Weapons of Words: Intertextual Competition in Babylonian Poetry 9004412964, 9789004412965

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Weapons of Words: Intertextual Competition in Babylonian Poetry

Culture and History of the Ancient Near East Founding Editor M.H.E. Weippert

Editor-in-Chief Jonathan Stökl

Editors Eckart Frahm W. Randall Garr B. Halpern Theo P.J. van den Hout Leslie Anne Warden Irene J. Winter

volume 106

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/chan

Weapons of Words: Intertextual Competition in Babylonian Poetry A Study of Anzû, Enūma Elis̆, and Erra and Is̆um

By

Selena Wisnom

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Wisnom, Laura Selena, 1986- author. Title: Weapons of words: intertextual competition in Babylonian poetry : a study of Anzū, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum / by Selena Wisnom. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2019. | Series: Culture and history of the ancient Near East, 15662055 ; volume 106 | Based on the author's dissertation (doctoral)–University of Oxford, 2014. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019034058 (print) | LCCN 2019034059 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004412965 (hardback) | ISBN 9789004412972 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Epic poetry, Assyro-Babylonian–History and criticism. | Intertextuality. Classification: LCC PJ3761 .W57 2019 (print) | LCC PJ3761 (ebook) | DDC 892/.1–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034058 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034059

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill‑typeface. ISSN 1566-2055 ISBN 978-90-04-41296-5 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-41297-2 (e-book) Copyright 2020 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Acknowledgements

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Introduction 1 1 Intertextuality and Allusion 1 2 The Three Poems 4 3 The Study of Ancient Allusions 9 3.1 What Counts as an Allusion? 11 3.2 Intentionality 16 4 Competitive Strategies of Allusion 19 5 The Babylonian Literary Background 23 5.1 An Intellectual Context 24 5.2 Scribal Education 26 5.3 Versions and Variants 29 6 Structure of the Book 30 1 Allusions in Anzû 33 1 Introduction 33 1.1 From Old Babylonian to Standard Babylonian 35 2 The Re-shaping of Ninurta’s Victories: Lugal-e and An-gin₇ 2.1 Ominous Beginnings 38 2.2 The Weapon Brought to Life 40 3 New Names, New Identities 42 3.1 Labbu 45 3.2 Atraḫasīs 51 3.3 The Return of Lugalbanda 54 4 Lamentations 59 5 Reverse Intertextuality 62 6 Conclusions 64 2 Enūma eliš and Anzû 66 1 Introduction 66 2 Marduk as the New Ninurta 70 2.1 The Dutiful Son 73 2.2 Blood on the Wind 75 3 The Tablet of Destinies 78 4 Poisonous Monsters, ‘Poisonous’ Arrows

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6 7

Structural Imitations and Adaptations 91 5.1 The Beginning—Hysteron Proteron 91 5.2 The End—the Names 92 5.3 Repetition, Expansion, Contraction 94 5.4 Replacing the Traditional Triad 98 Lord of Incantations 101 Conclusions 103

3 Enūma eliš and Atraḫasīs 105 1 Introduction 105 2 Destructions: The Dethroning of Enlil 108 2.1 Noise and the Deluge 110 2.2 Overthrowing Bad Kings 115 2.3 When the Gods Were (like) Man 117 2.4 The Stripping of the Crown 117 2.5 The Second Sleep Disturbance 119 3 Creations: Superseding Ea 122 3.1 A Counterpart to Apsû 123 3.2 The Creation of Man 124 3.3 Freedom from Toil 126 3.4 The Creation of Babylon 128 4 Conclusions 128 4 Enūma eliš and Lugal-e 131 1 Introduction 131 2 Elements of the Battle 132 2.1 Šar-ur Reappears 133 2.2 Winds, Deluge, Spear 138 2.3 Qingu and the Leader of the Stones 3 Establishing Order 143 3.1 New Creation 144 3.2 Controlling the Waters 146 3.3 Controlling Apsû’s Waters 150 3.4 50 Destinies, 50 Names 151 3.5 Structural Overview 154 4 Conclusions 155

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5 Erra and Išum: Allusions to Anzû and Lugal-e 1 Introduction 158 2 Anzû: The Background 163 3 Erra as Anzû 166 3.1 The Tablet of Destinies 166 3.2 Stripped of Power 167 3.3 As if to Catch the Evil Anzû? 168 4 Išum as Ninurta 169 5 Šar-ur Divides 173 6 Išum the Door 175 7 Where Is the Young Hero? 178 8 Conclusions 179

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6 Overturning the Old Order: Erra and Išum and Enūma eliš, Atraḫasīs, and Gilgameš 182 1 Introduction 182 2 Enūma eliš 183 2.1 Turning Marduk’s Own Poem against Him 185 3 The Deluge 192 4 Disturbed Sleep 198 4.1 Atraḫasīs 198 4.2 Enūma eliš 201 5 A Time before the Flood 206 6 Marduk’s Defeat and Erra’s Victory 211 7 Conclusions 214 7 Erra and Išum and Lamentations 216 1 Introduction 216 2 Erra and Išum and the Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur 218 2.1 Other Possibilities 223 2.2 The Continuity of a Tradition 226 2.3 Akkadian Traditions of the Destruction of Cities 227 2.4 The Parallels in Detail 229 2.5 Interpretation 236 3 The Functions of Lamentation and Praise 238 4 Conclusions 243

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Conclusion—a Self-Conscious Tradition 245 1 The Consequences of Competition 247 2 Implications for Literary History 249 3 The Power of Intertextuality 250 References 253 General Index 271 Index of Texts Cited

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Acknowledgements This book began life as a DPhil thesis submitted to the University of Oxford in 2014, and has since been substantially revised. My profoundest thanks go to my supervisor, Frances Reynolds, for her expert guidance, incredible thoroughness, kindness and encouragement. I could not have wished for a better supervisor. During my studies at Oxford I also benefitted from the advice of several other scholars. I was fortunate to be able to discuss finer points of Sumerian with Jacob Dahl and Marie-Christine Ludwig, while Stephanie Dalley and Christopher Metcalf both read early versions of the work on Erra and Išum when it was at the stage of MPhil research. I thank my examiners Andrew George and Jacob Dahl for their many useful and detailed comments on the thesis, and am deeply grateful to the late Jeremy Black and Wolfson College for setting up the studentship that supported me for four years. Going further back in time I thank Emily Kearns and Rebecca Armstrong, my Classics tutors at St. Hilda’s College who introduced me to intertextuality and encouraged my interest in the Ancient Near East. I am also grateful to Bruno Currie, who worked with me as an undergraduate and postgraduate student, and has greatly influenced my thinking on the relationship between Greek and Near Eastern literature. I began to revise the thesis during a Junior Research Fellowship at The Queen’s College, Oxford. Queen’s have been an enormous support to me, providing the perfect environment to carry out this work. In particular I thank the members of the Centre for Manuscript and Text Cultures for creating such a stimulating interdisciplinary research group and for believing so strongly in my work. Dirk Meyer and John Blair especially acted as mentors, advising me on many occasions. The Academic Writing Group at TORCH provided welcome company during many hours of editing. Some of the material in chapter two appeared as an article in the Journal of the American Oriental Society 139.2 as ‘Blood on the wind and the tablet of destinies: intertextuality in Anzû, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum’. I thank Johannes Haubold for inviting me to present the core of this work at a seminar in the Classics department at Durham and for the exchanges that took place there. The principal argument of chapter seven was presented at the Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in Philadelphia in 2016 as part of a workshop on intertextuality in cuneiform scholarship, and will be published in the proceedings. I thank Matthew Rutz and Zach Wainer for this kind invitation. Following the presentation I had many fruitful discussions with Uri Gabbay, Dina Katz, and Alan Lenzi, who all commented on a draft of the article, as well as with

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Gösta Gabriel, who gave me further references to the historical tradition. Soon afterwards I went to Heidelberg for a short research visit, where Sam Mirelman also commented on the paper and Hanspeter Schaudig generously shared his forthcoming book on the Ibbi-Sîn disaster with me in advance of publication. It was Ann Guinan who suggested I submit the manuscript to Brill and guided it through the first stages. The book has benefitted from the feedback of three anonymous reviewers whose comments have done much to improve it. I thank all the editors who were involved in this process, particularly the series editor Jonathan Stökl for giving it the green light, Katelyn Chin for her efficiency and professionalism, and Cas Van den Hof for his support during production. My closest allies while finishing this book have been Sophus Helle, Nicholas Postgate, and Martin Worthington. Sophus read the manuscript at various stages of preparation and gave many comments on structure and content, as well as helping with copy-editing at the end. I thank him for his unfailing encouragement, enthusiasm, and wider perspective on all the issues raised. Nicholas made many thoughtful suggestions on the manuscript and gave up many hours of his time to discuss philological points of detail throughout. It has been a real privilege to have him as a mentor and friend in Cambridge. Martin has commented on the work presented here many times in previous guises, often given helpful advice, and continually amazes me with his generosity as a colleague. Other readers who provided much-needed perspective include Marie-Françoise Besnier, Claudio Sansone, and Evelyne Koubková, and Ryan Winters engaged in many discussions of Sumerian passages with me. Naturally any remaining faults are my responsibility. Finally I thank my family and friends for their support during this long process. Above all I thank my parents, who encouraged my interest in ancient languages from the very beginning, took me to desert islands where I edited this book on the beach, and have inspired me in more ways than I can tell. Selena Wisnom Cambridge, 12/04/2019

Introduction This study is a close reading of three Babylonian poems, seeking to identify and interpret connections between them. Anzû, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum are heroic narratives about warrior gods that stand in a historical relationship, each one alluding to the poems that precede it. All three poems are central to Mesopotamian culture, but each is important in its own way, using intertextual allusions to accentuate just how different it is from its predecessors. What emerges from this study is a markedly competitive dynamic, as all three poems use allusions to demonstrate the superiority of their protagonists and ideals to those that came before them. Allusions, then, are weapons of words: these poems are in competition with those that precede them, and intertextual strategies are critical to this end. Analysing the ways that these poems interrelate opens up new possibilities for understanding them and reveals that the Babylonian literary tradition is far more complex and sophisticated than is usually acknowledged. This book is therefore also a manifesto for the study of intertextuality in Babylonian literature more widely. Given that interconnected webs of meaning have been found between all the poems studied here, it seems likely that other compositions should hold just as many, still waiting to be discovered. Like all great world literature, Babylonian literature is intricate and multi-layered, with each of these levels offering much to explore. However, comparatively little literarycritical work has so far been done in Assyriology, so the literary quality of these poems is often underestimated simply because it has not yet been the focus of much academic attention. This book argues that reading Babylonian poems intertextually reveals a dazzling virtuosity at work under the surface, and that intertextuality is one of the key characteristics of this sophisticated literary culture. Furthermore, I argue that the Babylonian poetic tradition is a distinctly self-conscious one, as it appears that composers were aware of the techniques employed in earlier poems and built on them deliberately.

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Intertextuality and Allusion

The term ‘intertextuality’ refers to a system where texts relate to each other. It encompasses all types of text within it, and all the different ways that they can relate, whether by deliberate allusion, quotation, use of stock phrases which are shared by other texts, echoing of a concept, or even just a casual similarity which reminds the reader of something they came across elsewhere. For

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412972_002

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example, the names at the end of Enūma eliš can be said to be intertextual with various lists of god names, and whatever the exact relationship between them—whether the names in Enūma eliš are based on one specific list or have vague similarities with others which are related to it—the similarities spark comparisons. Intertextuality is really a property of language itself, in that in any language, culture, or literary system, there are bound to be phrases, topics, figures of speech that recur, and which are the building blocks we use to create new utterances, sentences, and images. This, at least, is closer to what the term originally meant when it was coined by Julia Kristeva in 1966, as a philosophical statement about the nature of language (see Kristeva, 1980). It has since come to be used in many different ways, often as a synonym for ‘allusion’, so much so that Kristeva herself stopped using it and replaced it with the term ‘intersubjectivity’ instead.1 The most common use of the word ‘intertextual’ today is simply for connections ‘between texts’, and that, in a basic sense, will be how I will use it. If ‘intertextuality’ refers to the larger system, ‘allusion’ is more specific. When we say that a line of poem X alludes to poem Y we are pointing to one specific intertextual connection. Allusions to other poems point us back to other works and implicitly ask us to compare the text before us now with the original context of the reference. Such comparions create new layers of meaning, which affect the way the poem is interpreted. Allusions can add subtle nuances that enhance the text, provide new angles and perspectives, and sometimes radically change our understanding altogether, as subversive currents running below the surface are brought to the fore. Just as connecting the dots creates a new image, so new interpretations can emerge from connections between texts, revealing networks of meaning that had not previously been visible. Intertextuality is thus a kind of literary code. When we decode the meanings of these connections, new interpretations are unlocked. Consequently, when we identify a connection, we should not only point out that it is there, but also ask what difference it makes. Why has this particular association been invoked? Does it reinforce the text’s main programme, or does it point to other more implicit themes? How does it interact with and alter the voice of the poem as a whole? Subtleties such as these are what make literature dynamic and complex, and understanding them helps us to do justice to these poems as the intricate and multi-faceted works that they are.

1 For a brief history of the term see Seri (2014: 89–91), for an in-depth discussion see Juvan (2008: 49–95).

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A poem understood in isolation can only yield so much. Scholars of the ancient world usually think it reasonable and necessary to try to understand a poem in its context—that is, interpreting obscure references to places, names, religious practices, and so on. When we come across something that has a parallel in the world outside the poem, we naturally use what we know about that world to understand the poem. For example, in a simile in Erra and Išum, Marduk compares Babylon to a cylinder seal hung on ‘the neck of the sky’ (ina ti-ik-ki da-nim, IV.43).2 This is a lofty and abstract image that is beautiful in its own right. However, if we understand da-nim as the god ‘Anu’ as well as ‘sky’,3 and we know that giant cylinder seals made of precious materials really were dedicated to gods and hung around the necks of their statues,4 the image starts to make more sense and we can appreciate what lies behind the comparison: Marduk sees his city as a precious, sacred object, worthy to be a gift to a god. Much more is gained from unpacking the simile and understanding its terms of reference. Similarly, when we come across an allusion to another poem in a text, it does not help us very much just to point out that the same line, concept, or character occurs elsewhere. We ought to stop and consider what the allusion means. Interpreting an allusion requires us to compare the text before us with the text to which it is alluding (the ‘source text’), noticing the similarities and differences between them, as it is these which are key to understanding what the point of the comparison is.5 Some scholars prefer the term ‘reference’ to ‘allusion’ because it encapsulates this sense more precisely: the text sends us back to consult its models and then we are to consider how the new text differs from them (e.g. Thomas, 1986: 172). For instance, the first line of Erra and Išum is very similar to the first line of the Standard Babylonian version of Anzû. Comparing the two shows that Išum is addressed as the hero of the piece, comparable to Ninurta, while the subtle difference between the two opening lines is the first of many indications that Išum’s warrior aspect is different and superior to that of Ninurta. Traditional notions of intertextuality in Assyriology view motifs copied from one text to another essentially unchanged. Such beliefs may derive from the idea of a ‘stream of tradition’ whereby cuneiform texts were copied and recopied for hundreds of years after they were first composed.6 The lines that 2 3 4 5 6

As translated by Foster (2005: 903). As translated by Cagni (1977: 50). E.g. the seal dedicated to Marduk, VA Bab 646, RIMB 2: 104 ff. See Lyne (1987: 102–103); Pucci (1987: 237); Ben-Porat (1976: 127). The term was introduced by Oppenheim to characterise the transmission and preservation

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Enūma eliš borrows from Anzû, for example, are often treated as derivative, unimaginatively copied and pasted from one context into another. Another example of the implicit assumption that Mesopotamian poetic language is continually recycled in a static way is the fact that proposed allusions are often quickly dismissed as ‘just’ stock phrases, rather than being properly considered in context.7 The model of intertextuality proposed here breaks radically with this view. Motifs are not copied out of inertia, but are dynamically charged. They are not passive transfers of phrases, but sources of new meaning. They do not merely imitate but compete, challenging and reversing existing ideas rather than simply perpetuating them. In this sense, allusions are active agents in the rhetorical arsenal of Akkadian poetry, key weapons in the battles of the gods. There was undoubtedly a strong continuity in the cuneiform tradition, and the texts studied here were among those that were circulated most widely and transmitted over a long time span. Their important place in this tradition is one of the factors that makes allusion to these texts so likely and significant. However, in cultures that revere traditionality, originality is achieved by engaging with tradition, by adapting and playing with it in the creation of new texts. The ‘stream of tradition’ that preserved the classics of Mesopotamian literature was a living one, and rather than stifling innovation supported it.8

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The Three Poems

Anzû, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum have been chosen for this study because it is well-established that these three poems are in dialogue with each other,9 yet their precise connections remain under-explored. An absolute date of composition cannot be established for any of the poems,10 but they can safely be

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of literary texts (1960: 410, 1977: 13), although it has often been interpreted as more static and unchanging than he originally suggested (Pongratz-Leisten, 2015: 26). For criticisms of the term see especially Robson, pointing out that the tradition was much more varied than it implies (2011), and Veldhuis, who describes the transmission of lexical texts as ‘not so much a river or a stream, but rather a complex web of trails’ (2012: 22). Stock phrases do of course exist as distinct from allusions, and their likelihood should be taken into account, but the division between the two is not as clear cut as we would like— see pp. 12–13. On the difference between a flexible ‘stream of tradition’ and a fixed canon see Assmann (2011: 76–78). See Lambert (1986), Machinist (2005), Frahm (2010a, 2011: 347–349), Katz (2011), and Seri (2014). For details see the individual chapters where the poems are first discussed.

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placed in chronological order. The earliest poem, Anzû,11 tells the story of how the god Ninurta rose to prominence by battling the evil demon Anzû to win back power stolen from the gods. Thanks to this victory, Ninurta is elevated to the position of supreme warrior deity and becomes a kind of paradigm of heroism in battle, the supreme example that was invoked by Neo-Assyrian kings to emphasise their prowess (Maul, 1999a: 209–210; Annus, 2001: xxi–xxiv). By becoming this, Ninurta replaces other warrior deities, and allusions to their stories highlight his superiority to them. Enūma eliš12 relates the rise of another god, Marduk of the city of Babylon, through his battle against a creature named Ti’āmtu, literally meaning ‘Sea’. Marduk is not only exalted as the supreme warrior but also as king of all the gods and creator of the cosmos, superior to all gods who came before him. Marduk’s wisdom, cleverness, and rulership are therefore just as important as his military strength, which is also reflected by the range of the poem’s allusions. Enūma eliš alludes to Anzû not only to show Marduk out-doing Ninurta at every turn but also to show him superseding the former ruler of the pantheon, Enlil, as depicted in both Anzû and the Akkadian poem Atraḫasīs. The latest poem discussed here is Erra and Išum,13 a poem of battle in rather a different sense. Here Erra stirs up battle on the human plane, his wrath manifesting itself as civil war in Babylonia as well as an attack by their traditional enemies. Yet the poem is in fact a condemnation of war, and the descriptions of battle are a lamentation of wanton destruction and bloodshed. The ideal of heroism in this poem is eloquence, countering violence with speech rather than force, and allusions are made to both Anzû and Enūma eliš to propose this new ideal, contrasting with the attitudes of the earlier poems. Despite their similarities, these poems have quite different characters. Anzû is a classic tale of the warrior’s rise to power and has a similar trajectory to many modern superhero movies. A force of chaos arises that threatens the cosmic order, none of the existing champions can face it, but a new hero steps up to defeat the monster and restore order, making a name for himself in the process. The plot is streamlined and focused on this single story, the narrative is exciting and suspenseful. Yet it is more than a celebration of warrior strength, for the power of language is also a major theme. To defeat Anzû, Ninurta must harness the magic of the tablet of destinies and turn Anzû’s own spell against him. The power of magic cannot be neutralised, only re-directed, and finding a solution requires the wisdom of Ea, god of incantations. The poem thus also enshrines 11 12 13

The most recent critical edition is by Annus (2001). Edited by Lambert (2013). Edition Cagni (1969), with further material published by Lambert (1980a) and Al-Rawi & Black (1989).

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magic and word play as vital and potent forces in the universe, demonstrating their importance as fundamental pillars of Mesopotamian scholarship.14 Enūma eliš is also built on the central plot of a battle against chaos that earns the victor a high position among the gods, yet the narrative is more complex and broader in scope. More widely known as the ‘Babylonian Epic of Creation,’ it begins with the emergence of the universe and the birth of the first gods, while the outcome of the battle is the creation of the world, of mankind, and the city of Babylon. Marduk’s battle is not the only conflict in this poem as it is prefigured by Ea’s murder of the first king Apsû, itself part of a wider conflict among the gods that culminates in the rebellion of Ti’āmtu and her children. The plot is woven from many different strands, bringing together diverse traditions from across Mesopotamian mythology and directing them all towards the glorification of Marduk. The climax is a great list of Marduk’s names, taking up the entirety of tablet seven and 44 lines of tablet six as well. The poem clearly has a religious function: it justifies the supremacy of Marduk over all other gods, both through his actions in the narrative and through the names, which reflect his syncretisms with other gods and titles that he has taken over. Enūma eliš was recited at the new year festival in Babylon15 and at a ritual in Marduk’s temple Esagil on the fourth day of the month of Kislīmu,16 and was therefore connected to the priesthood both by its content and the way it was used. The background to this poem is therefore much clearer than for either Anzû or Erra and Išum, as it is tied to the cult of Marduk and provides a mythological basis for the political power of his city of Babylon (Lambert, 1964). Erra and Išum is the only one of the three to show the effects of conflicts among the gods on the human realm. It can be read as an attempt to explain the chaos of war through a breakdown of order in the divine sphere, yet this is itself partly attributable to the neglect of cultic rites on earth. As the bond between heaven and earth is undone, order falls apart on both the human and divine levels. Resentful for not being recognised as he feels he deserves, Erra tricks Marduk into giving up his seat of power and unleashes his attack upon Babylo14 15

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I will discuss this aspect further in an article forthcoming with the proceedings of the workshop on ‘Legitimising Magic’ held at Philipps-Universität Marburg in July 2018. Mentioned in a Seleucid ritual tablet (Linssen, 2004: 219–220, lines 280–282) and in the Neo-Assyrian Marduk Ordeal (Livingstone, 1989: 84, line 34). For the use of Enūma eliš in the new year festival see Maul (2000) and Zgoll (2006: 23–25, 48–60). As attested by a Seleucid tablet published by Çaǧirgan & Lambert (1991–1993: 96, lines 62– 65), though the ritual itself is probably Neo-Babylonian. This raises the possibility that Enūma eliš may have been recited more often than previously thought—not only at the new year festival, but perhaps even on the fourth day of every month. For discussion see Zgoll (2006: 49–51).

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nia, while Išum pleads with him to desist. This dialogue between Erra and Išum is the vehicle for the narrative as each describes the catastrophes unfolding, Erra’s perspective one of pride, Išum’s one of lament. This method of narration is highly unusual in Babylonian poetry, giving the poem an immediate and dramatic quality. Indeed, the real battle of the text is not between a god and a monster, but between these two characters, Erra and Išum, a battle of opposing speeches. Weapons of words are here employed directly, as Išum’s persuasion is the only effective weapon against Erra’s attack. The poem is deeply expressive and emotional, and rich in figurative language. In addition to its literary qualities it also had a practical function, as the poem itself declares that singing it, learning it, or even hanging it up in one’s house will avert evil (V.53–55, 57–58).17 Just as Išum’s praise of Erra eventually appeases him and brings an end to his wrath in the poem, displaying the text itself has the same effect: human beings honour Erra with this poem and thereby prevent his anger. The principles espoused in the poem therefore correlate with reality, affirming the power of language. Rather than this power working through magic as it does in Anzû, here it is lamentation and praise that are held up as effective ways to counter the malignancy of the gods. Different though they are these poems interrelate, and many kinds of borrowings and allusions can be discerned between them. Lambert (1986) first acknowledged that Enūma eliš borrows elements from Anzû to depict Marduk as the new Ninurta, the implications of which were highlighted by Machinist: ‘The similarities with and modifications of the Anzû text … allow us to appreciate more precisely what Enūma eliš is about’ (2005: 44). Machinist frames these borrowings as deliberate artistry and extends the picture to include Erra and Išum. Allusions to Anzû in Erra and Išum identify Išum with Ninurta, the hero, and Erra with Anzû, the threat to cosmic order. Erra and Išum alludes to Enūma eliš at the very moments where Erra destroys the cosmic order that Marduk created in the latter poem, and emphasises Erra’s usurpation of Marduk as ruler of Babylon (Machinist, 2005: 47–48). Frahm has also noted this aspect of Erra and Išum as a ‘counter-text’ to Enūma eliš, reversing its themes and thereby undermining its authority (Frahm, 2010a, 2011: 347–349). Erra and Išum thus builds on and subverts the allusive patterns in Enūma eliš, and the three poems form a sequence where each poem out-does its predecessors. The chains of allusion can become quite complex: for example, the blood on the wind that announces Marduk’s victory in Enūma eliš (IV.131–132) alludes to the feathers on the wind that announced Ninurta’s victory in Anzû

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See further below p. 24.

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(III.22–23), and in Erra and Išum it is implied that palm fronds are carried away by the wind to signal Erra’s triumph over Marduk (IV.40). The image in Erra and Išum therefore resonates with the way that the motif in Enūma eliš interacts with Anzû: Marduk is now being replaced in the same way that he once replaced Ninurta, alluding to the very same image to make this point. This study aims to examine in detail what these borrowings mean, but also to look outside these three poems to explore their allusions to other texts. Thus the Sumerian poems Lugal-e, The Return of Lugalbanda, and the Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur are also discussed, as are ritual texts known as balaĝ-laments and the Akkadian poems Labbu, Atraḫasīs, and Gilgameš. Lugal-e18 was a staple of the poetic tradition right into the very latest periods of cuneiform culture and is alluded to by all three of the major poems under consideration here. It told of Ninurta’s battle against the demon Asag, a version of the god’s rise to power that remained important for subsequent accounts of battle to engage with even after Anzû was written. The Return of Lugalbanda19 is relevant for Anzû since it contains the first known appearance of Anzu in literature, which shows him helping king Lugalbanda make his way home after becoming lost in the mountains. The Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur20 is a poem describing the utter chaos seen in Sumer at the overthrow of the Ur III dynasty, which has close parallels with the destruction of Babylon as narrated in Erra and Išum. The other Akkadian poems discussed include Labbu, Atraḫasīs, and the epic of Gilgameš. The first of these, Labbu,21 is an account of the defeat of another terrifying monster by a warrior deity, the first that we know of in the Akkadian tradition. Atraḫasīs22 tells the story of the creation of mankind and their near-destruction by the primeval flood. While Gilgameš23 is today the most famous of all Mesopotamian poems, it only forms a small part of the discussion here, being used by Erra and Išum to emphasise the disintegration of civilized behaviour with which the epic is concerned. Each of these poems and their importance will be more fully introduced in the chapters where they first feature.

18 19 20 21 22

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Edition van Dijk (1983). Edition Vanstiphout (2003). Edition Michalowski (1989). Edition Lambert (2013: 361–365). The Old Babylonian text is edited by Lambert & Millard (1969), complemented by the commentary by Shehata (2001) which includes manuscripts published since. For the Standard Babylonian version see George & Al-Rawi (1996). Edition George (2003).

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The Study of Ancient Allusions

My methodology is informed by approaches to Greek and Latin literature that have long been employed to discover and make sense of allusions. The study of allusions has been a core part of the discipline of Classics ever since its inception. However, there have also been many theoretical discussions concerning the terms ‘allusion’ and ‘intertextuality’ and a variety of viewpoints are held, depending on how author-centred the approach is. Intertextual approaches are most highly developed in Latin studies, which have led the way in adopting new critical techniques for the analysis of ancient poetry.24 The readiness of scholars to embrace intertextuality in this field is due to the fact that we know that Roman literary culture valued allusion and imitation highly, not as slavish dependence on earlier texts but as a way of enhancing a new work and even aiming to improve on its model (Russell, 1979; Hutchinson, 2013: 30). The sense is often one of progress and competition, rather than derivativeness and degeneration.25 This culture had its roots in the Greek Hellenistic world and the aesthetic ideals of the Alexandrian poets, who favoured a learned, even scholarly approach to literature (see e.g. Giangrande, 1967). By exploring associations between texts, we are thus engaging in the same process as ancient readers, albeit with our own, twenty-first century perspective. Allusion is recognised as a vital part of classical and archaic Greek poetry as well (e.g. Garner, 1989), and the study of intertextuality in early Greek literature is growing (Fowler, 1997: 28 with references). A school of thought known as ‘Neo-analysis’ proposes that the Iliad and Odyssey meaningfully allude to poems that do not survive other than in summaries of their content or quotations.26 The recent explosion in interest in the potential relationships between early Greek poetry and that of the ancient Near East27 has led neo-analysts to look beyond Greece for Homer’s potential sources, even suggesting allusion to Gilgameš (Currie, 2011). The intertextual approach has thus been used for many types of literary cultures, from the ‘bookish’ Hellenistic scholars and their Roman successors, through the performance context of Greek tragedy and lyric, to the controver-

24 25 26 27

First with Pasquali (1951). See especially Conte (1986); Barchiesi (1984); Lyne (1987) and (1994); Farrell (1991); Fowler (1997) and (2000); Hinds (1998). Cf. Barchiesi (1993) for a different argument about dependence on tradition as meaningful engagement. For overviews of Neo-analysis see Clark, (1986); Willcock, (1997). e.g. Burkert (1992); Penglase (1994); West (1997); López-Ruiz (2010); Metcalf (2015); Bachvarova (2016).

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sial world of Homer and orality. Even in contexts where we have no explicit statements that allusion was part of the shared aesthetic, meaningful allusions have still been found. The same is true for Mesopotamia: although we have no Mesopotamian literary criticism to guide us as to how they interpreted their literature, it evidently contains references, quotations, and learned scribal games, all of which point towards a literary culture with some of the same features as those in the later Classical world. It is this which makes the application of this methodology particularly relevant to cuneiform literature. This has been noticed by Classicists too, for example, it has been argued that Gilgameš uses strategies of allusion similar to those used by Homer (Currie, 2011). The scribal education of Mesopotamia familiarised students with many different types of text. Particularly in the case of literary texts, where we find a sophisticated and learned approach to reading and writing, these other compositions would be recalled, whether consciously or unconsciously, and inform the interpretation of the work. By reconstructing the relationships between texts, we can try to reconstruct the range of associations which the Mesopotamians would have used to interpret their literature, and we can come closer to understanding it. Vanstiphout argued for this approach in 1986, giving several examples of high literary consciousness in Sumerian literature that refer to other texts and traditions (Vanstiphout, 1986a: 217–227). We can expect this common level of knowledge amongst scribes of the early first millennium as well, since a survey of the libraries so far excavated reveals that they contain almost the same texts (Charpin, 2010: 214). Discussions of intertextuality in Assyriology are becoming increasingly prevalent, though the phenomenon has not yet been studied systematically. An overview of various types of intertextual relationships in Akkadian literature is given by Foster (2005: 22–26, 2007: 113–114); other important studies include Hallo (1990), who draws attention to the prevalence of intertextuality in Mesopotamian literature and offers some observations on the occurrence of proverbs in literary texts, and Black (1998), who explores intertextuality in the Sumerian poem Lugalbanda. Of particular importance for this book is Lambert (1986), who argues for an intertextual relationship between Enūma eliš and Anzû; and Machinist (2005), who extends this to include Erra and Išum. Articles by Katz (2011) and Seri (2012, 2014) explore some allusions in Enūma eliš, while Seri (2006) discusses its relationship to god lists, and Frahm further shows that Erra and Išum can be read as a subversive response to Enūma eliš (2011). Studies that enlarge our field of view of the range of texts that allude and are alluded to include Halton (2009), who finds allusions to epics in oracle answers, and Cooley (2008), who finds allusions to astronomical omens in Erra and Išum. From a more theoretical perspective, Pongratz-Leisten analyses Ludlul

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Bēl Nēmeqi as an intertextual composition (2010) using the terminology of the theorist Genette (1997), and Pearce reflects on the intertextuality inherent in the cuneiform writing system and culture more generally (2006). A recent interdisciplinary volume, Between Text and Text, explores how theories of intertextuality can be applied to a range of ancient cultures, including Mesopotamia (Bauks, Horowitz, Lange, & Hene, 2013). In Sumerian studies, Feldt looks at intertextual references in the Gudam text (2004), an article by Alster analysing Inanna’s Descent speaks of intertextual links with other literary works, rituals, and incantations, calling it ‘an innovative and original literary conglomerate’ rather than simply a myth (2011: 71), and Gabbay explores intertextual connections between proverbs and laments (2011). Most recently, Pongratz-Leisten discusses intertextual relationships between Assyrian royal inscriptions and mythological texts (2015), in particular building on work by Weissert (1997) to draw attention to the plethora of allusions to Enūma eliš, Erra and Išum, and the Tukulti-Ninurta Epic in Sennacherib’s account of the battle of Halule. A forthcoming book by Johannes Bach further analyses intertextuality in Assyrian royal inscriptions, taking Sargon’s eighth campaign and Esarhaddon’s apology as case studies,28 and in a recent article he traces intertextual relationships between the Underworld Vision of an Assyrian Prince, Gilgameš, and the socalled ‘Göttertypentext’ (Bach, 2018). These studies span a wide range of Mesopotamian literary texts and thereby show that intertextuality is an important field of inquiry, yet they represent only the beginning of what is possible in our field. 3.1 What Counts as an Allusion? How can we reasonably determine what counts as an allusion, and how can we know that a suspected allusion is not merely a coincidence? In considering Greek tragedy, Taplin proposes that ‘the only question we can ask … is this: is it there or is it not? “Is it there?” If the point is to be accepted, it should (broadly speaking) meet three conditions: it should be prominent, coherent, and purposeful’ (1978: 6). If the allusion stands out, if it coheres with the rest of the poem, and it contributes something interesting, then we are justified in interpreting it.29 Some of the allusions I discuss may not seem prominent at first sight since many of them have gone undetected until now, but this is due to 28 29

Based on a thesis Untersuchungen zur transtextuellen Poetik assyrischer herrschaftlichnarrativer Texte, Freie Universität Berlin 2016. Cf. Fowler, ‘We require a correspondence to stand out and to make sense, that is, if someone wants to convince the interpretative community of a particular intertextual relation, s/he must say how the correspondence between the source- and target-texts is special, and s/he must do something interesting with it, make it mean’ (1997: 20).

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our unfamiliarity with cuneiform literature as compared with that of a native Mesopotamian. Prominence is difficult to define, since whatever criteria are proposed, an example of a prominent allusion can usually be found which does not conform (see Silk, 1974: 66). In the end it comes down to probability: how likely is it that this is an allusion? Does it make sense? Coherence is another factor: if an allusion fits into a consistent thematic programme in the text or is accompanied by many other allusions in a similar vein, either to the same source text or with a similar significance, we may consider it more likely to be deliberate.30 Yet however much we may desire certainty in this matter, literature is inherently subjective. Different readers may make different connections, and some will be more widely accepted than others. Ultimately, allusions cannot be proved or disproved (cf. Garner, 1989: 1): ‘one of the reasons for the durability and continuing usefulness of [the term] ‘allusion’ … is precisely the teasing play which it defines between revelation and concealment’ (Hinds, 1998: 23). The frequency of words and phrases in the cuneiform corpus can to some extent address the likelihood of an allusion to an exact quotation. Rare words and phrases are striking and prominent when they reoccur across texts, and can be clear reminders of a famous instance in which they were used. Conversely, we might think that the more common the phrase, the less likely it is to evoke one particular text. However, while this kind of evidence might increase or decrease the likelihood of allusion, its absence cannot rule out the possibility. Firstly, not all literary sentences contain rare words, so we cannot demand this as a necessary criterion for allusion. Secondly, allusions are often echoes of an idea and may use different words from the text they refer to, yet strongly and recognisably evoke it (Halton, 2009: 51–52).31 Thirdly, even if the language used is formulaic or generic, this cannot discount an allusion. It is possible for one particular use of a formula to become so well known that it can be alluded to in other texts. For example, the exclamation ‘me miserum!’ in the first poem 30

31

Cf. Sommer: ‘If I find one or two cases in which an allusion occurs in a section regarded by others as a hodgepodge of fragments, one might view my findings as coincidental … But if I find scores of such borrowings, and if they display consistent patterns in their reuse of older material, then the notion that all these cases result from happenstance becomes untenable’ (Sommer, 1998: 5). Fowler gives a good example: the phrase ‘to ski or après-ski?’ is obviously an allusion to Hamlet’s ‘to be or not to be?’, even though the key word is different (1997: 15). This is the case regardless of whether the person uttering it was thinking of Shakespeare, for it is the textual system that determines the meaning of the sentences as much as any personal intentions (Fowler, 1997: 15).

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of Ovid’s Amores is considered to be an allusion to a specific use of the phrase in the first poem of Propertius’ elegies (McKeown, 1989: 27). This is despite the fact that it was a common phrase in Roman speech: the pull exerted by the popularity of Propertius, the fact that Ovid writes in the same genre, the similarities of the contexts, and the prominent position of both instances in the first poems of their respective collections make it likely that this is an allusion (Hinds, 1998: 30–34). In fact, it can even be said that the prevalence of formulae, generic language, and topoi can, rather than make allusion impossible, actually enable it (Pucci, 1987; Hinds, 1998: 34). Each redeployment of a formula will have its own individual meaning due to its appearance in a specific context (Pucci, 1987: 29), and yet it will also resonate with its uses elsewhere in the tradition. Thus Pucci argues that the repetitive nature of Homer’s language makes allusion inevitable, as it results in ‘an incessant play of sameness and difference’, which is the very nature of allusion (1987: 29). Type scenes and literary topoi can, as well as alluding to famous individual instances, allude to the tradition as a whole, invoking the memory of their use in multiple contexts (Hinds, 1998: 34–47). This is an equally rich and valid way of engaging with a literary tradition, and can also be applied to cuneiform literature, for example, in cases such as the stock description of the netherworld which reoccurs in Ištar’s Descent, Nergal and Ereškigal, and Gilgameš.32 However, my focus in this book is on the ways that poems connect specifically to other poems, and so this kind of approach will not be discussed in detail. The relative commonality or rarity of a phrase is therefore far less important as a determining criterion than it may first appear. It can be a useful piece of evidence to weigh into the balance, but it only changes the nature of the interpretation rather than confirming or denying it. When the words used in two passages are exactly the same, very similar, or rare I bring them into the discussion as they indicate a reference that is particularly direct, but since linguistic criteria cannot disprove an allusion I do not dwell on them at length. What about similarities of plot? My analysis often compares the sequence of events in these poems as a meaningful way of articulating similarities and differences between warrior gods and their literary predecessors. However, it could be argued that any poems about warrior gods will inevitably have similar structures because they belong to the same genre, and because of the patterns inherent in certain types of stories. For example, Vladimir Propp (1968) iden-

32

I discuss this particular case in an article forthcoming with the proceedings of the workshop on ‘How to tell a story’ held at the Marburg Rencontre in 2017.

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tified certain elements in common to the structures of all Russian folk tales, suggesting that despite differences in detail they were strikingly similar on the structural level. Or it could be said that only a small number of basic plots exist (as those in e.g. Booker, 2004), and so any poem about a warrior’s rise to power will inherently have similarities with that of others. The answer to this partly overlaps with the response to formulaic language: the reoccurrence of these structures inherently enables comparison. In fact, a strong expectation of how a plot will unfold makes it all the more noticeable when a poem deviates from the norm. The fact that Anzû and Lugal-e are famous instances of what we might call ‘the warrior god’s rise to power’ means that they in turn become programmatic. When Enūma eliš makes specific, verbal allusions to these poems, it cannot help but spark comparisons with their structures as well. The reader will remember how Ninurta behaved in these previous poems more generally, and will notice whether Marduk follows suit or deviates from his actions. The author has no choice in this matter. Anyone writing a poem about Ninurta cannot prevent the reader from thinking about how it compares with its famous predecessors, just as the portrayal of Marduk in Erra and Išum cannot escape comparison with the portrayal of Marduk in Enūma eliš (cf. Fowler, 1997: 15– 17). The poets can, however, use this inevitability to their advantage, and play with these expectations, and this is what I believe is happening when I speak of ‘structural allusion’. Structural allusions are not always the result of coincidence, but can be a very real part of how the author shapes the poem to make specific points. I believe these are worth interpreting when what may seem to be casual similarities are supported by more specific textual correspondences. For example, there are many structural similarities between Enūma eliš and Anzû, but there are also numerous and specific textual allusions in Enūma eliš to Anzû that signpost a direct and deep engagement with this poem, and it is therefore reasonable to consider its structure as part of this intertextual programme. Indeed, it can be shown that the structure of Enūma eliš is in fact based on the structure of Anzû, which makes analysis of these features all the more relevant. However this can be extended further: I propose that playing with the structure of earlier poems is in fact a fundamental and widely used strategy of Mesopotamian intertextuality, as it can be seen not only in the relation between Enūma eliš and Anzû but also between Enūma eliš and Lugal-e, and between Erra and Išum and the Lamentation over the destruction of Sumer and Ur. It has been suggested that these kinds of similarities are the result of scribes drawing on their broad memory of literature in general rather than alluding to specific compositions: that when scribes composed new texts they used struc-

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tures and motifs that they had memorised during their education, building blocks whose original meaning was often lost (Carr, 2005: 36). However, while memorisation was a feature of scribal training, there is no need to assume that the original contexts of such motifs would not be remembered. If anything, intense memorisation encourages the retention of such details. The Iliad and Odyssey are made up of building blocks—traditional formulae, epithets, and type scenes that were memorised in order to be recombined in new compositions—yet it has still been argued that they are highly allusive.33 As discussed above, repetitive language enables allusion rather than prevents it. Furthermore, the specific ways that motifs are re-used in these poems do suggest a more considered dynamic. Reversals, for example, are not simply copies of earlier motifs but are by definition transformations, and so point to a deliberate self-consciousness in changing and adapting the text. Understanding allusions often helps to make more sense of these poems, as lines and concepts that once seemed obscure are illuminated by their literary context. The realization that a poem is alluding to earlier texts can often explain utterances that would otherwise be nonsensical: ‘the complete interpretation of the poem is made possible for the reader only by the intertext’ (Riffaterre, 1978: 149–150). We will see a particularly clear example of this in chapter four, where intertextuality can even clarify the philological ambiguity in the ‘blocking’ of Mummu in Enūma eliš (see pp. 150–151).34 However, as well as solving puzzles, intertextual readings can set up tensions and raise questions (Barchiesi, 2001: 146). They allow other perspectives to emerge, sometimes radically different from what seems to be the text’s main message.35 Ultimately this study is an empirical one, based firmly on the texts. I argue for interpretations that strike me as likely, using evidence from both the texts themselves and the wider Mesopotamian cultural context. However, I acknowledge that these readings are not the only ones possible. There will inevitably be points I have missed, places where the meanings of allusions can be pushed even further, and interpretations that reveal still other facets of these complex texts. My aim is to provide a starting point for the intertextual unpacking of Babylonian literature, a case study in interpretation to show how these kinds of dynamics can work. ‘The intertext presents vistas and possibilities that would otherwise remain unglimpsed and inaccessible’ (Farrell, 1997: 237). These poems are so rich and sophisticated that they surely have even more yet to tell us. 33 34 35

See e.g. Currie (2016: 4–12), with further discussion. For an example of this in Biblical studies see Lanzillotta (2013). This is what is meant by Lyne’s ‘further voices’ (1987).

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3.2 Intentionality Speaking of allusions and references in a poem implies that the text is a bearer of literary intention. It implies that the poem means to convey a given message, that its author is deliberately nudging us towards a particular comparison. However, since the 1960s there has been much anxiety over the ‘problem’ of how we can know what the author of a text really intended. In an essay published in 1967, Barthes famously declared that the author was dead—i.e. that s/he had no relevance to our interpretation of a text and that it was a pointless enterprise to try to reconstruct what s/he really thought (Barthes, 1967). This was thought to be true even if the author was still alive and could be consulted about their intention, for the authors themselves were not in control of their literary language. Rather, ‘the text is a tissue of citations, resulting from the thousand sources of culture’ (Barthes, 1967: 4). Excluding authors and their intentions from an analysis of cuneiform literature might then seem to be a useful approach. It is perfectly possible to trace connections between poems, compare them and analyse the significance that emerges, without speaking of what the poem or author is ‘trying’ to do. However, this is not the approach I take.36 Other literary critics have since claimed back intention as a useful concept. For example, Umberto Eco speaks of intentio operis, ‘the intention of the work’, which essentially refers to sensible conclusions that can be drawn about what the text is doing from the text itself, without invoking any biographical information about its author (Eco, 1992: 66).37 It was biographical criticism that provoked postmodernist theorists to oppose the invocation of the author to begin with, as the approach was taken to extremes in the early twentieth century. It was argued, for example, that the Earl of Oxford was more likely to have written Hamlet than Shakespeare, because he had been captured by pirates whereas Shakespeare had not (Shapiro, 2010: 268, 303). Supposedly direct experience made the Earl of Oxford more able to write about Hamlet’s experience than Shakespeare, who merely had indirect knowledge and imagination to work from. One extreme position easily provokes another, but as is often the case, the truth is somewhere in between, and the pendulum has now swung back the other way. Just two years after the appearance of “The Death of the Author”, Michael Foucault delivered a lecture exploring the function of the author as a concept, if not as a person with 36 37

Similarly in Biblical studies see e.g. Sommer (1998) and Wagner (2013). John Barton, in arguing for its applicability to ancient literature, describes intentio operis as the notion that a text has ‘a sense that follows from the way it is written and constructed, irrespective of what the author or authors or tradents or compilers may have had in their minds at the time’ (2013: 18).

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intentions (published in Foucault, 1977). Among scholars of English literature today it is now common to read, for example, the politics of Wordsworth’s Prelude in the light of him seeing his friends beheaded during the French revolution, or the poetry of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes in the light of their turbulent relationship. In Classics, Heath has argued that asking questions about intentions is not to ask about unknowable psychological states, but rather to enquire into the text as the product of purposive behaviour (2002: 63–64). What matters is not to go to extremes: to be aware of the limits of what we can know and to be reasonable in our assumptions. As Assyriologists we are in less danger of falling into the traps of the extremes of the ‘intentional fallacy’ (a term coined by Wimsatt & Beardsley, 1946), because we know nothing about our authors’ lives, in most cases not even their names. However, certain assumptions have been made about them based on what we find in the texts, and this seems to me to be entirely legitimate. It is obvious that the ‘point’ of Enūma eliš (or at least one of the points) was to elevate Marduk and so justify Babylon’s rise to power. The evidence is so much in the text that it would be difficult to draw any other conclusion (of course, one can point to other ‘purposes’ of the poem and disagree about their relative emphases, but this would not in itself invalidate the claim). From this, it is often extrapolated that Enūma eliš was written by a priest (or priests) of Marduk for the explicit purpose of exalting their god above all others. There seems to me to be nothing wrong with this line of argument, given that whoever wrote Enūma eliš and Babylonian poems in general must have been highly educated to the level that only a priest is likely to have been. This is more akin to Eco’s intentio operis than speculating about what was happening in the author’s mind, and it is not likely to lead us to absurd conclusions. However, we can go further. Allusions can in fact help us to understand more about the text’s original purpose. For example, correspondences between Anzû and Labbu show that the competitive relationship between these poems is in fact a result of the competitive relationship between the gods who are their protagonists. As part of the theology that sees Ninurta/Ningirsu supersede all other warrior gods, he takes over their stories as well. This is in line with what is known about religious developments in the Old Babylonian period, when Anzû was composed, and so the interpretation fits with the contemporary context of the poem. It is also the same phenomenon we see later in Enūma eliš that puts Marduk in competition with Ninurta, at a time when Marduk took over from Ninurta in the world outside the poem. In this light, a literary allusion can be seen as another piece of evidence that can be used to reconstruct ancient Mesopotamian world views.38 The study of ancient texts is exactly this, an attempt 38

For a similar approach to Isaiah see Sommer (1998).

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to work out what they mean.39 Trying to reconstruct their original purpose is a justified part of this endeavour, which comes back to the intentions of whoever wrote them, as well as how the texts were received.40 Those who prefer not to speak of authorial intention do so because they fear the discussion will be reduced to arguing over what the author was thinking, which in the case of ancient Mesopotamia is obviously irrecoverable. However, the notion is problematic anyway, since even if the author unconsciously wrote a line which evokes another poem, it cannot be denied that the similarity is there. It may even still fit very well with the overall programme that the author did intend. In fact, much of the process of writing is ‘unconscious’: no matter how much writers plan their work, when it comes to producing it, elements of the unconscious assist. Critics can discern intentions from lines which were not originally written with that intention specifically in mind, and yet the writer can still agree that such an interpretation is true to their overall aim. What is conscious and unconscious in an author’s work blurs into indistinction, but it turns out that one does not have to know what the author was thinking after all to make insightful interpretations of their work. I am arguing for deliberate, intended allusion in these poems, but I also use the term ‘intertextuality’ because it acknowledges that multiple interpretations are possible. No two readers will interpret a poem in exactly the same way, but their readings are equally valid as long as they are based on what is there in the text. From an intertextualist viewpoint, the reader is the one who constructs meaning by drawing these connections.41 Emphasising the reader’s interpretation sidesteps arguments about what the author intended and opens up the rich possibilities of literary polyphony.42 It is even possible for there to be contradictory readings of the same text, as in Virgil’s Aeneid, which exalts Augustus at the same time as undermining him through allusion (e.g. Lyne, 1987: 27–32). When we stay open to these possibilities when reading a given text, a variety

39 40 41

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This is not to say that there is only one true meaning, for asking what a text ‘means’ encompasses a variety of more specific questions (Heath, 2002: 45). cf. Heath (2002: 117, 128–129). For an analysis of this process see Ben-Porat (1976). The article is an oft-cited definition of allusion, yet focuses on how the reader creates meaning by identifying a signal or marker of allusion, and comparing it to another text. See Juvan on intentio intertextualitatis, when the reader’s intertextual knowledge draws on compositions the author was not intending to allude to, yet still with positive and meaningful results. ‘In the end it is not necessary to search out proofs for textual interactions in more or less erudite writings; they are to be met at every step, in each written or spoken sentence’ (Juvan, 2008).

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of voices emerge.43 However, at the same time, we need the idea of the author to be able to talk about allusion in a way that does justice to the complexity of these poems: ‘Without some idea of the poet as aetiologist, as mobilizer of his own tradition, ever tendentious and ever manipulative, our accounts of literary tradition will always turn out too flat. If we are to dramatize the immediacy of the interests at stake in the dynamics of appropriation, we must be prepared to personalize them’ (Hinds, 1998: 14).44 What the philosophical debates about intertextuality have done for us is to show that these arguments about whether or not the author intended something were really just about how strong the resemblance was (Fowler, 1997: 15). Allusions that are particularly recognisable tend to be more accepted as intended, while those that are less obvious attract more controversy. The term ‘intertextuality’ side-steps these issues by keeping the enquiry empirical and focused on the evidence in the text (as Lyne, 1994; Fowler, 2000: 112). Yet the term ‘allusion’ can remain a convenient way to talk about a specific intertextual connection, so long as we remember its limitations.

4

Competitive Strategies of Allusion

This book does not attempt to discuss all types of intertextuality found in Akkadian poetry but focuses on one specific kind: allusions that are competitive. The poems studied here compete in three main ways. Firstly, they elevate their protagonists over those of earlier poems, putting deities in competition with each other. Anzû depicts Ninurta as a mightier warrior than the god Tišpak of Labbu, while Enūma eliš elevates Marduk above Ninurta and Enlil. Erra and Išum then depicts Išum as superior to both Ninurta in Anzû and Marduk in Enūma eliš, something that is never directly stated but only implied through allusion to the poems that articulated the superiority of those gods. Secondly, the poems compete by elevating very different ideals, for the gods they praise are able to succeed through qualities that are different from those that have gone before. Anzû celebrates the combination of strength and cunning over strength alone, while Enūma eliš is relentless in portraying Marduk’s power as absolutely unrivalled, facing no serious obstacles to the execution of his will. Erra and Išum is different again, for instead of escalating this dynamic it

43 44

An approach applied to Near Eastern literature especially by Walls (2001: 6 and passim). cf. Lyne (1987: 3); Heath (2002: 92).

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takes the opposite approach: it is not strength at all but speech and persuasion that have real power, and are the only effective weapons when all else seems lost. Each poem puts forward its own distinct vision of the workings of the cosmos and the powers that govern it, and contrasts it with the views expressed by the earlier texts. Thirdly, the poems compete with each other as poems, becoming more and more sophisticated, borrowing techniques and motifs and deploying them in ever more complex ways, becoming ever greater works of literature. The way that the different poems refer to the character Šar-ur is one example. While the original Šar-ur in Lugal-e was both a vizier and a mace, Anzû reduces his role to only that of a messenger. Enūma eliš splits the character in two, giving the vizier to the god Anšar rather than to the warrior protagonist, and downgrading the mace to an ordinary weapon. This shows Marduk as an independent and autonomous warrior who does not need any help or advice, and draws attention to the way that Anzû itself had adapted this character from Lugal-e. On the other hand, Erra and Išum splits the deified weapon-vizier character into two opposing forces, the peaceful vizier Išum and the bellicose weapons, the Seven. Both try to sway Erra and succeed at different times, showing his resolve to be weak and flighty. The poem thus uses the same technique as Enūma eliš, but does so to portray a completely different view of divine will. Erra and Išum therefore uses a similar strategy as Enūma eliš in alluding to this character but develops the technique one step further, pushing its poetics to new levels of complexity. Enūma eliš itself also competes with its predecessors as a poem. It is almost encyclopaedic in its scope as it tries to incorporate many different strands of mythology, in contrast to Anzû, which only tells a single story. Furthermore, Enūma eliš appears to learn from the mistakes of characters in earlier poems, as its own characters take courses of action that avoid certain troubles experienced in the past.45 The same phenomenon can be found in Erra and Išum, too, which characteristically reverses it.46 The range of allusive techniques at work in these poems is wide. We find quotations and adaptations of specific lines from earlier texts, as well as borrowings of imagery, structure, and character. As has often been noted,47 ancient literatures rarely use explicit citations, but make their references much more implicitly, which means we must significantly enlarge our field of vision if we

45 46 47

For discussion see pp. 114 and 127–128. See pp. 197–198. e.g. Ben-Porat (1976: 109), Sommer (1998: 19), Bauks (2013: 36–37).

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are to notice them. It is not my aim to categorise different types of allusion or to describe their differences in detail, such as that between citation and paraphrase. The description of such categories does not tend to affect the literary interpretation of the allusion, which is the main concern of this study.48 However, there are a number of intertextual strategies that are less obvious than ones that work on the level of individual words and phrases, and so it will be useful to introduce them here. Many are directly related to the aspect of competition and can therefore be seen as specifically competitive strategies of allusion. Because of the level of competition between deities, allusions that compare characters are especially frequent. Two characters acting in similar roles in different poems are inherently comparable, but allusions on the level of the text pin this down and encourage us to think of the earlier model, either favourably or unfavourably. Motifs are often transferred from one character to another, so that the context of that motif’s reappearance is quite different, making a point about the superiority of the new protagonist. Reversal is a common feature, where a motif in one text is mirrored in another but also subverted or transformed into its opposite. This is a common allusive strategy in many poetic traditions and could be taken as one of the signposts of allusion—a clue that it is taking place.49 Often these reversals play with our expectations, so that knowledge of the previous situation leads us to anticipate one outcome, but in the end we are surprised by another. Allusions can also work on the level of structure. When one poem follows a sequence of events that is strongly reminiscent of another well-known poem, the plot of this earlier poem exerts a strong influence over our expectations about how the later poem will unfold. Both similarities to and divergences from the model are noticeable, and inevitably invite comparisons. Some methodological issues relating to this will be explored further below, but ultimately it does not matter whether such similarities are the result of coincidence or design—the effect can still be felt. In a context where poems are already clearly in competition with each other, structural play is another element that works with this dynamic. It seems more likely to be part of a cohesive strategy than

48

49

It is partly for this reason that I use the methodology of the Classical tradition rather than the terminology of Genette (1997), who provides more precise definitions of different types of allusion. While such precision has its appeal, it has a different aim from the one I am pursuing. Cf. Currie (2016: 27, 34). For numerous examples in the Biblical world see Sommer (1998: 36–46; 75–78), for Nergal and Ereškigal and Gilgameš see Currie (2016: 167–169, 178–182, 192).

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merely coincidental when so many other connections between the poems are evident, and so can be considered as an allusive category in its own right. Particularly relevant to the competitive aspect is the technique of hysteron proteron, a Classical term meaning ‘the later one earlier’. This describes a poem positioning itself earlier in time than a previous composition, so that the text that was written later claims to give a more authoritative version of events than the earlier one. Both Anzû and Enūma eliš make use of this, as shown in chapters one and two. A related phenomenon is that of ‘reverse intertextuality’. I use this term to refer to an allusion in one text that engages with an earlier text in such a way that it significantly alters the interpretation of the earlier text: text B projects itself back into text A to influence how we read it. In some ways this is an inevitable consequence of intertextuality (Fowler, 1997: 27). However, often the allusion in text B is markedly strong and competitive, and seems to be pushing us towards a different reading of text A. For example, it no longer seems impressive for Tišpak to have the help of his magic seal when we read Labbu after having read Anzû, where it is not the hero who has magic assistance but the enemy. The competitive element to this kind of dynamic persuades me of the likelihood that it was intended, and it will be explored in more detail in the individual chapters in which it occurs. Chapter three describes a particularly subtle technique, the use of allusion to imply something taking place that is not directly narrated in the text. I argue that the god Enlil is overthrown by allusion in Enūma eliš, in the scene where the primordial god Apsû is murdered. Apsû is connected with Enlil as he is depicted in both Atrahasīs and Anzû so that when Apsû is deposed, we are to understand that Enlil is deposed as well. Apsû is a symbol for Enlil and the kind of irresponsible rule that he represents, reminding us of why Enlil needed to be removed, and clearing the way for Marduk to replace him without a fight. Combining allusions to two different poems to create this kind of effect is something that will be seen in many other cases too, as many associations are woven together to paint a coherent picture. Erra and Išum uses this strategy particularly often, as explored in chapters five and six. Allusions can point to more than one referent simultaneously, which Classicists call ‘multiple reference.’ For example, the sleep deprivation in Erra and Išum invokes both the sleep deprivation of Enlil in Atrahasīs and of Apsû and Ti’āmtu in Enūma eliš, each hinting at a different way in which Erra is a serious threat. Even a single line can refer to more than one poem, as Erra and Išum I.27 referring to Išum as a door connects him with Ea in Atraḫasīs, Ninurta in Lugal-e, and Anzu in The Return of Lugalbanda—three different predecessors are invoked simultaneously to portray Išum as a benevolent guardian. Many

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other instances of this can be found in Erra and Išum, which comes at the end of the intertextual chain and is the most complex of the three poems. Another key example can also be found in Enūma eliš, where allusions connect the rebel god Qingu, leader of Ti’āmtu’s army, both with the demon Anzû and with the leader of the army of stones in Lugal-e, ‘Plant-stone’ (na₄U₂). The allusions to Anzû are more prominent, and so lead us to expect that Qingu will be as formidable an opponent as Anzû was. However, Qingu turns out to be more like Plant-stone, prominent at first but in the end unimportant— Ti’āmtu is the main enemy, parallel to Asag in Lugal-e, and Qingu does not play a major role. The simultaneous allusion to both models plays with our expectations by nudging us towards one possible outcome and then showing the other to be right. This demonstrates why it is methodologically necessary to bear in mind that a single line can allude to more than one text at the same time, as when we are open to this strategy these kinds of games become possible. It is even possible that the poems make allusions to allusions in earlier texts. The leaves on the wind in Erra and Išum have already been mentioned, which allude to Marduk’s victory in Enūma eliš as well as Ninurta’s in Anzû, and could ironically allude to Marduk’s displacing of Ninurta at the very moment when he is now being displaced himself. Enūma eliš may be aware of the way that Anzû interacted with both Labbu and Lugal-e, as it borrows the same kinds of techniques. Yet more examples will surface throughout. Such possibilities expand the scope of poetic interaction in the Mesopotamian literary tradition far beyond the limits we usually ascribe to it, and imply a self-awareness of its inherent competitiveness.

5

The Babylonian Literary Background

In this section I wish to highlight three aspects of Babylonian literary culture that especially facilitate the making and recognising of allusions. First is its learned nature: these poems were copied and read by highly trained scholars and can often be found in religious contexts. Second is the high degree of memorisation involved in scribal education which would have resulted in a detailed knowledge of both Sumerian and Akkadian texts among their learned audiences. The close relationship between Akkadian and Sumerian literature meant that knowledge of the older Sumerian tradition was vital for the understanding of the Akkadian one, both now and in ancient times. Finally, I turn to the issue of textual fixity, establishing that the extant manuscripts of the poems are similar enough to be recognisable as the same versions.

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5.1 An Intellectual Context Mesopotamian literature is the product of a highly educated scribal milieu. Narrative poems are found in the libraries of royal palaces and temples, in the personal collections of learned scholars, and as school texts that were copied out during scribal training. While some of this literature may have originated as oral traditions known to ordinary people,50 the texts that have been preserved are clearly the product of an intellectual elite, as shown by their interaction with the written scholarly tradition. They contain learned puns on the shapes and readings of cuneiform signs, which depend on advanced knowledge of the writing system.51 They play with Sumerian etymologies, as in the epithets of Išum in the prologue to Erra and Išum (Lambert, 1958: 400) and the names of Marduk in Enūma eliš. They refer to scholarly texts, as when Erra and Išum alludes to the celestial omen series Enūma Anu Enlil (Cooley, 2008), or Enūma eliš invokes the commentary on sacrificial divination Multābiltu (Gabriel, 2014: 301–306). They contain material related to cultic texts, such as Anzû’s allusion to the language of ritual lament,52 with which Erra and Išum is also suffused.53 All of this points to a scholarly origin.54 An idea of the intended audience of Erra and Išum can be gleaned from V.49–56, where Erra lists the peoples he expects to praise him. As well as gods, kings, and princes, these are lu₂nāru(NAR), ‘the cultic singer’ (V.53), lu₂ṭupšarru(DUB.SAR), ‘the scribe’ (V.55), and ummânū, ‘the scholars’ (V.56), all of whom were highly trained professionals. This elite would have been extremely familiar with the literary tradition, and thus able to both make and recognise allusions. Some of these literary texts were not only read by scholars but also used by them in their ritual activities. Four manuscripts of Erra and Išum were found in the house of a family of exorcists at Assur (N 4, Pedersén, 1986: 56), one of which was written on an amulet-shaped tablet (KAR 169), and elsewhere an extract from the poem was found written on an amulet (see Reiner, 1960). In

50

51 52 53 54

See e.g. Feldt (2011) for folktale patterns in Lugal-e. Repetition is a favourite technique of Akkadian literature, as is the case for orally composed poems, but this does not necessarily point to such an origin for Akkadian poetry since more repetition is found in later versions of texts than in earlier ones, (Vogelzang, 1986, 1992). Enūma eliš refers to itself as za-maru ša₂ dMarduk(AMAR.UTU) ‘the song of Marduk’ (VII.161) and Erra and Išum includes an exhortation to singers to sing it (V.53), implying that these poems were also performed, though not much is known about this aspect. For an example in Erra and Išum see pp. 178–179, for one in Gilgameš see p. 206 n. 37. See pp. 59–62. See pp. 238–242. For the origin of other Babylonian narrative poems in the milieu of the exorcists (Ludlul bēl nēmeqi and The Babylonian Theodicy in particular) see Beaulieu (2007).

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the same house, an extract of Lugal-e was found on a school tablet together with a list of stones and an incantation ritual (Pedersén, 1986: 56). Many of the scholarly texts commenting on cultic practices (e.g. those in Livingstone, 1986) allude to the myths related in these poems, which may explain their interest for cultic practitioners,55 and it has been proposed that the importance of Ninurta in royal ideology may have meant that poems about him had some function in state ritual (see Annus, 2002: 51ff., 123). A Neo-Assyrian catalogue of texts and authors attributes Lugal-e to the god Ea (Lambert, 1962a: 64: 3–4), which may indicate that it was viewed as possessing mystical importance. All this demonstrates that the poems were of practical use and that their details were of serious interest, worthy of remembering. Of the poems treated here, only in the cases of Erra and Išum and Gilgameš do we have the name of the poem’s author. Kabti-ilānī-Marduk, son of Dābibi, names himself at the end of Erra and Išum, claiming that the poem was revealed to him in a dream (V.43–44).56 That he belonged to a scholarly milieu is clear from the learned nature of the text, as discussed above. Our other known author is Sîn-lēqi-unninni, whom the Mesopotamians considered to be the composer of Gilgameš.57 Modern scholarship proposes that this figure may have been responsible for re-working older strands of the epic of Gilgameš into what we now call the Standard Babylonian version, probably in the Kassite period (George, 2003: 28–33), if indeed he actually existed (questioned by Beaulieu, 2000). Interestingly, the editor of the Standard Babylonian Gilgameš did not only draw on the earlier Old Babylonian version but also Sumerian compositions about Gilgameš, since tablet XII is a partial translation of the Sumerian composition Gilgameš, Enkidu, and the Netherworld. As we will see, this regard for Sumerian traditions as well as Akkadian is prominent in Anzû, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum. Even as long as a thousand years after Sumerian ceased to be a spoken language, its literature continued to be copied and respected. Sînlēqi-unninni was claimed by families of scholars in Neo- and Late Babylonian Uruk as their mythical ancestor (Beaulieu, 2000), which at least shows that he was considered part of this milieu in later times.58

55 56 57 58

Although it should be noted that the rituals also allude to mythological episodes not known from these poems and indeed can be quite different from them. Assuming he is a real person. ‘Marduk is respected among the gods’ would be an odd choice of name for an invented author given Marduk’s negative portrayal in the poem. Named as such in the Neo-Assyrian ‘Catalogue of texts and authors’ VI.10 (Lambert, 1962a: 66). See George (2003: 28–31) for Sîn-lēqi-unninni and the likely context of the creation of Standard Babylonian Gilgameš.

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The glorification of Marduk which is the foundation of Enūma eliš has led to the assumption that it was composed by the priests of Marduk specifically for this purpose. It certainly came to be important in the cult, as the poem was recited during the new year festival, and commentary texts also relate certain episodes of the poem to specific cultic events (Frahm, 2011: 113–117; Lambert, 2013: 137–138). It is possible that Anzû and Erra and Išum also had some cultic significance, perhaps holding special meaning at the temple of the god Nergal in the city of Tarbiṣu. The tablet GM1 was found here, which groups both poems together, and a gift of Anzû-birds to the temple was commemorated with a text that alludes to Erra and Išum (Weissert, 1997: 193). Venturing away from the temple, a large cache of tablets found at the site of Sultantepe (ancient Huzirina) contains many of literary compositions discussed in this book, including Anzû, Enūma eliš, Erra and Išum, Lugal-e, Angin₇, and Gilgameš. The owner of this collection, Qurdi-Nergal, was probably a priest running a scribal school from his home. These tablets show that it was not only temple personnel who would have known these compositions, as the junior apprentice scribes who wrote them were the sons of provincial officials, including the scribe of a military official (Robson, 2013: 49–50). They were training to join the state administration, and familiarity with the literary classics was apparently considered important for these middle-ranking apprentices as well (Robson, 2013: 50). 5.2 Scribal Education The nature of scribal culture and training in Mesopotamia means that students would have been familiar with many compositions (Black, 1998: 118). The process of learning to write involved copying out texts, often from memory. Indeed, most of the surviving exemplars of Sumerian literature from the Old Babylonian period are school texts (Delnero, 2012: 189). In the Old Babylonian period, where most of our evidence for Mesopotamian education comes from, scribal training involved memory drills from the very beginning through to advanced stages, as the student had to memorise lists of signs, compound signs, and vocabulary (Veldhuis, 1997: 40–59).59 Small, lenticular tablets were frequently used for exercises where the teacher wrote an extract on the obverse, which the student memorised and wrote out again on the reverse (Veldhuis, 1997: 38–40). Memorisation was so important for the early stages of education that Veldhuis, discussing a lengthy and complex lexical list, concludes ‘the main mode of existence of Old Babylonian Ur₅-ra was in the mind, not in writing’

59

This was also the case in the first millennium (Gesche, 2000: 72).

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(1997: 131).60 That Sumerian literary texts were also copied from memory is evidenced in the types of errors made by the scribes, such as substituting synonyms and transferring lines or phrases to a completely different part of the text (one similar enough to the correct place to result in confusion), as well as combinations of these types of errors within individual manuscripts (Delnero, 2012). Literature was therefore part of an intense program of memorisation undertaken by trainee scribes, who inevitably would have emerged with a very good knowledge of these compositions. In the first millennium there is less evidence of this kind for Akkadian texts,61 though substitutions are also found that could point to reproduction from memory: for example, in Ištar’s Descent syllabic spellings are substituted for logograms, and different formulae introducing speech are used in different manuscripts (Carr, 2005: 42–44). More importantly, Akkadian poems themselves refer to the role of memory in their transmission. Erra and Išum proclaims at the end that: lu₂ṭupšarru(DUB.SAR) ša₂ iḫ-ḫa-zu i-šet ina māt(KUR) lu₂nakri(KUR₂) i-kab-bit ina māti(KUR)-šu₂, ‘the scribe who learns it will escape the enemy land and will be respected in his (own) country’ (V.55). Similarly, Enūma eliš demands that the list of Marduk’s names be learned and studied: liša₂-an-ni-ma a-bu ma-ri-iš li-ša₂-ḫi-iz, ‘let the father repeat them, let him teach them to his son’ (VII.147). Scholarly commentaries on compositions of various genres frequently quote other texts—including Gilgameš, Enūma eliš, Lugale, and Erra and Išum—both inexactly and without giving references, implying that memory is the source (Frahm, 2011: 86, 102–107). Whether or not the scholars had memorised these poems in their entirety is unclear, but they certainly knew them well. Modern readers do not learn by heart, yet we are still capable of making and recognising allusions, and the same would have been true in Mesopotamia. Throughout Mesopotamian literary history Sumerian and Akkadian were intertwined. In the Old Babylonian period Sumerian literature formed the core of the standard scribal curriculum, despite the fact that it was no longer a spoken language.62 Lugal-e, An-gin₇, and the Lamentation over the destruction of Sumer and Ur are all found as exercises in the school at Nippur known as ‘House F’ (Robson, 2001: 51–56). Sumerian continued to be studied in the first millennium: An-gin₇ and bilingual Udug-hul incantations are among those found as school texts (Gesche, 2000), while literary compositions that are known from 60 61 62

An overview of scribal education which focuses on this aspect of memorisation is given by Carr (2005: 23–30). For the problems see Worthington (2012: 15). For these compositions, a group we term ‘The Decad’, see Tinney (1999).

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this period include Lugal-e, An-gin₇, Enki and Ninmaḫ, Enlil and Ninlil, The Return of Lugalbanda, the creation poem KAR 4, The Ballad of Early Rulers, and the Sumerian King List. Akkadian literature was also part of scribal training, for example, Gilgameš, Ludlul bēl nēmeqi, Enūma eliš and The Babylonian Counsels of Wisdom have all been found as first millennium school texts (Gesche, 2000). As for the poems which are the focus of this study, there are many school texts of Enūma eliš (at least 57 from Babylonian sites according to Lambert’s manuscript list), more than a quarter of the total number of surviving manuscripts. One excerpt tablet of Anzû from Sippar-Amnanum from the second millennium is a school exercise (Cavigneaux, 2000). Three or four of our manuscripts of Erra and Išum are school tablets with extracts (B₂, C₁, D₁ and probably C₄) while a further two (M₁ and N₁) are extracts preserved alongside excerpts from other compositions— Enūma eliš, Ludlul bēl nēmeqi, The Great Hymn to Šamaš, Maqlû, and the lexical lists Erim-huš and Diri (Hruška, 1974: 356). The manuscript of tablet II of Erra and Išum from Me-Turnat was written by a student, as evident from the mistakes and badly written signs (Al-Rawi & Black, 1989: 111). Regarding the other poems alluded to, Lugal-e was a staple of Old Babylonian scribal education and is listed in a curricular catalogue housed in the Louvre along with The Return of Lugalbanda and The Lamentation over the destruction of Sumer and Ur (Kramer, 1942). Lugal-e was the subject of a commentary (Frahm, 2011: 117–119) and its survival into the first millennium may at least partly be due to pedagogical use (Cooper, 1978: 9–10), as bilingual school texts survive from the late period (e.g. Geller, 2010; Maul CTMMA II, no. 43). Five fragmentary extract tablets of The Return of Lugalbanda have been found, which given their lower quality may well be school exercises (Vanstiphout, 2003: 135). Almost all of our manuscripts of The Lamentation over the destruction of Sumer and Ur are Old Babylonian one-column exercise tablets (im-gid₂-da), and one of the sources from Ur contains lines 1–69 repeated three times (Michalowski, 1989: 18–19). The main witness to the text of Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs is a set of tablets written by Ipiq-Aya, ‘the junior scribe’ (ṭupšarru(DUB.SAR) ṣeḫru(TUR)) at an advanced stage of his education, which implies its currency as a school text (see van Koppen, 2011: 160–161). Gilgameš was common as a school text both in the Old Babylonian and the Late Babylonian periods, although in Late Babylonian times it would have been encountered at a later point in education, probably written as a kind of final examination to prove the pupil’s mastery of the scribal art (George, 2003: 37– 38). Most of the texts discussed here were therefore used in education at various times and places, which both demonstrates their importance to the culture and provides a mechanism for scribes to become intimately familiar with them.

