals and in which the edges represent a marriage. Still gives the edges a direction by introducing the concepts of wife-givers and wife-takers in line with the patrilocal marriage tradition, but doesn’t give them a weight—the number of marriages is not relevant to his argument. 43 A pattern emerges in the direction of the edges: giving one’s daughter as a wife to another family is a strictly asymmetrical and transitive relationship. Over a period of 140 years, the direction is never reversed. Analysis of the families in question shows that this pattern corresponds to a hypergamous marriage system, in which the status of the wife-taker is always superior to the one of the wife-giver. In this case, SNA is used mainly to facilitate a visualization of the data, showing the highly convincing illustrative power of SNA. multiplied by the context similarity factor F, with F = 40

1 w-n

∑w-n i=1 fi .

Svärd and colleagues have calculated the vector coordinates through fastText (Svärd et al. 2021a: 482–483). 41 Svärd et al. 2021b. 42 Still 2019: 27–63. 43 Still 2019: 40.

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2.5. Network approaches in Assyriology: a state of play Personal names co-occurring in a cuneiform document constitute the most basic relation investigated through SNA. For these graphs, the process of data preparation can be partly automated on the basis of standardized transliteration and tagging, and several digitized corpora are available online in various stages of data preparation.44 In order to gain meaningful results, however, one has to enhance the graphs by incorporating extra information.45 First of all, the homonyms must be disambiguated, and the various writings and nicknames combined, so as to investigate individuals rather than names. Identifying personal names as individuals, and thus adjusting the nodes in the network, remains a continuous endeavor, as is best illustrated by Anderson’s case study.46 This process of consciously assigning information to nodes—organizing the data in function of the research question—is required in network analyses that do not concern individuals but rather gods or words. Therefore, Alstola, Svärd, and their colleagues in Helsinki draw multiple graphs organizing the same data in different ways in order to arrive at meaningful results.47 Because most of the network graphs based on co-occurrence contain too much noise, researchers search for a justified selection of data. In order to do this through an automated process, Pagé-Perron looks at the possibilities of the SNA software, and reduces her graphs by omitting bridges and lower-weight edges.48 Wanting to keep the process as efficient as possible but at the same time trying to offer a substantive selection, Wagner and colleagues leave the witnesses out of their graph. The selection takes place in a less labour-intensive phase of constructing the two-mode (individual-to-text) graph, and the automated transformation to a one-mode graph remains intact.49 Still shows what can be achieved by entering nodes and edges manually to draw a substantive network graph relating to a selection of the dataset only.50 Besides reducing the number of nodes, adding attributes to the nodes and edges can significantly improve the readability of a graph. Again, these attributes can be calculated—SNA has developed several useful measures such as the degree, eigenvector, and betweenness centrality and modularity measures. Be44

E.g., Oracc, CDLI, Archibab, and Prosobab, which is the most ready-to-use database. Seire 2020 offers a step-by-step tutorial of how to use Gephi, departing from a dataset taken from the Prosobab database. 45 The single network application discussed here relying solely on raw data and automated processes, Pagé-Perron 2018, aims at demonstrating the possibilities of network analysis for preparing data for research, rather than at answering actual research questions. 46 Anderson 2018. 47 Alstola et al. 2019a, and especially the two levels investigated in Svärd et al. 2021a. 48 Pagé-Perron 2018: 211–212. 49 Wagner et al. 2013: 123–124. 50 Still 2019: 40.

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sides these measures, the Helsinki team has introduced algorithms developed for linguistics and adapts them to the cuneiform evidence.51 Together with Banman, Anderson has developed an algorithm to measure rank on the basis of the introductory formula of Old Assyrian letters.52 In both approaches, these quantitative attributes form only the point of departure. For the interpretation of the resulting network graphs, the scholars turn back to close text reading and traditional philological analysis. Anderson’s comparison between the rank calculated on the basis of the introductory formula and the social structure calculated on the basis of the SNA graph53 reveals very clearly that SNA only analyzes what one has entered. No new information will magically appear, so we can only arrive at new perspectives and answers if our nonquantitative analysis of the data is correct and complete. Moreover, any historical society is governed by multiple levels of social hierarchy determined by factors of age, wealth, profession, etc., simultaneously. A social network cannot do justice to all levels at the same time, and any historical analysis must take these limitations into account. Substantive attributes, such as the professional category to which an individual belongs, the type of relationship between two individuals, or the root to which a word belongs, must be entered into the graph manually. Labour intensive as this may seem, it appears to be the most fruitful approach to arrive at real answers. In a first phase, such a categorization may highlight salient patterns, which leads to a further selection of data and to the formulation of subquestions, which can be answered via smaller graphs. An SNA graph must often be considered as a snapshot of the research rather than the final result. Only after adjusting all the nodes and edges, along with their attributes, is a graph final, and then it may underpin the line of reasoning as a visual underpinning, as in the case of Still’s analysis of the priestly marriage practices in Borsippa.54 In his dissertation, Anderson offers a whole range of graphs, with chronological, archival, and typological selections, based on quantitative as well as substantive attributes.55 In all cases, the selection of the data and their attributes is accompanied by a reduction of information. Individuals, words, and families are reduced to the categories entered in the graph. Therefore, it is important to clarify and substantiate this selection56, to readdress the selection of data for new research, and to return to the original context of the data when assessing the results of the network analysis. 51

Svärd et al. 2018; Alstola et al. 2019a; Svärd et al. 2021a. Banman et al. 2013. 53 Anderson 2017: 155. 54 Still 2019: 40. 55 Anderson 2017. 56 E.g., for the case study “Aššur and His Friends”, geographical information is omitted. Ištar of Arbela and Ištar of Niniveh are considered to be one single deity (Alstola et al. 2019a: 163). 52

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Any network analysis in humanities encounters the limitations described above. As Weingart expresses it, Humanistic data are almost by definition uncertain, open to interpretation, flexible, and not easily definable. … Humanists face problems from the outset: data that do not fit neatly into one category or the other, complex situations that ought not be reduced, and methods that were developed with different purposes in mind. However, network analysis remains a viable methodology for answering and raising humanistic questions—we simply must be cautious, and must be willing to get our hands dirty editing the algorithms to suit our needs.57 This is one of the reasons why the application of network analysis in social sciences is very different from physics.58 SNA supplies a toolbox in which we may find tools that help us identify/locate meaningful patterns in datasets, which are then to be investigated further. In the following paragraphs, the methodology will be tried on yet another type of data: administrative entries. The data will be selected in function of the research question addressed here, the role and position of women in the dossier. The approach may offer perspective on other aspects of the file, but this falls outside the limits of this paper. 3. Using SNA for the analysis of administrative files Cuneiform administrative corpora are of very diverse nature, each fitting in a specific bureaucratic system with its own goals and methods. The administrative and geographical reach of the household, its size, and the tightness of the hierarchy are all factors playing a role in what is written down and how. Did the bureaucratic ethos require full documentary coverage? Were the dependents tied to the household by loyalty or through a contractual relationship? 59 Individual administrators come up with solutions to the specific needs of the household, some of which find their way into the system. The accident of discovery plays a major role for cuneiform documents: when archives are cleaned up, complete dossiers that are outdated are discarded, but they may be preserved as filling material in architectural projects, where they are excavated much later, in a context irrelevant to their original archive. Thus, some aspects are covered in a very systematic way and others remain undocumented. These processes result in a jigsaw puzzle, of which we have only some of the pieces. At the same time, the number of preserved pieces may exceed tens of thousands, as is the case for the Ur III (2112–2004 BCE) state administration. 57

Weingart 2011. Borgatti et al. 2009: 895. 59 The terminology used here is explained by Postgate (2001), in a fruitful attempt to systemize the data and to explain the variety. 58

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At best, the movement of the various commodities, the control of persons, and the responsibilities of individuals can be established. However, reality hardly ever meets these requirements. The possibilities of the researcher depend on the available evidence and on the previous research. In some cases, such as the palace of Mari, where many files have been found in situ, 60 all aspects of a household are administered in detail, although the society outside the palace confines is known only through the lens of the palace administrators. In other cases, e.g., the Old Babylonian Palastgeschäfte, researchers have been able to reconstruct the chain of activities on the basis of different files. Mostly, only a few aspects of the household or institution are documented, often in a very laconic and nondescript manner. The dossiers of the so-called central redistributive authority of Isin-Larsa Nippur belong to the last category. In the following, I will investigate if a network approach may offer perspectives for our understanding of this household. 3.1. The dossiers of the “central redistributive authority” in Nippur In 1959, Kraus published a study about a calendrical innovation from the second half of the reign of Rīm-Sîn.61 In spite of the new material published since, the riddle of the calendar remains unsolved until today, and it is still a mystery why the chancellery of Rīm-Sîn introduced this complicated and seemingly pointless measure.62 The largest dossier using this calendric system is an administrative file from Nippur, interesting in other respects too. The records are part of the administrative files from an institution managing, amongst other things, the animal offerings of the temples in Nippur. Excavated by the Babylonian expedition of the University of Pennsylvania between 1889 and 1900, the exact findspots of the tablets, which are housed today in Istanbul, Philadelphia, and Jena, have not been recorded.63 The files are reconstructed on the basis of external characteristics, most notably their date formula, but undated or broken tablets could be added on the basis of their shape and paleography, as well as their diplomatic features. The preserved documents keep track of the transfer of barley, animals, persons, and, occasionally, other commodities such as wool, oil, metal, or wooden objects.64 On the basis of the fragmentary data, the main business recorded in this file appears to be managing the last stages of animal husbandry for the blood offerings in the temples of Nippur, from fattening the animals to distributing the animals to be sacrificed over the various temples in Nippur, to finally

60

Most recently Chambon in print. Kraus 1959. 62 Robertson 1983; Goddeeris 2016: 336–340. 63 Gibson et al. 1998: 548–550. 64 Goddeeris 2016: 342. 61

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redistributing the sacrificed meat to the temple dependents.65 However, the central redistributive authority also organizes the cultivation of agricultural tracks, by hiring labourers and allocating plough oxen and barley.66 The lists with miscellaneous barley expenditures reveal how far the household extends its administrative scope: the expenditures relate, amongst many other destinations, to repairs to the city wall, to visits of royal delegates, and to purchases of fish for cult offerings.67 It is in these sixty-seven texts that women play such a prominent role. Contrary to the other types of documents in the file, these lists do not display any standardization as regards to length (a tablet may mention one to twentyfour expenditures), shape, or content. Sometimes the recipient is identified by his personal name only, sometimes by his profession, sometimes by both. Sometimes entries mention no recipient at all, but refer to the purpose and/or the occasion of the disbursements. Also, some entries are distributed via an intermediary. A few of the lists are concluded by the sum of the expenditures. The amounts issued range from 5 to 9,300 liters. The amount of barley is the only permanent element in the listings. Entries may or may not mention the recipient, the reason, the occasion, and the purpose of the disbursement, and may also mention an intermediary. Often three optional elements are combined. In spite of all these details, many entries remain difficult to understand, because of their incidental nature and because of the language used, a mixture of Sumerian and Akkadian that contains uncommon vocabulary and expressions. TMH 10 165, a small, unsealed tablet with a width of 2.5 cm, a height of 3.6 cm, and a thickness of 1.5 cm, may serve as a representative example. Although the list contains no simple entry with only a personal name, it illustrates the diversity of the disbursements, including payments for ox drivers who have fulfilled a specific task and for lamentation priests who have performed on a cultic event, expenditures for offerings, and as purchase price for beer. The date remains unclear and cannot be linked to the actual calendar.

65

Goddeeris 2016: 343. For the redistribution of meat to the temple dependents on the occasion of a religious festival, cf. Huber-Vulliet 2010. Because this was administered centrally for all the temples in Nippur, Robertson (1984) speaks of the “central redistributive authority”. 66 Robertson 1989; Goddeeris 2016: 344. 67 Robertson 1984: 154.

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TMH 10 165: transliteration, translation, copy 1–3: ⌈4(bariga) 5(bán) ⌉ 2 s ì l a 7 3 š à - g u 4 / lú 1-e 4 sìla / ĝišpa-kud ĝišimmar in-íl-eš-a 4–7: 2(bariga) š e - b i k a š s a 1 0 - s a 1 0 / š á m d u m u ip-qú-d d a - m u / ù d u m u bela-a / ĝ ì r i i-bi-dEN.ZU 8: 5(bán) i g i – k á r im-gur-d n i n - u r t a š à é-gal 9–10: 1(bariga) AN-NA-TUM l ú - t ú g / t ú g tanx-tanx-na-šè 11–13: 1(bariga) 4(bán) g a l a - m e / u 4 g ú - e n - n a / °d i l i - b a d ° d°u t u it-bi-a-am 14–16: i t i k i - 3 n e - n e - ĝ a r / u 4 - 2 6 kam / mu ús-sa ì-si-inki ba-dab5-ba ⌈292⌉ liters: 73 ox-drivers68 – each man 4 liters, who have carried (away?) branches of palm trees. 120 l., barley for beer; beer to be bought; purchase price – the son of Ipqu-Damu and the son of Belâ. Via Ibbi-Sîn. 50 l.: aširtum offering of Imgur-Ninurta in the palace. 60 liter: AN-NA-TUM, walker, to clean the textile. 100 l.: the lamentation priests, on the day guennakkum dili-bad and Utu has (?) gone up.69 Date: V-3 / 26 / Rīm-Sîn 31*

Two small subgroups can be isolated in the corpus. In the first group, ten documents are sealed, always with the same seal,70 and have a landscape orientation. The expenditures recorded on these ten documents all concern transactions with parties from outside Nippur, or at least not connected to the temple administration. However, the recipients occasionally appear in the other, un68

Földi 2019: 262. Different versions of this formula occur in the lists of barley expenditures. It must refer to a celestial constellation involving the planet Venus, on the occasion of which the expenditure takes place. 70 Földi (2019: 263) has noted that this seal is enrolled on one of the animal expenditures in the dossier as well. This document, CBS 7521, has a landscape orientation too. 69

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sealed barley expenditures too.71 In the second, four lists, all dated to the first day of the month, follow a fixed scheme: they open with disbursements for rations for the servants of the ama5-ni-še3 and of Duššuptum, then follow a number of individuals who receive each sixty liters of barley, and, finally, Damiqtum receives an amount of barley to buy fish. Three of the four documents mention a small amount of barley for fodder for the donkeys of Enlil and Ninurta, and some extra expenditures relating to the cult are optional. Robertson designates these as “ration lists”.72 Also peculiar are an overview of barley expenditures for one month, a list of oil expenditures, and a list of expenditures of flour and barley.73 The lists of miscellaneous barley expenditures by the central redistributive authority in Nippur, including the subgroups and the atypical texts, have one common factor: the entries are drafted along the same principles, entries with details concerning the purpose and/or the occasion alternating with terse entries. Individuals, occasions, purposes, destinations, and professional groups reappear randomly throughout the corpus. In his discussion of these texts, Robertson focuses only on a selection of the most prominent agents, which leads him to intuitive conclusions, such as the female agents being dependents of the guennakkum.74 In order to systematize these (at first sight) random data, I will isolate and categorize the components of the entries and draw up network graphs on the basis of these categories. This will help to identify meaningful patterns, focusing specifically on the activities of women in the files. With these patterns, I will then return to the original document for an assessment of the agency of women in the central redistributive authority in Nippur. 3.2. A categorization of the miscellaneous barley expenditures In order for the date to be organized, they are systematized in an Excel table, in which each barley expenditure is first defined by the text in which it appears and the line(s) on which it is written. In the following columns, the entry is dissected according to the parameters mentioned. An entry always opens with the amount received (measured in sila3, the basic capacity measure, which roughly corresponds to one liter), sometimes followed by details concerning the nature of what is received. The following are also optional: the recipient, the reason of the expenditure, its context, its purpose, and the intermediary taking care of the disbursement. Because so many parameters are optional, many boxes remain empty. 71

Goddeeris 2019: 143–150. Robertson 1984: 158. It concerns CBS 7627 (Isin 2 / V-2), TMH 10 168 (CBS 7528 [Isin 2 / VI-9]), and UM 29-15-880 (Isin 4 / VI-6). 73 TMH 10 161; CBS 7625; CBS 7681. 74 Robertson 1984. 72

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Parameters Texts Recipients

Reasons

Categories Profession Woman Institution Representative Man Fodder Infrastructure

Purchase

Management

Ration Sum Cult

Intermediary Purpose/ Occasion

Man Woman Cult Calendar Other

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Systematized labels Date What profession? PN; What profession? Household Representative of –– PN; What profession? Fence Roof Door Beams Fish Reed Beer jars Field Orchard Boat

Libation Igi-kár Sizkur2

Ritual Funerary ritual Celestial constellation

Table 1. Parameters that are categorized and systematized. In a second phase, these components are categorized according to their most salient features. Thus, the recipients described as “PN1, man of PN2” where PN2 is often related in some way to the palace in Larsa, are categorized as “representatives”. (Groups of) recipients who are not labeled with their personal name, but only with a profession, fall under “profession”. Recipients bearing a male or a female personal name (and sometimes further qualified by their profession) are categorized as man and woman respectively. Table 1 offers a list of all the categories attributed to the components. To make matters even more complicated, the entries are written in a very unsystematic way. Aḫī-ay-amši, a supervisor who occurs three times in the corpus,

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may serve as a straightforward example here: in CBS 7671:3, he is designated as ra-bi sí-kà-tum, in TMH 10 170:10 as nu-banda, and in CBS 7551:4 as nubanda 20. These three terms all point to a type of military “overseer” but are not exact synonyms, the Akkadian word for nu-banda being laputtûm. Throughout the dossier, all the parameters are described in such a haphazard way, and most of these variant phrasings are more complex to identify. Therefore, as a third level of interpretation and systematization, these attributes are further specified in some extra columns to facilitate analysis. Table 1 also includes these systematized labels. In this test case exploring the possibilities of network analysis for the analysis of administrative data, there is no question of any automated processes in the preparation of the data for network analysis. It fully relies on close reading and manual categorization. Thus, the benefits of this method do not include time saving. Rather, they lie in gaining a better understanding of the administration—in this case, a very inaccessible dossier of barley expenditures. The categorization entails an ongoing process of systematic refinement. The patterns highlighted by the table and by the Gephi graphs allow an accumulative identification of abbreviated formulas, variants, etc. On the level of the records, this helps to reconstruct broken passages, to correct readings, and to identify abbreviations and alternative phrasings in individual entries. On the level of the table, this entails a constant regrouping and refining of the categories and the labels. Thus, it appears that the distinction between the recipient and the intermediary official (indicated by ĝìr) is often blurred. Thus, Damiqtum receives barley for the acquisition of jars of beer extract75 on several occasions. Sometimes, she is labeled as a ĝìr intermediary, once she “has received” (šu ti-a) the barley, and the last attestation does not include any preposition clarifying her role. 76 The same variation is attested for Ibbi-Ilabrat, spice miller.77 Apparently, the designation ĝìr is used—inconsistently, the constant feature of this dossier—when the position of the recipient in the administrative entry is occupied, be it by another recipient (workmen performing a job, an individual, a representative) or a purchase price. Therefore, the table with the categorization and systematization presented above is a project rather than a final classification. However, it serves the purpose of this article—the analysis of position and role of women in the organization. 75

Sallaberger 1996: 105. CBS 5706: 6 and CBS 7580: 7; CBS 7627: 13; CBS 7528: 7. In their analysis of the Old Babylonian temple archive of the Šara temple of Umma, al-Mutawalli and Sallaberger observe the occasional overlap between the individuals receiving the barley and the individuals facilitating the transaction (ĝ ì r ). They see the ĝ ì r officials as “a sort of helpers or witnesses” (al-Mutawalli et al. 2019: 33–37). 77 CBS 7426: 7, CBS 7645: 2, UM 29-15-879: 12; and TMH 10 161: ii21’. 76

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Another issue that must be mentioned before we can present actual network graphs of the data from the administrative files is the number of parameters. As it stands now, network science is ill equipped to deal with multimodal networks.78 Therefore, we must mould the data into bipartite or two-mode networks in order to draw network graphs. This can be achieved by formulating research questions, by isolating nodes and edges accordingly. 4. The position of women in this dossier As stated in the introduction of this paper, the central place of women such as Damiqtum and Duššuptum in the dossier has been noted in previous investigations.79 In the following paragraphs, their position will be analyzed quantitatively, on the basis of the network approach described above. 4.1. Women vs. men: their agency In order to evaluate the activities of both men and women in the dossier, I will present one network embodying the activities of women in the dossier and I will compare this graph to a second one concerning the activities of the men. In each of them, the recipient or intermediary80 (female in the first graph, male in the second) is linked to the reason, the purpose, or the occasion for/on which the expenditure is disbursed. The amount of barley serves as the weight of the edges. When the amount is damaged, I replaced it by “1”, in order to include the edge in the graph. Although they are more valuable than barley disbursements, the small amounts of sesame oil disbursed in CBS 7625 carry little weight. These flaws are overcome by returning to the texts for the final analysis of the graphs. In those cases when an entry has more than two parameters, I have entered two edges relating to this entry. Thus, the second entry of TMH 10 165, the list of barley expenditures given as an example above, mentions an individual—or rather two (the son of Ipqu-Damu and the son of Belâ), a reason (beer to be bought), and an intermediary, Ibbi-Sîn. Because it is currently impossible to visualize a multimodal network, this expenditure is represented by three edges: one linking the intermediary Ibbi-Sîn to the son of Ipqu-Damu and the son of Belâ, a second one linking Ibbi-Sîn to the reason of the expenditure (the purchase of beer), and a last one linking the son of Ipqu-Damu and the son of Belâ to the purchase of beer. As a result, the individuals involved in this entry have a higher degree. Thus, in the two graphs, entries in which a woman or man functions as an intermediary may count double, and this is actually reasonable, since these intermediaries have more agency than mere recipients.