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Literature in particular is an effective way of teaching difficult grammar and vocabulary, as well as inculcating cultural and religious traditions. All scribes trained to a high level would therefore have been familiar with the literary classics of their time. The first-millennium libraries that have been excavated so far contain more or less the same texts across a variety of locations, from the school collection at Huzirina on the fringes of the Neo-Assyrian empire to the temple library at Sippar in the heart of Babylonia, showing that those educated to a certain level would have known the same compositions (Charpin, 2010: 214).63 Since the number of literary texts which have this kind of status is relatively low, it is possible to have a detailed knowledge of all of them, and a small set of well known compositions increases the likelihood of allusions being recognised. 5.3 Versions and Variants Another issue relevant to the study of intertextuality is that of textual fixity. How standardised were these poems? Were the same versions known to everyone? That is, when we cite an allusion to a line of a particular text, how sure are we that the same line would have been known to all readers? Although textual variants and recensions have much to teach us about the production and transmission of texts, when it comes to understanding the poems on the level of the plot, the variants in the poems considered here are few and generally not very significant. They mostly take the form of orthographic and spelling variants, the substitution of logograms, dialectal differences, and obvious scribal errors.64 As valuable as these are for our understanding of grammar and education, in most cases they do not affect literary interpretation. There are a few cases where texts exist in significantly different versions: two tablets of Anzû found at Sultantepe represent one,65 and the tablet of Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs in the Schøyen collection is another (George, 2009: no. 2). Yet these are exceptions. The Standard Babylonian version of Anzû was also found at Sultantepe, and the lines in the Schøyen Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs that are not known in the Sippar recension later appear in the Standard Babylonian version, implying they may not have been so deviant after all.66 Overall, 63 64

65 66

There are of course also differences between the content of these libraries: for an overview see Robson (2013). Such instances are not noted here. Unexpected grammatical variants are noted, but those which do not affect the meaning are not, such as ventives, oblique cases written as traditional nominative forms that cannot be interpreted as nominatives, or feminine pronouns written as masculine ones that cannot be interpreted as masculine. For an overview of spelling and variants in Enūma eliš see Lambert (2013: 9–17). STT 23 and 25 appear to tell a different story—for discussion of these tablets see n. 5. Ea argues that it was not his fault that the fish had escaped, blaming a fight between two

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while care has been taken to note when such differences do occur, the surviving manuscripts of these poems are similar enough to be recognisable as the same version, and there would be no difficulty in recognising allusions to them.67

6

Structure of the Book

Anzû, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum will be addressed in chronological order, since each one builds on the last. Chapter one begins with allusions in Anzû itself, showing that even the first poem in this sequence is richly intertextual. Anzû alludes to the Sumerian poems Lugal-e and The Return of Lugalbanda as well as Akkadian Labbu and Atraḫasīs, and even Sumerian balaĝ-laments. It therefore invokes knowledge not only of what we consider to be the Mesopotamian classics, but also of texts that we tend to consider not so well known. Many of the techniques employed by the famously sophisticated Enūma eliš and Erra and Išum are already used here, from competition between protagonists to hysteron proteron and ‘reverse intertextuality’. The next three chapters focus on Enūma eliš. Chapter two examines the numerous allusions to Anzû, the quintessential Akkadian poem about Ninurta’s ascent that Enūma eliš, with all its ambition, had to supersede. A range of different strategies consistently work to elevate Marduk over Ninurta in his battle aspects, but also side-line Enlil, Anu, and Ea in this comprehensive bid for power. Allusions occur on the levels of individual words, phrases, couplets, and images, but also via broader narrative patterns, and it is here that ‘structural allusion’ is first introduced. Chapter three explores allusions to Atraḫasīs, which primarily target Enlil and Ea, and are found mainly before and after Marduk’s battle. The destruction threatened by irresponsible rulers in both is equated but nipped in the bud in the early phases of Enūma eliš, while in the later creations Marduk outshines his father both inter- and intra-textually. The overthrow of Enlil by allusion is the most striking and unexpected feature of this engagement, with allusions to Atraḫasīs reinforced by further allusions to Anzû, a kind of craftiness that is not often acknowledged in the study of Akkadian poetics. Chapter four looks at allusions to Lugal-e, a Sumerian poem which is just as important as Akkadian Anzû in establishing Marduk’s superiority to Ninurta.

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creatures for breaking the bolt of the sea, and claiming to have punished them for it (Old Babylonian ii.1–14, Standard Babylonian x rev. ii 14–43). For a relevant example regarding the Assyrian recension of Atraḫasīs see pp. 106–107.

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Allusions to Lugal-e complement the allusions to Anzû but also add another side to the story, for as well as out-doing Ninurta as a warrior deity, Marduk also goes one better in his post-battle establishment of order. Here we begin to see simultaneous allusions at work where careful attention to detail is rewarded, and even differences in wording between the Sumerian and Akkadian lines of bilingual texts can be significant. The final three chapters concentrate on Erra and Išum. Chapter five explores the ways that allusions to Lugal-e and Anzû work together to portray Išum as the new Ninurta battling against Erra, the new evil Anzû. Multiple reference becomes ever more complex: one scene alludes to both Anzû and Enūma eliš at the same time, Išum has several potential models in addition to Ninurta, Šarur has two different literary descendants, and Marduk speaks a pun on both his own name and that of Ninurta when he is lamenting the loss of the mēsutree. Chapter six groups Enūma eliš, Atraḫasīs, and Gilgameš, which together represent the establishment of the Babylonian cosmic order and civilized life on earth. Erra and Išum shows how in the horrors of war both gods and men regress, destroying these fundamental principles on both the divine and human planes. The protagonists of these poems are shown to be powerless and weak, and allusions to allusions ironically remind us of previous competitions as their results are being overturned. Chapter seven steps into more speculative territory and controversially argues for a deliberate connection between Erra and Išum and The Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur. Striking parallels between the two imply that the Sumerian city lament genre could have survived the Old Babylonian period, as similarities with the first millennium balaĝ-laments are not close enough to fully account for them. The balaĝs have, however, influenced Erra and Išum in a different way. This final chapter raises the question of how much intertextual evidence—in other compositions as well as in Erra and Išum— can tell us about the continuity of traditions in Mesopotamia when much of the primary evidence is lost. Each poem responds to those that precede it, challenging and competing with their protagonists, ideals, and poetics. With each subsequent layer the intertextual dialogue becomes more intricate, forming chains of allusions that exploit knowledge not only of earlier poems but even of their poetics. By addressing these poems in turn we can trace both the evolution of the warrior protagonist in the Babylonian literary tradition, and the evolution of the poetic tradition itself. Unless otherwise specified, all translations are my own.

Diagram showing the texts alluded to by each poem and the chapters where they are discussed. Dates approximated in order to convey the hierarchical relationships between the texts.

32 introduction

chapter 1

Allusions in Anzû 1

Introduction

The earliest of the three poems that form the core of this study, Anzû tells the story of how Ninurta earned his position as an esteemed warrior god of Mesopotamia. Anzû, a demon with the features of an eagle and a lion,1 grows jealous of the chief god Enlil, and flies off with the tablet of destinies, a magical object that gives Enlil his power. The whole divine order is thrown into chaos and the gods, now helpless, desperately seek a champion to fight Anzû and retrieve the tablet and their authority. Ninurta rises to the challenge, and is rewarded with a high position in the pantheon. Anzû was one of the foundational texts of Mesopotamian mythology, and Ninurta’s battle against Anzû was referred to in texts as diverse as Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions (Annus, 2002: 94–101; PongratzLeisten, 2015: 258–262), rituals and their commentaries (Annus, 2001: xvi), and medical treatises (Annus, 2002: 138–144). The Sumerian poem Lugal-e also concerns one of Ninurta’s heroic battles, this time against a demon called Asag who commands an army of stones. This text also continued to hold a special status for a thousand years after it was written in the Old Babylonian period, and is alluded to by many of the same texts as Anzû. Anzû did not replace Lugal-e, but presents an alternative event as Ninurta’s ‘greatest’ exploit. Although Anzû’s relationship to Enūma eliš and Erra and Išum is by now well known, Anzû itself has not yet been investigated for any allusions it may contain, other than the parallel with balaĝs mentioned by Annus (2001: xii).2 Manuscripts of the poem are distributed widely across Mesopotamia. Two tablets containing an Old Babylonian version of the story have been found in Susa, in Iran.3 Two Middle Assyrian manuscripts come from Assur and Nineveh.4 Most of the manuscripts are Neo-Assyrian, found in Nineveh, Tar1 See Watanabe (2018: 33–34) for an explanation of how these features combine to represent the thundering clouds as the roaring of a lion. 2 See further pp. 59–62. 3 Sb 9470 (Scheil, 1938: 20–21; Vogelzang, 1988: 92–93) and Sb 14683 (Scheil, 1938: 22–23; Vogelzang, 1988: 93–94). They are however written in Middle- or Neo-Babylonian script. Vogelzang suggests they are the work of a later scribe copying an earlier version (1988: 111, 114–115). Foster later checked the tablets and came to the same conclusion (Machinist, 2005: 33). 4 Assur 21506w = LKA 1–4, and BM 121087 = CT 46, 37.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412972_003

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biṣu, Sultantepe,5 and perhaps in Tell Tayinat.6 The predominance of NeoAssyrian sources (half at nine out of 18) should probably be regarded as an accident of survival. One Neo-Babylonian colophon identifies its tablet as coming from Borsippa,7 and two manuscripts in the Kuyunjik collection are written in Neo-Babylonian script.8 References to Anzû in Enūma eliš strongly indicate that Anzû was widely known in Babylonia, and are integral to understanding of Enūma eliš as a poem that elevates Marduk above Ninurta. We should therefore expect that these references were intended to be recognised, as they are central to the ideology of Enūma eliš, a quintessentially Babylonian poem. It is well known that Enūma eliš has an intertextual relationship with Anzû. Both poems narrate the rise of warrior gods, and Enūma eliš borrows elements from its predecessor to add to the glory of Marduk.9 The way Enūma eliš transforms these elements is remarkably competitive: every allusion to Anzû casts Marduk as superior to Ninurta, showing how he outperforms the protagonist of Anzû on every count. However, these tactics are not unique to Enūma eliš, indeed the very same strategies can be found in Anzû itself. We will begin, then, by investigating competitive allusions in Anzû. Anzû alludes to a surprising variety of earlier poems. Naturally, it borrows specific features from Lugal-e, the most important Sumerian composition about the deeds of Ninurta. The relationship with An-gin₇, often dubbed ‘The Return of Ninurta to Nippur’, is not as direct, but this poem is still part of Anzû’s intertextual context, the traditions about Ninurta that circulated at the time of its composition. Examining the background from which Anzû emerged reveals how much is new to the Akkadian poem. Anzû pulls together aspects of Ninurta’s rise to power from Lugal-e and An-gin₇ to create a new version of the story, where his victory over Anzû is now the definitive event that secures his shrine and reputation.10 In doing so, Anzû competes with earlier poems to 5

6 7 8 9 10

The tablets from Sultantepe STT 23 and 25 have been treated by editors of Anzû as belonging to a different poem, although they appear to tell a version of the Anzû story. This is not a matter of manuscript variants, rather they have entirely different text from the manuscripts of tablet III from Nineveh and Tarbiṣu, and no colophons survive attributing them to bīn šar dadmē (as for example ms. p, YBC 9842, Hallo & Moran, 1979: 90). Saggs suggests these tablets might represent a hymn to Ninurta appended to the end of the narrative, ‘glorifying the god by re-telling his deeds in another form’ (1986: 29). A 11000 = Lauinger, 2008,is of unknown provenance. YBC 9842 = Hallo & Moran, 1979. Sm 1807 + Sm 2195 = CT 46, 40 and Lambert, 1980: 81; K 3008 + K 18740 + K 19368 = CT 46, 38 and Lambert, 1980: 82. See e.g. Lambert (1986, 2013), Machinist (2005), Seri (2014). In Lugal-e Ninurta is not the typical young god but already has a high position, with wife, throne, and processional barque (Vogelzang: 1988: 160).

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establish itself as the new standard. However, allusions can also be found to the Labbu myth, Atraḫasīs, and the Sumerian The Return of Lugalbanda. Here the competitive strategy intensifies. Just as Marduk famously usurps Ninurta’s place as supreme warrior deity both in literature and cult, so Ninurta himself had absorbed the identities of earlier gods, including aspects of the poems about them. Rather than drawing solely on Ninurta’s own earlier exploits, the battle against Anzû is modelled on that of the god Tišpak in Labbu. An episode from Atraḫasīs is also co-opted: the re-naming of Ninurta’s mother, Mami. The competitive streak also turns against Anzû himself. Not content to defeat him in just one poem, Anzû subverts the portrayal of this creature in an earlier story, the Sumerian The Return of Lugalbanda. Finally, the spell that Anzû casts against Ninurta in battle has parallels in balaĝ-lamentations, suggesting that Anzû is in fact quoting the language of lament. This last example in particular demonstrates the richness and variety of the range of compositions alluded to in this poem, for it encompasses not only what we consider to be ‘literary’ texts but ritual ones also. 1.1 From Old Babylonian to Standard Babylonian Anzû is the only one of the three core poems to have existed in an Old Babylonian version. This was later reworked into a Standard Babylonian version, which is in a much better state of preservation than the earlier one. Only 157 lines of the Old Babylonian version survive,11 compared with 445 of the Standard Babylonian version,12 and so it is the Standard Babylonian version that is primarily considered here, though Old Babylonian Anzû will be consulted when relevant.13 The biggest difference is the change in protagonist from Ningirsu to Ninurta, two warrior gods who were syncretised early on and were often considered identical.14 The section preserved in the Old Babylonian version corresponds to I.82-II.147 of Standard Babylonian Anzû, from the point where Anzû has snatched the tablet of destinies up until Ea’s instructions to Ningirsu/Ninurta, and is identical in terms of plot. Comparing this part of the Old Babylonian 11

12

13 14

These correspond to I.82–209 and II.1–147 of the Standard Babylonian version, with four lines that seem to belong with tablet III just before line 9 of the Standard Babylonian text but do not match it (Annus, 2001: 31–39). Out of at least 549 lines. 96 lines are broken and the end of tablet III is fragmentary, preserved by only one witness, GM1 (Saggs, 1986), which would have had space for a few more lines at the end before the colophon. Both versions are edited by Annus (2001). The implications of this change will be discussed further below.

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version with the Standard Babylonian version, the changes are mostly stylistic: repetition has been introduced in order to create patterns of expectation and suspense, and the procedures of the divine assembly have become more elaborate (Vogelzang, 1988: 220, 187). One interesting difference is that in the Old Babylonian version Anu and Ea act as leaders of the assembly, whereas in the Standard Babylonian version the assembled gods act together (Vogelzang, 1988: 191). This de-emphasis of the individual gods Anu and Ea increases the visibility and importance of Ninurta.15 Another important differnce is that in the Old Babylonian version Bēlet-ilī does not promise Ninurta a reward for defeating Anzû, and it has been suggested that the rewards were originally not part of Ninurta’s motivation to fight the demon (Hallo & Moran, 1979: 67). The essential details, however, remain the same, and since we cannot know how much the Old Babylonian version differed in other respects, the enquiry must be based on the Standard Babylonian text.

2

The Re-shaping of Ninurta’s Victories: Lugal-e and An-gin₇

Anzu (as he is known in Sumerian, as opposed to Anzû in Akkadian) appears as one of the enemies defeated by Ninurta already in Sumerian literature, as he is mentioned among Ninurta’s trophies in An-gin₇ 39 (edition Cooper, 1978) and Lugal-e 133 (edition van Dijk, 1983). The image of Anzu appears as a standard in the temple of Ningirsu at Lagaš (Gudea Cyl. A 351, 751), implying that Ningirsu’s victory over him was already established.16 Unfortunately the only surviving tale which might have narrated the event—Ninurta and the turtle (edition Alster, 2006)—is largely broken, and in any case is a satirical composition. For the closest parallels to the slaying of Anzu, then, we must look elsewhere. The earliest extant poems about Ninurta’s victories are the Sumerian Lugale and An-gin₇. An-gin₇ tells how Ninurta came to Enlil’s shrine in Nippur and demanded a place in it, while Lugal-e relates Ninurta’s great and victorious battle against the Asag-demon and his army of stones. Both may date from the Ur III period,17 both were designated by the ancient scribes as ‘šir-gid₂-da’,

15 16 17

cf. Worthington (2011: 419–420) on the Standard Babylonian tendency towards homogenisation in order to foreground certain details. See Wiggermann (1992: 159–161) for the iconography of Anzû in early periods and his relationship to Ningirsu and Enlil. It has been suggested that the mention of Eninnu in Lugal-e line 478 points to a date of composition during the reign of Gudea (van Dijk, 1983: 2), although Cooper has argued

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meaning ‘long song’, and both were copied all the way into the first millennium, perhaps because they had some kind of cultic function (Annus, 2002: 123). Although both poems are important contextual background for understanding how Anzû re-shaped Ninurta’s victories, it seems that only Lugal-e is alluded to specifically, and the parallels with it are closer. Lugal-e was a hugely popular poem. There are 135 Old Babylonian tablets and fragments extant, the majority from Ninurta’s cult city of Nippur, but also from Uruk, Ur, Sippar, and others of unknown provenance.18 The poem continued to be widely copied after the Old Babylonian period, with a further 80 manuscripts known from later periods. A Middle Assyrian version is known from 8 tablets from Assur and Nineveh, while Neo-Assyrian tablets survive from Nineveh (30 from the Kuyunjik collection), and one each from Assur, Nimrud, and Sultantepe.19 Neo-Babylonian manuscripts are known from Babylon, Uruk, Sippar, and Nineveh. The poem even survived into the Seleucid period, on two tablets from Uruk, and another fragment of unknown provenance. It is clear that Lugal-e had a wide distribution and a long transmission history, and certainly would have been known at the times when Anzû, Enūma eliš, and Erra were composed. All three poems in this study allude to it. From the Middle Assyrian period onwards, the Sumerian text was almost always accompanied by an interlinear Akkadian ‘translation’. As Seminara has shown, the Akkadian version was not always a literal translation but often more an interpretation that would aid an understanding of the Sumerian text, since words are often translated according to their homophones (e.g. 2004: 245; 2001: passim). This does not mean that the original Sumerian was not understood, however. The grammatical discrepancies may be an attempt to render the translation in idiomatic Akkadian (Geller, 2010: 98). Three short extract tablets from the Kuyunjik collection contain text only in Sumerian, and the Akkadian version never circulated alone as far as we know. In fact, allusions to

18

19

that the mention of Anzu among Ninurta’s conquered enemies speaks for a slightly later date (1978: 10). The oldest reliably datable manuscripts are Old Babylonian. For discussion of the dating of Lugal-e see Seminara (2001: 28–30). The manuscript count is from the critical edition of van Dijk (1983 vol II: 1–23) plus tablets and fragments published later, including: Al-Rawi & George, 1995 (four substantial tablets); Borger, 1986 (three fragments); Geller, 1985; von Weiher, 1988: no. 60 (one Seleucid tablet); Maul in (in Spar & Lambert, 2005: 201–202, one Seleucid fragment), and Geller, 2010 (one Neo-Babylonian fragment from Babylon). Those published by Geller (1985) join to existing manuscripts. However the Neo-Assyrian version follows the Old Babylonian version rather than this Middle Assyrian one (van Dijk, 1983 vol. II: 8). There are no Middle Babylonian manuscripts extant, but the Neo-Babylonian tablets also follow the Old Babylonian version.

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Lugal-e in Enūma eliš actually seem to follow the nuances of the Sumerian more closely than the translation (see pp. 136–137 and 145–146), indicating that later Mesopotamians who knew Lugal-e were not relying exclusively on the Akkadian version. This suggests that Sumerian may have been better understood in this period than we often assume. 2.1 Ominous Beginnings As might be expected from a poem of battle, in Lugal-e there is competition between Ninurta and the enemy he fights. However, the competition is not only in the battle itself, but also takes place on a deeper level: Asag is a threat not only because of the destruction he wreaks, but because he is becoming like Ninurta himself. As we shall see, this is reflected even in the language used of both characters, showing that Asag is a rival to Ninurta’s domains. Anzû borrows this technique and employs the same strategy, but with an important difference: allusions to Lugal-e signal that Ninurta has already met this kind of challenge and is well equipped to defeat it. While Lugal-e at times expresses doubt about Ninurta’s ability, Anzû uses allusions to imply that Ninurta has won before and so will win again. In this case the competition is not between Ninurta and earlier gods, as in the other poems examined here, but between this particular account of Ninurta’s rise to power and earlier visions of Ninurta himself. Anzû opens with a hymnic prologue praising Ninurta, as do both An-gin₇ and Lugal-e. Beginning with a hymnic prologue signals the nature of the composition about to unfold. Like its predecessors, Anzû is a poem whose ultimate purpose is to praise the god Ninurta by relating his deeds. It alludes twice to episodes that are related in Lugal-e: Ninurta’s invention of irrigation in line 6: mu-ša₂-aš₂-qu-u₂ tar-ba-ṣi ir-mu u₂-ru su-qi₂ u āli(URU), ‘who waters the stall, garden, town, street and city’ (cf. Lugal-e 334–367), and his binding of Asag’s army of stone monsters in line 10: ša₂ ina ek-du-ti-šu₂ ik-mu-u ik-su-u ša₂-ad abni, ‘who in his fierceness bound and fettered the mountain of stone’ (cf. Lugal-e 34–39) (Hallo & Moran, 1979: 74; Foster, 2005: 562 n. 2). Given the popularity and importance of Lugal-e it is likely that these are allusions to this specific text rather than to the traditional deeds of Ninurta. That the Anzû prologue puts us in mind of Ninurta’s control of the waters and of the mountains is important for what follows, for Anzû is born of these same two elements (I.50–53). After the introductory hymn in Lugal-e, the emergence of the threat of Asag is immediately announced to Ninurta (24–69). Anzû also has a similar step, where immediately after the hymn of praise, the birth of Anzû is announced to Enlil (I.25–42, unfortunately much is broken). This can be read as an ominous intertext. At first the appearance of Anzû seems like good news, since there is nothing evil about him yet. He is the one who makes the waters flow, and

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Enlil appoints him to guard his shrine. However, to a reader who knows the parallel situation in Lugal-e, this may be rather unsettling. Like Asag, Anzû is born in the mountains (Anzû I.25–27; Lugal-e 27–29; Hallo & Moran, 1979: 70), and he soon becomes a dangerous threat. If we are expecting the composition to unfold along similar lines, we may suspect that giving Anzû a position of responsibility may not be such a good idea. Although one would expect that the threat would emerge early on in this kind of story, the fact that the threat emerges immediately after the hymn of praise to Ninurta in both poems makes this more specific, and thus more likely to be a deliberate imitation. The intertext signals that Anzû is dangerous, but already there is a hint that Ninurta is able to defeat him, for Ninurta has already mastered Anzû’s domains. The mountains are prominent as the site of Ninurta’s victories in Sumerian mythology, which also sets up certain expectations when we come to Anzû. Lugal-e 128–134 enumerates a list of Ninurta’s previous conquests and ends: kur-ra ḫe₂-mu-e-ni-ug₅, ‘you killed them in the mountains’. The An-gin₇ prologue describes Ninurta as: ḫur-saĝ-ta e₃-a, ‘who came forth from the mountains’ at line 3: ib₂ du₁₁-ga-ni kur ad₆ x […] ‘his fierce utterance [made] the mountain a corpse’ at line 24: kur saĝ um-ma-ab-gi₄-a-aš, ‘because you overturned the mountains’ at 94, and finally at 159, he declares himself: kala-ga kur gaba nu-gi₄-me-en, ‘I am the strong one, unopposed in the mountains’. Remembering these titles when we come to read Anzû makes it evident why he is able to vanquish Anzû when other gods refuse: he has a history of victories in this terrain and is naturally the god most suitable for the task. In Anzû, the mountain territory begins as Anzû’s, but becomes Ninurta’s as the poem unfolds. The mountains are described as Anzû’s home in tablet I: an-zuu₂ ip-pa-riš-ma šadû(KUR)-us-su ig-guš, ‘Anzû flew away and went towards his mountain’ (I.83 = I.110 = I.152), but in Tablet II we find only Ninurta as the subject of šadûssu igguš, ‘he went off to his mountain’ (II.29, II.147). Finally, in Tablet III the only reference to ‘his mountain’ is dan-nu-um-ma ut-ta-’a-ar an-za-a šaddu-su, ‘The strong one (Ninurta) out-roared Anzû in his mountain!’ (III.26), a progression of conquest of the territory. A similar technique is used in Lugal-e, where Feldt has shown that the competition between the characters is reflected by the images used to describe them. Both Ninurta and Asag are described with similar imagery from the human, divine, animal, physical, object, disease, meteorological, and plant realms (Feldt, 2011: 135–141), leading Feldt to conclude that the two characters mirror each other, portrayed as quasi-equals (2011: 143).20 We may take storm 20

Another effect of this is to blur and explore the lines between hero and monster, chaos and stability (Feldt, 2011: 145).

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imagery as an example.21 Ninurta is described as a storm five times (u₄: 1, 77, 235, 374; tu₁₅ ulu₃: 8; in addition to having a storm as a weapon), and Asag twice (u₄: 174 and 267). While such imagery is itself cliché in Sumerian literature, the specific way it is employed may not be. Asag is a threat because he is a rival to Ninurta’s power (Feldt, 2011: 140). The monster is trying to lay its hands on the powers received by Ninurta in the Abzu, and Ninurta’s kingship is thus under threat (Lugal-e 53–54). The rebel lands are worshipping the stone monster instead of Ninurta, as is made clear when he crushes them and the people cry out to each other: en dnin-urta-ra a₂ nu-mu-e-zi, ‘You did not lift your hands in prayer to lord Ninurta’ (262). Likewise, the weapon-vizier Šar-ur tells Ninurta: za-gin₇ kalam-ma di-bi [ši-in-ga]-ku₅-de₃, ‘it actually decides the land’s lawsuits just as you do!’ (42). Asag is dangerous, therefore, because he is becoming too much like Ninurta. The fact that he is also described with the storm imagery that is so prominently associated with Ninurta in this poem may be a deliberate reflection of the way the monster is taking over the god’s attributes, right down to his epithets. Indeed, Šar-ur tries to dissuade Ninurta from fighting it, saying: a₂-še a₂-sag₃-ge nu-si₃-ge, ‘you will not equal the Asag!’ (149). The situation in Anzû similar, yet different. The monster is not a threat to Ninurta’s power, but an opportunity to gain it: the threat is to the supremacy of his father Enlil and the established pantheon, and defeating it is how Ninurta will win his place among them. The same mirroring techniques used in Lugal-e are used in Anzû, but to different effect. Although Anzû is like Ninurta in his association with waters and mountains, thanks to the previous victories referred to in the prologue, it is already implied that Ninurta will win. 2.2 The Weapon Brought to Life It is striking that Ninurta’s weapon Šar-ur has been personified into a speaking character in both Lugal-e and Anzû. This is the beginning of a chain of allusions that reaches right through all our warrior poems, for the speaking weapon will also be adopted by Enūma eliš (in the form of Kakka) and Erra and Išum (in the form of the Seven).22 Cultic objects, including weapons and the emblems of gods, were often deified in Mesopotamia. They were brought to life in the same way as divine statues, namely with the mīs pî ritual, and given offerings (Selz, 1997: 179), which explains how a weapon could be thought of as an independent being which is able to speak.23

21 22 23

See Feldt (2011) for examples from other realms, which support the same point. Machinist notes the motif’s extension into Erra and Išum (2005: 53). cf. Paffrath (1913: 61–66), on the secondary interpretation of Šar-ur and Šar-gaz as deities.

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Šar-ur plays the same role in both Anzû and Lugal-e, leaving in the midst of the battle to tell another god what is happening when victory seems unlikely (Ea in Anzû, Enlil in Lugal-e), then bearing a message back to Ninurta. Based on the reoccurrence of this motif van Dijk argues that the battle between Ninurta and Anzû is based on that between Ninurta and Asag (1983: 3). The motif of asking a god for advice in battle could simply be a traditional story-telling technique.24 However, the only other place it appears in extant Mesopotamian poetry is in The Return of Lugalbanda, where Lugalbanda hurries back to Uruk to ask Inana for advice in defeating Aratta. The Return of Lugalbanda is related to these compositions both in subject matter and via allusions, so the reoccurrence may not be pure coincidence. Either way, the presentation of a weapon as a speaking character is so far unparalleled in compositions that are not related to Anzû. It seems fairly certain that Šar-ur is a direct incorporation from Lugal-e, which the poet of Anzû has brought into their own telling of Ninurta’s greatest battle, presenting the battle against Anzû as the god’s ultimate triumph instead of that over Asag or any of the other traditional enemies.25 This shows a much closer connection between Anzû and Lugal-e than with An-gin₇, where the parallels are less precise. The deified weapon has more character in Lugal-e than it does in Anzû. In the Sumerian poem Šar-ur fights by Ninurta’s side (253–263) and implores Ninurta not to meet the Asag in battle (135–150, 265–280). In Anzû his role is simply to relay Ea’s message. The effect of this is to assign all the credit for the eventual victory to Ninurta. He is the only one taking part in the battle and thus the only one to deserve the glory of success, though he still needs the advice of Ea to win. In Anzû, Šar-ur does not try to dissuade his master from fighting, as he does in Lugal-e. He expresses no doubt about Ninurta’s capabilities, making Ninurta appear mightier than he was in Lugal-e. Victory still does not come easily, but 24

25

For an analysis of Lugal-e according to the folktale structures of Vladimir Propp see Feldt (2011: 144–145), which does include this step. Propp’s category is ‘donor or consultation,’ but what we have here is much more specific, and so is likely to be more than just coincidence. Šar-ur was originally a weapon of Ningirsu (Enḫeduanna Temple Hymn 20; Gudea Cyl. A IX.24; XV.23–24; Cyl. B VII.19–23) and became associated with Ninurta through their syncretism. The association of Šar-ur with other gods is mostly due to those gods being associated with Ninurta: Zababa, a god often identified with Ninurta (a Late Babylonian text, Cavigneaux, 1981: 79.B1/19), Marduk, who took over Ninurta’s attributes (V R 46: 32), and Aššur, which is assimilating the mythology of Marduk, since they appear in a battle against Ti’āmtu (an inscription of Sennacherib, RINAP 3 160: 27) (Krebernik, RLA XII 1/2: 85–86). An exception is found in the fragmentary ‘Inana and Gudam’ (edition Römer, 1991) line 18, where he belongs to a person called ‘Gudam’, but Zababa is mentioned in the next line, so there may be some connection to this deity.

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there is no doubt that it will be achieved. This is in spite of the fact that in Lugal-e he is already established and powerful, while in Anzû he is relatively unknown. That Šar-ur does not doubt him, despite his unproven credentials, is another way of increasing Ninurta’s strength over that in the earlier poems. Giving Ninurta less power to begin with also emphasises how much he has gained at the end: the defeat of Anzû is presented as a turning point in his history. The downgrading of Šar-ur is consistent with another change in emphasis between Lugal-e and Anzû, the introduction of the power of language and its importance in battle as a key theme. In Lugal-e, Enlil raises a storm to assist Ninurta (218), effectively granting him another weapon, but in Anzû Ea gives strategic advice instead. It is not pure strength that enables Ninurta to win his victory, but the addition of strategic thinking and word play. This taps into the theme of the power of language which ends up defeating Anzû when his magic words are turned against him.26 Šar-ur is thus transformed from a weapon who causes real damage into a character who relays messages, because in this case it is words that are needed, not more force.

3

New Names, New Identities

Near the end of Standard Babylonian Anzû, Ninurta is rewarded with new names in honour of his victory. Eighteen different names and titles are preserved in the list (III.127–157).27 This conclusion was imitated by Enūma eliš, where the names and titles of other gods are bestowed upon Marduk as a declaration of his new identity as a supreme warrior deity (see Bottéro, 1977; Seri, 2006; Katz, 2011: 132). These are more than simply honorific titles, for by receiving these names, both Ninurta and Marduk also take on new identities. The names syncretise them with a number of older deities, all of whom they have now absorbed and superseded. This expands the range of relevant traditions with which Anzû may be interacting, for now the stories of these other deities also belong to Ninurta. Many of the gods here assimilated with Ninurta are specifically warrior deities: Ningirsu (III.128), Zababa (III.142), ‘warrior’ Tišpak (qarrādu(UR.SAG),

26 27

For a full exploration see Studevent-Hickman (2010). Three more are broken, and the tablet becomes very fragmentary at the end, making it difficult to say exactly how many there were. The list probably does not extend beyond the known text, since III.157 declares ⸢pal⸣-ḫu! šu-tu-ru ina ilānī(DINGIR)meš šumī(MU)meš-ka ma-a’-diš, ‘greatly revered (and) supreme among the gods are your names!’ with a tone of finality.

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III.149), and Papsukkal ‘the vanguard’ (a-lik maḫ-ri, III.156).28 Ningirsu was, in fact, the protagonist of Old Babylonian Anzû, assimilated with Ninurta to such an extent that the two gods were now considered virtually identical. Ninurta and Ningirsu may have been originally separate deities in Pre-Sargonic times,29 but the assimilation took place at a very early stage so that by the time of composition of Lugal-e they were considered the same god: manuscript H of Lugal-e has Ningirsu as its protagonist, even though the tablet comes from Nippur, which was traditionally Ninurta’s city (van Dijk, 1983: 4).30 The fact that Ningirsu is the protagonist of Old Babylonian Anzû, even though it is Ninurta who conquers Anzu in the Sumerian texts, illustrates this syncretism. Anzu is a symbol of Ningirsu in Gudea Cyl. A 351 and 751,31 so there are Sumerian traditions connecting both gods to Anzu, although the conquest of Anzu is not explicitly mentioned, whereas there are many references to this in conjunction with Ninurta. Only two manuscripts of Old Babylonian Anzû have been published so far,32 so it is also possible that Ninurta was the protagonist in other manuscripts that have not survived. The fact that Standard Babylonian Anzû gives the name of Ningirsu to Ninurta (III.128) may imply that a rivalry existed between them, even if long ago. The kind of rivalry envisaged would be similar to that between Ninurta and Marduk, where Marduk absorbs Ninurta’s identity as his cult city, Babylon, becomes politically dominant over that of Ninurta’s cultic home, Nippur. As Ningirsu’s city of Lagaš became less important, references to Ningirsu decline (Black, 1988: 20). In line 5 of the Standard Babylonian poem Ninurta is described as tu-kul-ti E₂.NINNU, ‘the one Eninnu relies upon,’ Eninnu being the name of Ningirsu’s temple in Girsu, his home city (Machinist, 2005: 36 n. 16). Lambert suggests that Ningirsu might only have meant ‘the form of Ninurta worshipped at Girsu’ while still perhaps a separate deity in origin (1975b: 193). However, the picture of this early

28

29 30 31 32

Ninurta was already identified with Pabilsag in a širnamšub to Ninurta dating to the first dynasty of Isin (Cohen, 1975), and Zababa and Pabilsag are listed among ‘the seven Ninurtas’ in KAR 142. Pisag-Unug is listed next to Ninurta in Seleucid rituals for the temple of Anu at Uruk, and is included among the hypostases of Nergal in the lamentation a-galgal buru₁₄ su-su, which leads Beaulieu to suggest he had the characteristics of a warrior deity (1993: 19). Falkenstein cites a title of Baba, Ningirsu’s wife, as ‘daughter of Eridu’, perhaps connecting Ningirsu with Enki rather than Enlil initially (1966: 90–91). For other early assimilations of Ninurta with Ningirsu, Šulpa’e, and Numušda see Pongratz-Leisten (2015: 263–265). Although cf. Wiggermann’s argument that Anzu is actually a symbol of Enlil (1992: 161). Lambert mentions a third in the Yale Babylonian Collection, as yet unpublished (2013: 442 n. 11).

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rivalry (or lack of it) is far from clear. The third millennium god lists from the Sumerian site of Abu Ṣalabīḫ name Ningirsu and do not mention Ninurta at all (OIP 99, text 83), even though the site is close to Ninurta’s cult city of Nippur (Cooper, 1978: 11 n. 3). Two other texts name Ningirsu in conjunction with Nippur: dnin-ĝir₂-su nibruki-ta nir-ĝal₂, ‘Ningirsu from Nippur is magnificent’ (Reform text of URU-KA-gina, RIME E1.9.9.1 xii.36) and dnin-ĝir₂-su en nibruki-ta u₄ sud-še₃ maḫ, ‘Ningirsu, the lord from Nippur, is exalted forever’ (brick inscription of Lugal-Anda, RIME E1.9.8.2 ii’ 6’) (Cooper, 1978: 11 n. 3). For our purposes, it is enough to note that the two gods merged well before the composition of Old Babylonian Anzû, and that Ninurta had become more important than Ningirsu by the time of Standard Babylonian Anzû. The attributes and actions of the god are the same in both poems—all that has changed is the name. Ninurta’s assimilation of Ningirsu in Standard Babylonian Anzû, then, is well accounted for. Slightly more unusually, however, Ninurta is named ‘Tišpak’ at III.149 and ‘Lugalbanda’ at III.147. Tišpak is a warrior god of Ešnunna, presumably absorbed by Ninurta because of his similar function. Ninurta and Tišpak are equated in god lists, for example An = Anum (CT 24, 41: 64) and K 4349 + 817-27, 54 (CT 25, 8: 15) (Lambert, 1986: 55). This syncretism may have taken place after Hammurapi’s conquest of Ešnunna in 1755BC, when the city was absorbed into his Babylonian empire. The equation with Lugalbanda is less straightforward. He is listed with Ninurta among the spouses of Gula in the Gula hynn of Bullutṣa-rabi,33 but this text contains allusions to Anzû, and so this assimilation is probably due to the assimilation in Anzû rather than the other way round. The other divine identities bestowed on Ninurta, then, also signpost the other poems assimilated by Anzû. That is, the mentions of Tišpak and Lugalbanda signal that Anzû interacts with the poems featuring them, Labbu and The Return of Lugalbanda, since they now form part of Ninurta’s identity.34 The assimilation is not passive, but Anzû inscribes these connections within itself as part of building Ninurta’s new identity. Not only the names of these other gods have been incorporated into the poem, but their own heroic narratives are alluded to and thus given to Ninurta.

33 34

Edited by Lambert (1967). This is potentially true of the others too, though Labbu and The Return of Lugalbanda are the only comparable heroic narratives to survive.

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3.1 Labbu Tišpak is the protagonist of a short text often dubbed the ‘Labbu-myth’. The plot follows a similar trajectory to Enūma eliš and Anzû:35 a huge labbu-monster36 (a type of serpent) ravages the land, various gods are afraid to fight it, so they ask Tišpak to slay the beast.37 He does so, with his bow and arrow, and is rewarded with kingship of the land. Furthermore, the poem may have been composed for similar reasons. Tišpak was a new, foreign deity who competed with and replaced the older warrior god Ninazu as city god of Ešnunna in the Old Akkadian period (Jacobsen, 1932: 58, 1934: 20–28). He takes over not only Ninazu’s role, but also his temple (Jacobsen, 1932: 55) and mušhuššu-dragon (Wiggermann, 1989: 121). Consequently this text tells of how he saved the land from destruction and justifies his rise to kingship. Anzû’s competitive strategy therefore has a precedent. In fact, Ninazu is another of Ninurta’s names preserved in Anzû at III.139 (on the tablet GM1, published in Saggs, 1986): Ninurta is absorbing the identity of the god that Tišpak replaced as well as Tišpak himself.38 The text (CT 13 33–34) is known from only one copy from Ashurbanipal’s library, and only 35 lines are preserved. Since the poem tells the story of the

35

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37 38

There is another text which seems to tell a similar story: KAR 6 (edited by Lambert, 2013: 384–386), where a serpent is created in the ocean, and the birth goddess Aruru calls on her son Nergal to vanquish it. No more of the plot survives, however, to establish its relationship to the other texts, other than that it is a variation on a similar theme, and that Nergal and Ninurta are often syncretised. It is unclear whether labbu should be translated as ‘lion’ or ‘raging’. Wiggermann argues it is an epithet of the serpent, ‘the raging one’ (1989: 118), but given the popularity of composite monsters in Mesopotamian literature the possibility that this is a lion-snake hybrid cannot be ruled out (first suggested by Heidel, 1963: 141; also Foster, 2005: 581). There are archaic seal impressions which may depict such a creature (see Lewis, 1996: 35–36). Cf. Cunningham 1997, text 63: an incantation concerned with a chaos monster which is referred to as both piriĝ (lion) and ušumgal (dragon/snake). See Lambert (2013: 365) for the suggestion that Enlil created the monster in the first place to kill off the human race like in Atraḫasīs. Wiggermann RLA IX: 333 notes that Tišpak and Ninazu do not become indistinguishable like Enki and Ea or Inana and Ištar, but are listed separately in god lists from the Old Babylonian period onwards. After Ešnunna was conquered by Hammurapi there are no more references to a cult of Ninazu but Tišpak is still worshipped in the north (Wiggermann, ibid). There is some evidence for later syncretism of Ninurta with Ninazu: they are equated in two Standard Babylonian god lists CT 25, 8:8, and CT 25, 13:8, and the Gula hymn of Bullutṣa-rabi (Lambert, 1967: 118 line 53) mentions Ninazu among her spouses, along with Ninurta, Ningirsu, Pabilsaĝ, Zababa, Uta-’ulu, and Lugalbanda, nearly all of whom are included among Ninurta’s names in Anzû.

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ascent of the city god of Ešnunna, it was most likely composed in the Old Babylonian period before Hammurapi’s conquest of the city in 1755BC, i.e. before it came under external domination (Wiggermann, 1989: 123). The story therefore probably existed at the time when Old Babylonian Anzû was composed. Foster remarks that the text seems abbreviated or incomplete (2005: 581), and it is quite likely that it is a shortened version of a longer story; one might compare the abrupt ending of Ištar’s Descent as opposed to the longer Inana’s Descent, of which there are far more copies. It is extraordinary that we only know of this text from one copy made a thousand years after its likely date of composition, an accident of survival that reminds us just how much else in the Mesopotamian tradition has been lost. It may also imply that there may have been more continuity between the Old Babylonian and later periods than is often recognised (see also chapter seven). Despite the paucity of manuscripts the Labbu poem may have been well known in antiquity, as Anzû is not the only text to allude to it. Nadali has recently suggested that Ashurbanipal’s account of the battle of Til-Tuba alludes to Labbu (Nadali, 2018: 267), and the fact that Enūma eliš interacts with Anzû in a similar way to how Anzû interacts with Labbu may imply knowledge of this earlier borrowing. It seems likely that Anzû would allude to Labbu if Ninurta is indeed taking over the conquests and attributes of Tišpak. Since both poems probably originate in the Old Babylonian period, one might ask how we can be sure that Anzû draws on Labbu and not the other way round. Not only is Ninurta given Tišpak’s name near the end of Anzû, suggesting assimilation of his deeds, and not only are there similarities between the gods’ attributes, but Anzû appears to have taken over certain elements from Labbu and uses them in a consciously competitive way. The passage describing the battle between Tišpak and the labbumonster illustrates the parallels, including the intriguing detail of a magical object: [dBAD?] pa-a-šu₂ i-pu-uš-ma a-na d[MUŠ₂ i-zak-kar] šu-uš-ḫi-it ur-pa mi-ḫa-a [x x x] ku-nu-uk-ku na-piš-ti-ka i-na pa-ni-ka [tu-mu-uḫ] us-kam₂-ma lab-ba du-[kam₂-ma] u₂-ša₂-aš₂-ḫi-it ur-pa mi-ḫa-a [x x x] ku-nu-uk-ku na-piš-ti-šu₂ ina pa-ni-šu₂ [it-mu-uḫ] is-su-kam₂-ma lab-bi [i-du-uk] [Ea] prepared to speak, [saying to Tišpak] “Fling up a cloud, [raise] a storm,

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[Hold] the cylinder seal of your throat39 in front of you, shoot (an arrow) and [kill] the labbu.” He flung up a cloud, [raised] a storm, [He held] the cylinder seal of his throat in front of him, he shot (an arrow) [and killed] the labbu. CT 13: 34 (edition Lambert, 2013: 364–365) rev. 1–7

As in Anzû, a god is giving advice to the warrior on how to defeat his opponent. The restoration of ‘Ea’ originates with Foster (2005: 581–582), who probably makes it by analogy with Anzû: there it is also Ea who comes up with the strategy to defeat the monster, which is relayed to the warrior during the battle. This similarity in plot is one element that Anzû takes over from Labbu. Ninurta fights a similar kind of battle to establish his credentials as a warrior god but will perform more impressively than Tišpak. This is brought out by the different advice he is given. In Labbu Ea tells Tišpak to take a magic seal into battle, while in Anzû Ea comes up with a trick to subvert the power of the tablet of destinies: qab-lu-um-ma a-a i-nu-uḫ šu-kun lit-ka šu-ni-iḫ-šu-ma ina mit-ḫur me-ḫe-e a-bar-šu₂ lid-di li-⸢qe⸣-e-ma be-lu₄ ana ar₂-kat₃ šu-ku-di-ka nu-⸢uk-kis⸣ ab-re-e-šu im-na šu-me-la ru-’u-im liṭ-ṭul-ma kap-pa-a-šu₂ ⸢lit⸣-ba-la zi-kir pi-i-šu₂ kap-pa a-na kap-pi i-šes-si i tap-laḫ₃-šu₂ tu-lul ina i-rat gišqaštī(PAN)-ka lil-li-ku qa-nu-u₂ bir-qi₂ šu-ri-iḫ nap-šat-šu an-za-a ku-mu-ma “Do not tire in battle, establish your victory! Wear him out so that he drops his wings in the oncoming storm. Take your arrow back, lord, cut off his wings, strike off the right and the left! Let him see his wings, let it take away his utterance. ‘Wing to my wing!’ he will cry—do not fear him.

39

Cylinder seals were usually strung on a cord and worn around the neck; ‘cylinder seal of your throat’ probably refers to this. I envisage Tišpak holding it in his bow-hand as he shoots the arrow. There may also be word-play here, since napištīka can also be translated ‘your life’. The seal around Tišpak’s neck is, at the same time, the seal that will give him life by protecting him in battle.

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Draw your bow upon your breast, let the lightning shafts go! Let wings and feathers dance like butterflies. Destroy his life, conquer Anzû!” Anzû II.105–113 (edition Annus, 2001)

The trick depends on the double meaning of the Akkadian word kappu, which can refer to an individual feather as well as the whole wing (CAD K: 186).40 Therefore, as first suggested by Hirsch (apud Saggs, 1986: 22, in textual notes) and brilliantly elaborated by Studevent-Hickman (2010), Anzû tries to use the power of the tablet of destinies to recover his lost wings rather than to deflect Ninurta’s next attack, but in doing so, he calls the feathers of Ninurta’s arrows to him instead, bringing about his own demise.41 The inclusion of a cylinder seal as a magical object is especially noteworthy. Where Anzû features the tablet of destinies as a fearsome weapon, in Labbu the cylinder seal is carried into battle as an amulet to ensure success.42 Possessing the amulet gives Tišpak the power to defeat the monster, just as the tablet of destinies gives Anzû a distinct advantage over Ninurta. However, Anzû reverses the motif: instead of the warrior hero holding the magic object, it is carried by the enemy he fights. This variation on plot raises the stakes in Anzû. Ninurta is up against a more formidable enemy, not just a monster ferocious enough to require a magical defeat, but one which can use magic against him. Furthermore, Ninurta will kill this monster by subverting the magical object even though it is not in his possession, showing him to be a superior warrior. This is

40

41

42

Particularly in medical texts where it is much more likely that one feather is used rather than the whole wing, e.g. ina kappi(A₂) tu-šap-ra-šu-ma AMT 31, 6 line 9, cf. also Biggs Šaziga 54 i.3, cf. 55 ii.3 ka-pi-šu ta-ba₂-qa-an-šu₂, ‘you pluck its feathers’. AHW: 444 cites Anzû III.13 for ‘Feder am Pfeil’. This interpretation follows the text of GM1 and the Assur manuscript LKA 1. The Sultantepe version has kap-[pi] kap-pi i-šas-si, ‘He called “My wing, my wing!” ’, which implies that Anzû is so shocked by what has happened that he forgets to use the tablet of destinies (Vogelzang, 1989: 71). Vogelzang interprets the Assur manuscript in a similar way, suggesting that Anzû is distracted by the need to recover his wings and therefore cannot deflect Ninurta’s next attack (1989: 71). Cf. the interpretation of Reiner (1985: 64–65), that while intending to recover his severed wings, Anzû inadvertently utters the call of an ordinary bird instead—kappī is a bird call attested in a scholarly list (edition Lambert, 1970). Thus after crying ‘my wing’, Anzû loses the ability to formulate human words and can only sound the chirps of birds. This is perhaps more likely to be a secondary development rather than inherent in the Anzû poem itself, as the list is much later (Neo-Assyrian). The evidence for cylinder seals being used as amulets in rituals has been collected by Goff (1963: 195–211).

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brought out further by comparing the advice given to both gods. Ninurta is told to use trickery, but only magic can improve Tišpak’s chances. The tablet of destinies and the cylinder seal have more in common than their magical properties, however: both are also symbols of authority. Seals symbolised authority, including legitimate ownership of documents or objects, and the tablet of destinies symbolised ownership of power over the universe. Both were worn as prominent symbols of this authority. For example, a seal dedicated to Marduk by the king Marduk-zākir-šumi (VA Bab 646, RIMB 2: 104ff.) is perforated and bears an inscription calling it: si-mat kišādi(GU₂)-šu₂ elli(KU₃), ‘fitting for his holy neck,’ implying it was worn on a cord. The tablet of destinies was held at the breast (Enūma eliš IV.122 ir-tuš it-muḫ), meaning that it too was displayed on the body as a symbol of the power it conferred (George, 1986: 139). There is symbolic equivalence between divine seals and the tablet of destinies, too. The seal impression of Aššur impressed on Esarhaddon’s vassal treaties refers to itself as na₄kunuk(KIŠIB) šīmāti(NAM)meš, ‘seal of destinies’, and its function was to confer the highest divine authority on the document, making it equivalent to the tablet of destinies, which itself bore a seal (Enūma eliš IV.122; George, 1986: 139–141). The shifting of the motif from the god’s cylinder seal to the tablet of destinies is a natural one, then, since the two were functionally equivalent. The tablet of destinies has been substituted for the cylinder-seal amulet to raise the stakes again. The monster does not have just any magical object in its possession, but rather the power of Enlil himself. This elevates the abilities of Ninurta once more for being able to defeat an opponent with such power at his command. The scale of the crisis in Anzû is more severe in another way also, as the existence of the gods is more directly threatened (Wiggermann, 1989: 119). In Labbu, the monster is rampaging over the land, and the gods’ reasoning for wanting it eliminated is not entirely clear, though one could easily suppose that if mankind is destroyed there will be no one to provide offerings for them, as in Atraḫasīs. In Anzû the threat to the gods is more explicit. Their authority is taken away: den-lil₂-u₂-ta il-te-qe₂ na-du-⸢u₂⸣ [par-ṣi], ‘he took the Enlilship, the [divine powers] were overthrown!’ (I.82 = I.109). Furthermore, Tišpak’s victory takes place in a time when cities are already built, whereas Anzû does not mention human beings. The implication is that it is set in a more primordial time, before the Igigi had cult daises and before the rivers carried water (I.15– 18).43 This shifts the significance from the historical and specific (the arrival

43

This kind of strategy, which I call hysteron proteron, will be discussed further at the end of the chapter.

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of Tišpak in Ešnunna) to the cosmological and general (the ascent of Ninurta as warrior deity of Mesopotamia par excellence). The other gods listed also belong to particular cities in a way Ninurta does not. Ninurta does have a specific cult city (Nippur), but he was also worshipped all over Mesopotamia, as was Enlil, the main city god of Nippur. This is not the case for Ištaran of Dēr or Zababa of Kiš, or the other minor deities Pabilsag (Isin and Nippur), PisagUnug (Uruk), or Panigarra (Adab), or even of Ningirsu, a god specific to the city of Girsu, although they could have shrines outside their own cities (George, 1992: 489–491, passim). These elements are further examples of competition, for they elevate the significance of the story to a more universal plane. The magical object from Labbu has been incorporated into Anzû in a careful and deliberate way. If the poet had wanted to merge Ninurta with Tišpak, they could have simply given him a cylinder seal to carry into battle, but the process is more sophisticated than this and seems designed to show Ninurta to be superior to the warrior deities that came before him. Just as Labbu relates how Tišpak took over from the older Ninazu as a new, young, warrior god, taking over his previous attributes, so Anzû’s allusions remind us of this to show Ninurta taking over yet again. Tišpak’s seal had in fact originally been an attribute of Ninazu, appearing in an incantation (KAR 88 Fr. 4 r. iv 12; dupl. STT 217: 29) as na₄kunuk(KIŠIB) dnina-zu ša₂ māḫira(GABA.RI) lā(NU) išû(NU TUKU-u) ‘seal of Ninazu that cannot be withstood’, and Ninazu is ‘seal-keeper’ of the netherworld (kišib-gal kurra-ke; [ka]-ni-ik erṣeti(KUR-ti₃)) in another collection of bilingual incantations (Ebeling, 1953: 388: 60–61; dupl. STT 210 r. 8’) (Wiggermann, 1989: 124). It is thus another example of Tišpak taking over the attributes of the god he replaced. Notably, Ninurta is called the seal-keeper of Enlil in An-gin₇ 93, Lugal-e 236, and a Sumerian temple hymn (Sjöberg & Bergmann, 1969: 20 text no. 5, line 71) (Annus, 2002: 82–83), suggesting he may have usurped this function as well. This analysis has focused on Ninurta rather than Ningirsu primarily because of the evidence of the names at the end of the Standard Babylonian poem, which call Ninurta both Tišpak and Ningirsu. We do not know whether or not the Old Babylonian version which had Ningirsu as its protagonist concluded in a similar way. Although the tablet of destinies and Anzû’s magic spell do appear in Old Babylonian Anzû, perhaps implying that it was Ningirsu who took over these motifs from Tišpak first,44 this seems unlikely because

44

Although it seems likely that the victory was won in the same way, by subverting the power of the tablet of destinies, it should be noted that the details of the battle itself are lost in the Old Babylonian Anzû poem.

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the syncretism of Ningirsu with Ninurta took place so early on (by the middle of the third millennium at the latest, Streck, RLA IX: 512) that by the Old Babylonian period the two gods were already considered identical. Therefore, when Tišpak’s importance declined due to Hammurapi’s conquest of Ešnunna in the Old Babylonian period, Ninurta and Ningirsu would already have been synonymous. 3.2 Atraḫasīs Atraḫasīs tells the story of the creation of mankind and how it was nearly destroyed by an angry Enlil. At an early stage of cosmic history when Anu, Enlil, and Ea had just divided up sky, land, and the Apsû between them, Enlil imposed forced labour upon the junior gods, compelling them to dig the watercourses of the land. Tired of their drudgery, they rebel, setting fire to their tools and threatening to overthrow their oppressor. As a solution, Ea suggests that a new workforce be created to labour in their stead. The goddess Mami is thus entrusted with the task of creating human beings, who take over the work. The relevance of Atraḫasīs for Anzû is in this episode, since this goddess is also Ninurta’s mother and her role in the creation of mankind will be referenced here again. Atraḫasīs is first attested in the Old Babylonian period, from which eight or nine manuscripts are known, and is unusually well represented for a literary text of its type in this period (van Koppen, 2011: 145).45 The main recension consists of three tablets written out by Ipiq-Aya,46 identified in the colophons (Lambert & Millard, 1969: 32, mss. A–C).47 These colophons are dated to the reign of Ammi-ṣaduqa, so tablets I and II can be dated to 1635 and 1634BC respectively. The tablets were preserved in a family archive, probably as the

45

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The critical edition of the Old Babylonian poem is by Lambert and Millard (1969), however new manuscripts have since been identified. Shehata’s Annotierte Bibliographie zum altbabylonischen Atramḫasīs-Mythos (2001), which reconstructs the text from the various sources and discusses different readings, has been used throughout. For the reading of the name see Wilcke (1999: 68 n. 9). We also have another tablet belonging to the same recension (ms. D) and three or four other fragmentary manuscripts of it: E, F + BM 22714b (Lambert, 1991), G, and HE 529 (Groneberg, 1991), which might be part of Ipiq-Aya’s ms. B (van Koppen, 2010: 145). The Schøyen collection also contains two manuscripts of Atraḫasīs (George, 2009 nos. 2 and 3), though no. 2 seems to represent a different version from Ipiq-Aya’s. All the Old Babylonian manuscripts are unprovenanced, but are assumed to have come from Sippar based on what is known about the other tablets grouped with them in the museum collections (see Leichty, Finkelstein, & Walker, 1988: xviii–xix).

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final product of the young scribe’s training, an emblem of his accomplishment (van Koppen, 2011: 161). Since both Anzû and Atraḫasīs were first composed in the Old Babylonian period it cannot be proven from manuscript evidence which is older. However, the allusion to Atraḫasīs appears in the Standard Babylonian version of Anzû, which was certainly later than Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs. Ninurta’s mother, the birth goddess, features not only in Anzû but also in Lugal-e and Atraḫasīs. She was known by many different names, but in all three poems she receives a new title. However, the re-naming takes place at different points in each narrative and has a very different significance. It seems that an episode from Lugal-e has been included in the Anzû poem but upgraded to give more glory to Ninurta by merging it with the account from the story of the flood. As we will see, the re-naming of Ninurta’s mother in Anzû resembles the scene in Atraḫasīs much more closely. The narration in Anzû seems to be re-working this episode in the manner in which it was told in Atraḫasīs, and re-casting this as the definitive version of the goddess’ story. In Lugal-e Ninurta’s mother is called Ninmaḫ (369, 388, 391; also referred to once as Nintu at 409). After defeating Asag, Ninurta gives her the new name Ninḫursaĝa (dnin-ḫur-saĝ-ĝa₂), ‘Lady of the Mountains’ in honour of his victory (396, also at 408, 588, 644). She is not mentioned before this point and seems to have had no role in helping him attain it. Rather, she laments to him that she has been neglected (372–386), and so he bestows gifts upon her in an attempt to soothe her feelings. In Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs, the gods call upon the birth goddess, here originally called Mami, to create mankind. By doing so, she relieves the gods of their labour and thus saves Enlil from the rebellion threatening his life. Afterwards, the assembly of gods reward her with a new name, Bēlet-ilī, ‘Mistress of the gods’, in recognition for her work. In both versions of Anzû, Ninurta’s mother is called upon to beseech her son to fight, and in the Standard Babylonian poem the assembly of gods also bestow the name Bēlet-ilī upon her. The situation in Standard Babylonian Anzû is thus closer to that in Atraḫasīs than Lugal-e: in Lugal-e it is Ninurta himself that gives the new name to his mother, while in the two Akkadian poems it is the assembly of gods that do so. Furthermore, the gift is expressed in remarkably similar terms: pa-na-ma dma-mi ni-ša-si-ki i-na-an-na be-le-[et] ka-la i-li lu-u₂ ⸢šu-um⸣-ki “Formerly we used to call you Mami, “Now let ‘Mistress of All the Gods’ be your name” Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs. I.246–247

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pa-na-ma dma-mi-⸢tu?⸣ [ni-ša-si-ki] e-nen-ni be-let kul-la[t ilī(DINGIR)meš lu-u₂ šum(MU)-ki]48 “Formerly [we used to call you] Mamītu,49 “Now let ‘Mistress of All [the Gods’ be your name]” Standard Babylonian Anzû I.181–182

This is not the same as in the Old Babylonian Anzû, where she is already called Bēlet-ilī at the point where she is first introduced (line 36). Since the re-naming is not present in the Old Babylonian version, which does preserve the corresponding point in the narrative, it can therefore be considered a development of the Standard Babylonian version, which was certainly later than Atraḫasīs. It seems that the birth goddess has a traditional role as a helper in crisis situations such as this one, and this is why she is called upon in both Old Babylonian texts at this point in the story. Just as Ea/Enki has the traditional role of offering clever advice, so she often appears when the solution requires creation or persuasion. However, Standard Babylonian Anzû has not merely placed her in her typecast role but also chooses to make this the moment she receives her new name. Rather than being crowned ‘Mistress of the gods’ for relieving them of their corvée work, the poet of Anzû re-writes her story so that her most worthy achievement is her enlistment of Ninurta’s help.50 The two lines which state this are a close paraphrase of Atraḫasīs, saying the same thing in only slightly different words, and thus invoke the earlier explanation. It is yet another exaltation of Ninurta’s victory, that his mother should be honoured for her part in this story rather than any other. Standard Babylonian Anzû makes another change to the previous accounts. In both Lugal-e and Atraḫasīs Bēlet-ilī’s new name is a reward for something 48 49

50

The restoration was suggested by Hallo and Moran (1979: 69) from these very lines in Atraḫasīs, so close are the parallels. Mammītu is another name for Mami, a possible restoration suggested by A.R. George (personal communication). The Old Babylonian forerunner to An = Anum TCL 15, 10 names Mammītu as the spouse of Nergal in 419, who is more usually called Mami. In An = Anum itself dma-mi-tum occurs in V.299 as the spouse of Nergal, with the variant in ms. C (K 266) of dma-mi-e, although Mammītu does not appear in the 45 names of Bēlet-ilī in this list (II.1–45). It also presents her as having a special role regarding the assignment of divine responsibilities. Although the text is broken, from the surrounding context it looks likely that she gave supremacy to Enlil and kingship to Anu: den-lil₂-u₂-ti [a-na a-ḫi-ia x x] / a-na da-nim šar-ru-⸢ut⸣ [šamê(AN-e) uš-mad-di], ‘Supremacy [to my brother …] / to Anu [I assigned] the kingship [of heaven]’ / (I.205–206, restorations by Hallo & Moran, 1979: 88 following the Old Babylonian version).

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that has already been accomplished. In Anzû it is given before she asks Ninurta to set out, as a kind of anticipatory reward for her role in enlisting him (Vogelzang, 1986: 68). This is comparable to the bestowal of kingship on Marduk in Enūma eliš before he sets out to fight Ti’āmtu (IV.14–15), which is likely to be an imitation of Anzû (see chapter two). That Anzû should incorporate the naming of Bēlet-ilī into a text about the naming of Ninurta is another indication of its synthesizing nature. Anzû is set in a mythical time before the establishment of cult daises and when the great rivers do not yet flow. By implication, the poem is set before the creation of human beings, and hence before the action of Atraḫasīs. Therefore the renaming of Ninurta’s mother took place first in Anzû, well before the story of the flood. This in turn has cosmological significance, that Ninurta’s victory was the driving force behind changes in the divine hierarchy in a fundamental way, ‘an event which truly separated the past from the present’ (Hallo & Moran, 1979: 69), perhaps even more important than the flood itself. By streamlining two traditions in this way and effectively claiming that the new version in Anzû is the authoritative one, Ninurta is elevated even further. The poem subordinates an occasion that originally took place during the most important event of Mesopotamian mythic history by making it part of Ninurta’s rise to power instead. 3.3 The Return of Lugalbanda As we have seen, Anzû has much in common with the Sumerian poems about Ninurta, and those featuring other Semitic warrior gods. It is not unexpected, then, that it would also be comparable with a Sumerian poem featuring his antagonist, The Return of Lugalbanda.51 This poem is especially relevant as it features not only Anzu but also another incarnation of Ninurta: Lugalbanda is one of Ninurta’s names in Anzû III.147, and so Lugalbanda’s deeds can now be considered Ninurta’s. This time the interaction is not thematic or structural, but instead allusions are made through particular images. The result is to bring to mind a previous meeting between the two characters that was very different from the current struggle, and emphasize Anzû’s transformation from friend to foe. The Return of Lugalbanda was popular in the Old Babylonian period when Anzû was first written, with 52 manuscripts known from this period.52 Of these, 51 52

Also known as Lugalbanda II. The text presented here is based on the most recent edition by Vanstiphout (2003). Other important studies include the commentary by Wilcke (1969) and the literary analysis and translation by Black (1998).

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48 come from Ninurta’s cult city of Nippur, with other exemplars known from Kiš and Ur.53 Three more are Neo-Assyrian from Kuyunjik and are bilingual, showing that the poem continued to be copied all the way into the first millennium, and may well have been known by later readers of Standard Babylonian Anzû. The poem tells how Lugalbanda gained the favour of Anzu and thus was able to return to Uruk and help end the war against the rival kingdom of Aratta.54 It opens with Lugalbanda, son of the king of Uruk, lost in the mountains. He has become separated from the army on its way to campaign against Aratta. He comes across a nest of Anzu-chicks, tidies it up, and adorns the birds with kohl. When Anzu returns, he is pleased to find his offspring have been treated so well and offers Lugalbanda four different sets of rewards. The second offer is: dšara₂ dumu ki aĝ₂ dinana-gin₇ ti zu₂-zu-a u₄-gin₇ e₃-i₃ GIL-ak iti₆-gin₇ e₃-i₃ ti zu₂ lu₂ ra-ra-bi muš-ša₃-tur₃ ḫe₂-e Like Šara, beloved son of Inana, shoot out your barbed arrows like a sunbeam, shoot out reed arrows like moonlight! May the barbed arrows be a horned viper to those they hit! The Return of Lugalbanda 142–145

Lugalbanda, however, refuses, since he has his own specific request to make. He asks for the ability to run exceptionally fast, as fast as light itself (168–177). Anzu grants his request, and Lugalbanda uses this power to catch up with the army. He then uses it to return speedily to Uruk to ask Inana for success in the battle. In Akkadian Anzû, when Bēlet-ilī is encouraging Ninurta we find an image that resonates with the Sumerian Return of Lugalbanda:

53 54

One of unknown provenance is possibly also from Kish (Vanstiphout, 2003: 135). It seems to form a natural sequel to Lugalbanda in the Wilderness (also called Lugalbanda I), and so they are sometimes considered two halves of the same composition (Vanstiphout, 2003: 98–99). Since they are always found separately on the tablets, however, I have only considered The Return of Lugalbanda in this study, as it is the part which deals with Anzu.

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tu-lul gišqašta(PAN) šu-ku-du im-ta li-me-šu55 Draw the bow, let the arrow become poison to him! Standard Babylonian Anzû II.10 (ms. R)

Whether this is purely metaphorical or whether the arrows really were poisoned,56 the image is unique in Akkadian.57 There are only three comparable cases: two in Erra and Išum at I.7 and I.38 which are both allusions to Anzû and The Return of Lugalbanda, and another which is a negative variation, and so not very close.58 It seems likely, then, that this is an allusion to The Return of Lugalbanda 145: ti zu₂ lu₂ ra-ra-bi muš-šag₄-tur₃ ḫe₂-e, ‘May the barbed arrows be a horned viper to those they hit!’ an image which is also unique in Sumerian poetry. The only similar image compares a bow to a dragon: ĝešpan-ĝu₁₀-u₃ muš-ḫuš-gin₇ ⸢gu⸣ ḫa-ma-bur₂-re / (ĝeš)ti zu₂ igi-ĝu₁₀-še₃ sim-gin₇ ḫe₂ĝir₂-ĝir₂-re, ‘my bow bares its teeth like a mušḫuš dragon; / barbed arrows speed before me like swallows’ (Šulgi D 12–13) (Black, 1998: 145), but even here there is no mention of venom, making it sufficiently different. Of the three Standard Babylonian manuscripts that preserve Anzû II.10, only ms. R from Tarbiṣu (a Neo-Assyrian site close to Nineveh) has līmēšu. The other two manuscripts may be more marginal as one is much earlier (Middle Assyrian) and the other is from Sultantepe, a provincial site in Anatolia. These tablets have lībillū, closer to the Old Babylonian version which has liblū—‘let the arrows carry poison’. The allusion is thus also present in the Old Babylonian version, but more explicit in one strand of the Standard Babylonian version, perhaps an embellishment that was added to the text. What would it mean if Bēlet-ilī’s speech refers to a speech of Anzu in The Return of Lugalbanda? The encouragement given to Ninurta as he is about to fight Anzû would echo Anzu’s own words to him. Anzu was offering Lugalbanda the powers of a great archer, with special efficacy for his arrows. By way of illustration, he compares these powers to those of an archer god: ‘Like Šara’

55

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Mss. E and F have ⸢li-bi₂-lu⸣, ‘let the arrows carry poison!’ The line is also present in the Old Babylonian version which has li-⸢ib-lu⸣. On li-me-šu deriving from emû rather than lawû see Moran (1988: 25 n. 7). Two other manuscripts may imply it is more literal (see the variants above). Ninurta uses venom directly as a weapon in Lugal-e (106, 229, 374), so there may also be a sense of adaptation here, a shift away from the literal to the metaphorical. Cf. Seminara for the suggestion that gods are portrayed more anthropomorphically in Akkadian poetry than in Sumerian (2004: 244). It is an interlinear translation of a Sumerian hymn to Nabû: ĝeššu-nir-zu ušumgal ka-bita ušx nu-bi-iz-e-de₃, kak-ka-ka u₂-šum-gal-lu ša iš-tu pi-šu im-tu₂ la i-na-at-tu₂-ku, ‘your weapon is a dragon from whose mouth poison does not drip’ (4R 20 No. 3:15 f.).

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(dšara₂…-gin₇, line 142). But here Ninurta’s mother is spurring him on with these same wishes. This in effect would turn Anzu’s words back on him in an ironic way. In the previous poem he offered the hero powers of supreme archery, but here these same powers are about to be used against him, as Ninurta kills Anzû with an arrow. This conversation between Lugalbanda/Ninurta and Anzu cannot be sequentially transposed to the back-story of Anzû, since the poem begins from the point of Anzû’s birth and takes place before the creation of cities and men. Nonetheless, the allusion recalls it. The episodes do not have to fit sequentially in order to fit together or to allude to each other. Lugal-e and An-gin₇, for example, two different Sumerian compositions about Ninurta’s exploits, do not agree on the monsters he defeated, or with the account in Akkadian Anzû, and yet were grouped together in post-Old Babylonian libraries and treated as complementary (Cooper, 1978: 11–12). While the Akkadian poem absorbs different parts of Anzu and Ninurta mythologies, it is not necessarily trying to replace them in the same way it might be trying to replace the mythology of Tišpak. Reminding us of this other episode in Anzu’s mythology perhaps even engenders a kind of reverse intertextuality (explored further below). The next time one reads The Return of Lugalbanda and hears Anzu offering this kind of power as a gift, we may remember the Akkadian poem and the hero that destroys him, and be made to think ‘be careful what you offer!’59 A different interpretation could place more emphasis on the assimilating nature of Anzû and read this as a transference of power away from Anzû to Bēlet-ilī. The shifting of the motif emphasises the shifting of benevolence, for Anzu is not bestowing magic gifts upon heroes any more. Rather, it is now Bēletilī who encourages the protagonist with the same wish. On the basis of the portrayal of Anzu in The Return of Lugalbanda, Hruška argues that Anzû was originally benevolent in Sumerian mythology but that his character changed in the Old Babylonian period (Hruška, 1975: 127 cf. also Landsberger, 1961: 10–21; Cooper, 1978: 154). Taking away this positive aspect from Anzu and transferring it to someone else serves to intensify the negative characterisation of him in this story. This time he is lem-na an-za-a, ‘evil Anzû’ (II.21, 117, 139, III.20, 36, 62, 116) and nothing else. There is an added irony in the comparison to Šara in the original simile in The Return of Lugalbanda, in that Šara was one of the gods asked to kill 59

Particularly as Anzu’s first speech concludes at 109 with kur-re gaba-šu-ĝar ⸢nam⸣-muri-in-tuku-un: ‘I will let you have no opponent in the mountains!’ a title which is eerily reminiscent of Ninurta, particularly An-gin₇ 159 kala-ga kur gaba nu-gi₄-me-en: ‘I am the strong one, unopposed in the mountains’.

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Anzû before Ninurta. Šara refused. So Ninurta’s abilities are now not only like those of Šara,60 but surpass them, yet another declaration of Ninurta’s superiority.61 At the beginning of Anzû, Anzû’s relationship with Enlil is similar to how it was in The Return of Lugalbanda. However, this changes as the plot unfolds. In The Return of Lugalbanda, Anzu is appointed by Enlil to be the gatekeeper of the mountains, and has the power to fix destinies: a-a-ĝu₁₀ den-lil₂-le mu-un-tum₂-en kur-ra ĝešig-gal-gin₇ igi-ba bi₂-in-tab-en nam u₃-mu-tar a-ba-a šu mi-ni-ib-bal-e My father Enlil brought me here. He made me bar the front of the mountains like a great door. If I decide a fate, who can overturn it? The Return of Lugalbanda 101–103

In Anzû the relationship begins on an equally positive footing, as Enlil gives him custodianship of another entrance, the entrance to Enlil’s shrine. This time, however, he abuses his position, stealing the tablet of destinies: another reversal turning good Anzu into evil Anzû. The language used in Anzû when Enlil appoints him recalls the following line in The Return of Lugalbanda, which employs the same concept of ‘blocking’ (Black, 1998: 127; Annus, 2001: 125): ⸢lip⸣-tar-rik ina at-ma-ni šu-bat ⸢ki⸣-[iṣ-ṣi] “Let him always block (the way) in the cella, the seat of the [shrine]” Anzû I.56

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Ninurta was in fact identified with Šara in the Sumerian Song of the hoe (Annus, 2002: 154). It is worth mentioning that a quite extensive poem existed on the deeds of Girra, the other god who is asked to fight Anzû and refuses, Girra and Elamatum (edition Walker, 1983), which consisted of seven tablets probably running to about 350 lines (Walker, 1983: 145). Unfortunately only 51 lines of the seventh tablet of this Old Babylonian composition are extant, many of them broken, which describe Enlil fixing the fate of Girra after his victory over Elamatum. It seems probable that Standard Babylonian Anzû would allude to this composition given the similarity in their subject matter and the implicit comparison between the two gods, but not enough of the text survives to make comparison possible.

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At the temple of Ninhursaĝ in Tell al-Ubaid, Anzu was depicted on a relief over the doorway62 and this line may refer to a similar position. The verb parāku (to block) is by no means an obvious choice here. Since the purpose of his presence is to guard the shrine, naṣāru could just as well have been used. Perhaps, then, this line deliberately echoes Anzu’s role in The Return of Lugalbanda, which the plot of Anzû is about to subvert:63 rather than barring entrances with a protective function, he in fact carries out the kind of misdemeanour he was supposed to prevent. Anzu’s ability to fix destinies is mentioned immediately after his role of blocking the mountains in The Return of Lugalbanda, and in the Akkadian poem his appointment as guardian results in him stealing the tablet of destinies; in Anzû the power to determine fates is not bestowed on him, but he acquires it illegitimately nonetheless. As Annus points out, Anzû now becomes the one who needs to be blocked: Ninurta’s mother later tells him to block Anzû, lip-tar-rik-šu₂ gu-um-mur-ta a-šam-šu-ut-tu₂, ‘Let the dust storm totally block him!’ II.9 (2002: 125). Enūma eliš will interact with this concept again in the murder of Apsû, an explanation which makes sense of the unusual use of parāku there (see pp. 150–151).

4

Lamentations

Anzû’s spell, which commands the components of Ninurta’s bow and arrows to return to their places of origin, has parallels in both balaĝ lamentations (noted by Annus, 2001: xii) and in the Curse of Agade. These parallels suggest that Anzû is quoting the traditional language of lamentation. This implies that Anzû is capable of inflicting the same total devastation as the great gods, since this language is either spoken by high-ranking gods64 or otherwise describes the destruction that they cause. As we shall see, it is also a clever subversion of cultic practices, using lamentation for the same purpose as in the human realm but with ironically different intent.

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From the Early Dynastic III period, now in the British museum (accession number 114308). Black considers The Return of Lugalbanda line 102 to be formulaic, since it occurs in exactly the same form in Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta 224, and in a similar form in Lugal-e 351 but with ‘wall’ instead of ‘door’ (1998: 127). Even if this is the case, it is perfectly possible for a text to allude to a particular use of a formulaic line in a specific context (Currie, 2006: 5, with further literature). The parallel from the Curse of Agade quoted below is part of the curse uttered by Suen, Enki, Inana, Ninurta, Iškur, Utu, Nuska and Nisaba collectively against Agade, and the parallel from Gudnim Ekura is spoken by Ninurta himself.

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The spell Anzû utters against Ninurta’s incoming arrows is: qa-nu-um-ma ša₂ [tal]-li-ku tu-ra a-pu-uk-ka mu-um-⸢mu⸣ gišqašti(PAN) ⸢a⸣-na qi₂-ša₂-ti-ki šer₂-a-nu a-na ša₂-šal-li immeri(UDU.NITA₂) kap-pu ana iṣ-ṣu-ri tūrā(GUR)meš “Shaft that has come, turn back to your reed bed, “Frame of the bow (turn back) to your forests! “Bowstring to sheep sinew, feather to the bird—turn back!” Anzû II.63–65 = 79–82 = 94–96

In Gudnim Ekura, a ritual lament to appease the heart of Ninurta, the image of reeds returning to their reed bed and wood returning to the forest recurs: šul ni₂-te-a-ni mi₂ zi iri₄-in-ga-am₃-me [šul?] dnin-urta ni₂-te-a-ni mi₂-zi iri₄-in-ga-am₃-me 65[e₂ ki-]⸢bala⸣ a ga₂ za-e ga₂-[e] za-e a ĝa₂-e ĝa₂-e66 [e₂-ki-bala im-zu abzu-ba me-na] mu-un-na-an-gi₄-gi₄ [e₂-ki-bala gi-zu ĝeš-gi-ba me-na mu-un-na-an-gi₄-gi₄] [e₂-ki-bala ĝeš-ur₃-zu tir-tir-ba me-na mu-un-na-an-gi₄-gi₄] The youth praises himself, [the youth] Ninurta praises himself: “[House of the hostile] land! Oh I! You! I! You! Oh I! I! “[House of the hostile land, when will your clay] return [to its abzu?] “[House of the hostile land, when will your reeds return to their canebrake?] “[House of the hostile land, when will your beams return to their forests?”] [eṭ]-lu₄ iṭ-ḫe-ma ra-man-šu₂ ki-niš u₂-kan-na […] [at]-ta MIN a!(e)-na-ku MIN […]-x-e: ul u₂-tar […]-u₂? qa-ni-ka ana ap-pi-šu₂-nu i-[tar?]

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Restorations from parallel passage in Ursaĝ Mešarur, 165–171 (Cohen, 1975). This line is corrupt. Collation was not possible at the time of writing.

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[…]-x-x gu-šu-ru ana qiš-ti-šu-nu i-[tar?] The youth approached, he praises himself, […] “you DITTO, I DITTO “[…] … will not return “[…] … will your reeds [return] to their canebrake? “[…] … the beams [return] to their forest?” Gudnim Ekura 86–91, edition Cohen, 1988 vol II: 446

This balaĝ is only attested in the first millennium, long after Anzû was written, and so we may at first think that the balaĝ must be quoting Anzû. However, the passage occurs in many other places, not only other ritual laments (the širnamšub to Ninurta Ursaĝ Mešarur, lines 165–171,67 and Abzu Pelam b+110–112, which is not a Ninurta composition), but also in the Curse of Agade, which is at least Old Babylonian in date, if not older: im-zu abzu-ba ḫe₂-eb-gi₄ im den-ki-ke₄ nam-ku₅-ra₂ ḫe₂-a še-zu ab-sin₂-ba ḫe₂-eb-gi₄ še dezinu₂-e nam ku₅-ra₂ ḫe₂-a ĝeš-zu tir-bi-a ḫe₂-eb-gi₄ ĝeš dnin-ildu₂-ma-ke₄ nam-ku₅-ra₂ ḫe₂-a May your clay return to its Abzu, may it be clay cursed by Enki! May your grain return to its furrow, may it be grain cursed by Ezinu! May your wood return to its forest, may it be wood cursed by Ninildum! The Curse of Agade 231–236 (edition Cooper, 1983)

Given that the Curse of Agade also shares much language with the other city laments and balaĝs, it seems likely that this passage is part of this shared language. Since the imagery occurs in much later balaĝs, this Old Babylonian attestation may suggest that it existed already in balaĝs of the Old Babylonian period. It seems more likely that the balaĝs precede the city laments, since the

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Noted in the edition by Cohen (1975).

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city laments themselves mention ritual lamentation (Cooper, 2006: 41), rather than the late balaĝs showing a degeneration of material coming primarily from the city laments (as Vanstiphout, 1986b). The context of this passage is that it is part of the great gods’ curse upon Agade, an image of total annihilation. This is the same function of the image in the two balaĝs cited earlier. The effect of the incorporation of this language of lamentation is that when Anzû utters his spell, his words do not simply bring about the destruction of Ninurta’s weapons but carry overtones of the devastation of the whole land. This unsettling allusion hints at what Anzû is capable of if not stopped, and thus heightens the importance of Ninurta’s battle. Once again, allusion raises the stakes. To put the traditional language of annihilation into Anzû’s spell is an innovative re-application of it. Anzû’s cry is called ikkillu in Anzû II.49, which is another word for ritual wailing (CAD I: 58), and may signpost the allusion to ritual laments.68 In the Curse of Agade these words are uttered by the great gods as a curse on Agade, in Gudnim Ekura they are spoken by Ninurta as a foreshadowing of the devastation he is about to cause, and in Abzu Pelam too they are a description of destruction caused by divine anger. To have Anzû uttering these words puts him on the level of the great gods. Because he has the tablet of destinies, Anzû can act on their level, and is capable of wreaking terrible destruction. As with Tišpak’s seal becoming the tablet of destinies, this is another example of a reversal where a motif usually applied to gods has been transferred to their enemies in order to make them more fearsome and more difficult to defeat. Furthermore, the reason for singing a lamentation is to soothe a god’s anger, so that they cease attacking and causing destruction. Since Ninurta is attacking Anzû, countering Ninurta with a type of lament is an ingenious tactic. However, it is a subversion of the lament, using it as an aggressive battle tactic rather than a pious ritual act. This subversion adds to the characterization of utterly evil Anzû. The once-guardian of Enlil’s shrine is now subverting cultic practices against the gods—a complete reversal in behaviour. His words do not appease the god’s heart but infuriate it further.

5

Reverse Intertextuality

The kind of competitive relationship to earlier works outlined here is a wellknown phenomenon in Latin poetry. Virgil’s Aeneid incorporates the great

68

Suggested by Amar Annus (personal communication).

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poems that preceded it, and thus presents itself as the culmination of literary history. It remodels episodes from the Iliad in such a way that makes the Aeneid seem the inevitable result of the events of the Iliad when one re-reads Homer’s poem. For example, Aeneid 3.156–160, where the Penates appear to Aeneas in a dream announcing his goal is Italy, is modelled on Iliad 20.302– 308, where Poseidon predicts Aeneas as the future leader of his people. After this, ‘one cannot but read the original Homeric prophecy as transformed into a predictor of empire’ (Armstrong, 2006: 140). Ovid, in the Metamorphoses, responds competitively yet again to the Iliad and the Aeneid, and even to the way that Virgil redefines Homer. Where the Aeneid functioned as ‘a treasury of literary history’ (Armstrong, 2006: 131), Ovid begins his poem from the beginning of time, encompassing all possible history as well as all literary genres. In particular, the way that Ovid incorporates events from the Aeneid into the Metamorphoses changes our perspective on Virgil’s poem, so that ‘it turns out that the Aeneid was only ever about metamorphoses, if only it had been told properly’ (Robinson, 2006: 213). ‘Rather than construct himself as an epigonal reader of the Aeneid, Ovid is constructing Virgil as a hesitant precursor of the Metamorphoses’ (Hinds, 1998: 106). I suggest that a similar dynamic is at work with both Anzû and Enūma eliš. Anzû, in setting itself in a primeval time before the waters of the two rivers flowed, before cities and before human history, establishes its primacy over the other poems with which it interacts. The poem that is later in literary history anchors its narrative earlier in time than the poem that precedes it, a technique Classicists call hysteron proteron (‘the later one earlier’) (e.g. Currie, 2006: 35, with n. 152). It declares this to be the definitive account of Ninurta’s rise to power, and Ninurta is given these new identities before the other gods could have been able to exercise them. Ninurta is named Tišpak and Lugalbanda in this primeval time, and thus has always been Tišpak and Lugalbanda.69 Similarly the birth goddess is called Bēlet-ilī for the first time not in the poem of Atraḫasīs, but now in Anzû, which by setting itself before the creation of human beings implicitly claims to be the primary account.

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The use of naming as a way of legitimising something new and innovative has parallels in Classical literature too: Hesiod’s account of Aphrodite’s birth from the sea is not traditional, and is explained by the etymology of her name: τὴν δ᾽ Ἀφροδίτην / ἀφρογενέα τε θεὰν καὶ ἐυστέφανον Κυθέρειαν / κικλῄσκουσι θεοί τε καὶ ἀνέρες, οὕνεκ᾽ ἐν ἀφρῷ / θρέφθη, ‘Gods and men call her Aphrodite, the foam-born (aphro-genea) goddess and well-crowned Cytherea, because she grew in the foam’ Theogony 195–198. Hesiod thus justifies an untraditional story with the authority of a name, or perhaps etymologising inspired it in the first place (see Currie, 2011: 64).

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At the same time, Anzû acknowledges that other accounts exist, but by taking elements from them, it overrides them and puts itself into the earlier picture. This is the effect of the allusions to The Return of Lugalbanda. When we read The Return of Lugalbanda after Anzû we now think of how this benevolent bird has since become evil Anzû (lemna Anzâ). Anzu’s identity in the literary tradition has been changed, and we know that from now on he will always be a terrifying monster.70 Tišpak’s magic seal being taken over and transformed into the tablet of destinies is another example. After reading Anzû, it no longer seems heroic for the god to have such magic assistance, it is even an unfair advantage, since Ninurta needed no such aid even as his opponent used magic against him. Knowledge of Anzû actually detracts from Tišpak’s achievements. As Fowler says, ‘we should not shy away from accepting that intertextuality works both ways’ (2000: 130).

6

Conclusions

Anzû presents itself as the definitive account of Ninurta’s rise to power, using a range of intertextual strategies to accomplish this. Allusions to Lugal-e strengthen the portrayal of Ninurta as a mighty warrior in his battle against Anzû by borrowing from his famous battle against Asag. However, the battle against Anzû is re-cast as Ninurta’s ultimate victory instead of this earlier one: the poem is set in a primeval time before the battle against Asag could have taken place, and a near-quotation of Atraḫasīs proclaims Ninurta’s mother’s role in his victory to be her most important deed instead of her role in the creation of man. Aspects of An-gin₇ and Lugal-e, which would have been well-known to the audience, create expectations that influence the way we interpret Anzû. For example, Ninurta’s record of victory in the mountains and the way the mountain is referred to strongly imply that he will win in this poem as he has done in others. Anzû has structural features in common with these Sumerian poems, such as the hymnic beginning and the plot sequence of a failed first attempt in 70

Even when he is useful, for example, when his image is set over temple doors in order to protect them, he is able to do so because of his terrifying power rather than his desire to help mankind. When Anzu appears in similes the point of comparison is his terrifying appearance and fierce aspect, e.g. mu-daḫ-ḫi-ṣi-a kīma(GIN₇) an-ze-e eli(UGU)-šu₂-nu i-še’u, ‘my warriors flew against them like Anzû’ (inscription of Ashurnaṣirpal II, RIMA 2: 260: 74); la-ab-bu-ma šam₂!-ru ki-ma an-zi-i ša-nu-u₂ nab-ni-ta, ‘they are raging, fierce, strange in shape like Anzû’ (Assyrian troops in the Tukultī-Ninurta epic, ii 37 (edition Machinist, 1978)).

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battle followed by advice off the battlefield. These parallels give us clues about how the plot will develop in advance of any explicit statements, such as when the birth of Anzû is announced immediately after the hymnic prologue, just as the news of the birth of the marauding Asag was brought to Ninurta in the corresponding place. Making the monster rival Ninurta by giving it some of the god’s attributes is a technique found in both Anzû and Lugal-e, which further heightens the drama of the battle. A more direct borrowing is the character of Šar-ur, who has less of a role than in Lugal-e, but this very lessening has the effect of amplifying Ninurta’s achievements and our confidence in him. Overall, comparisons with earlier Ninurta poems show that Ninurta himself has evolved since his previous exploits: as well as competing with other deities he competes with himself, and Anzû shows us the best version. As for other competitors, Ninurta is syncretised with a number of older deities and thereby takes over their stories. Most significantly, his battle with Anzû is similar to Tišpak’s battle in Labbu. From this poem Anzû borrows the magical object used as an amulet in battle, but transfers it from the hero to the enemy to make the confrontation more formidable, a technique that will be seen again in Enūma eliš (perhaps not coincidentally). Similarly, the assimilation of Ninurta to Lugalbanda means that stories about Lugalbanda now belong to Ninurta as well. Here we see allusions made through images: the arrow being like poison and the blocking of the way. Both of these impart a terrible dramatic irony, drawing attention to the fact that a gift that Anzu once offered the warrior protagonist is now being used against him, and that the once-loyal guardian is about to turn into a thief. Allusions to The Return of Lugalbanda override the earlier positive portrayal of Anzu to emphasise that he has now become evil, an true opponent rather than a friend, and project this characterisation back on to the earlier text. An example of such evil can be found in Anzû’s spell, which subverts the language of balaĝ lamentations, taking ritual words that are supposed to soothe Ninurta’s heart and using them for his ruin. The range of techniques thus spans near-quotation, allusion to specific images, borrowings of structure, characters, techniques, and ‘props’, as well as hysteron proteron and reverse intertextuality. Both Sumerian and Akkadian poems are alluded to, as well as ritual texts. As we will see, Anzû is by no means unusual in the range of intertextual techniques it employs or in the range of compositions it alludes to: Enūma eliš and Erra and Išum share many of these strategies and build on Anzû to become ever more complex.

chapter 2

Enūma eliš and Anzû 1

Introduction

Enūma eliš is often dubbed ‘The Babylonian Creation Epic,’ since it relates the creation of the world, of mankind, and the city of Babylon. However, most of the narrative is concerned with Marduk’s battle against Ti’āmtu,1 a monster whose name literally means ‘sea’ but who also seems to be some kind of animal.2 It is this conflict which results in Marduk being awarded kingship of all the gods, and establishes him not only as supreme warrior god, but supreme creator god and head of the whole pantheon. Since Marduk is the god of Babylon, the poem justifying his supremacy justifies the rise of his city as a major power and was therefore central to Babylonian identity. Enūma eliš was extensively copied and well known, attested by no less than 181 manuscripts.3 That so many copies of the same text were found in one place attests to the poem’s importance. The earliest manuscripts are seven tablets from Assur which may date to the first half of the ninth century,4 but the poem must be earlier, since Marduk had risen to prominence long before. The date of composition of Enūma eliš has not been precisely determined, but it is certainly later than Anzû and earlier than Erra and Išum. Lambert’s suggestion of the reign of Nebuchadnezzar I in the late twelfth century is still the most convincing proposition (1964, 2013: 439–444). As Lambert argues, the poem clearly connects the rise of Marduk to the glory of Babylon, and so is likely to have been composed at a time of ‘national’ pride.5 The reign of Nebuchadnezzar I (1126–1105 BC) fits these circumstances well, since this was a time of revival for Babylon coinciding with the return of Marduk’s statue from Elam. Although Dalley argues that there are four reigns when a statue of Marduk was stolen 1 I read ti-GEME₂ as ti-amtu, -amta, -amti following Borger (2008: 272–273), since there are writings of the word ti-GEME₂-am-ma (e.g. II.157 in mss. a and b), where the logogram must be read as amta to make grammatical sense. 2 Probably a she-goat—see Reynolds (2000). 3 The most recent edition is by Lambert (2013). About half the manuscripts (95) are in Babylonian script, the earliest being Neo-Babylonian and the latest perhaps even Parthian. About a quarter (46) are from Kuyunjik. Other Neo-Assyrian findspots include Assur, Sultantepe, and Nimrud. 4 According to palaeographic analysis by Köcher, apud Lambert (2013: 4). 5 See now Lambert (2013: 439–465) on the composition of Enūma eliš.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412972_004

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and returned, and that the frequency of the theft (and indeed, the number of statues, since there was more than one) undermines it as a criterion for a specific date of composition (1997), if Enūma eliš does not date specifically to the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, it probably dates somewhere near it. A Kassite origin was proposed by Sommerfeld (1982: 174–181), though Lambert countered that Marduk was a second-ranking god in this period according to evidence from boundary stones (1984: 3ff.). Cooley has recently argued that the astronomical terminology in Enūma eliš shows that it could have been composed around this time, as it fits well with the terms used in another text that developed in the Kassite period, Enūma Anu Enlil (2013: 159). Linguistic forms cannot be used to date poetry precisely since it often incorporates archaizing features, but the terminology does provide a terminus ante quem: the poem could not have been composed before the Kassite period.6 Kämmerer and Metzler do not take a stand on this debate, but do point out that there is no reason why Enūma eliš could not have been composed by the priests of Marduk during the Kassite period with purely theological and not political motives, thus anticipating the later political triumph of Marduk that the poem would be used to justify (2012: 20–21). A Kassite date is possible given the cultural respect the Kassite rulers gave to native Babylonian traditions, and particularly since new evidence suggests that Marduk’s elevation to supreme god took place earlier than previously thought, as an akītu festival was held for him in Nippur in the 13th century BC (Tenney, 2016). Either way, the Standard Babylonian version of Anzû was almost certainly complete and in circulation by the time of the composition of Enūma eliš, and Enūma eliš in turn must be earlier than Erra and Išum. Enūma eliš draws on an extraordinary breadth of sources. Lambert notes its highly composite nature, calling it ‘a sectarian and aberrant combination of mythological threads woven into an unparalleled compositum’ and remarks that ‘the various traditions it draws upon are often perverted to such an extent that conclusions based on this text alone are suspect. It can only be used safely in the whole context of Mesopotamian mythology’ (1965: 291). This alerts us to the necessity of analysing the intertextuality of Enūma eliš for understanding the poem’s true nature as well as being wary of taking it as a representative of

6 An Old Babylonian date, as suggested by Dalley (1997: 171), and implied by von Soden on linguistic grounds (1933: 122–130), is too early for other reasons also: in the prologue to Hammurapi’s Laws, Anu and Enlil promote Marduk to rule over all the people but not over all the gods (Lambert, 1964: 5–6), and there are no Old Babylonian personal names that call Marduk king of the gods, although these are attested for many other deities (Lambert, 1984: 2).

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any standard Mesopotamian creation myth, for the way in which it has altered these preceding traditions will be significant and tailored to the text’s ideology. The range of compositions Enūma eliš alludes to has been noted by earlier scholars, though rarely explored in depth. In addition to Anzû, Lambert argued Enūma eliš contains motifs drawn from Sumerian Ninurta mythology such as the bow’s name ‘long wood,’ which is the name of Ninurta’s spear in Lugal-e and An-gin₇ (1986: 59). Resemblances to Atraḫasīs have been noted by Labat (1935: 29) and Jacobsen (1976: 167) with regard to Apsû being unable to sleep, and by Horowitz in relation to the tripartite division of domains between Anu, Enlil and Ea (1998: 113, 128–129), and by Machinist (2005: 44) and Seri (2006: 515) with regard to the creation of humanity. Most recently, Seri has collected references in Enūma eliš to a range of texts, including Marduk’s Address to the Demons7 as well as to those already acknowledged (2014). Marduk’s creation of the universe parallels events in the omen series Enūma Anu Enlil (Horowitz, 1998: 145–147; Seri, 2006: 515), and aspects of the creation of Babylon may have been drawn from the topographical text Tintir = Babylon (Horowitz, 1998: 124).8 It is evident that Enūma eliš is drawing on many types of text, not only the narratives under consideration here. Intertextuality between Enūma eliš and Anzû is by now well acknowledged. This was established by Lambert (1986), based not only on similarities of plot but also the use of Ninurta’s epithet mutīr gimilli abīšu and similar phrases,9 as well as the line ša₂-a-ru kap-pi-šu ana bu-us-ra-a-ti lib-lu-u-ni , ‘Let the winds bring his feathers as good news’ (Anzû II.18) re-manifesting as ša-a-ru da-mi-ša₂ a-na bu-us-ra-ti li-bil-lu-ni, ‘Let the winds bring her blood as good news’ (Enūma eliš IV.32).10 Dalley wrote that ‘considerable similarities are evident’ between the two poems, but put this down to a common stock of poetic motifs (2000: 230–231). Frahm briefly notes that Enūma eliš draws on motifs from Lugal-e and Anzû (2010a: 5). Machinist (2005) established that Enūma eliš is based on the same structure as Anzû and is meant to be recognised as such. His explanation of the motivating ideology is worth quoting in extenso: 7 8

9

10

Now known to be part of Utukkū Lemnūtu (Geller, 2007: 155). For example, the 900 Igigi gathered at Enūma eliš VI.69 (Tintir V.85; Horowitz, 1998: 124). Alternatively the two texts may draw on the same tradition for this detail (George, 1992: 6). Enūma eliš II.127, 156, III.10, 58, 116, 138, IV.13, VI.105, 163. The epithet itself is not in Anzû, but Ninurta plays this very role in the poem, which centres on avenging the theft of the tablet of destinies from his father Enlil. Prior to this, Jastrow had called Erra and Išum a Babylonian version of the Anzû story (1906: 179 n. 4), and Cooper had casually mentioned similarities in plot between Anzû and Enūma eliš as an aside (1977: 508), but neither elaborated on these observations.

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The similarities with and modifications of the Anzu text … allow us to appreciate more precisely what Enūma eliš is about. As most scholars would acknowledge, it is about legitimacy—the legitimacy of Marduk as supreme sovereign and of his Babylon as the cosmic centre. To make this argument, the text has to show how Marduk comes to appropriate and integrate the essential Mesopotamian notions about sovereignty and order. It does so by pointing to itself, as it were, as a deliberately composite work, whose composite quality, marking out and combining the leading textual traditions about sovereignty and order … is intended to underscore Marduk as the composite and so supreme ruler. Machinist, 2005: 45

This insight explains why Enūma eliš interacts with so many different poems and texts, and why these interactions are not always smooth and invisible but stand out and demand our attention. If Marduk’s superiority to previous heroes went unnoticed, he would seem far less impressive and far less deserving of the high position which Enūma eliš bestows upon him. Direct allusions that need to be recognised are, in fact, integral to the work. As Machinist goes on to say, since Marduk is young and needs to obtain this sovereignty through a remarkable deed, the obvious model is Ninurta’s battle against Anzû (2005: 45). But the choice is more than simply the closest situational match. By Neo-Assyrian times Ninurta’s battle had become a paradigm of heroism, the ultimate story of a rise to power (Maul, 1999a: 209–210; Annus, 2001: xxi–xxiv).11 This may also have been the case before then, since Gilgameš describes the battle against Humbaba in language that evokes Anzû, and in an Old Babylonian Gilgameš excerpt tablet the fourth dream foretells the monster’s defeat by showing Ninurta’s victory over Anzû (Annus, 2001: xii–xiii; George, 2003: 242–245). Not to have dealt with it in describing Marduk’s ascent would have been to ignore a significant rival, a serious gap in the argument, as it were. Marduk achieves his victory in his own way, following Ninurta’s precedent to some extent but also out-doing him on several counts. Basing his actions on those of Ninurta and drawing attention to them signals to the audience that Marduk is the new embodiment of ultimate power and victory. Since Ninurta was the supreme warrior deity, allusions to his exploits show that Marduk has replaced him in this capacity. Yet this process is far more sophisticated than

11

See also Watanabe (1998) on the connection between the royal lion hunt and Ninurta’s battles.

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just having Marduk kill Anzû. The crisis now at hand is far graver than the one Ninurta had to deal with. Rather than just kill one monster, Marduk has to kill an opponent who heads an entire army of monsters. As Machinist remarks, ‘the point of Enūma eliš is to show Marduk appropriating and surpassing his model’ (2005: 45). References to Ninurta’s task—heroic in its time—within a larger, more complex narrative elevates Marduk’s own achievement. He is not only as good as Ninurta was, he is better.12 In an article collecting intertextual links in Enūma eliš, Seri remarks that ‘Enūma eliš’s imitation of the structure of Anzû encapsulates borrowings of motives, themes, details, and verbatim lines’ (2014: 101)—a wide range of allusive techniques. This chapter explores in detail what these numerous allusions mean, and how they bring out Marduk’s superiority. From the very first time he speaks, Marduk is presented as the new Ninurta, particularly through two wellknown adaptations from Anzû, namely the blood on the wind and the tablet of destinies, which both have more significance than previously recognised. The enemies, too, are equated, as a link may be drawn between Ti’āmtu’s weapons and Ninurta’s. In addition, allusions to Anzû do not only exalt Marduk over Ninurta but also slight the other major god featured in that poem: Enlil. This programme goes beyond the often-cited transfer of Enlil’s 50 names to Marduk, as other structural adaptations further edit Enlil out of the new world order, through hysteron proteron and the borrowing of repeated passages. As we shall see, the allusions are hostile to both gods, usurping Ninurta through competition and Enlil through omission.

2

Marduk as the New Ninurta

From his first appearance after Ti’āmtu launches her rebellion, allusions begin to connect Marduk with Ninurta. When Ea summons Marduk to urge him to fight Ti’āmtu he is described with Ninurta’s epithets, and the scene echoes Ninurta’s initiation into the top level of the pantheon. However, Maruk will go one better, for this moment also marks his becoming a god of magic, supplanting both Ninurta and Ea at the same time. When Marduk is summoned, the language describing him echoes the prologue of Anzû: 12

The wide-reaching influence of Enūma eliš meant that this assimilation was adopted by other compositions; e.g., two devotional poems addressed to Marduk allude to his killing of Anzû (Al-Rawi, 1992 = Oshima, 2011: prayer 2; Craig, ABRT I, 29–31 + 2 x = SAA III, 2 = Oshima, 2011: prayer 15).

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ap-lu₄ ga-aš-ru mu-tir-ru gi-mil-lu a-bi-[šu] ḫa-’i-iš tuq-ma-te dmarduk(AMAR.UTU) qar-du ⸢il⸣-si-ma de₂-a a-šar pi-riš-ti-šu₂ [ka]-⸢inim⸣-ma-ak libbi(ŠA₃)-šu₂ i-ta-mi-šu The mighty heir, avenger of [his] father,13 who hastens to battle, Marduk the valiant, Ea summoned to the place of his secret. He spoke to him the magic words of his heart: Enūma eliš II.127–130

Compare this with Ninurta’s introduction in Anzû: [bi]-⸢in⸣ šar(LUGAL) da-ad-mi ⸢šu⸣-[pa-a na-ram dma-mi] [ga-aš₂]-ra lu-uz-za-mur ⸢ilu(DINGIR)⸣ [bu-kur₂ den-lil₂] [d]nin-urta šu-pa-a ⸢na⸣-[ram dma-mi] ⸢ga⸣-aš₂-ra lu-ut-ta-a’-id ⸢ilu(DINGIR)⸣ [bu-kur₂ den-lil₂] [Scion] of the king of inhabited regions, [resplendent one, beloved of Mami], let me sing of the [mighty] one, divine [son of Enlil], Ninurta, resplendent one, [beloved of Mami], let me praise the mighty one, divine [son of Enlil]. Standard Babylonian Anzû 1–4

and a few lines later: mud-dab₂-ra qar-da na-a’-i-ra kak-ku-us-su ⸢ga⸣-aš₂-ra ḫa-a-a-ša₂ mut-tab-bi-la qab-la a-nun-te Powerful, valiant, murderous with his weapon, mighty hastener who always carries the battle and combat. Standard Babylonian Anzû 13–14

Marduk’s epithet gašru (‘mighty’) is the same one used of Ninurta in the Anzû prologue, where it is emphatically repeated. Its prominent position in the pro13

mutīr gimilli can also be translated as ‘who does a service/favour’, but considering its original attachment to Ninurta who avenges his father Enlil by reclaiming the tablet of destinies in Anzû, I prefer ‘avenger’ here.

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logue reflects its role later in the story, since gašru is also the title offered to Adad, Girra, and Šara if they conquer Anzû, but which only Ninurta earns and obtains (Hallo & Moran, 1979: 72): [šit]-⸢ra⸣-aḫ i-na maḫ-ri ilānī(DINGIR)mešma gaš-ru šum(MU)-ka, ‘Show your glory before the gods, and your name will be the ‘mighty one’’ (Anzû II.103 = 124 = 145).14 Likewise, the adjective qardu (‘valiant’) describing Marduk here also occurs in Anzû I.7 and I.13 and is a standard epithet of Ninurta (Tallqvist, 1938: 425). Although it is used of other gods too,15 its clustering with gašru and ḫā’iš contributes to a specific association with Ninurta, for Anzû I.14 also combines these two in the context of battle: ⸢ga⸣-aš₂-ra ha-a-a-ša₂16 mut-tab-bi-la qabla a-nun-te, ‘mighty hastener, who always carries the battle and combat.’ Hallo and Moran note the similarity of Enūma eliš II.128 to this line (1979: 92): the word ḫayyāšu is extremely rare, like much of the diction in the prologue, and in fact is only attested once17 outside Anzû and Enūma eliš (Hallo & Moran, 1979: 74). The place that Marduk is summoned to, ašar pirištīšu (‘the place of his secret’), also has associations with Ninurta. After Ninurta’s victory, Dagan invites him to join the other great gods, saying: ⸢li⸣-ziz itti(KI) ilānī(DINGIR)meš aḫḫī(ŠEŠ)meš-šu₂-ma pi-riš-tu₂ liš-me [liš-me]-⸢ma⸣ ša₂ ilānī(DINGIR)meš pi-riš-tu₂ “Let him stand with the gods, his brothers, and hear the secret, [let him hear] the secret of the gods!” Anzû III.30–31

This summoning marks Ninurta’s ascent to a prominent position in the pantheon, as he is invited to hear the secret of the gods after he has defeated Anzû, and one of the names he is subsequently granted is EN AD.ḪAL —bēl pirišti (‘lord of the secret,’ Anzû III.133). In the passage in Enūma eliš, Ea is summoning Marduk to tell him about the opportunity that has arisen, encouraging him

14 15 16 17

The same offer is made to Ninurta at II.27, and is repeated by Ea when he sends advice and encouraging words to the battlefield (II.125 = 143). Mostly warriors but also more unexpectedly Damkina and Ninlil (Tallqvist, 1938: 161). ḫa’iš is a cognate from the same root as ḫayyāša, so Enūma eliš adapts the word while referencing its source. In the Marduk Prophecy, line 1: [d]ḫa-a-a-šum, which appears to be the name of a littleknown primeval deity (Borger, 1971: 5, 17).

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to fight Ti’āmtu. This is the first time he is presented as a Ninurta-like figure, and it marks his step into the warrior role. However, Ninurta is granted these privileges after his victory, while Marduk is granted them even before he volunteers to fight. Not only does this underscore Marduk’s inherent superiority, but it also lends a measure of inevitability to his victory and his final supremacy. 2.1 The Dutiful Son Ninurta is the dutiful son of Enlil, who recovers his father’s lost power and restores his authority. Enūma eliš alludes to this a number of times. As already noted, Marduk is given Ninurta’s epithet mu-tir-ru gi-mil-lu a-bi-šu₂ ‘avenger of his father’ (II.127), and as we shall see, Enlil is called abu (‘father’) in VII.136, at the point where he gives his name to Marduk.18 Overtones of the relationship between Ninurta and Enlil are thus imparted to Marduk. However, as this section will show, there are also significant differences between them. Marduk is the avenger of all the gods, his ancestors, not only of his father Ea, and his story is therefore more significant. All the gods are under threat from Ti’āmtu, and Marduk’s victory saves them all.19 At the same time, Marduk is summoned by his father, Ea, and so responds to his call for help as Ninurta responded to that of his parents.20 Enūma eliš adds another twist: Ea was one of the gods initially asked to fight Ti’āmtu but who turned back in fear, so by taking up the challenge Marduk is shown to be braver than his father—another way he supersedes him. Enlil is called father (a-bu) in Enūma eliš VII.136, at the crucial moment when Enlil bestows his own name on Marduk: dbēl mātāti(KUR.KUR) šum-šu it-ta-bi abu den-lil₂, ‘Father Enlil called him his name “Lord of the Lands”.’ This, of course, contradicts the account of Marduk’s genealogy in Tablet I, where Ea is his father, and has raised Assyriological eyebrows.21 However, the line in question is not a literal statement that Enlil is Marduk’s father, rather, abu is simply an epithet

18

19 20

21

For the Ninurta epithet see Lambert, 1986: 59; Lambert, 1971: 337 citing the prayer SBH 12 = Cohen, 1988: 479–499, and the ritual text KAR 307 = Livingstone, 1989: text 39. See also fn. 9 p. 68. Or, interpreted another way, Ninurta protected Enlil’s authority, while Marduk fought to get it for himself (Katz, 2011: 130). Ninurta was asked by his mother, Bēlet-ilī (Anzû I.198-II.27), who was instructed to do so by Ea (Anzû I.159–175). Enūma eliš sidelines mothers and goddesses more generally (with the exception of Ti’āmtu, who is vilified) in favour of male gods (Harris, 1993: 115; see also Foster, 2016: 21). Vanstiphout calls it the only piece of evidence for a possible multilayered genesis of Enūma eliš (1992: 47), while Annus adduces it as evidence for a connection between Ninurta and Nabû, whose father also alternates between Enlil and Ea/Enki in different sources (2002: 82).

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describing Enlil at this point, without saying whose father exactly he is. The term abu is often used to mean ‘male ancestor’ in Enūma eliš.22 Yet the fact that the epithet is used to refer to Enlil at this important point must be significant. On one level it can be explained by the assimilation between Ninurta and Marduk: it implies that Marduk has superseded Ninurta in the role of Enlil’s son. This is not meant literally, rather it is about status relations. At the moment when Enlil hands over his position, he hands it over like a father to his son, a dynastic transfer of power from the former head of the pantheon to the new one. Marduk’s succession is rapid and twofold, as he assumes the position of both his real father Ea and his allusively ‘adopted’ father Enlil.23 At the same time, the more metaphorical use of the term means that Marduk is in a stronger position than Ninurta. Ninurta fulfils his duty as a good son by avenging his father, but Marduk has no such familial obligation to deal with Ti’āmtu. He is enlisted by his father, Ea, but he goes to Anšar and asks for the mission rather than being called on by the assembly of gods. During this exchange Marduk addresses Anšar as a-bi, “father” (II.139), and Anšar calls Marduk ma-a-ru, “son” in response (II.149), though he is more properly his great-grandfather. At this important point in the narrative Marduk is called mu-tir-ru gi-mil-lu a-bi-šu₂ ‘avenger of his father’ in II.127, which is a common epithet of Ninurta,24 although it is not used in Anzû. This epithet is in fact used of Marduk nine times in Enūma eliš (II.127, 156, III.10, 58, 116, 138, IV.13, VI.105, 163).25 Marduk himself echoes the phrase when he speaks to Anšar:

22

23

24 25

For example, phrases like ilānī (DINGIR)meš abbī(AD)meš-ia at III.6 must mean ‘the gods my ancestors’ rather than ‘fathers’ since Marduk has only one biological father; Marduk takes his place ma-ḫa-riš ab-be₂-e-šu (IV.4); ki-ma ṣi-it pi-i-šu i-mu-ru ilānū(DINGIR.DINGIR) abbū(AD.AD)-šu (IV.27). In II.11 Ea addresses Anšar as a-bi, even though just two lines previously he is more accurately described as Ea’s grandfather, a-bi a-li-di-šu (II.9). Anšar is called Ea’s father in II.60, II.61, II.91, and [II.85], and likewise Anšar refers to Ea as ma-ri, ‘son’ (II.53) although he is more accurately his grandson. Similarly it has been argued that one reason behind the syncretism of Marduk with Asalluhi may have been to give him a more prominent ancestry: making him the son of Ea/Enki justifies his higher position in the pantheon (Lambert, 1975b: 194). For succession in Enūma eliš more widely see Gabriel (2014: chapter 6). Lambert, 1986: 59; Lambert, 1971: 337 citing the prayer SBH 12 = Cohen, 1988: 479–499, and the ritual text KAR 307 = Livingstone, 1989: text 39. The idiom from which the participial phrase is derived occurs once as an imperative addressed to Ti’āmtu in I.123 when her children are imploring her for help: gi-mil-la-šu-nu tir-ri₃, ‘avenge them!’ There could be some interesting intratextuality here, but unfortunately the first half of both lines of the couplet are broken making interpretation difficult.

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⸢be⸣-lu₄ ilānī(DINGIR)meš ši-mat ilānī(DINGIR)meš rabûti(GAL)meš šum-ma-ma a-na-ku mu-tir gi-mil-li-ku-un a-kam-me ti-amta-ma u₂-bal-laṭ ka-a-šu₂-un šuk-na-ma pu-uḫ-ra šu-te-ra i-ba-a šim-ti “Lord of the gods, destiny of the great gods, “if I am to be your avenger, “bind26 Ti’āmtu and restore life to you, “arrange an assembly, exalt and proclaim my destiny.” Enūma eliš II.155–158

The use of father-son terminology again hints at the older story behind this one, where Ninurta avenged his father Enlil, yet we know that Marduk is not in the same position. Taking up the challenge and thereby his rightful place in power is more of an active choice for Marduk than it was for Ninurta (Katz, 2011: 130), implying that he knows his destiny and is well prepared to rise to it. Enlil is largely sidelined in Enūma eliš. It is somewhat ironic, then, that mutir gi-mil-lu a-bi-šu₂ refers to Ninurta’s avenging a slight to his father, when Enūma eliš itself slights Enlil by leaving him out almost completely. The role Enlil plays in Anzû has been taken over by Anšar in Enūma eliš, yet Anšar does not command as high a position as Enlil did, since Anšar is the head of the assembly of junior gods rather than the supreme head of the pantheon. Furthermore, Marduk’s kingship is not bestowed by Anšar but ratified in the assembly. It is a collective process with legal weight, lending more legitimacy to the event. Enlil has been conveniently edited out and replaced by someone who is nowhere near as much of a rival: Marduk’s path to supremacy is clear. 2.2 Blood on the Wind27 The blood on the wind that announces Marduk’s victory (Enūma eliš IV.31–32; 131–132) is one of the most well-known allusions to Anzû. Lambert observed that it is adapted from the wind carrying Anzû’s feathers to the Ekur temple as a way of announcing Ninurta’s victory. However, he also implied that the borrowing was clumsy and had not been well integrated because it stands out and 26 27

For ‘bind’ rather than the more general ‘defeat’ see Lambert (2013: 471), who points to kasû and Sumerian a₂-la₂ as equivalents (in e.g. IV R 30 no. 2 obv. 36–38). The material in this and the following section was first published in JAOS 139.2 as ‘Blood on the wind and the tablet of destinies: intertextuality in Anzû, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum’.

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draws attention to itself. Yet this need not be a signal of awkwardness—a closer analysis will reveal that it is in fact much better integrated than often supposed. Marduk is a storm god fully in control of the winds, and the supernatural powers of the gods are not constrained by what would seem logical to us in the natural world. The motif first occurs when the gods give their encouragement to Marduk as he sets out for battle: a-lik-ma ša₂ ti-amti nap-ša₂-tuš pu-ru-u’-ma ša-a-ru da-mi-ša₂ a-na bu-us-ra-ti li-bil-lu-ni “Go and cut off the life of Ti’āmtu!28 “Let the winds bring her blood as good news.”29 Enūma eliš IV.31–32

After Marduk slays Ti’āmtu, he does just as the gods had wished: u₂-par-ri-i’-ma uš-la-at da-mi-ša ša-a-ru il-ta-nu a-na bu-us-ra-ti uš-ta-bil He cut open the arteries of her blood, he made the north wind carry it as good news. Enūma eliš IV.131–132

The context of the motif in Anzû is the encouragement given to Ninurta, first by his mother Bēlet-ilī before he sets out for battle, then by Ea during the battle itself, via a message related by Šar-ur:

28 29

This line was quoted in Sennacherib’s account of the battle of Halule, see Weissert (1997: 194). It is not clear whether bu-us-ra-ti is singular or plural. CAD suggests that busratu is a byform of bussurtu, which would allow it to be singular here (B: 346). Worthington notes that the ms. which writes bu-us-ra-tum (Kämmerer & Metzler ms. B = Lambert ms. a) has a consistent habit of writing singular nouns and adjectives with stem-final t with the ending -tum, regardless of grammatical case, while writing feminine plurals in -āti or -ēti (2012: 280–281). This increases the evidence for taking it as singular. In Anzû there are, however, two plene writing of this word in ms. R in lines II.18 and II.136 (as opposed to four nonplene writings: in F, E, and R II.114, and in F II.18). There are no plene writings of the word in Enūma eliš. Whether the word is singular or plural does not make much difference for the meaning. For bu-us-ra-ti rather than pu-uz-ra-ti see Lambert (2013: 475).

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šu-ri-iḫ30 nap-šat-su an-za-a ku-mu-ma ša₂-a-ru kap-pi-šu ana bu-us-ra-a-ti lib-lu-u-ni “Destroy his life, bind Anzû! “Let the winds bring his feathers as good news.” Anzû II.17–18 = 113–114 = 135–136

And after Ninurta kills Anzû, we are duly told: a-na it-ti ša₂ bu-us-ra-ti-šu₂ kap-pi an-zi-i u₂-bil ša₂-a-ru As a sign of his good news the wind carried Anzû’s feathers. Anzû III.22–23

Enūma eliš IV.32 is often quoted in discussions of this allusion, but what has not yet been pointed out is that the previous line IV.31 is also extremely reminiscent of the corresponding line in Anzû. It uses different vocabulary but expresses the same idea—an exhortation to kill the enemy—just before taking the image of the winds bearing glad tidings.31 It is the whole couplet which is being invoked here, and in the same context as in Anzû. Furthermore, the concept appears twice in Enūma eliš just as it does in Anzû, both in the incitement and in the announcement of the deed once it has been accomplished. Whereas Ninurta receives far more lines of encouragement (27 from his mother and 23 from Ea), these two are all that Marduk receives. The implication is that he simply does not need any more than this simple instruction, as it is preceded by a long passage of praise instead. The long exhortations of Anzû are here replaced by only two lines evoking it. The substitution of blood on the wind for feathers on the wind is widely believed to be a clumsy adaptation. Feathers, the argument goes, are easily carried on the wind, whereas blood is not (Lambert, 1986: 59), but this seems to me to be an unnecessary criticism. Since Ti’āmtu does not have feathers, some kind of substitution would have been required to make the allusion coherent (as also Seri, 2014: 99). Marduk is a storm god,32 and hence has control over the winds. 30 31 32

Var. g: su-ri-iḫ (II.113 and 136), also with the meaning ‘destroy’ (D imperative sarāḫu rather than Š imperative arāḫu II). cf. Halton (2009: 53ff.) on allusions which use different vocabulary. He rides the storm chariot in Enūma eliš IV.50 and is assimilated with Addu in VII.119–121.

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He uses them as weapons in battle, directing them into Ti’āmtu’s belly. She swallows them and is incapacitated, which gives Marduk his chance to shoot her with an arrow (Enūma eliš IV.96–99). Therefore Marduk can make the winds do whatever he wants—they are no longer ordinary natural phenomena subject to what we consider logically possible.33 We do not ask whether it is plausible for Ti’āmtu to be incapacitated by swallowing the wind, or even whether it is plausible that she could swallow it at all, rather we accept this as belonging to the logic of the story. Lambert, who first noticed the substitution of blood for feathers, said that the version in Anzû is “more convincing” (1986: 59), but this need not be interpreted as a value judgement—it is merely an observation about the sequence of the borrowing. It could even be argued that this is yet another example of Marduk out-doing Ninurta: it is nothing special to allow the winds to carry feathers as they would ordinarily do, but manipulating the winds to carry blood is an active demonstration of Marduk’s power over them. Rather than being awkward or badly integrated, then, the image of blood on the wind fits perfectly well into the world of Enūma eliš. The reference to Anzû adds meaning to Marduk’s victory, since it comes at the climax of a battle in which he has demonstrated his superior ability. Unlike Ninurta, Marduk does not need the help of Ea or anyone else, because he is fully self-sufficient. He encounters no setbacks, and his victory is swift and decisive.

3

The Tablet of Destinies

The presence of the tablet of destinies in Enūma eliš is, like the blood on the wind motif, a clear signpost of the text’s dependence on Anzû (Lambert, 1986: 58). However, it is also much more than this, for comparing the way it is deployed and its relative significance in the two poems emphasises the differing values of Enūma eliš. When it first appears, it creates the expectation that its recipient, Ti’āmtu’s consort Qingu, will be as difficult to defeat as Anzû, but this expectation is undermined.34 Here the tablet of destinies is no magic object but has become an abstract symbol of legitimate power. As with the blood on the wind, the tablet of destinies has been rather better integrated than is often thought, and a closer examination will reveal how it is consistent with the aims and aesthetics of Enūma eliš. 33

34

Before sending him into battle, the gods test Marduk’s powers by asking him to create a constellation and then destroy it (IV.25–26)—the fact that he can do this shows the extent of his power to make the universe follow his command. Katz notes that Qingu is the true equivalent of Anzû, rather than Ti’āmtu (2011: 131).

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Anzû is about the theft and recovery of the tablet of destinies and so the tablet is an object central to the plot. The theft causes a crisis of power among the gods and incites Enlil to seek out a champion to defeat Anzû and bring back the tablet. Anzû’s possession of the tablet is the very reason why he is such a dangerous threat, both to the established order of gods and as an opponent in battle, since he can use it to cast spells. In Enūma eliš, however, the tablet of destinies is not central to the plot, rather it is one of many elements which have been woven into this densely composite poem. It is often thought that the only reason Enūma eliš includes the tablet of destinies is because its plot is copied from Anzû and the tablet has been incorporated ‘ineptly’ (as Lambert puts it, 1986: 58) as a matter of necessity. Such a view is limited, however, as it deflects attention away from the the tablet’s significance in Enūma eliš. A comparison of the ways the tablet is deployed in the two poems can tell us much more about Enūma eliš than that it was dependent on Ninurta mythology. Furthermore, inconsistency may not be such a sign of lack of sophistication as is sometimes supposed. The history of Homeric scholarship can provide a useful parallel. Scholars used to criticise the thematic consistency of certain episodes in the Iliad and Odyssey, accusing them of betraying an inelegant method of composition, a stitching-together of other stories (as critiqued by Kakridis, 1949: 7–10). However, more recent scholars have considered these same inconsistencies as important, not only as clues to the ‘sources’ of the Homeric poems, but also as more active signposts of Homer’s own aims and aesthetic. A more nuanced appreciation of the poetics at work has shown these episodes to be skilful, clever ways of playing with the existing tradition and the expectations that the audience would have had (see Currie, 2006). For example, when Odysseus’ nurse Eurycleia is washing his feet and recognises his scar, she cries out his name—his wife Penelope is sitting in the same room but does not hear this revelation because the goddess Athena ‘turned her mind away’ (Odyssey 19.471–479). Penelope’s behaviour was considered implausible, and it was posited that Homer must have been adapting a scene from an earlier version of the story where Penelope did recognise her husband at this moment but had not adapted it very well (Fernandez-Galliano, 1992: 183– 184).35 More recent readings of the same scene have redeemed this implausibility by suggesting that it plays on the audience’s awareness of the earlier version (Rutherford, 1996: 71), or is in fact a deliberate strategy of allusion to it which increases the dramatic irony in the Odyssean scene (Currie, 2006: 17–23).

35

For a summary of views see Russo (1992: 7–9).

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In advocating a more nuanced understanding of Homeric poetics, Kakridis argues against the idea that logical contradictions show a lack of poetic skill: ‘It is of no importance whatever if a scene is natural or unnatural … nor if a scene contradicts an earlier or later scene in the poem. What is important is that the constituents of the scene fulfil its poetic purpose’ (1949: 8). He also reminds us that ‘when a poet plans a scene for a certain aesthetic purpose he will contrive to serve this purpose by means of the details’ (Kakridis, 1949: 8). That is, when something seems contradictory to us, we must not be too quick to assume that the ‘contradiction’ is not in fact consistent with the overall design of the poem. Are these really inconsistencies or have we simply not yet understood them? Thus the development of readings in Homeric scholarship over the last century may provide us with some useful parallels for our understanding of the composite nature of Enūma eliš, and show us a way to develop more nuanced interpretations. We should not be too quick to condemn these details as leftovers from a process of amalgamation. Rather, it is up to us to make the interpretive effort to understand why these details have been left in. There may be other ways of viewing them that make more sense than we have realised, or we may be applying the wrong criteria of ‘consistency’, expecting the logic of the ‘real world’ to apply to stories set in a mythological realm. As regards the tablet of destinies, we shall see that the way it is used in Enūma eliš is at least coherent with the way that the poem positions itself in relation to Anzû, as one of many links in the web of allusions. The tablet first appears when Ti’āmtu gives it to Qingu at I.157, when she gives him supreme command over her army. The whole passage from here to the end of the tablet (I.157–162) is replete with inter- and intra-textuality. id-din-šum-ma ṭuppi šīmāti(DUB.NAM.MEŠ) i-ra-tuš u₂-šat-mi-iḫ ka-ta qibīt(DU₁₁.GA)-ka la in-nen-na-a li-kun [ṣi-it pi-i-ka] in-na-nu dqin-gu šu-uš-qu-u₂ le-qu-u₂ [da-nu-ti] a-na36 ilānī(DINGIR.DINGIR) mārī(DUMU)meš-šu ši-ma-⸢ta iš⸣-ti-ma ep-šu pi-i-ku-nu dgirru(GIŠ.BAR) li-⸢ni-iḫ⸣-ḫa im-tuk37 kit-mu-ru ma-ag-ša-ru liš-rab-bi-ib

36 37

Variants. F: ina, ‘among’; J: an, abbreviated form of ana written to make a graphical pattern of three DINGIR signs in a row. Ms. F has im-tuk-aš, which Lambert considers a scribal error and corrects to im-tuk-nu, a shortened form of -kunu (2013: 58, 472). Alternatively it could be an inferior variant reading: im-tuk ina kit-mu-ru, ‘your poison through accumulation’ (Kämmerer & Metzler, 2012: 150).

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She gave him the tablet of destinies, made him hold it to his breast, “As for you, may your command not be changed, may [your utterance] endure!” Now Qingu is raised high and has taken [the Anuship],38 and decreed destinies for the gods his children:39 “Let your spoken word quench fire! “Let your accumulated poison weaken strength.” Enūma eliš I.157–162

Qingu’s possession of the tablet is an immediate reminder of Anzû. It creates the expectation that Qingu will be a formidable enemy to defeat, since three opponents refused to fight Anzû before Ninurta agreed, and even Ninurta’s first attempt failed, requiring the tricksy advice of Ea to succeed. le-qu-u₂ [danu-ti]40 may be an echo of Anzû taking the enlilūtu (den-lil₂-u₂-ta il-te-qi₂ nadu-⸢u₂⸣ [par-ṣi], ‘He took the Enlilship, [the divine powers] were overthrown!’ Anzû I.82). However, this expectation will be overturned: Qingu turns out to be easy to defeat, dispatched in a single line (Enūma eliš IV.119). Furthermore, even the terrifying Ti’āmtu is not as great a difficulty for warrior Marduk as Anzû was for Ninurta. There is no failed first attempt and the duel is swiftly won (Vanstiphout, 1992: 43–44 n. 23). This is not to say that Ti’āmtu and Qingu are not as great a threat as Anzû, rather the ease with which Marduk conquers these enemies is contrasted with the difficulty of the challenge for Ninurta.41 The passage is intra-textual too, for it foreshadows the enthroning of Marduk (Labat, 1935: 32).42 As a condition for giving his assistance, Marduk demands the authority to decree destinies and for his utterances to be irrevocable, the same powers Ti’āmtu declares Qingu to have: ina upšu’ukinnaki(UB.ŠU.UKKIN.NA-ki) mit-ḫa-riš ḫa-diš tiš₂-ba-ma ep-šu₂ pi-ia ki-ma ka-tu-nu-ma ši-ma-ta lu-šim-ma la ut-tak-kar mim-mu-u₂ a-ban-nu-u a-na-ku a-a i-tur a-a in-nen-na-a si₃-qar šap-ti-ia

38 39 40 41 42

Restoration based on parallel lines. Var. b: e-nu-ti, ‘the lordship’. Ms. c omits this line. The restoration is from the parallel II.45, ms E. There e-nu-ti, ‘lordship’, is a variant in ms. g, which does not substantially affect the meaning. For more on this see the section on structure below. Intra-textual parallels extend to adjacent lines as well, see Gabriel (2014: 332–335).

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“Sit joyfully together in Upšu’ukkinnakku, “May my spoken word be like yours, let me decree destinies! “Let anything I create not be altered, “may the pronouncement of my lips not reverse or be changed.” Enūma eliš II.159–162

And when the gods bestow supreme power on Marduk they decree the following: iš-tu u₄-mi-im-ma la in-nen-na-a qi₂-bit-ka šu-uš-qu-u₂ u₃ šu-uš-pu-lu ši-i lu-u₂ qātu(ŠU)-ka lu-u₂ ki-na-at ṣi-it pi-i-ka la sa-ra-ar si₃-qar-ka ma-am-ma-an i-na ilānī(DINGIR.DINGIR) i-tuk-ka la it-ti-iq “From this day may your command not be changed. “To raise high and sink low, may this be in your hand. “May your utterance endure, may your word not be false.43 “None among the gods will cross your boundary.” Enūma eliš IV.7–10

The phrase lā innennâ qibītka, ‘may your command not be changed’ in line IV.7 is parallel to qibīt(DU₁₁.GA)-ka lā innennâ, ‘may your command not be changed’ in I.158, where it refers to Qingu. Likewise, lū kīnat, ‘may it endure’ is the stative form of kânu, the same verb used in I.158, likūn, referring to Qingu’s utterance. The gods thus bestow the same authority on Marduk as Ti’āmtu bestowed on Qingu, although this time it is legitimate. The position Ti’āmtu declares for Qingu: ad-di ta-a-ka ina ukkinni(UKKIN) ilānī(DINGIR.DINGIR) u₂-šar-bi-ka ma-li-ku-ut ilānī(DINGIR)meš gim-ra-at-su-nu qa-⸢tuk⸣-ka uš-mal-li “I cast your spell, I made you great in the assembly of gods, “kingship of the gods, all of them, I put in your hand.” Enūma eliš I.153–154

is exactly that which will later be given to Marduk:

43

Var. K: la ša-na-an, ‘not be rivalled.’

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dmarduk(AMAR.UTU) at-ta-ma mu-tir-ru gi-mil-li-ni ni-id-din-ka šar-ru-tu₄ kiš-šat kal gim-re-e-ti ti-šam-ma i-na ukkinni(UKKIN) lu-u₂ ša₂-qa-ta a-mat-ka giškakkū(TUKUL)meš-ka a-a ip-pal-ṭu-u₂ li-ra-i-su na-ki-ri-ka “Marduk, you are our avenger! “We gave you44 kingship of the totality of everything, of all things. “Sit in the assembly, let your word be supreme! “May your weapons not miss, may they smite your enemies!” Enūma eliš IV.13–16

When Marduk captures Qingu, he takes the tablet of destinies from him, seals it and fixes it to his own chest (Enūma eliš IV.120–122). The tablet of destinies thus becomes a symbol of legitimate rule and power rather than illegitimate appropriation. Lambert remarks that this episode is not well integrated, since Marduk declares that Qingu had no right to the tablet without any explanation for this comment (1986: 58). Nor is it clear how Ti’āmtu came to have the tablet, as it appears out of nowhere. A non-poetic source describing the tablet of destinies, a draft inscription of Sennacherib K 6177+8869 (published by George, 1986), makes its significance clear in the opening lines: ri-kis den-lil₂-u₂-[ti], ‘the bond of Enlilship’ (line 1), which equals lordship over the gods of sky and earth, be-lu-ut ilānī(DINGIR)meš ša₂ šamê(AN-e) u₃ er-ṣe-[ti] (line 2) and kingship over the Igigi and Anunnaki (šarrūt(LUGAL)-u₂-ut di₂-gi₃-gi₃ u₃ da-nun-[na-ki], line 3). Aššur’s possession of the tablet in this text is, then, proof of his position as ruler over all the other gods. The tablet is therefore more likely to be an emblem of authority than a magical object that confers it (cf. George, 1986: 139). I suggest that the deemphasis of the tablet of destinies in Enūma eliš is another way of emphasising Marduk’s innate powers, showing that he does not need magical objects to succeed, while his opponents do. This is a similar kind of strategy to that employed by Anzû, where the magical object is transferred from the hero to his enemy to give more credit to Ninurta for being able to win. Marduk does not need the tablet of destinies either, for he is powerful enough already. This explains why he can give it away to Anu in Enūma eliš V.69–70. This de-emphasis of the tablet is complemented by the reiteration of the power to decree destinies without it, which is an ability of the supernal gods

44

Var. K: i nid-din-⸢ka⸣, ‘let us give you’.

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in Enūma eliš. Ea calls Anšar mu-šim-mu ši-im-ti, ‘the one who decrees destiny’ at II.61 and 63, which is echoed by Marduk’s demands at the end of the tablet when he asks Anšar, ep-šu₂ pi-ia ki-ma ka-tu-nu-ma ši-ma-ta lu-šim-ma, ‘May my spoken word be like yours, may I decree destiny’ (II.160). But Anšar and Marduk are not the only ones to enjoy this power, rather, all the great gods do.45 They are given the same epithet as Anšar at III.130: ilānū(DINGIR.DINGIR) rabûtu(GAL.GAL) ka-li-šu₂-nu mu-ši-mu [šīmāti(NAM)meš],46 ‘All the great gods who decree [destinies]’, and it is these gods as a collective whom Anšar orders to decree Marduk’s destiny as their leader: ši-mat-ku-nu ar₂-ḫiš ši-ma-šu₂, ‘quickly decree your destiny for him’ (III.65 = III.123). None of these gods need to possess the tablet of destinies to decree destinies. This is also the case outside of Enūma eliš. For example, the great gods as a collective are called ilānū(DINGIR)meš rabûtu(GAL)meš bēlū(EN)meš ši-ma-a-ti in an inscription of Nebuchadnezzar (VAB 4: 150, A iii 6), Ea is called be-el šīmāti(NAM)[meš] in Maqlû VI.60 and šar₃ šīmāti(NAM)meš in the text often dubbed Advice to a prince (Lambert, 1960: 112, 2), Šamaš is called bēl(EN) ši-mat māti(KUR) in incantations (Mayer, 1976: 506, 113), and Mammītu is called ba-na-at šim-ti, the creator of fate(s) in Gilgameš X.320, as is Nintu in Atraḫasīs III vi 47 (there rendered ba-ni-a-at šima-ti). The decreeing of destinies, then, both in Enūma eliš and in the surrounding tradition, is an attribute of a class of powerful gods and is not dependent on possessing the tablet of destinies, which is rather a symbol of the very highest authority. However, Qingu is precisely not one of these high-ranking gods. It is possible therefore that the reason he needs the tablet in Enūma eliš is because he cannot decree destinies without it, or do very much else. When Enūma eliš opens, Marduk is not one of these gods either, hence he needs to ask for the power to decree destinies.47 The difference in status is also marked by the differing ways that the gods address each other in Tablet II. Ea addresses Anšar in hymnic form, with four lines of repeating parallelism common in hymnic beginnings (II.61–64). Anšar then addresses Ea in the same way (II.139–142). However, when Ea then speaks to Marduk he does not use this form of address

45

46 47

It is largely for this reason I have taken ki-ma ka-tu-nu-ma in II.161 as ‘like you’ rather than ‘instead of you’ (as Heidel, 1963: 29 followed by Lambert, 1964: 4, 2013: 73). Although the sense of ‘instead of’ may well be present, given Marduk’s eventual supremacy, I prefer to emphasize the sense of ‘like you’ to show that Marduk is rising in status from a much lower rank. The last word is restored, but seems likely. The assembly of gods are still able to decree Marduk’s destiny in IV.1–18, however, without the tablet in their possession, for presumably Qingu must have it (Lambert, 2013: 451).

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(II.131ff.). When the assembly of gods bestows supreme power on Marduk, they do use this parallelism (IV.3–6), marking his ascent to a new rank. Qingu, in decreeing destinies for ilānī(DINGIR.DINGIR) mārī(DUMU)meššu₂, ‘the gods, his children’ (I.160) has a limited amount of power. It is not entirely clear who Qingu’s children are. Presumably they make up part of the army, although when Ti’āmtu gives birth to her host at I.132–146 there is no mention of any father, and Qingu appears to be chosen as her spouse after the birth has taken place (I.146–147). Although Ti’āmtu puts into his hands ma-li-ku-ut ilānī(DINGIR)meš gim-ra-at-su-nu, ‘kingship of the gods, all of them’ (I.154), this either refers to the gods that are her children, rather than the supernal gods whom they are fighting against, or it expresses an aspiration rather than a reality, as subsequent events will show. The fact that Qingu needs the tablet of destinies in order to achieve even this level of power, whereas the supernal gods (including Marduk) do not, is actually a sign of Qingu’s weakness. It is significant that possession of the tablet is of no help to him whatsoever in battle. Unlike Anzû he is unable to use it against his opponent, who quickly deprives him of it without a fight. Unlike Anzû, Qingu is not the main opponent, merely Ti’āmtu’s commander-in-chief. That he is the one to wield the tablet of destinies and not Ti’āmtu is another instance of its downgrading—it is not held by the main enemy in Enūma eliš, but by a secondary, weaker opponent. In any case, as Gabriel points out, Qingu’s decreeing of destinies in I.161–162 is completely ineffectual and neither of his pronouncements come to pass. Ti’āmtu’s spoken word does not quench fire, nor does the venom of her monsters weaken Marduk’s strength (Gabriel, 2014: 265). That the ability to decree destinies is mentioned so often in Enūma eliš deemphasises the importance of the tablet of destinies even further and implies that by holding it Qingu has less of an advantage than Anzû did when it really was the embodiment of supreme power. When it is first mentioned at the climax of Enūma eliš Tablet I, its resonances give the impression that a powerful opponent has been created. This not only reflects on Qingu but also on Ti’āmtu as the one who has the power to bestow it upon him (Sonik, 2012: 390). The associations of destinies with the great gods that creep into Tablets II and III begin to undermine this, leading to the battle itself in Tablet IV where Qingu is easily defeated and the tablet plays no part. Perhaps it is Qingu’s failure to use the tablet at all which indicates his ineptitude. Attempts have been made to explain how Ti’āmtu got the tablet of destinies in the first place.48 In my view, however, this may be irrelevant—the tablet has

48

Annus suggests Ea may have taken the tablet from Apsû after killing him, but that it

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been downgraded so much that its irrelevance is precisely the point.49 Perhaps we are supposed to be surprised at its sudden appearance and the lack of attention given to it, for it is precisely this which emphasizes how far it has fallen in significance. The poem may be silent on this point simply because it is not important to the present narrative, and in fact would introduce all sorts of distractions and complications into it. Enūma eliš is not another story about the theft of the tablet of destinies, it is only a detail contributing to the depiction of Marduk’s superiority to Ninurta. To make too much of it would put undue emphasis on an object which was only ever peripheral to the plot. However, silence can also be a form of allusion—making reference by refusing reference (Dowden, 1996: 55; Currie, 2006: 7). In Homer as here, to go into explanations might tie the poem too closely to a previous tradition that the poet is trying to break away from. For example, Homer never explains Agamemnon’s comment that Calchas has a habit of making evil prophecies at Iliad I.106. The reference is to the prophecy which led to the sacrifice of Iphigenia, but to go into this would also involve supernatural events which are deliberately excluded from the Iliad, which prefers to portray a more realistic world (Dowden, 1996: 55, with further examples). It is a way of differentiating the values and aesthetic of the poem from those which preceded it. Similarly, any explanation about how Ti’āmtu got the tablet of destinies would tangle the poem up in side tracks which con-

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‘returned’ to Ti’āmtu in the same way that it returned to the Apsû in Ninurta and the Turtle (2002: 149). The tablet would naturally reside in the Apsû since this location is traditionally the source of wisdom; Ti’āmtu would then have inherited it from her late husband (2002: 149–150). Sonik suggests that Apsû and Ti’āmtu held it jointly as joint custodians of the watery realm, and so Ti’āmtu is the legitimate owner of the tablet at the beginning of the poem (2012: 389–390). These interpretations are based on the appearance of the tablet in the text ‘The Twenty-One Poultices’ (edition Lambert, 1980b) where it is the property of Ea, guaranteeing his supremacy in the Apsû. However, if it were the case that the tablet originally and legitimately belonged to Ti’āmtu, she should surely be free to give it to Qingu if she wished. Furthermore, Apsû and Ti’āmtu may have been invented specifically for Enūma eliš (cf. pp. 109–110), in which case their legitimate possession of the tablet may not have been obvious and would have been necessary to explain. Lambert suggested that the reason that Qingu holds the tablet is that he is the equivalent of Enmešarra (2013: 453), an ancient deity who was defeated in battle by Marduk and executed in a text dubbed Enmešarra’s defeat (edition Lambert, 2013: 281–298). Since Enmešarra was Enlil’s father in some traditions, Lambert proposes that Enmešarra would have held the tablet of destinies before him, although this is not attested (2013: 453). Enmešarra’s Defeat is known only from late manuscripts—Seleucid or Parthian—and it is unclear how much earlier the story can be dated. For more on Enmešarra and Qingu see Lambert (2013: 285–287). Cf. Lambert (2013: 451) ‘one is left with the feeling that the author did not take it too seriously’.

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flict with the story that Enūma eliš is trying to tell. And yet, knowledge of Anzû’s theft of the tablet of destinies from Enlil helps us appreciate why the situation in Enūma eliš is so different. There it was the source of ultimate power, but in Enūma eliš it is almost as insignificant as Enlil is. The point of the tablet of destinies may be that it is now an insignificant weapon against Marduk’s awesome power (and that Marduk’s power supersedes that of its previous owner, Enlil), but the full understanding of why and how and what that means for the ideology of Enūma eliš is only possible once the reader makes the comparison between Enūma eliš and Anzû and makes these connections, as is the case for all allusions.50 The world of Enūma eliš has changed since the world of Anzû, and the power of Marduk is not limited by any magical object but is above everything. Vanstiphout argues that when Marduk is appointed supreme god he is placed above all other elements in the universe, including the tablet of destinies (1992: 54– 55). This is why Qingu is unable to turn the tablet to his advantage, as Marduk ‘is mightier than the tablet of destinies, since his victory over Ti’āmtu and her host is not dependent on this’ (Vanstiphout, 1992: 55). Marduk’s power over the constellations in Enūma eliš also places him higher than any other destinyordaining authority, since the movements of the stars communicate the fates which have been fixed by the gods, messages which communicate divine will to mankind. Control of the stars is a display of, therefore, the ultimate control over destinies (Vanstiphout, 1992: 55). This also makes a point about Marduk and Ninurta—Ninurta subverts the power of the tablet to achieve his victory, but Marduk does not need to. His power is not dependent on it, while Qingu’s ‘authority’ is entirely reliant on it. For Ninurta the tablet was an obstacle—for Marduk it is irrelevant. When he takes it from Qingu, seals it and affixes it to his own chest, the action is symbolic of his ultimate power over all destinies. That he gives the tablet away to Anu is not an inconsistency, rather, it is an expression of this supremacy, that he does not need such an object to have the powers that he does.51 Further, 50

51

Cf. Machinist (2005: 44) on the deliberately partial explanation of circumstances behind the creation of man in Enūma eliš as a strategy to force the reader to compare the situation with that in Atraḫasīs—to be explored in chapter three. Cf. Sonik (2012: 392), who agrees that Marduk no longer needs the tablet at this point, though she differs on its importance beforehand. This interpretation can complement Lambert’s suggestion that this was an aetiology for how Anu came to be the traditional possessor of the tablet at the time Enūma eliš was composed (1986: 58). Anu holds the tablet as a symbol of power, but Enūma eliš portrays it as a less meaningful one, giving Anu only nominal authority while demonstrating that Marduk is the one really in control. Sonik sees the gesture as a mark of tact, that Marduk honours his predecessor and

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through this action, Anu becomes subordinate to Marduk. Giving away the tablet also evokes comparison with Ninurta, who returned the tablet to Enlil after his battle with Anzû, yet Anu is not implied to be the original owner, but the recipient of Marduk’s generosity (Sonik, 2012: 393). The lack of significance of the tablet of destinies in Enūma eliš can also be read as yet another slight against Enlil, whose authority was thrown into chaos by its theft. This is another example of reverse intertextuality which makes the story of Anzû and its premise seem petty in comparison to the grand crisis and powers on display in Enūma eliš: Enlil’s power cannot be all that great or secure if it can so easily be overturned. The relegation of the tablet to a less important position—necessary to Qingu, but not to any of the gods who matter—is also a relegation of Enlil, placing him among this lower order of gods with inferior powers. Vanstiphout suggests that the older traditions present in Enūma eliš, such as the tablet of destinies which was once an object of great power and significance, ‘remain incorporated as incomplete foreshadowings of the eternal truth and order’ (1992: 56). One could also view it as a reminder of the limitations and shortcomings of previous gods of the old order, in contrast to the might of Marduk, whose rise to power is unfolding before us now.

4

Poisonous Monsters, ‘Poisonous’ Arrows

As we have seen, Marduk’s battle in Enūma eliš alludes to Ninurta’s battle with Anzû in a number of ways. In addition to the blood on the wind, the tablet of destinies, and the bow and arrow as weapons of choice, the way that poison is deployed in Enūma eliš may be another, more subtle reference to the earlier poem. Lambert demonstrated that the number eleven in the description of the enemies faced by Marduk—eight specific monsters in Ti’āmtu’s army plus three generic descriptions of them (Enūma eliš I.133–146)—are equivalent to the number of Ninurta’s traditional enemies in An-gin₇ and Lugal-e (1986: 57–58).52 ‘Thus the informed Babylonian was expected by the author of Enūma eliš to note the total of eleven monsters … and to grasp that Marduk was replacing

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allows Anu to remain nominal head of the pantheon although he becomes the one to actively lead it (2012: 392–393). Gabriel suggests that it is an expression of Marduk’s power and reduces the tablet to an archival document (2014: 265). He originally included Gudea Cyl. A xxv.25–xxv.13 in this list but later modified it, saying that there were only seven monsters in the Gudea passage which were later re-interpreted as eleven by An-gin₇ and Lugal-e (2013: 203–204).

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Ningirsu/Ninurta as the prime monster slayer’ (Lambert, 1986: 58). Although Lambert says that the individual monsters themselves have no connection to those in Ninurta texts, the section describing Ti’āmtu’s preparation of her host for battle may contain an echo of Anzû: [zaq]-⸢tu-ma⸣ šin-ni la pa-du-u at-ta-’i-[i] im-tu ki-ma da-mu zu-mur-šu₂-nu uš-ma-al-⸢li⸣ Sharp of tooth, merciless in fang,53 she filled their bodies with venom instead of blood Enūma eliš I.135–136 = II.21–22 = III.25–26 = III.83–84

Ti’āmtu has made her ‘weapons’ poisonous, filling the monsters she gave birth to with imtu (‘venom, poison’). This may refer back to Ninurta’s weapons, which his mother had wished would be as deadly to Anzû as poison. She called out, šuku-du im-ta li-me-šu, ‘let the arrow become poison to him!’ (Anzû II.10). What may have been metaphorical in Anzû is literal in Enūma eliš: Bēlet-ilī wished for the force of poison to be in Ninurta’s arrows, but Ti’āmtu fills her monsters with a venom that is is very real.54 When Qingu decrees destinies for the monsters at the climax of Tablet I, he exhorts them to use their imtu: ep-ša pi-i-ku-nu dgirru(GIŠ.BAR) ⸢li-ni⸣-iḫ-ḫa im-tuk kit-mu-ru ma-ag-ša-ru liš-rab-bi-ib “Let your spoken word quench fire, “let your accumulated venom weaken strength.” Enūma eliš I.161–162 = II.48–49 = III.52–53 = III.109–110

The poison is therefore set up as a prominent part in the attack. Both these passages—filling the monsters with venom and Qingu’s speech—are repeated a further three times, meaning that the poison is re-iterated in the context of Ti’āmtu’s fearsome host eight times in total, a repetition that insists on being remembered.

53 54

at-ta-’i-i (or an-ta-’i-i in ms. cc, ⸢at⸣-ta-’a-am in ms. b(ff)) is a hapax. The motif comes up yet again in Erra and Išum, when Erra i-ta-mi ana giškakkī(TUKUL)meššu₂ lit-pa-ta i-mat mu-u-ti (‘says to his weapons, ‘Smear yourselves with deadly poison!’ ’ I.7–8) see pp. 171 and 205.

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Just four lines later, another sentence may equate Ti’āmtu’s weapons of attack to Ninurta’s arrows. Ti’āmtu urges: a-mi-ir-šu₂-nu šar-ba-bi-iš li-iḫ-ḫar-[mi-im] zu-mur-šu₂-nu liš-taḫ-ḫi-ṭam-ma la i-ne₂-’u-u₂ i-[rat-su-un]55 “May the one who sees them [collapse] in weakness! “Let their bodies keep leaping and let them not turn back [their breast.]” Enūma eliš I.139–140 = II.25–26 = III.29–30 = III.87–88

The last line is an exhortation that the monsters should not retreat or bow out from their onslaught. This is what happened to Ninurta’s first round of arrows in the face of Anzû’s magic spell: they did not reach Anzû but turned back (qa-nuu it-tu-ra ‘the reed-arrow turned back,’ Anzû II.61 = 77 = 92). Ti’āmtu’s wish for her own weapons may then be a reference to the fate of Ninurta’s arrows. Unlike them, she demands that her weapons will not be turned back or deflected.56 This may acknowledge Ninurta’s failed attempts against Anzû, and so could be interpreted as a rather smug exclamation: Ti’āmtu will not make the same mistake. All this creates the expectation that the poisonous ‘weapons’ are going to be a force to be reckoned with. Ninurta’s arrows were ultimately successful, and the concept that is now transferred from them onto Ti’āmtu’s horde, literalised and intensified, implies that the monsters will be even more triumphant. However, although Ti’āmtu thinks she is one step ahead, Marduk is also prepared: i-na šap-ti-šu ta-a u₂-kal-la šam-mi im-ta bul-li-i ta-me-eḫ rit-tuš-šu On his lips he was holding a spell, he was grasping in his hand a plant that extinguishes venom. Enūma eliš IV.61–62

Yet, despite all this, the poison plays no part in the actual battle (and neither does the spell mentioned in IV.61). Marduk calls for a duel of single combat (IV.85–86), in which the venomous monsters have no part. In the end, the joke 55 56

Restorations are from paralleled lines. The verbs used are different, but differ in meaning only in their transitivity—târu in Anzû is intransitive, nê’u in Enūma eliš is transitive, both meaning ‘to turn back’.

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is on Ti’āmtu: she is not able to use her poisonous weapons,57 and unlike Ninurta, Marduk succeeds with his first strike. He throws a net over her, thrusts a wind into her belly, and kills her with exactly the same blow as Ninurta dealt Anzû: an arrow (Enūma eliš IV.101–103, Anzû III.13–16).