78

Cf. Weingart 2011. Most importantly, Robertson 1984. 80 ĝ ì r ; cf. section 3.2 above. 79

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However, because the amount of barley is counted more than once in these cases, the sum of the weight in the arrows is not representative for the barley handled by the individuals. However, the Gephi graphs are used here only as a means of visualization. In the subsequent close text reading and quantitative analysis, the entry is counted as a single amount. In both these graphs, the nodes correspond to several columns in the Excel table explained above: recipient, intermediary, reason, and purpose/occasion. They are qualified by a number of attributes originating from the categorization and systematization of the parameters, as given in Table 1 above. The edges are directed, and have a weight corresponding to the amount of barley disbursed, as explained above. Being a bipartite representation of a multimodal network, we must allow for inconsistencies; the “men graph” contains edges between men. This makes certain network algorithms, such as the betweenness centrality, pointless, but those are not relevant for the purpose of this study, which merely aims at revealing patterns that clarify the position of women and men in this dossier. The guennakkum and the ama 5 -ni-šè have not been included in the analysis. As will be discussed in section 4.2., the guennakkum does not play an active role in the management of this bureau but seems to have a ceremonial role. Too many questions about the interpretation of the term ama 5 -n i-šè remain unanswered.81 Therefore, this term is categorized as “institution”, and its position in the dossier will be readdressed below. The “representatives” are not included as recipients; they would add a lot of noise to the already crowded men graph, and they only make the case of “male fragmentation”, which will be explained below, stronger, receiving relatively small amounts of barley and appearing only once in the corpus, twice in exceptional cases. What is received is not considered relevant either. In the women graph, “oil” replaces “no reason given”82 because CBS 7625,83 a very atypical text, is the only context in which women are mentioned without further specification concerning the circumstances of the disbursement. This tablet offers a list of expenditures of sesame oil to individuals and institutions that seem to occupy a central position in the Nippur establishment.84 Contrary to the barley expendi81

No real progress has been made interpreting this term since 2016 (Goddeeris 2016: 228). It cannot be translated as “to his living quarters”, “women’s quarters”, or “outbuildings” (French: dépendances) (contra Robertson 1984, and elsewhere, GoodnickWestenholz 1992: 309; Huber-Vulliet 2010: 136); the -š è sign cannot be a case ending, and in most of the attestations, there is no antecedent to which -ni might refer and, therefore, it cannot be a genitive suffix. 82 Obviously “no reason given” means that no reason, purpose, or occasion is given. 83 Robertson 1984: 169. 84 These expenditures seem to be given out by Ir-Enlil, oilpresser, on the occasion of

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tures, this text is not related to the management of the bureau. It does seem to list the dignitaries involved in it. Besides allotting small amounts (between 6 and 10 L.) to the three women named in the women graph, the oil presser distributes small amounts (4 L.) of oil to the guennakkum and to (the) ama 5 -ni-šè, larger ones (20 L.) to (the) ama 5 -ni-šè on the occasion of the expedition to Isin and to the guennakkum’s household, and 35 L. to the slave girls who have given birth. Having clarified the selection of data included in the two networks, we can now turn to the resulting graphs. In the graphs, the nodes are positioned in categorical groups as much as possible, to improve the readability of the black-andwhite images. The women graph (Fig. 1) is based on 29 entries, which have resulted in 23 nodes and 34 edges. Of these 23 nodes, 7 are women and 2 are men. With a degree of 19, Damiqtum stands out. These 19 edges are based on 14 expenditures: she receives barley as an intermediary in seven entries, she receives barley as a direct recipient on six occasions, once her slave girls receive barley via Lu-Inanna. The graph makes clear that Damiqtum does not have a single responsibility; she is involved in the acquisition of foodstuffs as well as in cultic events. The four expenditures to buy fish all originate from the so-called “ration texts”, four lists of nearly identical barley expenditures dated to the first day of various months85. This seems to be a monthly recurring expenditure. Duššuptum, who comes second with a degree of 7, has a much more restricted range of activities: on five occasions, her slave girls receive barley rations, four of which are listed in “ration lists”. Only once does she receive barley herself, for the purchase of fish. Here, she is identified by a professional title, lukur.86 The text does not specify to which god the nadītum woman is dedicated, but Ninurta seems the most obvious candidate. She also appears in the list of oil disbursements. We must note here that, in spite of the distortion caused by the fact that she is an intermediary, Damiqtum has a weighted degree of 1626, and Duššuptum, who is never an intermediary, one of 3920, in spite of the fact that the active agency of Duššuptum is much smaller than Damiqtum’s. Clearly, we are dealing with different levels of institution here: Damiqtum is the principal agent, whereas Duššuptum (and her household) seems to be a major dependent of the central redistributive authority.

ĝiš

t u k u l d b i l - z a - z a , “the weapon of the frog(god)”, an otherwise unattested and unknown deity. Richter (2004: 157) sees no connection between this mystifying line and the rest of the text, but since it is part of the summary of the list of expenditures, it must be related to the grounds for these expenditures, maybe the dedication of a new object in the temple. 85 Cf. fn. 65 above. 86 CBS 7416: 1–2.

Anne Goddeeris

Figure 1. Network graph linking the female agents to the reasons, purposes, and occasions for/on which they receive an amount of barley.

392

Šimat-Ištar 87 occurs thrice, always receiving a small amount of barley as fodder for cattle. Ištar-ummi is mentioned twice, but always in a broken context. Inbatum appears only once in the barley delivery texts. However, she must occupy a place of some importance in the Nippur establishment, since she is the 87

Not to be confused with Simat-Ištar, one of the wives of Rīm-Sîn, who dedicates an individual to the temple together with her husband in TMH 10 126 (Charpin 2019).

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third woman receiving oil in CBS 7625. She is identified as nu -g ig , qadištum, in CBS 7420, an atypical livestock delivery, where she receives 2 rams (to be sacrificed) on the occasion of the expedition of Nawar.88 In CBS 7111, another qadištum, Ummīyatum receives 20 L. of barley, and in the same text, Damiqtum receives 10 L. of barley on their behalf. As with most cultic offices, the exact meaning of the title nu-gig/qadištum remains obscure.89 With 132 nodes and 142 edges (based on 121 entries), the men graph is much more crowded. Fifty-eight entries give no further details besides the male recipient. This may either mean that the recipient has no important position, or the reason, purpose, or occasion of the disbursement speaks for itself, in which case the recipient is a well-known dependent of the administration. The male recipients of the “ration lists” are a good example of these wellknown recipients. In these four texts, Ninnūtum, the donkey shepherd, AN-NATUM, Ipqatum, Ṣilli-Ammurum, Idīyatum, Ali-waqrum, and Ilī-u-Šamaš receive 60 L. of barley on the first of the month, without further details about these expenditures. Together, these men make up 27 edges of the 58 unspecified disbursements. Several of these men appear in the other lists of barley expenditures. In those cases, we know more: In TMH 10 165: 9–10, AN-NA-TUM, a textile worker, receives 60 L. of barley for cleaning the textile. Ili-u-Šamaš appears to be a bird catcher, according to CBS 7637, where he receives 20 L. of barley to purchase birds. CBS 7110: 4–6 does not give the profession of Ipqatum. Here, he receives 600 L. of barley as wages for hired labourers and builders who have to demolish (?)90 the house of (the) ama 5 -ni-šè. The donkey shepherd Ninnūtum, Ṣilli-Ammurum, Idīyatum, and Ali-waqrum are not attested outside the “ration lists”. In order to clarify these entries, the transliteration, translation, and copy of a short version of one of these ration lists is given here:

88

Robertson 1981: 216. Goodnick-Westenholz has established that it is not related to sacred prostitution, and that this recurring myth should be discarded. The n u - g i g were organized hierarchically, were not dedicated to a specific god, and play a role in childbearing rituals (GoodnickWestenholz 1989). 90 On several occasions (CBS 7110: 5; CBS 7111: 11; CBS 7111: 33), labourers are paid to “s á g - d è ” a house or in a house in this dossier. This verb, s á g , means to scatter, to thresh, and is not attested with infrastructural activities. In this dossier, however, the activity is performed by hired labourers and builders. The translation “to demolish” remains hypothetical. 89

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TMH 10 168: transliteration, translation, copy 1–2: 5 (gur) 2(bariga) 2(bán) še-b a tur-tur / géme-ḫi-a ama 5 -ni-šè 3–4: 3 (gur) 1(bariga) 4(bán) še-b a tur-tur / géme-ḫi-a du-šu-uptu m 5: 1(bariga) sipa-an še ni-in-nu-ú-tum 6: 1(bariga) an-na-tum 7: 1(bariga) ip-qá-tum 8: 1(bariga) ṣi-lí-dMAR.TU 9: 1(bariga) i-di-ia-tum 10: 1(bariga) a-lí-wa-aq-ru-um 11: 1(bariga) ì-lí-ù-dutu 12: 1(bariga) d nin-urta-diĝir 13–14: 3(bán) šám ku 6 / ĝìr da-miiq-tum 15–17: iti du 6 -kù u 4 -1-kam / mu ús-sa ì-si-in k i / ba-dab 5 -ba

1640 liters: rations for the servants; for the slave girls of (the) ama5-ni-šè 1000 L.: rations for the servants; for the slave girls of Duššuptum 60 L.: the donkey shepherd Ninnūtum. 60 L.: AN-NA-TUM. 60 L.: Ipqatum. 60 L.: Ṣilli-Amurrum 60 L.: Idīyatum 60 L.: Ali-waqrum 60 L. Ilī-u-Šamaš 60 L.: Ninurta-ilum 30 L.: the purchase price of fish; via Damiqtum Date: VII / 1 / Rīm-Sîn 31*

Figure 2. Network graph linking the male agents to the reasons, purposes, and occasions for/on which they receive an amount of barley.

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Other male individuals, such as Munawirum, Watrānum, the spice miller IbbiIlabrat, and Aḫī-ay-amši, our military overseer mentioned above, also receive barley from the bureau on several occasions. In three of the four cases, Watrānum receives his disbursements via an intermediary, so maybe he is not stationed in the city of Nippur. The spice miller Ibbi-Ilabrat receives barley to buy fish (twice), to buy reed for the fence of an orchard, and on behalf of the representative of Ursaggal-Ištar. Ellitum91 assumes the role of intermediary on several occasions, always to pass on the barley to another individual. Apil-Sîn and Damiq-ilīšu both intercede twice for varied purposes; Ali-ellati is involved in the organization of (two) infrastructural projects. Ninurta-mušallim seems to have a different position. On five occasions, he receives 60 L. of barley without any further specifications. However, all these expenditures appear on small tablets, after an entry of 60 L. for a banquet. Once, in a broken context, he receives barley as an intermediary for Enlil-erumma. In CBS 7111: 7–9, he receives 60 L. for beer on the occasion of a procession of the goddess Gula.92 This might be an extended formulation of an expenditure comparable to the other expenditures to Ninurta-mušallim. In the same text (line 24), Ninurta-mušallim receives 20 L. for beer. We can conclude that Ninurtamušallim receives barley for the organization of meals for a deity. On the whole, however, the activities of these men remain small scale, in size as well as in frequency and in variety, compared to Damiqtum and Duššuptum. The only sector in which Damiqtum, or any other woman, does not have any responsibilities, is the infrastructural sector, and this is the only sector in the men graph in which the edges have a substantial weight. This is no surprise, because the barley serves as wages or rations for sometimes large numbers of workmen. Of the 132 nodes in the men graph, 89—or 67.5 percent—are men (excluding the “professions”). In the women graph, the women make up 30.5 percent of the nodes. Above, I have labeled this phenomenon as “male fragmentation”, referring to the fact that in the management of this institution, men seem to have specific, well-known tasks, which results, among other things, in the absence of details when an entry is recorded. Damiqtum, on the other hand, is involved in various sectors. Contrary to the male agents in this dossier, the professional title of Damiqtum is never mentioned, in spite of her frequent attestations in wideranging contexts. Apparently—and unfortunately for us—her identity is selfevident to the administrators. Huber-Vulliet proposes to identify her with the nu -g ig -gal, chief qadištum woman, who receives one sacrificed sheep in each of the detailed lists of meat expenditures on the occasion of the festival of Ni91

Ellitum is always qualified as m a š “the pure one”, a Sumerian translation of his personal name. 92 d g u - l á è - d é é a d - d a - n a . Maybe the temple of Anu is meant with é a d - d a - n a .

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nurta in Rīm-Sîn 2193 and who takes part in the redistribution of daily offerings in the sattukku lists discussed by Sigrist,94 but this remains hypothetical. She might just as well be identical with the nadītum of Ninurta, daughter of Nannamanšum, who buys a house plot in TMH 10 30, or she might be another person altogether. 4.2. The question of ama 5 -ni-šè Having analyzed the agency of the salient female and male recipients of barley in this dossier, we can take a fresh look at that awkward term, ama 5 -ni-šè, which I have categorized—by default—as institution. Except for UM 29-15-885, the barley expenditures in which (the) ama 5 -nišè plays a role, are always destined for its (?) slave girls.95 In UM 29-15-885, Damiqtum and (the) ama 5 -ni-šè receive barley for beer for the libation of the Netherworld.96 (The) ama 5 -ni-šè also receives oil in CBS 7625, the document discussed above: a small amount for itself and a larger amount for (the success of) an expedition to Isin. Barley is given to hired labourers to execute building activities on the doors, the house, and the tower (?) of (the) ama 5 -ni-šè.97 Finally, (the) ama 5 -ni-šè is responsible for the distribution of four full-grown goats to be sacrificed to four healing goddesses in TMH 10 138. The term ama 5 means living quarters, women’s quarters. Robertson assumes they belong to an unspecified individual. 98 Huber-Vulliet interprets it as the “outbuildings” (dépendances) of the guennakkum, Damiqtum and the nu -g ig women, respectively, used amongst other things to accommodate the caravans.99 This would agree well with the construction activities on the house and the tower. However attractive this proposal may be, it does not fit all the attestations listed above—an outbuilding cannot assume responsibility over a receipt of animals to be sacrificed. The occurrences of this term in the administrative dossier could all correspond to that of a personal name or a profession. (The) ama 5 -ni-šè combines elements of Damiqtum, assuming responsibility in the 93

Huber-Vulliet 2010: 136–137; appendix: text A: iii26 and text B: ii16. Sigrist 1984: 60, 5 N-T 334; 122–3, 5 N-T 363; 124, 5 N-T 364. 95 Five times; four times as the first entry in the “ration lists” and once in the monthly overview of barley expenditures (TMH 10 161: i15’). The slave girls of (the) a m a 5 - n i š è also appear in a broken context on UM 29-15-878: 3’. 96 Robertson 1984: 170–171. 97 CBS 7578: 4–5; CBS 10: 4–5; CBS 7506: 2–3. 98 Robertson 1984: 158. In the appendix (160, 170, 171), he translates the -ni with “his” or “her”, depending on the gender of the individual mentioned before: the gu’ennakkum, Damiqtum, or no one. 99 Huber-Vulliet 2010: 136–137. Although Huber-Vulliet’s interpretation of “outbuildings” cannot be maintained, the link she establishes between the institution and visiting expeditions from other cities is confirmed by the frequent expenditures to royal representatives (cf. Goddeeris 2019: 14–150). 94

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organization of the cult; of Duššuptum, receiving barley rations for its (?) slave girls;100 and of the guennakkum, receiving oil, owning a house that is repaired at the expense of the office behind the redistributive files discussed in this contribution, and assuming responsibility for the distribution of animals to be sacrificed to the Nippur sanctuaries. If (the) ama 5 -ni-šè is an individual, this contextual examination gives the impression that this would be a female individual of a status comparable to that of the guennakkum, which will be discussed in more depth in the next section, but with more agency in this administration. However, it remains hard to explain that this term is attested nowhere outside these files, not even in the detailed lists of meat expenditures on the occasion of the festival of Ninurta in Rīm-Sîn 21.101 Maybe (the) ama5-ni-šè should be identified with the chief qadištum, the nu gig -gal, rather than Damiqtum? 4.3. Damiqtum vs. guennakkum Let us now return to the assumptions that led to the research question addressed in this article: the relative positions of Damiqtum and the guennakkum in this dossier. I will demonstrate here that the guennakkum, who is considered by Robertson to be the head of this bureau, only has a ceremonial role. Table 2 offers a chronologically organized, detailed account of all the attestations of the guennakkum in the lists of barley expenditures and Table 3 does the same for Damiqtum. The various data mentioned in the entries are systematized according to the parameters established above. The components in which the protagonists are mentioned are shaded grey. A distinct pattern emerges: except for CBS 7535: 10–12, where a textile worker receives a barley renumeration to clean her dress,102 Damiqtum always has an active role in the expenditures. Only when she receives oil are no obligations attached. And it is only in this last text that the guennakkum appears as a recipient. It is clear from the other entries too that this list of oil expenditures, CBS 7625, involves dignitaries, not agents. In all the other attestations, the ex100

However, it always reveals a much larger amount: Amount received by a m a 5 - n i - š è TMH 10 161 i 14’–17’ Isin 1 / VI / 4 1080 L. CBS 7627 1–4 Isin 2 / V-2 / 1 1640 L. UM 29-15-880 1–4 Isin 2 / VI-6 / 1 2430 L. CBS 7528 1–4 Isin 2 / VI-9 / 1 1580 L. TMH 10 168 1–4 Isin 2 / VII / 1 1640 L. Text

101

Lines

Date

Amount received by Duššuptum 360 L. 970 L. 1160 L. 360 L. 1000 L.

Huber-Vulliet 2010. One and a half months later, AN-NA-TUM, another textile worker, receives 60 L. for cleaning textiles / a dress (TMH 10 165: 9–10). For the interpretation of these signs as t ú g t a n x - t a n x - n a - š è , cf. Földi 2019: 262.

102

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penditure is disbursed for construction works to his house, or on the occasion of ritual proceedings in which he plays a role. The mention of a small amount of silver for the bed of the guennakkum fits well in this context.103 However, the guennakkum does assume responsibility in another context, over the distribution of offering animals to various sanctuaries.104 In the two lists of meat expenditures on the occasion of the festival of Ninurta in Rīm-Sîn 21,105 the guennakkum has a prominent place, receiving one ox and ten sheep, respectively. If we accept Huber-Vulliet’s assumption that Damiqtum is the n u -gig -gal, the chief qadištum, she receives one sheep in both texts. On the basis of these texts, one cannot conclude that Damiqtum is a dependent of the guennakkum, let alone one of his wives. The guennakkum plays an important role in the cult but has no agency whatsoever in the management of these barley distributions. On the other hand, Damiqtum carries a large responsibility in this dossier. However, Table 3 does highlight her priorities: clothes and shopping.

Table 2. A chronologically organized account of all the attestations of the guennakkum in the lists of barley expenditures. Text: Lines

Date

L.

Commodity

Recipient

TMH 10 Isin 1 / VI 300 161: i /2 5’–7’

Barley

TMH 10 Isin 1 / VI 120 161: iv / 29 7–13

Barley for beer

Chief lamentation priest and barber of Ninurta

CBS Isin 2 / IV [4?] 7625: 1

Oil

guennakkum

CBS Isin 2 / IV 20 7625: 8

Oil

The house of the guennakkum

103

TMH 10 201: 24; undated. TMH 10 139; date broken. 105 Huber-Vulliet 2010. 104

Intermediary

Reason

Sîn-[ma]gir

Fodder for the lean cows of Āl-Guenna

The ensi

Occasion

On the day the guennakkum went up to the gate of Ninurta

400 Text: Lines

Date

Anne Goddeeris L.

Commodity

Recipient

Intermediary

Reason

TMH 10 Isin 2 / V- 120 163: 1–8 2 / 13

Barley for beer

The soldier of Gimillum and Inbi-ilīšu

On the day the guennakkum went to the temple of Enlil and Ninurta to anoint with oil

TMH 10 Isin 2 / V- 100 165: 11– 3 / 26 13

Barley for beer

Lamentation priests

On the day the guennakkum, D I L I - B A D , and utu (?) went up

TMH 10 Isin 2 / V- 120 166: 1–4 8 / 25

Barley

Lamentation priests

On the day the guennakkum went to the gate of Enlil

CBS Isin 2 / 85 7580: 1– VI-9 / 30 3

Barley

Builders and hired labourers

To repair the roof of the house in the house (sic) of the guennakkum

UM 29- [Isin 2?] / [. . .] Barley 15-885: VI-9 / [x] 1’–2’

[Hired labourers (?)] and builders

Ali-ellati, servant of the palace

To repair the roof of the house of the guennakkum

CBS 7110: 14–15

Apil-Sîn

To plaster the roof of the house of the guennakkum

Isin 2 / VII / 25

60

Barley

Builders

UM 29- Isin 2 / 15-879: VII / [ ] 8–10

50

Barley

Ṭab-sarša, pašīšum priest of Ninisina, buršuma of the guennakkum

TMH 10 — / VI-8 80 176: 4–7 / 18

Barley

l ú - m e xx

UM 29- [ ] 15-878: 10’

[ ]

[ ]

Occasion

On the day the guennakkum (went) to stay at the gate of the orchard of the heroes [ ]D I L I - B A D gú-en-na

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Table 3. A chronologically organized account of all the attestations of Damiqtum in the lists of barley expenditures. Text: Lines

Date

L.

Commodity

Recipient

CBS 7625: 3

Isin 2 / IV

6

Oil

Damiqtum

Intermediary Reason

Occasion

CBS Isin 2 / V-2 20 7627: 12– / 1 13

Barley

Damiqtum

Purchase price Funerary of fish offering

CBS Isin 2 / V-2 240 7627: 16– / 1 18

Barley

Damiqtum

Purchase price Libation for of jars of beer Inanna in the extract courtyard

CBS Isin 2 / V-2 120 7535: 10– / 11 12

Barley

Aḫīja, textile worker

To clean the dress / textiles of Damiqtum

UM 2915-880: 11–12

Isin 2 / VI- 30 6/1

Barley

Damiqtum

Purchase price of fish

CBS Isin 2 / VI- 30 7528: 12– 9 / 1 13

Barley

CBS Isin 2 / VI- 80 7528: 15– 9 / 1 16

Barley

Damiqtum

CBS 7545: 3

Isin 2 / VI- 60 9 / 13?

Barley

ì-ṣi-x-x (lum?) Damiqtum

CBS Isin 2 / VI- 80 7580: 4–7 9 /30

Barley

Damiqtum

UM 29[Isin 2?] / 15-885: 6’ VI-9 / [x]

Barley for beer

TMH 10 168: 13– 14

60

Isin 2 / VII 30 /1

CBS Isin 2 / VII 160 7506: 4–6 / 17

Damiqtum

Purchase price of fish Purchase of jars of beer extract

sizkur2 offering for the temple of Ninlil

Purchase price To eat in the of jars of beer city, at the extract gate of Ninurta

Damiqtum

Libation for the Netherworld

Barley

Damiqtum

Purchase price of fish

Barley

Damiqtum

Purchase price sizkur2 of jars of beer offering for extract the temple of Ninlil

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Text: Lines

Date

L.

Commodity

Recipient

Intermediary Reason

CBS 7111: 17

Isin 2 / VII-2 / 26

120

Barley

Damiqtum

CBS Isin 2 / 7111: 20– VII-2 21

120

Barley

The slave girls of Damiqtum

Lu-Inanna

CBS Isin 2 / 7111: 25– VII-2 26

10

Barley

qadištumwomen

Damiqtum

Occasion D I L I - B A D -šu

5. Conclusions Let us now return to the two questions asked at the beginning of this contribution: (1) Does network analysis offer useful and practical solutions for the indepth analysis of administrative dossiers? Can it help us to find and to substantiate an answer to the second question? And (2) what exactly was the position of the female agents in the dossier of the central redistributive authority of Old Babylonian Nippur? Were they indeed dependents of the guennakkum? In accordance with Waerzeggers’s warning,106 the process of data preparation for network analysis proves to be demanding and time consuming. The haphazard way of recording entries in this dossier further hampers the process. Other administrative files with a more structured bookkeeping may fit graph networks better. However, the process of systematizing the entries according to the parameters has put the data in a different, and very enlightening, perspective. The main conclusion presented here, that the women in the dossier cannot be considered to be dependents of the guennakkum, could well have been reached without the help of network analysis, but in some way or another, this did not happen. The systematization of the data, on the other hand, made this conclusion impossible to miss. In her discussion of the possibilities of network analysis for large administrative corpora, Pagé-Perron concludes that “statistical and network analysis support the hypothesis that individuals in positions of power do not simply rest atop a power pyramid: other factors influence their appearance in the texts, and they do not always receive the largest quantity of rations or bring back or produce the most goods,”107 and thus reveal a system of heterarchical relations, rather than a simple hierarchical organization chart. Self-evident as this statement may seem, we systematically tend to place agents in immobile positions in an organizational chart when we analyze historical systems. The detailed and labour-intensive 106 107

Waerzeggers 2014: 226–227. Pagé-Perron 2018: 219.

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network analysis of a small administrative corpus presented in this contribution fully corroborates Pagé-Perron’s statement. Although he is generally considered to be the head of the administration, the guennakkum appears in a ceremonial function, whereas Damiqtum is its principal agent. But don’t bring up her weight! Bibliography Abraham, K. 2004: Business and Politics under the Persian Empire: The Financial Dealings of Marduk-nāṣir-apli of the House of Egibi (521–487 B.C.E.). Bethesda, Maryland. al-Mutawalli, N.A. / Ismael, K.S. / Sallaberger, W. 2019: Bullae from the Shara Temple. Cuneiform Texts from the Iraqi Excavations at Umma (Jokha) 2. Wiesbaden. Alstola, T. / Zaia, S. / Sahala, A. / Jauhiainen, H. / Svärd, S. / Lindén, K. 2019a: Aššur and His Friends: A Statistical Analysis of Neo-Assyrian Texts. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 71, 159–180. Alstola, T. / Zaia, S. / Sahala, A. / Jauhiainen, H. / Svärd, S. / Lindén, K. 2019b: Aššur and His Friends: A Statistical Analysis of Neo-Assyrian Texts. (Version 1.0) [Dataset]. Zenodo. http://doi.org/10.5281/zenodo.2620131. Accessed 30 March 2021. Anderson, A. 2017: The Old Assyrian Social Network: An Analysis of the Texts from Kültepe Kanesh (1950–1750 B.C.E.). PhD dissertation, Harvard University. Cambridge, Massachusetts. Banman, D. / Anderson, A. / Smith, N. 2013: Inferring Social Rank in an Old Assyrian Trade Network. Paper presented at the Digital Humanities Conference, Lincoln, NE, March 12. http://arxiv.org/abs/1303.2873. Accessed 29 March 2021. Borgatti, S. / Mehra, A. / Brass, D. / Labianca, G. 2009: Network Analysis in the Social Sciences. Science 323, 892–895. Chambon, G. Forthcoming, 2021: Pourquoi écrire et tenir des comptes? Étude de la comptabilité dans le Palais de Mari au 18e siècle av. J.-C. In E. Bordreuil / V. Matoïan / J. Tavernier (eds.): Administration et pratiques comptables au Proche-Orient. Leuven. Charpin, D. 2019. En marge d’Archibab, 32: Du nouveau sur la famille royale de Larsa du temps de Rim-Sin I. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires 2019, 18. Földi, Zs. 2019: Review of A. Goddeeris, The Old Babylonian Legal and Administrative Texts in the Hilprecht Collection Jena, with a contribution by Ursula Seidl. Texte und Materialen der Hilprecht Collection 10. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 109, 247–268. Gibson, M. / Hansen, D. / Zettler, R. 1998: Nippur B. Archäologisch. Reallexikon der Assyriologie und vorderasiatischen Archäologie 9, 546–565.

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Goddeeris, A. 2016: The Old Babylonian Legal and Administrative Documents in the Hilprecht Sammlung. Texte und Materialen der Hilprecht Collection 10. Wiesbaden. Goddeeris, A. 2019: A Sumerian Stronghold: Strangers in the House of Enlil? In J. Mynářová / M. Kilani / S. Alvernini (eds.): A Stranger in the House: The Crossroads III; Proceedings of an International Conference on Foreigners in Ancient Egyptian and Near Eastern Societies of the Bronze Age Held in Prague, September 10–13, 2018. Prague, 137–158. Huber-Vulliet, F. 2010: Un festival nippurite à l’époque paléobabylonienne. In H.D. Baker / E. Robson / G. Zólyomi (eds.): Your Praise Is Sweet: A Memorial Volume for Jeremy Black from Students, Colleagues and Friends. London, 125–150. Juloux, V. / Gansel, A. / di Ludovico, A., eds. 2018: CyberResearch on the Ancient Near East and Neighboring Regions, Digital Biblical Studies 2. Leiden and Boston. Kraus, F.R. 1959: Ungewöhnliche Datierungen aus der Zeit des Königs Rīm-Sin von Larsa. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 53, 136–167. Pagé-Perron, E. 2018: Network Analysis for Reproducible Research on Large Administrative Cuneiform Corpora. In V. Bigot Juloux / A.R. Gansell / A. Di Ludovico (eds.): CyberResearch on the Ancient Near East and Neighboring Regions: Case Studies on Archaeological Data, Objects, Texts, and Digital Archiving. Digital Biblical Studies 2. Leiden and Boston, 194–223. Postgate, J.N. 2001: System and Style in Three Near Eastern Bureaucracies. In J. Killen / S. Voutsaki (eds.): Economy and Politics in the Mycenaean Palace State. Cambridge Philological Society, Suppl. 27. Cambridge, United Kingdom, 181–194. Richter, T. 2004: Untersuchungen zu den lokalen Panthea Süd- und Mittelbabyloniens in altbabylonischer Zeit. 2., verbesserte und erweiterte Auflage. Alter Orient Und Altes Testament 257. Münster. Robertson, J.F. 1981: Redistributive Economies in Ancient Mesopotamian Society: A Case Study from Isin-Larsa Period Nippur. PhD dissertation, University of Pennsylvania. Philadelphia. Robertson, J.F. 1983: An Unusual Dating System from Isin-Larsa Period Nippur: New Evidence. Acta Sumerologica 5, 147–161. Robertson, J.F. 1984: The Internal Political and Economic Structure of Old Babylonian Nippur: The Guennakkum and His “House.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 36, 145–190. Robertson, J.F. 1989: Agriculture and the Temple-Estate Economies of Old Babylonian Nippur. In H.D. Behrens / D. Loding / M. Roth (eds.): Dumu-e2dub-ba-a: Studies in Honor of Åke W. Sjöberg. Philadelphia, 457–464.

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Sallaberger, W. 1996: Der babylonische Töpfer und seine Gefäße. Nach Urkunden altsumerischer bis altbabylonischer Zeit sowie lexikalischen und literarischen Zeugnissen. Mesopotamian History and Environment 2(3). Ghent. Seire, M. 2020: Gephi Guidelines for Cuneiform Archives: Archives in Context. A Persia and Babylonia Project. Accessed 8 March 2021. http://persiababylonia.org/archives/methods/gephi-guidelines-for-cuneiformarchives-part-1-acquiring-a-dataset-via-prosobab/ Sharlach, T. 2017: An Ox of One’s Own: Royal Wives and Religion at the Court of the Third Dynasty of Ur. Berlin. Sigrist, M. 1984: Les sattukku dans l’Ešumeša durant la période d’Isin et Larsa. Bibliotheca Mesopotamica 11. Malibu, California. Still, B. 2019: The Social World of the Babylonian Priest. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 103. Leiden and Boston. Svärd, S. / Alstola, T. / Jauhiainen, H. / Sahala, A. / Linden, K. 2021a: Fear in Akkadian Texts: New Digital Perspectives on Lexical Semantics. In S.W. Hsu / J. Llop Raduà (eds.): The Expression of Emotions in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 116. Leiden, 470–502. Svärd, S. / Alstola, T. / Jauhiainen, H. / Sahala, A. / Linden, K. 2021b: Fear in Akkadian Texts: New Digital Perspectives on Lexical Semantics. [Dataset]. Zenodo. https://zenodo.org/record/3634325#.YHbNk2ixV0s. Accessed 13 April 2021. Svärd, S. / Jauhiainen, H. / Sahala, A. / Lindén, K. 2018: Semantic Domains in Akkadian Texts. In V. Bigot Juloux / A.R. Gansell / A. Di Ludovico (eds.): CyberResearch on the Ancient Near East and Neighboring Regions: Case Studies on Archaeological Data, Objects, Texts, and Digital Archiving. Digital Biblical Studies 2, 224–256. Waerzeggers, C. 2014a: Social Network Analysis of Cuneiform Archives—A New Approach. In H.D. Baker / M. Jursa (eds.): Documentary Sources in Ancient Near Eastern and Greco-Roman Economic History: Methodology and Practice. Oxford and Philadelphia, 207–233. Waerzeggers, C. 2014b: Marduk-rēmanni: Local Networks and Imperial Politics in Achaemenid Babylonia. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 233. Leuven. Waerzeggers, C. / Groß, M. / Giessler, J. / Martins, I. / van de Peut, L. / Seire, M. / Sonnevelt, R. / Vanderstraeten, E. 2019: Prosobab: Prosopography of Babylonia (c. 620–330 BCE). https://prosobab.leidenuniv.nl. Accessed 30 March 2021. Wagner, A. / Levavi, Y. / Kedar, S. / Abraham, K. / Cohen, Y. / Zadok, R. 2013: Quantitative Social Network Analysis (SNA) and the Study of Cuneiform Archives: A Test-Case Based on the Murašû Archive. Akkadica 134, 117– 134.

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Women’s Property and Social Networks in Mesopotamia Allison Thomason1

1. Introduction The activities of women involved in the Old Assyrian (ca. 1950–1700 BCE) trading networks between Anatolia and Ashur have received a great deal of interest by scholars of the period and beyond. Certainly, the extensive trading and social networks of the male traders—the patriarchal “heads of households— have garnered the majority of ink. But the occasions when women got together with other genders or with just other women to network have received relatively less attention in scholarly literature.2 This contribution aims, therefore, to study the activities of the Old Assyrian and Anatolian women mentioned in the texts from the period in relation to social networking. Ultimately, this quest is one derived from social history, which seeks to understand how groups of people interacted with each other in a society, and how individuals made their way in these groups and forged their own agency and identities. From the wealth of documentary evidence in the Old Assyrian corpus, including in the written records of the women under discussion, I have identified several ways in which women exercised their authority and resourcefulness through interactions with other people. In order to ensure their own survival as well as that of their close family and associates, women who sent, received, or were mentioned in letters invested their energies in behaviors and actions such as the development of social networks, investment in social capital, using information to enhance their situations, and exchanging movable property with others to ensure survival. My aim here is to utilize both quantitative analysis through visualization of network connections and qualitative data through quotations from Old Assyrian texts, in order to understand social networks, their outcomes, and their activities. 2. Background In earlier studies inspired by the GeMANE workshops and published in previous proceedings volumes,3 I have brought forth the idea of the resourcefulness and prominence of the women in the Old Assyrian trading networks to bear on the evidence of the letters, excavated for decades now from Kültepe (ancient Kanesh) in Turkey. The principal raison d’être for the Old Assyrian letters’ 1

Department of History, Southern Illinois University Edwardsville, [email protected]. There are a few exceptions, especially for the classical world. For examples, see Nosch 2014 for a brief study of Greek women’s networks in the Bronze and Iron Ages. 3 See Thomason 2013, 2018. 2

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existence was the movement of textiles—typically commodities, not personal property—produced by women overseeing households at Ashur and sent to be sold in Anatolia in exchange for silver, among other things. In many of the letters, written both to and from men and women involved in the trading networks, actors frequently discuss the urgent need for their correspondent to perform their requisite duties, using strident pleas to persuade their contact of the emergent nature of the request. Often, scholars have referred to the use of such language as “emotional” or “desperate,” and associated it especially with women, when in fact a quick perusal of the letters shows that men utilized similar rhetorical language in equivalent frequency. Thus, I have long asserted that the use of the terms “emotional” or “desperate” to refer to the status of the women, a common refrain in much of the literature, has more to do with gender stereotypes held by modern scholars than it has to do with ancient people, and we should refer to these phrases rather as clever rhetorical strategies that the people deployed to acquire silver owed to them. After their initial discovery about a century ago, Assyriologists working on the Old Assyrian tablets have made it their goal to understand the experiences and roles of robust male actors in the trading networks, and therefore focused on the initial publication of their archives. In the past two decades, enough letters have been published that scholars have begun to conduct secondary analyses in order to explore metanarratives about the logistics of trade, economics, and the relationship between commerce and politics. In addition, although references are too numerous to cite, many investigators have explored the social aspects of Mesopotamian and Anatolian life discussed in the letters (and other documents), which contain evidence relating to gender roles, marriage practices, inheritance legalities, ethnic relations, and kinship ties.4 The most recent work on the Old Assyrian sources suggests that there are enough tablets published now to begin 4

The publications of Garelli (1979), and Michel (2001 as exemplary) began the discussion of social aspects and women in the Kanesh texts. Veenhof (1972), Larsen (1976), Dercksen (2004), Veenhof and Eidem (2008), and Barjamovic (2011) are just a few examples, along with many others, who have explored the geographic, political, legal, and commercial aspects of the letters. These systematic and synthetic treatments are in addition to the dozens of volumes of the original publication or re-collation of various tablet collections and archives. The most recent attention to the “strong and independent businesswomen” in the Old Assyrian trading networks takes the form of a documentary, co-produced and co-written by C. Michel and V. Tubiana-Brun, entitled Thus Speaks Tarām-Kūbi: Assyrian Correspondence, which has received some attention in the popular press as well (see, for example, an article published online by the British Broadcasting Corporation: https://www.bbc.com/worklife/article/20210111-the-secret-letters-ofhistorys-first-businesswomen [accessed 11 February 2021]). Recently, Michel published an English-language edition of the women’s correspondence from Ashur in Kanesh (2020). Since it was published after most of this article was written and edited, I was not able to include references to the texts within it.

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large-scale statistical analyses studying aspects of commodity trading and social networks of the traders in the Old Assyrian documentary evidence. These studies have deployed useful methodologies from other fields, including accounting formulas and algorithms, found in software for “big” data analysis, upon the innumerable individuals and commodities mentioned and listed in the tablets.5 Coupled with the recent emphasis in academics on digital humanities, modern methodologies derived from statistics and computer science have finally penetrated the deep ancient world of the Kanesh traders and their networks. 3. Quantitative analysis: women’s social networks in Mesopotamia One such form of data analysis that explores interactions between human actors, a preeminent goal of work on the Old Assyrian evidence—especially the letters—is social network analysis. This relatively new methodology has attracted much attention in the worlds of political science, economics, and sociology to explain especially how different groups in societies can benefit from or gain access to valuable networks of other people. This access in turn results in positive outcomes for either an individual or a society at large. For example, survey data from corporations has been analyzed to show how men and women use their networks within those businesses differently to enhance their job positions. Social network analysis can utilize qualitative or quantitative forms of data, where the survey responses of individuals are quoted, or the number, diversity, and strength of their connections to others in their organization are quantified in a database, and then graphed visually through software programs such as Gephi or NetDraw, in order to create images containing numerous circles connected by lines (Fig. 1).

5

See, for example, Anderson 2017b and Stratford 2017. Attempts to digitize the thousands of Old Assyrian texts have been initiated by the University of Copenhagen (by the Old Assyrian Text Project), but they are difficult to sustain due to limited staffing resources and server space (https://oatp.ku.dk/ [accessed 17 October 2019]). Many older publications of Old Assyrian texts have been digitized as PDFs (but not easily coded in a database like CDLI) by Karl Hecker and are available through OATP (Old Assyrian Text Project). Other collations are available in CDLI (Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative). Edward Stratford has begun a project at Brigham Young University to encode the entire known Old Assyrian corpus into easily readable and searchable HTML (2019).

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Figure 1. Gephi graph of the Šalim Aššur networks. Courtesy of Adam Anderson (2017b: Figure 2.4.1). The circles represent “nodes” or individual people mentioned in letters (including senders and receivers, who are often listed in greetings), and the lines are “edges,” or some kind of established connection that is carefully defined and coded by the researcher. For example, an edge might refer to when a person writes a letter to another, or when two individuals’ names occur in the same text—thus creating specified connections. This graphing usually requires the expertise of a scholar of Old Assyrian texts who can translate the tablets and identify through prosopography individuals mentioned in them, enabling them to

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create a database of nodes and edges. The scholar can also encode other aspects of these nodes, including attributes of gender, kinship, ethnicity, or commercial role.6 With the help of a trained statistician or computer scientist, who can submit the data to various mathematical formulas and algorithms, social network analysis arrives at the number and strength of those actors and their connections.7 This methodology is useful for understanding individual or group experiences, where a researcher can pull out (disaggregate) the data according to different coded attributes that have been identified in the texts, such as gender, status, profession, or ethnicity. Reserachers can even disaggregate the data by associated places or objects—an activity that is very hard to do when texts are published as family archives, which is the typical situation of Kanesh tablets, whether they were indeed found in situ together as an archive from one site or named locale, or not (Fig. 2).8

Figure 2. Spreadsheet / Gephi Nodes of Old Assyrian “f” women. Data from Anderson 2017b.