5

Structural Imitations and Adaptations

Enūma eliš shares a basic underlying structure with Anzû, that of the disturbance of order and its consequences (Machinist, 2005: 39). Both stories begin with an initial order, which is disrupted by the appearance of a powerful enemy. The gods that represent order react, a champion is found, a battle takes place, and then the champion is integrated into the order which has been re-established (Machinist, 2005: 39).58 These steps in the plot take place in the same sequence in both poems. By themselves these similarities would not be enough to show a deliberate connection between the two poems, but this is already evidenced by the abundance of more specific references discussed here. Given the multitude of allusions to Anzû in Enūma eliš via other means, the shared structure becomes another legitimate place to look for imitation and competition, and plenty of meaningful adaptations can be found. Enūma eliš imitates and adapts the structure of Anzû in several ways. The list of Marduk’s names at the end of the poem is one prominent example, but Enūma eliš also uses hysteron proteron at the beginning, and modifies the sequence of repetitions employed by Anzû throughout, both expanding and contracting them to significant effect. What the poem leaves out is as telling as what it chooses to repeat, and as always, it is precise differences in detail that are the most revealing. 5.1 The Beginning—Hysteron Proteron The classical technique hysteron proteron, ‘the later one earlier’ comes into play at the very beginning of the poem, as Enūma eliš situates its action earlier in time that of Anzû, implicitly claiming it to be a more authoritative account.

57 58

This is parallel to the tablet of destinies, which is set up as an important part of the attack, but is never used in battle. The disturbance of order and the reaction of the gods has been enlarged in Enūma eliš, as the first disturbance, Apsû, is followed by a second one, that of Ti’āmtu and her children (Machinist, 2005: 43). This adaptation allows for an extra episode to prefigure the main event of the poem, as the younger Ea’s conquering of the older Apsû foreshadows the victory of the young Marduk (Machinist, 2005: 43).

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While Anzû opens with a hymnic prologue in praise of Ninurta, Enūma eliš opens with the emergence of the universe. The story of Marduk is thus set at the beginning of time, before the story of Ninurta could have taken place, and before Enlil was ever made chief god—editing Enlil out of the divine hierarchy. This is the same technique that we saw with Anzû and Labbu and The Return of Lugalbanda, where Anzû grounded itself in a time before the creation of cities to show that Ninurta superseded Tišpak and Lugalbanda before these gods and the peoples and cities mentioned in their poems ever existed. This setting has implications for the action later on: after Marduk’s victory, he creates the world and establishes sanctuaries and positions for the other gods, in other words, the final world order as the Babylonians knew it. As Machinist remarks, ‘If Ninurta, by defeating Anzû is able to correct a disturbance to an already existing order, Marduk’s achievement is to bring order into existence in the first place’ (2005: 45). Ninurta restores the order as ruled by Enlil, but Marduk creates one in which he alone is supreme (Machinist, 2005: 45). Thanks to the choice of setting, this means that Marduk out-does his predecessors before they have even accomplished their deeds. 5.2 The End—the Names Enūma eliš concludes with a list of names bestowed upon Marduk as a reward for his victory. These names may have been drawn from a god list,59 as their organisation and structure have features in common with texts of this genre more generally. However, Anzû also ends with a list of names bestowed on Ninurta as a reward for his victory. This is not a common way of ending a poem, in fact, I am not aware of any other examples. Given the other numerous connections between Enūma eliš and Anzû, it seems very likely that the list of names at the end of Enūma eliš is an imitation of the conclusion of Anzû, as has also been argued by Katz (2011: 132).

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Which list is not certain. Sommerfeld suggested An = Anum (1982: 175), while Lambert (1964: 4, 1984: 3–4) suggested that Marduk’s names correspond more closely to a triplecolumn god list (now edited in Lambert, 2013: 142–144). Seri later argued for this strongly, since names 37–50 in Enūma eliš occur in exactly the same order in this list and their explanations are word-for-word the same. Furthermore, certain plot events of Enūma eliš also occur in the list: Ti’āmtu’s defeat, Marduk’s creation of skilful things as a direct result of it, and the slaughter of Qingu (Seri, 2006: 516). However, given that the known tablets of the god list are Neo-Assyrian, it is quite possible that the list is dependent on Enūma eliš rather than the other way round, or that both draw on a common source as Lambert has most recently suggested (2013: 159). Either way, Marduk’s names clearly owe something to the wider god-list tradition in some form.

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In Anzû, the names given to Ninurta indicate which gods had been assimilated to him. This is a statement that Ninurta is taking over the deeds of Tišpak and Lugalbanda, among others. Marduk’s names operate in a similar way: titles of older gods are given to him as a sign that he is now taking over their identities. However, Marduk far out-does Ninurta in the number of names he receives. Eighteen are preserved in the extant manuscripts of Anzû, and three more are broken. Although the tablet is broken towards the end, there is not room for many more. Marduk is given 50 names,60 considerably exceeding the number Ninurta would have had. While Ninurta’s names often clearly belong to another god whose identity he has absorbed (Ningirsu, Nisaba, Tišpak, Lugalbanda, etc.), Marduk’s ‘names’ are not so obviously those of the gods he has overtaken. While some may indeed be clues to assimilations (e.g. Addu at VII.119), most are more properly titles, some of which belonged to other gods first, some of which were originally Marduk’s. The style of the names is quite different from the names of Ninurta. In Anzû each name is given only one line, in most cases with the place in which Ninurta is worshipped under that name. Marduk’s names occupy at least a couplet each, and sometimes elaborate for up to eleven lines, explaining the meaning of each one.61 This difference in style may well be due to the relationship between Enūma eliš and the god lists (see above n. 59), which has not so far been shown to apply to Anzû.62 Whether or not the names of Marduk come from one particular god list, they certainly share characteristics of this genre, another facet of Enūma eliš’s highly composite nature. Accordingly, Marduk is not explicitly given the name ‘Ninurta’, but there is no need for the assimilation to be spelled out. By the time we reach the end of Enūma eliš there have been so many connections with Anzû that it would have been obvious to the Mesopotamian audience. Furthermore, Ninurta is not the only important assimilation and not the one that requires the most attention drawn to it. Marduk is not only replacing the young warrior deity, but also Enlil, the head of the pantheon himself. Where the narrative is plot-driven the focus 60

61 62

The exact number of names is 51. Talon counts 52 because he counts ma-ru dšam(UTU)-ši, ‘The Son, the Sun!’ in VI.127 as a name (2005: 115). However, the list of 50 is clearly designed to be a set, for before it begins the gods declare i-nim-be₂-e₂-ma ḫa-ša₂-a šu-me-e-šu₂, ‘let us pronounce his 50 names!’ (VI.121) and afterwards it is said that the great gods have pronounced his 50 names (VII.144). Enlil gives his name to Marduk as the penultimate name (VII.136), and it would make far more sense for this to be the 50th rather than the 51st, given that Enlil’s number is 50. When Ea bestows his name as the 51st (VII.140) it actually comes after the statement that the list of 50 is concluded (VII.137). For a detailed commentary on the names in Enūma eliš see Gabriel (2014: 268–298). For a discussion of Marduk’s names in god lists see Lambert, (2013: 147–160).

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is on the connections to Ninurta, but the section with the names at the end is where the ultimate transfer of power takes place, and accordingly it is Enlil who is emphasised there. The number 50 is Enlil’s sacred number, and so we are to understand that in receiving 50 names Marduk takes over Enlil’s identity as chief of the pantheon (Röllig RLA III: 500; Lambert, 1984: 3; Seri, 2006: 507), as well as the individual deities to whom the names and titles originally belonged.63 The gods of the Nippur pantheon do not feature much in Enūma eliš (Enlil only rarely, and Ninurta not at all). This is consistent with the ideological trend from the Kassite period onwards which elevated the newly powerful city of Babylon and its god Marduk above the older cities that had been central to Mesopotamian religion. Just as Marduk absorbs the names and identities of other gods, so Babylon absorbs the names and identities of other cities. For example, ‘Eridu’ became the name of a district in Babylon, even standing for the city itself (George, 1992: 19), an attempt to adopt the prestige of the oldest city in the world. In Tintir = Babylon, Babylon is called uz₃-sag an-ki-a, ‘bond of heaven and earth,’ a synonym of Nippur’s traditional epithet DUR.AN.KI in I.35 (George, 1992: 261). The last line of Tintir Tablet I gives Babylon the name DIM.KUR.KUR.RAki, ‘bond of the lands’ (I.51), a climactic position parallel to that of the last name of Marduk in Enūma eliš, the title of Enlil: dEN.KUR.KUR.RA, ‘lord of the lands’ (George, 1992: 262). The title of Enlil’s city has thus been given to Marduk’s city in the same way that Enlil’s title has been given to Marduk (George, 1992: 262).64 There is thus a marked competitiveness between the cities of Babylon and Nippur in non-poetic traditions, also paralleled by the rivalry between their gods in Enūma eliš and Anzû. As Babylon is the new Nippur (Lambert, 1992; George, 1997a), so Marduk replaces the gods of Nippur, becoming both the new Ninurta and the new Enlil. Marduk receiving 50 names is the climax of this ideological programme, which has been running all the way through the text. 5.3 Repetition, Expansion, Contraction Anzû makes much use of repetition, a technique that Enūma eliš imitates and takes even further. Modern readers tend to find this rather uninteresting, but repetition does have important effects, especially perceivable in oral 63 64

There are also a number of other references connecting Marduk to the number 50, see Seri (2006: 511). Which text came first is difficult to establish, and Tintir does not exclude Enlil in the way that Enūma eliš does: Enlil continued to have a renowned cult at Enamtila in Babylon, and at I.42 he is named as the creator of Babylon (George, 1992: 7).

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performance.65 Vogelzang (1988: 203–224) shows how the repetitions introduced into Standard Babylonian Anzû as compared with Old Babylonian Anzû create patterns of expectation and suspense, a successful technique rather than something to be denigrated (1988: 220). These repetitions of passages, motifs, and phrases reinforce the thematic and structural unity of the poem (Vogelzang, 1988: 219). Similarly, Enūma eliš has not copied the repetitions exactly as they are in Anzû, but adapts and expands these repetitions for particular effects. The first key repeated passage in Anzû comes when Ninurta encounters trouble on the battlefield and sends a message to Ea via Šar-ur. First, he tells Šar-ur what to say: šu-un-ni-šu-ma ep-šet ta-mu-ru ana de₂-a u dNiššiku(NIN.ŠI.KU₃) be-lu₄-um-ma dnin-urta an-za-a la-me-ma dnin-urta ub-bu-ḫa e-pir qab-li [qar-ra]-⸢du⸣ ub-bu-ḫa e-pir ka-ra-ši [it]-⸢lul⸣ gišqašta(PAN) qa-na-a u₂-bil-šum-ma ul iṭ-ḫi a-na an-zi-i qa-nu-u₂ it-tu-ra an-zu-u₂-um-ma is-sa-a e-li-šu qa-nu-um-ma ša₂ tal-li-ku tu-ra a-pu-uk-ka mu-um-mu gišqaštu(PAN) ⸢a⸣-na qi₂-ša₂-ti-ki šer₂-a-nu a-na ša₂-šal-li immeri(UDU.NITA₂) kap-pu ana iṣ-ṣu-ri tūrā(GUR)meš na-ši-ma ṭuppi šīmāti(DUB.NAM.TAR.MEŠ) ilānī(DINGIR)meš qa-tuš-šu ub-lu šer₂-a-[an giš]qašti(PAN) šil-ta-ḫu ul iṭ-ḫu-u₂ ana zu-⸢um-ri⸣-šu uš-ḫa-ri-ir-ma qab-la ik-ta-la ⸢tuq-ut⸣-ta it-ta-ab-ṭa-lu-ma giškakkū(TUKUL)meš ina qe₂-reb šadî(KUR-i) an-za-a ul ik-mu-u₂ “Repeat to Ea the leader the deeds which you saw: ‘The lord Ninurta encircled Anzû, ‘Ninurta was surrounded by the dust of battle, ‘the warrior was surrounded with the dust of disaster. ‘He drew the bow, loaded the arrow, ‘he drew the bow (and) sent the arrow against him. ‘It did not approach Anzû, the arrow turned back.

65

The hymnic characteristics of the Anzû prologue imply this, and Enūma eliš designates itself as za-ma-ru ša₂ dAMAR.UTU, ‘the song of Marduk’ in VII.161.

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table 1

Repeated passages in Anzû

Speaker → addressee

Content

Lines

No. lines Repeated from repeated

Ninurta → Šar-ur

Tell Ea what happened

II.77–85

9

II.61–69

Šar-ur → Ea

Delivers the message

II.89–100

12

II.72–85 (not 73 and 75)

Ea → Šar-ur

Ea gives advice for Ninurta II.105–123

Šar-ur → Ninurta

Advice is delivered

II.127–145

New speech 19

II.105–123

‘Anzû cried out at it: ‘“Arrow that has come, turn back to your reed bed, ‘“Frame of the bow (turn back) to your forests! ‘“Bowstring to sheep sinew, feather to the bird—turn back!” ‘Because he carried the tablet of destinies of the gods in his hand ‘The bowstring sent an arrow but it did not approach him. ‘Battle was hushed, the fight was held back, ‘weapons were lowered, in the midst of the mountain they did not bind Anzû!’ Anzû II.71–85

This is itself largely a repetition of the scene as it was first narrated, since the nine lines II.77–85 are an exact repetition of lines II.61–69. Šar-ur then repeats the message to Ea almot verbatim (II.89–100, a repetition of 12 lines).66 Ea subsequently gives Šar-ur a message to deliver to Ninurta (II.105–124), which he duly repeats (II.127–145, nineteen lines). The communications are summarised in Table 1. Enūma eliš imitates this structure but extends it to include even more repetitions. Ea tells Anšar of Ti’āmtu’s plans, his speech in II.15–48 being a repetition of the description of Ti’āmtu’s host in I.129–162 (34 lines repeated). This same description recurs yet again when Anšar tells Kakka67 to inform Laḫmu and Laḫamu of the situation. Anšar’s speech at III.15–52 repeats II.11–48 (38 lines), 66 67

Lines II.73 and II.75 are omitted from the repeated passage in II.89–100. This name can also be read Kaka. I choose the spelling Kakka because of the pun on kakkum, as explained below pp. 134–134.

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Repeated passages in Enūma eliš

Speaker → addressee

Content

Lines

No. lines repeated

Repeated from

Ea → Anšar

Describes Ti’āmtu’s horde

II.15–48

34

I.129–162

Anšar → Kakka

Tell Laḫmu and Laḫamu …

III.15–52

38

II.11–48

Anšar → Kakka

… about Marduk

III.58–64

7

II.156–162

Kakka → Laḫmu and Laḫamu

Delivers the message

III.71–124

54

III.13–66

and at III.58–64 includes a repetition of Marduk’s acceptance speech at II.156– 162 (seven lines). Kakka’s relaying of Anšar’s message at III.71–124 then repeats III.13–66, yielding the sequence shown in Table 2. Whereas in Anzû the passage describing the formidable opposition occurs three times, in Enūma eliš it occurs four times, as an extra messenger has been added to repeat it once more. Furthermore, the repeated passages are much longer: seven, 34, 38, and 54 lines in Enūma eliš, compared with nine, twelve, and nineteen in Anzû. Foster points out that this technique emphasises speech as characteristic of the old gods, as compared with the swift action of the young Marduk: ‘by the climax of Tablet III, speech occurs within speech within speech within speech’ (2005: 438). In Anzû Ea responds with direct advice, but Anšar passes the message on to other deities, advising them to agree to Marduk’s demands so that he will intervene. The imitation and extension of this device from Anzû, then, has two results. Firstly, it shows Marduk as more effective and autonomous than Ninurta, for it is not his words that are carried back and forth—he speaks for himself. The only words of his that are repeated are the terms he demands in return for going into battle. Secondly, this shift of repetition away from Marduk and towards the other gods, with the length so greatly increased, serves to increase the sense of panic among them as the terrifying appearance of Ti’āmtu is described again and again, but despite all their talk they are not able to act. As Labat describes it, the repeated passage constitutes a leitmotif which underscores Ti’āmtu’s formidable terror and gives more emphasis to Marduk’s rapid victory (1935: 31). Marduk speaks comparatively little but is effective and swift in his actions. Marduk is thus contrasted with and elevated over both Ninurta in Anzû and the old order of gods in Enūma eliš.

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Certain cuts can also be seen as meaningful. As in Anzû, in Enūma eliš other gods are asked to face the enemy and refuse before the eventual champion appears, but in Enūma eliš the motif has been streamlined. In Anzû there are three unwilling gods, while there are two in Enūma eliš (Machinist, 2005: 41). Then Ninurta makes two attempts, while Marduk only needs one. The effect of this is to speed up Marduk’s victory, making it seem superior and effortless in comparison to Ninurta’s, while still showing that the enemy is formidable enough that only Marduk could defeat her. As Vanstiphout points out, ‘in the ideology of our poem it has to be excluded that Marduk should fail, even at first try’ (1992: 44 n. 23). 5.4 Replacing the Traditional Triad In both poems, the part of the narrative where other gods are asked to fight before the new champion steps up have been harnessed as another opportunity to show him replacing other members of the old guard. In Enūma eliš Ea and Anu are the gods initially approached. As we will see, these are the great gods to which other accounts attribute the creation or organisation of the universe. They also feature in the triad at the beginning of Atraḫasīs (I.12–18) where it is described how the drawing of lots gave Anu dominion over the sky and Ea dominion over the Apsû.68 The third god of the triad, conspicuously missing from this group of supposedly all-powerful gods in Enūma eliš, the first ones to be thought of who might be able to defeat Ti’āmtu, is Enlil, ruler of the earth. Since there are three gods approached in Anzû, we might well expect three gods in the corresponding part of Enūma eliš, particularly since Anu, Enlil, and Ea make up such a familiar grouping of the supreme gods. Yet Enlil is not asked, a particularly noticeable omission. From this choice of unsuccessful challengers, gods who fail before Marduk steps in, we are to understand that Marduk is replacing this traditional triad of great rulers, and Enlil is especially slighted. In Anzû the gods approached before Ninurta are also significant, for they are deities he replaces. Adad, Girra, and Šara are asked: a storm god, a fire god, and a warrior god. The first two also have warrior aspects (Vogelzang, 1988: 157), and at least one of them features in his own narrative fighting a chaos-monster.69 Ninurta is a storm god as well as a warrior, and thus outdoes the gods whose aspects he shares. Similarly, in Enūma eliš the particular talents of the failed challengers are the ones that Marduk excels in. Ea is the god of cunning solutions, but here he fails, even though it was his advice in Anzû that won Ninurta

68 69

The Exaltation of Ištar also refers to this division of lots at line 25 (Horowitz, 1998: 144). Girra and Elamatum, edition Walker (1983).

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his victory. Ea is told to use magic (II.78), but does not do so. Anu is addressed as a warrior (ka-šu₂-šu₂ qar-ra-du, ‘Mighty weapon, warrior’ II.97), but fails to live up to expectations. Marduk surpasses both: he approaches Ti’āmtu with a spell on his lips, but has no need to use it against her, for his warrior strength and tactics are all that is required. Adaptations to the passages on the level of wording also contribute to this goal, particularly at the expense of Anu. In Anzû, Anu makes the same plea to each of the gods he approaches (Adad in I.90–103, Girra in I.115–124, and Šara in I.136–145), each of whom gives him the same reply (I.104–114, I.125–135, I.146–156). In Enūma eliš, Anšar makes the same request of both Ea and Anu but rather than repeating it verbatim he addresses the two gods quite differently. When speaking to Ea, Anšar tells him he can use his magic spell to pacify Ti’āmtu, thus appealing to the god’s specific domain of responsibility (II.78). When asking Anu he makes no mention of a spell but instead asks him to pacify Ti’āmtu with words of supplication (a-mat un-nin-ni, II.102). When Anšar addresses Ea he does so with a hymnic form of parallelism (II.73–76), thus according him great respect.70 There is no such parallelism in the exchange between Anšar and Anu. These two differences highlight Anu’s fall in status: in Anzû he was the head of the assembly of gods, the beseecher of cowardly gods, but now he himself is the beseeched, relegated from holding supreme power to one of the fainthearted who will not fight. In Anzû the refusal of each god is a repetition of the same passage (I.106– 112 = I.127–133 = I.148–154). Enūma eliš does the same but adds a little more. It includes a description of the god setting off, but once he has seen Ti’āmtu, in each case he is terror-stricken and turns back (II.79–94, II.103–118). This small modification serves to prolong the failures of the older gods, which will add to their contrast with Marduk. Furthermore, it may also subtly echo Anzû, as the phrase i-tu-ra ar-ki-iš, ‘he turned back’ (Enūma eliš II.82 = III.112) recalls Ninurta’s arrows, which were also turned back by Anzû (qa-nu it-tu-ra ‘the reedarrow turned back’ II.61 =77 = 92). Just as in Anzû the shafts approach the monster and turn back, in Enūma eliš the gods approach the monster and turn back, as ineffective as Ninurta’s first round of arrows.71 All this works towards Marduk’s replacement of the traditional triad of supreme gods: Anu, Enlil, and Ea. Not only does he fight instead of them, but later he also usurps their function as creators of the universe. The astrological omen compendium Enūma Anu Enlil begins with Anu, Enlil, and Ea creating 70 71

Ea had himself addressed Anšar in the same way at II.61–64, so this is a form of reciprocity. The verb târu is of course common and so this is less likely to be deliberate, but nonetheless the echo can still be heard.

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heaven and earth, establishing the positions of the stars, and measuring out the lengths of the day, month, and year, just as Marduk does in Enūma eliš V.1–45 (Horowitz, 1998: 147). Indeed, as other scholars have observed, the opening section of Tablet V parallels lines of Enūma Anu Enlil.72 The Exaltation of Ištar also has the same three gods appointing the moon and sun gods to oversee the running of the heavens (Hruška, 1969: 484–485 lines 49–60), parallel to Marduk’s entrusting of the night to the moon god at Enūma eliš V.11–12 (Horowitz, 1998: 145). Given the importance of Enūma Anu Enlil, and the prominence of these three gods’ creation in its opening lines,73 we can safely assume that it was a well-known tradition. In Tablet V, Marduk is therefore usurping the traditional deeds of Anu, Enlil, and Ea in creating and regulating the universe. He usurps the responsibilities of more minor gods too, as the stars’ positions are regulated by the moon and sun in The Exaltation of Ištar, while in Enūma eliš they are marked out by Marduk’s planet Nēberu (Horowitz, 1998: 145), another transference of power from relatively minor gods to the newly omnipotent god of Babylon. Lambert remarks that even the sun and moon have been downplayed in this part of Enūma eliš, since they were normally visible manifestations of high-ranking divinities, but here are treated as impersonal objects—‘Marduk’s supremacy in this text tolerates no rivals’ (2010: 24). Marduk’s replacement of the triad is a little more explicit in line VI.64: a-na da-nim den-lil₂ de₂-a u ša-a-šu₂ u-kin-nu šub-tu, ‘For Anu, Enlil, Ea, and him (i.e. Marduk) they74 founded a dwelling’. It has been suggested that the mention of Anu, Enlil and Ea together here represent a syncretism for Marduk.75 Including Marduk in the list is another way of expressing it: he is last in the list and trumps them all. All three of the gods have important roles in giving names to Marduk. In VII.136 and 140, Enlil and Ea bestow their names on Marduk, and in VI.147, it is said that Anu gave him the name Asalluhi, even though in VI.101 this name was given to Marduk by Anšar (Foster, 2005: 475 n. 2). Foster suggests that this

72 73

74 75

First noted by Landsberger and Kinnier Wilson (1961: 172) and more recently by Foster (2005: 463) and Seri (2006: 515). The incipit is bilingual, and reads in Sumerian: u₄ an den-lil₂-1a₂ den-ki dingir galgal-la galga-ne-ne-ta me gal-gal-la anki-a ma₂-gur₈ dzu-en-na mu-un-gi-ne-eš, ‘When An, Enlil and Ea, the great gods, by their decision established the great ‘me’s of heaven and the boat of Suen,’ (lines 1–3) and in Akkadian: ša-ni-iš e-nu-ma da-num den.lil₂.la₂ de₂-a ilāni(DINGIR)meš rabûti(GAL) meš ina mil-ki-šu-nu uṣurāti(GIŠ.HUR)meš šamê(AN-e) u erṣetim(KI-tim) iš-ku-nu, ‘Alternatively: When Anu, Enlil and Ea, the great gods, by their decision established the designs of heaven and earth’ (lines 8–10) (King, 1902: 124–127; Koch-Westenholz, 1995: 76–77). The Anunna gods building Babylon. Foster (2005: 471 n. 3); see also Moran (1959: 263–264).

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substitution was made because the poet was trying to include Anu as the third member of the triad to give a name to Marduk (2005: 475 n. 2), thus completing his syncretism with it. If Marduk is indeed to be identified with this triad, which the parallels with Enūma Anu Enlil support, the failure of Ea and Anu to confront Ti’āmtu is another indication of Marduk superseding them—where they step back, he steps forward. The omission of Enlil as a possible challenger is all the more conspicuous and is consistent with the poem’s exclusion of him until the end.

6

Lord of Incantations

In Anzû, force and magic were a collaboration of Ninurta and Ea, each god possessing one attribute. In Enūma eliš, both attributes are incorporated into the figure of one god, Marduk (Vogelzang, 1988: 160). As the son of Ea, Marduk inherits his magical powers, and supersedes his father as god of this domain. However, Marduk does not use spells in the battle, just as he does not use the antidote to the poison. He goes into battle holding a spell ready on his lips (IV.61–62), but we never actually see him using this spell. Magic is a weapon in his arsenal available to him, but he does not need to employ it. The reason could be narrative simplicity: the defeat of Ti’āmtu already involves three different weapons, and to add magic as well could result in an overly complex situation which would detract from the speed and effectiveness of the blow. Spells and antidotes are mentioned only briefly because to give them more space would be unnecessary, perhaps even make Marduk look weak to have to rely on so many different aids. Including them without dwelling on them is a subtle reference that points to the range of powers under Marduk’s command. Another possibility is that perhaps the fact that magic is not required to defeat Ti’āmtu shows that she is not such a formidable enemy after all, in another subversion of expectations. Like Anzû, she casts spells in battle (Enūma eliš IV.71, IV.91), but their effects are never mentioned, and so cannot have had any real impact on Marduk. Her magic is so ineffective against him that it does not even require countering. This in turn elevates Marduk’s magical stature as a deity impervious to this kind of attack, unlike those who had gone before him. Just two lines after Ti’āmtu recites the incantation in IV.91, Marduk is referred to as apkal(ABGAL) ilānī(DINGIR)meš, ‘sage of the gods’ (IV.93): i-man-ni šip-ta it-ta-nam-di ta-a-šu₂ u₃ ilānū(DINGIR.DINGIR) ša₂ tāḫāzi(ME₃) u₂-ša-’a-lu šu-nu giškakkī (TUKUL)meš-šu₂-un

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in-nen-du-ma ti-amtu apkal(ABGAL) ilānī(DINGIR)meš dMarduk (AMAR.UTU) ša₂-aš₂-meš it-lu-pu qit-ru-bu ta-ḫa-zi-iš She was reciting the incantation, continually casting her spell, and the gods of battle were sharpening their weapons. Ti’āmtu and Marduk, sage of the gods, came together, they drew together for combat, drew close for battle. Enūma eliš IV.91–94

‘Sage of the gods’ is an epithet also used of Marduk in the incantation series Šurpu (e.g. IV.98, VIII.88), and also of his father Ea who instructs him on how to drive out demons (Denning-Bolle, 1992: 36, 42). It is another name which shows his absorption of his father’s identity as a god of magic. Using the epithet here hints at Marduk’s incantatory powers but without showing them in action, implying his superior ability to deflect Ti’āmtu’s spell. Marduk’s role as lord of incantations is important in Enūma eliš. Anšar gives him the name dASAR.LU₂.ḪI as his second name (VI.101), which appears seventh in the list of names proper (VI.147).76 Asalluhi was specifically a god of incantations, whereas prior to the syncretism Marduk was not.77 This is one of the ways that Marduk takes over from his father Ea,78 and so it is important to mention that he is able to use magic against Ti’āmtu. But to portray him as a young, powerful god on the rise, it makes most sense to focus on his martial abilities, since these are what can most effectively distinguish him from the old gods. While extremely wide in the scope of its syncretisms and synthesis of different traditions, Enūma eliš cannot emphasise everything at once, as to do so would result in confusion and chaos. Hence Marduk’s other abilities and roles are hinted at and alluded to, but not always fully demonstrated.

76

77 78

The fact that Marduk’s parents are Nudimmud and Damkina (I.78–80) probably derives from his syncretism with Asalluhi, since Enki and Damkina are Asalluhi’s parents according to the god-list An: Anum, with which Enūma eliš has so much in common, and Asalluhi is the name which connects Enki and Damkina with Marduk in the list (Seri, 2006: 510– 511). For the relationship between the two see Sommerfeld (1982: 16–18); Oshima (2011: 42–47). The other is as god of creation, to be explored in chapter three.

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Conclusions

Anzû is undoubtedly an important intertext for Enūma eliš. The allusions are detailed, numerous, and wide-ranging, and are made on the levels of wording, structure, concept, and recurring images. On the specific verbal level, Marduk’s first summoning (Enūma eliš II.127–130) echoes both the prologue of Anzû and the moment of Ninurta’s entry to the highest level of the pantheon (Anzû III.133), thus alluding to both the beginning and the end of the poem in the same passage. Enūma eliš adapts a couplet from Anzû, the feathers carried on the wind (Anzû II.17–18 = 113–114 = 135–136 and III.22–23), which become blood on the wind (Enūma eliš IV.31–32, 131–132). It is the whole couplet that is borrowed rather than just one line, which was also the case when Anzû borrowed two lines from Atraḫasīs in the naming of the birth goddess.79 When we think of the concept of allusion, it is these kinds of references we most often think of, but they are not the only type. Allusions can also work through concepts as well as specific lines. For instance, Ti’āmtu’s monsters filled with imtu may remind us of Ninurta’s arrows, perhaps responding to an allusion already made in Anzû itself. The intertextual dynamics of the earlier poem transferred the weapon from hero to enemy; Enūma eliš does the same but adds a smugly self-conscious reference to the failure of Marduk’s model, an assurance that this failure will not be repeated. In terms of recurring images, the tablet of destinies is an important symbol taken over from Anzû, though it is not so important any more in Enūma eliš and this is precisely the point. The transformation of the messenger from Šar-ur, the autonomous vizier of the protagonist, into Kakka, who merely ferries words back and forth, works similarly to show that Marduk is not in need of any props or helpers. Downgrading is a persistent theme here. The lesser importance of peripheral objects and characters puts the focus entirely on Marduk’s innate abilities, to the detriment of other characters. Expanding the view even wider, if one notices the similarities and differences with the plot of Anzû, and where Enūma eliš has expanded or contracted certain episodes, meaningful comparisons can be made. Whether or not this is intentional does not matter, for the meaning that is produced by making the connections is all too clear. Edits to the structure downgrade the status of Anu as well as Enlil in favour of Marduk, and make Ninurta’s achievements look less impressive. Although we may not immediately think of these kinds of differences as ‘allusions’, they do make a difference to our interpretation of the text

79

See pp. 51–54.

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and cohere with its ideological programme, and so deserve to be considered as such. The significance of the 50 names of Marduk is well-known, but it should not be forgotten that this too is a structural borrowing from Anzû and makes a point about Marduk taking over from Ninurta as well as from Enlil. With this range of strategies in play, from the very beginning of the poem which is set before Ninurta even existed to the very end where Marduk trumps Ninurta’s list of names, Enūma eliš uses allusions to Anzû to elevate Marduk above the rival warrior deity. Although Anzû is Ninurta’s poem, other gods also come under attack, with Anu, Enlil, and Ea all being demoted in relation to Marduk. Enūma eliš is relentless in its portrayal of Marduk as superior to all others, and allusions to Anzû are constantly at work throughout the text to drive this home.

chapter 3

Enūma eliš and Atraḫasīs 1

Introduction

Atraḫasīs is a poem that deals with matters of life and death on a grand scale. It tells of how mankind was created to work on the gods’ behalf and provide offerings for them, a Babylonian explanation for the meaning of life. However, since human beings do not yet die a natural death at this point in primeval history, they soon become too numerous and overpopulation becomes a problem. Humanity makes so much noise that they disturb Enlil’s sleep, who sends a flood to kill them off so that he can rest. However, their destruction is narrowly averted by the intervention of Ea, who forewarns the mortal after whom the poem is named and instructs him how to survive. Subsequently death is instituted as a solution to this problem, so that never again will the gods be disturbed by those who were created to serve them. As we will see, it is the motif of sleep deprivation and the episode of the creation of man that are particularly important for Enūma eliš. References to Atraḫasīs will follow the Old Babylonian text and line numbering of Lambert & Millard’s edition (1969). The Standard Babylonian version of Atraḫasīs is known only from manuscripts dating to the 6th century or later, long after the composition of Enūma eliš.1 It is difficult to know exactly what the text of Atraḫasīs would have been like at the time Enūma eliš was written, a question of importance for deciding which version we use for analysing the relationship between the two. Only five Middle Babylonian fragments exist, none of which match up to either the Old Babylonian or the Standard Babylonian text. The largest pieces are from Ugarit, which was probably a non-standard version,2 and the two from Nippur and Kuyunjik are too small for meaningful comparison.3 Although these fragments seem to tell the 1 For details of the Old Babylonian manuscripts see p. 51. 2 Principally the text published by Nougayrol (1968: no. 167), and Cavigneaux (2007). A smaller piece was edited by Arnaud (2007: 128–130): its first line corresponds to line 51 of of the Old Babylonian version, but line three to the Neo-Assyrian version. 3 A small fragment from Nippur (CBS 13532, Lambert & Millard, 1969: 126) does not match up to the Old Babylonian or Standard Babylonian text. Another (K 13347, Lambert, 1991) is from a part of the poem which is not well preserved in the Old Babylonian version and so cannot be exactly placed. Although it is from Kuyunjik Lambert thought it more likely to preserve a Middle Babylonian version (1991: 411).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004412972_005

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same story, they may not have been considered to be part of this particular Atraḫasīs as there appear to have been different versions of it. The text from Ugarit is narrated in the first person, as is the recently published Old Babylonian tablet describing the ark as round (Finkel, 2014), as well as the account of the flood given in Standard Babylonian Gilgameš. Fortunately, the text of the Late Babylonian Atraḫasīs tablets from Sippar is fairly close to that of Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs, close enough that it is often used to restore lines in the Old Babylonian version. This suggests that the text of this version at least may not have changed much over time, except in the formatting of the tablets. For the purposes of analysing allusion in Enūma eliš it makes sense to use the older text which existed before the time of the composition of Enūma eliš rather than the later one which was written after it. Of course, it cannot be guaranteed that all of this text made it into the Standard Babylonian version, and the question of what versions were in circulation when Enūma eliš was composed cannot be answered at present, but the similarities so far seem encouraging for at least one version of the text to be relatively stable. In addition to the Standard Babylonian version we also have the Assyrian tablets from Nineveh, ST4 and U, that are written with Assyrian grammatical forms and orthography and show slight differences of wording (Lambert & Millard, 1969: 37–38). These differences are minor. The plot is the same in both, and the same events occur in more or less the same order. In the Assyrian version the slaughter of the rebel leader is proposed slightly earlier,5 it is Anu rather than Enlil who instructs Nusku to go to the rebels and ask who is the instigator of battle,6 and Mami already has the name Bēlet-ilī.7 None of these points change the meaning of the story. The first is simply a condensation of the plot, while the second gives slightly more of a role to Anu than the Old Babylonian version does, which is paralleled elsewhere in the Standard Babylonian version as well.8 This does not significantly change the meaning of the story either,

4 To S have since been added four fragments: K 10097 (1969: xi–xii); K 10604 which joins S to T (Lambert, 1969b); K 1697+18479+18572 (Lambert, 1980a); K 21851 (Lambert, 1991). There is also one other Late Assyrian fragment which cannot be placed, K 13347, and may belong to the same story as the MB fragment from Ugarit since both are written in the first person (Lambert, 1991). 5 Before Nusku goes to the rebels (ms. S col. ii line 7, Lambert & Millard, 1969: 55). 6 Ms. S, col. ii, lines 8 and 12 (Lambert & Millard, 1969: 55). 7 Ms. S line 6, (Lambert & Millard, 1969: 55). Since we do not have the whole text of either recension this does not necessarily mean that the episode of her naming was not present. 8 The Standard Babylonian also has Anu instruct Enlil to instruct Nusku to go to the rebels, and also has the rebel leader declare something about Anu, unfortunately broken: da-nu-um-ma

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since Anu is a neutral figure. The demands for action still come from Enlil, and it is still Enlil who is the target of the rebellion. These differences do not show any drastic evolution or re-interpretation of the story. The variations are slight, as are the differences in wording, and so these two versions would be recognised as essentially the same poem. The existence of different dialectal forms of the same poem does not mean that it occurred in completely different versions or that the text was unstable. The similarities are far more numerous and significant. In other words, an Assyrian reader of Enūma eliš who knew the ‘Assyrian version’ of Atraḫasīs would have no difficulty recognising and understanding the allusions to it, even though the author of Enūma eliš would have been alluding to a Babylonian one. Atraḫasīs is itself a complex and intertextual poem.9 There are many plot parallels, for example, with Enki and Ninmaḫ (edition Lambert, 2013: 330–345), with Enlil acting very much like Enki does in the Sumerian poem. Like Atraḫasīs, Enki and Ninmaḫ states that the junior gods were bearing the toil, digging the canals. They complain of this imposition, blame Enki rather than Enlil for it, and rebel against him. Enki is sleeping comfortably, and is woken up by his mother, who tells him that the gods are smashing up something (the passage is broken, but it is probably their tools, if the parallels with Atraḫasīs are anything to go by), and she begs him to create a substitute for the gods so they can be freed from their toil. This is very close to what happens in Atraḫasīs: Enlil is asleep when the gods bring their burning tools to his gate, and is woken up by Nusku who tells him what is happening, and suggests that he summon Anu and Enki to help. Enki then suggests that man be created to assume the gods’ work. The parallels are so close we may suspect that Atraḫasīs is taking Enki and Ninmaḫ as a model (as suggested by Machinist 2005: 44), but transfers all the blame ascribed to Enki onto Enlil. It is possible, then, that the author of Atraḫasīs took this tradition that portrays Enki in a bad light and transferred it to Enlil, a different god he wanted to portray unfavourably.10 Thus the chain of allusions may extend even further back.

9 10

lu-ga-[ar-ri? …] ‘Let me [declare war against] Anu himself […]!’ (I.53’). George and Al-Rawi suggest that the adverb anumma meaning ‘now then’ at Old Babylonian I.61 has been misunderstood and interpreted as the name of Anu (1996: 185). See for example Chen (2013: chapter 4) on its numerous connections to the Sumerian city laments. Katz suggests that Enūma eliš may be drawing directly on Enki and Ninmaḫ as well as Atraḫasīs, since this Sumerian poem portrays Namma as the watery mother, analogous to Ti’āmtu (2011: 128). However, the parallels are not particularly precise, and may be more likely to do with the adaptation of a more general tradition than this specific text.

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Allusions to Atraḫasīs in Enūma eliš work towards two ends: Marduk’s replacement of Enlil, and his replacement of Ea. The allusions can be grouped into two main sets, those referring to the threat of destruction, and those dealing with new creation. The terrible clamour that prevents a god from sleeping, the resulting plan to destroy the beings causing the noise, and the intervention of Ea to save those beings in Enūma eliš form one set of allusions that recall the rash behaviour of Enlil in Atraḫasīs, the unwise king who now deserves to be deposed. The creation motifs form another set connecting Marduk with Ea, as both characters in Enūma eliš create physical domains from the body of their defeated enemy, and the creation of man in Enūma eliš draws on the same episode as told in Atraḫasīs. Allusions to Atraḫasīs in Enūma eliš therefore contribute towards both Marduk’s take-over as head of the pantheon and as a son outgrowing his father. However, Marduk supplants Enlil in a particularly elaborate way, for Enlil is overthrown by allusion, using the murder of Apsû to stand for Enlil’s figurative demise.

2

Destructions: The Dethroning of Enlil

Mentions of Enlil in Enūma eliš are few, and all emphasize Marduk’s replacement of him. The 50 names of Marduk correspond to Enlil’s symbolic number, 50, and Enlil himself hands over his title to Marduk at VII.136, the only god to do so directly. However, Enlil does not even appear in the narrative until IV.146 when Marduk assigns him his place in the universe (Lambert, 1984: 5), and even there he is part of the triad of Ea, Enlil and Anu rather than appearing as a character in his own right. It is the last line of Tablet IV, a climactic position where Marduk, having conquered Ti’āmtu, now exercises power over the former heads of the world order. The next mention of Enlil at V.8 is in a similar context, where Marduk is fixing the astrological relationships of Enlil and Ea in relation to the position of Nēberu, his own star. Enlil’s next appearance is in V.80 where he gives Marduk gifts, again not on his own but together with Anu and Ea. This grouping appears again at VII.6 when Marduk is named as the one who implements the decrees of Anu, Enlil, and Ea. As Lambert remarks, the sidelining of Enlil is ‘downright spiteful treatment of the old head of the pantheon’ and ‘he only appears where he can contribute to Marduk’s greater glory’ (1984: 5). In addition to all these slights, I will argue that Enlil is dethroned without even being directly mentioned, at the very start of the poem. Marduk takes over from Enlil without any struggle; it is an event which is not ‘narrated’ as such but is rather suggested by subtleties in the account of the murder of Apsû. As Apsû is overthrown, a number of allusions to Atraḫasīs connect him with Enlil as

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presented in that poem. Apsû therefore symbolically represents Enlil and the old world order he stands for, and so when Apsû is deposed, Enlil is symbolically deposed as well. Apsû complains of being disturbed and suffering from lack of sleep and declares that he will destroy the source of the noise,11 just as Enlil did in Atraḫasīs. Ea, the god of cunning and trickery, again steps in to save these beings from annihilation. In both poems, the threat of the irresponsible ruler god who is about to misuse his power with disastrous consequences is removed, and order is (temporarily) restored. As we will see, these correspondences connect the dethroned Apsû with a now displaced and obsolete Enlil, and are reinforced by allusions to another depiction of Enlil losing power, the theft of his tablet of destinies in Anzû. The overthrow of Apsû, then, alludes to what happens to Enlil as a result of the rise of Marduk. The use of allusions to imply events taking place even though they are not directly narrated is a technique also found in Classical literature. For example, in the Iliad, the death of Hector represents the fall of Troy (XXII.410–411), and the death of Patroclus connotes by allusion the death of Achilles (XVI.914 ff., and throughout books XVIII and XXIII).12 Another instance from Babylonian literature may be the death and funeral of Enkidu in Gilgameš: it has been argued that this connotes the death and funeral of Gilgameš himself by way of allusion, since the description in Gilgameš is very close to that in the Sumerian The Death of Gilgameš (Currie, 2011). The overthrow of Enlil may or may not have been the subject of its own story, but regardless of whether the allusion is to a specific text or to a more general idea, I envisage something similar here, that Apsû represents Enlil and the downfall of one alludes to the downfall of the other. The murder of Apsû is an unusual episode in Babylonian mythology. It only appears in Enūma eliš and it contradicts the traditional explanation for how Ea came to dwell in the Apsû.13 Furthermore, the personified Apsû is also unique

11

12

13

It is not explicitly stated how he intends to ‘destroy their behaviour’ (luš-ḫal-liq-ma al-kat₃su-nu, I.39), but we can infer that he plans to kill his children from the distressed reaction of Ti’amtu in line I.45, when she asks: mi-na-a ni-i-nu ša₂ ni-ib-nu-u₂ nu-uš-ḫal-laq-ma, ‘What? Shall we destroy the ones we created?’ Furthermore the plan is twice referred to as evil (le-mut-ta I.44, lem-ne₂-e-ti I.52), as is Enlil’s plan to destroy noisy behaviour, the deluge, which is called: ši-ip-ra le-em-na, ‘an evil deed’ (Atraḫasīs II.viii.35). The death of Achilles is told in a (now lost) poem the Memnonis, meaning that the Iliad can allude to the way this episode was presented in this earlier poem (see e.g. Kullmann, 1960; Schadewaldt, 1951). Given in Atraḫasīs. There, after the casting of lots (I.11–12), Ea simply goes down to the domain allotted him (I.14). The Exaltation of Ištar (edition Hruška, 1969) also refers to an uncontroversial division of power at line 25, saying that Anu, Enlil and Ea u₂-za-’i-i-zu zi-

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to Enūma eliš, since in other texts it is merely a region of the cosmos, not a speaking character. We are so used to thinking of Enūma eliš as ‘the’ Babylonian creation epic that it is easy to overlook the fact that this is not a normal account of the first creation (Lambert, 1965: 291; Vanstiphout, 1992: 53). As Seri remarks, ‘The fictitious and biased nature of Enūma eliš’s initial genealogy is apparent from the omission of the god Enlil and from the dubious occurrence of the first three pairs’ (2012: 10).14 The murder of Apsû is another innovation, both as a narrative event and for the allusive technique it uses. 2.1 Noise and the Deluge As a number of scholars have noted, Apsû and Enlil both want to destroy the source of the noise that prevents them from sleeping, which both poems portray as an irresponsible overreaction.15 The first allusion to Atraḫasīs in Enūma eliš is the terrible clamour raised by the offspring of Apsû and Ti’āmtu, a clamour which signals that a cataclysmic destruction is to come: i-nen-du-ma at-ḫu-u₂ ilānū(DINGIR-nu)meš e-šu-u₂ ti-amta-ma na-ṣir-šu-nu iš-tab-bu16 da-al-ḫu-nim-ma ša₂ ti-amti ka-ras-sa i-na šu-’a-a-ri šu-u’-du-ru qe₂-reb an-duru₂-na The gods, brothers, banded together, confusing Ti’āmtu, their clamour grew ever louder, disturbing Ti’āmtu’s insides, causing trouble with dancing in the midst of Anduruna. Enūma eliš I.21–24

14 15

16

za-a-tim, ‘shared out the shares’. In Gilgameš, Enkidu, and the Netherworld (11–12) An and Enlil simply go to their domains without anyone assigning them or there being any dispute, and Enki sails to the Netherworld (‘kur’, line 16). Enki appears as god of the Apsû in the very next line, implying that perhaps this region existed already before heaven and earth were created (Horowitz, 1998: 136). She goes on to qualify that the pairs Laḫmu and Laḫamu, Anšar and Kišar appear in different orders and further apart in An = Anum (2012: 10). Labat (1935: 29), Moran (1971: 42), Jacobsen (1976: 167), Michalowski (1990: 389), Machinist (2005: 44 n. 30), Seri (2012: 17), Sonik (2008: 741), Katz (2011: 129), and Kvanvig (2011: 79) remark on this motif, but its implications have yet to be unpacked. On reading šabû rather than šapû see Lambert (2013: 470). He argues that these verbs should not be conflated as they are in CAD, but that the former refers specifically to sound while the latter is used to describe visual phenomena.

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Apsû is disturbed by this noise and complains that it is interfering with his sleep: im-tar-ṣa-am-ma al-kat₂-su-nu e-li-ia ur-ri-iš la šu-up-šu-ha-ku17 mu-ši-iš la ṣa-al-la-ku lu-uš-ḫal-liq-ma al-kat₂-su-nu lu-sa-ap-pi-iḫ qu-lu liš-ša₂-kin-ma i ni-iṣ-lal ni-i-ni Their behaviour troubled me, by day I am allowed no rest, at night I cannot sleep!18 Let me destroy, let me put an end to their behaviour, let silence be established so we may sleep! Enūma eliš I.37–40

This motif harks back to the complaint of Enlil in Atraḫasīs, which is followed by the sending of plague and famine to diminish the population, and eventually by the deluge: ⸢ma⸣-[tum ki-ma li]-⸢i i-ša⸣-ab-bu i-na [ḫu-bu-ri-ši-na] i-lu ⸢it⸣-ta-⸢a’-da⸣-ar [den-lil₂ iš-te-me] ri-⸢gi-im⸣-ši-in [iz-za-kar₃ a]-na i-li ⸢ra⸣-bu-tim [ik-ta-ab-ta] ri-gi-im a-wi-lu-ti [i-na ḫu-bu-ri-ši]-na u₂-za-am-ma ši-it-ta [The land] was bellowing [like a bull] the god was troubled by [their clamour]. [Enlil heard] their noise,

17 18

Ms. b has šu-up-šu-ḫa-ak, abbreviating the final syllable. This may be to parallel I.50 where all the manuscripts abbreviate šupšuḫāta to šupšuḫāt. Ms. O (Neo-Assyrian, from Assur) omits lines 37–38 and, interestingly, I.115–116, where the gods later declare they too cannot sleep. This manuscript also alters line 40, reading […] ⸢mu⸣?-šiš lu ne₂-ḫe-et, ‘let her rest at night’, referring to the stirred-up Ti’amtu (after collation I follow Kämmerer & Metzler in reading the broken sign as ⸢mu⸣? rather than Lambert’s ⸢rap⸣?). So there was one copy of the text which leaves out this allusion. Why this is, we cannot say. That it does it in two different places may indicate that it was deliberate rather than a simple copying error. Not all the mss. from Assur omit the allusion, however, as ms. Q does contain lines 115–116, meaning that it is particular to manuscript O rather than indicating some other standard version known at Assur.

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[saying] to the great gods, “The noise of mankind [has become burdensome], “[through their clamour] I am deprived of sleep.” Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs I.354–35919 Apsû’s complaint immediately reminds us of Enlil’s, and the knowledge of what followed in Atraḫasīs is all too pertinent. It is an ominous hint at the crisis that is about to unfold, and at the scale of the impending disaster. Labat first pointed out that the reasons Apsû gives for wanting to destroy his offspring are trivial and compared him to Enlil in Atraḫasīs, suggesting that this is the source of the motif (1935: 29). In both cases, we have noise disturbing the god, who conceives a murderous plan to kill off the offenders. The same verbs are used, inflections of šabû and adāru: in Enūma eliš we have ištabbu (I.22) and šu’durū (I.24), while in Atraḫasīs we have išabbu (I.354) and itta’dar (I.355). In both passages the noise is made by entities that the god has himself had a role in creating—for Apsû they are his offspring, for Enlil they are the people he ordered to be created to take over the labour of the Igigi. This sets up Apsû as an Enlil-like figure who shows contempt for the beings he has helped create. Attitudes towards Enlil are far from complimentary in Atraḫasīs, as the poem condemns Enlil for sending the deluge. The laments of the mother goddess add a sense of pathos and regret that speak against Enlil’s decision (III.iii.34–54; III.iv.4ff.; III.v.37-vi.4) and the other gods weep with her (III.iv.15). She outright accuses Enlil of not thinking it through, calling him ša la im-taal-ku-u₂-ma iš-ku-nu a-bu-ba, ‘he who did not consider but sent the deluge’ (III.v.42).20 Moran observes that when the house of ‘warrior Enlil’ is besieged, ‘the only occasion he has to display his valour, he pleads with Nusku for protection and cowers behind him in fear’ (1971:43). Enlil is ‘a power seriously flawed by fear, childish resentment, a certain obtuseness, and, above all, a wrath that can issue in completely irresponsible violence’ (Moran, 1971: 44). Marduk never displays any of these characteristics. The pathetic picture of the gods suffering extreme hunger and thirst in Atraḫasīs (III.iv.15–22) and later swarming around the sacrifice like flies in desperation (III.v.34–35) is an illustration of the consequences of Enlil’s ill-considered decision. The deluge is explicitly called ši-ip-ra le-em-na, ‘an evil deed’ in II.viii.35. Nevertheless, Atraḫasīs ends with 19 20

The restorations are from parallel lines in Tablet II.i.3–8. Enlil is not the only one responsible for the destruction of mankind. Bēlet-ilī levels her reproach against Anu too for his absence (III.51–52), and the whole assembly of gods has agreed to let it happen (II.viii.34; III.vi.7–8). Nevertheless, Enlil is the one who sends the deluge, and the blame is primarily directed against him.

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praise of Enlil, and acknowledges his awesome and terrible destructive power (Jacobsen, 1976: 121). Yet even this may be double-edged. Kilmer draws attention to a possible word-play between šanittu, ‘praise’, and ‘šanītu’, ‘hostility’ in the penultimate line, and narbû, ‘greatness’ and narbu, ‘softness’, or narrubu, ‘rout’ or ‘flight’ in the final line, which may refer to Enlil’s cowardice at the time of the first rebellion and his absence during the most terrifying part of the flood (1996: 138). There is thus plenty of hostility towards Enlil to be found already in Atraḫasīs.21 Like Enlil, Apsû is condemned for his impulsive decision to destroy the junior gods. Like Enlil, he does not think it through but exclaims it in a moment of sleep-deprived frustration. Ti’āmtu’s reaction to this is reminiscent of the lament of the mother goddess Nintu in Atraḫasīs after the flood, when she regrets how she allowed her creations to be destroyed (Atraḫasīs III.iii.34–54): mi-na-a ni-i-nu ša₂ ni-ib-nu-u₂ nu-uš-ḫal-laq-ma al-kat₃-su-nu lu šum-ru-ṣa-at-ma i ni-iš-du-ud ṭa-biš “Why should we destroy the ones we created? “Although their behaviour may cause suffering, let us endure it well.” Enūma eliš I.45–46

Lambert classifies I.45 as a topos, that is, a literary commonplace or oftenrecurring theme, citing the parallels in PBS 1/2 113 iii.8 and Lambert, 1960: 190, 11–12 (2013: 470). Yet three instances is not a large number, and there is reason to suspect that they may be related. The first is an Old Babylonian Lamaštu incantation and, crucially, quotes the words of the weeping Aruru, another name for the mother goddess. It is tempting to posit this as a line originally from Atraḫasīs, since it does contain broken passages where such a line could have been. One line is missing from the end of Bēlet-ilī’s lament in III.iii, and there is a large gap in II.viii where only four lines survive of the whole column. Since in the preceding column Enki refuses to be complicit in Enlil’s plan to send a flood, saying a-na mi-nim tu-ta-am-ma-⸢ni⸣ […] / u₂-ub-ba-al qa₂-ti a-na ⸢ni⸣[ši-ia-ma], ‘Why will you bind me with an oath […]? Am I to bring my hands against [my people]?’ (II.vii.42–43), it seems possible that a rebuke along similar lines from Bēlet-ilī could follow. The second text containing this parallel is a Middle Assyrian fragment of The Series of the Fox,22 where it is likely that its

21 22

And in the flood narrative in Gilgameš, which depends on it, see Wilcke (1999: 94). See Lambert (1960: 186–209) for the edition plus Jimenez (2017) for additional fragments.

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citation of this line is intended to be humorous. It is uttered by the Fox as a plea to Enlil not to kill him in the context of a drought—perhaps a cheeky quotation of the mother goddess’ words to Enlil in Atraḫasīs, where she pleaded with him not to destroy the human race through a flood. The Series of the Fox does quote other literary compositions; so far allusions have been spotted to Gilgameš (Landsberger, 1968: 113; Wasserman, 2011: 8), Ludlul bēl nēmeqi, and the Babylonian Theodicy (Jimenéz, 2017: 83–87), increasing the likelihood of this possibility. It would certainly be very appropriate for Enūma eliš I.45 to quote a line from Atraḫasīs, given the similarities between these situations, although without the original line or its context not much can be said about what this would mean. However, Ti’āmtu’s actions are very different from those of the former mother goddess. Nintu’s laments as we have them are uttered after the destruction, expressing regrets. She specifically says that she commanded the destruction along with the other gods and wishes that she had not (Atraḫasīs III.iii.36– 37). Conversely, the mother goddess of Enūma eliš will not give her consent to the plan but intervenes to save her children. As with Ti’āmtu’s references to Anzû hinting that she will not repeat the mistakes of the earlier poem,23 perhaps here the similarities in language and contrast in behaviour between her and Nintu signal that Ti’āmtu will not repeat Nintu’s mistakes either. She will not stand by and allow her children to be destroyed, only to regret it later. Ti’āmtu’s impassioned protests and sympathy for her troublesome offspring also contrast with the cruelly indifferent attitude of Apsû. This may in fact explain why Ti’āmtu is presented in a sympathetic light in this part of Enūma eliš, although later she is an enemy of the established order to be destroyed at all costs. Jacobsen commented on the emphasis of her maternal nature as strangely unexpected, saying: ‘So odd is this sympathetic treatment of the archenemy that one can hardly escape feeling that the author is here in the grip of conflicting emotions’ (1976: 187). However, at this point in the story Ti’āmtu is not yet the archenemy. Sympathy with her here highlights antipathy towards Apsû, and so has the function of initially turning us against a different enemy. Since Apsû is a figure standing symbolically for Enlil, hostility towards Apsû generates hostility towards Enlil by extension. Further criticism of Apsû’s attitude is implicit in lines 51 and 52. After his vizier Mummu urges him to destroy his children, Apsû rejoices because of the evil he plotted:

23

See p. 90.

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iḫ-⸢du⸣-šum-ma apsû(ABZU) im-me-ru pa-nu-šu aš-šum lem-ne₂-e-ti ik-pu-du a-na ilānī(DINGIR.DINGIR) ma-re-e-šu Apsû was pleased with him, his face brightened, because he plotted evil deeds against the gods his sons. Enūma eliš I.51–52

Such a reaction portrays Apsû as even more cruel than Enlil, who is not presented as actually pleased to be destroying mankind in the text of Atraḫasīs. But setting up Apsû as a figure for Enlil can also be read as a comment on the behaviour of Enlil himself, perhaps indirectly ascribing Apsû’s reactions to Enlil in Atraḫasīs. Here we may have an instance of reverse intertextuality, re-shaping our view of Enlil indirectly through the reactions of Apsû who is compared to him. Enlil may not have explicitly rejoiced at the prospect of annihilating mankind, but the sustained connections with Apsû in Enūma eliš may imply that this may have been his true feeling. 2.2 Overthrowing Bad Kings The point of reminding us of Enlil while killing off Apsû is to remind us why Enlil needs to be overthrown—Apsû is a bad king, as bad as Enlil, or even worse. Together these two figures represent an unacceptable order that needs to be cleared away. Since Ea is the one to despatch Apsû there is no need for a direct conflict between Marduk and Enlil. Marduk does not have to take the throne of this region directly, but ‘inherits’ it from his father. A bad king is replaced by a good king, who is himself replaced by an even better king. Ea’s overthrow of Apsû paves the way for a legitimate succession by Marduk. The ‘bad’ king who threatens to destroy his offspring is replaced by Ea, the god of wisdom, lending legitimacy to Marduk’s reign (Sonik, 2008: 741).24 Although Ea is not explicitly called a king in the narrative part of Enūma eliš, in VII.100 he is given the name dlugal-du₆-ku₃, ‘king of the pure place’, referring to the Apsû, a name explicitly identified with Ea in the commentary on the hemerological text Iqqur īpuš25 CT 41 39 rev. 8: ‘dlugal-du₆-ku₃-ga = de₂-⸢a⸣’ (Horowitz, 1998: 130).26 Thus the idea of Ea being ‘king’ of the Apsû was established else24 25 26

Cf also Gabriel (2014: 359ff.) on Marduk’s legitimacy, especially p. 362 for his birthplace in the Apsû. Edited by Labat (1965). The name also occurs in the creation story The Founding of Eridu (Lambert, 2013: 372, line 13), where it also refers to Ea (George, 1992: 252).

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where. The context of the name in Enūma eliš is the elaboration of Marduk’s name ddumu-du₆-ku₃, ‘son of the pure place’ (VII.99). This is a natural adaptation of Ea’s title for his son and implies that Marduk is Ea’s successor in the Apsû. The language used to describe the murder of Apsû is that of a military conquest, reminiscent of royal inscriptions: u₂-kin-ma eli(UGU) apsî(ABZU) šu-bat-su dmu-um-mu it-ta-maḫ u₂-kal ṣer-ret-su ul-tu lem-ne₂-e-šu₂ ik-mu-u₂ i-sa-a-du de₂-a uš-ziz-zu ir-nit-ta-šu₂ eli(UGU) ga-ri-šu₂ He established his dwelling upon Apsû, he seized Mummu, holding his lead rope. After Ea bound and smote his enemies, and had achieved victory over his foes … Enūma eliš I.73–74

Mummu is held on a lead rope (I.7) in a manner similar to the language used by Neo-Assyrian kings. This adds to the characterisation of both Ea and Apsû as one king deposing another. Yet it is not a battle being described here— Ea creeps up to cast a spell on Apsû and then kills him while he is asleep.27 The battle-like language used to dress up a ‘victory’ won through trickery contrasts with and foreshadows the actual battle which Marduk will fight against Ti’āmtu, and the legitimate, visible, impressive way he will win his supremacy as opposed to the subterfuge and trickery employed by his father. The implication is that Marduk will be a very different kind of king from his predecessors— entirely rightful, and evidently superior. There are other details to suggest that Apsû is a bad king. Quite apart from his whimsical decision to kill those he is responsible for, he takes the bad advice of his vizier (sukkallu) Mummu.28 Mummu speaks to him like an advisor to a king, telling him what he wants to hear and leading him further down the path of folly. It reflects badly on Apsû that his wisdom is located outside himself, that he needs the advice of this character, while Marduk’s wisdom is innate

27

28

We may note the irony that Apsû wants to kill his offspring because he cannot sleep, and yet it is while he is asleep that he is killed (as also observed by Sonik, 2008: 8, n. 16). On the meaning of Akkadian mummu as ‘creative spirit’ see Frahm (2013).

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and independent. This is all part of the picture of disorder which precedes and contrasts with Marduk’s reign of orderliness. The parallels between the two not only reinforce the wickedness of Apsû’s reign by comparing him with Enlil, but also remind us of how bad Enlil was. This adds further legitimacy to Marduk’s assumption of supreme rule, since he takes over from inadequate predecessors. Furthermore, this can engender reverse intertextuality when we next come to read Atraḫasīs. When Enlil complains of the clamour of mankind and is condemned for the destruction he sends upon them, we may think of the new world of Marduk and the events of Enūma eliš, and know that Enlil is on the way out. 2.3 When the Gods Were (like) Man It is significant that Ea is the one who foils Apsû’s evil plans, for he plays a similar role as in Atraḫasīs (Vanstiphout, 1992: 45). There it was also Ea who intervened on men’s behalf to save them from being destroyed by Enlil. In Enūma eliš, Ea intervenes to save the gods from the destruction of Apsû. Here again, Ea comes to the rescue of those in the same predicament as before—beings threatened with annihilation because of their noise. Interestingly, this puts the gods in Enūma eliš in the same place as mankind in Atraḫasīs (Kragerud, 1972: 40), a situation very reminiscent of that poem’s first line, inūma ilū awīlum, ‘when the gods were (like) man’.29 Here the gods are indeed like man, and this is most likely not a coincidence. As part of its rewriting of mythical history, Enūma eliš has incorporated the situation at the beginning of Atraḫasīs into its own story. The gods are metaphorically like men at the start of Atraḫasīs, and so they are at the start of Enūma eliš too. The beings threatened by Apsu are thus like those who were threatened by Enlil, another connection between these two figures that underscores the similiarities in their behaviour. 2.4 The Stripping of the Crown An allusion to Anzû is also deployed in this programme to connect Enlil with Apsû, as the stripping of Apsû’s regalia in the murder scene (Enūma eliš I.67– 68) echoes Enlil stripping for his bath in Anzû (I.79–80). Enlil takes off

29

The grammatical interpretation of the line is controversial, for discussion see George & Al-Rawi (1996: 147 n. 1), Wilcke (1999: 73–74), and most recently Ziegler (2016), who gives a full history of the debate. Whether one translates this line as above or as simply ‘when the gods were man,’ the difference is only one of simile or metaphor, as in both cases the gods are put in the same position as men.

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his crown and regalia when he goes to his bath, and it when he is in this vulnerable state that Anzû can snatch the tablet of destinies and deprive him of his power:30 e-nu-ma den-lil₂ i-ra-mu-ku mê(A)meš ellūti(KU₃)meš šaḫ-ṭu-ma ina giškussi(GU.ZA) a-gu-šu šak-nu ṭuppi šīmāti(DUB.NAM.MEŠ) ik-šu-da qa-tuš-šu den-lil₂-u₂-tu il-te-qu₂ na-du-⸢u₂⸣ [par-ṣu] When Enlil was bathing in the pure waters, stripped, his crown placed on the throne, he (Anzû) took the tablet of destinies in his hand! He took supremacy, [authority] was overthrown! Anzû I.79–82

Somewhat similarly, Apsû must be divested of his symbols of office before Ea can kill him: ip-ṭur rik-si-šu iš-ta-ḫaṭ a-ga-šu₂ me-lam-mi-šu it-ba-la šu-u₂ u₂-ta-di-iq ik-mi-šu-ma apsâ(ABZU) i-na-ra-aš₂-šu dmu-um-mu i-ta-sir₃ eli(UGU)-šu₂ ip-tar-ka He (Ea) untied his (Apsû’s) sash,31 he stripped off his crown, he removed his aura, he put it on himself. He (Ea) bound Apsû and killed him, Mummu he confined, he (Ea) laid him (Mummu) across him (Apsû).32 Enūma eliš I.67–70

30

31

32

One might also think of Humbaba in Gilgameš, who must be stripped of his cloaks of radiance before he is killed (V.99–100). Another parallel is Ištar’s Descent, where Ištar is stripped of her symbols and clothes one by one as she advances through each gate of the netherworld: here too the undressing corresponds to a loss of power. Differently Lambert: ‘He split (Apsû’s) sinews, ripped off his crown’ (2013: 55). Although both translations are possible, there are far more attestations of riksu meaning ‘sash’ or ‘tie’ of some kind (CAD R: 347–349; AHw III: 984–985) than of sinew (CAD R: 349 has only four, AHw III: 985 only three). Only one of these is in combination with paṭāru and the meaning does not seem to match this context: pu-uṭ-ṭu-ru rik-su-u₂-a ‘my sinews are parted’ (Lambert, 1960: 44–45 = Ludlul II.104) is the result of illness rather than violence. For commentary on this line see pp. 150–151.

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However, there are also more specific correspondences between the scenes in Anzû and Enūma eliš. In Anzû, Enlil bathes in the ellūti mê, the ‘pure waters’ (I.65, 79), and in Enūma eliš the murder of Apsû also takes place in the waters (I.63), since Apsû himself is the embodiment of the freshwater domain. Both gods have their crowns removed, with the same verb used to express this: šaḫṭu-ma ina giškussi(GU.ZA) a-gu-šu šak-nu, ‘Stripped, his crown placed on the throne,’ Anzû I.80; iš-ta-ḫaṭ a-ga-šu₂, ‘He stripped off his crown,’Enūma eliš I.67. Enlil has his symbol of ultimate power stolen, the tablet of destinies, and the radiance of his shrine is lost along with it (ki-iṣ-ṣu iš-ta-ḫaṭ na-mur-ra-su, ‘the shrine cast off its radiance,’ Anzû I.86) while Apsû is stripped of his aura, which has a similarly disempowering result. In Enūma eliš I.68 Ea takes Apsû’s aura and puts it on himself, effecting a direct transition of power. That Apsû’s items are taken away by force in Enūma eliš as opposed to Enlil removing them himself is another example of the way that Enūma eliš intensifies motifs of earlier poems in a spirit of one-upmanship. When we connect the allusions to Anzû with the allusions to Atraḫasīs a coherent picture emerges. In Enūma eliš the rebellion against the old god is more violent, and more effective than it was in the earlier two poems. In Anzû, Enlil’s lost power was restored to him at the end, and in Atraḫasīs he was threatened but not deposed. In Enūma eliš the act is carried out, and the troublesome ruler is successfully removed. Thus allusions to two different poems work together to portray the implicit ousting of Enlil. These links between Apsû and Enlil—the noise complaint as a trivial motive for killing his children, the similarities in the roles of Ea and the mother goddesses, and the resemblances between the moments of disempowerment— create a network of implications that when Apsû is overthrown, so at the same time is Enlil. Enūma eliš may not tell explicitly of the overthrow of Enlil by Marduk because Enlil is overthrown by allusion already at the very start of the poem. 2.5 The Second Sleep Disturbance After the murder of Apsû noise becomes a problem in another way. Ea takes up residence in the Apsû, his son Marduk is born, and the winds that are the infant’s playthings now agitate the junior gods. Those who had been the agents of disturbance are now themselves disturbed. Just as the junior gods in Atraḫasīs rallied round Enlil’s abode with pitchforks to protest against their onerous conditions, so now the junior gods incite Ti’āmtu to lead an army against the rulers. Just as in Atraḫasīs the problem of noise is a prelude to the catastrophe of the deluge, so here the repetition of the noise is a signal of the approaching danger.

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This repetition of the noise and sleep deprivation motif in a different form intensifies the pattern and brings it to its climax. This time, a disturbance of sleep will set in motion another plan for destruction which cannot be so easily squashed, as the distressed creatures amass an army to bring down the whole established order. The situation is now reversed—the gods who were once causing disturbance and lack of sleep are now suffering the same malady, and they are described in the same way as Apsû was: dal-ḫa-at ti-amtu-ma ur-ra u mūša(GE₆) i-dul-lu ilānū(DINGIR.DINGIR) la šup-šu-⸢ḫu⸣ i-za-ab-bi-lu ša₂-ri-ša₂ ik-tap-du-ma kar-šu-us-su-nu le-mut-ta a-na ti-amti um-mi-šu-nu šu-nu iz-zak-ru Ti’āmtu was disturbed, day and night she wandered about. The gods, not allowed to rest, endured every wind.33 They plotted evil in their hearts, they spoke to Ti’āmtu, their mother Enūma eliš I.109–112

Now it is the gods’ turn to plot lemutta, ‘evil’, just as Apsû did, and for the same reason. They protest to their mother: ib-ni-ma ša₂-ar er-bet-ti ša₂ pu-luḫ-ti šu-ud-lu-ḫu kar-ša-ki-ma ul ni-ṣal-lal ni-i-nu “He created four fearsome winds, “they stir up your insides, we cannot sleep!” Enūma eliš I.115–11634 ⸢qar⸣-ra sar-ma-’a-ni ḫu-um-mu-ra i-na-tu-ni ⸢šu⸣-uz-bi-⸢il⸣ ab-ša₂-na la sa-ki-pi i ni-iṣ-lal ni-i-ni

33

34

The line is problematic. Three mss. have šu-up-šu-ḫa, which could be a Š infinitive in adverbial accusative, meaning ‘in not being allowed to rest’. Ms. a reads šup-šu-⸢ḫu⸣, which could be a locative ending with the same meaning. However, the simplest explanation (and thus perhaps the most likely) is that šupšuḫū is a stative, and the other manuscripts are corrupt. This is the interpretation I follow. I take šarīša to be a distributive inherited from Old Babylonian (supported by the variant in ms. g which has ⸢ša₂⸣-a-ri-šam). Ms. M (Middle Assyrian, from Assur) omits these two lines. Ms. N, however, also from Assur, includes them, see above p. 111 n. 18.

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“Our arms are contorted,35 our eyes are squinting, “remove the yoke that cannot be pushed off, let us sleep!” Enūma eliš I.121–122

Urging her to remove the yoke is an image that directly compares their plight to the forced labour that Enlil had imposed. The word abšānum, ‘yoke’ is the same used in Atraḫasīs to refer to the toil suffered by the Igigi: at-ti-i-ma ⸢ša₃⸣-as-su₂-ru ba-ni-⸢a-at⸣ a-wi-lu-ti bi-ni-ma lu-ul-la-a li-bi-il₅ ab-ša-nam ab-ša-nam li-bi-il ši-pi₂-ir d⸢en-lil₂⸣ šu-up-ši-ik ili(DINGIR) a-wi-lum li-iš-ši “You are the womb, creatress of mankind, “create primeval man, let him bear the yoke, “let him bear the yoke, the work (imposed by) Enlil, “let man carry the toil of god.” Atraḫasīs I.194–197

The burden to which the metaphorical yoke in Enūma eliš refers is the exhaustion of being unable to sleep, as in Atraḫasīs it is the forced labour and by extension the exhaustion it causes. This is another connection between the two poems that reminds us of Enlil’s tyranny—the yoke stands for exhaustion caused by Enlil and brings to mind all the troubles caused by his regime. Enlil has become a symbol of oppression without being explicitly mentioned, invoked here by this reference. 35

The first half of this line is problematic. Lambert reads ⸢am⸣-ra, ‘consider’ (2013: 57–58) and interprets sarmā’u as ‘drudgery’ contra AḪw II: 1029 (see Lambert, 1974b: 86). However there is no strong evidence against the proposal of AḪw that sarmā’u is a variant of sarmānu, ‘arms’, which yields good sense in this context. The trace of the first sign could also be ⸢qar⸣, which from collation looks at least as possible as ⸢am⸣, as the traces of two horizontal wedges are high up, leaving space for a third: . This would result in the dual stative form qarrā from q/garāru ‘to turn or roll over’, though this is speculative. G stative forms are attested describing the shape of various part of entrails with the meaning of curved or twisted (AḪw II: 902), e.g. šumma(BE) giškak(TUKUL) imitti(15) ga-ri-ir-ma, ‘If a weapon on the right side is twisted’ (Koch, 2005: no. 40: 13’). Ms. aa is the only exemplar of the first two signs of this line, and is a Neo/Late Babylonian school text. Ancient scribes also struggled with the line—a first millennium commentary on Enūma eliš gave a synonym for sarmā’u (unfortunately lost), and explained he-me-⸢ru⸣ še-be-ru [(:) e-na⸢tu₄⸣ ki-ša₂-du, ‘“to pinch” (means) “to break”, “eyes” (means) “neck” ’ (Frahm & Jimenéz, 2015: 301, line 9).

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What is the effect of invoking the motif of noise and sleep again? Its repetition contributes to the build-up of tension and is a sinister hint at the scale of the crisis to come. The noise/sleep issue in Atraḫasīs causes the sending of the deluge—the ultimate, legendary force of destruction in Mesopotamian mythology. In Enūma eliš the same distress persuades Ti’āmtu to amass an army against the gods in retribution. The implication is that the threat that follows will be on a similar scale to that of the deluge, especially since Ti’āmtu is nothing less than the personified sea. Seen in this way, Ti’āmtu herself is the deluge, a huge body of water threatening catastrophic destruction. Before ‘Enlil’ (Apsû) can destroy the noise-making beings (the junior gods), he is swiftly neutralised, and the threat would seem to have been averted. However, the junior gods are then themselves disturbed by Marduk (who is just as innocent as they were in not intending any harm). This second sleep disturbance provokes a ‘deluge’, as immediately after the disturbance the gods petition Ti’āmtu to take revenge (Enūma eliš I.111 ff.), setting in motion her confrontation with the ruling deities. The threat to the established order is clear. Furthermore, although Ti’āmtu’s ‘deluge’ is blocked by Marduk, her challenge does in fact have the same effect as the deluge: it sweeps away the old structures of the cosmos and allows Marduk to create new ones in their place.

3

Creations: Superseding Ea

The pattern of Enūma eliš upstaging earlier poems that we have seen in relation to Anzû is evident again in its relation to Atraḫasīs, as the scenes of creation in Enūma eliš outdo those in its predecessor. Parallels with Atraḫasīs not only contribute to Marduk’s take-over from Enlil as a ruler, but also to his take-over of the role of his father Ea as a creator god. After Ea deposes Apsû, it is Ea’s turn to be superseded by Marduk. This is a slightly different kind of take-over from what we have seen so far. Neither Ninurta nor Enlil have a significant role in the narrative, whereas Ea does, and is depicted witih the attributes which Marduk inherits from him (Vanstiphout, 1992: 46). However, Marduk will be shown to be cleverer and more effective even than his father, as his achievements parallel and out-do Ea’s on several counts, both those depicted in Enūma eliš itself (Gabriel, 2014: 190–197) and those known from Atraḫasīs.36

36

See also Gabriel (2014: 298) on the transfer of his name and responsibilities.

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3.1 A Counterpart to Apsû Ea’s murder of Apsû and Mummu parallels Marduk’s defeat of Ti’āmtu and Qingu. In both cases a younger god conquers opponents older than himself and takes supreme power. Ea’s deeds, then, prefigure and foreshadow Marduk’s (Talon, 2002: 266; Machinist, 2005: 43). Marduk’s battle is a greater challenge since it involves open combat, while Ea kills his opponent by stealth—hardly a fair fight. The scale of Marduk’s battle is also much larger, since while Ea defeated one sleeping Apsû and his vizier Mummu, Marduk is up against not only Ti’amtu and her commander-in-chief Qingu but also a huge army of her creatures. Thus Marduk has done more to deserve his position than his father, and is shown to be much more powerful. As Ea created his domain out of the body of his defeated enemy, so Marduk creates the domain he rules over from the body of Ti’āmtu. In keeping with this equivalence, Marduk’s dwelling of Esagil is specifically called a meḫret apsî, a counterpart to Ea’s dwelling of Apsû at VI.62. Texts other than Enūma eliš also attest to this likeness of abodes, as in Tintir IV.1–2 Esagil is said to be a meḫret of Apsû and Etemenanki a meḫret of Ešarra (George, 1992: 58, 296; Horowitz, 1998: 123). This paralleling is part of a programme to equate Babylon with Eridu as the first world city. As noted on p. 94 above, by the Middle Babylonian period Babylon had absorbed the name of Eridu for itself, and Eridu also came to designate the old religious quarter of the city where Esagil was located (George, 1992: 19). The syncretism can be seen in the bilingual creation of the world by Marduk CT 13, 35 (Horowitz, 1998: 123), which refers to Eridu and Esagil as the first things to be created (line 11), as if they were in the same place (George, 1992: 252). Their creation comes even before that of the Apsû,37 placing Babylon as not only the first primeval city, but even the first cosmic location. Thus Marduk’s city of Babylon supersedes Ea’s city of Eridu, and Babylon takes over its reputation as the oldest city in Mesopotamian tradition (George, 1997a), a syncretism that is also expressed in the way Enūma eliš designates Marduk’s dwelling as a counterpart of his father’s. Having made a residence for himself, Marduk then goes further than his father in the scale of his creation, shaping the heavens and the stars and regulating the cosmos (Seri, 2006: 517). In Enūma eliš IV.138–146 Marduk creates the heavens (šamû, ašratu) and the shrines of Ešgalla and Ešarra. This not only parallels and supersedes his father’s creation of the Apsû but also alludes to the casting of lots (Gabriel, 2014: 191–192), subverting the traditional method

37

abzu nu-du₃ ap-su-u₂ ul e-pu-⟨uš⟩ eri₄-du₁₀ ul ba-ni eriduki nu-dim₂, ‘Apsû was not built, Eridu was not created,’ (line 8, edition Lambert, 2013: 366–375).

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of organising the domains of the gods. Marduk assigns the highest heavens to Anu, Ešarra (the region of the sky below it) to Enlil, and Ešgalla to Ea.38 Thus instead of the three gods dividing the shares between them, or casting lots to assign them at random, Marduk has decided their places for them. Horowitz remarks on the similarity between this section and the account of the division of realms in Atraḫasīs, and notes that Enlil is not given the earth in Enūma eliš. His explanation is that the earth’s surface does not exist yet at this point in Enūma eliš, and so Enlil is sent to Ešarra, the cosmic roof (Horowitz, 1998: 113). However, the sequence here is surely more deliberate: Enlil is being kept out of the way, so that Marduk can have control over the earth (cf. Lambert, 1975b: 58). 3.2 The Creation of Man Enūma eliš is, like Atraḫasīs, on one level about a rebellion of junior gods against the head of the pantheon. This rebellion results in the creation of man in both stories, and the account in Enūma eliš follows the earlier one in many respects. In Atraḫasīs, creating mankind to bear the toil of the gods was Ea’s idea. Ea and Nintu then collaborate to create man from clay and the blood of a slain god, the one who led the rebellion. In Enūma eliš the situation is parallel: Ea creates man from the blood of Qingu, the leader of Ti’āmtu’s army. However, the idea is Marduk’s. Giving him the inspiration, as it were, shows him to be the clever one, and Ea merely an instrument of his will (Foster, 2005: 469, 2016: 95; Seri, 2006: 515):39 šip-ru šu-u₂ la na-⸢ṭu⸣-u₂ ḫa-sa-si-iš i-na nik-la-a-ti ša₂ dmarduk(AMAR.UTU) ib-na-a dNU.DIM₂.⸢MUD⸣ That work is impossible to understand, by the ingenuities of Marduk, Nudimmud40 created. Enūma eliš VI.37–38

This is also a reversal of the typical situation where a father gives advice or instructions to a son. In the incantation series Udug-ḫul (edition Geller, 2007), Marduk asks Ea for advice. The scenario is common across so many incanta38 39 40

Ešgalla is probably another name for Apsû (Lambert, 1975a: 57, 2013: 197), and so perhaps refers to Ea’s shrine in that region (cf. George, 1986: 136). cf. Gabriel (2014: 193): after the creation of the world, Marduk no longer creates with his own hands, but directs creations as designer and king. A name for Ea.

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tions that Falkenstein grouped them as the ‘Marduk-Ea-Typ’ (1931: 44–76). Here, however, Marduk gives instructions to his father rather than the other way round (Seri, 2014: 101), a sure sign of outgrowing him. In both poems, the blood of the leader of the rebellion is a crucial ingredient in the creation of man. In Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs, the god Wê was the one who had ‘the inspiration’ (ṭēmu) for the uprising against Enlil (Moran, 1970: 51–52; Alster, 2002: 38), and thus his blood is what imparts intelligence to mankind, since the same word can also mean ‘intellect’ (I.223–230) (Geller, 1993: 65; Abusch, 1998: 368–378). His role in the story is reflected by his name, which is perhaps a pun on awīlum ilū, a reversal of ilū awīlum in the first line (Alster, 2002: 37), or simply a pun on awīlum, the Akkadian word for ‘man’.41 Qingu’s name is probably a pun as well, as it may derive from Sumerian kiĝ₂, ‘to work’ (Jacobsen, 1984: 16; Wilcke, 1999: 79). This, too, can be compared with Atraḫasīs. The name of the slaughtered god in the Standard Babylonian version is Alla,42 which may be a pun on Sumerian al, ‘hoe’, an implement of work (Wilcke, 1999: 79). Enūma eliš goes one step further: the name of Alla alludes to work, but Qingu’s name actually embodies it.43 In Enūma eliš the accusation against Qingu is as follows: dqin-gu-ma ša₂ ib-nu-u₂ tu-qu-un-tu ti-amta uš-bal-ki-tu-ma ik-ṣu-ru ta-ḫa-a-zu It was Qingu who made war, made Ti’āmtu rebel and drew up44 the battle. Enūma eliš VI.29–30

Qingu is blamed as the one who ‘made war’ (ib-nu-u₂ tu-qu-un-tu) and ‘made Ti’āmtu rebel’ (ti-amta uš-bal-ki-tu-ma), although the events of Tablet I show quite the reverse: it is Ti’āmtu who raises up Qingu and appoints him as general of her army. So much is the principle of ṭēmu now ascribed to Qingu that it is even implied that he is responsible for inspiring Ti’āmtu to rebel. These lines put Qingu in the place of Wê/Alla, and signal that like these earlier characters, we are to assume that his inspiration or planning capacity is imparted to mankind. The word ṭēmu is not itself used, but the idea is very much present. 41 42 43 44

Foster translates the name of the god as Awila (2005: 236). Also in the bilingual creation text KAR 4, a Middle Assyrian tablet from Assur. Foster further notes that the divine element in the human being is now explicitly work rather than the rebellious spirit of Atraḫasīs (2012: 22). Var. j: ik-me-šu₂-ma, ‘bound’ or ‘defeated’.

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Qingu is not simply equivalent to Wê/Alla, however, as his role in Enūma eliš is much more prominent than that of his counterparts in Atraḫasīs. Wê does not have a significant role prior to his slaughter, but Qingu does: he is the commander of Ti’āmtu’s army and is mentioned at the culmination of the description of her host that is repeated three times and terrifies the gods (I.129– 162 = II.15–48 = III.19–52 = III.77–110). Furthermore, Qingu as a second enemy forms a pair with Ti’āmtu: Ti’āmtu’s body becomes the earth and heavens, and Qingu’s blood is used to create mankind, perhaps as female and male principles for different aspects of creation. Increasing Qingu’s prominence may be another example of Enūma eliš’s one-upmanship over earlier accounts. The couplet blaming Qingu for inciting the rebellion (VI.29–30) has its antecedents in Atraḫasīs, but also implies that Qingu has more agency than his literary predecessor, and thus that his contribution to mankind has a more real meaning. Atraḫasīs does not show Wê’s capacity for thought or action before he is killed, but Enūma eliš does have Qingu playing a role, even if he turns out not to be very effective in battle against Marduk. His relative weakness also makes sense in the context of his ṭēmu being given to humanity, since their capacity for thought is inevitably weak compared with the gods and especially in comparison to Marduk, to whom all are subordinate. In a way, then, the account in Enūma eliš makes slightly more sense than the one given in Atraḫasīs. Qingu exists not merely for the sake of a pun, but for a purpose: he has a coherent role in the story as the equivalent of Anzû, as well as serving as the life-blood of the first man. Thus something in Enūma eliš that may seem to have been taken over merely because of its relationship to an earlier poem can actually be shown to be integrated more coherently than it was in the original poem itself. 3.3 Freedom from Toil As in Atraḫasīs, the creation of man in Enūma eliš means that the gods are exempt from labour. In Atraḫasīs Enlil was the one responsible for forcing the gods to work in the first place, while in Enūma eliš Marduk was never associated with oppression, but steps in as liberator: i-na da-mi-šu₂ ib-nu-u₂45 a-me-lu-ta i-mid dul-li ilānī(DINGIR.DINGIR)-ma ilānī(DINGIR.DINGIR) um-taš-šir₃ 45

Following mss. j and E. Ms. A (from Assur) has ib-⸢na⸣, which Kämmerer & Metzler suggest is a dual (2012: 253), or alternatively ib-na could be a crasis with a-me-lu-ta. Lambert uses ib-[na]-a in his composite text, interpreting the subject as Ea in the singular (2013: 112).

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With his (Qingu’s) blood they created mankind, he (Marduk) imposed the toil of the gods (on man), and set the gods free. Enūma eliš VI.33–34

It is not obvious what this toil is, since the surviving text says little about it. Machinist suggests that the explanation as to why a substitute would be needed has been deliberately omitted as ‘a kind of rhetorical gapping that forces an attentive reader to go back to the story as found in Atraḫasīs and see how Enūma eliš has played with and adapted it’ (2005: 44 n. 30). However, there is another passage that refers to this toil, although it is both brief and extremely damaged. At the end of Tablet V, when the gods are rejoicing over Marduk’s announcement that Babylon is to be created and all the gods shall gather there for festivals, four fragmentary lines attested by only two manuscripts hint at work: x […] ⸢sat⸣-tuk-ka-ni li-bil-lu-ni ⸢ṢI⸣ […] ⸢NI⸣ ma-na-ma šip-ri-ni ša₂ ni-⸢i?⸣-[ni …] aš₂-ru-⸢uš-šu₂⸣ […] ⸢ma⸣-na-aḫ-taš x […] … let them bring our regular food offerings, … whoever … our task which we … in his/its place … his/its toil … Enūma eliš V.139–142

It seems that the gods recognise that in order for all of them to be provided with food offerings, someone has to work in order to produce them. Here they may be choosing someone to force this labour upon, either for the first time, or instead of the labour that they have been carrying out themselves up until now. Marduk’s speech at the beginning of Tablet VI, announcing his idea to create mankind, may be a response to this, an alternative that means that none of the gods must toil.46 When one thinks back to Atraḫasīs, one may remember that the forced labour there had been imposed by Enlil. It is šipir Enlil, ‘the task of Enlil’ (I.196), 46

The explanation of Marduk’s second name Marukka calls him mu-šap-ši-hu di-gi₄-gi₄, ‘the one who brings the Igigi rest’ (VI.134), which Gabriel has noted as another potential allusion to Atraḫasīs along these lines (2014: 163).

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meaning that it was assigned by him, and the rebellion in Atraḫasīs that results in the creation of man is a rebellion against Enlil. Given that Marduk is replacing Enlil, a strong contrast is drawn in their behaviour. Enlil was the harsh and thoughtless god who imposed a burden on the gods, while Marduk does no such thing but begins by releasing them from any such obligation, even one which they themselves may elect. Marduk’s rule, then, will clearly be very different from the regime he is taking over. Furthermore, Marduk’s creation of mankind is also a comment on his cleverness regarding his consolidation of power, since by ensuring that the gods are happy from the very beginning he is ruling out any possibility that they will rebel against him as they did against Enlil in the past. Not only is Marduk not like Enlil, he is learning from Enlil’s mistakes. 3.4 The Creation of Babylon The creation of man is followed by one last group of creations: that of Babylon (VI.57), the shrines of Esagil (VI.62) and those of the other gods (VI.68). Enūma eliš is fundamentally a Babylonian poem that exalts the place of the city of Babylon through the exaltation of its chief god Marduk. It is fitting, then, that the climax of the creative sequence should be Babylon and Esagil, followed by feasting and celebration. Strikingly, it is the gods themselves who choose to do this building. After mankind has been created, the gods thank Marduk for liberating them and in gratitude offer to build him Babylon and Esagil (VI.48–54). This is despite the fact that human beings have just been created specifically to do this kind of work so the gods do not have to. That they freely choose to work on Marduk’s behalf even after he has liberated them from toil, whereas in the past they rebelled against working for Enlil, is high praise indeed, and that Babylon should be built by a work force of freely willing gods rather than humans elevates the city’s splendour to a cosmological level.

4

Conclusions

Allusions to Atraḫasīs remind us of the necessity of Marduk’s rise. Enlil was a thoughtless, irrational ruler who imposed forced labour on his divine subjects and would have wiped out humankind without a second thought. Ea intervenes to avert the catastrophe: his murder of Apsû gets rid of both bad kings, deposing Enlil symbolically at the same time as killing Apsû literally, and makes the peaceful succession of a good king possible. Once Marduk is victorious it is Ea’s turn to be superseded by his son, as Marduk’s creations out-do those of his father both in Atraḫasīs and in Enūma eliš itself. Marduk’s creation of man

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takes place under very different circumstances from those in Atraḫasīs, showing him to be more benevolent and wiser than his predecessors. Allusions to Atraḫasīs, then, can be seen to fit into a wider schema of Marduk’s suitability to rule in contrast to those who came before him: he is not only a great warrior, but a clever and compassionate king. Invoking motifs from the earlier poem, further linked by the use of the same verbs, is an important technique as we have seen with the relationship of Enūma eliš to Anzû. The stripping of the crown is expressed with a form of šaḫāṭu in both texts (Enūma eliš I.61, Anzû I.80), while the words for causing noise and trouble are inflections of šabû and adāru (Atraḫasīs I.354–355; Enūma eliš I.22, 24). The pattern of noise causing sleep deprivation leading to impending destruction is specifically associated with Atraḫasīs, making a powerful statement about the scale of the crisis in Enūma eliš and the differing ways it is dealt with by Marduk and Enlil. The use of the word abšānum, ‘yoke’ in Enūma eliš (I.122) to refer to the burden of exhaustion that provokes the rebellion is a further reminder of Enlil’s oppressive rule (referring back to Atraḫasīs I.195–196). That Apsû’s crown and sash are stripped off before he is killed echoes Enlil’s stripping off his own regalia before he is deprived of his power, adding an allusion to Anzû to the symbolic equivalence between Apsû and Enlil. References to two different poems thus work in tandem to the same end. What is opportunistic in one poem becomes more deliberate in the next: in Anzû Enlil’s power was snatched away, later to be recovered, but Apsû is murdered once and for all. There is a tone of finality in this, another sense of Enūma eliš ‘learning’ from mistakes made in earlier poems—it improves on motifs by leaving no loop holes, no avenues for its work to be undone. We have already seen how Enlil is sidelined by omission via comparisons with Anzû, as well as more explicitly, such as when Enlil directly gives his title bēl mātāti to Marduk (VII.136). In addition to these, we see here a particularly subtle technique that uses Apsû as a symbol for Enlil, standing in for the cruelty, irresponsibility, and thoughtlessness that the old god represents. The overthrow of one connotes the overthrow of the other: Marduk does not confront Enlil outright, yet still ‘defeats’ him through this indirect vehicle. This use of allusion implies that something takes place on a symbolic level, using intertextuality not only to supplement agendas in the text but actually as a form of indirect narration. This may seem unusual, yet it is not so dissimilar from the 50 names of Enlil symbolising Enlil himself. If Enlil’s position as supreme ruler can be transferred symbolically via the giving of his names, then it is just as possible for Enlil to be deposed symbolically through the murder of his counterpart. The use of counterparts is the dominant strategy in building a relationship to Atraḫasīs. Each of these counterparts has a slightly different function. While

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Apsû is the equivalent of Enlil, killed off in his stead, Ti’āmtu is the equivalent of Mami, yet she is a birth goddess who will not allow her creations to be destroyed, active where Mami was passive, succeeding where she had failed. Ti’āmtu also corresponds to the deluge in this story, a destructive body of water that is the catalyst for clearing away the old order to make way for the new. Numerous parallels between the activities of Marduk and Ea show Marduk as the superior equivalent of his father: the defeat of Ti’āmtu and Qingu corresponds to the murder of Apsû and Mummu, Marduk’s dwelling of Esagil corresponds to that of Ea’s dwelling Apsû, and Marduk’s creation of the world out of his defeated enemy corresponds to Ea’s creation of his abode from the body of Apsû. In all of these, Marduk upstages his father, each act an improvement on the earlier counterpart. This kind of parallelism, where the new equivalents are also better or worse than their earlier referents, creates a deep and sustained relationship with the earlier poem, as comparisons can be made throughout the text. In addition to one-off references, made in a single line or word, this equivalence of characters runs all the way through, encouraging us to think of their literary predecessors at every turn. Just as Marduk is portrayed as the new Ninurta via a continuous engagement with Anzû, so the allusions to Atraḫasīs show Marduk defeating Enlil by allusion, and upstaging Ea, ultimately replacing all three.

chapter 4

Enūma eliš and Lugal-e 1

Introduction

As we have seen, allusions to Ninurta’s deeds are an important way that Enūma eliš constructs Marduk’s identity as a superior warrior god. However, Anzû is not the only text used to accomplish this, and many references to Lugal-e also work towards this end. The plot of Lugal-e follows the same schema of order and disorder as Anzû, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum: initial order is disturbed by an encroaching enemy, a hero battles it, the hero establishes a new order, is re-integrated, and returns home triumphantly (Machinist, 2005: 53). Precise parallels on the level of text, as well as in overall structure, make it likely that this is not coincidence. Chapter one has shown the influence of Lugal-e on Anzû, and chapter five will discuss allusions to Lugal-e in Erra and Išum. This chapter will show that Enūma eliš, too, makes many allusions to this Sumerian Ninurta poem. Lugal-e was a popular text in the first millennium, with manuscripts known from a wide range of cities,1 and so could have been known to the composers of all three later Akkadian poems (Machinist, 2005: 59). Allusions to Lugal-e can be also found in the royal inscriptions of Esarhaddon (Parpola, 2001), and ritual and mystical texts of the first millennium make abundant references to Asakku (Akkadian for Asag), the enemy Ninurta famously encountered in this poem (see e.g. van Dijk, 1983: 25–27). Furthermore, these ritual and mystical texts show that the myths represented by these compositions were seen as comparable by ancient scholars. The cultic commentary K 3476 (Livingstone, 1989: 91, 52) and the Marduk Ordeal (Livingstone, 1989: 93, 15) both refer to Marduk’s defeat of Anzû and Asakku, while STC I 57–72 mentions Asakku in connection with Ti’āmtu and Qingu (van Dijk, 1983: 25). Plenty of connections were already being drawn between the characters of these poems in ancient Mesopotamia, so it is not surprising that connections are made in the poems themselves. Other scholars have noted resemblances between the two poems, which have yet to be fully investigated. Jacobsen observed that Enūma eliš contains ‘vague echoes’ of Lugal-e, such as in the way Marduk organizes the universe and deals with his defeated enemies (1976: 167), and Annus notes in passing

1 For details of the manuscripts see p. 37.

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that Ti’āmtu’s transformation ‘gives the impression of shared mythic thought’ (2002: 170).2 As we shall see, these echoes are in fact detailed and specific, and work on the level of text as well as myth. Van Dijk compared the plots of the two poems in more detail, pointing out the similarities between the battles, the weapons of the protagonists, and the banquets at the end, as well as suggesting that the mountain which Marduk probably piled up on top of Ti’āmtu at V.53 (the word ‘mountain’ is restored) draws on Ninurta’s heaping up of the stones (1983: 10–34). He suggested this is due to direct borrowing. A closer examination of the structures of these two poems will confirm van Dijk’s suspicions, and reveal even closer correspondences. Some of the allusions to Lugal-e in Enūma eliš have a similar effect as the allusions to Anzû, in that they contribute to the picture of Marduk as a warrior who is both like and better than Ninurta. Marduk’s adoption of Ninurta’s weapons is one such aspect. There is also an equivalence between the opponents in battle in Enūma eliš and Lugal-e, setting up a tension between Lugal-e and Anzû, as allusions to both poems compete for our attention. Allusions to Lugal-e also fill in another part of the jigsaw of Enūma eliš, providing another source for Marduk’s creation and organisation of the world after Ti’āmtu’s defeat. Marduk therefore imitates Ninurta in more than his warrior aspects. While we might expect the parallels between them to be mainly in their battles, Marduk’s actions after the battle parallel Ninurta’s just as closely, and crucially are not found in Anzû but only in Lugal-e. This, along with other examples, shows that the influence of Lugal-e on Enūma eliš did not only come indirectly through Anzû but also directly from Lugal-e itself.

2

Elements of the Battle

Marduk uses many of the same weapons that Ninurta uses in Lugal-e. Marduk carries a mace (miṭṭu) into battle at Enūma eliš IV.37 and uses it to crush Ti’āmtu’s skull at IV.130. He is accompanied by the winds of the four directions that Anu gave to him at birth (I.105–106) as well as seven winds that he made himself (IV.41–47) and which play an important role in incapacitating Ti’āmtu (IV.96–100). At IV.49 the last weapon Marduk takes up is the deluge (a-bu-ba). Marduk does not necessarily need so many weapons; the bow and arrow he

2 Though he is referring to a transformation into a boat, mentioned in the list of Marduk’s names (VII.76–77), which is not discussed here.

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borrows from Ninurta in Anzû would have been enough to slay Ti’āmtu, and the omnipotent image that the poem projects suggests that he does not need to rely on so many accessories to accomplish his goal. Perhaps, then, so many different weapons are mentioned because of their resonances with Lugal-e, particularly since many of them allude to specific lines of the poem, as we shall see. At first we might think that these weapons derive from Anzû, given that Enūma eliš has a strong relationship to Anzû in other respects. Ninurta’s mace Šar-ur is a prominent character in Anzû3 where Ninurta is also accompanied into battle by seven evil winds (e.g. II.4, II.39, II.149, II.153).4 As for the deluge, there is plenty of water destruction in Anzû. Ninurta’s mother instructs him to ri-ḫi-iṣ er-ṣe-tu ib-ba-nu-u₂ šu-bat-su su-uḫ-ḫi, ‘Flood5 the earth where he was made! Destroy his dwelling!’ (II.6) and šadê(KUR-e) qer-bit-su-nu ri-ḫi-iṣ dul-liḫma, ‘Flood and stir up the mountains and their meadows!’ (II.20, II.116, II.138). Immediately after killing Anzû it is said that Ninurta flooded the mountains,6 which may be literal since Ninurta is a storm god, or it may be metaphorical, given the common use of the deluge image for destruction. However, the details of how these weapons are deployed actually match Lugal-e more closely than Anzû. This suggests that Enūma eliš is referring not only to Anzû as the poem which borrowed them initially, but right back to the original source, Lugal-e itself. The two need not always be mutually exclusive: a reference might evoke both Anzû and its predecessor at the same time, for different reasons and with different effects. Allusions to Lugal-e can therefore work alongside the dynamic with Anzû, reminding us of how Anzû itself borrowed from Lugal-e and sparking comparisons with both. 2.1 Šar-ur Reappears The character of Šar-ur, the personified mace who fought by Ninurta’s side in Lugal-e, is adopted by Anzû but in a modified role: in Anzû Šar-ur is simply Ninurta’s messenger rather than a helper in battle. This character reappears

3 Before featuring in Anzû Šar-ur had figured prominently in Ningirsu mythology and had been prominent in Lagaš II (see e.g. the Gudea cylinders). However it seems unlikely that this would be remembered at the time of the composition of Enūma eliš, since there is no evidence that these texts were known after the third millennium. 4 These references are to the Standard Babylonian version, as the corresponding parts in the Old Babylonian version are broken or lost. What survives of the Old Babylonian version matches the Standard Babylonian version fairly closely. The extant portion of the Old Babylonian text is not one where Šar-ur is featured. 5 Variants: g and F have ⸢ni⸣-iḫ-⸢ma⸣, ‘calm,’ probably a copyng error. The line is grammatically problematic and most likely corrupt. 6 ir-ḫi-iṣ is repeated four times in III.17–20.

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in Enūma eliš, transformed once more. Yet Enūma eliš seems to be referencing both of Šar-ur’s earlier depictions, the mere messenger of Anzû as well as the more active weapon of Lugal-e. The figure who relays the repeated messages back and forth in Enūma eliš is Kakka, the vizier of Anšar. Here he plays a similar part to Šar-ur in Anzû, under a different name. Kakka, however, is an unusual choice for this role. He was worshipped in Assyria as a minor god,7 but there is no evidence for any cult of his in Babylonia (Steinkeller, 1982: 293). Consequently it has been remarked that the reason for his appearance in Enūma eliš is unclear (Steinkeller, 1982: 293).8 Why would a minor Assyrian deity appear as Anšar’s vizier in this very Babylonian poem? The reason may be found in word play: the name of Kakka is written dGA.GA, an Old Akkadian spelling which is glossed with ka-ka in the Middle Babylonian god list An: Anum9 I.32 (Edzard, RLA V: 288) and in Mari and Terqa can be spelled gag-ga, (d)ka-ak-ka, and (d)ka-ka (Steinkeller, 1982: 290). dGA.GA is therefore normally read dka₃-ka₃. Since kakku is Akkadian for ‘weapon’, the messenger’s name references the deified weapon character from Anzû and Lugal-e and points to the fact that it has been incorporated into Enūma eliš as well.10 In this way word play connects the name of Anšar’s messenger to the original weapon, Šar-ur. In Anzû and Lugal-e, Šar-ur carried messages between his master Ninurta and the recipient—Ea or Enlil respectively. In Enūma eliš Kakka’s master is not the protagonist Marduk, but Anšar. This may explain why this minor god has been chosen for this role—he is not the vizier of the warrior protagonist, as Šar-ur was in the previous two poems, but the vizier of a less important character. Anšar may be head of the assembly of gods but he is hardly a model of kingship, as he is powerless to stop Ti’āmtu and plays a rather minor part in the narrative overall. Tracing the deified weapon character through these three poems we see that he is increasingly de-emphasised. Šar-ur’s role in Lugal-e is extensive. He first reports the threat of Asag to Ninurta and tries to dissuade him from fighting. Then we see him relaying messages between Ninurta and Enlil, transmitting 7 8

9 10

Kakka also has connections with healing, e.g. Edzard RLA V: 288, Lambert (2013: 397–398). In the Sultantepe version of Nergal and Ereškigal he is the messenger of Anu, where the Amarna version has an anonymous messenger (mār šipri) instead, leading Steinkeller to suggest that his appearance in the Sultantepe text is an Assyrianising feature (1982: 290). Edited by Litke (1998). The word play between Kaka and kakku also appears in line 3 of the Birdcall text (edition Lambert, 1970), a text which draws on Enūma eliš: the bird of Ti’āmtu appears in line 9, and line 16 quotes Enūma eliš VII.35.

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Enlil’s encouragement to the battlefield. Šar-ur attacks, and then pleads with Ninurta again to give up, finally praising him when he has succeeded. In Anzû, his role is still an important one, since he relays the crucial advice that secures the victory, but it is much less direct. In Enūma eliš, however, his equivalent has been relegated to a more trivial position, carrying messages only between Anšar and the other gods, rather than from the battlefield where the victory is won. This trivialisation11 is precisely the point, and works in a similar way to the downgrading of the tablet of destinies.12 While the deified weapon character as a messenger in Enūma eliš has less importance than it did in Anzû, it also has less importance as a weapon than in Lugal-e. Šar-ur was originally a mace, and this is one of the weapons Marduk carries into battle (iš-ši-ma miṭ-ṭa im-na-šu u₂-ša₂-ḫi-iz, ‘he took up the mace, grapsed it in his right hand’Enūma eliš IV.37). In a way, then, Marduk directly uses this version of Šar-ur as a weapon, but it has been depersonalised. Other than being used to crush Ti’āmtu’s head (i-na miṭi-šu la pa-di-i u₂-lat-ti muḫ-ḫa, ‘with his merciless mace he shattered her skull’, IV.130) the mace plays no further part, and it is not given a name. Contrast these two brief mentions with the vividly-related description of Šar-ur’s onslaught in Lugal-e which spans eleven lines (251–263): here he scatters the people, destroys the city, sets fire to the mountain, strikes heads, strikes the ground, and fills crevasses with blood. Compared with this former tour-de-force of action, it is clear just how much Enūma eliš has relegated this character. Marduk is not in need of help from any other character that can act independently, rather, the mace has been stripped of its individuality and is merely an instrument to be used by him. Since in Anzû Šar-ur is a messenger rather than an agent of attack, he is not obviously a weapon there (Machinist, 2005: 53). In Enūma eliš, however, the word play between ‘Kakka’ and kakku in the name of Anšar’s messenger actually draws attention to the original function of this figure in Lugal-e. It reminds us that the messenger once had a much larger role than it does now, either in Enūma eliš or in Anzû. Awareness of this trivialisation, then, may be precisely what gives meaning to the motif’s re-use. Šar-ur’s role in Anzû is only that of a messenger and he is not described as playing any part in the attack itself. In Enūma eliš the mace, de-personified as it is, does not relay any message from Marduk, and the motif of a speaking weapon-assistant has been allocated to a different god altogether. This contributes to the characterisation of Marduk acting swiftly without the need for 11 12

The term is West’s, used to characterise the way that Apsû and Ti’āmtu may have been borrowed by the Iliad, becoming Oceanos and Tethys (1997: 383). See pp. 78–88.

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advice in battle—no messages need to be brought for him to win. Enūma eliš thus points back to the characterisation of Šar-ur in both Lugal-e and Anzû in different ways. The relegation of the mace from the vizier Šar-ur to inanimate object, and the lesser importance of the ‘weapon’ character Kakka are demonstrations of Marduk’s superiority over both Ninurta and Anšar. Unlike Ninurta in either poem, Marduk is in need of no advice or assistance from others, and we are reminded that rather than a battle companion who sets fire to the mountain, Marduk requires only a simple weapon. Marduk has no need of a vizier, and once he is in power he is quite capable of ruling alone, in contrast to the previous chief god Anšar. Kakka’s message describes the terrifying appearance of Ti’āmtu and her army, and announces that Marduk is willing to fight her on the condition that he receives a reward. This mimics the situation in both Anzû and Lugal-e, where in the former Šar-ur reports that Anzû has the upper hand against Ninurta, and in the latter where he speaks of the terrifying attributes of Asag, but with an important difference: while the message in the earlier poems aimed at acquiring help for Ninurta or dissuading him from fighting altogether, Kakka’s description is aimed at persuading the gods to give Marduk what he wants. It is not the hero who is in the weak position as in the earlier poems, but the other gods. It is Marduk who can save them if they will agree to his terms, the opposite situation from Ninurta in Anzû who needs help in the midst of battle, or in Lugal-e where Šar-ur tells him he is not strong enough to face the Asag. As for the mace as an object alone, a connection to the Šar-ur of Lugal-e may be directly signposted on the level of wording. The couplet that describes Marduk shattering Ti’āmtu’s skull with a mace echoes two lines in Lugal-e describing the actions of Ninurta’s mace: ĝeštukul za₃-sag₂ di-di kur-ra izi ba-ab-šum₂ ĝešmitum-e zu₂ šeš-a saĝ im-tu₁₀-tu₁₀ The violent/smashing13 weapon set fire to the mountain, 13

Translating za₃-saĝ₂ … du₁₁ is difficult. This is the only attestation of the verb outside of lexical lists, as well as the only attestation of the given Akkadian equivalent mundarsu, a Gt participle of darāsu ‘to trample’ or ‘press hard’. Sumerian za₃-saĝ₂ … du₁₁ is equivalent to Akkadian sakāpu ‘to push down’ (Sjöberg, 1970: 89), but also to darāsu, in lists as well as here, e.g. the Middle Babylonian lexical list Erimḫuš II.204: x.KIN = [sa]-ka-pu, […] = da-rasu (MSL XVII: 38, for discussion see Seminara, 2001: 284). The verb za₃-saĝ₂ … du₁₁ literally means ‘to push with the shoulder’ (Attinger, 1993: 761), hence I have included ‘smashing’ as a possible meaning, but both za₃-saĝ₂ … du₁₁ and mundarsu may encompass a range of violent actions since the pressing need not necessarily be with the feet or the shoulders.

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the mace (with) bitter teeth struck heads kak-ku mun-dar-su ana šadî(KUR-i) i-ša₂-ta id-di miṭ-ṭu ša₂ šin-na mar-ru um-ma-nu u₂-kam-mar The violent/trampling14 weapon set fire to the mountain, the mace that is bitter in tooth piled up the people. Lugal-e 256–257

Compare this with Marduk’s conquest of Ti’āmtu in Enūma eliš: ik-bu-us-ma be-lu₄ ša₂ ti-a-ma-tum i-šid-sa i-na mi-ṭi-šu la pa-di-i u₂-lat-ti muḫ-ḫa The lord trampled Ti’āmtu’s lower body, with his merciless mace he shattered her skull. Enūma eliš IV.129–130

Striking heads may simply be what maces are for, but in both Lugal-e and in Enūma eliš we seem to have a word for ‘trampling’ (mun-dar-su and ik-bu-usma) and the mace crushing heads in consecutive lines. Furthermore, we find an inversion here, for in the first line of the couplet in Lugal-e it is the mace that is the trampler, but in Enūma eliš it is Marduk, again shifting the agency and effectiveness from the weapon to its master. This particular use of Marduk’s mace in Enūma eliš thus seems more likely to be inspired by Lugal-e than Anzû. The second half of the couplet is also closer to the Sumerian text of Lugale than to the Akkadian ‘translation’ (the mace ‘struck heads’ versus ‘piling up people’), which implies that it may be the original Sumerian that is being referenced, rather than being understood only through the lens of Akkadian. This suggestion is complicated, however, by the uncertainty of the translation of za₃saĝ₂ … du₁₁, as we do not know if the idea of ‘trampling’ can be read solely from the Akkadian or from the Sumerian as well. The mace has thus been downgraded from a speaking character who plays an important part in battle to an inanimate object. If the moment in Enūma eliš where the mace appears does recall this couplet in Lugal-e, then we are 14

I have opted for ‘trampling’ as a possible specific meaning for mundarsu on the basis that this is a common meaning of darāsu (CAD D: 110), strengthened by parallels in Aramaic and Hebrew that mean ‘stamp’ and ‘thresh’ (AHw I: 163). The parallel in Enūma eliš seems to pick up on the specific meaning of trampling.

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reminded that Šar-ur was once an active character in his own right, yet is not any longer. This would then be an example of Enūma eliš drawing attention to the strategy it uses, pointing to the way it has borrowed and downgraded this character from earlier poems. 2.2 Winds, Deluge, Spear Winds and storms also feature prominently in Lugal-e. Ninurta rode on the eight winds (im-8) towards the rebel land (Lugal-e 77), and his advance in the midst of a storm (u₄) is referred to in lines 691 and 694. He fitted an evil wind (im-ḫul) onto a pole (ĝeš-a—literally a piece of wood) before battle (81), and Šar-ur uses a wind (im) to scatter the people during the battle (253). At the end Enlil states that he gave Ninurta the storm to use against the rebel land (688).15 Again the winds in Enūma eliš have more in common with those in Lugal-e than in Anzû. In both Lugal-e and Enūma eliš the winds are given as gifts— Ninurta receives them from Enlil, and Anu gives them to Marduk, whereas in Anzû there is no mention of Ninurta receiving them from anyone.16 The deluge is another weapon used by both Marduk and Ninurta (van Dijk, 1983: 24). Marduk arming himself with the deluge may echo Ninurta arming himself with the deluge before going into battle in Lugal-e. It is mentioned in Enūma eliš IV.49: iš-ši-ma be-lu₄ a-bu-ba giškakka(TUKUL)-šu₂ rabâ(GAL-a) gišnarkabti(GIGIR) u₄-mu la maḫ-ri ga-lit-ta ir-kab The lord raised the deluge, his great weapon, he rode the fearsome chariot ‘Unrivalled Storm’.17 Enūma eliš IV.49–50

The parallel comes in Lugal-e line 82, where Ninurta takes up the deluge in preparation for battle: ma₂-uru₅ še-ba mu-un-de₃-gub 15 16 17

Enlil also mentions the winds during the battle at 218, but the translation of the line is uncertain. The motif is not unique to these three texts, however, since in Standard Babylonian Gilgameš V.137–143 Šamaš sends thirteen winds to help Gilgameš overcome Humbaba. Var. K and M: maḫ-ḫi-rat, 3s feminine stative, ‘the chariot of the storm is unopposable,’ which does not fit the line as well. We may consider this an inferior Sultantepe variant, as the site is distant from the centres of cuneiform learning and its manuscripts are often corrupt.

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He set the deluge on his arm18 a-bu-bu ina kit-tab-ri-šu₂ iz-za-az-zu The deluges stand on his arm Lugal-e 82

The term ma₂-uru₅ is a post-Old Babylonian writing for mar-uru₅ (Eichler, 1993: 94), the orthography used in the Old Babylonian manuscripts. It is ambiguous whether this means ‘deluge,’ ‘quiver,’ or ‘tempest’, and may in fact carry all these meanings simultaneously. Although a-ma-ru traditionally means ‘deluge’, while e₂-mar-uru₅ is usually translated as ‘quiver’ and mar-uru₅ as ‘storm wind,’ by the Old Babylonian period the terms had been confused (Eichler, 1993: 90–94).19 The Akkadian interlinear translation gives a-bu-bu for ma₂-uru₅, and manuscripts k and o write a-ma₂-uru₅, implying that the Akkadian scribes primarily understood it as ‘deluge.’20 In the original Sumerian ma₂-uru₅ may simultaneously mean ‘deluge’ and ‘quiver’ since there is a similar ambiguity in An-gin₇: mir lu₂-ra te-a ĝešpan mar-uru₅-ĝu₁₀ mu-da-an-ĝal₂-la-⸢am₃⸣, which likely means ‘I bear the wind that attacks men, my deluge-bow’ rather than ‘my bow and quiver’21 (An-gin₇ 142) (Chen, 2013: 21 n. 1), since in the previous line (An-gin₇ 141), a-ma-ru me₃-a, ‘deluge of battle’ is an epithet of the mace (šita₂), providing a parallel for this usage. It is possible then that ma₂uru₅ in Lugal-e is a quiver called ‘the deluge’.22

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19 20

21 22

The meaning of še is obscure here in the original Sumerian. Black et al. translate this line as ‘He placed the quiver on its hook (?)’ (2004: 166) according to context, but there is no other attestation for ‘še’ with this meaning. The Middle Assyrian list Nabnītu has ŠE = ki-itta-ab-ru in E 51ff. (MSL IX: 10), and is followed by upnu, ‘fist’, while the post-Old Babylonian lexical list Aa = nâqu gives the equivalence ŠE = kit-tab-rum (MSL XIV: 467), both of which match the Akkadian version of this line. These may be late attempts to rationalise difficult meanings, since kittabrum is also an unusual word for arm in Akkadian. The reading may have become corrupted at an earlier stage, since the more usual word for arm in Sumerian a₂ is made up of the signs DA x ŠE. Perhaps already in the Neo-Sumerian period (Chen, 2013: 21–22). However lexical texts link very similar words with the word for quiver: kušma₂-uru₅ is equated with iš-pa-tu in Ur₅-ra = ḫubullu XI.104ff. (MSL VII: 127), and kuša-ma₂-uru₅ = išpa-tum in the commentary to this text Mur-gud = imrû = ballu A II 146 (MSL VII: 149). Variants: ms. P has ⸢a-ma-ru⸣ instead of mar-uru₅, and ms. Aa has ti e₂-mar-uru₅-ĝu₁₀ ‘my arrow and quiver’. There may be confusion or deliberate ambiguity here too. This epithet for Ninurta’s weapon may ultimately derive from Ningirsu mythology, as the Gudea cylinders make numerous references to Šar-ur as a-ma-ru ‘the deluge’ (e.g. A XV:24; B VII:14; B VIII: 2, edition Römer, 2010).

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If, then, ma₂-uru₅ also means ‘quiver’, Lugal-e 82 would also parallel Enūma eliš IV.38: iš-ši-ma gišmiṭṭa(TUKUL.AN) im-na-šu u₂-ša-ḫi-iz gišqašta(PAN) u kušiš-pa-tu₄ i-du-uš-šu i-lu-ul He raised the mace, grasped it in his right hand, he hung the bow and quiver on his arm Enūma eliš IV.37–38

A warrior arming himself with a quiver before battle would not be a striking parallel by itself, but either way, there is no description of taking up weapons in Anzû as there is in Enūma eliš IV.35–49 and Lugal-e 78–82, and the combination of weapons described in Enūma eliš also matches those in Lugal-e. This aspect of pre-battle arming in Enūma eliš may thus echo this Sumerian account of Ninurta’s battle. Marduk’s bow has a particular connection with Lugal-e (van Dijk, 1983: 10; Lambert, 1986: 59). When the gods are admiring Marduk’s bow and net after the battle, Anu gives the bow the name i-ṣu a-rik, ‘Long Wood’ (Enūma eliš VI.89).23 ‘Long Wood’ is the literal translation of ĝeš-gid₂-da, a prominent weapon of Ninurta’s in Lugal-e, in this context to be translated ‘spear’.24 As Lambert observes, the Enūma eliš commentary STC II 63 notes at this point (r. 5): ĝeš-gid₂-da a-rik-⸢tu⸣ (1986: 59). The interlinear Akkadian in Lugal-e is ar-kaa-ti for ĝeš-gid₂-da at 78 and 259. Marduk’s weapon, then, is being re-named as one of Ninurta’s weapons. This re-naming in Enūma eliš may generate another example of reverse intertextuality. Re-naming Marduk’s bow as Ninurta’s spear affects the interpretation of Lugal-e as well as of Enūma eliš: one who comes across Ninurta’s spear in Lugal-e after having read this part of Enūma eliš will now be reminded of Marduk’s weapon, since they have the same name. The effect is to plant the idea of the equivalence of Marduk and Ninurta in Ninurta’s own poem.

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24

For a connection between the bow’s names and the extispicy commentary Multābiltu see Gabriel (2014: 301–306). The principles of omen interpretation are here alluded to as an omen of Marduk’s eternal success. For ĝeš-gid₂-da as spear see Salonen (1965: 84–85); Englund (1990: 75 n. 247). In the Old Babylonian list Ur₅-ra = ḫubullu 551 ĝeš-gid₂-da appears in a section between giš IGIKAK ‘spear,’ giš za-am-ru-tum ‘lance,’ and giš illar ‘javelin’ (Veldhuis, 1997: 164).

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2.3 Qingu and the Leader of the Stones We turn now to parallels between the enemy hordes faced by both Marduk and Ninurta. Lambert pointed out that the total number of creatures created by Ti’āmtu to be Marduk’s opponents at I.133–146 is eleven, the same number of defeated enemies ascribed to Ninurta in Lugal-e 128–134, An-gin₇ 51–63, and Gudea Cyl. A XXV–XXVI (1986: 57–58; see also Wiggermann, 1992: 143). None of the monsters in Enūma eliš match the ones in these lists (with the possible exception of the snake, which is bašmu in Enūma eliš and ušum in the other three texts), and neither do the three lists match each other. This, then, is likely to be an allusion to Ninurta mythology more generally rather than an allusion to one of these texts. However, there may be a more specific parallel between Marduk’s enemies and Ninurta’s in Lugal-e, namely between their leaders, Qingu and the Plantstone (na₄U₂), to be identified as emery (Heimpel, Gorelick, & Gwinnett, 1988). Both Ti’āmtu and Asag spawn their own army, and one of the members is appointed as its king. Yet neither of these leaders plays a role in the battle itself. Plant-stone and Qingu therefore occupy a very similar role in unusual circumstances, which seems unlikely to be coincidence. Asag is a demon who sires a horde of stones by impregnating the mountains. These stones are probably demonic in nature since they were born from the earth, a common origin for demons (van Dijk, 1983: 21).25 Asag appoints the Plant-stone king over the demons he begets, who then go off to raid cities: kur-ra ša₃ i-ni-in-u₅ numun ba-tal₂-tal₂ teš₂-bi mu-ni in-sa₄-eš ⟨na₄⟩U₂ nam-lugal-la-bi-še₃ muru₂-bi-a am-gal-gin₇ a₂-bi mi-ni-in-il₂-il₂ na₄su-u na₄saĝ-kal na₄esi na₄uz na₄ka-gi-na ur-saĝ na₄ĝeš-null-gal gar₃-ra-du-um-bi iri ba-ab-lah₄-lah₄26 It (Asag) mounted the heart of the mountain, spreading seed.27 Unanimously they named the Plant-stone for their king.

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26 27

One might compare the origin of the Seven, who in Erra and Išum are said to be the result of Anu sowing his seed in the earth (I.28–29), and the birth of Anzû, who sprung from the earth in the mountain (Anzû I.52–53). Or read ba-ab-re₇-re₇, with the same meaning (see Geller, 1985: 216). So the bilinguals. The monolingual manuscripts have: kur-ra ša₃ i₃-ni-bal numun-bi ba-tal₂-tal₂, ‘It (Asag) produced offspring in the mountain, spreading its seeds.’

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Like a great bull it raised its horns in their midst. Su-u-stone, Saĝ-kal-stone, Diorite, Uz-stone, Haematite, and the hero Alabaster, its warriors, are plundering the cities. ša₂-da-a uš-tar-kib ze-ra ur-tap-piš mit-ha-riš šum-šu₂ im-bu-u šam-mu ana šar-ru-ti-šu₂-nu ina bi-ri-šu₂-nu ki-ma ri-i-me ra-bi-e qar-na-a-šu₂ it-ta-na-aš₂-ši na₄MIN na₄sag-kal na₄u₂-šu-u na₄u-zu na₄ša₂-da-nu qar-ra-du na₄MIN qar-rad-su-nu a-la-a-ni i-šal-lal-šu₂-nu-ti It mounted the mountain, it spread seed. All together they named ‘plant’ for their king. Like a great bull it was continually raising its horns in their midst. DITTO-stone, Saĝ-kal-stone, Diorite, Uzu-stone, Haematite, oh hero,28 DITTO-stone, their hero, is plundering the cities. Lugal-e 34–38

At Enūma eliš I.147–152, Ti’āmtu chooses Qingu from her offspring to be commander of her army. This is parallel to Plant-stone as one of Asag’s offspring being chosen as leader of the army of stones: one of the newly created monsters is raised up among them. Like Qingu, Plant-stone does not play a large role in the rest of the battle and is not mentioned again until after it is over, when Ninurta punishes him for his involvement (Lugal-e 416 ff.). Qingu’s role as leader of this army and his apparent lack of action may seem strange, like an apparent contradiction. And yet if we see the model of Plant-stone behind him, it makes more sense. Here is another enemy who has an important role, yet stays in the background. When Ninurta decrees the destiny of Plant-stone and lists the deeds that warrant his punishment, he cites actions that were not previously narrated. It is said that Plant-stone detained Ninurta, swore to put him to death, and frightened him on his exalted throne (420–422), though these episodes are not described. This need not be seen as a fault of the poem—it is a perfectly valid strategy to hint at actions that lie beyond the immediate narrative, and not everything needs to be spelled out.29 Qingu’s function is similar. Before the battle he causes the gods significant panic as the climax in the list of Ti’āmtu’s terrifying horde that is repeated several times (Enūma eliš I.129–162, II.15–48, III.19–52, III.77–110). This could parallel the statement 28 29

Referring to Ninurta, since the lines are part of a speech of Šar-ur addressing him (after Seminara, 2001: 57). A similar technique is often used in Virgil’s Aeneid, see Lyne’s ‘further voices’ (1987).

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that Plant-stone ‘frightened’ Ninurta in Lugal-e 422.30 After the battle, Qingu is blamed for stirring up the rebellion in the first place,31 though the narrative did not tell us how he did this. They are both leaders with a secondary role, since the main conflict is with their creator. As subordinates, the poems do not go into all the details of their contribution, since they are not the main enemy. However, allusions can play tricks on us. As explored in chapter two (p. 81), Qingu’s role has also been built up in such a way that we do expect him to be more in the spotlight, to be more of an Anzû figure and a truly serious threat. Therefore, two different possibilities are alluded to at once. Will Qingu be more like Anzû or more like Plant-stone? The allusions to Anzû are more prominent, creating a misdirection. We expect Qingu to be more of an Anzû figure, but when it comes to the battle he stays in the background and is easy to defeat. In other words, he turns out to be more like Plant-stone, and thus not so important after all. The allusions mislead us by playing with our expectations, providing hints to two alternate outcomes, indirectly pushing us down one interpretive path while it is the other, more subtle one that turns out to be right.

3

Establishing Order

The most detailed parallels between Enūma eliš and Lugal-e come after the battle. As in Enūma eliš, there is a good deal more action after the defeat of the enemy in Lugal-e: the invention of irrigation, the decreeing of destinies for the stones, and much praise of Ninurta. Asag is dealt with by line 330, the climax of Tablet VII, but the poem runs to 726 lines (over sixteen tablets). The poem is not only about the battle against Asag but the re-establishment of order afterwards, including many new creations. Similarly, the battle is over in Enūma eliš before the end of Tablet IV (line 132), but the poem itself is much longer (seven tablets in total). Looking at the poem as a whole, the battle ends at line 594 out of a total of 1092, so like Lugal-e, the second half of the poem is devoted to decreeing new destinies and creating a new world order. Jacobsen has already suggested that Ninurta’s building of the mountain range and invention of irrigation may be behind Marduk’s re-organisation of the universe, and 30

31

en dnin-urta ki-tuš-maḫ-ĝa₂ im-ḫu-luḫ-ḫa-en-na-⸢gin₇⸣, bēlu(EN) dnin-urta a-na-ku i-na šub-ti-ia ṣir-ti ki-i tu-gal-li-ta-ni (422) “I am the lord Ninurta—since you frightened me in my exalted dwelling …”. dqin-gu-ma ša₂ ib-nu-u₂ tu-qu-un-tu / ti-amta uš-bal-ki-tu-ma ik-ṣu-ru ta-ḫa-a-zu, ‘It was Qingu who made war, made Ti’āmtu rebel and drew up the battle’ (Enūma eliš VI.29–30).

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that the trial of Qingu and bestowing of offices on the other defeated enemies is reminiscent of Ninurta’s judging of the stones (1976: 167). As the details of these parallels will show, the structure of Enūma eliš may to some extent be based on the underlying structure of Lugal-e. After the battle both warriors create a part of the cosmos from the body of their defeated enemy, establish control over dangerous waters, punish the allies of their main foe, and in both poems 50 destinies are decreed—for the stones in Lugal-e, for Marduk in Enūma eliš. 3.1 New Creation The first parallel is the use of the dead opponent to create part of the cosmos. After defeating Asag, Ninurta decrees that his body will become the netherworld: ur₅-ra-am₃ bar-bi irigal ḫe₂-em “Let this, its body become the netherworld!” šu-u₂ ⸢zu⸣-[mur-šu₂] lu ša₂ qab-rim “Let this, [its body] be of the grave”32 Lugal-e 329

This is the only known reference to the creation of the netherworld (Horowitz, 1998: 348), and it seems to be the only reference to Asag as the netherworld. The most common term for netherworld in Sumerian is ‘kur’, ‘the mountain,’ although ki (in expressions such as ki-bad ‘the far-off land’) and arali (as a name for the netherworld) are also used (Katz, 2003: 103, 8, 2). Ninurta creating the netherworld out of Asag, then, may be a radical departure from this tradition, perhaps similar to how Marduk’s creation of the sky and earth out of 32

The Sumerian is cited after the Old Babylonian version since the bilingual text is broken here. Although strictly speaking qabru means ‘grave’, it probably still stands for the netherworld as a whole. A line in the incantation series Udug-ḫul equates qabru with the netherworld when Namtar is described as: udug gal irigal-la kur ⸢nu⸣-gi₄-gi₄-ke₄: u₂tuk-ku rabû(GAL-u) ša₂ qab-ri ⸢er-ṣe⸣-ti la ta-ri, ‘the great demon of the grave, the land of no return’ (STT 2, 173: 1f.). A bilingual incantation listing demons from different regions of the earth includes irigal/qabru among them: udug edin-na udug ḫur-saĝ-ĝa₂ udug a-ab-ba udug irigal-la-kex: u₂-tuk ṣe-e-ri u₂-tuk šadî(KUR-i) u₂-tuk tam-ti₃ u₂-tuk qab-ri, ‘demon of the steppe, demon of the mountain, demon of the sea, demon of the grave’ (ASKT 11: 2–3), implying that they describe a region such as the netherworld.

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Ti’āmtu was also starkly different from other accounts of creation. Indeed, the two are parallel: Ti’āmtu forms the world, and Asag forms the netherworld (van Dijk, 1983:10; Horowitz, 1998: 349).33 The parallelism may be even more specific, however, as it may be a particular part of Asag’s body that is used as the material of creation. The word ur₅-ra-am₃ in Lugal-e 329, translated by the Akkadian as ‘this’ (šu-u₂), can also be understood as ‘liver’.34 Only one manuscript preserves the first part of the line in Akkadian, and elsewhere there is plenty of bilingual evidence that ur₅ could be understood as kabattu, the same word used in Enūma eliš V.11 referring to Ti’āmtu’s liver.35 The fact that ur₅ had both meanings allows it to be interpreted as ‘liver’ even if it had originally meant ‘this’, as it is a typical strategy of Mesopotamian hermeneutics to see one word as simultaneously carrying the meanings of all its homophones.36 In light of this, then, there may be an even more specific parallel with Marduk creating something useful out of Ti’āmtu’s kabattu: ip-te-ma abullāti(KA₂.GAL)meš ina ṣe-li [ki-lal]-la-an ši-ga-ri u₂-dan-ni-na šu-me-la [u] ⸢im⸣-na ina ka-bat-ti-ša₂-ma iš-ta-kan ⸢e⸣-[la]-⸢a⸣-ti He opened up gates on both sides of her ribs, he strengthened bolts on the left [and] right, in her liver he established the upper regions. Enūma eliš V.9–11

33

34 35

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There is no mention of the creation of the netherworld in Enūma eliš, perhaps because the semantic range of erṣetu already encompasses the realm beneath the earth as well as its surface. E.g. Ištar’s Descent line 85 diš-tar a-na erṣeti(KI-ti₃) u₂-rid ul i-la-a, ‘Ištar has gone down to the netherworld (but) has not come up’ (edition Lapinkivi, 2010). For ‘liver’ see Flückiger-Hawker (1999: 359), although the evidence is from a much earlier period. For ‘this’ see Attinger (1993: 176–177). E.g. in lexical texts: Syllabary A Vocabulary A 12’: ur UR₅ = ka-bat-tu₂; Aa = nâqu: V/2: 159 [u₂ru UR₅] = ⸢ka⸣-bat-tum; Izi H 186: u₂-ur UR₅ = ka-⸢bat-tum⸣; in a bilingual eršaḫunga-prayer K 4891+K 5348A+K 20238 5’–6’: ur₅-ĝu₁₀ a-še-er-bi: ka-bat-ta ta-ni-iḫ-ša₂, ‘My liver, its lament!: The liver, its lament!’ (Maul, 1988: 360); in a bilingual balaĝ-hymn to Nergal (Spar & Lambert, 2005: no. 9) rev.10’: ur₅-zu-a im-ma-al: ina ka-bat-ti-ka lib-ši, ‘let it be in your liver: let it be in your liver’ (CAD K: 12). kabattu is often translated ‘mind’ in these kinds of lamentation texts, but it literally means liver, as the liver was considered to be the seat of the emotions. See Frahm (2011: 59–79); van de Mieroop (2016 esp. 8–10 and 187–189). A commentary existed on Lugal-e (ms. b2 in van Dijk’s edition of the poem), but is not preserved for this part of the text.

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This is the opposite of what Ninurta fashioned from Asag’s liver, the upper regions rather than the netherworld. The term elâtu is often paired with šaplātu, meaning ‘heavens’ and ‘netherworld’ respectively (Horowitz, 1998: 116, 227). If we take ur₅-ra-am₃ as ‘liver’ in Lugal-e 329, then we have another inversion here, for instead of creating the lowest regions37 out of Ti’āmtu’s liver, Marduk creates the high ones. 3.2 Controlling the Waters Controlling the waters is an important part of restoring order after the battle in both poems. In Lugal-e, Ninurta invents irrigation, using the defeated stones as a barrier against the destructive mountain waters. So too in Enūma eliš Marduk controls Ti’āmtu’s destructive waters by stretching out her skin to stop it escaping, opening up springs from her eyes, and sealing her nostrils. This shows Marduk surpassing Ninurta not only in his battle prowess, but also in his agricultural aspects, his peacetime responsibilities. After the defeat of Asag, we are told that the land is in a chaotic situation (Lugal-e 334–346). The unregulated waters pour down into the fields and cause destruction, the gods are subject to corvée work, the Tigris does not carry fresh water,38 and there is famine: u₄-bi-a a-silim ki-ta du a-gar₃-ra nu-um-de₂ a-šed₄ du₈-du₈-u₃ u₄ zal-le-da-gin₇ kur-ra e₂-ri-a ba-ni-⸢ib₂⸣-il₂a At that time fresh water coming from the earth did not pour over the fields, cold water was amassed, like a passing storm it brought devastation to the mountain. Lugal-e 334–33539 This is presented as a problem that Ninurta cleverly solves. His solution is to pile up stones to block these waters, preventing them from causing their previous destruction:

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Although in Sumerian texts the netherworld is sometimes conceptualised as the mountain rather than as located below the ground (Katz, 2003: 65–79), in Akkadian texts it is conceived of as below the earth: Ištar famously descends to the netherworld, as does Enkidu in Gilgameš. Compare also Anzû I.17–18 where the Tigris and Euphrates exist but do not yet carry water. Cited after Old Babylonian version. No bilingual manuscripts survive for this passage.

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ur-saĝ-e mu-un-galam iri teš₂-teš₂-bi ⸢mu⸣-[un]-uš₂ a-kala-ga na₄ im-da-an-sa₂ i-ne-eš₂ a kur da-ri₂-še₃ ki-a nu-um-e₁₁40-de₃ The hero was clever, he dammed the cities all together.41 He equalled42 the mighty water43 with stones so that now mountain water will never again go down onto the land. qar-ra-du ik-[kil-ma a-li] ⸢mit⸣-ḫa-⸢riš⸣ [is-se-kir]44 me-e dan-nu-[te i-na] ⸢ab⸣-ni iš-nu!?(copy BE)-[un] i-na-an-na mu-[u₂ da-ri]-iš iš-tu er-ṣe-ti ana šadî(KUR-i) ul ⸢il⸣-lu-u₂ The hero [was clever], [he dammed the cities] all together. He equalled the mighty water [with] stones. now [forever] the waters will not go up from the earth to the mountains. Lugal-e 353–355

Marduk takes measures to keep Ti’āmtu’s waters in their proper place when he uses half of her to create the sky: iḫ-pi-ši-ma ki-ma nu-un maš-ṭe-e a-na ši-ni-šu mi-iš-lu-uš-ša iš-ku-nam-ma ša-ma-mi u₂-ṣa-al-lil iš-du-ud maš-ka ma-aṣ-ṣa-ra u₂-ša-aṣ-bit me-e-ša la šu-ṣa-a šu-nu-ti um-ta-’i-ir He split her in two, like a fish for drying, he set up half of her and roofed the heavens. 40

41

42 43 44

Old Babylonian lines cited due to gaps in the bilingual text. The bilingual text here reads bad₃ ‘(climb) high’ for e₁₁. There is only one bilingual manuscript for these lines and it is very late (Seleucid). Seminara suggests this substitution is the result of the Akkadian elû, which is often equated with bad₃ (2001: 300), for example in the post-Old Babylonian list Aa VIII/2: 56–57 (MSL XIV: 499). Following van Dijk, presumably meaning that he constructed dams for the cities, though there is no dative element expressed. For the reading of uš₂ as ‘block’ in an irrigation context see Lafont (1980: 38–39). The verb uš₂ in combination with teš₂ is otherwise unattested. The term ‘equalled’ here presumably means that he built a pile of stones tall or strong enough to resist the water. Variant: T₁ has u₅ ‘deluge’. The restorations here are van Dijk’s, following the Old Babylonian Proto Aa equivalence of uš₂ with se₂-ke-e-rum (103: 3).

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He stretched out the skin,45 he stationed a guard and ordered them not to let her waters escape. Enūma eliš IV.137–140

Ti’āmtu is herself the watery creature here in need of restraint (since she is the sea), but the principle is the same—Marduk is ensuring that the waters will be controlled so as not to cause further devastation. He follows Ninurta in this precaution, yet while Ninurta solved an existing problem, Marduk thinks ahead to anticipate it before it occurs. Control of the waters, then, is a way that Marduk establishes some protection for the land. Like Ninurta, he also transforms this potentially destructive force into a positive one. In Tablet V, Marduk uses Ti’āmtu’s waters to bring the water supply into being: iš-kun qaq-qad-⸢su!⸣ ina ⸢muḫḫi(UGU)⸣-[ša₂ ša-da]-⸢a⸣ iš-pu-uk nag-bu up-te-⸢et⸣-ta-a a-⟨gu⟩-u₂ it-teš₂-bi ip-te-e-ma ina īnī(IGI.II)-ša₂ pu-⸢ra⸣-[at-ta] ⸢i⸣-di-ig-lat na-ḫi-ri-ša₂ up-⸢te⸣-ḫa-a ⸢rēšī(SAG?)⸣-šu₂ e-te-ez-ba iš-pu-uk ina ṣer-ti-ša₂ ⸢ša₂⸣-[de]-⸢e⸣ bi-ru-ti ⸢nam⸣-ba-⸢’i⸣ up-ta-li-ša₂ ana ba-ba-⸢lim⸣ kup-pu He set down her head and heaped up a [mountain] on top of it, he opened up a spring, it began to fill with a torrent46 From her eyes47 he opened the Euphrates and Tigris, he sealed her nostrils, he left her head. On her udders he heaped up [mountain] mounds he drilled waterholes to carry off the catchwater. Enūma eliš V.53–58

By unblocking the waters of Ti’āmtu, Marduk creates the two great rivers. He then blocks up her nostrils, probably in order to divert the waters to their proper place. Drilling through the mountains most likely has the same motive. Marduk here goes further than Ninurta does in Lugal-e: Ninurta merely diverts the

45

46 47

Note Talon’s alternative reading par₂-ka for maš-ka (2005: 56), which he translates ‘Il tira le verrou’ (2005: 94). It could also be translated as ‘he dragged (it) across’, with parku deriving from parāku, harking back to Ea’s blocking of Apsû/Mummu (see next section below). Following the restoration of Landsberger & Kinnier Wilson (1961: 160). There is word play here as īnu can mean ‘spring’ as well as ‘eye’. Ti’āmtu’s eyes are the springs, neatly encapsulated by the two meanings of the word.

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waters, but Marduk also puts them on earth in the first place. The heaping up of a mountain upon Ti’āmtu’s head and udders is likely to be a borrowing from all the heaping up that Ninurta does in Lugal-e: the heaping up of the crushed pieces of Asag into a pile at 296, the heaping up of cold waters at 335, and the heaping up of the stones to form a dam at 354 (van Dijk, 1983: 27, 34). Marduk’s power over the agricultural domain is reinforced in Tablet VIII where he is explicitly named as the inventor of irrigation. Three consecutive names treat this aspect, beginning with Enbilulu, who is described as: ša₂ ri-i-ta maš-qi₂-ta uš-te-eš-še-ru u₂-kin-nu a-na māti(KUR) miṭ-ra-a-ti u₂-pat-tu-u u₂-za-’i-i-zu mê(A) meš ⸢nuḫši(ḪE₂.NUN)⸣ the one who put in good condition the pastures and watering places and established them for the land, who opened watercourses and distributed abundant waters. Enūma eliš VII.59–60

Enbilulu is followed by Epadun: dMIN(=enbilulu) dE.PA₅.DUN bēl(EN) namî(A.RI.A) u a-⸢te-e⸣ ša₂-niš ⸢lizak-ru⸣ gugallû(GU₂.GAL) šamê(AN-e) erṣetim(KI-tim) mu-kin-nu apšenni (AB.SIN₂) ša₂ me₂-reš-ta elleta(KU₃-ta) u₂-kin-nu ina ṣe-e-ri i-ka u₃ pal-ga uš-te-še-ru uṣ-ṣe-ru ap-ki-sa Secondly let them call48 Enbilulu Epadun, lord of the cultivated land and the flood, irrigator of heaven and earth, establisher of the furrow, who established pure farmland in the steppe, put in good condition ditch and canal, and marked out the furrow. Enūma eliš VII.61–63

And thirdly, Enbilulu-Gugal is called gugallû(GU₂.GAL) miṭ-rat ilānī(DINGIR. DINGIR), ‘canal inspector of the watercourses of the gods’ (VII.64). Although the names themselves probably go back earlier than Enūma eliš,49 their inclu-

48 49

Var. J: iz-zak-[ru], K: iz-zak-⸢ru⸣, ‘they call him’ (Sultantepe). On the relationship of Enūma eliš to god lists see Seri (2006) and Lambert (2013: 149–160).

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sion here forms a neat part of the picture of Marduk taking over Ninurta’s agricultural responsibilities, reinforcing the earlier allusions to Lugal-e. 3.3 Controlling Apsû’s Waters Enūma eliš contains many parallels between the actions of Marduk and Ea, as explored in the previous chapter. Marduk’s killing of Ti’āmtu and the creation of the world from her body is prefigured by his father’s murder of Apsû, who also creates his domain out of his defeated enemy. In keeping with this, just as Marduk blocks and controls Ti’āmtu’s waters, so too does Ea block and control Apsû’s waters. Once we understand that the blocking of the waters is worked into Enūma eliš because of its relationship to Lugal-e, an enigmatic part of the murder of Apsû begins to make sense. The use of the verb parāku in Enūma eliš I.70 has been particularly difficult to interpret: ik-mi-šu-ma apsâ(ABZU) i-na-ra-aš₂-šu dmu-um-mu i-ta-sir₃ eli(UGU)-šu₂ ip-tar-ka He (Ea) bound Apsû and killed him, Mummu he confined, he (Ea) laid him (Mummu) across him (Apsû). Enūma eliš I.69–70

The verb iptarka has been translated several different ways.50 Notable other occurrences are at two points in Anzû (Annus, 2002: 125), which uses its other meaning of ‘to block’ or ‘obstruct’ (CAD P: 153), firstly when Anzû is appointed guardian of Enlil’s shrine, ⸢lip⸣-tar-rik ina at-ma-ni šu-bat ⸢ki⸣-[iṣ-ṣi] “Let him always block (the way) in the cella, the seat of the [shrine]” (Anzû I.56) and secondly when Bēlet-ilī exhorts Ninurta’s dust storms to block Anzû in battle, lip-tar-rik-šu₂ gu-um-mur-ta a-šam-šu-ut-tu₂, “Let the dust storm totally block him!” (Anzû II.9).51 These intertextual associations might have implications for how we view Mummu, emphasising that he is useless as a guard. Anzû blocks the entrance to Enlil’s shrine, and in The Return of Lugalbanda he blocks the entrance to the mountain, but Mummu fails to block Ea and protect Apsû from his attack. However, the description of damming up waters in Lugal-e gives us the clearest picture of what is actually happening here and makes sense of the pas50

51

Foster: ‘locked him securely’ (2005: 441), Lambert: ‘handled roughly’ (2013: 55), Bottéro & Kramer: ‘barrant sur lui la porte’ (1989: 607), Dalley: he ‘laid him across him’ (2000: 235), which I follow here. See chapter one (pp. 58–59) for the intertextual implications of this in Anzû itself.

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sage on a literal level. Apsû is a body of water, so the reason for the blocking is probably to obstruct Apsû’s waters. This would be achieved either by using Mummu as the block (following Dalley’s translation of ‘laid him across him’, 2000: 235), or meaning that Ea’s dwelling itself is the block.52 Confining the waters is part of Ea’s establishment of order after his victory, just like Ninurta’s. Since Ti’āmtu’s waters need to be confined to be kept under control it makes sense that Apsû’s waters would need to be as well. This adds to the parallels between Ea’s victory over Apsû and Marduk’s victory over Ti’āmtu—both victors must control the waters of their defeated enemies. The gods in Lugal-e are subject to the heavy labour of corvée work (334– 339), just as they are in Atraḫasīs, and as hinted at in Enūma eliš. However, there is no specific mention in Lugal-e that Ninurta frees them from it as in these two later poems:53 inventing irrigation makes work easier for the gods but does not absolve them of it altogether. Marduk, however, is not only responsible for watering the lands and preventing destruction by flood, but also creates mankind to exempt the gods from the work, thus going further than Ninurta in his beneficence. The blocking of and control over the flow of waters also draws a contrast with Enlil, who acted in the opposite way: rather than stem the waters, Enlil unleashed a deluge, aiming to destroy humankind rather than help them. 3.4 50 Destinies, 50 Names After blocking the waters with stones, Ninurta sets about decreeing the destinies of the stones, rewarding those who were on his side and punishing those who were against him. This is echoed by Marduk’s punishment of Qingu, demanding that the one who started the rebellion be surrendered (Enūma eliš VI.21–38) and transforming other defeated gods into images guarding the gate of his temple (Jacobsen, 1976: 167). Perhaps it is also echoed, more vaguely, by Marduk’s assigning positions for the Anunna and Igigi (Enūma eliš VI.39– 46), for Ninurta’s judgements are not all curses but alternate between cursing and allotting uses for the stones. It is interesting to note that four of the stones are given new names: Asag is renamed zalag (327–328), Plant-stone (emery) is renamed na₄gug, ‘carnelian’ (432), saĝkal is renamed: ul₄-ab sar-ra-ab, ‘Run away, hurry!’ (460) and ḫaštum is to be called ḫaš₂-tum, ‘ditch’ (606–609). Even more interestingly, the total number of stones on which Ninurta passes

52 53

This latter option would translate I.70 as ‘Mummu he confined, he (Ea) blocked him (Apsû) over/above him’. See p. 126 ff.

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judgement is 49, and including Asag itself totals 50—the same number as the number of Marduk’s names in Enūma eliš. The usual explanation for the number of Marduk’s names is that he replaces Enlil whose number is 50 (Röllig RLA III: 500; Lambert, 1984: 3; Seri, 2006: 507). However, this match with the number of stones in Lugal-e is unlikely to be coincidence. This raises a number of questions. What is the significance of the number 50 in Lugal-e itself? It may derive from Ningirsu mythology, since Ningirsu’s temple in Lagaš e₂-ninnu translates as ‘House Fifty’. The meaning of this is unclear. It may be short for ‘The House of Fifty White Anzu-birds’, ⸢e₂⸣-ninnu anzu₂-bar₆-bar₆-ra (Cyl. A VII.2, edition, Römer, 2010) (George, 1993: 134), though Edzard argues against this, since Eninnu is never followed by the genitive suffix -a(k), and if 50 referred to the Anzu-birds, it would have to stand after anzu₂mušen in the construction (1997: 4–5). Falkenstein suggested that the number 50 here simply stands for ‘countless’ or ‘everything’, perhaps referring to the me (1966: 116–117). He also noted that there is no connection of Enlil with 50 in the Gudea cylinders, and suggested that Enlil’s association with this number is later than this text (1966: 117). Since the meaning of 50 in Ningirsu’s mythology is unknown, it is difficult to interpret what its influence might have been on Lugal-e. Since the number 50 is connected to both Enlil and the stones, could it be that the stones are ‘equalling’ Enlil here, that this is one way they are portrayed as a threat to his power? Although a speculative suggestion, this would follow the same pattern of Asag being a threat to Ninurta because he equals him in his attributes.54 Enlil cries out in fear during the battle with Asag (187–190), so the risk to him is clearly serious. Ninurta fights on Enlil’s behalf, and is frequently given the epithet dumu den-lil₂-la₂, ‘son of Enlil’, 23 times in the section with the stones alone. His relationship to Enlil is thus emphasised at the point when he takes control after his victory. However, there is also a sense that Ninurta is equalling and surpassing Enlil. In Lugal-e line 12 Ninurta is called lugal dumu den-lil₂-le ni₂-te-na diri-ga, ‘king, son whom Enlil has exalted over / made greater than himself’, placing this idea right at the beginning of the poem in the prologue.55 In An-gin₇ Ninurta is given Enlil’s title lugal kur-kur-ra, ‘King of all the lands’ (106), which closely resembles the title of Enlil given to Marduk in Enūma eliš, dEN.KUR.KUR ‘Lord of all the lands’ (VII.136). Marduk’s superseding of Enlil may then to some extent be drawing on the way that Ninurta super-

54 55

See chapter one pp.39–40. So five mss. Four mss. including the bilinguals have den-lil₂-la₂, ‘son of Enlil exalted in himself’.