6

It is in this part of the exercise that some find fault, as the prosopography and identification of attributes is fraught with ambiguity due to nonstandardization of encoding methodology for individuals mentioned in the tablets (see Goddeeris, this volume). 7 In my case, that person is Ben Oestermeier, a staff member at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville’s Interdisciplinary Research and Informatics Scholarship/Digital Humanities Center, who has been instrumental in helping with Gephi. 8 In fact, approximately 4,000 to 5,000 of the nearly 23,000 known Kanesh tablets were extracted from Kültepe in the early twentieth century and sold on the antiquities market, thus losing any type of contextual information. In the latter part of the twentieth century until today, the tablets have been scientifically excavated, with findspots recorded, making it easier to reconstruct physical archives.

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Social network analysis as a tool for research about people and their behavior was developed by academics in the 1970s, such as social psychologist Stanley Millgram and many economists, but it has also garnered some recent attention for the ancient world in the past few years. In this realm, rather than relying on survey data, historians have studied data about connections between individuals cemented in ancient texts—whether paper and parchment documents from the Medici in Florence, 9 papyri from the Greco-Roman worlds, 10 or tablets from Mesopotamia.11 Anderson’s recent doctoral dissertation from Harvard University tests whether using social network analysis and visualization models can confirm any old insights or lead to any new ones regarding Old Assyrian traders, thus shedding light on the experiences and events of these ancient individuals.12 Regardless of the dataset or time period being analyzed, social network analysis stems philosophically from the Bourdieusian assumption that individuals strive to develop social capital, and that they will use their connections with other people—their social networks—to translate that social capital into material profits, or at least subsistence and comfort.13 Bourdieu concludes that “social capital is a transformed, disguised form of economic capital.”14 Networks are only useful, therefore, if they translate into material benefits, and the normative behaviors of individuals exhibited as reciprocity and trustworthiness present in social networks (or constructed by them) help to augment social capital. In turn, “these levels of trustworthiness and reciprocity are the capital from which further assets are produced.”15 Or as the economist Lin writes, “Social capital is expected to yield better information, better control, or more influences so as to gain relative advantages” in a market, such as the job market. These advantages can be economic, but also include less explicit returns to enhance mental and physical health, including trust, support, social solidarity, and reciprocity. 16 Scholars do not attempt to visualize and analyze social networks for their own sake, but to see how they could translate into some sort of material or psychic advantage or benefit. In the case of gender and its relationship to social capital, Borgatti et al. suggest that women’s ways of acquiring social capital should be divorced from understanding their actions within the public/private (or domestic/public) divide: “Transcending the public/private divide is a ‘vital precondi9

Padgett and Ansell 1993. For the Hellenistic world, and a nice summary, see Cline 2012. For the Roman world, see Alexander and Danowski 1990. 11 Waerzeggers 2014. 12 Anderson 2017a. 13 In fact, women’s social capital is often deployed close to home in neighborhoods to enable them to simply “get by,” or survive (Borgatti et. al. 2013: 11). 14 Bourdieu 1986: 253. See also Borgatti et. al. 2013: 6. 15 Borgatti et. al. 2013: 1. 16 Lin 2011: 7. 10

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tion’ for social capital analysis.”17 The idea to jettison the dichotomy of public and private, in light of the fact that it does not apply to contexts outside of the modern Euro-American model, has led many scholars to identify new contexts of agency for women in the ancient world, including “institutional,” “commercial,” and “domestic” spheres of interaction.18 The Old Assyrian trading ventures involved all of these three spheres, and in many occasions, actors in the networks—both male and female—asserted their agency concurrently in these three spheres identified for Mesopotamians. In other terms, identifying separate and discrete spheres of interaction might not be possible for ancient Mesopotamia, as actions often took place in the context of more than one sphere. Ultimately the goal of social network analysis for the Old Assyrian period is to understand how these connections translated into real or perceived advantages and benefits in society. Due to my previous research and interest, I began by analyzing social networks among women that were evident in the Old Assyrian archives. The word “archives” has been used in the past to refer to collections of tablets that can be grouped together from Kanesh, including those from the early twentieth century that were not excavated scientifically and sold on the antiquities market, which was legal throughout the early twentieth century.19 Recently, however, scholars have begun to identify historiographically different types of archives from Kanesh and other sites. They differentiate between “archives” proper (those tablets actually excavated together in situ at Kültepe from Level Ib) and “reconstructed archives,” also called “dossiers” or “files”—or those tablets that were not excavated together, but clearly come from Kanesh and reasonably can be considered together as a related corpus due to the individuals named within them who have some sort of kinship or trading network connections. Fortunately, the publication of thousands of the tablets from Kültepe, whether from reconstructed or excavated archives, has allowed a second phase of studies of the Old Assyrian textual corpus, which builds on earlier initial publications and groupings according to these patronymic kinship relationships. I was fortunate to have access to the open-source data for a limited number of Old Assyrian actors and networks, compiled and analyzed by Anderson in his doctoral dissertation.20 I 17

Borgatti et al. 2013: 4. For Mesopotamia, see Garfinkle 2007, Joannes 2013, and Svärd 2012. For the classical world, Trümper identified “domestic, civic, and sacred spaces” (2012: 291). 19 For a discussion of the excavation history of Kültepe/Kanesh, and the different types of archives, see Veenhof and Eidem 2008: 41–69; Veenhof 2013; and, most recently, Barjomovic 2019: 87–89. 20 Fortunately, the data (spreadsheets and Gephi visualizations) were made available by Anderson in the open-source platform GitHub (https://github.com/admndrsn [accessed 17 October 2019]). This is a prime example of the recent push in the humanities, which has received a great deal of funding, to digitize data and make it available without charge 18

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soon found, however, great practical challenges to this venture, as does any researcher dealing with the Old Assyrian material. The central principle for organizing publications of the unexcavated tablets from the Old Assyrian period is to group and publish together tablets into “reconstructed archives” of the families of prominent Assyrian traders such as Pūšu-kēn (brother of Tarīšmātum, husband of Lamassī) or Imdīlum (brother of Tarām-Kūbi). Though absolutely necessary due to the nature of family naming in Mesopotamia, this method relies on and is driven by patronymics (for example, if someone is identified as “wife of PN” or “daughter of PN”), and papponymics (“granddaughter of PN”), which both fundamentally devolve from patriarchal views of relationships and power and of spheres of interaction, modern and ancient. In its very basis, the ancient (and modern) patronymic organizational principle that has allowed ready publication of tablets and important prosopographic work nevertheless can create challenges to an approach that seeks to find relationships that formed outside of patrimony—the concerns of social historians. Early in the historiography of the texts from Kanesh, the focus of modern researchers was to reconstruct the archives from a single male individual’s patronymy and to seek to identify trading networks that could clarify questions related to supply and demand, rates of exchange, and, generally, the economy. However, the scholarly approach to finding meaning in the texts has changed recently. If we are trying to understand humans and events that the tablets reference from the perspective of social history, we must “move beyond the confines of a single archive,” as Anderson contends, but also beyond the confines of a patronymic organizational scheme. Rather than trying to reconstruct whole archives, Anderson suggests looking microhistorically at personal narratives of individuals.21 Or as Waerzeggers, who has applied social network analysis to Neo-Babylonian archives, writes, “The worlds documented in the NeoBabylonian archives are not self-contained units; they touch, intersect and overlap.”22 It is this approach to the Kanesh texts that I embrace here. However, the current situation of the dataset is limiting for a non-Old Assyrian expert such as myself. Despite his acknowledgement that tablets were not necessarily housed together as family archives of prominent traders, Anderson has organized his data according to patronymic principles—testing the “excavated” archive of a trader against the “old,” unscientifically excavated texts of another male merchant. Fortunately, some data is available to study a limited number of women’s interactions in these two Old Assyrian trading networks. Anderson was mainly interested in determining who were the “highest ranked” to a wide audience. 21 Anderson 2017a: 42, 65. 22 Waerzeggers 2014: 209, emphasis in original. Waerzegger’s contribution discusses in detail how databases for social network analysis are created using cuneiform tablets and individuals named in them.

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or “most robust actors” in the networks that he identified, based on the attributes and algorithms to which he chose to subject the data. My study of networks of women is limited, but I was able to extract individuals identified as female and their edges, or “connections,” in Anderson’s GitHub database. These individuals were attested only in the so-far digitized letters regarding Old Assyrian trade, which had been catalogued in the Old Assyrian Text Project database.23 Out of 23,000 estimated total Old Assyrian tablets, 6,000 of these are digitized, and 2,000 of them are letters. Within these 2,000 letters, Anderson identified through prosopography 4,000 nodes (or distinct individuals mentioned in the letters), 126 of whom he identified positively as female with the letter “f” in the gender attribute column of his database.24 There might have been more, due to the fact that Anatolians did not necessarily differentiate gender in their naming traditions. Obviously, there were relatively few women mentioned in letters when compared with men, which we already knew was the case.25 But this relatively small number does not necessarily lead to the conclusion that the actions of women were insignificant for themselves or their own circles of interaction. My goal then is to look at the letters in a qualitative manner, from the perspective of the women, not the male traders. This allows me to resituate our imagining of this complex society and the activities of individuals to place women at the center, and we can understand lived experiences from the women’s point of view outward. In my gender-dependent process, I disaggregated these women (nodes) and their connections (edges) and visualized with the software program Gephi the networks among these women, outside of any reference to their male colleagues. I did not expect to find any connections, but to my great surprise, I did. Based on such a small sample, I make the following observations about the women in general.

23

This database is no longer available as open source on the internet. It is probably housed on a server somewhere, but it was inaccessible to me as of this writing. Fortunately, some of the Old Assyrian tablets have been digitized and transliterated through the CDLI project, or the original publications of them have been digitized, even if they are not quite searchable in a database. In addition, Edward Stratford of Brigham Young University is currently working on technology to create an easily readable and searchable database of Old Assyrian texts (ASOR 2019, San Diego). 24 Anderson 2017a: 123. 25 Michel (2016) suggests that this is due more to the text-writing practices and a landbased patriarchy in Mesopotamia, rather than a lack of existence or participation of women in the whole enterprise between Ashur and Anatolia. Women are more frequently attested in the Old Assyrian letters due to the fact that the property of the groups involved was largely not landed. Lion, however, argues that women were frequently represented textually because of the unique situation in which absent husbands forced women to be more active in commerce (2018: 233).

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Figure 3. Gephi graph of Old Assyrian “f” women’s social networks. Data from 2017b.

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1. The women positively identified in the letters were from various ethnic backgrounds.26 2. Many of the women show no connections to other women (the stand-alone nodes), although of course they probably had males in their networks. 3. Some of the women do have connections among themselves, independent of any male, as shown in this Gephi graph marking these connections (Fig. 3). 4. The female with the most connections in the network—i.e., the largest social network—is simply named amtum (secondary wife)—and although the amtum is coded as one single individual in the graphs, Anderson ascribes named and unnamed individuals to this commonly attested type in other aspects of his research.27 However, given Anderson’s encoding methodology, the graph appears to show unique individuals with distinct edges. If this is the case, Figure 4 shows that this node, amtum, has quite a large network with other females, of several different ethnicities.28

Figure 4. Network of amtum. Data from Anderson 2017b. 26

Indeed, the identification of a person’s “ethnicity,” itself a problematic term for linguistics and prosopography, is not easy to determine by name alone. It is a modern term that can mean several things—one’s nationality, language, family origins, etc. However, scholars of the Old Assyrian texts have traditionally assigned what I would consider “ethnicity” to individuals based on linguistic markers in their names, and as an “outsider” I am trusting these assignations based on others’ scholarly expertise. For a discussion of the problems inherent in the modern term “ethnicity,” see Jones 1997. 27 I thank Anna Goddeeris for helping me to understand the data complications here. The disambiguation of the data required for complete prosopographic certainty is still in its early stages for the Old Assyrian corpus. However, Anderson’s social network analysis encoding and Gephi visualization methods indicate that each node is a single individual, with uniquely identified edges attached; thus, at least for now, one could possibly infer that the amtum labeled in the graph(s) is a single person, although with some hesitation until more data analysis and encoding can occur. 28 For a discussion of this terminology and translations, see Anderson 2017a: 160ff. He confirms, “Marriage, whether aššatum or amtum, meant forging closer ties and moving into more central positions within both the Assyrian and Anatolian networks, in order to increase in wealth and social standing” (2017a: 160).

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Figure 5. Ego-network of Šišahšušar. Courtesy of Adam Anderson (2017b: Fig. 2.16). Anderson’s data does not definitively ascribe a single individual identity to the amtum identified in my Gephi analysis; therefore, we could be viewing the network of several different wives/amtū active in the letters. Thus, this brief quantitative analysis and visualization via Gephi graph is inconclusive at the moment, dependent on whether the term amtum in Anderson’s database can be definitively identified as a single individual.29 The inconclusiveness and small sample of 29

According to Anderson (personal communication, November 2019) the word amtum stood for him as a “type” and not an individual during his initial encoding of the data.

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this quantitative analysis, therefore, was helpful in highlighting the questions we could ask of the data, even if the questions cannot be answered definitively after such a brief study. We can in essence “ground-truth” such networks on a casestudy basis by examining published letters regarding other amtū of the Assyrian traders. Anderson has discussed in detail the social network he discerned of one amtum, Šišahšušar, wife of the “prominent trader” Aššur-nādā, who was ethnically Anatolian. 30 He notes that Šišahšušar was not a concubine, slave, or “maid,” as some translate, but a “secondary business partner who enters a contract to manage the affairs of the principal contract holder,” and that their relationship was “entirely professional.” But she did have three children with Aššurnādā: two sons who stayed with her in Kanesh and a daughter, Ištar-lamassī, who became the amtum of another Assyrian trader, Puzur-Ištar.31 Šišahšušar’s own network, called an ego-network, was almost as large (72 percent) as that of her husband (Fig. 5). 4. Qualitative analysis: social networks and social capital Anderson suggests that Šišahšušar’s social network was centered on her experience as a native living in Kanesh and conducting Aššur-nādā’s affairs there when her husband was almost always away in Ashur or trading elsewhere in Anatolia. Anderson reports eleven letters written between Aššur-nādā and Šišahšušar.32 Two of these letters were written to Aššur-nādā from Šišahšušar. In one letter alone, Šišahšušar reports that she exchanged silver, textiles, barley, and wheat with no less than nine other people, all male. She also collected animal skins from one of his agents and drew on credit from other merchants. She received jars of lard, sides of beef, and other rare foodstuffs (narûtum, mūṣum, and ewasum; untranslated).33 She apparently requested that her husband seek out and send her a specific “good quality” garment for a female in her network, Ahar, thus serving as a middlewoman in that exchange network.34 It was Šišahšušar’s job to reassure Ahar that Aššur-nādā would bring it when he returned, so This brings to the forefront the idea that any database and its visualization of networks is dependent on how data is first encoded by a single Assyriologist or project. Currently, only grammatical principles and prosopographic methodologies allow for gender encoding in the Old Assyrian letters, not in fact context. Furthermore, encoding attributes are not necessarily standardized across Assyriological data encoders or encoding projects, although such efforts to standardize are under way. 30 Michel discusses the problems and challenges in identifying women as amtum or aššatum in the OA corpus (2008: 214). 31 Anderson 2017a: 70. Michel also discusses the letters of this woman (2001: 476–480 = AKT 1, 1 and OAA 1, 50–58). 32 Five were published by Michel (2001: 478–80). Several are available in CDLI. 33 This causes Michel to note that letters sent to woman frequently mention obscure foodstuffs for “la vie quotidienne” (2001: 478). 34 Michel 2001: 480 = OAA 1, 50.

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that “she wouldn’t get angry.” In relation to anger, there is a reference to Šišahšušar getting “angry” in a letter to Aššur-nādā, but only one—she is not “constantly complaining” to her husband, from what I can tell. As an operator, I can imagine that a lot of Šišahšušar’s time was spent smoothing over affairs and lubricating the wheels of commerce in Kanesh for herself and her family. Anderson contends that an Anatolian wife’s network was probably dominated by native or Anatolian connections, including an especially strong or close connection with another Anatolian wife of an Assyrian trader. According to Anderson, this was a great boon to the entrepreneurial enterprises of Aššur-nādā. “We can begin to see the great advantage an Assyrian merchant would have by taking a second wife in Anatolia,” 35 he writes—or what the anthropologists would call participating in “exogamous marriage.” This falls back on the old assumption that public and private are separate, and that men used social networks developed by women within families (i.e., not “in public”) to enhance their “public” standing.36 But I argue that we may turn these circles, figuratively. For example, could Šišahšušar have been using her connections to increase her own social capital (in houses or out) in Kanesh or within the larger Aššur-nādā network, which extended to Ashur? Perhaps she was trying to position her half-Anatolian children to be more successful in the network than those children within the Assyrian family of Aššur-nādā. In fact, Anderson’s Gephi analysis shows that due to her own social capital, Šišahšušar had power or rank over a young Assyrian son of Aššur-nādā’s merchant colleague, whom she admonished in one letter for not performing an important task. Šišahšušar was no doubt a “robust actor” in the family trade, although according to patronymics and Assyrian law, on “paper” as a non-Assyrian amtum, she should not have had such relevance to the economic health of the firm. Most importantly, her network and rank within Aššurnādā’s firm secured her survival, if not comfort, as well as access to commodities such as food or silver in Kanesh (although she tries to extract more goods in one letter, claiming that “all is lost”). When looking at published letters in general, an Anatolian or Assyrian woman’s social capital certainly translated into some sort of material benefit for her and others, including, but not limited to: 1. 2. 3. 4.

35

Increase in silver (economic capital). Increase in distribution of textiles. Receipt of movable property. Increase/maintenance of status or reputation as good worker/weaver, honest broker, good wife, member of an accomplished family.

Anderson 2017a: 75. The published letters also indicate that Anatolian women had connections with many other Assyrians living in Anatolia or traveling through Kanesh (Michel 2008). 36

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5. Checking up on husband and other relatives, male or female, to ensure they followed through with tasks. 6. Looking after or transacting with caretakers, male and female, for their children or those of other traders.37 In some cases, but not all, the social capital was transformed into economic capital. To use Bourdieu’s terminology, women competently used “investment strategies” such as acquiring and exchanging commodities in Kanesh, resisting demands by their husbands for reasons of self-interest,38 taking other males and females to court to receive a judge-induced financial judgment,39 or pulling rank on a subordinate. All of these social capital strategies were “directly usable in the short or long term.”40 This fact is ironic, as the female wives and relatives of traders discuss in the letters their current discomfort in regards to survival. I assert that such “plaintive wails” are not limited to women in the Old Assyrian letters, and, moreover, we see now that they are but another tool to further their own situations, and some women were in fact quite wealthy with social capital.41 The women in the Old Assyrian letters consistently refer to their physical well-being and that of their children—their general situations of survival and comfort. Two situations emerge from the letters with complaints. First, some of the letters of wives to their husbands begin with the stock phrase “We are well, your youngsters and your people are well,” but then go on to claim the most desperate of situations. Second, the word for “misery,” manāhtum in Old Assyrian, can also be translated as “expenses,” thus equating emotional and economic health.42 In the letters, the women often indicate that they had sold everything just to pay for food, using the verb laqātum (scraping together), which implies selling items as a last 37

Such is the case of Kapsiya, Assyrian wife in Ashur of Ali-abum, who reports in letters to him from Kanesh that she transacted with men and women in Ashur to look after her children in exchange for silver (Veenhof 2010: 140–141 = KT V, 40). This settlement tablet contains several clauses regarding the fact that the daughter whom Kapsiya entrusted to the care of other families had died, and she expected some financial renumeration. Among other things, Kapsiya “has a claim” on the figurines of the gods made of gold owned by the caretaker family’s mother, Hudida. 38 For example, a subordinate Asānum complains to Kulīya that his wife, Abāya, would not go with him and “refused to talk to me in the karum [and] … she has caused me a lot of trouble until you met her personally” (Veenhof 2010: 111 = KT V, 18). There is even suggestion in this letter that Asānum “put his hands on her head” in a possible instance of physical violence. 39 For example, see the tablet recording the verdict of a debt dispute between two women, Kapsiya and Būṣi, taken to judges (Veenhof 2010: 184 = KT V, 70). 40 Bourdieu 1986: 5. 41 Veenhof 2010: 100 = KT V, 11. 42 Ibid.