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seded Enlil. Perhaps Ninurta is already equalling his father Enlil in defeating 50 of his enemies, encroaching on his symbolic number.56 The 50 names in Enūma eliš and the 50 stones of Lugal-e correspond both stylistically and structurally. Marduk’s names in Enūma eliš are famous for their hermeneutic play, full of esoteric interpretations and re-interpretations (Bottéro, 1977), and as van Dijk (1983: 45) has pointed out, the judging of the stones is similarly complex. Structurally, both passages appear towards the very end of the poem, and in the context of decreeing destinies. The stones are having their fates decided in a literal way, but the process of giving names to Marduk is also described as decreeing his destinies:57 u₂-ši-bu-ma ina ukkinni(UKKIN)-šu₂-nu i-ban-nu-u ši-ma-a-ti-šu₂ ina me₂-e-si nag-ba-šu-nu u-zak-ki-ru-ni šum(MU)-šu₂ They sat down in their assembly to create his destinies, in all their rites they spoke his name. Enūma eliš VI.165–166

This section, then, corresponds to Ninurta decreeing new fates for the stones, four of which, as already mentioned, include new names. Here again we have a reversal: instead of being the one to decree destinies, Marduk has destinies decreed for him. The naming expresses a hand-over of power, emulating the end of Anzû where Ninurta is given at least 18 new names and out-doing him on this count (see p. 92 ff.). However it also fits with the way that decreeing destinies has been downplayed in Enūma eliš as part of the downgrading of the tablet of destinies. In this poem it is more of an honour to have titles bestowed upon you than to be able to bestow them, the latter being more of a minimum requirement for a god of a certain status than a mighty climax of exaltation. It is another example of the technique of reversal we have already seen used many times as a way of transforming an earlier poem. Furthermore, there is another reversal in the function of naming in Lugal-e and Enūma eliš. In the former poem, naming has a limiting purpose: it specifies 56

57

In the god list K 170, both Ninurta and Enlil are associated with the number 50, as line 3 reads: 50 dnin-urta mār(DUMU) den-lil₂ 50 (Livingstone, 1986: 32). Aa = nâqu in II/4 = 12.201–204 also groups both Enlil and Ninurta under the number 50 (nin-nu-u) (MSL XIV: 285). Although writing divine names with numbers appears to have emerged in the Middle Assyrian period (Parpola, 1993: 182 n. 87) the association of Ninurta with 50 is likely to be much older in the light of the above discussion. Just before the naming section begins, Anu decrees destinies for Marduk’s bow and gives it three new names as well (VI.86–92).

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the destinies (both favourable and unfavourable) and confines the stones to them, their one and only true place. In Enūma eliš, however, naming has an expansive function, enlarging the scope of Marduk’s powers and all the realms over which he has authority as he accumulates titles and prestige. This is also the case in Anzû, where the new names bestowed on Ninurta merge him with other gods and thus expand his domains. Resonances with both Lugal-e and Anzû are thus present in the naming section of Enūma eliš, with complementary effects. After judging the stones, Ninurta receives praise on his return, firstly from the boatmen who sing to him on the barge (20 lines, Lugal-e 652–671), then by the Anunna who address a prayer and supplication to him (a-ra-zu-a šudu₃, 681), and finally by Enlil (16 lines, 684–700). Machinist remarks how the final blessing pronounced by Enlil on Ninurta in Lugal-e (684–700) recalls the blessings heaped on Ninurta in Anzû and on Marduk in Enūma eliš (2005: 53). Praise of Ninurta over 37 lines is a significant length, but it is still nothing like the amount Marduk receives in the 50 names. The praise from Enlil can be compared with praise by Anu and Anšar in Enūma eliš. At the beginning of his speech, Enlil remarks that he gave Ninurta the storm and the club to use as weapons in the battle (Lugal-e 688–689). Anu takes no such credit for Marduk’s victory, rather, all the gods admire his bow and net (Enūma eliš V.83–85), both of which Marduk had made himself (Enūma eliš IV.35, 40). Enlil pronounces for Ninurta bal sa₆-ga nu-kur₂-ru, ‘an unchanging, good reign’, ti u₄ su₃-ra₂, ‘life of distant days,’ i.e. eternal life, and ĝiškim den-lil₂-la₂, ‘the good omen of Enlil’ (Lugal-e 698–699), underscoring his own authority as the one who bestows good fortune. Anšar, however, declares that Marduk’s word will be supreme, and he will have no rival to his kingship (Enūma eliš VI.103–106). A reader who remembered these parallels could notice how much more respect and power Marduk has been given after his victory than Ninurta was after his. The credit is all Marduk’s, and the praise amounts to more. 3.5 Structural Overview It is noteworthy that the sequence of events after the battle take place in the same order in both poems, particularly in the re-establishment of order with new creations, limitations, and new destinies. This implies that Enūma eliš may not only be drawing on Lugal-e in various details, but also the structure of this sequence as a whole. The similarities are summarised in table 3. These plot similarities are more specific than those that would simply result from a common folktale pattern. As has been pointed out by Feldt, the plot structure of Lugal-e does follow one of the archetypal folktale trajectories iden-

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Sequence of post-battle events

Lugal-e

Enūma eliš

Ninurta creates the netherworld from Asag’s body/liver Ninurta piles up stones to hold back the waters Ninurta diverts the waters to their proper place Ninurta’s invention of irrigation eases the gods’ toil Ninurta decrees destinies for 50 stones

Marduk creates the earth from Ti’āmtu’s body, and the ‘upper regions’ from Ti’āmtu’s liver Marduk stretches out Ti’āmtu’s skin to hold back her waters Marduk creates the water supply and then directs it to its proper place. Marduk frees the gods of toil altogether by creating man The gods decree Marduk’s destiny by awarding him 50 new names

tified by Vladimir Propp (Feldt, 2011: 144–145), consisting of the emergence of the threat, the emergence of the hero, the hero’s journey, the battle, an initial setback, consultation with a third party, victory over the monster, punishment of the enemy and re-establishment of order, return home, and praise or reward. However, the similarities between our two poems go much further than this. After all, turning the defeated monster into a cosmic/geographic feature or establishing water supplies for agriculture are not to be found in all monster combat myths. The many specific textual allusions enumerated in this chapter suggest that Lugal-e has provided a model for Enūma eliš, at least in the section following the battle.

4

Conclusions

The intertextual relationship between Enūma eliš and Lugal-e employs many familiar strategies we have seen in relation to other poems. Marduk takes over Ninurta’s roles, both as a warrior and as a god of creation, and surpasses him in both. The controlling of the waters is one example, since while Ninurta’s damming of the mountain streams is a response to a moment of crisis, Marduk’s controlling of Ti’āmtu’s waters is a pre-emptive plan to avoid potential destruction. At the same time, he creates both the streams and the mountains in the first place, unblocking Ti’āmtu’s eyes to create and direct the ultimate irrigation channels, the Tigris and Euphrates themselves. Thus Marduk usurps Ninurta’s role, and out-does him in cleverness and forethought.

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The borrowing of structural and thematic elements is tied down by evoking specific lines. Marduk’s accumulation of Ninurta’s weapons, including those that played a more prominent role in Lugal-e than they did in Anzû, is one literal borrowing of items, with one couplet of Enūma eliš where Marduk uses the mace (IV.129–130) alluding directly to a couplet in Lugal-e (256–257). The messenger Kakka is an adaptation from Anzû that references the original weapon Šar-ur through the meaning of his name, which may point to an awareness of how Anzû itself had borrowed Šar-ur from Lugal-e and downgraded him in the process, while demoting him even further. There are two cases where the interpretation of the Sumerian is ambiguous, yet both possible readings can be intertextually meaningful for Enūma eliš. When Marduk hangs the quiver on his arm (Enūma eliš IV.38) this evokes the corresponding line from Lugal-e when Ninurta hangs the ma₂-uru₅ on his, a word which can mean ‘quiver’ as well as ‘deluge’ (Lugal-e 82). The deluge is also a weapon of Marduk’s (Enūma eliš IV.49), which may imply that the Sumerian was understood both ways in the Akkadian, and in both cases it is possible that the deluge is in fact a name of the quiver. The declaration that ‘ur₅’ will become the netherworld is another such case (Lugal-e 329), as it could mean either ‘this’ or ‘liver’. The Akkadian translation makes one choice (šu-u₂, ‘this’), but this does not necessarily mean that the other interpretation was excluded. Akkadian scribal culture was inherently polyvalent, seeing many meanings in the same word or sign and considering all to be valid. The existence of commentaries on Enūma eliš attests to the fact that in this respect it was interpreted in the same ways as other scholarly texts (see Frahm, 2011: 112–117; Lambert, 2013: 135–142). The creation of the heavens from Ti’āmtu’s liver (Enūma eliš V.11) is a strong hint that ur₅ was also understood as liver, since the inversion in the parallelism of creating the highest regions from the same body part as that which had become the lowest regions in the other text is highly suggestive of allusion. Indeed, the part of Enūma eliš dealing with the 50 names of Marduk is full of scholarly hermeneutics, which is also the case in the passages decreeing destinies for the 50 stones in Lugal-e—another correspondence that looks uncoincidental. The use of counterparts becomes ever more complex. Qingu has been set up as the equivalent of Anzû, but when one is attentive to the equivalent character in Lugal-e another possibility emerges, that Qingu is the equivalent of Plantstone. Like the king of the stones, despite his elevation Qingu does not turn out to pose a significant problem for our protagonist after all. The allusion to Anzû plays with our expectations and creates a misdirection. The parallels between Qingu in Enūma eliš and Plant-stone in Lugal-e are closer than those with Anzû, a model for Qingu that Enūma eliš also hints at. This highlights the importance of looking out for a number of intertextual references and the need for a high

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level of attention to detail. Noticing one allusion is not enough to grasp the full picture, a message we should heed when interpreting Akkadian poetry more widely. The implications of these allusions to Lugal-e are twofold. Firstly, the Ninurta references do not simply point us back to the Akkadian Anzû, but also to the older Sumerian poem relating Ninurta’s deeds, and both exhibit the same competitiveness towards Ninurta. Marduk not only out-does Ninurta in Anzû, but Ninurta in Lugal-e as well. This shows an all-encompassing attempt to portray Marduk as superior to Ninurta in both of the most important poems narrating his rise to power. Secondly, it shows that responding to the Sumerian tradition was just as important as responding to the Akkadian one. Many of the allusions to Lugal-e work with allusions to Anzû towards a similar end, but recognising allusions to Lugal-e tells us something about the esteem in which Sumerian poetry was still held at the time Enūma eliš was written: Sumerian was still important, still recognised, and still an important source of literary meaning. Where allusions to Lugal-e differ from allusions to Anzû is that they do not only invoke Ninurta’s warrior aspect but also his role in the creation and reestablishment of order. Ninurta is more than a warrior deity, he is also an agricultural one, and one who administers justice. These aspects are not prominent in Anzû, but they are in Lugal-e. Allusions to Lugal-e in Enūma eliš, then, reveal another side of Ninurta’s character that Marduk is adopting.

chapter 5

Erra and Išum: Allusions to Anzû and Lugal-e 1

Introduction

Erra and Išum is a masterpiece of Babylonian literature. It describes the destruction of Babylon in rich and powerful language, exploring the nature of violence and questioning the extent of divine control over the universe. The poem is the product of a late creative phase in Akkadian poetry, which strives for innovation and has a more expressive and dramatic quality than more traditional compositions (Foster, 2007: 104–106). Such innovation develops and challenges the existing tradition, often via allusions which signpost the differences between the new text and the old. As one of the most complex of all Babylonian poems, Erra and Išum is particularly fruitful ground for the study of intertextuality.1 The plot concerns Erra’s decision to wreak destruction across Babylonia. He is a god of war, death, and destruction2 (here also identified with Nergal at III.C.31; V.39) who feels that his power has gone unrecognised and resolves to punish mankind for their contempt. He tricks Marduk into surrendering his seat of power and letting him guard the order of the universe in his absence, hoping that some provocation will arise allowing him to attack. Tablet II is fragmentary, making it difficult to interpret exactly what happens while Marduk is away. By the time Marduk returns no such opportunity has arisen, perhaps because Erra is in fact feared enough to keep any evil powers at bay, although he does not realise it (as interpreted by Foster, 2005: 894). Ea thinks it necessary for Erra to be humbled (II.44), and Erra is angry that Marduk and Ea do not respect him (II.C2.46’). Erra thus decides to go on campaign to show them what he is

1 Despite acknowledgement of this poem’s innovation, specific studies relating to its intertextuality remain few: Machinist (2005), Cooley (2008), and Frahm (2011) have written about it from this perspective. Krebernik considers Erra and Išum in his study of divine anger, briefly comparing it to Anzû and the ‘deluge myth’, and in Biblical studies, Bodi (1991) has compared Erra and Išum to the book of Ezekiel. 2 He is connected with plague as he is often mentioned in conjunction with šibṭu (CAD Š/2: 387–388; CAD Š/1: 69 sub šaggaštu), including in Erra and Išum itself, e.g. ša ina ⸢qab⸣-lu ⸢la im⸣-tu-tu i-mat ina šib-ti, ‘the one who did not die in battle will die in the epidemic’ (IV.76). However it has also been argued that Erra should be understood as causing famine: his name may derive from the Semitic root *ḥrr ‘to scorch, char,’ which may refer to scorched earth decimated by fire (Roberts, 1971: 13).

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capable of. This manifests as both enemy invasion and civil war throughout the region, which causes utter devastation. The gods are powerless to stop Erra, but Išum, traditionally his vizier but here behaving more like an equal, begs him to relent, describing the catastrophic effects of his actions. Erra is eventually persuaded, turning back the forces of destruction onto Babylonia’s enemies, and decreeing her restoration. The poem laments the terrible effects of war, and can be read as a passionate condemnation of violence (Foster, 2007: 67; George, 2013). Erra and Išum is the latest poem out of all those considered here.3 The earliest manuscripts are Neo-Assyrian, but the poem itself is older and originally Babylonian: KAR 168 (from Assur) and IB 212 (of unknown provenance) both state in their colophons that they have been written and checked according to originals from Babylon (Hunger, 1968: 84: 252; 121: 413).4 The poem was popular and widely known: Neo-Assyrian examples have been found in Assur (14), Nineveh (13), and Sultantepe (three),5 with Neo/Late Babylonian manuscripts coming from Babylon (certainly one, possibly two or three),6 Ur (one),7 and more recently Sippar (two fragments, Lambert, 1980a, with six others of unknown provenance), Tarbiṣu (one, Saggs, 1986), and Me-Turnat (one), although the latter was found in Neo-Assyrian occupation levels (Al-Rawi and Black, 1989). Three more are of unknown origin, although ms L₃ may be from Nineveh. The total is 46 tablets and fragments, making it the third most popular literary composition in the first-millennium after Enūma eliš and Gilgameš. The date of the poem is uncertain. All the manuscripts are from the first millennium, and it appears to be inspired by real events. The internal upheaval of Babylonia is described and lamented to such an extent that commentators have sought an analogous historical situation. Most scholars now date these events, and the poem’s subsequent composition, to within the range of the eleventh

3 The text given here is from the edition of Cagni (1969, 1970), supplemented by the subsequent publications (Al-Rawi & Black 1989; Lambert 1980). Cagni’s English translation was published in 1977. The most recent English translation, which takes into account material since Cagni, is by Foster (2005: 880–911). A new edition by Weiershäuser is in progress. 4 The Sultantepe manuscript STT 16 similarly claims to go back to an older original (Hunger, 1968: 114: 366). 5 Or perhaps two if STT 17 and 18 join, as first suggested by Gurney (1957: 1). Cagni treats them as two separate manuscripts, but Hruška raised again the possibility they are one (1974: 355 n. 5). 6 IB 212 is of unknown provenance but may be from Babylon (Gössmann, 1955: 86). The Late Babylonian fragment BM 36197 is ‘presumably’ from Babylon (Lambert, 1980a: 78). 7 A distribution list of manuscripts available at the time of Cagni’s edition is given by Hruška (1974).

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to the seventh centuries BC. Disturbances were so frequent during this period that there are a number of potential scenarios, with little to privilege one over another. Lambert favours the eleventh century for the historical background, stressing the repeated mentions of the Aramean tribe the Suteans in the poem, and a known Sutean invasion that took place c. 1100–1050 BC during the reign of Adad-apla-iddin (1958: 397–398). This king was himself an Aramean usurper, which could well have led to internal tensions and uprising (1958: 398). The damage was not repaired until two centuries later, by Nabû-apla-iddin, who presents himself as avenger and restorer.8 Thus Lambert suggests the poem was composed under his reign, probably at his instigation, in the first half of the ninth century BC (1958: 400). Others focus on unrest in Uruk as a possible clue to the poem’s background. Von Soden proposed that the disturbances mentioned in the poem are the same as those referred to in the Nabonidus stele (VAB 4.274–276), which ascribes them to the reign of Erība-Marduk in the late eighth century (1971: 255).9 Beaulieu builds on this suggestion (2001), pitting the version of events in Erra and Išum against that in the Nabonidus stele, and arguing that the poem presents a more plausible scenario than the later propaganda. Others place it later still: Gössmann dated the poem to the reign of Sennacherib, citing his famous destruction of Babylon in 689 BC as a likely inspiration (1955: 89), and most recently Franke has placed it during the time of Esarhaddon, suggesting it was composed at his instigation as part of his attempts to make amends for his father’s actions (2014). These latter interpretations seek very specific details in what is only described in general terms or proceed from assumptions about psychological states which are ultimately unprovable. Even so, as Cagni observed, it would be difficult to explain why the poem wishes for the Assyrians to destroy each other (IV.131) if it had an Assyrian background (1969: 38), and the poem was alluded to in a description of Sennacherib’s campaign against Babylon (Weissert, 1997: 196; Pongratz-Leisten, 2015: 306–321), which provides a terminus ante quem. Although it is tempting to seek a historical match for the situation Erra and Išum describes, such efforts may in the end be misleading. Cagni remarks that the details of the disruption of the cult in Uruk are ‘imprecise and generic,’ and therefore ‘the question … arises as to whether a certain elasticity and histor8 e.g. King, BBSt, no. xxxvi col. ii. 26-iii.10. 9 Von Soden further linked the poem to epidemics of plague that broke out in 765 and 759BC (since Erra is thought to be specifically associated with plague), and used an eclipse that occurred in 763BC as a terminus ante quem since no eclipse is mentioned by Erra and Išum. He therefore suggested that the poem was composed between 765 and 763BC (1971: 266).

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ical imprecision were not in fact meant to be part of the historical perspective’ (1977: 21). This is an important observation. Since there was frequent turmoil in Babylonia from the eleventh century to the Neo-Assyrian period, Erra and Išum can validly be read as a reflection on the prolonged troubles of the region rather than as a depiction of a specific event. Illustrated by terrible occurrences (real or imagined) in a range of cities, the poem speaks against the horror of war itself. Erra and Išum is very different from Anzû and Enūma eliš, for it uses intertextuality not to emphasise the warrior prowess of its protagonist, but to criticise this very ideal. The protagonist is not Erra, the one who goes on the warpath, but Išum, the one who eventually persuades him to back down. It is Išum who is now presented as the new Ninurta, via allusions to both Anzû and Lugal-e, but he replaces him in a very different way from Marduk. What is striking is how Išum’s approach to a violent situation contrasts with Ninurta’s: warriors need not always use force. Although quite capable of violence, Išum chooses not to use it, opting for persuasion instead. This is partially determined by his traditional relationship to Erra, which is not that of two hostile enemies such as Ninurta and Anzû or Marduk and Ti’āmtu, but that of vizier (sukkallu) and master. Yet Išum does not behave in this way in the poem (Hruška, 1973: 5); it is remarkable that the subordinate stands up to his superior in such a way, conversing with him like an equal. The comparison with Ninurta thus elevates his courage to heroic stature. Conversely, while in the earlier poems Ninurta and Marduk were celebrated for their use of warrior strength Erra is criticised for his, for he directs it not against a threat to cosmic stability but against human beings who cannot defend themselves. Instead of violence being used constructively to restore or create order, here it manifests as needless and tragic bloodshed. Although Erra and Išum is later than Enūma eliš, Marduk’s replacement of Ninurta had not entirely ousted the older warrior god. Assyrian royal inscriptions often depict the king as the image of Ninurta against Anzû in battle. This cosmic conflict had become a paradigm for all terrestrial conflicts, of good versus evil, alongside Enūma eliš rather than instead of it (Annus, 2001: xxi). Allusions to Lugal-e in Assyrian royal inscriptions accomplish more or less the same goal (see e.g. Maul, 1999: 210; Parpola, 2001: 185). Erra and Išum is a Babylonian poem and so one might expect it to uphold Enūma eliš as the standard model of heroism, but it does not. As we shall see in the next chapter, allusions to Enūma eliš actually emphasise Babylon’s fall from former glory, and it is the Ninurta model which is used to build a new ideal instead. Now dialogue and persuasion are elevated as the new supreme weapons over the use of force.

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The dynamic at work between Erra and Išum and Anzû is similar to that between Enūma eliš and Anzû. As we have seen in Enūma eliš, references to Ninurta’s achievement elevate Marduk’s by comparison, showing him consistently out-doing the former god's deeds. In the same way Išum is compared to Ninurta, implying that Išum’s approach is superior to that of the traditional Ninurta paradigm. Išum’s weapons of language and persuasion are of more use in turbulent times than the strength shown by Ninurta in battle. Ninurta took the advice of Ea in using word play to defeat his opponent, thus the power of language is also important in Anzû. However, Išum possesses this eloquence himself in Erra and Išum, and does not depend on Ea for it. This is similar to how Marduk in Enūma eliš was shown as an improved version of Ninurta, since Marduk did not need advice—neither does Išum, rather, he is the one giving advice to Erra. Thus a strategy of Ninurta’s that originated with Ea has been given wholly to Išum, underlining the superiority of this new hero, who is Ninurta and Ea in one. The omission of Ea has other implications, too. Just as Enlil, ruler of the gods, is conspicuously absent from Enūma eliš, so Ea as helper of humankind is conspicuously absent from Erra and Išum, in both cases allowing another god to take over their role. First we will consider how Erra is shown to be another kind of Anzû. Three different figures link Erra with Anzû—Marduk, Išum, and Erra himself—painting a coherent picture of this deity as an agent of chaos. The character of Išum is more complex, as it draws on several different models. In an article on the narrative structure of Sumerian poetry, Jeremy Black stated in passing that Lugal-e clearly formed a model for Erra and Išum, though without going into details (1992: 86). As this chapter will show, Erra and Išum uses both Anzû and Lugal-e to establish the character of Išum, beginning from the outset with the prologues and continuing with the dialogues between vizier and master. As will become clear, allusions to Anzû depict Išum as a Ninurta-like figure in his heroic stature, while allusions to Lugal-e bring out a more sympathetic side to his character. However, Ninurta is not the only character evoked by Išum. The influence of Šar-ur can be felt here as well, as the personified speaking weapon who begged his master to step down in Lugal-e may be behind Išum’s role as a warrior-vizier pleading with Erra to relent. At the same time, Šar-ur also has another descendant in the Seven, Erra’s personified weapons who embody the opposite outlook from Išum, viciously bent on destruction. Išum’s referents become even more complex, as a line calling Išum ‘the door’ portrays him as a rescuer of mankind by resonating witih three different compositions at once: it connects him with the protective functions of Ninurta in Lugal-e, but also of Ea in Atraḫasīs, and, most ironically, with the benevolent Anzu of The Return of Lugalbanda. Finally,

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Marduk’s exclamation ‘where is the mēsu-tree?’ may also be a crying out for a Ninurta figure to step in and bring order to chaos, as he had done once in Lugale, long ago. Išum will soon fill that role.

2

Anzû: The Background

Connections between Erra and Išum and Anzû have long been evident. Several scholars have noted that the prologues of the two poems are strikingly similar,10 and Annus has suggested that this indicates a similarity in meaning and theological implications between the two poems (2001: xxv). Further evidence for a connection between the two works comes from a large tablet (given the number GM1, published by Saggs, 1986) which contains passages from both Erra and Išum (on the damaged obverse) and Anzû (on the reverse), indicating that the two texts were read together, or at least were grouped together by this particular scribe.11 The tablet was found in the temple of Nergal at Tarbiṣu, and was clearly written by an expert: the writing is extremely small and meticulous, and contains one gloss and a colophon (Saggs, 1986: 2). This is not the random co-occurrence of scribal exercises but a deliberate arrangement. Furthermore, since Nergal forms the subject of one of the poems in his incarnation as Erra, there may be a theological reason behind the grouping. Saggs suggests this reason might be a close relationship between Nergal and Ninurta (1986: 2). However, the allusions to Anzû in the poem of Erra and Išum itself make a much stronger equation of Išum with Ninurta. A text commemorating the donation of Anzû-birds to this temple uses epithets of Išum which are also used in Erra and Išum (Weissert, 1997: 193). Išum is called na’du, ‘the famous one,’ and ša qātāšu asmā, ‘the one whose hands are fitting,’ which Weissert observes together evoke line 4 of Erra and Išum: ṭa₂bi-ḫu na-a’-du ša₂ ana ⸢na-še-e giškakkī(TUKUL)meš⸣-šu₂ ez-zu-ti qātā(ŠU II)-šu₂ as-ma, ‘famous slaughterer whose hands are suited to bear his fierce weapons.’ The fact that Erra and Išum was brought to mind by Anzû-birds and Nergal indicates a connection between the two mythologies. Significantly, the particular allusion chosen recognises the importance of Išum to the cult. Annus even proposes that on the occasion described by this inscription, Išum may have 10 11

e.g. Saggs (1986: 2); Dalley (2000: 204); Annus (2001: xxv); Machinist (2005: 32); Krebernik (2008: 56). The tablet probably had space for a third poem (Al-Rawi & Black, 1989: 111, 122), which Machinist speculates could have been Enūma eliš, on the basis of the intertextual connections between the three (2005: 33–34).

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been identified as Ninurta, the slayer of Anzû (2001: xxvi). As we shall see, this identification finds strong support in the poem of Erra and Išum itself. Išum is the new rescuer of men and gods from chaos and destruction, the real hero of the poem (Bottéro, 1985: 277). This may seem to be a radical statement, yet the basis for it can be found outside the text. A study of Išum by Weiershäuser highlights Išum’s benevolence towards mankind (2010). In incantations he is invoked for protection, as sukkal sūqi (‘vizier of the street,’ Bīt mēseri II.74), nāgir sūqi (‘herald of the street,’ Udug-ḫul 5), and nūr nišīka (‘light of your people,’ Udug-ḫul 6, 125, 150) (2010: 354).12 Išum is asked to stand by the patient in a healing ritual in Udug-ḫul 15.92, he appears in a list of divine statues to have healing spells recited in front of them (Zimmern, AB 12, no. 53), and is called upon in a Neo-Assyrian Namburbi-ritual, (Maul, 1994: 358, lines 28–38). From this evidence, Weiershäuser concludes that the main function of Išum was to protect men from evil. His friendly disposition is evident in all texts (2010: 371), particularly in popular religion (Edzard RLA V: 214). The poem’s invocation of Išum as a hero protecting the people against the violence wreaked by Erra is thus coherent with his personality as attested elsewhere.13 Išum’s reputation as an intercessor can also be found in the Underworld Vision of an Assyrian Crown Prince (edition Livingstone, 1989: no. 32), where in r. 16 he is described as: di-šum ma-lik-šu₂ mu-kil ab-bu-ut-ti ēṭir(KAR-ir) napišti(ZIti₃) ra-’i-im ki-na-a-ti, ‘Išum, his (Nergal’s) counsellor, intercessor, the one who saves life, who loves the truth’ (Weiershäuser, 2010: 369). Here Išum plays the same role as in Erra and Išum, calming Erra so that he does not kill the prince and so he might live to sing Erra’s praises (r.17).14 This is more or less the same principle found in the poem: at the end Erra proclaims that whoever praises him shall be spared and protected (V.49–56). It is also the principle behind the success of Išum’s speeches. As we shall see, by bewailing Erra’s destruction he acknowledges his power, an indirect form of praise which finally placates the heart of the god (cf. Bottéro, 1985: 276–277). Išum thus has the right background to step up as a new type of hero. We can now examine the allusions which present him as such in more detail. A brief summary of Anzû and Erra and Išum together will show the main points of comparison. In Anzû, the demonic bird becomes jealous of Enlil’s power and steals the tablet of destinies, which bestows this power. Chaos results and the divine order is overturned—without the tablet, Enlil cannot retain con12 13 14

On Išum as a night watchman and street god see now George (2015) and (2017). For his role as intercessor cf. Bodi (1991: 264). This Neo-Assyrian text appears to be later than Erra and Išum, so this portrayal of Išum may have been inspired by Erra and Išum itself.

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trol. Ninurta sets out to fight Anzû and recover the tablet, but his might in battle is useless against Anzû’s magic spell. It is only when Ea recognises that Anzû’s power is in his faculty of speech that Ninurta is able to defeat him, using word play as a trick (Reiner, 1985: 64).15 Anzû tries to use the power of the tablet of destinies to recover his lost wings rather than deflect Ninurta’s next attack, but in doing so, he calls the feathers of Ninurta’s arrows to him instead, bringing about his own demise (Hirsch apud Saggs, 1986: 22, in textual notes; Studevent-Hickman, 2010). Anzû’s main defence was a verbal one, but it was outwitted. In Erra and Išum, the god Erra becomes jealous of the power of Marduk (who has now replaced Enlil in the pantheon), and tricks him into surrendering power. References to the tablet of destinies are made in conjunction with this (III.D.9; IV.44). Erra, now in control, causes devastation in an attempt to gain recognition of his might. The panicked gods hold an assembly but are powerless to do anything, and Ištar tries and fails to dissuade Erra. It is Išum who succeeds, after several failed attempts, by giving Erra the recognition he craves as a mighty warrior. Išum’s defence of the people against the violence inflicted by Erra is a verbal one, but this time it is successful. Some of these topoi do occur in other Akkadian works of literature. However, the textual connections, and particular thematic relevance of these two compositions strengthen a claim of direct allusion. In Anzû, it is language that has the real power of defence: without it Anzû cannot utter his magic spell, and is vulnerable to Ninurta’s attack.16 The power of language is a major theme of Erra and Išum as well (Machinist & Sasson, 1983: 226). The composition is dominated by speeches, in particular the showdown of words between Erra and Išum that form the real ‘battle’ of the text: it is through persuasion rather than violence that Išum placates Erra. However, whereas in Anzû language is the counter-attacking weapon of the aggressor, and it is neutralised by violence (cutting off Anzû’s wings), in Erra and Išum we have an inversion: violence is the weapon of the aggressor (Erra) and it is neutralised by language (Išum’s speeches). This is another example of the newer text improving on its model, this time by reversing its themes and thereby proposing a very different ideal.

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For the details see p. 48. The power of language is underlined by sound and word plays in the poem at crucial points foreshadowing Anzû’s demise: see Studevent-Hickman (2010).

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Erra as Anzû

As a disruptor of the cosmic order, Erra is connected with the figure of Anzû, the monster who caused so much trouble in the Anzû poem. The extensive references to Išum as Ninurta implicitly equate Erra with his opponent on a structural level, but the connection is made by specific textual allusions to Anzû as well. Marduk, Erra himself, and Išum all invoke it as precedent for Erra’s behaviour, which portray the opposition between Erra and Išum as a cosmic battle. 3.1 The Tablet of Destinies Erra plays the same role as Anzû in acting as a guard for the head of the pantheon. Anzû guards Enlil’s shrine while he is in the bath, and Erra guards Marduk’s cosmic order while he has gone to the watery realm of the Apsû to have his garments cleaned. As Machinist observes, in both cases the guardian steals a key possession: Anzû steals Enlil’s tablet of destinies, while Erra takes Marduk’s city of Babylon, and then becomes a source of chaos that must be neutralised (2005: 46). Not only do the two characters share a basic similarity in their roles, but Babylon is directly compared to the tablet of destinies, pinning down this allusion on the level of the text. Marduk uses the image in a simile when he laments that he gave away his power unwittingly: [u’₃-a] ⸢bābili(TIN.TIR)⸣ki ša₂ ki-ma ṭuppi šīmāti(DUB NAM.MEŠ) ina qātī(ŠU II)-ia₂ aṣ-ba-tu-šu₂-ma la u₂-maš-ša₂-ru-šu₂ ana mam-ma [Ah, Babylon], that I gripped in my hands like the tablet of destinies, releasing it to no one! Erra and Išum IV.44

Just as Anzû had snatched the tablet from Enlil together with the power it bestowed, Erra has snatched Babylon from Marduk, and with it his control over the cosmos. At the end of the poem it is Erra who decrees its restoration, not the city’s chief god (Machinist, 2005: 48), contrary to Babylonian expectations. By equating Babylon with the implicitly lost tablet, Marduk puts himself in the position of Enlil—a previously all-powerful god who is no longer in control. There is a further irony here, for in Enūma eliš Marduk had displaced Enlil as supreme god, but now he is being displaced himself in an image that refers to the downfall of his predecessor. As Marduk laments his lost position, he refers to a moment when Enlil lost his.

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3.2 Stripped of Power Erra persuades Marduk to give up his seat by asking him why his garments are dirty (I.127–128). The rhetorical question incites Marduk to set off for the Apsû, where the cleaning can take place, and leaves the way open for Erra to take control.17 This resonates with Anzû where Enlil strips for his bath. When Enlil is divested of his crown, his symbol of lordship, Anzû can seize his power by flying off with the tablet of destinies. Similarly, when Marduk is divested of his crown and his garments cleaned, Erra takes his place and disaster follows (Gössmann, 1955: 82; Krebernik, 2008: 56). The head of the pantheon in both cases is displaced while a force of chaos takes control (Machinist, 2005: 46–47), which establishes Erra as an Anzû-like demonic figure. The similarity in role is highlighted by a verbal connection, as forms of šaḫāṭu, ‘to strip off,’ are used in both situations: e-nu-ma den-lil₂ i-ra-mu-ku mê(A)meš ellūti(KU₃)meš šaḫ-ṭu-ma ina giškussi(GU.ZA) a-gu-šu šak-nu ṭuppi šīmāti(DUB.NAM.MEŠ) ik-šu-da qa-tuš-šu den-lil₂-u₂-tu il-te-qu₂ na-du-⸢u₂⸣ [par-ṣu] When Enlil was bathing in the pure waters, stripped, his crown placed on the throne, he (Anzû) took the tablet of destinies in his hand! He took supremacy, [authority] was overthrown! Anzû I.79–82

The description of Enlil as ‘stripped’ is qualified by the detail telling us that he is without his crown. In Erra and Išum these two details are directly brought together when we are told that Marduk has ‘stripped off the crown of his lordship’ (III.C.47). When Erra is rebuking Išum for trying to dissuade him, he sums up the situation: mātāti(KUR.KUR) nap-ḫar-ši-na i-ku-na mi-i-na a-ge-e be-lu-ti-šu₂ iš-ta-ḫaṭ šarru(LUGAL) u rubê(NUN)meš x x (x) x i-maš-šu-u₂ par-ṣi-šu₂-[un] ne₂-ep-ta-šu₂ ip-ta-ṭar qa-bal ilānī(DINGIR)meš u amēli(LU₂) ip-paṭ-ṭa-⸢ra⸣-[ma] a-na ra-ka-si iš-ši-[ṭa] 17

Or for chaos to reign while the universe is ungoverned (George, 2013: 54), with Erra the personification of this force.

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“What has remained of all the lands? “He (Marduk) stripped off the crown of his lordship: “king and princes … forget their authority. “He has undone his girdle: “the bond between the gods and man is undone, difficult to tie (again)!” Erra and Išum III.C.45–49

Marduk’s crown has been ‘stripped off’ (šaḫāṭu), recalling Enlil’s loss of regalia and loss of power. The undoing of the girdle, too, recalls Enlil’s undressing for his bath. Like Enlil, Marduk has lost his power and the result is anarchy. However, there is a difference, for while Enlil lost his power because of a lack of vigilance, Marduk willingly surrendered his. Enlil stripped for his bath with no suspicion that this would lead to the theft of the tablet of destinies, while Marduk knew that his departure to the Apsû would leave a dangerous vacuum of power. This contributes to the image of Marduk as even more irresponsible than Enlil, for he knew the risks but was unable to control them. 3.3 As if to Catch the Evil Anzû? Anzû is mentioned by name at III.C.33 when Išum, speaking of Erra, says: ki-i ša₂ lem-na an-za-a a-na ke-me-šu₂ šu-par-ru-ra-[at še-et-su], ‘As if to catch the evil Anzû, his [net is] spread out!’ This reference compares Erra to Ninurta, the slayer of Anzû, but it is surely ironic: the nets are in fact for the ordinary people dying in Erra’s rampage.18 The irony is increased in light of the previous references which have implicitly equated Išum with Ninurta and Erra with Anzû. Far from trying to catch Anzû, Erra is himself behaving like Anzû in wantonly stirring up chaos.19 The misdirection of power will be corrected at the end of the poem when Išum’s rhetoric finally succeeds and Erra’s violence is turned away from the

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19

Surviving texts of Anzû mention no net, but since it is a natural weapon to use against a bird it is an obvious image to use here to refer to the fight. Cf. Lambert (1986: 59) who notes that Marduk’s use of a net against Ti’āmtu in Enūma eliš (IV.95) is a potential reference to a version of Anzû, since a net is unsuitable for catching the sea, but a normal way of catching a bird. Machinist offers a different interpretation: since Erra is referred to as Nergal in the preceding line (III.C.31), together with his conquest of the Asakku-demons, a famous exploit of Ninurta, this shows that Erra must conquer himself, and therefore take on the character of Ninurta instead of the character of Anzû (2005: 48). This would then be a redirection of Erra’s violence to its proper place, using it in a constructive way. However, this too would be ironic, since the phrase comes well before Erra relents (IV.131 ff.) and is in the context of Išum’s pity for the people (III.C.30–31).

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undeserving people of Babylonia and onto their enemies. Išum attacks the Šaršar mountain, the home of the invading Suteans who have been the agents of much of Erra’s destruction, bringing the violence to an end. However, this mountain is also the birthplace of Anzû and the place to which he took the tablet of destinies (Annus, 2001: xxv). The mountains are the location of Ninurta’s victories, so when Išum flattens the mountain, he is placed in the role of Ninurta restoring divine order, who had previously defeated Anzû there (Annus, 2012: 32). Ninurta overcame Anzû, but Išum has overcome a figure who has been associated with Anzû and the chaos he represents—he has successfully persuaded Erra to cease his onslaught. This is the final attack on the idea of Anzû, when Erra’s association with it is destroyed and he is rehabilitated as a god in his proper place, no longer rebellious but brought under control.

4

Išum as Ninurta

The equation between Ninurta and Išum is made at the very start of the poem. The opening lines of Erra and Išum imitate those of Anzû, but Erra and Išum shows a spirit of one-upmanship that elevates its addressee above that of the Anzû prologue: [bi]-⸢in⸣ šar(LUGAL) da-ad-mi ⸢šu⸣-[pa-a na-ram dma-mi] [ga-aš₂]-ra lu-uz-za-mur ⸢ilu(DINGIR)⸣ [bu-kur₂ den-lil₂] [d]nin-urta šu-pa-a ⸢na⸣-[ram dma-mi] ⸢ga⸣-aš₂-ra lu-ut-ta-’i-id ⸢ilu(DINGIR)⸣ [bu-kur₂ den-lil₂] [Scion] of the king of inhabited regions, [resplendent one, beloved of Mami], let me sing of the [mighty] one, divine [son of Enlil], Ninurta, resplendent one, [beloved of Mami], let me praise the mighty one, divine [son of Enlil]. Standard Babylonian Anzû I.1–4

⸢šar(LUGAL)⸣ gi-mir da-ad₂-me ba-nu-u kib-[ra-a-ti …] dḫendur-saĝ-ĝa₂ mār(DUMU) den-lil₂ reš-⸢tu⸣-[u …] na-aš₂ ḫaṭ-ṭu ṣir-ti na-qid ṣal-mat qaqqadi(SAG.DU) re-’u-u [te-ne-šeti] di-šum ṭa₂-bi-ḫu na-a’-du ša₂ ana ⸢na-še-e giškakkī(TUKUL)meš-⸣šu₂ ez-zuti qātā(ŠU II)-šu₂ as-ma

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King of all inhabited regions, creator of the [world …] Hendursaĝa, first-born son of Enlil, […] bearer of the exalted sceptre, shepherd of the black-headed, herdsman [of the people] Išum, famous slaughterer whose hands are suited to bear his fierce weapons Erra and Išum I.1–4

The addressee of the prologue to Erra and Išum has been the subject of much debate due to the missing parts of the first two lines. Erra, Išum, and Marduk have all been proposed,20 but Išum is now recognised as the most likely candidate, since Ḫendursaĝa is one of his names.21 Furthermore, he is named at the beginning of line four, and it is a convention of Akkadian poetry to name the addressee at the beginning of the third or fourth line after a string of epithets introducing them (as Machinist & Sasson, 1983: 222–223). The prologue of Erra and Išum takes Anzû as a starting point (Machinist, 2005: 32) and develops it further,22 adapting it for its own purposes. The addressee of the Anzû prologue, Ninurta, is the ‘scion’ of the king of inhabited regions; the addressee of Erra and Išum’s is of higher status, simply ‘the king of all inhabited regions.’ A similar phenomenon occurs in the second line: Ninurta is ‘son’ of Enlil (bu-kur₂), but Išum is mār(DUMU) den-lil₂ reš-⸢tu⸣-[u], ‘first-born son of Enlil,’23 according him a still higher status than this standard epithet shared not only with Ninurta but many other gods as well. Enlil had many sons; to be one of them was unremarkable, but to be mār(DUMU) den-lil₂ reš-⸢tu⸣-[u], ‘first-born son of Enlil’ singles him out. Both the epithets given to Išum in the first line, šar gimir dadmē, and bānû kibrāti, are epithets of Marduk (Reiner, 1958: 42). Marduk, however, is weak and easily duped in this poem; the transfer of his epithets to Išum shows who really has the power. It ought to have been the head of the pantheon who brought an

20

21 22 23

Erra: Gössmann (1955); Marduk: Reiner (1958); Išum: Falkenstein (1959), Edzard (RLA V: 166), Cagni (1969: 139–140; 1977: 85), Wilcke (1977: 196), Machinist & Sasson (1983: 222–223), Dalley (2000: 313), Machinist (2005: 57). Farber (2008) argues the first line is addressed to Erra, but the others refer to Išum. Edzard, RLA V: 213; Cagni (1969: 139–140); Attinger and Krebernik give an extensive list of god lists where the two are equated (2005: 22ff.). cf. Wilcke on its transition from hymnic prologue into narrative (1977: 196). Some scholars translate bukru as ‘first-born,’ based on analogies with Hebrew (following AHw), so it is possible that mār(DUMU) reštû is a gloss on bukru. However, there is little evidence for the word having this meaning in Akkadian, since it can be accompanied by reštû as well (CAD B: 310).

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end to Erra’s chaotic rampage. Instead, it is a younger god, just as in Enūma eliš the older gods stood back while Marduk faced Ti’āmtu. Now it is Marduk’s turn to be side-lined as a younger god takes the stage. In fact, he is side-lined to such an extent that at the end of the poem it is Erra who decrees the restoration of Babylonia. Marduk has faded out of the narrative completely, usurped by Erra even after his appeasement, and Babylon itself is now under Erra’s control (Machinist, 2005: 48). In Anzû, the second half of the first line gives Ninurta an epithet connecting him to his mother, a key character who will persuade him to fight. The same epithet occurs again in line three. In the corresponding position in Erra and Išum, in place of na-ram dma-mi we have na-qid ṣal-mat qaqqadi(SAG.DU), ‘shepherd of the black-headed people.’ The choice of epithet here expresses that it is for the sake of Babylonia that Išum intervenes, rather than for the sake of family ties, which in Anzû are Ninurta’s motivation for action. The exact placing might imply that the people have petitioned him to take action, just as Mami asked Ninurta for help. The lamentation allusions that occur in the poem support this reading, as we shall see in chapter seven: lamentations are emotive ritual requests made by people of gods, beseeching them to use their powers to benefit their people. The prologue anticipates this in its praise of the hero. Since Išum is substituted for Ninurta, an equation between the two is implied. The lines that follow praise Išum as a mighty warrior, and Ninurta is, of course, a warrior deity. Erra is Išum’s opponent in the dialogues of the poem, and is equated with Ninurta’s opponent Anzû twice in Erra and Išum, at III.C.33 and IV.44 (see last section below). Why, though, would the poet of Erra and Išum want to stress Išum’s martial strength at the start of a poem in which he will use words rather than weapons? If we take into account the underlying associations of Ninurta and Anzû, set up as fearsome opponents who will face each other in one-to-one combat, this beginning becomes more coherent. By setting up Išum as Erra’s military equal,24 it is clear that he could stop him with violence if he chose to do so. Machinist suggests that, as in Anzû, ‘the neutralising deity must take on the violent qualities of the deity he opposes,’ (2005: 47). However, the fact remains that Išum does not use violence to stop Erra. His choice to use words instead is crucial, and is not due to a lack of other options but is a valid alternative. A reminder of this soon follows, when Erra i-ta-mi ana giškakkī(TUKUL)meš-šu₂ lit-pa-ta i-mat mu-u-ti, ‘says to his weapons, ‘Smear yourselves with deadly poison!’’ (Erra and Išum I.7).25 This can remind 24 25

The epithet ‘warrior’ (qarrādu) is frequently used of both of them. The image also has resonances with Ti’amtu’s army and Qingu in Enūma eliš, for which see below p. 205 ff.

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us of Ninurta’s battle with Anzû, in which Ninurta’s arrows are compared to poison (šu-ku-du im-ta li-me-šu, ‘let the arrow become poison to him!’ Anzû II.10). These are, however, useless against Anzû’s magic words. This allusion does not necessarily change tack by equating Erra with Ninurta,26 but reminds us of the parallel situation in which verbal weapons overcame weapons of force, and thus hints at why Išum, the warrior, will use this strategy later in the poem. Although the prologue of Erra and Išum is predominantly modelled on that of Anzû, it also includes an allusion to the prologue of Lugal-e. Išum is therefore likened to the depictions of Ninurta in both poems. Like Erra and Išum, Lugale also begins with a hymn of praise and an incitement to battle. Most striking is the description of Ninurta in Lugal-e line 5: ⸢en⸣-e šu silig-ga ĝešmitum šu ĝal₂ Lord bearing the mace in (his) mighty hand be-lu ša₂ ina qa-ti-šu₂ el-le-tu₄ mi-iṭ-ṭa na-šu-u₂ Lord who bears the mace in his pure hand Lugal-e 5

This line seems to be echoed by Erra and Išum line 4 describing Išum as the slaughterer ša₂ ana na-še-e giškakkī(TUKUL)meš ez-zu-ti qātā(ŠU II)-šu₂ as-ma, ‘whose hands are suited to bear his fierce weapons’. We have already seen many connections to Ninurta as represented in the Akkadian Anzû poem, but this is one of the clearest connections of Išum to Ninurta in the poem, and it occurs right at the beginning. This allusion has the effect of pinning down any suspicions we may have about the prologues of Erra and Išum and Anzû—the structural similarity between them establishes the connection, and the depiction of Išum that harks back to the Ninurta of Lugal-e confirms it. Furthermore, they occur nearly in the same line in both poems—line 5 of Lugal-e, line 4 in Erra and Išum. Lugal-e also shows a kindlier side of Ninurta that is not immediately obvious in Anzû. Later on in the poem, Šar-ur addresses Ninurta as: lugal-ĝu₁₀ lu₂ iria-ni-še₃ gur-ra, ‘my king, who turns (sympathetically) towards his city,’ or in

26

Nergal is sometimes equated with Ninurta (Wiggermann, RLA IX: 221), but this need not contradict the different choice of this poem.

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the Akkadian: be-lu₄ ša₂ ana a-li-šu₂ ta-ia-a-ri, ‘lord who is turning (sympathetically) towards his city’ (Lugal-e 33). Išum also displays this attitude when he shows care for the people of Babylon, exclaiming u’₃-a nišī(UG₃)meš-a, ‘Ah, my people!’ at Erra and Išum III.C.30. As is the case in Enūma eliš, the connection to Sumerian forerunners in addition to Akkadian ones is also important, and reveals different sides of the god’s character.

5

Šar-ur Divides

This sympathetic side of Išum is brought out not only by his connections to Ninurta but also by connections to Ninurta’s vizier in Lugal-e, Šar-ur. However, similarly to how Enūma eliš referenced Šar-ur in two different forms in both the messenger Kakka and the inanimate mace, Erra and Išum divides up Šarur’s characteristics among characters with distinct roles, alluding to him in two different guises. The Šar-ur of Lugal-e can be seen behind both Išum as Erra’s vizier, and the Seven as Erra’s weapons: the positive attributes of Šar-ur (persuasion for the good, eloquence, the good vizier) have been given to Išum, while the negative (destructiveness in battle, persuasion towards violence) are reflected in the Seven. It is the Šar-ur of Lugal-e rather than of Anzû that is evoked, since in Anzû Šar-ur possesses none of these attributes and is a rather characterless messenger (as discussed in chapter four). In Lugal-e, Šar-ur is a deified weapon who acts as Ninurta’s vizier. He fights alongside him (and ahead of him), relays messages, and gives him advice. Išum has a similar role in Erra and Išum: he is Erra’s ‘vanguard’, ālik maḫri (e.g. I.11, 99, 105, 108), used as Erra’s ‘weapon’ to enact destruction, as Erra commands him to lead the Seven into battle at the start (I.95–99), and he leads them against mount Šar-šar at the end (IV.139–150). The Seven are the ones who actually cause the destruction, directed by Išum, and so are more directly analogous to Šar-ur as deified weapons. It is stated explicitly at the beginning that Anu gave them to Erra specifically to be his kakkū ezzūti, his ‘raging weapons’ (I.44). Immediately after Lugal-e’s opening hymn of praise, Šar-ur relays the news of Asag’s terrible deeds and asks Ninurta what can be done to oppose the monster (Lugal-e 24–69). Implicit in this speech is his initial confidence that Ninurta can overcome Asag: ĝešrab₃ diĝir-re-e-ne na-ab-dab₅-en, ‘you will seize it in the shackles of the gods’ (57). In Erra and Išum, the Seven make an early appearance after the hymn (I.23–43) and persuade Erra to take up arms in a lengthy speech (I.44–91). This is where Išum and the Seven diverge: what is interesting is how both allusive descendants of Šar-ur persuade Erra to take different

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approaches. The Seven urge violence, Išum urges against it,27 and Erra is caught in between two opposing arguments. Splitting the character of Šar-ur into two opposing forces may provide a theological justification for the changeability of the god caught between them, as he wavers without much clear decisiveness of his own. Later in Lugal-e, once Šar-ur has encountered Asag in battle he changes his attitude and tries to persuade Ninurta not to continue the fight (135–150). At first Šar-ur’s pleas are ignored, and ever-obedient, he continues to assist in the battle, but later he tries again (Lugal-e 265–280). We may find here a model for Išum’s behaviour in pleading with Erra to back down. Išum is not disobedient either, for he does not refuse to carry out Erra’s plans, but simply puts forward his opinion. Their reasoning for trying to dissuade their master, however, is very different. Šar-ur’s main concern is that Asag is too strong and Ninurta will not be able to defeat him. Išum, on the other hand, laments the suffering that Erra has inflicted on his people, and so knows full well what Erra is capable of. Šar-ur’s concern is given to the figure of Išum, although Išum is not concerned for the wellbeing of Erra but of his victims. Šar-ur’s role in battle, however, is transferred to the Seven, who like Šar-ur are also deified weapons. It is they who urge Erra to fight and who are the agents of the violence. Displacing the carrying out of violence onto these other characters distances Išum from it and adds to his portrayal as a saviour of the people rather than their destroyer. As for Erra, no doubts are shown about his ability to defeat his chosen target. However, his target is innocent people. When one compares this ‘battle’ with the battle in Lugal-e, far from seeming all-powerful and superior, Erra seems petty and wantonly destructive, for he has not chosen a worthy opponent such as Asag, but is cutting down the defenceless. This may be read as subverting the interactions of Enūma eliš and Anzû with their predecessors. There we saw competition, where each poem gave its hero a more formidable rival, a bigger challenge, and greater glory. Erra and Išum does the opposite: this warrior picks a fight with those who cannot resist him.

27

Assuming that it is Erra speaking to his heart in I.13–14 rather than Išum. See note 40 below (p. 208) for further discussion.

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175

Išum the Door

Išum’s literary antecedents are not limited to Ninurta and Šar-ur, however. One intriguing line resonates with three different compositions simultaneously, all of which add to the depiction of Išum as a rescuer of humanity. The line in question reads: di-šum dal-tum-ma e-dil pa-nu-⸢uš⸣-[šu]-⸢un⸣ Išum is the door locked before them28 Erra and Išum I.27

The image of the door is rich with symbolism, and can be interpreted in many ways. For example, calling Išum a door marks him out as a moderator of violence, since he can either open the door of destruction or close it and bring it to an end (George, 2013: 52). Although the range of associations that this line could evoke are potentially great, there are three particular intertextual links that can be mobilized here, all of which further recall the different forms of this holding back of destruction. Most significantly, we may be reminded of Atraḫasīs, where Ea is given custodianship of ‘the bolt, the trap of the sea,’ šigaru naḫbalu tâmti (Old Babylonian I.15; Standard Babylonian V.53–54; 57–58). By releasing this bolt, Ea helps mankind avoid famine by unleashing an abundance of fish. In a passage in the Standard Babylonian version Enlil rebukes him, saying that he had commanded: [ši-ga-ru na-aḫ]-ba-lu tam-ti [at-ta ta-na]-⸢aṣ⸣-ṣa-ra qa₂-du laḫ₃-mi-ka [tu-ma-aš₂]-⸢šer₃⸣ a-na nišī(UG₃)meš mi-šer₃-tu₂ “[that the bolt], the trap of the sea, “[you should] stand guard over, together with your hairy hero-men. “[(But) you let loose] abundance for the people!” Standard Babylonian ms. x rev. ii 4–6 (Tablet ‘VI’?) (text from Lambert & Millard, 1969)

Calling Išum the door (daltum) links him with Ea as a protector of mankind, for he too is the only thing standing between them and destruction. Išum will

28

So ms. S; B has pa-nu-uš-šu, ‘before him’.

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be the one to save them in the end, as Ea was. Crucially, however, the detail is reversed: Išum must not draw back the bolt if he is to keep the people from harm.29 Connected with this is III.C.40ff., where we have another reflex of Atraḫasīs. Erra rebukes Išum, saying: ša₂ di₂-gi₃-gi₃ ṭe₃-en-šu-nu ti-de-ma ša₂ da-nun-na-ki mi₃-lik-šu₂-un a-na nišī(UG₃)meš ṣal-mat qaqqadi(SAG.DU) ur-ta ta-nam-din-ma uz-zuun!(AN)-ši-na tuš-pa-te min₃-su ki-i la mu-de-e ta-ta-me at-ta ki-i ša₂ a-mat dmarduk(AMAR.UTU) la ti-du-u ta-mal-li-kan-ni ia-a-ši You who know the plan of the Igigi, the counsel of the Anunnaki, you give orders to the black-headed people, you give them understanding!30 Why do you speak like an idiot? You counsel me as if you do not know Marduk’s word! Erra and Išum III.C.40–44

This is reminiscent of Ea’s behaviour in Atraḫasīs. Ea knew of Enlil’s plan to destroy mankind and divulged it to the mortal Atraḫasīs, giving him understanding of the situation and instructions as to how to face it, much to Enlil’s displeasure. It seems like Erra may be referring to or anticipating a similar plan on Išum’s part and squashing it. Indeed, we hear nothing of any attempt to warn mankind of the coming destruction. Išum as the door also harks back to Lugal-e, where it is said of Ninurta: bad₃ maḫ-gin₇ kalam-ma igi-ba i₃-in-[tab] He barred the front of the land31 like a great wall ⸢ki⸣-ma du-ur ra-bi-i pa-an ma-a-ti ⸢i⸣-[di-il] He [bolted] the front of the land like a great wall Lugal-e 351

29 30 31

Whether or not he does is unknown, since the critical parts of tablets II and III are damaged. Or perhaps, ‘would you give orders …’ as Foster (2005: 899). Var. K₁: uĝ₃-ba, ‘the people’.

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Ninurta is piling up the stones to build a dam to keep destructive waters under control (the verb tab is restored after the Old Babylonian text). This is an act of benevolence towards the people, since the control of water stops it causing destruction, enables them to cultivate fields, and puts an end to famine. Thus Išum is again linked with Ninurta as a protector of mankind, not only through Anzû but also through the definitive Sumerian poem about his deeds. The image of bolting like a door occurs also in the Sumerian Return of Lugalbanda,32 this time applied to Anzu: kur-ra ĝešig-gal-gin₇ igi-ba bi₂-in-tab-en ‘He (Enlil) made me bar the front of the mountains like a great door’ The Return of Lugalbanda 102

In this poem Anzu is not yet evil, and so his blocking of the mountain is benign. Indeed, since the mountains are traditionally the home of monsters and enemies, he is fulfilling an important protective function. Given the equation of Erra with evil Anzû elsewhere in the poem, as we will see below, then if Anzu in The Return of Lugalbanda is recalled at this point in Erra and Išum, there is a hint of irony: Išum is being connected with ‘good’ Anzu in opposition to Erra who is connected with ‘evil’ Anzû. The allusion to Lugal-e resonates with the allusion to Atraḫasīs, since both are specifically about holding back water. Ninurta holds back the destructive waters and diverts them for irrigation, and Ea holds back the sea but lets out fish to sustain the people. Looming large in the background is the destructive water of Atraḫasīs’s deluge. Although the flood in Atraḫasīs seems to come from the sky in the form of a storm rather than being a surge of the sea, the link now made to dangerous water via Lugal-e is threatening and ominous. The allusions to the different texts therefore work together to portray Išum as a door holding back a cataclysmic force of destruction, and warn us that the Seven have the potential to unleash a catastrophe on the scale of the deluge itself. With such an array of potential referents it cannot be proven that all were intended, or that every reader would pick up on all of these parallels. However, all of these are potential models, potential resonances which can be felt and interpreted if we so choose.33 It certainly helps that each of these comparanda 32 33

The poem was known in the first millennium, as three bilingual manuscripts were found in Kuyunjik (see pp. 54–55). For a discussion of the interpretability of topoi with many possible comparisons see Hinds (1998: 34–47).

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contributes a different facet of more or less the same picture, all of Išum as protector, and so even if only one of them is recalled the broader point can still be understood.

7

Where Is the Young Hero?

Another couplet that may resonate with Lugal-e is a reflection on the loss of saviour figures in changing times, a lament for the lack of a Ninurta-type warrior to protect those under attack. When Marduk laments the lack of suitable wood for his statue, at the same time he may be lamenting the lack of a strong young hero such as Ninurta to intervene and save the gods from decline. In Erra and Išum Marduk asks, a-li gišmēsu(MES) šīr(UZU) ilānī(DINGIR)meš si-mat šar(LUGAL) gim-ri iṣ-ṣu el-lu eṭ-lu ṣi-i-ru ša₂ šu-lu-ku a-na be-lu-ti “Where is the mēsu-tree, flesh of the gods, suitable for34 the lord of all? “The pure wood, exalted youth who is appropriate for lordship?” Erra and Išum I.150–151

On the surface, Marduk is referring to a sacred tree used to make divine statues, lamenting that its absence means that he cannot refurbish his own image. However, there is a bilingual pun in these lines. Sumerian mes without a giš determinative (line 150) means ‘young man’, Akkadian eṭ-lu (Cagni, 1977: 35). This Akkadian word then appears in line 151 as eṭ-lu ṣi-i-ru, ‘exalted youth’. On a concrete level it describes a young tree, a sapling, but on the polysemantic level it hints at the other Sumerian meaning of the word, which is translated into Akkadian in the next line. Noegel suggests that Marduk is here making a pun on his own name, which is sometimes written dMES (2011: 176). On yet another level, we may remember that Ninurta is also called a great mes tree in Lugal-e. This may be another reflection of Marduk’s now distant take-over from Ninurta, one epithet invoking associations with both gods. The relevant passage in Lugal-e reads: en mes maḫ ⸢gan₂⸣-e a-du₁₁-ga ur-saĝ a-ba za-gin₇

34

Or ‘symbol of’.

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lugal-ĝu₁₀ za₃-zu ba-ra-ga-an-til ba-ra-ga-an-tuš ba-ra-ga-u₃tu35 Lord, great mes tree in a watered field, hero, who is like you? My king, beside you there is no one else, no one can sit (beside you), no one is born (like you)! Lugal-e 310–311

In both cases this tree is a symbol of scarcity, a rare treasure. In Lugal-e it is used to show Ninurta’s uniqueness among all the gods. It may be possible, then, to read Marduk’s comment in Erra and Išum as a reference to Ninurta as well as to the wood that is in such short supply. On this level he may also be asking ‘where is the Ninurta of Lugal-e?’ with the implication that Ninurta is the one who can bring order to a chaotic situation. The lack of a traditional Ninurta-figure, a warrior who would protect Babylon, is further brought out by a re-use of Ninurta’s epithet mutīr gimilli, ‘the avenger’. In Erra and Išum IV.23 the governor of Babylon is called mu-tir gi-mil bābili(KA₂.DINGIR.RA)ki ‘avenger of Babylon’ or ‘the one who does a favour to Babylon’. Since the governor’s actions are abominable, inciting his own troops to plunder his city rather than protect it, this is likely to be ironic. mutīr gimilli is a well-known epithet of Ninurta, who avenged his father and helped him by recovering his lost power. Ironically comparing the governor of Babylon to Ninurta thus underscores just how unlike Ninurta he is, and how absent the traditional warrior figure is in this poem.

8

Conclusions

Erra and Išum is a poem of great intertextual sophistication, as is already evident from the way it plays with various aspects of Anzû and Lugal-e to portray Išum as the new Ninurta. This is just as competitive as Marduk’s relationship with Ninurta, but the new ideal proposed is very different from that of the earlier poems: it is dialogue which is the supreme weapon, persuasion rather than might. Išum is set up as a Ninurta figure from the very beginning of the poem, praised as a warrior in terms that evoke the praise of Ninurta in the prologues of both Anzû and Lugal-e, while Erra is connected with Anzû as the one who tricks the chief god and steals away his power. Though the battle lines are

35

Cited after Old Babylonian text. No bilingual manuscripts are preserved.

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thus symbolically drawn, the conflict takes place through words, their opposition playing out through their speeches rather than through direct attacks. Furthermore, the very subject of their dialogue is the use of violence, with Erra arguing for and Išum against. Išum emerges as the winner, as he successfully persuades Erra to back down in the end. Again, like Enūma eliš, Erra and Išum draws together aspects of Ninurta as depicted in both of his most famous poems in order to present a fuller picture of Išum: he is not only a mighty warrior, but one who is concerned for the people. This concern is not to be found in Anzû, and so allusions to other poems strengthen the portrayal. Lugal-e is not the only point of reference, as Ea in Atraḫasīs provides another: both are responsible for holding back the forces of destruction. In fact, many other figures from various poems can be seen behind the character of Išum, each adding another facet and bringing something different to the portrayal. Like Marduk in Enūma eliš, who absorbs the characteristics of Ninurta, Ea, and many others, Išum is a composite character who can be compared with no less than five different predecessors at once. Not only is he like the Ninurtas of both Anzû and Lugal-e, but also like his persuasive weapon and battle companion Šar-ur, the benevolent Ea of Atraḫasīs and even the good Anzu of the Return of Lugalbanda (and as we shall see in chapter seven, like Nanna in the Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur, bringing the total up to six). The character of Šar-ur also feeds into the Seven, for while his benevolent aspects as a loyal vizier are given to Išum, the Seven are his equivalent in being personified violent weapons. Just as Enūma eliš had split up the characteristics of Šar-ur into messenger and mace, so too Erra and Išum splits aspects of Šar-ur’s character, and uses their opposition to put Erra in their midst, pulled in two different directions, between those who urge war and the one urging peace. This kind of complexity can also be found in individual episodes, where two different scenes are alluded to at once. The speech at Erra and Išum III.C.45–49 connects Marduk with Enlil undressing for his bath in Anzû, and at the same time evokes the murder of Apsû in Enūma eliš, creating a kind of dramatic irony where Marduk is put in the same position as his old rival Enlil once was. Erra is equated with Anzû, the rebellious threat to the cosmic order, and Marduk with Enlil, the ineffective ruler who allowed chaos to take over through his own negligence, and who was indirectly deposed in Enūma eliš through an allusion to this very same scene in Anzû. This simultaneity of allusion can be compared with the polyvalence of the cuneiform writing system and its hermeneutics. Both cuneiform characters and characters in poems can carry multiple connotations, as is brought out by Marduk’s question of where the mes-tree is, punning on his own name and and Ninurta’s name at the same time. A combin-

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ation of allusions to different sources will be seen again in the next chapter, as references to Enūma eliš, Atraḫasīs, and Gilgameš all work together to portray the undoing of the old order and the destruction of everything these classics represent.

chapter 6

Overturning the Old Order: Erra and Išum and Enūma eliš, Atraḫasīs, and Gilgameš 1

Introduction

Enūma eliš, Atraḫasīs, and Gilgameš are all classics of Akkadian literature, a core part of the scribal curriculum, widely known and copied right into the late period. All of these poems in their own way reflect on the proper relationship between man and god, and Erra and Išum, in its own reflections upon these previous presentations, has much to add to the discussion. A connection between these poems was first noted by Haubold (2002: 8–11), a Classicist who argued that they are all part of a cycle concerning world history in the Akkadian tradition. Though he focuses primarily on Gilgameš and Atraḫasīs, Haubold’s observation that ‘even at a basic level, one cannot read one text without the other’ (2002:8) is especially valid for Erra and Išum in relation to this group. Enūma eliš narrates the creation of the world and cosmic order by Marduk. Atraḫasīs explains how man was created in order to provide offerings for the gods and was allotted a finite life span. The quest of Gilgameš explores the meaning of civilization and mortality, man’s place in the universe and both the scope and limits of human achievements. Erra and Išum undoes everything that these poems establish. A god of war and plague, Erra unravels Marduk’s cosmic order (Machinist, 2005: 47), destroys men with a metaphorical deluge comparable to that of Atraḫasīs, and annihilates civilization through civil war. Allusions in Erra and Išum to these poems show that war not only causes inevitable misery and desolation, but is actually the antithesis of the values embodied by these three poems that were central to Babylonian culture. At the same time, we will see that there is an implied criticism of the protagonists of these classic works. Erra and Išum shows them to be weak and ineffectual, expressing profound disillusionment with the pantheon. Interactions with Enūma eliš largely serve to turn Marduk’s poem against him. Erra takes over as god of Babylon and alludes to the peak of Marduk’s glory as made manifest in Enūma eliš to emphasise his fall in status. Unusually, Marduk is said to have sent the great deluge, which again links Marduk with Enlil and places him among the old order of gods who are now powerless and irrelevant. Marduk, Enlil and Anu are all consigned to this status, and are replaced

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by Erra and Išum. Erra is the one who now holds sway, but he inherits some of the faults of the old order also, sharing their indifferent attitude towards human beings. One order is swept aside, only to be replaced with another that is even worse, until Išum intervenes. He is proposed as the new ideal, as the one who argues against this behaviour and mediates on behalf of the Babylonians. References to the motif of sleep deprivation in both Atraḫasīs and Enūma eliš play a large part in painting this picture, calling into question the validity of Erra’s motives. Meanwhile, allusions to poems that narrate the story of the flood, Atraḫasīs and Gilgameš, serve to depict Erra’s carnage as equivalent only to the destruction caused by this pivotal event in world history. As such, it is implied that he takes civilization back to a regressive state, to a time before the flood, undoing all human progress and achievements. Not only men but also the gods regress: Marduk’s downfall is finally epitomised by two allusions to the blood on the wind in Enūma eliš that heralded his conquest of Ti’āmtu, signifying Marduk’s defeat with an ironic allusion to his former triumph. None of the traditional high-ranking gods enjoy superior positions any longer—they are neither respected by the people nor able to stand up to Erra. There is a distinct vacuum of power, and Erra steps in to fill it with chaos.

2

Enūma eliš

Enūma eliš is a bountiful source for allusions in Mesopotamian literature, a text that others point back to again and again. Royal inscriptions in particular often allude to it when casting the king in the role of Marduk’s agent on earth, vanquisher of the enemies of the state, and supreme hero.1 The poem can be interpreted as an expression of Babylonian political ideology2 (cf. Jacobsen, 1976: 189–191), and may have been composed during a revival of the city’s fortunes under Nebuchadnezzar I (Lambert, 1984: 4, 2013: 442–443). Unsur-

1 e.g. Sennacherib’s battle at the Halule, and other texts from his propaganda: see Weissert (1997: 196), Frahm (2010a: 8, n. 21), Pongratz-Leisten (2015: 306–321); inscriptions of Sargon II (Renger, 1986: 127 n. 52); opening up gates in Ti’āmtu’s ribs (Enūma eliš V.9) is alluded to by both Sargon and Sennacherib in their building accounts (Kämmerer & Metzler, 2012: 41); passages in the inscriptions of Shalmaneser III may allude to Enūma eliš and Anzû (Annus, 2002: 97). 2 E.g. by the scribes in Uruk, who stopped copying it after they were no longer subject to Babylonian domination (Frahm, 2011: 361–362).

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prisingly then, it is used pessimistically by Erra and Išum, a poem lamenting the shattered unity of Babylonia. The re-use of Enūma eliš in later periods emphasises the military aspect in a way that may be more prominent than was originally intended. The Assyrian attempts to appropriate Enūma eliš for their royal ideology after the sack of Babylon support the conclusion that it had come to be read as an expression of political identity and dominance—first by the Babylonians, and then appropriated by the Assyrians for their own ends.3 Three tablets substitute the Assyrian national god Aššur for Marduk by replacing his name with AN.ŠAR₂, and other prayers and theological texts make the same change (Lambert, 1997: 77–79, 2013: 5–6). The Assur and Nineveh versions of the Marduk Ordeal (texts 34 and 35 in Livingstone, 1989) even claim to quote Enūma eliš in saying: ina libbi(ŠA₃) e-nu-ma e-liš iq-⸢ṭi-bi⸣ ki-i šamê(AN-e) erṣeti(KI-tim) la ib-ba-nu-ni AN.ŠAR₂ it[tab-ši], ‘It is said in Enūma eliš: When heaven and earth were not created, Aššur came [into being]’4 (34.54; 35.44–45), a phrase that dramatically alters the opening of the Babylonian poem (Lambert, 1997: 98) and places Aššur as foremost of the gods. This demonstrates the ideological value of re-interpreting Enūma eliš, and that it was seen in antiquity as a text for enthroning the powerful. The atmosphere in Erra and Išum is very different. In this poem Babylon is no longer a great military power with Marduk at its side, for not only does Babylonia seem to have been ravaged by outside enemies, but cities within the region have taken up arms against each other, and the people of Babylon burn their own sanctuaries. The ideal of militarism has gone far astray, to the extent that ‘the denunciations of violence are so eloquent and lengthy that this poem can scarcely be read as anything but condemnation of civil strife as a violation of the cosmic order’ (Foster, 2007: 67). While Enūma eliš was read as a celebration of Babylonia, Erra and Išum laments its turning in on itself and uses allusions to Enūma eliš to express its reversal of fortune. So too does it emphasise the weakness of Marduk, the god who had helped the Babylonians achieve their former supremacy. The hierarchical system of rule in heaven has collapsed. It is possible that Erra and Išum’s consistent undermining of Enūma eliš may reflect a real loss of confidence in the power of Marduk (Hruška, 1973: 4–5; Frahm, 2011: 347), although the argument for this comes only from the text itself. Röllig made the observation long ago that Erra’s entry into Babylon

3 For the poem as an expression of the ideals of kingship see Gabriel (2014: 382–392). 4 The translation is Livingstone’s.

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questions Marduk’s competence as ruler of the gods (apud Hruška, 1973: 4). Erra and Išum is thus often considered to be a theological reflection on the reasons for Babylon’s suffering during the turbulent events of the early first millennium: either a deserved punishment for cultic neglect (Cagni, 1969: 31– 37) or a statement that human beings are undeservedly subjected to forces of chaos outside of their control (Reiner, 1958: 45; Bottéro, 1985: 263–265). This is a complex matter, since Marduk’s desertion of Babylon is not a straightforward abandonment or captivity as would usually explain the calamity befalling a city.5 Erra tricks Marduk into leaving but Erra’s destruction takes place after Marduk has returned and should, therefore, still be in a position to intervene. Why does he not? This is partly to do with the weakness that Erra and Išum ascribes to the old order of gods, but it is also partly because Marduk consents: the neglect of his statue implies that there has been some disruption of his worship. At I.122 Erra declares that the people have disregarded Marduk’s word, and at III.C.47 he suggests that the reason for Marduk’s departure is that kings and princes are forgetting their cultic responsibilities. These may be exaggerations to justify his violent impulses, but they may have some basis in reality. When inciting Erra to battle, the Seven say that flocks are being ravaged and farmland destroyed, with farmers and shepherds grieving (I.83–86). The passage is fragmentary, but rather implies that disorder is already rife, and that Erra must intervene in order to prevent further damage, perhaps even at these men’s entreaty (Cagni, 1977: 31 n. 22). Although this too may be an exaggeration to justify their desire for bloodshed, which clearly runs out of control, it would seem that something was already wrong even before Marduk left. As his statue was falling into disrepair, other problems were unfolding. It cannot be determined which was the primary cause, the cultic neglect or the internal problems; more likely the two are intertwined in a downward spiral into chaos. 2.1 Turning Marduk’s Own Poem against Him Enūma eliš establishes Marduk’s absolute control over the other gods, and the security of his position is expressed numerous times (e.g. VII.13–14). Erra and Išum, however, turns Marduk’s absolute power against him. In Enūma eliš, when Marduk is bargaining with Anšar over his reward for vanquishing Ti’āmtu, he proposes:

5 e.g. the Marduk Prophecy (edition Borger, 1971); a bilingual Babylonian historical epic explaining an Elamite attack in these terms (edition RIMB 2 nos. 8–9).