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resort for survival. This is desperate rhetoric indeed, but the women are resourceful: they ultimately ask often for the silver to pay debts, and they indicate that they have opportunities to borrow silver from other family members or other trading networks, either to procure food or settle debts—they use their social connections, then, in their own and their family’s self-interest.43 As a useful comparison, Joannes makes the argument that the social networks of women within Neo-Babylonian families were used to advance the interests (e.g., social capital) of the family as a collective, rather than any individual woman within it.44 Is this not, however, still defining the experience of these women according to their membership in the patriarchy—that is, suggesting that they only contribute and gain in a collective headed by males? In contrast, for Greek women, Lee points out that increasing the social capital of the family might also enhance the individual social capital of a single woman, whose connections (whether bridging between families or bonding within her family) give her clout and status; in other words, her connections increase her social capital within the family itself.45 Despite their being outnumbered in the textual record and the “real” marketplace, women such as Šišahšušar indeed participated individually and independently, as well as within their communities, and their social capital was vital to enhancing material benefits for themselves and their networks or families. 5. Social networks and exchange of information There is no doubt from the letters that all persons of any gender involved in the Old Assyrian circumstances gossiped, which I define here as exchanging information with members of a network about either insiders or outsiders, for both supportive and detrimental purposes, often when the subject of conversation is not present. Gossip induces anxiety for men and women in any society, but especially those of the ancient world, where marriage was arranged as a political and economic transaction. The possibility of “detrimental gossip” could negatively affect the status of the family, whose positive reputation was necessary for influence in politics, property relations, religion, and commerce. It is especially concerning to men in a patriarchal society when women gossip with each other outside of their discourses with men, and these conversations and gatherings are considered suspect and secretive, even witchy, since they are inaccessible to men. We see that gossip is also a concern of the Old Assyrian traders. In one letter, the Assyrian trader Ennum-Aššur writes to Nuhšātum, his wife in Kanesh: 43

For example, Abāya is the co-sender, along with several other (male) traders, of a letter to Kulīya in Kanesh. They report that many transactions, some sealed by Abāya, related to this trader’s debts are taken care of in Ashur by the group (Veenhof 2010: 102 = KT V, 13). Other examples abound in Michel 2001: 419–511. 44 Joannes 2013. 45 Lee 2017.

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“Why do you listen to gossip unceasingly and you report that people say ‘they mistreat the young boy and girl’ and they say ‘what about them?’ Stop listening to gossip! Don’t listen and don’t get angry! Since I have arrived in Ashur, everything has been wrapped up financially.”46 In this case, both husband and wife are concerned about their reputations among their social cohort—including her sister and his niece who are talking to each other—fearing that people are accusing them of poor financial prowess and mistreating (their?) children: “Your sister is friends with my niece and you keep listening to their gossip and false claims. If the young boy and girl were really being mistreated, then why doesn’t she do something about it herself?” 47 In another example, Ababaya writes to her husband to spur him to action, “Your sister talks a lot with your father and she tries to make him forget you!”48 Women also wrote letters to other women, either singly or among larger social groups. As just one example, the relationship between two women is well documented in a series of letters written by Lamāša, who is part of the network of Pušu-kēn, to Musā, who was in Kanesh. The relationship centered around the exchange of items of movable property that Lamāša was keen to track, probably because she owned them outright. For example, Lamāša requests Musā to send “3 textiles, 2 grinding stones, 200 jars of beer, 20 sacks of wheat, 7 ‘objects’, along with sealed tablets found in a jar” from the house in Kanesh to Ashur. In another letter, Lamāša writes that “3 bronze pinchers, 3 spoons, 3 forks and many other metal utensils” had been with her for eight years and she wanted them sent to her by Musā. At one point, Lamāša reminds Musā, “You are my sister, you are my mistress, and you and me should love each other.”49 The kinship relationship between Musā and Lamāša is hard to trace, thus it is possible that use of the term “sister” was a fictive imagining of a kinship tie, meant to remind Musā of her connections (and trustworthiness or reciprocity) to Lamāša.50 6. Social networks and movable property Old Assyrian letters such as those exchanged between Lamāša and Musā can also shed light on the access that women had to “movable property,” and the importance of such property to both the woman and the trade. Influenced by Meyers’s important work on female associations attested in the Hebrew Bible and Israel,51 I have argued elsewhere that there must have existed a “parallel” 46

Michel 2001: 509 = AKT 3:79–80. The Old Assyrian letters use the phrase lā áš-ta-name-e for “let me not hear.” 47 Michel 2001: 510 = AKT 3, 79; emphasis mine. 48 Veenhof 2010, KT V: 11. 49 Michel 2001: 486 = BIN 4, 90. 50 The fictive, and therefore symbolic, use of family terms was common in the Old Assyrian letters. 51 Meyers 1999. See also Taylor 2011.

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network of women trading movable property with other women in Anatolia and Ashur. The movable objects have some other personal value, as gifts or part of dowries; they are individual and unique items, usually requiring rare material and specialized labor to produce, and they were important to the household or individuals. Of course, frequent mention in the letters attest that women traded all sorts of regularly available commodities with anyone necessary, buying and selling their textiles and consumables such as jars of beer, sacks of grain, bundles of reeds, wood logs, silver, copper, and gold enumerated in weight as mina, shekels, or ingots.52 I am here defining “movable property”53 as different from these fully exchangeable commodities, although they can certainly be sold for them.54 Michel notes that marriage and divorce contracts from the Kanesh corpus contain references to marriage gifts, bride-prices, and dowries, where husband and wife have similar rights to the marriage properties, but they rarely itemize the properties, whether movable or landed.55 The published letters reveal that when women did receive or send movable property apart from consumables or commodities, these included a wide variety of items: wood boxes; grinding stones; belt buckles and garment pins; textiles, plain and fancy, for all uses; copper utensils and vessels or votive objects; finished jewelry of any sort of metal/substance; and furniture.56 And although the bulk commodities garner much clay space, these singular items also receive some discussion. For example, Tarām-kūbi writes to Innāya: You told me to save the bracelets and jewelry that are there, you can use them to pay for food … but where are they? You have ransacked the house and left it empty. I have no wheat or barley left. I had to bring a little “emblem” [votive offering] to the temple. I got rid of everything I had

52

Of course, some women in Old Assyrian letters (mainly concerned with trade) also owned landed property, especially urban houses, as well as slaves, all of which they bought and sold, rented and leased. 53 Dalley translates the term numātum as “movable property” (1980: 67–68), although it refers to property that has reverted to a wife after her husband’s death. Roth (1989–1990) translates the general term udê bīti as “miscellaneous household goods,” which can be equated with “movable property.” Archaeologically, these items would be subsumed under the category of “material culture,” and art historically, “portable objects” (see Thomason 2014). 54 Such was the case with Ištar-lamassī’s son, Iliya, who attempted to protect movable property of “value,” including textiles, boxes, and a mirror (KT 91: k348). Unfortunately, to pay off debt, the portable goods of the deceased mother’s household eventually were sold off for silver (Michel 2016). 55 Michel 2008: 213. 56 It also included some valuable and rare “rings of meteoric iron” that Ababaya requests of her husband, Kuliya (Veenhof 2010: 100 = AKT 5, 11). Michel (2015) also discusses the movable property of the Kanesh households.

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on hand … why then do you accuse me of extravagance? It all goes to food! Today, I live in an empty house—send me silver.57 She also mentions that she has deposited a special garment into the temple of god Amurrum.58 She reports to Innāya that she has “assembled the bronze for an offering to the ‘young maiden’, and our silver pins and lapis lazuli we have given to the city (as tax).” Many references in the letters also attest that women owned their own seals (sometimes used by others), and indeed a few of their sealings have been found in the glyptic record.59 Recent analyses of dowry inventories and laws concerning them in southern Mesopotamia demonstrate that dowries (šeriktum [Old Babylonian] or nudunnû [Neo-Babylonian]) were used to transfer wealth within and between families, or in the case of consecrated women,60 to transfer wealth to the next generation of their families or within the nadītu communities (which in some cases overlapped).61 In other words, dowries were the material form of exogamy / bridging social networking connections. Here we have economic capital transformed into social capital. The movable property items listed in the dowries’ inventories included, as Westbrook writes, personal clothing, jewelry, and toilet articles of the bride, together with quantities of oil, then a large number of household utensils, in particular, kitchen utensils such as millstones and cooking-pots [metal or other], and often a substantial amount of furniture, such as tables, chairs, and (more than one) bed. … Noteworthy in these lists is the precision with which the items are noted—this is particularly so with the consumable element—the quantities of oil contained in the jars that the bride brought with her.62 The dowry inventories from southern Mesopotamia also included textile tools such as wool combs, loom beams, and spindles, although it is the finished tex57

Michel 2001: 466 = CCT 3, 24. Michel 2001: 466–467. 59 For example, Waqqurtum mentions sending textiles in a bag under her own seal to an associate, Buzāzu (Michel 2001: 443 = BIN 4, 96). For a discussion of women in business and female seal owners in general, see McCarthy 2016. 60 Most recently, De Graef has examined the economic status and agency of nadītu women of Old Babylonian Sippar (2018). 61 I thank an anonymous reviewer of this chapter for this clarification. 62 Westbrook, 1988: 90–91. Dalley finds many other items listed in the dowries: leather bags, various decorations and trimmings for garments, wooden utensils and vessels, livestock, reed baskets, vessels full of various oils, headdresses, vessels of perfume, animal hair rugs, hair combs, boxes, and chests. For Neo-Babylonian dowries, Roth also notes the listing of “butter churns, lamps, grates, censors and stands.” She writes, “While these goods were of importance to the bride herself, it is hard to escape the conclusion they were of less importance to the contracting parties than the more economically significant silver, real estate, or slaves” (1990: 18–19). 58

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tiles, not the tools, that are listed most frequently in the southern dowries and discussed in the Old Assyrian letters.63 Archaeological excavations throughout Mesopotamia and Anatolia, including at Kanesh, have unearthed such tools, often in the contexts of houses or “industrial” areas. The southern dowries also list self-care items that obviously had some economic, personal, or cultural value, called either “toilet items,” “hairdresser baskets,” or “barber’s tools” in translations, but these are not discussed in the Old Assyrian letters, perhaps because they had little exchange value. We know that the dowry ensured the wife’s security and status in the marriage and after, but also that husbands often had access to the dowry as capital to support the family. However, in the case of divorce, both laws and contracts indicate that the husband had to pay back every shekel of the dowry he “borrowed” during the marriage before the wife left his house.64 Daughters (and of course sons) could inherit their mother’s dowry, demonstrating intergenerational woman-to-woman exchange of movable property.65 I can imagine copper vessels and garments or rugs handed down and moved around for decades as daughters entered marriages and moved into their own or in-laws’ houses, as 63

Roth notes that the items in Neo-Babylonian dowry inventories were also fairly consistent: “Each bride brought into the family different garments and jewelry for herself and different furniture and utensils for the household. The specifics of a bride’s dowry, particularly of household and personal goods, would depend upon her circumstances: whether she came from a wealthy or modest family, whether she moved into a new household independent of her mother-in-law, or joined an existing well equipped one. Although all dowry lists included selections from the same categories of property and similar items, no two lists or inventories are identical” (1989–1990: 1). 64 Such is the case for Kannūtum, the wife of the trader Ilī-bāni. In one letter, Ilī-bāni must go through all sorts of machinations to ensure that some silver, which was Kannūtum’s own capital and which one of his representatives had “borrowed” to pay his own debt, be compensated in full by himself or others (see also Veenhof 2010: 142, 159 = KT V, 41, 51). Veenhof writes, “The whole affair raises questions about the financial relationship between Ilī-bāni and his wife [not named by Veenhof], who apparently had her own capital; the just mentioned measures to be taken in order to indemnify her must have been a real nuisance for her husband, since they interfered with his commercial activities” (2010: 129). 65 In Greece, the garments and self-care items formed a “sex-linked” component of the dowry, the woman’s “trousseau,” and they had a separate word for this group of personal items (Lee 2015). But this is not the case in Mesopotamia, where Roth concludes at least for Neo-Babylonian dowries that while “the husband appears to have little or no interest in [the gender-linked items of a dowry], they should not be minimized; they can help the wife set up her new household independent of her family and contribute significantly, apart from her husband’s means and resources, to her personal comfort and adornment (clothing, jewelry, perhaps a slave as personal attendant). The fact remains that such items are included in our documents, and hence there was a need to record and often to itemize them” (1989–1990: 36).

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still occurs today. The only testament or will we have for an Old Assyrian woman was for Ištarlamassī, a widow living in Kanesh, who left all of her substantial assets to her daughter from her first marriage living in Ashur, despite the fact that she probably had an Anatolian husband.66 Related letters indicate that after Ištar-lamassī’s funeral expenses were paid, all of the movable and other property of the mother’s estate went to the daughter (although this could be because her two sons had died around the same time as their mother). Regardless of the inheritance of the sons, laws and wills from southern Mesopotamia indicate that in some cases, a Mesopotamian woman could divide her estate equally among her heirs, including daughters; they were “free to dispose of property as they wished.”67 The daughter does not become sole heir only by accident of her father’s or brother’s death. Still, it is difficult to find anywhere in the Old Assyrian (or cuneiform) record direct references to a mother passing down a valued family heirloom, such as a single piece of jewelry, from her dowry to her daughter’s. Archaeologically, we can see this in heirlooms found in tombs, such as those of the Nimrud queens of Assyria, and we should not discount the fact that these objects had more than economic value—they could possess apotropaic or other magical properties.68 Whether they owned them outright or not, women also were the guardians of the movable property of the houses in Kanesh and Ashur—including the tablets in archives—and were responsible for transporting or ensuring the safety of these symbolically precious objects.69 The activities of several women named in the letters relate to their roles as keepers of the family property. Examples include the following: − Ab-šalim must arrange for a garment to be delivered to a female servant and her child in Kanesh.70 − Ab-šalim must deliver a silver pin to a young servant in her husband’s house in Kanesh. She also must guard tablets in family archive.71 − Ab-šalim is asked by her brother to send silver buckles to him. She also has to receive shipment of furniture that has been sent to the house.72 − Tarīš-mātum, sister of Pušu-kēn, must ensure that a statuette of a god is 66

Veenhof 2008. De Graef 2018: 141–144. 68 See Gansell 2018 for a discussion of the properties of objects in the Nimrud queens’ tombs. 69 See, for example, a group of objects that Buzāzu, Pušu-kēn’s son, entrusts to Lamāsa (Michel 2001: 484 = CCT 4, 36b and 37a). 70 Michel 2001: 462 = BIN 4, 68. 71 Michel 2001: 463 = HUCA 40, 59–60. 72 Michel 2001: 458 = BIN 6, 20. 67

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offered in the house shrine, so that evil will be banished from their business.73 − Tarīš-mātum also donates votive offerings, on recommendations of a divination priest, to help sick relatives (young children).74 − A letter from the male trader Šu-Labān to the women Šupiahšušar and Hattītum (daughter of Tarīš-mātum, who lives in Kanesh) includes a discussion of garment pins and also discusses how another trader will bring them a sack with vessels, garments, and jewelry—which he requests for them to send him while he travels.75 − Maganika, daughter of Hattītum and Aššur-rabi, is scolded by her father that she left the house unattended, allowing possible access for robbers. He then asks her to send some silver belt buckles to him as he travels. The women curating personal and family property, who in some cases were at least temporarily placebound due to their status as overseers, relied upon their social networks to enhance and protect what was entrusted to them. 7. Conclusion This exercise has shown that social network analysis is useful for answering some historical questions, as in the case of Anderson’s research. Equally as important, the quantitative method also leads us to develop questions about the lived experiences of women in Anatolia and Mesopotamia—something qualitative analysis of the words and their textual contexts can help to answer. The problems that arise in careful prosopographic identification of individuals in the corpus, which social network analysis relies upon, makes it difficult to identify some individuals in the tablets, much less their social relationships in aggregate form. Thus, when the questions of social history are asked of the texts, it is equally important to apply a “microhistorical” or “case study” qualitative approach to the textual sources. As for other methodological concerns, I am well aware that I have relied in this study so far on the existence of separate “males” and “females” in Mesopotamian society, and I am well aware of the troubles with this dichotomy for the ancient past. Certainly, the Old Assyrian and related texts record such aspects of human existence, and I have focused today especially on only half of that dichotomy, women.76 But we do not have to accept the other baggage loaded onto these old “donkeys.” The typical assumption, which 73

Michel 2001: 450 = KTS 1, 24. Michel 2001: 451 = KTS 1, 25a. 75 Michel 2001: 456 = CCT 3, 31. 76 I have not here addressed the idea of gender as fluid and performative of the third wave of feminism, but suggest that the actions of the women in the Old Assyrian networks can be used of evidence of the incongruence of trying to fit gender dichotomies with the ancient evidence (see Garcia-Ventura 2018 and this volume). 74

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seems to persist to some extent among scholars today, is that women in the Old Assyrian trading networks were not the prime drivers of action or profit—and this attitude derives from the fact that the overwhelming majority of letters were written to and from males. If we forge ahead despite this fact, and choose to place the women mentioned in the letters at the center of analysis and see the world from their standpoint, our understanding of the experiences of past people can only be enriched. When we consider social capital as a way to determine the “agency” or “power” of a person or group of people, we can see that women in the Old Assyrian letters threw their energy into their social networks, with other men or women or whomever, in order to receive social capital in return. This capital took the form of commodities, information and knowledge, or movable property—as attested in innumerable legal and economic documents not only from Kanesh, but throughout southern Mesopotamia. In their quest to survive and thrive, individuals such as Šišauštar, Ab-šalim, and Ištar-lamassī frequently relegated gender to the back of the caravan. Acknowledgements The author would like to thank the editors of the volume, Beth Alpert Nakhai, Katrien De Graef, Agnès Garcia-Ventura, and Anna Goddeeris, as well as the anonymous reviewers, for their careful stewardship, constructive comments, and astute editing of this manuscript. Thanks also to the attendees of the Third GeMANE Workshop in Ghent, Belgium, for their helpful comments, references, and suggestions during the conference. I would also like to thank Adam Anderson for being so generous with his data and insights about social network analysis and the intrigues of the Old Assyrian tablets, and Benjamin Oestermeier for his help with Gephi. Bibliography Alexander, M. / Danowski, J.A. 1990: Analysis of an Ancient Network: Personal Communication and the Study of Social Structure in Past Society. Social Networks 12, 313–335. Anderson, A. 2017a: The Old Assyrian Social Network: An Analysis of Texts from Kültepe-Kanesh (1950–1750 BCE). PhD dissertation, Department of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures, Harvard University. Cambridge. Anderson, A. 2017b: Data and Gephi Graphs on GitHub. https://github.com/ad mndrsn (open source). Accessed 17 October 2019. Barjamovic, G. 2011: A Historical Geography of Anatolia in the Old Assyrian Period. Copenhagen. Barjamovic, G. 2019: Mesopotamian Economy and Trade. In A. Lassen / E. Frahm / K. Waggensonner (eds.): Ancient Mesopotamia Speaks: Highlights from the Yale Babylonian Collection. New Haven, Connecticut, 81–95.

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Borgatti, N. / Everett, M. / Johnson, J.C. 2013: Analyzing Social Networks. New York. Bourdieu, P. 1986: The Forms of Capital. In J. Richardson (ed.): Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education. New York, 241–258. Cline, D.H. 2012: Six Degrees of Alexander. Ancient History Bulletin 26, 59–69. Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative (CDLI). http://cdli.ucla.edu. Accessed 26 April 2021. Dalley, S. 1990: Old Babylonian Dowries. Iraq 52, 43–74. De Graef, K. 2016: Cherchez la femme! The Economic Role of Women in Old Babylonian Sippar. In C. Michel / B. Lion (eds.): The Role of Women in Work and Society in the Ancient Near East. Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 13. Berlin, 270–295. De Graef, K. 2018: Puppets on a String? On Female Agency in the Old Babylonian Economy. In S. Svärd / A. Garcia-Ventura (eds.): Studying Gender in the Ancient Near East. University Park, Pennsylvania, 133–156. Dercksen, J.G. 2004: Old Assyrian Institutions. MOS Studies 4. Leiden. Gansell, A. 2018: Dressing the Neo-Assyrian Queens in Identity and Ideology: Elements and Ensembles from the Royal Tombs at Nimrud. American Journal of Archaeology 122(1), 65–100. Garcia-Ventura, A. 2018: Post-Feminism and Assyriology: An (Im)possible Relationship? In S. Svärd / A. Garcia-Ventura (eds.): Studying Gender in the Ancient Near East. University Park, Pennsylvania, 183–202. Garelli, P. 1979: Femmes d’affaires en Assyrie. Archiv Orientální 57, 42–48. Garfinkle, S. 2007: Public versus Private in the Ancient Near East. In D. Snell (ed.): A Companion to the Ancient Near East. Oxford, 406–418. Joannes, F. 2013: La place des femmes dans l’économie domestique à l’époque Néo-Babylonienne. Refema, March 3, 2013. https://refema.hypotheses.org/ 202. Accessed 26 April 2021. Jones, S. 1997: The Archaeoology of Ethnicity: Constructing Identities in the Past and Present. London. Larsen, M.T. 1976: The Old Assyrian City-State and Its Colonies. Mesopotamia 4. Copenhagen. Larsen, M.T. 2001: Affect and Emotion. In W.H. van Soldt / J.G. Dercksen / N.J.C. Kouwenberg / T.J.H Krispihn (eds): Veenhof Anniversary Volume: Studies Presented to Klaas R. Veenhof on the Occasion of his Sixty-Fifth Birthday. PIHANS 89. Leiden, 275–286. Lee, M. 2017: The Gendered Economics of Greek Bronze Mirrors: Reflections on Reciprocity and Feminine Agency. Gender and History 50(2), 143–168. Lin, N. (ed.) 2011: Social Capital I-II. London. Lion, B. 2018: Gender and Methodology in the Study of 2nd-Millennium BCE Family Archives. In S. Svärd / A. Garcia-Ventura (eds.): Studying Gender in the Ancient Near East. University Park, Pennsylvania, 233–247.

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McCarthy, A. 2016: Businesswomen and Their Seals in Early Mesopotamia. In S. Budin / J. Turfa (eds.): Women in Antiquity: Real Women across the Ancient World. Oxford, 101–112. Meyers, C. 1999: Discovering Eve: Ancient Israelite Women in Context. Oxford. Michel, C. 2001: Correspondance des marchands de Kanish. Paris. Michel, C. 2008: Les Assyriens et leurs femmes anatoliennes. In J.G. Dercksen (ed.): Anatolia and the Jazira during the Old Assyrian Period. Old Assyrian Archive Studies 3, PIHANS 111. Leiden, 209–229. Michel, C. 2015: La maison et son mobilier d’après la documentation textuelle de Kaneš. In C. Michel (ed.): La maison et son mobilier dans l’Orient ancien. Thème VIII, Cahiers des thèmes transversaux d’ArScAn XII (2013–2014). Nanterre, 283–290. Michel, C. 2016: Women and Real Estate in the Old Assyrian Texts. Orient 51, 83–94. Michel, C. 2020: Women of Ashur and Kanesh. Writings from the Ancient World. Atlanta. Michel, C. / Tubiana-Brun, V., dirs. 2020: Thus Speaks Tarām-Kūbi: Assyrian Correspondence. Documentary. Paris. Nosch, M.-L. 2014: Voicing the Loom: Women, Weaving and Plotting. In D. Nakassis / J. Gulizio / S.A. James (eds.): Ke-Ra-Me-Ja: Studies Presented to Cynthia A. Shelmerdine. Philadelphia, 91–101. Old Assyrian Text Project (OATP). https://oatp.ku.dk/. Accessed 26 April 2021. Padgett, J.F. / Ansell, C.K. 1993: Robust Action and the Rise of the Medici (1400–1434). American Journal of Sociology 98, 1259–1319. Roth, M.T. 1989–1990: The Material Composition of the Neo-Babylonian Dowry. Archiv Für Orientforschung 36(7), 1–55. Stratford, E. 2017: A Year of Vengeance. Vol. 1: Time, Narrative and the Old Assyrian Trade. Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 17(1). Berlin. Svärd, S. 2012: Women, Power and Heterarchy in the Neo-Assyrian Palaces. In G. Wilhelm (ed.): Organization, Representation and Symbols of Power in the Ancient Near East. Proceedings of the 54th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Wurzburg 2008. Winona Lake, IN, 507–517. Taylor, C. 2011: Women’s Social Networks and Female Friendships in the Ancient Greek City. Gender and History 23, 703–720. Thomason, A.K. 2013: Her Share of the Profits: Women, Agency, and Textile Production at Kültepe/Kanesh in the Early Second Millennium BCE. In M-L. Nosch / H. Koefoed / E.A. Strand (eds.): Textile Production and Consumption in the Ancient Near East. Oxford, 113–127. Thomason, A.K. 2014: The Impact of the “Portable”: Integrating “Minor Arts” into the Ancient Near Eastern Canon. In B.A. Brian / M. Feldman (eds.): Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art. De Gruyter, 133–158.

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Thomason, A.K. 2018: After “Profits”: Methodological and Historiographic Remarks on the Study of Women, Textiles, and Economy in the Ancient Near East. In S. Svärd / A. Garcia-Ventura (eds.): Studying Gender in the Ancient Near East. University Park, Pennsylvania, 413–422. Trümper, M. 2012: Gender and Space, “Public” and “Private.” In S.L. James / S. Dillon (eds.): A Companion to Women in the Ancient World. Oxford, 288–303. Veenhof, K.V. 1972: Aspects of Old Assyrian Trade and Its Terminology. Studia et Documenta ad Iura Orientis Antiqui Pertinentia 10. Leiden. Veenhof, K.V. 2008: The Death and Burial of Ištar-lamassī in Kārum Kanesh. In R. van der Spek (ed.): Studies in Ancient Near Eastern World View Presented to Marten Stol. Leiden, 97–119. Veenhof, K.V. 2010: Kültepe Tabletlerỉ V. Ankara, 2010. Veenhof, K.V. 2013: The Archives of Old Assyrian Traders: Their Nature, Functions and Use. In M. Faraguna (ed.): Archives and Archival Documents in Ancient Societies: Legal Documents in Ancient Societies IV, Trieste 30 September–1 October 2011. Trieste, 27–71. Veenhof, K.V. / Eidem, J. 2008: Mesopotamia: The Old Assyrian Period. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 160(5). Fribourg. Waerzeggers, C. 2014: Social Network Analysis of Cuneiform Archives: A New Approach. In H. Baker / M. Jursa (eds.): Documentary Sources in Ancient Near Eastern and Greco-Roman Economic History: Methodology and Practice. London, 207–233. Westbrook, R. 1988: Old Babylonian Marriage Law. Horn. Westbrook, R. 2003: A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law. Vols. 1 and 2. Leiden and Boston.

Was It Law? Gender Relations and Legal Practice in the Ancient Near East Ilan Peled 1

1. Introduction The applicability of ancient Near Eastern law has been contested by many. It appears to be an increasingly prevailing recent trend, in the spirit of postmodernistic and deconstructionist approaches to history and historical research. As a historian—probably quite an old-fashioned one—I find these ahistorical trends too dismissive, reductionist, and at times even quite harmful. In advocating such tendencies, and too hastily dismissing the possibility of reconstructing the past based on written evidence, we run the risk of losing our very ability to actually research the past. Focusing on gender relations and dynamics, in what follows I offer a humble contribution in defence of the historicity and applicability of the textual sources we usually rely on when investigating the legal past of the ancient Near East: the law collections.2 One of the frequent questions Assyriologists face when dealing with ancient Near Eastern law is probably the most fundamental one: Was it indeed law? Did the people of the kingdom of Ur in the late third millennium3 live their lives according to the rules stipulated in the legal collection we call Laws of UrNamma? Did the people of Hammurabi’s Babylonian kingdom4 live their lives according to the rules found on his famous dark basalt stele? Did the inhabitants of the city of Aššur in the late second millennium5 live their lives according to the so-called Middle Assyrian Laws? Was it even the intention of the kings who issued these legal collections? These questions cannot be easily answered. As is well known, many discrepancies exist between the different provisions found in 1

Leiden University, [email protected]. Abbreviations used in this article follow CDLI. The following abbreviations are used for designating the law collections discussed in this article: LUN (Laws of Ur-Namma); LLI (Laws of Lipit-Ištar); LE (Laws of Ešnunna); LH (Laws of Hammurabi); MAL (Middle Assyrian Laws); NBL (Neo-Babylonian Laws). Sumerian quotations are given in transliteration; Akkadian quotations from law collections are given in normalization / bound script, while other Akkadian quotation are transliterated. Sumerian/logographic terms in the body of the text are given in spaced script (e.g., d i t i l - l a ); Akkadian ones are given in italics (e.g., nadītu). All dates mentioned in this article are BCE unless otherwise stated and follow the standard dating of the so-called Mesopotamian “middle chronology”. 3 Ur III period, ca. 2100–2000 BCE. 4 Old Babylonian period, ca. 2000–1600 BCE. 5 Middle Assyrian period, ca. 1400–950 BCE. 2

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the law collections and the picture that emerges from texts that attest to people’s daily life in Mesopotamia. Not all aspects of legal reality are attested in the law collections, and these compendia certainly did not function as complete guides for people’s behaviour. Moreover, decisions found in texts of legal practice outside the law collections—lawsuits, transactions, and court minutes—do not usually point to any law collection as their judiciary source. These discrepancies between official law and texts of legal practice led some scholars to assume that the law collections never functioned as actual legal directives. Instead, it was sometimes suggested that the laws merely reflected royal propaganda, or that they were literary compositions created in scribal schools.6 For examining the potential applicability of the law collections in daily life, I have used elsewhere7 the terms “instructive texts” and “descriptive texts”. The first group includes texts that instructed, at least allegedly, people how to behave: the law collections themselves, and texts stipulated by the royal circles— instructions, decrees, and loyalty oaths. The second group includes texts that described—even if not necessarily intentionally—how people actually behaved: court decisions, economic transactions, letters, and agreements. The comparison between these two groups of texts can supply us with some answers to the question of the applicability of the law collections in daily life. Scholars usually distinguished these two sets of texts using the terms “scholastic” and “functional”/“transactional”, 8 but I prefer the terms “instructive” and “descriptive” because they convey better the functionality of these groups of texts and the difference between them. Further, I do not assume that the “instructive” texts were somehow less “functional” than the texts I dub “descriptive”, and I am not convinced whether the “scholastic” texts were indeed purely scholastic in nature, lacking any real legal functionality. This essay examines several subjects that pertain to gender in Mesopotamia. Each subject is examined by considering corresponding “instructive” and “descriptive” sources that illuminate it. As is detailed below, these issues concern the value of female slaves, rules of divorce, regulations concerning the property of nadītus, chastity obligations of married women, and inheritance rights. Such matters mostly belong to the legal realms of economic and family law, and they were chosen for this essay because of the prominent role of women in them. They thus illuminate various legal aspects of the relations and dynamics that prevailed between the genders throughout Mesopotamian history. In what follows, therefore, it is demonstrated that even though the correspondence between 6

For the law collections as royal propaganda, see Finkelstein 1961, 1965. For these texts as products of the scribal schools, see Kraus 1960; Bottéro 1992: 156–184. These issues were discussed by scholars at length. See, among others, Roth 1997: 4–7; Westbrook 1999, 2003a: 18–19, 70–71; and Peled 2017b, all with previous literature. 7 Peled 2020: 5–8. 8 See most recently Roth 2019: 74, 75–77.

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formal law and daily life was not high, it certainly existed on occasion. To be clear, this small-scale essay cannot prove an overall applicability of official law in Mesopotamian daily life. Nor was it intended to do so. The purpose of the examples presented and discussed below is to refute an utter dismissal of the possibility that the law collections had any practical legal force, focusing on gender-related issues.9 2. The Ur III period Our survey begins with the Ur III period, in which the earliest law collection— the so-called Laws of Ur-Namma—was produced. The first case we consider is the financial value of female slaves. The pertinent evidence from the law collection is found in LUN § 8: tukum-bi géme lú é nu-gi4-a níg-á-gar-šè lú ì-ak é bígi4 lú-bi 5 gín kù ì-lá-e (If a man seduces by deception an unmarried slavewoman and takes her into [his] household: that man shall pay five shekels of silver).10 According to this statute, the man in question was to pay five shekels of silver, presumably—though the text is not explicit in this regard—to her owner. This ruling from the “instructive” law collection has a parallel in a “descriptive” text from the same period: NSGU 45, a court decision generically known as a d i til-la (case complete)11 text from the fourth reigning year of ŠūSîn: Idnin-men-dba-ba6 géme nam-égi-ni-du10 [ama]-na sámàm til-la-ni 5 gín kùbabbar-šè AN-sa6-ga dumu dutu-ki-du10-ke4 in-ši-sa-a (Nin-menbaba, the slave woman, ANsaga son of Utukidu bought from her mother Nameginidu for her full price of five shekels of silver).12 This di til-la confirms that the price paid for purchasing a slave woman was five shekels of silver, exactly as indicated in the “instructive” LUN § 8. The second case in point from this period concerns the dissolution of marriage and the financial compensations involved. In this regard, LUN § 9 declares the following: tukum-bi lú dam-nitadam-ni ì-tak4-tak4 1 ma-na kù-àm ì-lá-e (If a man divorces his first-ranking wife: he shall pay one mina of silver). 13 This statute, as we see, belongs to family law, and establishes the sum of one mina (= sixty shekels) of silver as the payment a husband was required to give his wife upon divorcing her. This “instructive” text has yet again exact parallels in at 9

For further discussions of the question of official law and legal practice, see, among others, Westbrook 1985, 1989; Greengus 1994; Lafont 1999: 14–15; Wells 2008; Roth 2001, 2019. 10 See edition in Civil 2011: 238, 246. 11 These texts are summaries of trial cases from the Ur III period, and can be regarded as court minutes. As such, they supply us with a rare window into legal practice during this period, and can be compared with the official law collection of the time—the Laws of Ur-Namma. These texts are collected and discussed in Culbertson 2009 (see there for previous literature). 12 NSGU 45:2–6; see edition in Culbertson 2009: 94. 13 See edition in Civil 2011: 238, 247.

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least two “descriptive” di til-las. One of these two texts, SNAT 372, details a court ruling that annulled a case of forced marriage. It begins as follows: Inin-zàge-si dumu gu-du-ka nu-úr-eš4-tár dumu a-kab-šè-en6-ke4 á in-ni-dar dam-šè baan-tuku (Nur-Ištar son of Akab-šen abducted Nin-zagesi daughter of Gudu and married her).14 Since the marriage was forced and did not receive the consent of the girl’s parents, the judges annulled it and ordered the husband to divorce his newly wedded wife. As part of the divorce, he was ordered to pay her a financial compensation: nu-úr-eš4-tár-e dam in-taka4 1 ma-na kù-babbar in-lá-e (Nur-Ištar left [his] wife; he will pay her one mina of silver). 15 The second di til-la, NSGU 4, exhibits a similar ruling, according to which a man named Ur-igalim was ordered to pay one mina of silver to his wife Aša upon divorcing her.16 These two court decisions detail cases of divorce in which the husband was obliged to pay his divorced wife one mina of silver as part of the divorce settlement—exactly as LUN § 9 requires. Text NSGU 4 is dated to Šulgi’s thirtyninth reigning year, while SNAT 372 is dated to the sixth year of Amar-Sîn, Šulgi’s successor. King Šulgi is assumed by modern scholars as the true commissioner of the LUN, but we are ignorant as to when exactly during his long reign the collection was composed. It cannot be overruled, therefore, that text NSGU 4 describes a case that was decided prior to the composition of LUN. However, SNAT 372 is obviously later, and the court decision it documents was undoubtedly made when the LUN has already been composed. Even though none of the di til-las mentioned above refers to the LUN as its source of judgment, the fact remains that these “instructive” and “descriptive” texts perfectly correspond. 3. The Old Babylonian period The Old Babylonian period exhibits a rich documentation of legal issues, both in official law and in daily contracts, transactions, and economic records. 17 As mentioned above, one of the claims frequently made by scholars who assume that the law collections had no practical meaning whatsoever is that these alleged sources of law are never referred to in documented daily cases that dealt with legal situations. This, however, may not be entirely accurate. Several scholars already drew attention to the Old Babylonian letter A 3529, which refers to a stele where wages were documented: á-bi lúḫun-gá ina na4na-re-e [ša]ṭe4-er (The wages of a hired worker are [wri]tten on the stele).18 This passage from the letter was compared to the almost contemporaneous19 LH §§ 273–274, 14

SNAT 372 obv. 1–4; see edition in Culbertson 2009: 30. SNAT 372 rev. 11–12; see edition in Culbertson 2009: 30. 16 See Culbertson 2009: 200. 17 See Westbrook 2003b, esp. 361–363. 18 A 3529:12–13; see edition in Sweet 1958: 104–105. 19 It is commonly accepted that A 3529 was written in the times of Samsu-iluna, Hammurabi’s immediate successor; see, for example, Roth 1997: 10 n. 1. 15

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where daily wages are determined. In this example as well, therefore, we see a plausible correlation between an “instructive” law collection and a “descriptive” letter. Moreover, the letter might refer to an official law collection for establishing legal daily practice.20 The different types of documents from this period occasionally correspond thematically, and rarely do these topics pertain to gender dynamics. The first case to consider in this respect involves the nadītu and her inheritance rights. Much has been written on the nadītus and their involvement in the Old Babylonian economic and cultic systems.21 Their unique status is attested in numerous documents, letters, and official statutes in law collections. We will focus on one aspect of their legal-economic life: their inheritance rights comparing to their brothers’. The first relevant statute is LLI § 22, which establishes the following: tukum-bi ad-da ti-la dumu-munus-a-ni-ir ereš-dingir lukur ù nu-gíg ḫé-a ibilagin7-nam é ì-ba-e-ne (If, while a father is alive, his daughter becomes an ugbabtu, a nadītu, or a qadištu: they [her brothers] shall divide the household [considering her] as an [equal] heir).22 According to this statute, a nadītu is entitled to an inheritance share identical to that of any of her brothers. A similar ruling is found in LH § 180: šumma abum ana mārtišu nadīt gagîm ulu sekretim šeriktam la iš‹r›ukšim warka abum ana šīmtim ittalku ina makkūr bīt abim zittam kīma aplim ištēn izâzma adi balṭat ikkal warkassa ša aḫḫīšama (If a father, to his daughter who is a gagûm nadītu or a sekretu, he did not award to her a šeriktum: after the father goes to [his] fate, she shall divide a share as one heir from the father’s household assets; as long as she is alive she shall consume [it]; her remaining estate is only of her brothers.)23 These two “instructive” statutes have a parallel in CT 6.7a, a “descriptive” lawsuit from the fifth reigning year of Samsu-iluna, brought by a nadītu named Bābilītum against her three brothers. She accused them of depriving her of her share in the paternal inheritance. The case was ruled in her favour, concluding that she and her brothers will share the inheritance equally: i-na ki-sa-al dUTU a-hu-um ma-la a-hi-im il-qú-ú (In the courtyard of Šamaš they took equal shares).24 As before, we do not see here an unequivocal evidence that a daily custom stemmed from the instruction of a law collection, but the similarity is obvious, and cannot be easily dismissed.25 20

For further discussion of this letter, see, among others, Kuhrt 1995: 112; Roth 1997: 5–7. The literature is immense; some of the more recent studies are Lafont 1999: 451–453; Stol 2016: 584–604; and De Graef 2018, 2019. The classic research is still Harris 1963. 22 See edition in Roth 1997: 30; Wilcke 2014: 591. 23 See edition in Roth 1997: 118. 24 CT 6.7a rev. 12–14. The meaning of “equal shares” is literally “brother as much as a brother”. 25 Generally, on this issue, see Harris: “Of primary importance is the fact that a nadītu 21

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It is also noteworthy that certain instructions found in several statutes of the Hammurabi collection (e.g., LH §§ 178, 180) also appeared in legal texts that involved nadītus (e.g., VAS 9.130/131, VAS 9.144/145, TCL 1.98/99): the obligation of brothers to provide for their nadītu sister as long as she is alive, and the transfer of her assets to them after her death. Even though this was not an absolute rule, and several Old Babylonian texts exhibit variations of this practice, we still see it documented in both “instructive” laws and “descriptive” daily texts. The next case in point involves the perception of women by the legal authorities. Whether as legislators or as judges, these authorities usually included men, and only very rarely women. A famous model-trial text26 known by scholars as the Nippur homicide trial,27 known from three different manuscripts, details a trial conducted against three men who murdered a fourth man. The deceased’s wife was also put on the same trial, because the murderers apparently told her about their crime after it has taken place, but she remained silent and did not alert the authorities about it. This led the authorities to assume that the wife was somehow an accomplice to her husband’s murder. Her defenders tried to claim that as a woman she was helpless, implying that she was intimidated by the men, but this line of defence was not accepted by the judges. They found her guilty in the fundamental crime of being disloyal to her husband, even if posthumously. In the judges’ mind, such female unfaithfulness was even worse than the homicide act itself. In the trial aftermath, all four defendants—the three murderers and the widow—were sentenced to death. The underlying notions found in this text can be assessed in light of several statutes from the law collection of Hammurabi, the first of which is LH § 153: šumma aššat awīlim aššum zikarim šanîm mussa ušdîk sinništam šuāti ina gašīšim išakkanuši (If a man’s wife has her husband killed because of another male: they shall impale that woman).28 According to this statute, a wife who plotted the murder of her husband “because of another man” was to be impaled. Even though the two cases are not identical, the underlying legal notion of the “instructive” statute and the “descriptive” Nippur homicide trial was identical: a wife’s disloyalty was associated with her husband’s death. She was therefore to face a death penalty. Martha Roth has discussed the Nippur trial case in conjunction with another statute, LH § 109, according to which, šumma sābītum sarrūtum ina bītiša ittarkasuma sarrūtim šunūti la iṣṣabtamma ana ekallim la irdiam sābītum šî iddâk (If a woman-innkeeper, criminals gather in her house, and she does not seize

daughter received a share equal to that of the male heir” (1976: 132). 26 These early Old Babylonian texts specify trial cases, but their lack of details such as dates or witnesses may lead to the assumption that they served as literary models and did not necessarily exhibit actual legal cases. 27 See translation and previous literature in Roth 1998: 175–177. 28 See edition in Roth 1997: 110.