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ina upšu’ukinakki(UB.ŠU.UKKIN.NA-ki) mit-ḫa-riš ḫa-diš tiš₂-ba-ma ep-šu₂ pi-ia ki-ma ka-tu-nu-ma ši-ma-ta lu-šim-ma la ut-tak-kar mim-mu-u₂ a-ban-nu-u a-na-ku a-a i-tur a-a in-nen-na-a si₃-qar šap-ti-ia “Sit joyfully together in Upšu’ukkinakku, “May my spoken word be like yours, let me decree destinies! “Let anything I create not be altered, “may the pronouncement of my lips not reverse or be changed.” Enūma eliš II.159–162

It is precisely this irrevocability that Erra uses to trick Marduk. Erra tricks him into giving up his seat willingly, and once he does so his decision cannot be altered. This problem is raised again in the Me-Turnat Tablet II: Ištar (written din-ni-na) seems to break up the argument between the gods by saying that Marduk’s word is unalterable, therefore there is nothing they can do to change the situation (Al-Rawi & Black, 1989: 118–119, col. iii 22’–23’). It is ironic that the ‘lord of wisdom’6 should be tricked in such a way into an impossible bind. His authority is thus severely undermined. The finality of Marduk’s will resurfaces in the argument between Erra and Išum when Erra justifies his behaviour as in accordance with it: ki-i ša₂ a-mat dMarduk(AMAR.UTU) la ti-du-u ta-mal-li-kan-ni ia-a-ši, ‘You counsel me as if you do not know Marduk’s word!’ (III.43).7 This implies that Išum’s attempts to stop him amount to a transgression of Marduk’s supreme decision. Cagni interprets these lines as Erra invoking the precedent of the flood: Erra means that by causing this destruction he is only acting as Marduk did when he sent the deluge, and that if Marduk was justified then, so Erra is justified now (1977: 47). By comparing himself to Marduk Erra tries to validate his own actions, and yet it backfires, reflecting badly on both of them. First of all, the deluge sent by Marduk/Enlil was provoked, but Erra’s analogous behaviour is driven only by his own desire for destruction. The circumstances are not the same, and Erra is twisting the argument to his own reckless advantage. Secondly, although Marduk’s rationale is unexplained, what provoked Enlil was not the wickedness of mankind that demanded punishment, but simply the noise of human

6 As Marduk is called in the poem Ludlul bēl nēmeqi, named after its incipit, which translates as ‘Let me praise the lord of wisdom!’ 7 And a-mat dMarduk(AMAR.UTU) e-⸢li?⸣-[ka ul ṭa-bat], ‘[Did] Marduk’s word [not please you]?’ (III.56).

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activity and productivity, caused by overpopulation.8 Human beings were thus hardly more deserving of annihilation at the hands of Marduk than they are now at those of Erra. As well as reflecting badly on Erra, this argument undermines Marduk, calling into question the basis of his supreme judgement. Was it really necessary to devastate mankind, although the harm they caused was unintentional? The implication of Išum’s pleading is similar, that Erra’s actions are out of all proportion. Neither Erra nor Marduk/Enlil were ever fully justified, and Erra is only showing himself to be as bad as his flawed precedent, if not worse. It is also possible that the specific way in which Erra tricks Marduk is drawn from a subversion of one of Marduk’s own titles. In Enūma eliš VII.82, the tenth name given to Marduk is: A.GILIM.MA ša₂-qu-u₂ na-si-iḫ a-gi-i, ‘AGILIMMA, the lofty one, remover of the crown’. The removing of the crown and belt is a crucial part of the surrendering of power, and Erra and Išum III.C.46–49 specifies this as the moment of the dissolution of the bond between god and man: mātāti(KUR.KUR) nap-ḫar-ši-na i-ku-na mi-i-na a-ge-e be-lu-ti-šu₂ iš-ta-ḫaṭ šarru(LUGAL) u rubê(NUN)meš x x (x) x i-maš-šu-u₂ par-ṣi-šu₂-[un] ne₂-ep-ta-šu₂ ip-ta-ṭar qa-bal ilānī(DINGIR)meš u amēli(LU₂) ip-paṭ-ṭa-⸢ra⸣-[ma] a-na ra-ka-si iš-ši-[ṭa] What is left of all the lands? He (Marduk) stripped off the crown of his lordship: king and princes … forget their authority/rites. He has undone his girdle: the bond between the gods and man is undone, difficult to tie (again)! Erra and Išum III.C.45–49

As we have already seen, this scene has resonances with Enlil’s loss of power in Anzû (pp. 167–168). It also connects with the murder of Apsû in Enūma eliš, which itself referred back to this part of Anzû (see pp. 117–119 above). In Erra and Išum we have here a third link in a chain of allusions extending through all three poems.

8 For a summary of the debate about the significance of noise in Atraḫasīs see Kvanvig (2011: 72–82). Most recently a study of the term rigmu (‘noise’) in baby incantations supports this interpretation (Heffron, 2014).

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As in Erra and Išum, in Enūma eliš the removal of crown and sash was an important part of the deposing of Apsû as only then is Ea able to overpower him: ip-ṭur rik-si-šu iš-ta-ḫaṭ a-ga-šu₂ me-lam-mi-šu it-ba-la šu-u₂ u₂-ta-di-iq ik-mi-šu-ma apsâ(ABZU) i-na-ra-aš₂-šu dmu-um-mu i-ta-sir₃ eli(UGU)-šu₂ ip-tar-ka u₂-kin-ma eli(UGU) apsî(ABZU) šu-bat-su dmu-um-mu it-ta-maḫ u₂-kal ṣer-ret-su He (Ea) untied his sash, he tore off his crown, he removed his aura, he put it on himself. He bound Apsû, he killed him. Mummu he confined, he (Ea) laid him (Mummu) across him (Apsû).9 He founded his dwelling upon Apsû, he grasped Mummu, holding his lead rope. Enūma eliš I.67–72

Erra and Išum corresponds to this passage in three ways. First, there is the removal of symbols of divinity in the form of physical adornments. Whereas these are taken away by force in Enūma eliš, Erra gets Marduk to surrender his voluntarily. This is another example of the use of verbal strategies over physical force in Erra and Išum. Erra may long for violence, but it is his use of persuasion to trick Marduk that gives him the opportunity to inflict it. The two different ways of divesting the god are the same: removing the crown (agû in both) and the sash or girdle (riksu in Enūma eliš, neptu in Erra and Išum), but Erra and Išum expands upon these actions by explaining their consequences. Marduk stripping off his crown is followed by kings and princes forgetting their authority (Erra and Išum III.C.46–47), while undoing his girdle results in the bond between heaven and earth coming undone as well (Erra and Išum III.C.48– 49). Erra and Išum thus elaborates and develops the motif picked up from the earlier text. Second, Erra wants to make Marduk’s dwelling his own, just as Ea makes Apsû his abode. Whereas in Enūma eliš the act is physical and founded upon the actual body of the old god, in Erra and Išum a non-violent method is employed—Marduk is persuaded to leave. Thirdly, Mummu is held by a ‘leadrope’ (ṣerretu), a cord with which domestic animals are led by the nose. This

9 For the interpretation of this line see pp. 150–151.

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became a metaphor for power over someone (George, 1992: 256–257), which Išum uses of Erra when he exclaims, ṣe-ret šamê(AN) tam-ḫat, ‘You hold the lead-rope of heaven’ (III.D.3). Ea may have held the lead-rope of Mummu, but Erra now has control over the whole cosmos. The word ṣerretu is the term used for the bond between heaven and earth (George, 1992: 256). Enūma eliš V.65–68 relates Marduk fixing heaven and earth in position, and the ṣerretu is the cable connecting them.10 Not only is Erra now fully in control of the gods, but he has possession of this crucial link between divinity and humankind, previously only held by Marduk, and now broken (III.49). It is another way to express Erra’s seizing of Marduk’s powers, specifically over Babylon. Other cosmic links of this kind existed; for example, Nippur was considered the cosmic navel of Ninurta (Reynolds, 2010: 294), but the primary bond between heaven and earth was the home city of the head of the pantheon. Thus when Išum cries: ša₂ DIM.KUR.KUR.RAki āl(URU) šar(LUGAL) ilānī(DINGIR)meš ri-kis mātāti(KUR.KUR) tap-ta-ṭar ri-kis-su, ‘You have undone the bond of Dimkurkurra, the city of the king of the gods, the bond of the lands’ (IV.2), he emphasis that the vital bond between Babylon (Dimkurkurra) and heaven is the one on which everything depends—and it is now in Erra’s hands. The description of Marduk stripped of his crown in Erra and Išum recalls the scene where Apsû was stripped of his in Enūma eliš—but Apsû was also killed. This has interesting implications given the equation of Marduk and Enlil. As we saw in chapter three, the murder of Apsû may be a symbolic way of dethroning Enlil. Perhaps, then, this allusion to the dethroning of Apsû is also an ironic reference to Marduk’s deposing of Enlil. A line that speaks of Marduk’s fall in status alludes to the covert deposing of Enlil in Enūma eliš, but now it is Marduk himself who is being overthrown. In any case, the removing of royal garments is a well-established symbol of loss of power in both Enūma eliš and Anzû, and the recurrence of it in Erra and Išum is a sure sign of things to come. In Erra and Išum, Marduk is nothing like the warrior of his youth. Instead he is old, shabby, forgetful, and easily duped, even called ‘senile’ by Landsberger (1967a: 198). Whereas Enūma eliš states that: ina sa-ba-si-šu uz-za-šu ul i-maḫḫar-šu ilu(DINGIR) ma-ma-an, ‘When he is angry no god can face his rage’ (VII.154), Marduk responds to Erra’s trickery with an ineffectual lament of despair (Erra and Išum IV.36–44). In fact, he ought to be able to appease wrathful gods, as the explanation of Marduk’s name TUTU includes the words:

10

Cf. Ashurbanipal’s acrostic hymn to Marduk, Livingstone 1989: no. 2 rev. 8.

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lib-ni-ma šipta(EN₂) ilānū(DINGIR.DINGIR) li-nu-ḫu ag-giš lu te-bu-u₂ li-ne₂-’u-u₂ [i-rat-su]-un Let him formulate11 the spell so that the gods can be at rest. Should they have risen in anger, let them turn [back]. Enūma eliš VII.11–12

But in Erra and Išum he does not even attempt it; it is Išum who will appease Erra’s anger, stepping into Marduk’s former role. This places Marduk among the old order of gods. When he was young he came forward to solve a crisis that his superiors could not, now it is he who has to stand back while a younger god steps in. The allusions discussed in chapter five that connect Išum with Ninurta are pertinent here. Enūma eliš assimilated Marduk to the role of Ninurta through its relationship to Anzû, replacing him as the supreme warrior deity (Lambert, 1986). Now, however, there is another god taking over Ninurta’s role as Marduk once did, a new Ninurta supplanting Marduk. Išum, cast as the new Ninurta, in some ways supersedes Marduk as well. Marduk is also replaced by Erra as the god of Babylon. In Tablet V, Erra takes up his residence in Emeslam, where all the gods gaze at him in awe (V.1–3). Gössmann pointed out that this episode resembles the enthronement of Marduk in Enūma eliš IV.1ff. and, more specifically, Enūma eliš VI.17 ff. (1955: 81). Here Marduk asks the assembled gods who was responsible for instigating the battle (Enūma eliš VI.21–26). The passage in Erra and Išum reverses this, as Erra confesses that he himself was excessive in his slaughter, and praises Išum for intervening and so bringing it to an end (Erra and Išum V.5–15). Whereas Marduk asks the gods a question, Erra orders them to be silent while he speaks, emphasising his absolute authority. Marduk organises the stations of the gods, and commands them to build the city of Babylon (Enūma eliš VI.39–58). Similarly, Erra decrees the restoration of Babylonia and the destruction of its enemies (Erra and Išum V.25–38). Erra thus supplants Marduk at the very peak of his glory. Marduk’s weakness in Erra and Išum may reflect a perceived loss of his power in real terms (Hruška, 1973: 4–5; Frahm, 2011: 347). Considerable anguish is expressed over the ravaging of Babylonia described in the poem; perhaps this was seen as Marduk’s failure to protect his people. Particularly since royal traditions depict Marduk as commanding the king to go on campaign or assisting him in battle,12 and represented the king as Marduk’s agent on earth, the failure 11 12

Var. d: li-im-ni-ma ‘recite’. Well known in Assyrian royal inscriptions but also found in Babylonian ones, e.g. RIMB 2 B.2.4.4, B.2.4.7: 10, B.2.4.11: 13 (Nebuchadnezzar I).

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of the king to repel military disaster could be interpreted as an abandonment by his patron god.13 It is unusual, however, for this feeling to manifest as a loss of confidence, let alone as such a negative portrayal of the god; usually texts portray people blaming themselves for suffering and disaster. In prayers people respond with admissions of their guilt and promises of future devotion, in the hope of calming the god’s angry heart and winning back his favour.14 There are cases where the speaker does not understand the reason for the abandonment, such as Ludlul bēl nēmeqi III.14, and the Babylonian Theodicy IV.19, but these do not turn the speaker’s anger back on the god. Nevertheless, we find little explicit condemnation of human behaviour in Erra and Išum and the unflattering portrayal of Marduk cannot be explained away. Twice it is said that Marduk has risen from his dwelling (Erra and Išum II.30; III.44). This, too, has a connection with the real world beyond the poem. The god was thought to dwell in his cult statue in the temple, and when such a statue left the temple, if for example it was abducted by an enemy, it was thought that the god himself had deserted the city. In Erra and Išum, Marduk leaves his dwelling to have his regalia cleaned as if he were a dilapidated cult statue. Once the cult statue, and thus also the real god, leaves his dwelling, he no longer protects the city (Cagni, 1977: 33). This may reflect contemporary feeling towards historical events: if Marduk had left Babylon, this would explain her vulnerability to the disasters which inspired the poem—her god had forsaken her. It was not entirely undeserved, for the people were responsible for neglecting his statue, as Cagni has pointed out (1969: 35). However, it is not simply a case of Marduk neglecting his people in return, since he left for a temporary period of refurbishment, not to desert Babylon. Indeed, he specifically expresses concern over what will happen when he leaves, and Erra needs to reassure him that all will be well (I.170–189). The tricking of Marduk also implies some lack of culpability on the part of the Babylonians, since their protector has suffered a lapse in his rational wisdom. As Bottéro argues, Babylon’s troubles are at least partly due to a conflict among the gods that is unrelated to any fault of the people (1985: 264).15 Loss of confidence in the old order reaches beyond Marduk, however, as all the old gods are portrayed as weak. When stating his reasons for bloodshed,

13 14 15

cf. The Curse of Agade; the Marduk Prophecy; a bilingual Babylonian historical epic RIMB 2 B.2.4.8–9. See e.g. one prayer to Marduk (Oshima, 2011: 346–353), and two prayers to personal gods (Lambert, 1974a: 274–277; Maul, 1988: 216–228 no. 40–42). However he bases this on the lack of any mention of human wrongdoing, which is implicit in the statue’s neglect.

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Erra remarks: ilānū(DINGIR)meš nap-ḫar-šu₂-nu ṣal-⸢ta⸣ šaḫ-tu/u₃ nišū(UG₃)meš ṣal-mat [qaqqadi(SAG.DU)] le-[qu-u₂] ši-ṭu-tum, ‘All the gods are afraid of battle / and the black-[headed people hold] (them) in contempt!’ (I.119–120). This seems to be borne out in Tablet II (though fragmentary). When Marduk left his abode the Igigi and Anunnaki fled to their homes (lines 8–9).16 After Marduk has left, the gods discuss the situation with apprehension (Al-Rawi & Black, 1989: 112). They are particularly afraid because the star that represents Erra, the Fox star, is glaring with a fierce aura, indicating his extreme anger (iii.10’–15’).17 Many of their words in this scene are lost, but it is evident that their attempt to stand up to Erra is feeble. Ištar attempts to dissuade him, but the endeavour is over in one line: ana der-ra uš-te-mi-iq-ma ul i-man-gu-ra, ‘She prayed to Erra but he would not agree …’ (c1/30’).18 This behaviour echoes the cowardice of the gods in Enūma eliš, none of whom dared to face Ti’āmtu, a situation which also occurred in Anzû. In both earlier poems, the cowardice of the old gods is contrasted with the vigour and courage of the new god, making the need for the rise of the new deity clear. None of the established higher-ranking gods can face Erra, but Išum can. Some disillusionment with the old order is already implicit in this motif. We might compare this attitude with Gilgameš, which portrays the gods as afraid of the deluge that they themselves caused, curled up like dogs, and crowding around sacrifices like flies (XI.113–115; XI.161; George, 2003: 515). Enlil in particular is reprimanded when Ea accuses him of lack of foresight for causing the deluge (Gilgameš XI.181–195). It is to the deluge that we now turn, for Erra and Išum alludes to this event to further link Marduk with Enlil and demonstrate the need for his replacement.

3

The Deluge

The cosmic deluge that Enlil unleashed upon humankind is one of the most pervasive motifs in Mesopotamian literature. The imagery of the terrifying flood as a metaphor for fearsomeness in battle and terrible destruction stretches all the way back to the third millennium (e.g. in the Gudea Cylin-

16 17 18

In the Sippar tablet BM 37331 (Lambert, 1980a: 78–79) which preserves the beginning of tablet II. This is just one example of the events of the poem corresponding with ominous celestial events in Enūma Anu Enlil (Cooley, 2008). See also Cooley 2013: 107–108. Text from tablet II is a composite of Al-Rawi and Black (1989) supplementing Cagni (1969).

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ders, cf. Chen, 2013) and continues to be used in the latest literature of the first. Since violence is the central theme of Erra and Išum it is inevitable that the poem would engage with this tradition. The sending of the deluge was classically related in Atraḫasīs19 and was incorporated into the eleventh Tablet of Gilgameš. The flood portion of Standard Babylonian Atraḫasīs is not extant but judging from what has survived the Standard Babylonian text seems to be fairly close to the Old Babylonian, and so the Old Babylonian version is the one referred to here.20 Gilgameš presents the most complete account of the flood from first millennium sources so far known to us. Both these poems were current in the time of Erra and Išum, and so my analysis draws on both compositions as representations of the deluge in Akkadian literature. Gilgameš tells the story of the eponymous legendary king of Uruk for whom the gods orchestrate an indirect way to learn his mortal limits. They send him a companion, Enkidu, and strike him down with a mysterious illness, so that Gilgameš is devastated with grief when his companion dies and embarks on a quest for immortality. At the end of his journey he meets Uta-napišti,21 the only man to have attained this prize, who tells him the story of how he gained it: by surviving the deluge. This was an extraordinary event which was so catastrophic that the gods swore to never repeat it. It is a one-off in world history, a destruction never again to be inflicted (meaning that Gilgameš has no way of achieving the immortality he yearns for). Yet Erra and Išum portrays the destruction of Babylon as once again approaching disaster on this scale. Gilgameš has a long history, beginning with the Sumerian tales and developing into an Old Babylonian epic, and finally a Standard Babylonian version that replaced the others.22 The Standard Babylonian version frames the poem with a new prologue and closing lines that echoed it, and adds an Akkadian translation of the Sumerian Gilgameš, Enkidu, and the Netherworld as an epilogue,

19

20 21 22

A Sumerian flood story also exists but in only one fragmentary manuscript (CBS 10673, Civil apud Lambert & Millard, 1969: 138–145). For the history of Sumerian flood traditions see Chen (2013). For discussion of the manuscripts of Atraḫasīs see pp. 51–52 for the Old Babylonian version and pp. 105–107 for the Standard Babylonian version. Another name for Atraḫasīs, the hero of the poem of the same name. The critical edition and most recent translation is that of George (2003). Other manuscripts that have appeared since include most notably a large portion of Tablet V (Al-Rawi & George, 2014) and an Old Babylonian tablet that adds another week to the sexual marathon between Enkidu and Šamhat (George, 2018), as well as further fragments from Ugarit (George, 2007; Arnaud, 2007) and an unusual version where the progaonists have been named Sîn and Ea (George, 2007).

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among other alterations (George, 2003: 32). It is the Standard Babylonian version that is used here, since this would have been the one current at the time Erra and Išum was written.23 The poem was extraordinarily popular: in the Late Bronze Age it is found as far afield as Syria, Palestine, and Anatolia, and gave rise to versions in Hittite and Hurrian (George, 2003: 39). Ashurbanipal’s library held multiple copies, showing its continued importance in the first millennium (George, 2003: 39). As well as its account of the flood Gilgameš is particularly relevant to Erra and Išum in its first Tablet, which describes the creation of Enkidu in the wilderness, his taming by the sacred prostitute Šamḫat, and his transition to city life in Uruk, for these establish the civilized ways of life which Erra is to destroy. In contrast to the established tradition represented in these two poems, Erra and Išum blames Marduk for the deluge, the only surviving work of Mesopotamian literature to do so. In line I.132, Marduk himself says: ul-tu ⸢ul⸣-lu a-gu-gu-ma ina šub-ti-ia at-bu-ma aš₂-ku-na a-bu-bu “Long ago when I became angry and rose from my seat, I caused the deluge” Erra and Išum I.132

Rather than simply being a variant in the tradition about who sent the flood, this is a major statement that connects Marduk with the old and irrelevant ruler Enlil. This plays on the audience’s awareness that Marduk had replaced Enlil, and attributes Enlil’s bad qualities to Marduk as well as his position as supreme ruler. The deluge is Enlil’s worst act; it is portrayed as irresponsible and shortsighted, other gods rebuke him for it, and the rebellion of Ea and Atraḫasīs against him is portrayed as right and sensible. Attributing the deluge to Marduk shows him to be just as irresponsible as Enlil: by allowing Erra to have full sway, he allows a second metaphorical deluge of destruction to take place. Identifying Marduk with Enlil marks him out as part of the old order of gods who are no longer powerful in an ironic twist. Marduk once replaced Enlil, but now Marduk is impotent and obsolete himself and has been replaced by Erra. At the same time, Erra is identified with Enlil as the one who wreaks destruction on the scale of the deluge. We are encouraged to see him as even more irresponsible than Enlil, as his reasons are more trivial. Enlil sent the deluge 23

The earliest manuscripts are from the early first millennium, but the Standard Babylonian version was probably compiled earlier, in the second half of the second millennium when many other texts were similarly standardised (see George, 2003: 30).

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because he was disturbed by noise, and Erra and Išum also alludes to this excuse—in lines I.41–44 Anu says his reason for giving the Seven to Erra is so that he can massacre the people when their noise becomes too great. However, noise is not the real reason for Erra’s rampage, it is only a pretext for sheer indulgence in butchery.24 The old order also differs from the new in its marked difference in attitude. Enlil had no qualms about destroying mankind, and presumably Marduk had none either. Nor does Anu see anything wrong with the mass killing of human beings, since he gave the Seven to Erra so that he could cause this kind of destruction whenever he wishes. However, Išum challenges this outlook and pleads on mankind’s behalf when the slaughter becomes excessive. In doing this he takes on the role of the young warrior god who intervenes when the old gods cannot keep the cosmic order under control, but speaks with the voice of moderation. As such, Išum is a warrior of reason, using words to counter the destructive attitudes of the past. As Kvanvig has noted, Erra and Išum continually refers to Atraḫasīs in connection with noise and the deluge (2011: 171–176). It is the Seven who first mention the din of mankind and put the idea into Erra’s head that he should destroy them, inciting him to battle. They say that the Anunna gods cannot fall asleep for all the clamour, once again pitting human noise against divine rest, as in Atraḫasīs (Kvanvig, 2011: 172): a-na da-nun-na-ki ⸢ra⸣-’i-im šaḫ-ra-ar₂-ti damiqti(SIG₅) ⸢ep⸣-ša₂ / da-nun-na-ki ina ⸢ḫu⸣-bur nišī(UG₃)meš ul i-re-eḫ-ḫuu₂ šit-tum, ‘for the Anunnaki who love deathly silence, do something good! The Anunnaki cannot sleep through the noise of the people’ (Erra and Išum I.81–82). They urge Erra to act a-di ma-a-⸢tu⸣ nap-ḫar-ša₂ ir-bu-u₂ eli(UGU)-ni, ‘before the whole land becomes greater than us!’ (Erra and Išum I.79), which recalls the motif of population increase in Atraḫasīs I.353, [ma-tum ir-ta-pi₂-iš] ni-šu im-ti-da, ‘[the land extended], the people became many’ (Kvanvig, 2011: 172). In invoking the deluge they stir up old trouble, whipping up a conflict from long ago. In the first description of the Seven, Anu says he gave them to Erra so that: ki-i ša₂ nišī(UG₃)meš da-ad₂-me ḫu-bur-ši-na eli(UGU)-ka im-tar-ṣu ub-lam-ma lib₃-ba-ka ana ša₂-kan ka-ma-ri ṣal-mat qaqqadi(SAG.DU) a-na šu-mut-ti šum-qu-tu bu-ul dŠAKKAN₂ lu-u₂ giškakkū(TUKUL) meš-ka ez-zu-ti šu-nu-ma lil-li-ku i-da-a-ka “If the clamour of the people of the inhabited regions troubles you “and your heart resolves on destruction, 24

For more on this see the next section below.

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“to kill the black-headed and fell Šakkan’s herd, “let them be your fierce weapons, and let them march at your side!” Erra and Išum I.41–44

Anu’s words refer to the reason for Enlil’s flood, the unbearable noise of human activity that so disturbed him that he could not sleep. The idea presented here is that the gods see killing off part of the population when their noise becomes bothersome as reasonable and legitimate. The deluge is the classic method of doing this. Anu in Atraḫasīs does not intervene to prevent the destruction (III.v.40), and even supports Enlil when he is angry at Ea for circumventing him (III.vi.11–14). To speak to Erra in these terms thus condones this behaviour. Anu displays the same attitude as Enlil, encouraging Erra to continue in the same vein and perpetuating the stance of the old order. However, the use of the phrase ‘black-headed (people)’ (ṣal-mat qaqqadi (SAG.DU)), reminds us that not all gods hold this attitude. Išum is called the ‘shepherd of the black-headed people’ in the prologue at Erra and Išum I.3, implying that he is the protector of the people.25 He is the one who will help them escape the worst excesses of irresponsible gods, just as Ea did in Atraḫasīs. Just as Enlil was criticised for sending the deluge, so Marduk is criticised for allowing so much destruction to take place. Išum is not the only one to challenge the excesses of irresponsible gods. In Erra and Išum Tablet II, one god vents their frustration that Marduk has handed over power to Erra: min₃-su aš₂-šu ḫu-bu-uš pa-an mê(A)meš … ⸢a-me-lu⸣-ti ša ana šu-uḫ-muṭ ⸢tak-li⸣-me da-⸢nun⸣-⟨na⟩-ki ab-nu-u₂ ana-ku ina la a-dan-ni-šu id-di-in rubû(NUN) dmarduk(AMAR.UTU) ana sa-pan mātāti(KUR.KUR) ḫul-lu-uq nišī(UG₃)meš-šin ik-pu-ud lemuttu(ḪUL-tu₂) “Why, because of foam26 on the surface of water, “did prince Marduk give at the wrong time the […] of mankind, 25 26

See Weiershäuser (2010: 355–358) for Išum’s role as a protector of mankind outside this poem and see above on Išum the door, pp. 175–179. The word ḫubbušu derives from ḫabāšu, ‘to break up, crush’ (CAD H: 9; AHw I: 303). The translation originates with Gössmann, who suggested it refers to a “Zerstäubung der Wasseroberfläche” (1955: 46). Kvanvig’s criticism (2011: 172), which claims that Gössmann does not give any explanation for his choice, is thus unfounded. Kvanvig’s suggestion that it could also mean ‘broken pieces’, like the word ḫabšu used in a similar context at Erra and Išum IV.68, is however a possible alternative (2011: 172–173).

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“whom I myself created to bring quickly the taklīmu offerings of the [Anunnaki?] “To flatten the lands, to destroy their people, he plotted evil.” Erra and Išum II.11/26–14/29

This image of foam is also used at IV.68 to refer to the corpses of men floating on the water. Foster suggests that here it is used to express ‘a passing whim’ (2005: 891). When we put together these instances, the image comes to express trivial destruction, referring to both the slaughter of men and the levity of its justification. The same image is thus used of Marduk’s irresponsible decision to hand power to Erra here, and of Erra’s subsequent rampage when it is narrated in Tablet IV. Furthermore, it recalls the comparison between the corpses of men and flies floating on the water in Atraḫasīs III.iv.6 (Kvanvig, 2011: 173), a direct link to the flood of Enlil. Such a comment on the irresponsible behaviour of the god, and care for human beings in defiance of it, is found also with reference to the original deluge. Ea in Atraḫasīs saved mankind from Enlil’s flood, and rebukes him for sending it in Gilgameš (XI.183–195).27 We cannot be sure which god makes this comment in Erra and Išum—the parallel sentiment may suggest that it is Ea who speaks here too (as Al-Rawi & Black, 1989: 112), but the fact that he delivers the next speech makes this less likely, as he seems to be replying to the previous one. The reference to humans as ša … abnû anāku ‘whom I myself created’ in line 13/28 may imply the speaker is Ea (Kvanvig, 2011: 172) or Bēlet-ilī, since both were involved in the creation of men in Atraḫasīs. The sentiment is also parallel with the laments of the mother goddess in Atraḫasīs, as she regrets the sending of the deluge (III.iii.34–54; III.iv.4ff.; III.v.37-vi.4), so perhaps it is more likely that she is speaking here. Whichever deity utters these words, the rebuke is a protest against both Marduk and Erra for acting with the same irresponsibility shown by Enlil. They are reproached for causing destruction for trivial reasons, just as Enlil was, equating them with this reviled figure. Later on the same tablet, Erra gives instructions that prevent any god from giving the same kind of assistance to men as Ea did in Atraḫasīs. Erra knows how Enlil was outwitted before, and takes steps to prevent the same thing happening to him as he commands all of them to withhold gifts and ignore supplications: [ṣal-mat] ⸢qaqqadi(SAG⸣.DU) i-šas-su-ka-ma e tam-ḫu-ra su-uppe-⸢šin⸣, ‘[The black-headed] will cry to you: but you should not accept their prayers’ (II.c.23/11). It was through mass entreaties to the god causing each spe-

27

Cf. below p. 209 ff.

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cific affliction that men evaded Enlil’s first three attempts to destroy them. Erra, too, is aware of precedent, and he is not leaving any such loophole for his plans to be thwarted; he is as unreasonable as Enlil and even more bent on destruction. Just as Ti’āmtu seemed to have learned from literary precedent when she took action to prevent her children from being destroyed, here too Erra takes action for the opposite reason, to ensure that destruction takes place. This is yet another instance of Erra and Išum subverting earlier poems, and here even seeming to subvert an earlier instance of literary self consciousness.

4

Disturbed Sleep

The motif of sleep deprivation found in both Atraḫasīs and Enūma eliš is invoked by Erra and Išum to build up the threat of the coming destruction. As we have already seen with the description of Išum, which alludes to many poetic predecessors, so too are allusions to characters in two different poems used to emphasise different aspects of Erra: Enlil for his irresponsibility, and Ti’āmtu for his destructive potential. 4.1 Atraḫasīs Although the provocation for the deluge in Atraḫasīs is noise, this is not the cause of Marduk’s deluge or Erra’s rampage. Marduk does not state the reason for his anger when he recounts the story, but the fact that he rose from his seat implies that he left the temple, a deliberate abandonment of a guilty people (Cagni, 1977: 33). He makes no complaint of their noise. Although Anu’s words at I.41–44 imply that noisiness is legitimate ground for slaughter, since he says that the role of the Seven is to kill off clamorous humans, noise is not cited as a reason for Erra’s discontent. Nor is this implied by the initial exhortation: der₃-ra ti-bi-ma ina sa-pan ma-a-ti ki-i nam-rat kab-ta-at-ka u₃ ḫa-du-u lib-bu-uk der₃-ra ki-i ša₂ a-me-li dal-pi i-da-a-šu₂ an-[ḫa] Arise, Erra, and by flattening the land how cheered your mind will be, how your heart will rejoice! Erra’s limbs are [weary] like those of a man who cannot sleep.28 Erra and Išum I.13–15

28

Taking lines 13–14 as Erra’s heart speaking to him (Müller, 1995: 352).

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The use of a simile is interesting here. Saying that Erra’s limbs are like (ki-i) those of a man who cannot sleep may exclude sleep deprivation from the actual cause of restlessness. His state is ‘like’ that of someone who is sleep-deprived, rather than being sleep-deprived himself. Alternatively, the important point of comparison may be that Erra is like a man, which reinforces the accusations made elsewhere that Erra is behaving like a human (see below pp. 210–211). The mention of sleeplessness reminds us of the parallel situation in Atraḫasīs, and thus invites a comparison with Enlil who destroyed men because he could not sleep. Enlil’s response was disproportionate and thus condemned (e.g. Atraḫasīs I.v.42). Erra’s response is an overreaction just as violent as Enlil’s, as his rampage threatens to wipe out all of Babylonia (Erra and Išum IV.1–127). We are encouraged to see him as just as irresponsible as Enlil, if not more so, for he is not suffering the same conditions. At the beginning he is not eager for action until he is goaded by the Seven, whose reasoning is that noise is preventing the Anunna gods from sleeping (Erra and Išum I.82). However, this cannot be Erra’s real motivation: he never mentions it himself and it is never referred to again. Eliminating the source of noise does not even result in rest. Machinist and Sasson argue that violence can produce rest through the ‘cleansing exhaustion’ it creates (1983: 224). However, at IV.104ff. Išum reels off a long list of the peoples Erra has devastated, adding: u₃ na-ḫa-am-ma ul ta-nu-uḫ, ‘Yet you could not rest at all!’ (IV.112). If rest was the aim, it is not achieved. When Erra does eventually relent, it is not because he has been satiated by more killing, but because he is swayed by Išum’s last speech. Disturbance of sleep in Erra and Išum, then, is no more than a pretext for violence, and citing it as an excuse can be read as another critique of the mass slaughter of men. The point is reinforced by a reversal of motives: Enlil wreaks destruction in Atraḫasīs because his sleep is disturbed, but Erra’s sleep is disturbed because he is compelled to wreak destruction. That is, Enlil’s primary goal is rest, and he uses violence to obtain it, while Erra’s goal is violence for its own sake— his sleep is disturbed by the Seven, who talk him into inciting violence. This is a reversal of the situation in Atraḫasīs, a classic allusive technique that brings out the differences between the two characters as well as their similarities. That both Erra and Enlil are in a state of rest at the beginning of each poem emphasises the difference in their circumstances. For Enlil, rest is a desired state that is interrupted by the noise of humans, and so he acts to silence them. Erra too was perfectly happy dallying in his bedroom when the poem opens, until he is interrupted by the Seven goading him into action.29 While Enlil is roused 29

For a different reflection on rest and violence in Erra and Išum see Machinist & Sasson

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by anger towards the noise and decides to eliminate it, Erra’s mind is changed by the restlessness of the Seven who desire war for its own sake. That is, Enlil makes his own decision, but Erra is swayed by his weapons, who ought to be subject to his command rather than influencing him so powerfully. The Seven were given to Erra to use when he has had enough of clamour (I.41–44), but rather than being at his service to use when he sees fit, the weapons persuade him to wreak destruction. This presents Erra as a fickle god who is not in control of his own decisions but is easily manipulated by outside forces. Marduk is also depicted in a similar way, as he was persuaded to give up his seat alarmingly easily although he was fully aware of the potential consequences. Both Marduk and Erra are therefore shown to be vulnerable to manipulation by chaotic forces. This paints a frightening picture of the cosmos, no longer upheld by the rational decisions of the great gods. However, Erra’s fickleness also has positive consequences for mortals. For just as the Seven can persuade Erra to begin his rampage, so too Išum can persuade him to stop. This is underlined by the repetition of a phrase that marks both turning points, appearing both when Erra is persuaded to begin and also when he is persuaded to cease. At the end of the speech of the Seven that successfully persuades Erra to take up arms it is said: a-mat dSeven(IMIN.BI) iq-bu-u₂ ki-i u₂-lu šamni(I₃.GIŠ) eli(UGU)-šu ⸢i⸣-ṭib i-pu-uš-ma pa-a-šu i-zak-kar ana d[i]-⸢šum⸣ The word the Seven spoke pleased him (Erra) like the finest oil. He opened his mouth to speak to Išum Erra and Išum I.93–94

At the end of Išum’s speech, which successfully persuades Erra to lay these arms down, it is said: a-mat di-šum iq-bu-šu ki-i u₂-lu šamni eli(UGU)-šu ⸢i⸣-ṭib u₃ ki-a-am iq-ta-bi qu-ra-du der₃-ra The word Išum spoke to him pleased him like the finest oil and warrior Erra spoke thus: Erra and Išum IV.129–130 (1983). One may also think of Enki and Ninmaḫ, where a sleeping Enki is woken by Namma, urging him to do something because the gods are smashing their tools in protest at their forced labour. Enki’s solution is to create mankind to do the work. Erra, on the other hand, is roused from his bed to destroy, not create.

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The repetition of the image connects the two instances and emphasises the idea that the gods can be influenced. As well as being swayed by divine figures, they can also be influenced by mortal prayers. This very principle is expressed in the poem’s function as an amulet, as the poem itself declares that hanging it up in a house will protect it from Erra’s wrath (V.57–58), effectively claiming that displaying Išum’s persuasive words will speak to the god and mollify him. In spite of Erra’s instruction to the gods not to listen to entreaties, he is himself swayed by them in the end. 4.2 Enūma eliš Stirring up Erra from his state of rest to murderous destruction also has parallels with the beginning of Enūma eliš. There is a parallel between Erra and Mami sleeping together and Apsû and Ti’āmtu mingling their waters, a state of rest and eroticized leisure at the start of both poems which is soon to be interrupted.30 The parallels continue: Erra is stirred up by the goading of the Seven (a long speech of 46 lines, Erra and Išum I.46–91), and thus persuaded to get up from his bed and start killing mankind. This recalls Apsû and Ti’āmtu being stirred up by their children, though by actions rather than words. Apsû (also like Enlil in Atraḫasīs) cannot sleep for the clamour, and in a fit of rage resolves to kill his children who are the source of the disturbance. In Enūma eliš and Atraḫasīs the agents of disturbance and the ones who suffer the consequences are the same. In Erra and Išum, however, the provocateurs are the Seven rather than the human beings that bear the brunt of Erra’s wrath. This emphasises the lack of cosmic justice and order early in Erra and Išum, especially when one compares the situation in the previous poems. The relationship between cause and effect is more distant, more unpredictable, and subject to complex factors other than behaviour and consequences. Erra and Išum thus overturns the values established by Enūma eliš. The cosmic order of Marduk has crumbled, traditional models of heroism have been subverted, and Babylon is no longer strong or great. It is fitting, then, that at its beginning Erra and Išum should echo Enūma eliš, in what will become a grim parody of sorts. Apsû and Ti’āmtu’s mingling results in new birth followed by Apsû’s threat of destruction, but Erra skips straight to destruction without any initial procreation. In Enūma eliš that threat was neutralised first by Ea and the subsequent threat was dealt with by Marduk—no destruction ever materialised. In Erra and Išum the destruction is very real. As noted earlier, Apsû’s destruction at least was provoked, while Erra’s decision to kill off humans seems even more whimsical, and even worse. 30

I owe this observation to Daniel Bodi’s paper ‘“Let the Sleeping Dogs Lie” or the Taboo

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The echoes are verbal as well as thematic, since marāṣu and dalāḫu are used in both poems. In Erra and Išum I.41–44 (quoted above pp. 195–196) it is stated that Anu gave the Seven to Erra to be his weapons so that he could kill off the population if he is bothered by their noise. The word used to describe this emotional state is imtarṣu: ki-i ša₂ nišī(UG₃)meš da-ad₂-me ḫu-bur-ši-na eli(UGU)-ka im-tar-ṣu, ‘If the clamour of the people of the inhabited regions troubles you’ (I.41). The same verb is used for Apsû and Ti’āmtu’s distress, firstly for Ti’āmtu: im-tar-ṣa-am-ma ep-še-ta-šu-un e-li-ša la ṭa-bat al-kat₃-su-nu šu-nu-ti i-ga-mi₃-la Their actions troubled her, their behaviour was not good, but she would indulge them. Enūma eliš I.27–28

Similarly Apsû declares: im-tar-ṣa-am-ma al-kat₂-su-un e-li-ia ur-ri-iš la šu-up-šu-ḫa-ku mu-ši-iš la ṣa-al-la-ku “Their behaviour troubled me, “by day I am allowed no rest, at night I cannot sleep” Enūma eliš I.37–38

The verb marāṣu is not rare, but its use is not inevitable either since other vocabulary choices were available. The use of this particular word in Erra and Išum reinforces the parallel in plot with Enūma eliš, both working together to put us in mind of the beginning of the earlier poem. Nor is this the only instance of such a reminder. Another echo of the disturbance of Ti’āmtu comes in Erra and Išum I.70 where the Seven describe the destruction they long for, this time using the verb dalāḫu, ‘to stir up’: ḫur-sa-a-ni zaq-ru-ti liš-mu-ma [li-tab-bi?]-tu-ma liš-pi-la re-⸢ša₂⸣-šu-un ta-ma-a-ti gal-la-ti liš-ma-ma [lid]-⸢dal⸣-ḫa-ma li-ḫal-li-qa ⸢me⸣-šer₃-tašin “Let the high mountains hear and their peaks [be utterly destroyed] and lie low! (NÍG.GIG=ikkibu) of the Sacredness of Sleep as Order and Noise at Night (‘tapage nocturne’) as Disorder in Some Ancient Near Eastern Texts’, forthcoming in CRRAI 59.

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“Let the rolling seas hear and be stirred up, let them destroy their produce!” Erra and Išum I.69–70

The first line echoes Ninurta’s exploits in the mountains, while the language in the second line echoes the physical disturbance of Ti’āmtu when she is roiled up by Marduk: ib-šim ep-ra me-ḫa-a u₂-ša₂-az-bal u₂-šab-ši a-ga-am-ma u₂-dal-laḫ₃ ti-amta He created dust, he made a storm carry it, he created a wave to stir up Ti’āmtu Enūma eliš I.107–108

This combination of allusions to the flattening of the mountains and the disturbance of Ti’āmtu depicts a desire to wreak havoc on a more intense scale than ever before. A battle like Ninurta’s is not enough, the sea must be thrown into disorder as well, causing a threat to the cosmic order like that at the time of Marduk’s birth. The verb that is used is dalāḫu in both instances. Interestingly, the parallel situation in Enūma eliš invoked here was a situation of Marduk’s own making, as it was his wave that stirred up Ti’āmtu. Somewhat similarly, in Erra and Išum it is Marduk’s failure to keep control that will lead to the manifestation of this chaos. The echoes are also found in association with the Seven, who both aim to stir up trouble and are equated with Ti’āmtu’s agents of chaos (Gössmann, 1955: 82).31 We find another occurrence of marāṣu in Erra and Išum I.78, where the Seven themselves use it of their incitements: bu-ul dšakkan ⸢u₃⸣ ⸢nam⸣-maš-še-e le-qu-u še-ṭu-ut-ni qu-ra-du der₃-ra ni-qab-bi-kum₂-ma at-mu-ni [li]-⸢im⸣-ru-uṣ a-di ma-a-⸢tu⸣ nap-ḫar-ša₂ ir-bu-u₂ eli(UGU)-ni min₃-de-ma at-ta še-ma-ta a-mat-ni “The herds of Šakkan and the wild beasts hold us in contempt! “Warrior Erra, we are talking to you, may our speech be troubling! 31

Gössmann was the first to spot the following similarities between the Seven and Ti’āmtu, though his explanation was that the poet could not create new monsters and so had to draw from the existing tradition.

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“Before the whole land becomes greater than us “perhaps you will hear our words!” Erra and Išum I.77–80

The Seven thus rouse Erra in a way that echoes the stirring up of Ti’āmtu in Enūma eliš: they wish for their speech to stir up Erra into unleashing a fury like hers. It is a harbinger of the threat to come that the scale of the intended destruction parallels that of Ti’āmtu and her army. This is reinforced by a line describing one of the Seven themselves that recalls Ti’āmtu’s monsters. Anu, decreeing the destinies of his new creations, says: i-⸢ta⸣-[mi] ana šal-ši zi-im la-bi lu šak-na-⸢ta⸣-ma a-mir₃-ka liḫ₄-har-miṭ He says to the third, “May you be given the face of a lion, may the one who sees you dissolve (in fear)!” Erra and Išum I.34

Compare this with Ti’āmtu’s exhortations to her host: a-mi-ir-šu₂-nu šar-ba-bi-iš li-iḫ-ḫar-⸢mi⸣-im zu-mur-šu-nu liš-taḫ-ḫi-ṭam-ma la i-ne₂-’u-u₂ i-rat-su-un “Let the one who sees them collapse in weakness! “Let their bodies keep leaping, not turning their breast!” Enūma eliš I.139–140

The verbs naḫarmuṭu and naḫarmumu, ‘dissolve’ and ‘collapse’, sound very similar (only one consonant different) and have a similar meaning in these contexts. Furthermore, the seventh of the Seven is filled with poison, an attribute that resonates with both Enūma eliš and Anzû:32 se-ba-a i-mat ba-aš₃-me i-ṣe-en-šu₂-ma šum-qi₂-ta na-piš-ta

32

Cooley has compared the description of the Seven in Erra and Išum I.31–38 with a passage describing seven monsters in Gilgameš and Huwawa 34–44, suggesting the similarities may be due to a common stock description of monsters in Mesopotamian mythology (2013: 89–90). It is likely that Erra and Išum is based on such a tradition, but the details which allude to Enūma eliš are not found in Gilgameš and Huwawa, suggesting that while the description was rooted in tradition, the allusions were deliberately added.

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He loaded the seventh with poison of the bašmu-snake, (saying) “Wreck life!”33 Erra and Išum I.38

The motif also occurred at the very beginning of the poem when Erra i-tami ana giškakkī(TUKUL)meš-šu₂ lit-pa-ta i-mat mu-u-ti, ‘says to his weapons, “Smear yourselves with deadly poison!”’ (Erra and Išum I.7–8), harking back to Ninurta’s ‘poisonous’ arrows in Anzû. Similarly in Enūma eliš Ti’āmtu fills her creatures with poison (imtu in all three cases): [zaq]-⸢tu⸣-ma šin-ni la pa-du-u at-ta-’i-[i] im-tu ki-ma da-mu zu-mur-šu₂-nu uš-ma-al-⸢li⸣ Sharp of tooth, merciless in fang34 She filled their bodies with poison instead of blood Enūma eliš I.135–136 = II.21–22 = III.83–84

Filling the very last of the Seven with poison places the motif in a prominent position. It is the climax of the list of the Seven’s destinies, putting us in mind of Ti’āmtu’s creation of her army. These links between Erra’s weapons and Ti’āmtu’s paint Erra as a comparable threat to the cosmic order, and, in particular, as an opponent of Marduk. This is borne out when it is revealed that Erra’s first step is plotting to remove Marduk from his throne (Erra and Išum I.123). However, this is not a difficult task, as Erra easily persuades Marduk to relinquish control. This is a reversal of the ease of Marduk’s victory in Enūma eliš, where he had no trouble defeating his enemy swiftly and decisively. The tables have turned: now Marduk is the one who is easily overpowered and ousted by a force of chaos. The context of these particular lines addressing the Seven (Erra and Išum I.34 and 38) is also revealing, as they are part of a chain of allusions. Firstly, we have the description of Išum as a door, which reminds us of Ninurta’s protective aspects in Lugal-e (see above p. 175 ff.). Immediately following in the next line comes the description of the birth of the Seven, born of Anu’s seed sown in the earth (Erra and Išum I.28). This very much recalls the birth of Asag in Lugal-e: an-e ki sig₇-ga ĝiš₃ im-ma-du₁₁ ‘Anu copulated with verdant earth’ (Lugal-e 26–27). While this is a standard aetiology for demons, the other more specific references to Lugal-e early on in Erra and Išum put us in mind of that poem, which makes us more likely to be reminded of its demonic antagonist here. 33 34

Var. B: u₂-šam-qat ‘he made it wreck life’. at-ta-’i-i (variants: cc an-ta-⸢’i-i⸣, ⸢at⸣-ta-’a-am in ms. b(ff)) is a hapax.

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Then shortly afterwards come the lines connecting the Seven to Ti’āmtu’s army (Erra and Išum I.34 and 38). These images all work together to portray the Seven as instruments of chaos. Išum is the door holding them back from unleashing devastation, they are born like Asag, and they are much like Ti’āmtu’s forces in character—three different types of chaos combined. They are as threatening as the deluge, the army of stones, and the poisonous monsters all at once. The references to other stories hint at the danger that they could be repeated once again.

5

A Time before the Flood

The two connotations of clamour (rigmu / ḫubūru) in Akkadian poetry for both constructive human activity and destructive sounds of war (see Michalowski, 1990: 389; Foster, 2005: 31) are here set against each other. The noise of Erra’s violence, a negative force, threatens to drown out the noise of civilization. This is made explicit by the speech of the Seven, who long to hear battle cries (Erra and Išum I.61) instead of the sounds of civilization (I.81). What seems to be happening is a regression from civilization, as represented by constructive activity, the bustle of cities, and co-operation, to a more primitive and desolate state of wilderness, individualism, and violence. The Seven’s praise of the warrior’s life spells out this regression to less civilised ways, scorning the city life and all it represents (Pongratz-Leisten, 2001: 221). They scorn the eating of bread (I.49), prefer water from skins to brewed beer (I.58), and exalt the makeshift shelter over a solidly built palace (I.59). In I.76–77 they ask: qu-ra-du der₃-ra min₃-su ṣēra(EDIN) ⸢tu-⟨maš⟩-šir₃⸣-ma35 tu-šib ina ⸢āli(URU)⸣ bu-ul dŠAKKAN₂ ⸢u₃ nam⸣-maš-e-e le-qu-u še-ṭu-ut-ni Warrior Erra, why did you abandon the steppe and dwell in the city? Šakkan’s herds and the wild beasts hold us in contempt! Erra and Išum I.76–77

The concepts and language in this speech are closely comparable to those in Tablet I of Gilgameš, which describes the transformation of Enkidu from wild man to civilized man, moving from the steppe to the city. The word ṣēru(EDIN), 35

So S; var. I: tu-x-⸢šar⸣-[ma] = tu-maš?-⸢šar⸣-[ma]? (Cagni, 1969: 65).

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meaning ‘steppe,’36 appears ten times in Tablet I of Gilgameš and Enkidu is frequently referred to as belonging to a herd of wild animals (būlu, būl nammašê, būl ṣēri(EDIN)).37 This is the location and condition of the lullû, the primitive man, but Šamhat comes to civilize Enkidu and bring him to the city (Gilgameš I.207–212). After Enkidu has sex with Šamhat, his herds run away from him (I.196–198). The city is a symbol of civilization (George, 2003: 527), and so the Seven’s condemnation of city-life, their praise of the wild, and rebuke of Erra for the taming of his violence, together imply that violence is a regressive state, a wildness more suited to beasts than men. The contrast between the ways of the city and those of the steppe pit the two realms against each other, with the uncivilized agents of war firmly placed outside urban territory. When plotting his actions, Erra delights in the thought of beasts of the steppe running about in the squares of the city (II.41–42), the symbol of the destruction of civilization altogether and its return to the wild. There are other instances of moving backwards in the poem. The Seven exclaim ⸢bu⸣-lum li-ru-ur-ma li-tur a-na ṭi-iṭ-⸢ṭi⸣, ‘May the herd shake and turn back into clay!’ (I.74), a line that recurs at IV.150. This metaphor for death may have a more particular resonance here with the theme of regression, a return to bare materials, from complex things to primitive ones. It recalls the spell of Anzû (III.63–65), which turns arrows back into their constituent parts, equating them with this earlier force of chaos, but while Anzû only attacked Ninurta’s arrows, the Seven will go much further, attacking all living creatures in their path. The motif also occurs in Bēlet-ilī’s lament in Gilgameš XI.119: u₄-mu-ul-luu₂ a-na ṭi-iṭ-ṭi lu-u₂ i-tur-ma, ‘Humankind has turned to clay!’38 and Uta-napišti’s own description of the devastation caused by the deluge: u₃ kul-lat te-ne₂-še-ti i-tu-ra a-na ṭi-iṭ-ṭi, ‘all the people had turned to clay’ (Gilgameš XI.135).39 Clay as 36

37 38

39

I.102, 103, 132, 133, 159, 160, 179, 198, 208, 223. The word ṣēru (EDIN) also appears eleven times with a prepositional meaning, an unusually high frequency which we may suspect deliberately reinforces the centrality of the steppe to this tablet. I.111, 112, 117, 127, 142, 145, 154, 163, 166, 172, 173, 176, 177, 187, 196, 198, 208. Cf. Fleming & Milstein (2010: 23–32) for the origins of Enkidu in the wild. u₄-mu-ul-lu-u₂ is usually interpreted as u₄-mu ul-lu-u₂ ‘that/distant day’ (see George, 2003: 886–887). However, taking it as a reference to Enki and Ninmah may produce a more coherent reading (J.N. Postgate, personal communication). This Sumerian composition relates the creation of humankind by Enki out of clay, in a manner similar to that of Atraḫasīs. ‘Umul’ is the name of the last human created in that sequence, the first baby to be naturally born (Kilmer, 1972: 165–166, n. 28, 1976), and is written u₄-mu-ul (edition Ceccarelli, 2016: 118, line 56, there read u₄-ĝu10-ul). The form umullû would be a plausible borrowing of this word into Akkadian. Furthermore it renders the most sense—the human being created from clay has been turned back into it, this one man standing for all human beings, giving a more tangible meaning than the abstract day turning into clay. Neither of these images are used in the Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs, so the idea may be a late one.

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the raw material for the initial creation of man, described in Atraḫasīs, is also used for this in Gilgameš (I.102) when Aruru creates Enkidu by throwing down a pinch of clay on the steppe. The use of the motif of living things returning to clay, then, resonates with the destruction caused by the deluge, as well as the language of annihilation found in lamentations, echoed by Anzû’s spell (see p. 59 ff.). Although flood imagery is common in Mesopotamian poetry, in Erra and Išum we have a network of specific references to the original flood, which together imply that the destruction wreaked by Erra is so devastating that its only parallel is the original cosmic deluge. In addition, the language of ‘returning’ to an unworked state suggests a return to an older time before clay was made into a man: so many are dead that it is as if mankind had never been created. The deluge was a significant turning point on the Mesopotamian mythic timescale; to return to a time before the deluge is to return to the beginning of historical time itself. Numerous allusions thus paint Erra’s devastation as a deluge. Although flood imagery was a cliché of Mesopotamian literature for massive destruction, here the image does more than emphasise the magnitude of the calamity. It is more than a casual use of the motif, for it re-animates the cliché by referring to a specific point in time, giving it a particular meaning: allusions in Erra and Išum are not just a shorthand for catastrophe but refer specifically to the original deluge narrated in Atraḫasīs and Gilgameš. A hint of the coming ‘deluge’ of destruction first comes at the very start of the poem when Erra’s heart urges him: 40 der₃-ra ti-bi-ma ina sa-pan ma-a-ti ki-i nam-rat kab-ta-at-ka u₃ ḫa-du-u lib-bu-uk Arise, Erra! In overwhelming the land how bright your mood and joyful your heart will be! Erra and Išum I.13–14 40

Following Müller’s attribution of these lines, which solves the difficulties raised by other possibilities (1995: 352). Some commentators ascribe I.13–14 to Išum (Hruška, 1973: 5; Machinist & Sasson, 1983: 222; Farber, 2008: 264), which would make him the one inciting Erra to violence. This is somewhat odd, since it clashes with the role Išum plays in the rest of the poem as the moderator of Erra’s wrath (Cagni, 1977: 85, n. 6). Cagni proposes that Erra is addressing himself here. Müller is more specific in explaining how this works, that he is addressing his heart, which dramatises the conflict within him. See Weiershäuser, 2010: 359–364, with further literature, for previous attributions. It is worth remembering that the ambiguity may well be deliberate, as may other ambiguities in the poem (Noegel, 2011: 186–187).

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Those who know Ea’s rebuke to Enlil in Gilgameš XI may be put on alert at this, since there Ea proposed alternatives to the deluge such as: am-ma-ku taš-ku-nu a-bu-ba der₃-ra lit-ba-am-ma māta(KUR) ⸢liš⸣-[giš] Instead of you causing the deluge Erra should have arisen to slaughter the land!41 Gilgameš XI.194–195

This connection was first noticed by Haubold, who saw that it foreshadows the action of Erra and Išum (2002: 8, n. 33). Erra’s arising to devastate the land, then, has already been indirectly connected with the deluge in literary history. The allusion implies that the coming destruction will approach it in scale, but not be quite as extreme. In Gilgameš Erra’s slaughter is suggested because it is supposedly a less severe punishment than the flood. It is proposed that plague or war would be a more moderate way of reducing the population than drowning all living creatures. Erra and Išum dramatizes the suggestion made in Gilgameš, as Erra now rises from his bed to slaughter the land just as had once been proposed (Haubold, 2002: 8 n. 33). And yet the result is a disaster not less than the deluge but equal to it, or so the other allusions to Gilgameš in Erra and Išum imply. The allusion has the potential to lull us into a false sense of security. It leads us to think that the slaughter may be great, but not an abominable disaster. Later allusions suggest otherwise.42 In Tablet IV, Erra speaks of his own destruction in terms that echo the flood as described in Gilgameš: tar₂-kul-la lu-us-su-uḫ-ma lit-te-eq-lep-pa-a gišeleppu(MA₂) sik-kan-na lu-uš-bir-ma la im-me-da ana kib-ri tim-ma lu-uš-ḫu-uṭ-ma lu-us-su-ḫa si-mat-su Let me rip out the mooring-pole so that the ship keeps drifting away, Let me break the rudder so it cannot dock at the shore, Let me tear out the mast, let me rip out its rigging. Erra and Išum IV.118–120

41 42

Var. J₁: nišī(UG₃) ‘the people’. Cf. the misdirection introduced by the connection of Qingu to both Anzû and Plant-stone pp. 141–143.

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This is a reference to Erra’s role in the original deluge. In Gilgameš at line XI.102, in the description of the flood, we are told that: ⸢tar⸣-kul-li der₃-ra-kal ina-as-saḫ, ‘Errakal was ripping out the mooring-poles’.43 This line also appears in similar permutations in Old Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian Atraḫasīs (Lambert & Millard, 1969: II.vii.51; U.15), and these are Errakal’s only appearances in literary or mythological texts. Erra and Errakal are one and the same, for god lists from the Old Babylonian period onwards list Errakal as a name of Nergal right after Erra.44 The passage in Erra and Išum therefore alludes to the destruction Erra wreaked once before during the flood, and expresses a desire to re-enact the previous devastation. The language is the same, and the one line taken from the traditional narratives has been expanded into three, showing the god’s wrathful desires intensifying.45 This is one way that the poem moves backwards. Another is a reference to Atraḫasīs, which famously opens with the line: i-nu-ma i-lu a-wi-lum, ‘When the gods were men’ (line 1), interpreted by some to mean ‘when the gods were like men’ (following Lambert & Millard, 1969: 146; Groneberg, 1978: 20). When Išum says to Erra: i-lu-ut-ka tu-ša₂-an-ni-ma tam-ta-šal a-me-liš, ‘You have changed your divine nature and become like a human!’46 (Erra and Išum IV.3), it therefore connects back to one of the most popular works of Akkadian literature.47 The first meaning of this rebuke is that Erra has ‘behaved like an insensate mortal’ (Cagni, 1977: 49), however, it is also more: Erra has regressed to the divine equivalent of a primitive state, a state that the gods were in only before the flood. This rebuke precedes a description of Erra entering Babylon and stirring it to civil war. The human-like behaviour is probably twofold: the irresponsibility of such an act, and the act of rebellion itself. In Atraḫasīs it is the god Wê who instigates the rebellion against Enlil. His rallying cry is: al-ka-nim i ni-iš-ši-a i-na šu-ub-ti-šu, ‘Come, let us remove (him)

43

44

45 46 47

An alternative possibility is that tarkullū are regulator posts controlling the water level in weirs, as in both Gilgameš and Atraḫasīs the line is accompanied by Ninurta making the weirs overflow (mi-iḫ-ri u₂-šar-di, Gilgameš XI.103; mi-iḫ-ra [u₂-šar-di] Atraḫasīs U rev. 14; li-ri-[di mi-iḫ-ra] Atraḫasīs II.vii.52). This would make sense in Erra and Išum as well, since the removal of these posts would make the boat float away downstream. Erragal in the Old Babylonian Weidner god list AfK 2, 17: 17 and the Old Babylonian list from Susa MDP 27, 286 ii 2’, Errakal in the later lists An = Anum VI.10 and CT 25, 35 r. 15 ff. (Wiggermann, RLA IX: 217–218). For analysis of these lines see Foster (2007: 107). As translated by Cagni. See also II.B.27 where it is stated: der₃-ra i-tam-ma-[a] kīma(GIN₇) amēli(LU₂), ‘Erra speaks like a man,’ though it is unclear exactly what this refers to since this part of the tablet is broken.

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from his dwelling!’ (Old Babylonian Atraḫasīs I.44, 58, 60)—which matches Erra’s desire to unseat Marduk: ina šub-ti-šu₂ a-de-ki-ma, ‘I will rouse him from his dwelling’ (Erra and Išum I.123). Atraḫasīs the man shows this rebellious streak when he thwarts Enlil’s plans to destroy the human race, not only by surviving himself, but by taking with him on board the boat the means to revive human civilization. Perhaps, then, the main point of comparison when it is said that Erra behaves and speaks like a man, is his rebellion against the head of the pantheon. Erra is not the only god to move backwards. Regression is represented in a more explicit way by Marduk going back down to the Apsû, his place of birth in Enūma eliš I.81. The physical location of his movement corresponds with his loss of power—he moves back to the place where he dwelt before the slaying of Ti’āmtu, and at the same time as he loses his supremacy he moves back to where he came from before he earned it, to infancy and powerlessness.

6

Marduk’s Defeat and Erra’s Victory48

While Enūma eliš establishes order, Erra and Išum undoes order and descends into chaos. The reversal is neatly illustrated by two allusions to the blood on the wind of Enūma eliš (IV.31–32, 131–132) that both encapsulate Marduk’s utter defeat as Erra’s victory supersedes his former triumphs. The first comes in Išum’s lament for Erra’s destruction, which contains the lines: damē(UŠ₂)meš-šu₂-nu ki-ma mê(A)meš ra-a-ṭi tu-ša₂-aṣ-bi-ta ri-bit āli(URU) ⸢u₃⸣-mun-na-šu₂-nu tap-te-e-ma tu-ša₂-bil₂ nāra(ID₂) “You made the city squares take their blood like drain water, “You opened their arteries and made the river carry (their blood) away.” Erra and Išum IV.34–35

The corresponding lines in Enūma eliš describe Marduk’s actions after defeating Ti’āmtu:

48

The material in this section was first published in JAOS 139.2 as part of ‘Blood on the wind and the tablet of destinies: intertextuality in Anzû, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum’.

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u₂-par-ri-i’-ma uš-la-at da-mi-ša ša-a-ru il-ta-nu a-na bu-us-ra-ti uš-ta-bil He cut open the arteries of her blood, the north wind sent it as good news. Enūma eliš IV.131–132

In Enūma eliš, it was the blood of a defeated monster that was carried away as a sign of victory, but in Erra and Išum it is the blood of the people of Babylon. This underscores the misdirection and perversity of Erra’s violence—for him, victory is slaughter of the native population. They may not be entirely innocent,49 but certainly are not a threat to the cosmic order like Ti’āmtu. This time, the blood is not carried on the wind, up in the air, but on the ground as if in the drains, perhaps a sign of how low Išum considers Erra’s actions to be. The allusion might also be considered to be a correction of the blood on the wind motif, putting the blood at ground level where it more naturally runs.50 This edits out the supernatural aspects of Marduk’s victory and emphasises the stark reality of the situation facing the Babylonians now. Either way, Erra’s victory is a perverse one, and does not bring about a new world order as Marduk’s does, but causes its very collapse. The lengthy laments over the destruction wreaked in this poem speak as a condemnation of such violence (Foster, 2007: 67), and emphasise the suffering of its victims (George, 2013: 56). Further echoes of Marduk’s victory are found just a few lines later in Marduk’s lament for his city: u’₃-a bābilu(TIN.TIR)ki ša₂ ki-ma gišgišimmari(GIŠIMMAR) qim-ma-tu₂ u₂-ša₂-aš₂-ri-ḫu-u₂-ma ub-bi-lu-šu₂ ša₂-a-[ru] Ah, Babylon, whose crown I made as splendid as a palm tree, but the wind has carried it away / dried it up! Erra and Išum IV.40

Two different translations are possible for this line. The form ubbilūšu is normally understood as a D-stem preterite 3rd-person singular form of abālu ‘to 49 50

See pp. 185 and 191. I thank Johannes Haubold for this observation (personal commnication). Such corrective references are often found in Greek Alexandrian poetry and Latin poetry influenced by it. For discussion see Thomas (1986: 185–189), building on Giangrande (1967).

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dry up’, with a subordinating suffix -u.51 However, ubbilūšu could also be a nonstandard spelling of wabālu ‘to carry away’ in the G-stem preterite 3rd-person plural, with two b’s instead of the regular one (the form would normally be ublū from ubilū), resulting in ‘but the wind has carried it away’. The same spelling of the form is attested in the Antiochus cylinder,52 which although much later than Erra and Išum is a highly traditional text using many phrases copied from earlier inscriptions. It has even been called an extreme example of the conservative patterns of redaction employed by royal inscriptions (Stevens, 2014: 69), although ub-bi-il is not among the words currently known to have been copied in this way.53 The verb wabālu does occur elsewhere with winds (CAD A.1: 17), notably in Anzû (II.18, 114, 136, III.23) and Enūma eliš (IV.32, 132), making it semantically plausible here. Either way, whether direct or implied, this image of the wind carrying away palm fronds is reminiscent of the feathers carried on the wind announcing Ninurta’s victory in Anzû as well as the blood that is carried on the wind in Enūma eliš (see chapter two p. 75 ff.). In those compositions, this was a sign of defeat of the enemy, a way of announcing triumph in battle. Here too the wind carries away leaves as a sign of defeat. However, the perspective has changed— instead of a defeat which is cause for celebration, it is cause for despair. Marduk is unable to save his own city from Erra’s destruction. He has already lost the battle without even engaging in it. The allusion to his former victory is bitterly pertinent. Given that it is Marduk who utters these words, the connection with Enūma eliš is particularly immediate. However, the knowledge that Marduk was syncretised with Ninurta and took over from him means that the allusion to Anzû can also refer to Marduk. That is, the feathers on the wind can be thought of as announcing Marduk’s victory, if he and Ninurta were considered to be the

51 52 53

As interpreted by Cagni (1977: 50) and Foster (2005: 903) who translate ‘scorched’, and Dalley (2000: 304) who gives ‘shrivelled’. a-na na-de-e uš-šu ša E₂.SAG.IL₂ u₃ E₂.ZI.DA ub-bi-il ‘for laying the foundations of Esagil and Ezida I brought (the bricks)’ (edition Stevens, 2014: 68, i.12–13). The variant spelling of ub-bi-il for u-bi-il may have been influenced by similarities between the present tenses of these verbs, since the G present of wabālu is identical to the D present of abālu, both ubbal with a double b. Kouwenberg notes that abālu avoids the Š stem in all forms except the stative, probably to avoid confusion with Š forms of wabālu, since they would be homophonous, and points out that there is no such disambiguation in these D and G present forms (1997: 266). It is therefore conceivable that the homophony of ‘he makes dry’ and ‘he brings’ may have influenced the spelling of the corresponding preterite forms.

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same figure. Alternatively, the three images can be seen as a chain of symbols of conquest: the blood on the wind symbolises Marduk’s take-over from Ninurta, while the leaves on the wind symbolise Erra’s take-over from Marduk, since the destruction of Babylon is Erra’s victory. This may even be an allusion to the allusion in Enūma eliš, since the blood on the wind motif is so prominent and significant in that poem.

7

Conclusions

Allusions to these three different poems work together in Erra and Išum to build up a picture of the Babylonian world unravelling. The guarantor of world order in Enūma eliš has his former pronouncements of absolute power as well as one of his own titles used against him to underscore how far he has fallen, adding insult to injury. Allusions to the murder of Apsû in Enūma eliš in a passage that speaks of Marduk’s own loss of position reminds us that even the power of seemingly almighty gods is subject to rise and fall: Marduk had once deposed an earlier ruler, and now he is being replaced himself. Allusions to Atraḫasīs reinforce this, further connecting Marduk with the irascible Enlil and his outdated regime by making him responsible for the deluge, that thoughtless act which Enūma eliš implied was a justification for Enlil’s removal. Erra is also connected with Enlil as the irresponsible god who is stirred from sleep and provoked to mass slaughter, but with even less justification, showing him to be even more extreme. Erra’s destruction is described as deluge in a way that harks back to the orignal deluge sent by Enlil as narrated in Atraḫasīs and Gilgameš, a destruction so terrible that it threatened the very existence of the gods. Allusions to Gilgameš in particular style this as a barbaric regression that undoes all the achievements of civilization. Erra and Išum thus re-animates the clichés of the universal flood by investing it with specific meanings: this new deluge of destruction threatens to surpass even the original symbol of the worst catastrophe possible, another example of the poem surpassing its models. In addition to this the poem also refers to the deluge-like aspects of Ti’āmtu in Enūma eliš. These allusions set up Erra in opposition to Marduk and liken the current situation to yet another crisis that threatened the gods—not only the deluge, but also the primeval rebellion of the first gods. When the Seven goad Erra towards war they are connected to the disturbed Ti’āmtu and the monsters she creates, both in the words they speak and the way they are described. Erra’s agents of destruction are thus portrayed as just as dangerous a threat to the cosmic order as Ti’āmtu once was, but this time Marduk will be unable to counter it. Into this crumbling old order

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steps Išum, who is proposed as a new ideal, a deity who will not follow these old patterns, but whose care for the people will move him to intervene. We see here a number of complex chains of allusion developing, tracing motifs through all three poems. One is the theme of sleep deprivation, first found in Atraḫasīs and most strongly associated with that poem. However, Enūma eliš also picks up the motif and uses it for its own ends. When sleep deprivation rears its head in Erra and Išum it alludes to both these previous occurrences. Enlil, Apsû, and Erra all overreact to their provocations, yet Erra is the worst of all—noise is mentioned as the reason, but it is only an excuse. Enlil’s justification was questionable, and Apsû’s abhorrent, but Erra’s is merely a flimsy pretext for violence for its own sake, and he still cannot find rest even after all the destruction he wreaks. Furthermore, Erra is alarmingly easily swayed by outside forces, giving the impression of a ruling force that is inconsistent and unstable. The material carried on the wind as an announcement of victory is another such chain, calling up the former battles of Marduk and Ninurta respectively, yet emphasising Marduk’s defeat rather than his triumph. At the climax of the poem of Erra and Išum, all the progress made by gods and men has been undone. The bond of heaven and earth is broken, war is annihilating civilization, and Erra is behaving like a man, not a god. Even Marduk— a once-young and powerful deity who could save the gods from any crisis—is now old, incapacitated, and back in his infant home. The chaos threatened if Erra continues is equivalent to a return to a prehistoric age, since for the Mesopotamians the cosmic deluge, whose imagery is interwoven with the narrative, represented the beginning of historical time. The crisis is the most severe since the flood itself, warranting lamentation on an exceptional scale as a desperate attempt to avert the evil.

chapter 7

Erra and Išum and Lamentations 1

Introduction

Erra and Išum is a poem of disaster, lamenting the fall of the city of Babylon and all Babylonia as it is torn apart by enemy invasion and civil war. As we have seen in the previous chapter, the destruction wreaked against the region is comparable to that caused by the original deluge, undoing all the progress of civilization and killing all in its path. Išum pleads with Erra to desist, his lengthy descriptions serving as a vehicle for describing destruction on a catastrophic scale. Marduk himself utters a lament for his city in IV.40–44, which naturally invites comparison with Sumerian laments where deities bewail their destroyed cities and shrines. As we will see, Erra and Išum has many features in common with the Sumerian city laments thematically, stylistically, and on the level of structure and detail. In many ways, then, Erra and Išum is a city lament for Babylon, expressing despair over its fall into chaos, and celebrating its eventual restoration. Thus far we can be confident that the source texts considered here were known when the alluding texts were composed, as they were all copied right through into the first millennium. Proposed allusions imply knowledge of these earlier poems, which is backed up by physical copies attesting to their survival. This chapter attempts something more speculative. Is it possible to argue the reverse—that proposed allusions to a text not thought to have been transmitted into the first millennium suggest that it could in fact have survived? Such a thought experiment reverses normal Assyriological practice, which is rightly founded on the evidence of extant tablets, and of course will not be entertained by everyone. Nevertheless, I believe the experiment is worth undertaking: whether or not one is persuaded by the hypothesis, the process yields new insights into the Akkadian literary tradition by compelling us to look at it from a fresh perspective, and raises questions we would not otherwise have asked. Erra and Išum’s connections with Sumerian city laments may well be no coincidence. I propose that there may be an intertextual connection between Erra and Išum and the Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur (henceforth LSU). My suggestion is a controversial one—that Erra and Išum alludes to this particular city lament, or an Akkadian text based on it, despite the fact that no manuscripts of the Sumerian city laments survive after the Old Babylonian period. Resemblances between the two poems go beyond what

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is likely to be coincidence or generic convention, and are supported by other hints that the city lament genre could have survived into the first millennium, in either a Sumerian or an Akkadian form. Although it cannot be definitively proven that LSU survived into the first millennium we should not altogether discount the possibility that it could have done so, and there are legitimate grounds at least to question this assumption. At the same time, the ritual laments that we do know from first millennium sources have also influenced Erra and Išum. The strategy used to abate Erra’s anger is the same as that exemplified by balaĝs, that lamenting the destruction a deity can cause acknowledges their power and soothes their heart. Lament is therefore a form of prayer that can prevent as well as put an end to any unleashing of anger. While this principle may derive from the ritual texts, the details of the execution are paralleled more precisely in LSU and cannot have come from the balaĝs alone. Consequently, Erra and Išum weaves together aspects from both sides of the lamentation tradition, both ritual and narrative, to express despair over Babylon’s fortunes and hope for their reversal. The Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur1 is currently attested in 47 manuscripts, all Old Babylonian in date.2 The poem narrates the final collapse of the Ur III dynasty in 2004BC, the collapse of an empire that became legendary in Mesopotamia as one of the region’s earliest great states. Though a literary composition rather than a historical one, LSU is the most extensive treatment of this famous event (Michalowski, 1989: 3). It describes and laments catastrophe sweeping over the land of Sumer, culminating in the destruction of its capital city of Ur.3 The patron god of Ur, Nanna, begs Enlil to reverse his decision, and eventually succeeds, as the poem ends with the gods deciding to restore Sumer, returning to their temples, and decreeing the destruction of the invading enemies. As Michalowski has argued, the likely historical context for its composition is that of the following dynasty. The kings of Isin portrayed themselves as the successors to the splendid and powerful Ur III kings in an attempt to legitimise their rule and create a royal pedigree for a dynasty that had in fact originated with a former general. Commissioning literary texts that emphasised their continuity with this empire served this purpose well (Michalowski, 1989: 6–8).4 1 Edition by Michalowski (1989). 2 The majority (31) are from Nippur (as is the case for most of Sumerian literature), 13 are from Ur, one is from Larsa (the Ebabbar temple), and two are of unknown provenance (Michalowski, 1989: 28–34). 3 For an outline of the historical events as compared with their literary reflections see Michalowski (1989: 1–3). 4 For fuller discussions see Michalowski (1983: 242–243) and Samet (2014: 5–9). Cf. Tinney (1996:

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LSU was part of the school curriculum in the Old Babylonian period. Most of the manuscripts employ the one-column format used for school exercises, and the manuscripts from Ur were found together with hundreds of other school texts (Michalowski, 1989: 16–18). Since there are no later manuscripts it is usually assumed that the poem did not survive the end of the Old Babylonian period, yet scholars have remarked on the similarities between LSU and Erra and Išum. Oppenheim characterised the long lament over the destruction of Babylon in Tablet IV of Erra and Išum as taking up an old Sumerian literary tradition (1977: 268), while more recently Andrew George suggested that these works express the same myth (2007: 13). However, the vast difference in date between the manuscripts means that the poems have not yet been compared any further. Frauke Weiershäuser has also drawn connections between Erra and Išum and the city laments, which will be discussed in her forthcoming edition of Erra and Išum. This chapter will first give an overview of the similarities between the two compositions that suggest a direct connection, before turning to discuss other possible explanations. Subsequently, evidence will be presented for the continuity of the city lament tradition beyond the Old Babylonian period, which increases the likelihood that LSU too could have survived. The parallels between Erra and Išum and LSU will then be considered in detail, and literary interpretations proposed. Finally, the influence of balaĝs and the wider significance of lamentation and praise in Erra and Išum will be discussed, giving further context and meaning to these interpretations.