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those criminals and lead them to the palace: that woman-innkeeper shall be killed). 29 This statute orders that if criminals gather at a woman innkeeper’s house, and she does not alert the authorities about it, she is to be executed. Roth suggested that in both the Law of Hammurabi § 109 and in the Nippur trial, women were assumed to be vulnerable to intimidation by men, and hence might ignore criminal acts, by that causing legal obstruction. Such perceived inferiority and intimidation, however, could have not been accepted as alleviating reasons for the obstruction of legal procedure, and the sanction these women were to face was the harshest of all: execution.30 Roth went on to consider the Nippur trial in relation to another trial—IM 28051—which belongs to our next example of the correlation between “instructive” and “descriptive” texts, and of the correspondence between official law and daily life. 4. The Old Babylonian / Middle Assyrian periods The next example involves two periods, the Old Babylonian and the Middle Assyrian. In legal collections from these periods, we occasionally encounter sanctions decreed for adulterous wives.31 These statutes can be compared with IM 28051,32 an Old Babylonian lawsuit filed by a husband who wished to divorce his wife. The husband, Erra-malik, accused his wife, Ištar-ummī, of stealing his property from him. But far worse, he additionally claimed to have caught her being adulterous: ugu lú-ka in-dab5 su lú-ka gišnú-a in-kéš pu-úh-ru-um-šè in-íl (He caught her upon a man. He tied her to the body of the man on the bed, [and] carried her to the assembly).33 According to this astonishing passage, the betrayed husband apprehended both paramours and submitted them to be sentenced by the local assembly. The text does not reveal what was done with the male paramour, since it only concerns Erra-malik’s claims against his wife and his wish to divorce her. Ištarummī’s punishment, however, is certainly detailed: her nose was mutilated, and as an act of public humiliation she was paraded naked across the town. What concerns us is the comparison between the outcome of this case and the official statutes that decreed punishments in cases of adultery. The usual sanction for an adulterous wife in the law collections was execution, but MAL A § 15 explicitly mentions the mutilation of her nose: šumma a’īlu ištu aššitišu a’īla iṣṣabat ubta’eruš ukta’inuš kilallēšunuma idukkušunu aranšu laššu šumma iṣṣabta lu ana muḫḫi šarre lu ana muḫḫi dayānī ittabla ubta’eruš ukta’inuš šumma mut sinnilte aššassu iduak u a’īla iduakma šumma appa ša aššitišu inakkis a’īla ana ša rēšēn utâr u 29

See edition in Roth 1997: 101. Roth 1998: 178–179. 31 LE § 28; LH §129; MAL A §§ 13, 15, 23. 32 See editions in van Dijk 1963: 70, 72; Greengus 1969: 34. 33 IM 28051 obv. 12–15; see edition in Greengus 1969: 34. 30

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panīšu gabba inaqquru u šumma aššass[u uššar] a’īla u[ššar] (If a man seizes a man upon his wife, they prove him [guilty], they convict him: they shall kill both of them; there is no penalty for him; if he seizes him [and] brings him either before the king or before judges, they prove him [guilty], they convict him: if the woman’s husband kills his wife, then he shall kill the man; if he cuts off the nose of his wife, he shall turn the man into a eunuch, and they shall mutilate his entire face; and if [he releases] hi[s] wife, he shall [release] the man.)34 Even though these sources stem from different periods, which naturally weakens their correlation, the similarity between official law and the evidence of daily practice cannot be ignored here.35 As to considerations of gender differentiation, Martha Roth suggested that the underlying social assumption, as reflected both in the pertinent statutes mentioned in the previous example (LH § 109 and § 153) as well as in the two legal cases (the Nippurhomicide Trial and IM 28051) ,was that women, particularly wives, were obliged to maintain their chastity and loyalty, and that those who behaved in an “unwifely” manner— especially adulteresses—breached the most fundamental rules of society.36 This reflects, of course, the basic fact that the law was formulated by men, and reflected their perspectives and interests. 5. The Neo-Babylonian period We conclude with turning to the first millennium. The last example we consider derives from the Neo-Babylonian period, and involves the beneficiaries of inheritance in case the deceased had children from multiple wives. Here again, we see clear correspondence between an “instructive” law collection and a “descriptive” marriage agreement. In NBL § 15 we read the following: amēlu ša aššata īḫuzuma mārē uldušuma aššassu šīmti ublu aššati šanīti īḫuzuma mārē uldušu arki abu ana šīmtu ittalku ina nikkassī ša bīt abi 2.TA qātāti mārē maḫrīti u šalšu mārē arkīti ileqqû (A man that marries a wife, and she bears him sons, and his wife is carried by fate; he marries a second wife, and she bears him sons; afterwards the father goes to [his] fate: of the property of the father’s household the former sons shall take two-thirds, and the latter sons one-third.)37 This statute detailed the division of inheritance between half-brothers, sons of a shared father from two different mothers. According to the ruling, the sons of the deceased’s first wife were entitled to two-thirds of the inheritance, while the sons of the second wife were entitled to the remaining one-third. A marriage 34

See edition in Roth 1997: 158. For further discussion of IM 28051 in this context, see Peled 2017a: 29–30. 36 Roth 1998: 179–181. 37 See edition in Roth 1997: 148. 35

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agreement from Nabopolassar’s second reigning year—VAT 5049—describes an identical situation: Id

AG-NUNUM-kit-[SI].SÁ A-šú šá IdEN-BA-šá [A…]-ši a-na IdEN-BAšá A-šú šá INÍG.DU A LÚ […] ki-a-am iq-bi um-ma DUMU-ú-[a] ia-anu DUMU ú-ba-’ fkul-la-a DUMU.MUNUS-ka bi-nam-ma lu-ú DAM-a ši-i IdEN-BA-šá IdAG-NUMUN-kit-SI.SÁ iš-me-e-ma fkul-la-a DUMU. MUNUS-su ba-tul-la-tum a-na DAM-šu-tu id-da-áš-šú ina u4-mu fÉ. SAG.ÍL-ba-na-ta DAM-su maḫ-ri-tum DUMU ta-at-tal-da 2.TA ŠUII. MEŠ NÍG.ŠID pa-ni-šú id-dag-gal ina u4-mu fkul-la-a DUMU ta-at-talda šal-šú ina NÍG.ŠID šá IdAG-NUNUM-[ki]t-[SI].SÁ pa-ni-šú id-daggal (Nabû-zēr-kitti-līšir son of Bēl-iqīša, [descendant of …], said to Bēliqīša son of Kudurru, descendant of […], thus: “I have no sons; I desire a son. May you give me Kullā, your daughter; let her be my wife.” Bēliqīša listened to Nabû-zēr-kitti-līšir, and gave him his daughter Kullā, the maiden, in marriage. If his first-ranking wife, Esagil-banâta, will bear a child, two-thirds of the property will belong to him. If Kullā will [also] bear a child, one-third of the property of Nabû-zēr-kitti-līšir will belong to him.)38 As we see, the contract was signed between a married man named Nabû-zērkitti-līšir and another man, named Bēl-iqīša. Nabû-zēr-kitti-līšir was childless, and wished to marry a second wife—Kullā, the daughter of Bēl-iqīša—in the hope she will bear him a son. According to the agreement that was drawn between the two men, if in the future both wives will bear sons, those of the first wife will be entitled to two-thirds of their father’s inheritance, and those of the second wife will inherit the remaining one-third. The content of this NeoBabylonian agreement, therefore, is identical to the instruction of NBL § 15. 6. Conclusions For the sake of clarity, we can summarize the exemplary corresponding “instructive” and “descriptive” texts discussed in this article in the following table: Period Ur III Ur III Old Babylonian Old Babylonian

38

Case Slave woman’s value Divorce Wages nadītu’s inheritance

Instructive text(s) LUN § 8

Descriptive text(s) NSGU 45

LUN § 9 LH §§ 273–274 LLI § 22, LH § 180

NSGU 4, SNAT 372 A 3529 CT 6.7a

VAT 5049:2–15; see edition in Roth 1989: 41.

442

Period Old Babylonian Old Babylonian Old Babylonian / Middle Assyrian Neo-Babylonian

Ilan Peled

Case nadītu and her brothers Wife’s unfaithfulness Wife’s adultery

Instructive text(s) LH §§ 178, 180 LH §§ 109, 153

Descriptive text(s) VAS 9.130/131, VAS 9.144/145, TCL 1.98/99 Nippur homicide trial

MAL A § 15

IM 28051

Inheritance

NBL § 15

VAT 5049

The texts surveyed in this essay merely represent a few scattered and isolated examples, and additional ones could have been noted. Cases in point are prohibitions in Hittite Law and administrative instructions on certain sexual vices, in comparison to descriptions of ritual ceremonies that were carried out if such vices were actually performed.39 Other possible examples involve Mesopotamian laws of betrothal, marriage, or divorce, comparing to mundane texts that refer to the same issues. Yet another type of example is found in laws that detail prices and wages, comparing to parallel economic or administrative records. Additional examples exist, but I think that the point is clear even without supplying an exhaustive list. Scattered and isolated as they are, the examples discussed in this essay do reflect several different periods and cultures of the ancient Near East, and they suffice to demonstrate one significant point: assuming that the Mesopotamian law collections had nothing to do with people’s daily life is unwarranted. Viewing these compendia as nothing more than theoretical texts, literary compositions, or means that only served artificial royal propaganda seems to be too dismissive and reductionist. The law collections did have some basis in reality, and the statutes they contain were occasionally applied in everyday life. In this sense, these compendia did reflect a certain ancient Near Eastern legal reality, even if most of the time they were not necessarily enforced on a daily basis. Such ancient Near Eastern legal reality obviously stemmed from the social elites, and reflected their standards and interests, but elites do not exist in a social vacuum. They are rooted in the same sociocultural environment that encompasses the whole population. Multiple copies of some of the law collections— like Lipit-Ištar’s and Hammurabi’s—were found all over the ancient Near East, and it seems quite feasible to assume that people among all social circles had real knowledge about their existence. The contents of the laws could have been known by way of oral transmission, and thanks to the existence of scribes, officials, and other literate people who could spread this knowledge even to the vast illiterate parts of society.

39

See discussions in Peled 2010a; 2010b: 633; 2017a: 32–33.

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I therefore suggest that we can use the law collections, at least to a certain degree, as a reliable source of information concerning people’s daily life and concerning social conventions that governed gender relations in the ancient Near East. So, was it law? The answer, I think, is—at least to a certain degree— positive. Bibliography Bottéro, J. 1992: Mesopotamia: Writing, Reasoning, and the Gods. Translated by Z. Bahrani and M. Van de Mieroop. Chicago. Civil, M. 2011: The Law Collection of Ur-Namma. In A.R. George (ed.): Cuneiform Royal Inscriptions and Related Texts in the Schøyen Collection. Bethesda, Maryland, 221–286. Culbertson, L. 2009: Dispute Resolution in the Provincial Courts of the Third Dynasty of Ur. PhD dissertation, University of Michigan. Ann Arbor. De Graef, K. 2018: On ne naît pas nadītum, on le devient: Le rôle économique des nadītums dans la société paléo-babylonienne (1880–1595 avant notre ére). Bulletin Des Séances / Mededelingen der Zittingen 64(1), 21–36. De Graef, K. 2019: In Taberna Quando Sumus: On Taverns, Nadītum Women, and the Gagûm in Old Babylonian Sippar. In S.L. Budin / M. Cifarelli / A. Garcia-Ventura / A. Millet-Albà (eds.): Gender and Methodology in the Ancient Near East. Barcelona, 77–115. Finkelstein, J.J. 1961: Ammiṣaduqa’s Edict and the Babylonian “Law Codes”. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 15(3), 91–104. Finkelstein, J.J. 1965: Some New Misharum Material and Its Implications. In H.G. Güterbock / T. Jacobsen (eds.): Studies in Honor of Benno Landsberger on His Seventy-Fifth Birthday, April 21, 1965. Chicago, 233–246. Greengus, S. 1969: A Textbook Case of Adultery in Ancient Mesopotamia. Hebrew Union College Annual 40, 33–44. Greengus, S. 1994: Some Issues Relating to the Comparability of Laws and the Coherence of the Legal Tradition. In B.M. Levinson (ed.): Theory and Method in Biblical and Cuneiform Law: Revision, Interpretation, and Development. Sheffield, United Kingdom, 60–87. Harris, R. 1963: The Organization and Administration of the Cloister in Ancient Babylonia. Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 6(2), 121–157. Harris, R. 1976: On Kinship and Inheritance in Old Babylonian Sippar. Iraq 38(2), 129–132. Kraus, F.R. 1960: Ein zentrales Problem des altmesopotamischen Rechts: Was ist der Codex Hammu-rabi? Genava 8, 283–296. Kuhrt, A. 1995: The Ancient Near East c. 3000–330 BC. Vol. 1. London and New York.

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Lafont, S. 1999: Femmes, Droit et Justice dans l’Antiquité orientale: Contribution à l’étude du droit pénal au Proche-Orient ancien. Fribourg. Peled, I. 2010a: Expelling the Demon of Effeminacy: Anniwiyani’s Ritual and the Question of Homosexuality in Hittite Thought. Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 10(1), 69–81. Peled, I. 2010b: The Use of Pleasure, Constraints of Desire: Anniwiyani’s Ritual and Sexuality in Hittite Magical Ceremonies. In A. Süel (ed.): Acts of the VIIth International Congress of Hittitology, Çorum, 25–31 August 2008. Ankara, 623–636. Peled, I. 2017a: Gender and Sex Crimes in the Ancient Near East: Law and Custom. In I. Peled (ed.): Structures of Power: Law and Gender Across the Ancient Near East and Beyond. Chicago, 27–40. Peled, I. 2017b: Introduction: Structures of Power: Law and Gender Across the Ancient Near East and Beyond. In I. Peled (ed.): Structures of Power: Law and Gender Across the Ancient Near East and Beyond. Chicago, 1–12. Peled, I. 2020: Law and Gender in the Ancient Near East and the Hebrew Bible. London and New York. Roth, M.T. 1989: Babylonian Marriage Agreements: 7th–3rd Centuries B.C. Kevelaer and Neukirchen-Vlyun. Roth, M.T. 1997: Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor. 2nd edition. Atlanta. Roth, M.T. 1998: Gender and Law: A Case Study from Ancient Mesopotamia. In V.H. Matthews / B.M. Levinson / T.S. Frymer-Kensky (eds.): Gender and Law in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East. Sheffield, United Kingdom, 173–184. Roth, M.T. 2001: Reading Mesopotamian Law Cases PBS 5 100: A Question of Filiation. Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 44(3,) 243–292. Roth, M. T. 2019: Justice, Crime, and Punishment. In A.W. Lassen / E. Frahm / K. Wagensonner (eds.): Ancient Mesopotamia Speaks: Highlights of the Yale Babylonian Collection. New Haven, Connecticut, 73–81. Stol, M. 2016: Women in the Ancient Near East. Berlin. Sweet, R.F.G. 1958: On Prices, Moneys, and Money Uses in the Old Babylonian Period. PhD dissertation, University of Chicago. van Dijk, J. 1963: Neusumerische Gerichtsurkunden in Bagdad. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 55, 70–90. Wells, B. 2008: What Is Biblical Law? A Look at Pentateuchal Rules and Near Eastern Practice. Catholic Bible Quarterly 70, 223–243. Westbrook, R. 1985: Biblical and Cuneiform Law Codes. Revue Biblique 92, 247–264. Westbrook, R. 1989: Cuneiform Law Codes and the Origins of Legislation. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 79, 201–222.

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Westbrook, R. 1999: Codex Hammurabi and the Ends of the Earth. In L. Milano / S. De Martino / F.M. Fales / G.B. Lanfranchi (eds.): Landscapes: Territories, Frontiers and Horizons in the Ancient Near East. Padova, 101–103. Westbrook, R. 2003a: Introduction: The Character of Ancient Near Eastern Law. In R. Westbrook (ed.): A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law. Leiden, 1–90. Westbrook, R. 2003b: Old Babylonian Period. In R. Westbrook (ed.): A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law. Leiden, 361–430. Wilcke, C. 2014: Gesetze in sumerischer Sprache. In N.V. Koslova / E. Vizirova / G. Zólyomi (eds.): Studies in Sumerian Language and Literature: Festschrift Joachim Krecher. Winona Lake, Indiana, 455–616.

Index Note: Page locators in italics refers to illustrative matter.

Ab-šalim, 427, 429 Abu Hureyra, 290, 293 Abzu / Apsû, 157, 161, 165, 167, 168 Adad-apla-iddina, 133 Adad-rabi, 103 Adivar, Halide Edip, 28–29 adoption, 95n30, 353, 354–356, 360, 364 adultery, 204, 439–440 agriculture, 163–164, 328–330, 337 Ahmose (queen), 221 Akkadian language and literature: cosmogony in, 158, 163–165, 167; cuneiform tablets in, 343; naming practices in, 92, 98, 100n40, 100nn37–38, 101nn40–41, 106n64 alabastra, 242, 243 Alalakh / Tell Atchana, Syria, 42–43 Aleppo, Syria, 41–42, 52 f Allai-turahe, 361. See also Tehip-Tilla family aloes, 223, 224, 225, 226 ama5-ni-šè, 397–398 American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, 17, 22n29 American College for Girls at Constantinople, 13, 16, 17–25 Amun (god), 221 An (god), 158–159, 159n7 anal intercourse, 64–65, 64n42, 71–72, 79, 81. See also Šumma ālu Anatolia (city), 407, 408, 415n25 ancient Near Eastern law, 433–443 Anderson, Adam, 375, 418 animal breeding, 331–332, 331n23 Anzu (god), 165 apotropaic ritual, 58, 59, 200–201, 427 Apsû / Abzu (Sweet underground waters), 157, 161, 165, 167, 168 Aqhat, 46, 47–49, 53

Arabic naming practices, 90 Aratta, 164, 259n31, 272n91 architecture of Early Bronze IVA, 41 aromas: in Phoenician-Punic beauty practices, 241–244; in Yahweh worship, 217–228 aromatic cane, 219, 220, 224, 225 Asag / Asakku (god), 165, 166–167 Asher-Greve, Julia, 30, 66 Ashkenazi communities, 90 Aşıklı Höyük, 292, 299–315 Assante, Julia, 57, 59, 65, 66–68 Aššur (god), 61, 145, 377–378 “Aššur and His Friends” (Alstola), 377 Assur / Ashur (city), 60–61, 374, 407, 408, 415n25, 419–424, 427 Assurbanipal / Ashurbanipal, 62, 63, 141, 143, 145, 148 Aššur-nādā, 419–420 Assyriology, 370–372, 433 avuncular succession, 114, 116 Ay-ēniš, 98–99 Baba-šumu-ibni family, 61 Bābilītum, 437 Babylonia priestesses, 127–139 Balkan Wars (1912–1913), 23, 24 f Bānītu, 111–113 Barama, 44–45 barley, 329, 329n12, 343, 360n36, 361n55, 362, 363, 382–402 Barton Cylinder, 160, 161 bathing, 239–244 beads, 300, 306–311 Beaulieu, Paul-Alain, 133 beauty and beautification practices, 234–237; bathing, 239–244; as corporal concept, 233, 247; female makeup, 237, 244–247; normative model of, 238–239

448

becoming animal, 278–279 Bēl-iqīša, 441 Bell, Florence, 31, 31n68 Bell, Gertrude, 16, 25, 30–32 biblical studies: gendered city space in, 173–188; olfactory cultic theology, 217–228; women in the book of Exodus, 195–212 binary gender stereotypes, 29, 254, 277, 277n125, 278. See also proto-queer Binbirkilise, Turkey, 25, 29–32 bioarchaeology, 292, 294–295, 299, 304 biographical profiles of women, as genre, 14–16 bît ḫilān, 41 bodily adornment, 236–237, 300, 302, 305, 306–311. See also beauty and beautification practices; jewelry A Bosporus Adventure (Patrick), 17 Bourdieu, Pierre, 412, 421 brass mirrors, 209, 211, 212 Breaking Ground (Cohen and Joukowsky), 15 Bulgaria, 22–23, 29n60, 33 burials, 294–315. See also funerary rituals calamus, 219, 220, 224 cardamom, 241 cassia, 219, 220, 226 central redistributive authority, 383– 386 chain creation, 161–162 cinnamon, 219, 220, 223, 224, 225, 241 city as gendered space, 173–188 clay figurines. See terracotta figurines clay plaques. See terracotta plaques clothing, 45, 68–69 commercial transactions, 334–336 Conceptual Metaphor Theory, 177–178 Constantinople Woman’s College. See American College for Girls at Constantinople Cooper, Jerrold, 72n68, 77 cosmogony, 157–169 creation, 158–162

Index

cultic traditions: architecture in, 41; of Assyria, 139–141, 150–151; of Babylonia, 127–139, 150–151; gender and leaders in, 125–127, 149–151; Neo-Assyrian, 144–149, 221; olfactory cultic theology, 217– 228; of Tašmētu, 149. See also priestesses; ritual practices cunnilingus, 64, 64n41, 65. See also Šumma ālu CyberResearch on the Ancient Near East (Pagé-Perron), 375–376 Cycle of Baal, 242 Damiqtum, 369, 388, 389, 391, 393, 396–403 Darr, Katherine, 188 Daughter Zion, Mother Zion (Maier), 176 Dea Gravida, 238 death: cosmogony of, 167–168; funerary rituals, 146–147, 146n176, 275–276; mortuary rituals and evidence, 294–315 Deleuze, Gilles, 254, 279, 280 Dictionary of American Biography, 16 Dilmun, 160, 161 di til-las, 435–436 divination, 59 divine fragrance. See aromas divorce, 58, 358, 424, 426, 434, 435– 436, 439, 442 Dobbs-Allsopps, Frederick, 175 Dodd, Isabel Frances, 13, 14; Bell on, 32; biographical references to, 17; education of, 18, 19; lack of scholarly attention to, 15–16; Life and Light for Women, 15; professional lectures by, 19–20; Ramsays and, 13, 25–32, 26n50; role at the College, 20–25; Sayce and, 13, 13n4; travels of, 25–33 dowry, 327, 347, 359, 364, 425–427 Duššuptum, 369, 386, 389, 391, 396, 398

Index

early sedentary communities, 164, 289, 293–294, 296, 299–301, 313–315 ear piercings, 236. See also beauty and beautification practices Earth, as cosmic region, 157–169 Ebla, Syria, 42, 43–46 Eblaic Ritual of Kingship, 43–46 Ebla State Archives, 41 economic activities: barley expenditures, 383–402; of Mesopotamian wives, 346–347; Nuzi tablets on, 353–364; of Zinu, 328–337. See also loans An Educational Ambassador to the Near East (Jenkins), 17 ego-network, 371, 372, 378, 418, 419 Ekur-Zakir family, 63, 138 Elamite language and naming practices, 92, 98nn31–32, 115, 259n33. See also matronymics Ellitum, 396, 396n91 Emar, Syria, 43–45 Emar High Priestess Ritual, 43, 45–48, 49 embodied positionality, 278–280 Enḫeduana, 127–128, 128n31, 130, 139n104 Enki / Ea (god), 160–161, 162n22, 166, 167 Enmenana, 128, 130–131 Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta or the Lugal-e (poem), 164 Enna-mati, 354, 356–357. See also Tehip-Tilla family Ennigaldinanna, 133, 134 ēntus, 132, 134, 145, 146, 150 epigraphic evidence, 43–48 Ereškigal (god), 157, 163, 167 Ešarra-ḫammat, 146 Esther, 222, 226, 242 Eurasian steppe nomadism, 259, 262– 263, 266, 269–280 Everyday Life in Turkey (Ramsay), 26, 26n49 ewasum, 419 Excavating Women (Díaz-Andreu and Stig Sørensen), 15

449

Exodus and women, 195–212 exorcism, 143 eye makeup, 245. See also beauty and beautification practices eye of Horus, 245 female gaze, 59–60, 69, 82 female landowner, 353–364 female property transfer networks, 98– 108, 114. See also inheritance; property rights feminist biography, 14–16 feminist studies, 234–236 food processing, 338–339 fragrant metaphors, 224. See also aromas Framing Theory, 177, 178 frankincense, 220, 224, 225 funerary rituals, 146–147, 146n176, 275–276 Gachet-Bizollon, Jacqueline, 49–50, 51 galbanum, 220 gender determinatives, 91–92. See also matronymics gendered city space, 173–188 gender relations and legal practice, 433–443 gender stereotypes, 29, 254, 277, 277n125, 278 George, Andrew, 135 Gephi, 380n44, 388, 390, 409–411, 415–420 gipāru, 134, 134nn65–66 Github database, 413n20, 415 goddess on lion iconography, 253–268. See also Hasanlu Gold Bowl; riding iconography Goffman, Carolyn, 29 gossip, 422–423 granaries, 332–334 Guattari, Felix, 254, 279, 280 guennakkum, 369–370, 397–399 Ḫablum, 101, 101n44 Hadad’s temple, 42

450

hair care, 237. See also beauty and beautification practices Hamlin, Clara, 17 Hammu-rabi (king), 327, 433. See also Laws of Hammurabi (LH) Han Empire (202 BCE–220 CE), 262, 264, 275 Hasanlu Gold Bowl, 253, 253n3, 257, 257n19, 272–280, 272nn90–92, 273nn97–98. See also goddess on lion iconography ḫaṭāpu, 64 Hatshepsut (queen), 221 Hattuša reliefs, 16 Hattusili I, 41 Hebrew Bible: gendered city space in, 173–188; naming practices in, 198– 199, 199n31, 200n34; olfactory cultic theology, 217–228; women in the book of Exodus, 195–212 henna, 224, 225 hereditary rights, 93–94, 98–99. See also matronymics Herodotus, 275–276 heterarchy, 91, 114–117, 402 heteronormativity, 58 heterosexuality, 58, 65. See also Šumma ālu high priestesses, 127–134. See also priestesses f Hinzuri, 359, 364. See also Tehip-Tilla family Hittite empire, 42 Hittite Law, 442 Hogarth, David, 31 Homeric Hymns (HH), 221 Home School. See American College for Girls at Constantinople honey, 241 Horry, Ruth, 16 horseback riding iconography, 269– 272. See also goddess on lion iconography household management, 337–338 Ḫunnubat-Nanāya, 131, 132, 134 Ibbi-Ilabrat, 388, 389, 396

Index

Ibbi-Sîn, 344, 385, 389 Idrimi of Alalakh, 49 Inanna, 130, 130n36 Inbatum, 369 incense, 217–228 incest omens, 62. See also Šumma ālu infanticide, 196–197, 198n24 inheritance, 354–364, 437, 440–441. See also property rights intercoporeal nomadism, 279. See also nomadism intercourse. See sex omens; Šumma ālu Išme-kārab-ili, 99–101 Ištar-ummī, 439–440 itātu aḫâtu, 62 jade trade, 264–265 jasmine, 241 Jenkins, Hester Donaldson, 16, 17, 18– 19 Jerusalem, as gendered city space, 173, 174, 175 jewelry: of Early Neolithic period, 296; for Eblaic ritual use, 45; in Exodus, 205; male gaze and, 66, 68, 69; as material culture, 424, 425, 426, 427, 428; in Phoenician-Punic culture, 237. See also beauty and beautification practices; bodily adornment Judean pillar figurines, 238 Jursa, Michael, 137 K.103 ṣâtu commentary, 61–63. See also Šumma ālu Kalḫu, 61–62, 63, 140, 143, 149 Kamid el-Loz, Syria, 43 Kassites, 149–150 Ki (god), 158–159, 161 kingship ritual and iconography, 43–46, 256, 265 kinship terms, 116, 411, 413, 423. See also matronymics kohl, 245 Körtik Tepe, 290, 294 Kryszat, Guido, 149 Kubaba, 265

Index

Kūbu-rabû, 106, 106n62 kudurru, 131–132, 131n52 Kültepe, Ancient Kanesh, 271, 407, 411n8, 413 Kur, 157, 162–164, 165, 167, 168 Kura, 44–45 Kuṣāṇa period, 262, 273n95 Kushan coin iconography, 256, 262, 262nn37–38, 263 Lamāša, 423 Lamassī, 141, 414 lapātu, 78 laqātum, 421–422 Larsa (southern Mesopotamia), 327 laver, 209–210 Laws of Ešnunna (LE), 433n2 Laws of Hammurabi (LH), 433, 433n2, 438–439, 442 Laws of Lipit-Ištar (LLI), 433n2, 442 Laws of Ur-Namma (LUN), 433, 433n2, 435–436, 435n11 lead inlays, 65–67 Lee, Mireille M., 422 legal and economic documents, 90–94, 95, 109, 114–116. See also matronymics legal practice and gender relations, 433–443 Legend of Keret, 238 Levantine culture, 234–247, 271, 293– 294 Levites, 197–198, 197nn19–20 Lidiya, 102, 102n46 Life and Light for Women (Dodd), 15 lillies, 225, 241 liminality, 59, 65, 200n34, 202n56 Lion, Brigitte, 130 lions, 275. See also goddess on lion iconography Līpuš-iā’um, 128 literacy, 125, 128–129, 129n34, 136, 140, 147n176, 150, 442 livestock breeding, 331–332, 331n23 loans, 101, 327, 335–336, 344, 360, 363. See also economic activities Lugal-e, 164, 165, 166

451

MacKinnon, Catherine A., 67 magic, 59 makeup practices, 237, 244–247. See also beauty and beautification practices male gaze, 67–69 manāhtum, 421 Marduk-rēmanni, 138 Mār-ešrê, 105 Mari, Syria, 43, 45, 139–140 marriage rituals in Late Bronze Age, 44, 48, 52, 52n76 matronymics, 89–94; in heterarchy, 114–117; men identifying themselves by, 95–108; women identifying themselves by, 109– 114. See also naming practices Meinhold, Wiebke, 144 metaphor of the city, 173–188 Meyers, Carol L., 195n4, 199n31, 205, 423 Michel, Cécile, 346, 408n4, 415n25, 419nn30–33, 424 Middle Assyrian Laws (MAL), 58–59, 68–69, 79–80, 83, 433, 439–440 midwives, 196–197 Millgram, Stanley, 412 Minet el-Bedha, Syria, 43 mirrors, 209, 211–212, 247, 257, 273, 275, 276, 424n54 mortuary rituals and evidence, 294–315 Moses, 195–212 mother-city, 173, 178–179, 182–186. See also gendered city space Mother Zion in Deutero-Isaiah (Low), 176 Mountain, as cosmic region, 157–169 movable property, 355n14, 357–359, 364, 407, 420, 423–429. See also property rights muḫḫu / muḫḫutum, 139–140 mummy, 22 Mursili I, 41 musicians, female, 127, 128, 137, 138, 148, 150 mūṣum, 419

452

myrrh, 219, 220, 223–224, 224n41, 225, 226, 241 myrtle, 241 Nabonidus, 133, 134, 135 Nabû-zēr-kitti-līšir, 441 Nabû-zuqup-kēnu, 61–62 nadītum women, 340n64, 346, 391, 397 nadītus, 93, 135–137, 437 nâku, 80 naming practices: Akkadian, 92, 98, 100n40, 100nn37–38, 101nn40–41, 106n64; Elamite, 92, 98nn31–32, 115; in Hebrew Bible, 198–199, 199n31, 200n34. See also matronymics Nana (goddess), 262 Nanaia, 262, 262n36 Nanašao, 265–268 Nanāya-bulliṭiš, 137 Naqī’a, 140–141, 143, 146–147, 149 nard, 224, 225 narûtum, 419 The National Geographic Magazine, 15, 25 Natufian communities, 289, 290 Neo-Babylonian Laws (NBL), 440–441 Netherworld, 157, 162, 163, 167–169, 397 network approaches, 370–372, 374–382 nezem, 236, 237 Nineveh, 60, 174, 180, 181, 185 Ninhursaĝa (god), 160–161 Nippur, 369–370, 383–386, 438 Niqmepa dynasty, 42 nisḫu series, 63–65, 64n39. See also Šumma ālu nomadism, 259, 262–263, 266, 269– 280 nomoi, 42 nose piercings, 236. See also beauty and beautification practices; bodily adornment nudunnû, 425 Nūr-Ištar, 103–104, 436 Nuzi (Yorghan Tepe), 353–365

Index

O’Brien, Julia, 173 oils, 219–228, 241–244 olfactory cultic theology, 217–228 onomasticon, 92, 94, 104n58 onycha, 220 oral sex omens, 64, 65. See also Šumma ālu ornamentation of the body, 236, 300, 302, 305, 306–311. See also beauty and beautification practices Ottoman Empire, 23, 29n57. See also Turkey Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, 31–32 Oxus Civilization iconography, 256, 258–259, 258nn25–26, 259n33, 260, 261 Pagé-Perron, Émilie, 375–377, 402 palace architecture, 41 paternity, 93 Patrick, Mary Mills, 16, 17, 18–19, 20– 21, 24 patronymics, 89–90. See also matronymics Pendjikent’s goddess on lion, 268. See also goddess on lion iconography Pentateuch, 217–228 perfumes, 217–228, 241–244 perspectivity, 195 Phoenician, as cultural label, 234 Phoenician-Punic society, 234–247 Pirinkar, 273–274 pirsātānītu, 137 Pınarbaşı, 290, 299 pledge, 360n44, 361, 363 Poem of Danil and Aqhat, 46, 47–48, 53n78 Poem of Kirta, 46–47, 53n78 poetry, 46–47 pointwise mutual information (PMI), 377–378, 378n36, 378n39 pornography, as imperial strategy, 65– 67, 69 postcolonial studies, 234–236

Index

priestesses, 125–127; in Assyria, 139– 149; in Babylonia, 127–139. See also cult; cultic traditions Priestly texts, Hebrew Bible, 217–222, 217n2, 227 Prodigy Book, 62–63 property, movable, 355n14, 357–359, 364, 407, 420, 423–429 property rights, 93–94, 98–108, 114, 353–364, 437. See also inheritance prophetesses, 139–141, 150 proto-queer, 277, 277n125. See also binary gender stereotypes Proverbs, 222–223, 224 Psalms, 178, 180, 185–186, 222, 226, 228 Pughat, 47–48, 53n78 Puhi-šenni, 354, 355, 358. See also Tehip-Tilla family Punic, as cultural label, 234. See also Phoenician-Punic society Pūšu-kēn, 414, 423 Qadesh battle (ca. 1274 BCE), 42 qadištu and qadištum: in Nippur, 393, 393n89, 396, 398, 399; in Old Assyrian period, 141–144, 141n125, 141n126, 141nn120–121 Qatna, Syria, 42, 43 queerness, 277, 277n125 queer theory in archaeology, 295 Rabatak inscription, 266, 266n51 Rabāt-erišti, 110, 110n77 Rabiya, 107–108 Ramsay, Agnes Dick, 16, 25–32, 26nn46–49, 31 Ramsay, Agnes Margaret, 25, 25n45 Ramsay, William, 13, 25–27, 27, 29–32 rape, 80 Ras Ibn Hani, Syria, 43 Records of the Past (publication), 15, 21 The Revolution in Constantinople (Ramsay and Ramsay), 26 rhizome, 219, 224

453

riding iconography, 269–272. See also goddess on lion iconography Rīm-Sîn I (king), 327, 370, 383 ritual practices, 43–46, 209–210, 218n7, 239–244. See also beauty and beautification practices; cultic traditions The Romance of Elisavet (Ramsay), 26n49 Roth, Martha T., 424n53, 425n62, 426n63, 426n65, 438–439, 440 ruḫušak, 114. See also matronymics sacred oils, 219–228, 241–244 saffron, 225 Saghullhazû, 77 Sallaberger, Walther, 43 Šallu, 99–101 Sals, Ulrike, 173 Šamaš-hazir, 327–347 Samsu-iluna (king), 327, 347, 436n19, 437 Sargon II, 62 ṣâtu commentary, 61–63 Sayce, Archibald Henry, 13, 13n4 Schaudig, Hanspeter, 144 scribal families: Baba-šumu-ibni, 61; Ekur-Zakir, 63, 138; Nabû-zuqupkēnu, 61–62 Sea, as cosmic region, 157–169 sedentism, 164, 289, 293–294, 296, 299–301, 313–315 Seleucid Kislīmu, 135–137, 150 šēlûtu, 140 Sennacherib, 62 šeriktum, 425, 437 sesame, 328–330, 343 sex omens, 57. See also Šumma ālu sexual vices, 442 sex workers, 66 Shan Hai Jing, 265, 265n47 Šimat-Ištar, 93, 392, 392n87 širkus, 126 Šišahšušar, 418, 419–420, 422 sister’s son, 114. See also matronymics skull building, 294–295 Sky, as cosmic region, 157–169

454

Social Network Analysis (SNA), 370– 376, 378–382, 409, 411–414, 417n27, 428 Society of Woman Geographers, 13, 33 sodomy, 79–80 Solomon (king), 222n31, 223, 226 Song of Solomon, 228 Song of Songs, 222, 223–224, 225, 238, 244 spikenard, 224 stacte, 220 stockbreeding, 331–332, 331n23 storehouses, 332–334 Šulgi (king), 436 Sumerian cosmogony, 158–159, 162, 164, 167, 168 Šumma ālu, 57–83; female gaze in, 59– 60, 69, 82; K.103 ṣâtu commentary, 61–63; nisḫu series, 63–65, 64n39; omen 1, 69–70; omen 2, 71–72; omens 3–7, 73–78; omen 10, 79; scholia of, 61; standard manuscript of, 60–61; tablet 103, 58, 59–60, 65; tablet 104, 58–59, 79–82 Šumšanī, 128, 131 Šurki-Tilla, 361. See also Tehip-Tilla family surveillance, 68. See also male gaze Susa glyptic of goddess on lion, 256, 258, 258n26 Susa texts, 90–94, 95, 109, 114–116. See also matronymics Šū-Sîn (king), 435 šutātû, 77–78 Suter, Claudia, 127 Sweet underground waters (Abzu / Apsû), 157, 161, 165, 167, 168 Syria, 41–53, 331n24 tablet 103, Šumma ālu, 58, 59–60, 65. See also Šumma ālu tablet 104, Šumma ālu, 58–59, 79–82. See also Šumma ālu Taklāku-ana-Inšušinak, 99–101 Tarām-Kūbi, 414, 424 Tarīš-mātum, 414, 427–428 Tašmētu cult, 149

Index

Tehip-Tilla family, 353–359, 363–364 Tell el-Amarna, Egypt, 42 Tell Senkereh, Mesopotamia, 327–347 f Teppirtu, 113 terracotta figurines, 236, 237, 238, 240, 241 terracotta plaques, 59, 69, 72, 77, 238 Te(t)tê, 113 textiles, 45, 338–339, 345, 408, 419, 420, 423–426, 425n59 Theogony of Dunnu, 162 Thitmanata, 46–47, 47n48 The Thousand and One Churches (Bell and Ramsay), 30 Tiamat (god), 158, 159, 161, 165, 167, 168 f Tieš-naya, 357–358. See also TehipTilla family trans-subjective nomadism, 279. See also nomadism Tukulti-Ninurta I, 57, 65–72 f Tulpun-naya, 358. See also Tehip-Tilla family Turkey, 25, 29–32, 299, 407 Tūta-napšum, 128, 131 Ugarit, Syria, 42, 46–47, 238–239 Ugaritic art, 47, 50–52, 51nn70–72 Ugaritic literature, 46–50 Under Five Sultans (Patrick), 16, 17 Uraš (god), 158, 159n7 Uruk, 63–64, 134, 138 Utanapištim, 169 f Uzna, 359–361, 360n46. See also Tehip-Tilla family veiling women, 68–69 Waerzeggers, Caroline, 372–373, 402, 414 water: in Mesopotamian cosmogony, 157, 161, 165, 167, 168; women in Exodus and, 209–211 Westbrook, Raymond, 425 Westenholz, Joan, 126–127, 130 f Winnirke, 354–359, 361. See also Tehip-Tilla family

Index f

Wištanzu, 362–363, 364. See also Tehip-Tilla family woman-city. See gendered city space women’s travel writing, 26n46, 26n49 word vectors, 379 World War I (1914–1918), 23, 24–25, 24n38 Xi Wang Mu, 253, 256, 262–268, 265nn46–48 Yahweh worship using aromas, 217– 228 Yamutbal, 327 Yuezhi, 262–263, 262n37, 263n40, 264n42, 265, 265n46 Zayan, 105–106

455 f

Zilim-naya, 357–358. See also TehipTilla family Zinu, 327–328; agricultural activities of, 328–330; commercial transactions by, 334–336; control of storehouses and granaries, 332– 334; correspondence by, 341–342; economic role of Mesopotamian wives and, 346–347; family support by, 339–340; food and textiles by, 338–339, 345; household management of, 337–338; relationships of, 340–341, 342–346; stockbreeding by, 331–332, 331n23; summary of economic activities by, 328, 336–337 Zion, 173 Zipporah, 200–201, 201n44, 209n98