2

Erra and Išum and the Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur5

In addition to LSU four other Sumerian city laments are known, which can be taken together as a genre for critical purposes:6 the Ur Lament,7 Uruk Lament,8

5 6

7 8

63–80) on the Nippur Lament, which along with the Uruk Lament is the only one that can be dated to the reign of a particular king, Išme-Dagan (1953–35 BC), the fourth ruler of the Isin dynasty. The material in this section was first presented at the Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in Philadelphia, 2016, and will be published in CRRAI 62. Following Green (1975) and Vanstiphout (1986a) in grouping them based on their commonalities, though the category is a modern one that has no corresponding term in Sumerian. For a discussion of the problems see Tinney (1999: 11–25). Edition Samet (2014). Edition Green (1984).

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Eridu Lament,9 and Nippur Lament.10 As identified by Green (1975: 295), this genre is characterised by six basic themes: destruction, assignment of responsibility for the destruction, abandonment of the city by its god, restoration, return of the god, and presentation of a prayer. All six are present in Erra and Išum, to such a remarkable degree that it is highly likely that the poem draws on this genre, developing its themes in its own way and fusing them with its other narrative programmes and other features of Akkadian heroic poetry. It is not only the content of Erra and Išum that is similar to these poems but also the style, since in both cases the story is largely conveyed through speeches (George, 2013: 47). However, Erra and Išum shares specific similarities with LSU that are not found in the other city laments or other more contemporary texts. Remarkably, Erra and Išum mirrors LSU in structure at a detailed level. When the plot events11 of this lamentation are analysed kirugu by kirugu (kirugu being the Sumerian term for each section of the poem) and compared with those of Erra and Išum tablet by tablet (the only kind of section division in Akkadian poems), several correspondences appear, summarised in Table 4. Both poems begin by announcing a group of deities’ intention to wreak destruction: An, Enlil, Enki and Ninmah in LSU, versus the Seven and Erra against Babylon. This is not the case in the other city laments. The Nippur Lament and Eridu Lament open with the destruction already taking place, the Ur Lament with a list of divine abandonments, and the Uruk Lament with the gods conspiring to create a monster. Kirugu 2 of LSU sees various gods abandoning their cities. In Erra and Išum, Marduk abandons his city at the beginning of Tablet II (line 1). Not all the laments put the same emphasis on divine abandonment. In the Nippur Lament it is only briefly stated (line 88), and in the Eridu Lament the gods specifically do not abandon the city (kirugu 6.7’ = 13’ = 19’ = 24’). In kirugu 3 and Tablet III the destruction hits the main cities of each composition, Ur and Babylon. Both poems contain long descriptions of the devastation at this point. In LSU, Nanna-Suen laments the destruction and pleads with Enlil to reverse it. In the Akkadian poem, it is Išum who pleads with Erra to cease the violence, his speeches describing the damage done.

9 10 11

Edition Green (1978). Edition Tinney (1996). Plot analysis of LSU based on that of Michalowski (1989: 10–15).

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chapter 7 Plot events in LSU and Erra and Išum

LSU

Erra

Kirugu 1: The gods’ intention to destroy Sumer is narrated and they begin to carry it out.

Tablet I

Kirugu 2: Begins with the god Zababa abandoning his dwelling (Kiš).

Tablet II Begins with Marduk rising from his (fragmentary) dwelling.

The gods of various cities in Sumer abandon their cities and there is lamentation. Kirugu 3: The destruction reaches Ur.

Erra announces his intent to wreak destruction, spurred on by the Seven, and starts to put his plan into action by unseating Marduk.

The gods in assembly are concerned about Erra’s anger (fragmentary). Tablet III

Nanna beseeches Enlil, describing the city’s plight and pleading for its restitution.

Erra begins to carry out his destruction. Išum appeals to Erra, describing the plight of Babylon and rebuking him for it. Erra replies that the gods have made their decision and implies that Išum is foolish for opposing it. Išum responds. Erra responds (lost). Išum responds.

Kirugu 4: Enlil replies that Ur’s fate is decreed and Nanna should not waste his time weeping.

Tablet IV

Išum’s speech continues.

The main description of the destruction of Ur. Includes the cessation of justice and cult activity.

The main description of the destruction of Babylon, and other cities. In Uruk there is a corrupt governor and cultic activity has ceased.

Nanna pleads with Enlil again.

Most of the tablet is a speech of Išum, aiming to persuade Erra to desist.

This time he relents and declares that Ur shall be restored.

This time he relents.

Nanna returns to his city.

The destruction is turned back on Babylon’s enemies.

Kirugu 5: The destruction is turned back on Ur’s enemies. Ur’s prosperity is restored. Prayer that it may continue.

Tablet V

Erra returns to his dwelling in Emeslam. Erra declares Babylon is to become prosperous again.

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The main description of the destruction of Ur and Babylon takes place in kirugu 4 and Tablet IV respectively. The cessation of justice and cultic activity are important in both. After further pleading, the god responsible finally relents and turns back the destruction upon the city’s enemies. Nanna returns to his city at the very end of kirugu 4, Erra returns to his dwelling near the beginning of Tablet V, and prosperity is restored at the end of both poems. These similarities will be discussed in detail below. Most of the events take place in the same order and in the same section in Erra and Išum as in LSU. This is striking because it implies that Erra and Išum does not draw on lamentation in a general way or on the city-lament genre as a whole, but on this composition in particular, or on another based on it. The kirugu/tablet division is actually found on the Ur witnesses UET 6/2, 132 and UET 6/2, 133 (Dahl, 2011: 76), where one kirugu is written per tablet. While the city-laments share a general subject matter (Michalowski, 1989: 5–6), each composition treats the same themes and topoi in its own way; they therefore vary significantly in structure and detail (Michalowski, 1989: 5–6; Tinney, 1996: 20; Chen, 2013: 223–224). For example, the agent of destruction is ‘either a storm or enemy invasion or both, but the distribution and treatment varies,’ so that the storm is turned back upon the invading enemies only in LSU (Tinney, 1996: 20)—and in Erra and Išum (IV.131–150). It is also worth noting that the other city laments are more specific in their concern for one city, whereas LSU speaks of the whole area of Sumer as well as its capital city of Ur. So too Erra and Išum centres on Babylon, but it is also a lament for the whole of Babylonia, including the cities of Sippar, Uruk, Dūr-Kurigalzu, and Dēr in its dirge (IV.50 ff.). The distribution of these similarities suggests a connection with LSU. This is the only lamentation to have five kirugus: the Ur Lament has eleven, the Eridu Lament has at least eight, the Uruk Lament has at least twelve, and the Nippur Lament has twelve (Michalowski, 1989: 6). Similarly, five tablets is an unusual length for the author of Erra and Išum to have chosen. There is no standard format or length for Akkadian heroic poetry, but the other models that influence Erra and Išum are quite different: Anzû has three, Enūma eliš has seven, Atraḫasīs three in the Old Babylonian version and at least six in the Standard Babylonian version, and Gilgameš twelve (or eleven if Tablet XII is not counted as part of the main story). There is thus no Akkadian precedent for Erra and Išum’s arrangement over five tablets. Strikingly, the Mesopotamians themselves may have drawn a connection between Erra and Išum and the destruction of Ur. A late scholarly text from Uruk, W.20030, 7,12 lists renowned ancient kings together with their associated 12

Editions by van Dijk (1962: 44–45) and Lenzi (2008). Copy published in van Dijk & Mayer

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apkallu or ummânu. The text begins with seven pairs of antediluvian kings and sages before moving on to name scholars known to us from historical periods as the ummânū along with their associated kings. The historical list begins with Sîn-lēqi-unninni, the author of Gilgameš (line 12, paired with Gilgameš), and in line 13 Kabti-ilānī-Marduk is paired with Ibbi-Sîn, king of Ur. Ibbi-Sîn notably features in LSU at two points, namely the prologue heralding the destruction to come: di-bi₂-den.zu kur elamki-ma-še₃ ĝešbur₂-ra tum₂-mu-de₃, ‘That Ibbi-Sîn be taken to the land of Elam in chains’ (LSU 35); and the moment it arrives, where he is sitting in the palace, paralysed with fear (LSU 104–105). The king who ruled Ur at the time of its downfall is thus also prominent in LSU, a major poem about this event. This is by no means inevitable, since Ibbi-Sîn is not mentioned at all in the Ur Lament. The entry in the Uruk List of Kings and Sages reads: [ina tar-ṣi mdbilga]-⸢meš₃⸣ šarri(LUGAL) IdSîn(30)-lēqi(TI)-unninni(ER₂) lu₂um-man-nu [ina tar-ṣi i]-⸢bi₂⸣-dsîn(30) šarri(LUGAL) mkabti(IDIM)-il-dmarduk(ŠU₂) lu₂um-man-nu [In the time of] Gilgameš, the king, Sîn-lēqi-unninni was scholar. [In the time of] Ibbi-Sîn,13 the king, Kabti-il-Marduk was scholar. The Uruk List of Kings and Sages lines 12–13 (Lenzi, 2008: 140–143)

One of the functions of this text is to provide a mythological ‘genealogy’ for the scholars of Uruk by connecting them with their antediluvian counterparts and earlier famous kings (Lenzi, 2008: 161–162). The connection between the kings and their sages or scholars is not always clear. In the case of Sîn-lēqi-unninni, however, this sage was not contemporary with the legendary king Gilgamesh, but rather wrote about him. Perhaps then we can deduce a similar connec-

13

(1980: 89). For a recent study and commentary from the perspective of authorship see Helle (2018). Helle (2018: 233) reads the broken sign as ra]m? against Van Dijk and Lenzi’s bi, since the sign ends in a vertical wedge, and restores the name as Naram-Sîn. The reading ⸢bi₂⸣ is just as plausible, however, and is the traditional way of writing the name of Ibbi-Sîn (Sollberger, RLA V: 1). Schaudig in his commentary to an extract from Erra and Išum (source 39 in his forthcoming book on the Ibbi-Sîn disaster) suggests Šu-Sîn and Naram-Sîn as alternative possibilities, but notes that Ibbi-Sîn makes good sense because the following line in the Uruk List reads [ina tar-ṣi miš-bi]-der₃-ra, ‘in the time of Išbi-Erra’ (line 14). Išbi-Erra was a former general of Ibbi-Sîn’s who broke away and founded the following dynasty of Isin, so the two would make a natural sequence.

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tion between Kabti-ilānī-Marduk and Ibbi-Sîn, that this scholar was thought to be writing ‘about’ this king in some way. It is notable in this regard that all of the post-diluvian sages in this list were well-known authors of literary texts (for further analysis see Helle, 2018: 222–224).14 Here, then, is another association between the fall of Babylon and the fall of Ur, and it was made in the first millennium.15 If a connection existed between Erra and Išum and Ibbi-Sîn, a connection between Erra and Išum and LSU may not be so implausible after all. 2.1 Other Possibilities At first we might think that the balaĝ tradition would be a more likely model for Erra and Išum, since balaĝs are also laments for destruction and are extensively attested in the first millennium.16 The balaĝs are closely related to the city-laments in style and form, even sharing whole passages (Jacobsen, 1941:

14

15

16

Listed after Kabti-ilānī-Marduk in line 14 is Sidu, to whom was attributed authorship of a series of 35 texts in the first millennium, mostly proverbs (Finkel, 1986; Frahm, 2010b: 168–176). Sidu is paired with Išbi-Erra, a king who is mentioned in proverb collection 3, many of whose proverbs feature in the series of Sidu (Frahm, 2010b: 176). Line 15 associates two scholars with the king Abi-ešuḫ: Gimil-Gula and Taqiš-Gula, both of whom are mentioned in the Catalogue of Texts and Authors. Gimil-Gula is said to be responsible for Marduk, Revered Lord, the Luxuriant One of Heaven, who […], while Taqiš-Gula is assigned six different compositions, including the Exaltation of Ishtar (Lambert, 1962a: 66, vi.7–8; 64, iv.6–9). Esagil-kīn-apli is named next, the compiler of several series of scholarly texts including Sakkikū and Alamdimmû (line 16, pairing lost). Esagil-kīn-ubba follows, associated with both Adad-apla-iddina and Nebuchadnezzar (lines 17 and 18): he is probably to be equated with Saggil-kīna-ubbib, author of The Babylonian Theodicy (van Dijk, 1962: 51; Oshima, 2014: 123–124). Last in the list (other than the enigmatic Nikarchos) is Ahiqar, paired with Esarhaddon, and ascribed as the author of a collection of proverbs (Lindenberger, 1983). There are in fact ample attestations of Ibbi-Sîn in the first millennium, which have been collected and analysed by Schaudig in a forthcoming book (2019), showing that the historical memory of the Ur III dynasty was stronger in the first millennium than often recognised. The relevance of the omen tradition is also discussed there. For our purposes it is important to note that Ibbi-Sîn was not the only king linked with the downfall of empires in omens as Šar-kali-šarri (Koch-Westenholz, 2000 no. 26: 19) and Ku-ba’u in K 766 (Leichty, 1970: 8) are attested as well. The balaĝs and eršemmas continued to play an active part in ritual right into the Seleucid period (Cohen, 1988: 14–24). Cultic calendars show that they were regularly recited, prescribed for certain days each month; e.g. one Neo-Assyrian calendar lists eleven balaĝs to be recited to Assur in the month of Šabāṭu, and at least eight in Addaru (K.8207 apud Cohen, 1988: 22). Other texts specify the recitation of lamentations in Hellenistic Uruk and Babylon during building-rituals (e.g. TU 45 and 46, Linssen, 2004: 101–104).

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222–223; Cohen, 1988: 34ff.; cf. Löhnert, 2009: 3–10).17 They share the theme of the destruction of cities and temples; both make allusions to sheepfolds and cattle-pens, and both express the idea that the gods, though capricious, can be appeased. However, there are also significant differences between balaĝs and city-laments and consequently Tinney has argued that there is insufficient evidence for a dependent relationship between them (Tinney, 1996: 51, contra Cohen, 1974: 11).18 The ritual laments only refer obliquely to destruction and do not tell stories in a narrative form.19 Furthermore, the historiographical aspect of the city laments is absent from the balaĝs (Black, 1991: 31), which have been generalised to fit a number of different occasions. This historical dimension is crucial to Erra and Išum, as the events it describes are more specific than those of the ritual laments. Moreover, the balaĝs lack the element of restoration, an aspect that is found in all the city-laments (Tinney, 1996: 51) and in Erra and Išum. As we will see, the image of the date palm is central in both Erra and Išum and LSU. This is another key consideration, as it is not found as an image of destruction in any extant ritual laments. The balaĝs, then, are not by themselves sufficient as a source of inspiration for these particular similarities. It might also be posited that the similarities can be explained by common folktale story structures, i.e., that all stories about the destruction of cities would inevitably follow a similar trajectory. However, if this is the case, why are the Sumerian city laments so different from each other? They share the same general subject matter, but vary significantly in structure and detail (Michalowski, 1989: 5–6; Tinney, 1996: 20). For example, the destruction is caused either by a storm or invading enemies, or both, but both the details and the positioning in the narrative structure are different, and it is only in LSU that the storm is turned back on the invaders (Tinney, 1996: 20), and in Erra and Išum (IV.131–150). The resemblances are more specific than what we would expect from a common generic background, and I have taken care to compare them with the other city laments at each step to control for this. If these similarities

17 18

19

See also Gabbay (2014: 13–14) on connections between emesal prayers and other genres. Gabbay weighs the arguments on both sides and concludes that the ritual laments are more likely to have preceded the city laments (Gabbay, 2014), though the question of the original relationship between the genres and which came into being first is of less concern for their relation to Erra and Išum. Eršemma 92 comes closest, in which Enlil commands Nergal to destroy the land (Gabbay, 2015: 245–251), but this alludes to a story rather than telling the story itself. Uru amirabi consisted of 21 tablets, of which we only have portions, and so it is possible that it had more narrative content than we currently realise. The emesal prayers dealing with Inanna and Dumuzi contain more narrative details than those concerned with destruction (e.g. Edena usagake), conveyed in the form of direct speech.

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in structure, detail, and the structural placement of that detail come down to inherent generic patterns, then we would find them in the other Sumerian city laments too. However, this is not the case. The same is true for any assumed common background behind these texts. It is always possible that a now lost oral tradition could have accounted for the similarities, but this is ultimately unprovable. Here again the number of specific details in the comparisons weights the evidence towards a more direct connection. Furthermore, it is not only on the level of structure that the two poems are comparable. The key image of the date palm as a metaphor for the destruction of the city occurs in both, as will be discussed further below. To illustrate just some of the differences between the city laments, the Ur Lament is focused on the city goddess Ningal, with a large share of the lines either spoken by or addressed to her. By contrast, the Uruk Lament gives the longest speech to Enlil who describes the destruction he will send, which takes the form of a monster that the gods create for this purpose. The Nippur Lament is more focused on restoration than the others, devoting half of the composition to this theme. LSU spends the most time describing the destruction before it happens, in an extended passage at the beginning announcing the gods’ decrees, whereas the Eridu Lament begins in medias res with the onslaught of the storm. Further comparisons between the other city laments will be given at relevant points in the section analysing the parallels in detail. Lenzi has used a similar structural approach to show that Ludlul bēl nēmeqi imitates the structure of Akkadian incantation prayers (2015). Like Erra and Išum, Ludlul bēl nēmeqi is a complex and multi-faceted text that draws on and alludes to a number of different compositions, not only incantation prayers, yet the interweaving of reference to this particular genre is still marked and perceptible. Lenzi compares the positions of certain elements in the text with the expectations of the genre of incantation prayers, showing that they are remarkably aligned. The similarities go beyond what can be reasonably expected to be coincidence, or even a common background (Lenzi, 2015: 81). Here too it is the specificity of the comparisons which makes a case for borrowing, not only in the overall structure of the texts, but also in their thematic and lexical details (Lenzi, 2015: 70–93). At the same time, the similarities do not only show a dependence but constitute literary allusion that produces new meaning. Lenzi interprets Ludlul bēl nēmeqi as an exhortation of thanksgiving, arguing that alluding to the type of prayers that would be made by a person while still suffering underscores the message that restoration and healing is possible (2015: 97). Again, it is not only the similarities that are important, but what they reveal about the meaning of the poem. The study therefore demonstrates that this kind of structural comparison can be a useful tool for revealing significant connections between texts.

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2.2 The Continuity of a Tradition The lack of city lament manuscripts after the Old Babylonian period may only be an accident of survival. Many Old Babylonian Sumerian literary compositions do survive in first millennium copies: Lugal-e, An-gin₇, Enki and Ninmaḫ, Enlil and Ninlil, Enlil and Sud, The Return of Lugalbanda, the creation poem KAR 4, The Ballad of Early Rulers, The Sumerian King List as well as many balaĝs and eršemmas. Sumerian incantations that were widely used in the first millennium also have early roots: Udug-hul, for example, goes all the way back to the Old Akkadian period (Geller, 2016: 5). Tablet XII of Gilgameš is a partial translation into Akkadian of the Sumerian poem Gilgameš, Enkidu, and the Netherworld. Other Akkadian poems are adaptations of Sumerian originals: Ištar’s Descent (from Inanna’s Descent) and Adapa, whose Sumerian version only recently became known (Cavigneaux, 2014). The flood story is another such example (Civil in Lambert & Millard, 1969: 138–145). These versions of Sumerian texts have become part of Akkadian literature. However, it is not only purely mythological texts that are passed down to the first millennium, but also texts purporting to be historical. The so-called ‘Dynastic Chronicle’ or ‘Babylonian Royal Chronicle’ (Glassner, 2005: 126–135) is a bilingual text listing the lengths of reigns of Babylonian kings up to the middle of the first millennium. It begins with a mythological introduction describing the descent of kingship from heaven to Eridu and giving the reigns of antediluvian rulers, which clearly goes back to the Sumerian King List (Lambert, 1973: 273), and has in fact been categorized as a bilingual copy of it (Finkel, 1980: 70). Jacobsen even included it in his composite edition of the Sumerian King List as ms. K (1939: 11). The four copies of the chronicle are from Ashurbanipal’s library and are written in both Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian script. There is evidence, then, that Sumerian historical traditions survived long after the Old Babylonian period and well into the time when Erra and Išum was composed. More specifically, some Sumerian lamentation texts were also adapted into Akkadian. For example, the existence of a tradition of Akkadian lamentations based on Sumerian models in the Old Babylonian period is implied by a list of eight compositions designated as laments for Bēlet-ilī, six of them with Akkadian titles (Löhnert, 2009: 13). An Akkadian translation of kirugus two and perhaps three of the balaĝ uru₂ am₃-ma-ir-ra-bi is also known from this period (UET 6/2, 403; Wassermann, 2003, Wassermann & Gabbay, 2005). This portion of text corresponds to the lament of Inanna over her destroyed city. It is very unusual for an Akkadian translation to appear without the Sumerian text (it is never the case for Lugal-e, for example), and this tantalisingly suggests that the city lament may have crossed over into the Akkadian tradition as a stand-

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alone piece. The lament for a city is, at least, clearly the part of the text that was of interest to whoever copied it, and it stands alone as an independent literary composition. Other kinds of laments are known in Akkadian from the first millennium: one for a woman dead in childbirth (Livingstone, 1989: 37–38; George, 2010), one for Dumuzi (Livingstone, 1989: 39–41) and one that seems to be a lament for Dumuzi, though the name of the god is not mentioned (Lambert, 1983: 211– 215). This last text has been compared with Erra and Išum (Foster, 2005: 952) since it is primarily about the effects of war, specifically the laments of women for their dead husbands. That the author of the primary publication suggested it had been originally inspired by the destruction of Sumer and was re-copied when Babylon was under foreign domination in the Seleucid period (Pinches, 1901: 196–199) reflects the similarity of its language to Sumerian laments. As Lambert remarked, ‘Laments over Tammuz are otherwise a Sumerian genre, so the language itself is a matter of interest’ (1983: 213). We have here the most likely example of a late Akkadian text based on Sumerian prototypes, with all evidence for the intervening period lost. It is therefore also possible that Erra and Išum was based on a later Akkadian composition, extremely similar to LSU in theme, structure, and plot, rather than on LSU itself. However, since no such text survives, we must work with the original Sumerian and let the results speak for themselves. 2.3 Akkadian Traditions of the Destruction of Cities Further continuity of a tradition of the destruction of cities can be seen in Akkadian texts. A bilingual inscription of Nebuchadnezzar I (RIMB 2 B.2.4.8–9) describes Marduk abandoning his city in language extremely similar to that of the city laments, showing that this genre had not completely died out (Dalley, 2005: 278; Löhnert, 2009: 17). The inscription was composed in the 12th century BC and copied all the way into the 7th, as it was found in Ashurbanipal’s library. A particularly striking example is K3200, an overlooked fragment of what looks like a city lament in Akkadian.20 This small tablet piece from Ashurbanipal’s library consists of 26 lines, 15 of which are more or less complete. The fragment was published as an appendix to Thompson’s edition of Gilgameš (1930: pl. 59), where it was called ‘The Oppression of Erech?’ The text concerns a siege of Uruk and its content is similar to that of the Sumerian city laments: for three years the enemy have encircled the city, the inhabitants suffer, and guardian spirits abandon the city while the gods discuss the situation.

20

I thank Andrew George for bringing this text to my attention.

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The suffering of the inhabitants and livestock are familiar from Sumerian laments, though the details here are especially self-destructive. A boatman sinks his own boat (line 4), a tavern keeper shatters her own pot stands (line 6), and in the animal realm jennies trample their own foals and cows spurn their own calves (lines 7–8). The closest parallel for this behaviour is in the Uruk Lament, where the cowherds overturn their own cattle pens and shepherds burn their own sheepfolds (2.14’–15’). However, these acts of self-destruction in K3200 do not seem to occur elsewhere in the Sumerian texts. There we more usually find the motif of desertion—family members turn away from each other rather than actively causing harm to each other (e.g. LSU 95–96). The closest parallel is in fact Erra and Išum, where the inhabitants of Babylon torch their own sanctuaries (IV.14). K3200 seems to be pushing the topoi of laments to the extreme, showing the people turning on themselves through images that in other cases direct the violence onto others. Variation can also be seen in the way that the protective spirits leave the city—this also happens in other laments (e.g. Uruk Lament 2.21’–22’) but not ‘through the water pipes’ as here (ina nu-un-ṣa-ba-a-ti, line 14).21 What this shows is that city laments cannot be considered a homogenous group that simply repeat the same images in the same ways, as even this Akkadian fragment is quite different in detail from the other surviving compositions. It demonstrates the variety inherent within the genre—a story of a city’s destruction does not inevitably have the same features as any other. The resemblances between Erra and Išum and LSU therefore should not immediately be put down to coincidence but deserve to be considered further. Sumerian and Akkadian traditions of the destructions of cities need not be mutually exclusive. Erra and Išum draws on a vast number of different texts and traditions,22 both Sumerian and Akkadian, and could well incorporate both. In 21

22

It is of course possible that the images arose independently or were drawn from the ritual laments. For example, the sinking boat does not appear in any of the surviving lines of the city laments, but does occur in at least three balaĝs (though the details are different, and they are not sunk by the boatman himself), e.g. Udam ki amus line 170: [dil]munki sug-ga ma₂ su₃-a-men₃, ‘I am (a merchant from) Dilmun whose ship has sunk in the swamp’ (Cohen, 1988: 148); Immal gudede line c+230: gišma₂ gaba-ri-a-ni gišma₂ su₃ (:) su-[am₃], e-lip-pu im-hu-ru-šu ṭi-bi-tu, ‘The ship that comes to meet him is a sunken ship,’ (Cohen, 1988: 617); Edena usaĝake e+119: tur-tur-bi gišma₂ su₃-su₃ in-nu₂, ṣe-eh-he-rutu-šu ina gišeleppi(MA₂) ṭi-bi-ti₃ ṣa-lu₄, ‘Its young ones are lying in sunken ships’ (Cohen, 1988: 689); Old Babylonian version of Edena usaĝake c+78: di₄-di₄-la₂ ma₂ su₃-su₃ nume-en-na, ‘Are you not the one who sank the boats (with) the children?’ (Cohen, 1988: 673). For example see Cooley (2008) on Erra and Išum’s relationship to the celestial omen series Enūma Anu Enlil.

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short, in the light of these other texts, it is not so unlikely that the city laments could have survived into the first millennium, either in the Sumerian originals or in Akkadian adaptations. 2.4 The Parallels in Detail Structure, details, and meaning all combine to provide a reasonable basis for speculation about influence. Scholars use these criteria in researching the relationship between Greek and Near Eastern literature (e.g. Burkert, 1992: 88; Penglase, 1994: 7–11; Currie, 2011: 22), an endeavour that also compares compositions far apart in time with little intervening material. Parallels are thought to be more likely to be significant when they occur at a similar structural point in both texts, are sufficiently detailed, and have the same meaning or function in both. In Assyriology, Tigay has pointed to Albright’s criterion that motifs should form a pattern in order to show likelihood of borrowing (Albright, 1957: 67; Tigay, 1993: 251) particularly citing sequences where the same elements occur in the same order in both texts.23 The parallels between LSU and Erra and Išum meet all these criteria; we will now examine the resemblances in detail. LSU opens by announcing the gods’ intended destruction of Ur in 54 lines. This opening is unique among the city-laments, which almost all begin with the destruction already taking place. The Uruk Lament opens by briefly announcing the gods’ decision to destroy Uruk (1.1–8, fragmentary), but the narrative quickly moves on to the creation of a monster (1.9–12). Erra and Išum also begins, after the short prologue, with Erra’s heart urging him to cause destruction (I.6–9).24 There is a delay in action while Erra hesitates (I.15–20), but the Seven are then introduced to spur him on (I.23 ff.). They utter a long speech (I.46–91) encouraging Erra to act on his impulses. Išum makes his first address to Erra, who replies by telling him to be quiet and listing his own destructive qualities in a speech of 18 lines (I.106–123). All of this is part of the announcement of the devastation to come. Kirugu 2 of LSU begins with the god Zababa abandoning his dwelling in the city of Kiš: dza-ba₄-ba₄ ki-tuš [ki-aĝ₂-ĝa₂-ni giri₃ kur₂ ba-ra-an-dab₅], ‘Zababa [took an unfamiliar path away from his beloved] dwelling’ (116).25 This

23

24 25

Tigay then compared the similarities and differences between three different versions of Gilgameš which are clearly related: the Old Babylonian, Standard Babylonian, and Hittite versions, demonstrating that differences between compositions do not necessarily rule out borrowing since adaptations may be made in the process (1993: 254). Following Müller (1995: 351). Text based on Michalowski (1989).

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is the first in a list of gods abandoning their cities, followed by their lamentation. Tablet II of Erra and Išum begins with Marduk abandoning his dwelling: ⸢it⸣-bi-ma i!-na šub-ti-šu₂ a-⸢šar⸣ [la a-ri], ‘he rose from his dwelling, an [unapproachable] place’ (II.1). Unlike Zababa, he is not the first in a sequence to do so—in Erra and Išum this is the only abandonment, but it is a crucial one upon which the plot turns. The other cities in Babylonia, like the others in Sumer, do suffer devastation, but this is to be related later in Tablet IV, for the focus is primarily on Babylon and on setting up the conditions for the destruction to take place. In the Eridu Lament the gods destroy their cities but specifically do not abandon them (kirugu 6.7’= 13’ = 19’ = 24’). In the Nippur Lament Enlil’s abandonment of the city is only briefly stated in line 88. In the Uruk Lament all the important gods of the city abandon it, but this is not given great emphasis as it is described in only four lines (2.21’–25’). The Ur Lament contains a list of abandonments, similarly to LSU, but in a different place in the narrative structure: the Ur Lament opens with the abandonments (lines 1–36), while in LSU they are placed in the second kirugu.26 LSU begins kirugu 2 by listing the desertion of the gods of the cities of Sumer, but when it comes to Ur in kirugu 3, its patron deity and thus the most important deity of the text, Nanna, is the focus of the narrative. The effect of a comparison with LSU, then, is to put Marduk in the role of these lesser deities who leave their dwellings early on in the poem, abandoning hope at an early stage. In kirugu 3 the destruction hits Ur, and Enlil inflicts famine and treachery on the city (LSU 296–299ff.). In Erra and Išum it is probably in Tablet III that Erra begins his onslaught; we have heard extensively about Erra’s plans for destruction, but we do not know what has taken place until we hear Išum’s account of it (III.C.58ff.). Cagni suggests it was narrated in the lacunae in Tablet III, or that it was never described outright, and we only hear of it through Išum’s speeches (1969: 208–210). Either way, the destruction must happen at this point in the narrative. Again, Erra is in a role structurally corresponding to that of Enlil, emphasising the power he enjoys (cf. Cagni, 1969: 221, who suggests that Erra compares himself with Marduk here). Išum is distressed by Erra’s excessive violence and demands an explanation. In the course of the conversation, he catalogues its effects in another description of the destruction. This corresponds structurally to the plea of Nanna in kirugu 3 of LSU. Nanna makes two pleas to Enlil, the first unsuccessful (341– 356), the second successful (451–458). Išum has one long conversation with Erra 26

In the Ur Lament Ningal stays behind to plead on Ur’s behalf, but unlike in LSU and Erra and Išum there is no dialogue between the lamenting deity and the god responsible, and she receives no answer.

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spanning III.C.1—IV.127. Here he describes the catastrophe striking the land. In LSU this is given by the narrator between the pleas of Nanna, but here they are spoken by Išum; thus the main event occurs in a structurally similar place in both poems. Both Nanna and Išum remind their interlocutor of what he has done in the hope that this will move him to desist. Nanna’s first plea emphasises that with the people destroyed, there is no one left to bring offerings to Enlil, and thus he is acting against himself (341–347). Išum’s tactic is rather to describe the suffering Erra has caused. He expresses care for the Babylonians, exclaiming u’₃-a nišī(UG₃)meš-a, ‘Ah, my people!’ at III.C.30, a cry similar to those uttered by city deities in both city and ritual laments.27 Thus, although Išum is never explicitly called a city-god of Babylon, he is placed in the role of one, interceding to protect it. At the beginning of kirugu 4, Enlil replies to Nanna’s plea by telling him not to waste his time weeping for Ur; its appointed time has come and he should give up hope (361–370). This is expressed in legalistic language: di-til-la inim pu-uḫ₂-ru-um-ma-ka šu gi₄-gi₄ nu-ĝal₂ / inim du₁₁-ga an den-lil₂-la₂ka šu bal-e nu-zu, ‘The case, the word of the assembly cannot be reversed, / it is not known to overturn the word spoken by An and Enlil’ (364–365). Enlil’s tone is aggressive: [dumu]-⸢ĝu₁₀⸣ dumu gi₇ ni₂-za-bi-me-en er₂-ra ⟨a?⟩-na-bi-me-en, ‘My [son], you are a Sumerian in your own right, why are you in tears?’ (362a) and dnanna-ĝu₁₀ na-an-kuš₂-kuš₂-u₃-de₃ iriki-zu e₃bar-ra-ab ‘My Nanna, do not exhaust yourself, leave your city!’ (370). Towards the end of Tablet III (C.40–65) Erra responds to Išum’s speech by telling him that the decision has been made collectively by the gods: ša₂ di₂-gi₃-gi₃ ṭe₃en-šu-nu ti-de-ma ša₂ da-nun-na-ki mi₃-lik šu₂-un, ‘You know the decision of the Igigi, the counsel of the Anunnaki’ (III.C.40). Opposing it is futile—Erra asks Išum: min₃-su ki-i la mu-de-e ta-ta-me at-ta ‘Why are you talking like one who is foolish?’ (III.C.42). He implies that Marduk too has resolved on this: ki-i ša₂ a-mat dMarduk(AMAR.UTU) la ti-du-u ta-mal-li-kan-ni ia-a-ši, ‘You counsel me as if you do not know Marduk’s word’ (III.C.43), and since he has left, the

27

E.g. Ningal in the Ur Lament 247 and 248, a uru₂-ĝu₁₀ im-me ‘ “Oh my city!” she says, “Oh my house!” she says’, and passim. In LSU the refrain is a iri gul-la e₂ gul-la-ĝu₁₀, ‘Oh the destroyed city, my destroyed house!’ (lines 118, 122, 126, 135, 138 etc.). See also Nammu in E turgin Niginam a uru₂-ĝu₁₀ im-me ‘“Oh my city!” she says’ (Cohen, 1988: 77), or Inanna in Uruhulake (Cohen, 1988: 650–667, lines 1, 2, 8) which is also the incipit of a balaĝ to Inanna (Cohen, 1988: 642–649). In Uruhulake the lament takes a more personal tone as Inanna also cries a ama-ĝu₁₀ ‘Oh my mother!’ and a dumu-ĝu₁₀-u ‘Oh my child!’ (line 9). Cf. also Uru amirabi lines 62–68 (Cohen, 1988: 542–543).

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situation is irremediable: šar(LUGAL) ilāni(DINGIR)meš ina šub-ti-šu₂ it-ti-bi / mātāti(KUR.KUR) nap-ḫar-ši-na i-ku-na mi-i-na, ‘the king of the gods has risen from his dwelling! / What is left of all the lands?’ (III.C.44–45). The hopelessness of the situation is again underscored: qa-bal ilī(DINGIR) u amēli(LU₂) ip-paṭṭa-⸢ra⸣-[ma] a-na ra-ka-si iš-ši-ṭa, ‘the bond between god and man is undone, difficult to tie (again)!’ (III.C.49). The replies of both Enlil and Erra indicate that the destruction has been divinely decreed and therefore it is irrational to oppose it. The responses occur at slightly different points in the kirugu/tablet schema but at the same point structurally. Their contents are parallel and have similar tones. Enlil’s decision to destroy Ur results from a cruel but principled decision that the dynasty has reigned too long.28 Erra invokes the same idea here by referring to the word of Marduk, but he is twisting it, for he obtained Marduk’s word by trickery. Kirugu 4 describes the destruction of Ur after Nanna abandons it: the main attack of the invading enemies, the hunger ravaging the people, the destruction of the palace, and the wrecking of the sanctuary (lines 379–448). Throughout, the people lament their dire situation. In Tablet IV of Erra and Išum comes the main description of the destruction of Babylon: Erra aims arrows at the walls and kills the gate-keeper, Babylonians attack their own city, and the governor orders his troops to kill and loot indiscriminately (IV.6–35). The similarities are not only structural but are also found in specific details. One image in particular stands out. In Marduk’s lament for Babylon,29 he compares his city to a date palm: u’₃-a bābilu(TIN.TIR)ki ša₂ ki-ma gišgišimmari(GIŠIMMAR) qim-ma-tu₂ u₂-ša₂-aš₂-ri-ḫu-u₂-ma ub-bi-lu-šu₂ ša₂-a-[ru] u’₃-a bābilu(TIN.TIR)ki ša₂ ki-ma gišterinni(ŠE.U₃.SUH₅) še-im u₂-ma-al-lušu₂-ma.la aš₂-bu-u₂ la-lu-šu₂

28

29

See Chen (2013: 223–225) for variation among the city laments regarding the reason for the destruction. He points out that the deterministic view of fate in LSU contrasts with the other city-laments, which portray these divinely caused catastrophes as irrational through their use of weather imagery. Van Dijk suggested that Marduk’s curse following his lament at IV.46–49 may echo a passage in kirugu 4 of LSU, 402ff. (apud Cagni, 1969: 229). The passage in Erra and Išum is difficult to interpret, but seems essentially to be about the scarcity of water, both for drinking and so as to prevent anyone escaping by boat (Cagni, 1977: 51). In the cited passage of LSU the water seems to be metaphorical for destruction, which would make the parallel not as close as the others considered here.

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Ah, Babylon, whose crown I made as splendid as a palm tree, but the wind has dried it up / carried it away!30 Ah, Babylon, that I filled with seed like a (date)-cone, but I could not have enough of its delights! Erra and Išum IV.40–41

The image of the date palm also is used in kirugu 4 of LSU, describing the felling of the statue of Nin-e’iga (412–417): [ĝeš]⸢gešimmar⸣-gin₇ gu₂-guru₅ru ba-ab-du₁₁ teš₂ -bi ba-ra-an-kad₄ ĝešgešimmar uruda nig₂ kal-ga a₂ nam-ur-sag-ga₂ u₂numun₂-gin₇ ba-bu u₂numun₂ ba-ze₂ ur₂ -ba ti mi-ni-ib-bala sag sahar-ra ki ba-ni-ib-us₂ lu₂ zi-zi la-ba-tuku ĝešze₂-na-bi ha-ba-⸢an-guru₅⸣-uš sag šu bi₂-in-hu-hu-uz ĝeša₂ zu₂-lum-ma-bi pu₂ ul-ul ba-ra-an-bu-bu-de₃-eš It was pruned like a date palm, the (pieces) were collected, Date Palm, Mighty Thing of Copper: Right Arm of Heroism, The rushes (= hair) were torn out like weeded rushes: the roots (= feet) were turned sideways. The head (= crown) was in the dust: there was no one who could raise it. They cut off the central ribs, the head (= crown) was burnt through, They tore out its date cluster, an everlasting well. LSU 412a–417, translation following Dahl (2011)

‘Date palm’ is listed as one of the statue’s names in 412, and it is used as an extended metaphor for its destruction. This comes at the climax of the poem and is its greatest horror, as is the destruction of Babylon narrated in Tablet IV of Erra and Išum. As one of the mainstays of the Babylonian economy, the date palm is an image of prosperity.31 The city of Babylon is once elsewhere compared to a Dilmun date (Lambert, 1962a: 71) in the hymn KAR 8 obv. 13–14: tin-tirki zu₂-lum dilmunki ku₇-ku₇-da, ba-bi-lu as-sa-nu-[u₂] dilmunki ša ana da-[ašpi] ‘Babylon (is) the sweet Dilmun date’. However, the felling of date palms as

30 31

For discussion of the translation of this line see pp. 212–213. E.g. in the Babylonian Theodicy line 56: gi-šim-ma-ru iṣ-ṣi meš-re-e a-ḫi aq-⸢ru⸣, ‘Date palm, tree of wealth, my esteemed brother’ (edition Oshima, 2013). ‘Tree of riches’ is a synonym for date palm in Ur₅-ra Ḫubullu III.273, where 274: giš-nig₂-tuk and giš.mu.nig₂.tuk are equated with gi-šim-ma-ru. See Landsberger (1967b) and Streck (2004) for the many uses of the date palm.

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an image of destruction is not attested outside of these two poems.32 At the same point structurally, we have a similar image used to express a similar highly emotional moment: the culmination of a city’s destruction. The implication may be that the ruin of Babylon is sacrilegious, compared to the demolishing of a divine statue. The image of the felled date palm occurs in two other places in LSU leading up to this climax: at 195 where it is said that the throne in one of Nanna’s temples: ĝešnimbar-gin₇ gu₂-guru₅ ba-ab-du₁₁, ‘was cut down like a date palm’—again the same image used in the same context. The other instance is in line 241 where the inhabitants cry: ĝešnimbar-gin₇ šu nudu₁₁-ga-me a-na-aš mu-e-ze₂-er-ze₂-re-ne, ‘Like date palms that have not been tended, why are we being cut down?’—the same image used to express the destruction of the people. Not only is this particular image unique to these two poems but it is particularly strong in LSU, which further reinforces the likelihood of a direct connection in Erra and Išum. In kirugu 4, as a result of the destroyed buildings and people, judicial administration and cult activity cease in Ur (438–448). This may be a topos, as there is mention of it in the Uruk Lament in the second kirugu (A.2, A.4), although the surrounding lines are so fragmentary that it is impossible to know how much emphasis it was accorded. What is important is that the topos occurs in the same place in Erra and Išum as it does in LSU, in kirugu 4 and Tablet IV, following the main episode of destruction. Since this theme is more important in Erra and Išum than in LSU it occurs several times rather than in one block: first, the people’s revolt against the governor of Babylon, followed by the governor himself who incites his troops against his own people; second, the governor of 32

Other instances of date palms being destroyed can be cited, but only in these two poems is it used as a metaphor. Sargon includes it among the destruction wreaked on campaign: gišgišimmaru(GIŠIMMAR) tuk-lat-su-nu giškirâti(KIRI₆)meš bal-ti na-gi-šu₂-nu ak-šiṭ, ‘I cut down the date palms they rely upon (and) orchards, the pride of their region’ (edition Fuchs, 1994: 149, l. 289), however it is part of a general description of devastation rather than carrying the same symbolic weight. Date palms appear in omens portending the destruction of Larsa and Der in Šumma ālu tablet II (Freedman, 1998: 68, lines 31–32) but it is the fact that they cannot be seen inside the city which gives them their meaning. Symbols of abundance not being visible inside the city probably correlates with its ill fortune. Six date palm omens also appear in the list of prodigies portending the fall of Akkad (edited by Guinan, 2002: 35–40). On the one hand, their ill-boding significance is explicable by a pattern of abnormal growth. On the other, it may well be significant that these portents were allegedly seen during the reign of Ibbi-Sîn: the name is written cryptographically as I⸢babbar⸣-a-še-em-me-íb-bi, not only using Ašim-babbar as a synonym for Sîn but also writing the name backwards (Schaudig, 2019). Thus date palms are again associated with the destruction of Ibbi-Sîn’s city. Pertinent to Erra and Išum IV.40 in particular are the omens from Šumma ālu tablet 58 39–40: DIŠ gišGIŠIMMAR SAG.DU-sa ŠUB-ut KUR KI.KAL [DIB-su] ‘If a date palm’s top falls down, hardship [will afflict] the land’ and ‘If a date palm’s top dries up, the heart of the land [will be afflicted]’ (Freedman, 2017: 113).

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Uruk; third, the inhabitants of Dēr, who: kit-ta ⸢u₂-maš⸣-ši-ra-ma iṣ-ba-ta parik-ta, ‘forgot righteousness and took up violence’ (IV.73), for which their god Ištarān forsakes them. Tablet IV is the climax of the poem, and the emphasis of this theme here makes it clear that the brutality of civil strife, lawlessness and violence is the most intense sorrow of the whole poem. While in LSU the climax was the destruction of the statue of the goddess Nin-e’iga (the turning point of kirugu 4, see Dahl, 2011), the climax here is the people’s destruction of themselves. A comparison of the differences here at the same structural point is thus beneficial in bringing out the values of each poem. Kirugu 4 ends with Enlil relenting and declaring that Ur shall be restored. Kirugu 5 begins with the destructive storms that blew on Sumer turning back to their source. LSU is the only city-lament where this happens, saying: u₄ kien-gi-ra ba-e-zal-la kur-re ḫe₂-eb-zal, ‘The storm that passed over Sumer indeed passed over the foreign land’ (486).33 Lines 488–490 specify which lands: Tidnum, Gutium, and Anšan—those of the enemy invaders. Famine too has been inflicted upon the enemies just as it was upon Ur (492). Likewise at the end of Išum’s speech at the end of Tablet IV, Erra relents, decrees that the destruction shall be turned back on the enemies of Babylonia and that an Akkadian (ak-ka-du-u₂, IV.136) will rise to destroy and rule them all (IV.131–136). This goes one step further than LSU, or any of the city-laments, since LSU ends with prayers of abundance for Ur and does not express hopes of the city conquering its enemies. If anything, the sentiment is the opposite in LSU, which expresses the wish that: an-ki niĝin₂-na uĝ₃ ⸢saĝ si₃⸣-ga, ‘in the whole universe the people be cared for’ (513). The theme of the Akkadians dominating their enemies comes up again during Erra’s instructions for Akkad’s restitution at V.27–30. The element of revenge present in LSU (and not in the other city-laments) is thus extended to include ruling over the invaders, particularly specifying the hauling in of booty at V.30 and tribute (biltu) at V.35. However, although they have the semblance of topoi that we might expect in the other city-laments, the other blessings of restitution are found only in LSU. The multiplication of the people (Erra and Išum V.25, LSU 509, 512), the safety of the roads (Erra and Išum V.26, LSU 495), and the abundance of the fields and waters (Erra and Išum V.33–34, 37, LSU 499–500) are absent from the Ur Lament, which prays for a restoration but is not specific about the details. The Nippur Lament refers to the rebuilding of houses, the sprouting of seeds, and the multiplication of animals (252–258) but not the multiplication of people, and is primarily concerned with resumption of cult. The situation is the same in the Uruk Lament, and the part which would have mentioned restoration in the Eridu Lament is lost. 33

Var. KK: kur-kur-ra ‘lands’.

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The whole passage in Erra and Išum has the ring of pseudo-prophecy, which suggests the poem was composed after this restitution had been made, as a celebration of the king who had made it possible. It is comparable with the Marduk Prophecy in this respect, perhaps composed in the reign of Nebuchadnezzar I. Here Marduk predicts that a king of Babylon will renew the sanctuaries, bring Marduk back into Babylon, and smash Elam (iii 9–iv B’), which Nebuchadnezzar had duly accomplished.34 Restored social harmony and fruitful fields and watercourses also occur here. Yet Erra and Išum’s prophecy has a different, additional focus, repeatedly speaking of tribute. Even the renewed produce of the sea and fields are both described as biltu (V.33–34), and Erra’s instructions culminate with the command that the governors of all other cities must defer to the provisioner of Esagil: za-nin e₂-sag-il₂ u bābili(KA₂.DINGIR .RA)ki šakkanakkū(GIR₃.ARAD)meš kal ālānī(URU.URU) epišta(DU₃)-šu₂-nu li-bilu ša₂-a-[šu], ‘As for the provisioner of Esagil and Babylon, may the governors of all the cities35 bring (the results of) their labour to him’ (V.38), perhaps another reference to tribute (Cagni, 1969: 253).36 Erra returns to his seat at the beginning of Tablet V: ul-tu der₃-ra i-nu-ḫu irmu-u₂ šu-bat-su, ‘When Erra had calmed down and occupied his dwelling’ (V.1). Nanna had returned to his city at the end of kirugu 4, immediately after the favourable reply from Enlil (475–477a), and the turning back of the destruction happens after this (483–491, the beginning of kirugu 5). In Erra and Išum these two events have been reversed, presumably since, although it is Išum who carries out this destruction, Erra is the abstract force that causes it and so cannot be said to be appeased until it has been carried out. Thus established in his peaceful dwelling, he announces the regeneration of Akkad (V.25–38). 2.5 Interpretation Invoking LSU rather than one of the other city laments has ideological implications. Green observes that LSU identifies Ur with its long dynastic reign as the target for the gods’ anger, whereas in the Uruk Lament, for example, the anger is directed towards all mankind (1984: 254). By using LSU as a model rather than a different city-lament, Erra and Išum may be comparing the fallen power of Babylon and the cities in its domain with the famous dynasty of Ur. This comparison lays claim to an identity of power and splendour, rather than, for example, the religious centrality that would stem from a comparison with the Nippur Lament and Nippur. 34 35 36

Or see Nielsen (2012) for a date during the reign of Esarhaddon. Var. O: kal da-ad₂-me, ‘all the inhabited regions,’ perhaps alluding back to line 1. The noun biltu is in fact derived from the verb wabālu.

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Allusion to this lament may also give a theological explanation for Babylon’s downfall, a contrast with the fate of Ur. In Erra and Išum there is no decision that, like Ur, Babylon’s appointed reign had simply come to an end. Erra’s ravaging of Babylonia is based not on a decision that its hegemony had lasted too long, but on the desire for personal recognition. Erra and Išum thus departs from its model, omitting the original explanation to give its own: the destruction is not the inevitable result of a fixed and necessary decree, but of out-of-control forces that need to be calmed. The cause of this is complex and unclear, particularly regarding the balance of human and divine responsibility, since there has been neglect on both sides. Marduk is depicted as a weak ruler who is easily manipulated and unable to protect his people, but there are hints that the Babylonians themselves have neglected his cult. There are no easy answers to the question of culpability in this worldview. While the Ur Lament and Eridu Lament rebuke their city gods for having abandoned them, LSU is different in that Nanna remains loyal to his city and pleads with Enlil on its behalf (Green, 1984: 254). This is a key similarity between LSU and Erra and Išum, for by making Išum plead with Erra, the poem casts Išum in the role of the benevolent city god and Erra in the role of the apathetic and hostile chief god. It is also significant that it is Erra rather than Marduk who occupies the role of Enlil; Erra usurps Marduk’s primacy and power elsewhere in the poem,37 and this is another allusion that reinforces the idea. Most striking of all is the image of the destroyed date palm used in both poems at a heightened emotional moment to express the horror of the city’s destruction. In Erra and Išum the date palm symbolises the riches of Babylon: when the wind dries its fronds and carries them away, the city’s fortunes are taken with it. In LSU the breaking up of the date palm is a metaphor for the destruction of the statue of Nin-e’iga, goddess of milk and cheese, perhaps adorned with fertility symbols38—aspects of abundance. No other examples of date palms used in metaphors of destruction are so far known, which makes the association between these two poems even stronger. Comparing the destruction of Babylon to the demolition of a divine statue implies that the ruin of Babylon is sacrilegious, an insult to the gods themselves. We should also remember that Marduk’s statue itself has been neglected by the Babylonians, its refurbishment was the reason for his absence from the city in Tablet II. Perhaps, then, Marduk could also be referring to the destruction of his own statue by using this metaphor, a self-reflexive statement showing that he knows he is 37 38

It is notable that Erra is the one to return to his dwelling in Babylon rather than Marduk, who fades out of the narrative and is not heard of again (Machinist, 2005: 48). According to Dahl’s interpretation of lines 416–417 (2011: 59).

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finished. At the end of the poem it is Erra who controls Babylon, not Marduk (Machinist, 2005: 221). Unlike the statue of Nin-e’iga, which was systematically dismantled and whose destruction was explained as being part of some inscrutable divine plan, in Erra and Išum there is no such plan. The forces of chaos have prevailed. However, Babylon’s fall in fortune is only temporary. While Ur’s days as a ruling empire truly were over by the first millennium, Erra and Išum prophesies that Babylon will rise again. An Akkadian will arise to slay and rule all Babylon’s enemies (IV.136), and the governors of all the cities will haul their tribute into Šuanna (V.35). This is further brought out by the way that both poems uniquely turn the destruction back on their enemies. While other city laments also end with restoration, Erra and Išum takes this aspect of retaliation and pushes it further, emphasising Akkadian dominance. Here is another contrast: although in LSU Enlil states that Ur was not given an eternal reign (366), Babylon still has more days of predominance ahead. Of course, there are also differences between the structures of the poems. It is evident that much more happens in Tablet I of Erra and Išum than in kirugu 1 of LSU, for example, but this is because Erra and Išum is not simply a lament for Babylon within the genre of city-laments, but a heroic narrative fused with the structure and imagery of a city-lament, among other things. Indeed, it is because of this combination that while it is clear that Tablet IV of the poem draws heavily on laments, their influence upon the other tablets is less obvious. A structural approach enables us to see this more clearly to begin with, and then to inspect the details.

3

The Functions of Lamentation and Praise

At the very end of Erra and Išum we find a passage that reveals much about the function of lament in this text. The epilogue, in its definitive statement about how the poem should be used, states that it is to be sung as a lamentation (using the verb ṣarāḫu) and hung up as an amulet. Protection from Erra’s wrath will thereby be assured. This proclamation is a continuation of the dynamics at work in the poem, for Išum’s speeches have effectively performed a lament to Erra over the destruction of Babylon, which was ultimately successful in appeasing his anger and persuaded him to bring it to an end. The poem illustrates the principle at the heart of the lamentation tradition and shows its efficacy at work. Lamenting to gods is a form of praise, a way of acknowledging their power, and a way of stopping and pre-empting them from turning their destructive power upon mortals.

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The epilogue of Erra and Išum is influenced by that of Enūma eliš (Foster, 1991: 21, 2007: 67), which claimed to be divinely revealed and exhorted all to reflect on its message, passing it on to future generations, celebrating the power of Marduk (VII.145–162). Erra and Išum takes this pattern and transfers its praise to its own deity rather than Marduk, who is not only absent but has been completely replaced by Erra in the moment of triumph (Machinist, 2005: 221). There may even be a subtle mocking of Marduk’s 50 names in Erra and Išum V.44, where the author Kabti-ilānī-Marduk assures us that he accurately reproduced the text Erra revealed to him in a dream: e-da šu-ma ul u₂-rad-di ana muḫ-ḫi, ‘not a single line did he add to it.’ Noegel has pointed out that šumu, ‘line’ also means ‘name’ (2011: 180). It may be possible to read this as an ironic dig at Marduk, hinting that Erra does not need a heaping-up of names to establish his supremacy. Enūma eliš ends with the instruction that Marduk’s names should be remembered, taught, and discussed: li-iṣ-ṣab-tu₂-ma maḫ-ru-u li-kal-lim en-qu mu-du-u mit-ḫa-riš lim-tal-ku li-ša₂-an-ni-ma a-bu ma-ri-iš li-ša₂-ḫi-iz ša₂ lu₂rē’î (SIPA) u na-qi₂-di li-pat-ta-a uz-na-šu₂-un Let them be understood, let a leading man explain them,39 let the wise and the intelligent discuss them together, let the father repeat them, let him teach them to his son, let him open the ears of the shepherd and herdsman.40 Enūma eliš VII.145–148

At the end of Erra and Išum we also find instructions for an audience, who are to learn not Erra’s names, but the poem itself. Erra and Išum also goes further than Enūma eliš in making promises about what its spread can accomplish, proclaiming the power of Erra in contrast to that of Marduk in a strikingly competitive way. It declares that the recitation of the poem will have protective and apotropaic properties and bring good fortune: ilu(DINGIR) ša₂ za-ma-ru ša₂-a-šu₂ i-na-du ina a-šir₃-ti-šu₂ lik-tam-me-ra ḫe₂-gal₂-lum

39 40

Translation following Lambert (2013: 133). The word maḫrû can also be interpreted as ‘the first man’, which Foster takes to refer to the anonymous author of the poem (1991: 22). i.e. the king.

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u₃ ša₂ u₂-šam-sa-ku a-a iṣ-ṣi-na qut-rin-na šarru(LUGAL) ša₂ šu-mi u₂-šar-bu-u₂ li-be-el kib-ra-a-ti rubû(NUN) ša₂ ta-nit-ti qar-ra-du-ti-ia i-dab-bu-bu ma-ḫi-ra a-a ir-ši lu₂nāru(NAR) ša₂ i-ṣar-ra-ḫu ul i-mat ina šib-ṭi eli(UGU) šarri(LUGAL) u rubê(NUN) da-mi₃-iq at-mu-šu₂ lu₂ṭupšarru(DUB.SAR) ša₂ iḫ-ḫa-zu i-šet ina māt(KUR) lu₂nakri(KUR₂) i-kab-bit ina māti(KUR)-šu₂ ina a-šir₃-ti um-ma-a-ni a-šar ka-a-an šu-mi₃ i-zak-ka-ru u₂-zu-un-šu₃-nu a-pet-ti For the god who praises this song, may abundance be piled up in his sanctuary, but he (the god) who considers it bad, may he not smell incense! May the king who extols my name rule the corners of the world! May the prince who declares the praise of my heroism have no rival! May the singer who sings it in lament not die in the plague, but his speech be favourable to king and prince. The scribe who learns it will escape the enemy land and will be respected in his own country. In the sanctuary of the scholars where they constantly speak my name, I will open their ears. Erra and Išum V.49–56

This brings us back to lamentation poetry: ṣarāḫu in line 53 means specifically ‘to sing lamentation’ (CAD Ṣ: 99), a reference which may suggest ritual performance. We know that lamentations were sung during rituals in the first millennium, specifically building rituals (Linssen, 2004: 100), to appease the anger of the god whose sanctuary had to be demolished (Cohen, 1981: 48–49). While the lamentation-priest (kalû) took primary responsibility, references in the astronomical diaries show that the exorcist (āšipu) was also involved in these rituals (Linssen, 2004: 107). We may note that three copies of Erra and Išum (KAR 166, 168, 169) were found in the house of a family of exorcists at Assur (N 4, Pedersén, 1986: 56); it is thus possible that they found some practical purpose for the text (see also its use on amulets discussed on p. 242). Balaĝ lamentations were regularly performed in ritual throughout the late period (Cohen, 1988: 14 ff.; Maul, 1999; Gabbay, 2013), and it is therefore likely that in this respect, Erra and Išum was inspired by one of these contemporary practices. The function of laments was to appease the wrath of angry gods and thereby avert catastrophe.41 The 41

See Löhnert (2011) for an overview.

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details were generalised so as to apply to any situation, and the balaĝs were recited regularly in case the gods had been accidentally offended. So too, the poem declares, Erra will be appeased by those who sing his poem as a lament, and this act provides protection against his wrath. Throughout Erra and Išum, Išum uses the same principles as these ritual lamentations, that praise of a deity’s power will soothe his wrath. Bottéro suggests that Išum’s approach in fact reflects a theology current at the time, that the way to approach the gods in times of trouble was not to plead or reproach but to flatter (1985: 277). This concept does not come from LSU or the citylament genre but from the balaĝs. The reason for Erra’s anger is a lack of recognition, and his demonstration of power is a bid for respect. The Seven persuade him to go on the warpath by emphasising that it will subject all men and gods to him (I.61–66), and their words please him because they elevate and honour him. When Išum describes the havoc and desolation that Erra has caused at length, Erra is pleased that his power is acknowledged—it is a form of flattery (Bottéro, 1985: 270). At III.D.1–15 his summary of all the gods who bow to him and the domains under his control ends with u₃ ta-ta-mi ina lib₃-bi-ka um-ma le-qu-u še-ṭu-ti, ‘yet you say in your heart, “they hold me in contempt!”?’ Parts of this passage, in fact, could be compared with the language of hymns, particularly III.D.9: gi-mir par-ṣi-ma ḫa-am-ma-ta, ‘you gather all the divine powers to yourself,’ which is common in hymns to many different gods (CAD P: 200–201).42 Išum is, in some ways, then, speaking a hymn to Erra.43 In IV.87–112 his summary of the effects of Erra’s actions concludes with the line: u₃ na-ḫa-am-ma ul ta-nu-uḫ, ‘Yet you could find no peace at all!’ With these words Išum tells Erra that he has obtained the recognition he desired and should now be satisfied. As soon as Erra has heard this last summary, the narrator remarks: a-mat di-šum iq-bu-šu₂ ki-i u₃-lu šam-ni eli(UGU)-šu₂ i-ṭib, ‘the word Išum spoke pleased him like the finest oil’ (IV.129), the same line that followed the speech of the Seven at I.93 with Išum’s name substituted for theirs. When he feels honoured, Erra is finally willing to stop. Išum’s strategy of praising a deity in the hope that they will alleviate suffering and illness is also typical of incantations (Mayer, 1976: 309–333). Incantations and prayers often include a lament describing the petitioner’s circumstances (Mayer, 1976: 67–118). There are also instances where the petitioner reproaches the god for the evils he has caused him to suffer (Mayer, 1976: 106–108). Erra 42 43

Cf. The Great Prayer to Ištar (Reiner & Güterbock, 1967) lines 8–10, accompanied by ritual instructions. Cf. Hecker on the intention to praise as a function of hymn and epic (1974: 70 ff.).

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and Išum borrows the language of this genre for its own purposes, both poetic and practical. At V.57–58 the text specifies that the tablet itself has protective functions: ina bīti(E₂) a-šar ṭup-pu ša-a-šu₂ šak-nu der₃-ra li-gug-ma liš-gi-šu₂ dse-be-et-⸢ti⸣ pa-tar šib-ṭi ul i-ṭe-ḫi-šu-ma ša₂-lim-tu šak-na-as-su In the house where this tablet is placed, let Erra become furious, let the Seven slaughter— the sword of plague shall not come near it and good fortune is decreed for it. Erra and Išum V.57–58

Even when Erra and the Seven are raging, neither their wrath nor plague, the characteristic weapon of Erra, shall touch the house. The end of Erra and Išum affirms this principle. Praise of Erra will avert his harmful blows in all their forms, but specifically recitation of this poem, in effect a lament to appease the heart of Erra, is promoted. One need not even recite it; it is enough to hang it up in the house. It may be that the physical presence of the words effects a constant ‘recitation’ of the poem, akin to the way that dedicating a statue in a temple meant the dedicator was continually praying. The principle of lamentation is thus reified as an amulet. In corroboration of the poem’s own statement, examples of the poem have indeed been found on amuletshaped tablets (KAR 169; King, 1896: 54–57, 58–59; Lambert, 1962b), and one amulet (BM 118998) has been found inscribed with an extract from the poem, the last thirteen lines of Tablet III, Išum’s praise of Erra (see Reiner, 1960). The tablet from Ur published by Lambert (1962b) has ‘two corners cut away and a horizontal hole pierced through the remaining tab, as though to fit the tablet into a frame’ (1962b: 119). The magical and ritual use of literary texts is often a secondary development (Hecker, 1974: 15–16), but here the text explicitly recommends itself for this purpose. This confirms the validity of our search for references to ritual and prayer. Since Kabti-ilānī-Marduk declares that the poem has a practical function, it is likely that other references to religious practices and the principles by which they operate have been worked into the text.44

44

For example, the turning back of violence onto the enemies that originally inflicted it is characteristic of magical texts, such as Maqlu V.57–75.

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Conclusions

Both sides of the lamentation tradition, then, may have influenced Erra and Išum. The fundamental idea behind the balaĝs is that evil can be averted through appeasement and praise, the very strategies that Išum uses to soothe Erra and persuade him to cease from his violence. However, the parallels with one particular lament, LSU, are more detailed and sustained than this general similarity. The same events take place in the same order, even matching up to the same tablet of Erra and Išum as kirugu of LSU. As well as the structural correspondences both use the uncommon metaphor of the destroyed date palm to express the ruin of the city. Erra and Išum is a poem that memorialises the fall of Babylon from its former splendour and may invoke an ancient example as a comparison, the fall of Ur and its famous empire. Such a comparison emphasises the loss of Babylon’s power and might, and the loss of Marduk’s power as a now ineffectual city god, powerless in the face of Erra’s chaos and effectively replaced by Išum, who represents a new heroic ideal.45 Since no manuscripts of Sumerian city laments dating to later than the Old Babylonian period have come down to us, its influence on Erra and Išum cannot be proven definitively. However, I hope to have shown that the resemblances between Erra and Išum and LSU are specific and numerous, on the levels of both structure and detail, and that they can be meaningfully interpreted. This in turn implies that the resemblances may not be coincidental. We should at least consider the possibility that LSU survived into the first millennium and that echoes of this text could have been recognised by a Mesopotamian audience. There is evidence to suggest that the city lament tradition continued well after the Old Babylonian period, and the Uruk List of Kings and Sages implies that Hellenistic scholars saw a connection between the author of Erra and Išum and the fall of Ur. Absence of evidence is not always evidence of absence, especially given our fragmentary state of knowledge about cuneiform culture. With this in mind, we should take seriously the evidence inherent in the text of Erra and Išum itself: the intertextual connections that are both numerous and meaningful. Later Mesopotamians may have known much more of their own literary history than we currently recognise, and intertextuality may be able to open a larger window into their ways of thinking. This last case study proposing allusion in Erra and Išum to LSU is deliberately controversial, as I intend to push the boundaries of what we currently deem possible with the evidence avail-

45

See George (2013: 62) for the differing ethics of war that Erra and Išum each represent.

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able to us. Specific intertextual connections can constitute pieces of evidence for how the Mesopotamians thought about their world and open up new avenues for exploration. For example, the relationship between Labbu and Anzû reveals Ninurta to be absorbing the characteristics of Tišpak, which turns out to be supported by other evidence from outside the poems (see chapter one). Connections suggested by similarities between texts can therefore be clues to wider dynamics in Mesopotamian systems of thought and can open our minds to possibilities we had not previously considered.

Conclusion—a Self-Conscious Tradition This study has demonstrated how each of the three poems considered here uses competitive strategies of allusion to prove themselves superior to the poems and gods that came before them. Anzû presents Ninurta as a better Tišpak and a better Lugalbanda, and even as a better version of himself than earlier poems portray, finishing with a list of names expressing the full range of other gods he has now superseded. Enūma eliš goes to great lengths to show Marduk to be a better Ninurta, using both Anzû and Lugal-e to do so. It symbolically deposes Enlil and shows Marduk taking over from both him and Ea, and finishes with an even greater list of gods whose identities he has conquered. Erra and Išum then presents Išum as both a better Ninurta and a better Marduk, but attributes his success to entirely different tactics, redefining the very concept of what it means to be a warrior in the process and overturning the values of the previous two poems. Weapons of words are literal in Anzû, since it is Anzû’s spells that give him power and render him such a threat. Ninurta must both turn Anzû’s own words against him and use physical force to win, a combination of words and weapons that carries the day. The theme is less prominent in Enūma eliš, since Marduk’s actions are swift and effective without the need for much speech, yet here too Marduk’s word is supreme and cannot be changed. There is considerable emphasis on the power of his commands, and on speaking and naming as the force that brings things into existence. In Erra and Išum the power of language is stressed most of all. The battles of the former poems are here replaced by a battle of words, as Išum uses persuasion to get Erra to cease his destructive rampage. Furthermore, the Seven must persuade Erra to begin fighting in the first place, showing that even weapons themselves need words to be effective. Competitive intertextual strategies work constantly to reinforce these broad themes in each poem, serving as weapons of words in another form. These subtle literary techniques are just as important as the more prominent messages they support, for they are a form of subterfuge, a means of attack that is not immediately obvious yet is incredibly effective once its presence is felt. Intertextuality itself is not necessarily competitive, yet the way it is deployed in these poems is strikingly so. These battles are fought not only for the supremacy of the gods who are their protagonists, but also for a kind of literary supremacy, showing that the poems themselves are superior works. This may be one reason why Anzû re-works elements of Lugal-e and An-gin₇, to present the battle against Anzû as the one that earns Ninurta his position, and this poem as the authoritative account of his rise. It explains the way Enūma eliš draws upon so

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many other types of text—by incorporating them all in some way it expresses its dominance over them. And it explains the subversiveness of Erra and Išum, which articulates such a different attitude, a radical departure in style as well as message, a break with tradition that seems almost necessary. Weapons of words are not only in service of the protagonists, but of the poems themselves. A number of motifs can be traced right the way through all three of these compositions, becoming ever more complex each time they are re-invoked. These make a strong case for a self-conscious tradition, implying an awareness of the techniques used in earlier poems. In Erra and Išum, the palm fronds carried on the wind that announce Marduk’s defeat hark back to the blood on the wind that announced Marduk’s victory in Enūma eliš, which in turn alluded to Anzû where Anzû’s feathers on the wind signalled Ninurta’s triumph. Erra and Išum does not merely re-use the motif in the same way as before, but subverts the way that Enūma eliš had alluded to Anzû, turning a symbol of victory into one of defeat. Another example is the stripping of the crown. In the murder of Apsû scene, Enūma eliš alludes to Enlil stripping off his crown in Anzû, the precursor to a loss of power for both Apsû and Enlil. Erra and Išum alludes to the same scene in Anzû, putting Marduk in the same position as Enlil but depicting him as more incompetent. Yet this very equation is itself reminiscent of the way that Enūma eliš used this scene. Since the murder of Apsû may be a symbolic way of deposing Enlil and Marduk is now himself being ‘deposed’, this may be an ironic allusion to Marduk’s former superseding of Enlil. Šar-ur is a character that occurs in each poem, each time in roles that contrast with his previous appearances. Enūma eliš transforms him into both a minor messenger and a de-personified mace, pointing to the original function of this character in Lugal-e and drawing attention to how he was deemphasised by Anzû. Erra and Išum takes this up and splits Šar-ur again, alluding to him in the description of the Seven, the weapons that devastate the home of Anzû (mount Šar-Šar), and in the description of Išum himself, as the vizier who dares to argue with his master, succeeding where Šar-ur failed in Lugal-e. Both Enūma eliš and Erra and Išum therefore draw on Šar-ur in two different ways, but Erra and Išum goes much further, perhaps fully exploiting a strategy that Enūma eliš had only touched upon. Enūma eliš may be imitating the way that Anzû imitates Lugal-e when it gives Marduk and Ti’āmtu similar attributes. Both Ninurta and Anzû are described in similar terms with storm and flood imagery in Anzû, which may be a borrowing from Lugal-e. The effect of this is to emphasise both the threat posed by the enemy and the hero’s potential to match it. In Enūma eliš, both Marduk and his opponents are able to use magic, which could be another manifestation of this strategy.

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Another possible example may be the transference of weapons. Anzû plays with Labbu by turning Tišpak’s magic seal into the tablet of destinies and giving the magical object to the enemy instead of to the hero. Enūma eliš does something very similar. The concept of Ninurta’s metaphorically poisoned arrows is borrowed but transferred to Marduk’s enemy, and appears in the form of Ti’āmtu’s poisonous monsters (and this time the poison is very real). This is reinforced by Ti’āmtu’s words at I.139–140 (= II.25–26 = III.87–88) which may even allude to Ninurta’s initial failure to defeat Anzû: as she exhorts her army not to turn back, we may recall how Ninurta’s arrows were ‘turned back’ into their constituent parts by Anzû’s spell. There is even a sense that characters learn from the mistakes of others in earlier poems. Ti’āmtu’s words to her weapons are one such example in Enūma eliš, as she urges them not to succumb to the same fate as Ninurta’s. Ti’āmtu’s protests at Apsû’s plan to kill their children are in stark contrast to the laments of the mother goddess in Atraḫasīs, who regretted how she did nothing to save her creations from being destroyed by the deluge. Ti’āmtu leaves no room for regret but takes direct action. When Ea seizes power from Apsû he kills him, ensuring he will not be able to recover it as Anzû did, and Marduk learns from Enlil’s mistakes, creating man to bear the toil before any complaints among the gods arise. All this is part of Enūma eliš establishing its superiority as a poem as well as underscoring the greater cleverness of its characters. Erra and Išum shows this kind of awareness too, as Erra foresees the strategy that Ea used in Atraḫasīs to warn the gods not to accept the prayers of the people if they appeal for help, and ensures Išum will not do the same. It is therefore possible that the later poets were aware of the techniques used by earlier ones, displaying a sophisticated level of poetic self-consciousness and deploying it with powerful effects. They were not simply carried along by the stream of tradition, but actively diverted it.

1

The Consequences of Competition

These assertions of poetic superiority raise the question of whether or not newer poems replaced the ones with which they compete. Did this kind of competition actually result in a winner, rendering the earlier poems or their gods superfluous? In my opinion this is unlikely. Firstly, none of these texts disappear, but continue to be copied right into the late period. Even when elements from older poems are incoprorated into newer ones the originals maintain a place in the Mesopotamian tradition. For example, although the flood story from Atraḫasīs is incorporated into Gilgameš—closely enough that lines from

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the former are still used to restore broken lines in the latter—a Standard Babylonian version of Atraḫasīs continued to be copied in the first millennium long afterwards. The flood is only one aspect of Atraḫasīs, which also speaks of humankind’s purpose on earth as well as the origins of birth and death. In this it was not supplanted. Perhaps the other poems also simply had different purposes, and so each was still valued for its own reasons. Even with the gods themselves it is not always simply a case of one replacing another outright. The statue of Marduk was the main object of veneration in the chapel of Ninurta both in Esaĝil and in Ninurta’s temple Eḫursaĝtilla, but the localities themselves were still ascribed to Ninurta rather than to Marduk, and so this is best interpreted as Ninurta forming one aspect of Marduk (George, 1997).1 Marduk takes on different aspects of the other gods, absorbing them rather than replacing them altogether, so independent traditions about them can continue to co-exist. In this case there is no conflict with the Ninurtaaspect of Marduk continuing to be celebrated in its own poems. A Babylonian reader of Lugal-e who considered Marduk and Ninurta to be one and the same may have understood that he was reading about an aspect of Marduk. This interpretation need not conflict with the understanding that Marduk was superior to Ninurta, for Ninurta had, after all, been reduced to one of his aspects. Thus a late Babylonian reader of Lugal-e could perhaps interpret the text in either way, as if Marduk himself were performing these deeds, or as if the protagonist was a different god inferior to Marduk. Perhaps the most important point, however, is that if the original poems were no longer read, the significance of the absorption would be lost.2 If we understand exactly how far superior Marduk was to Ninurta through comparison with earlier poems, it means more than it would if we simply had a list of impressive deeds, even if we knew that they had once been accomplished by another deity. Although it cannot be proven, I suspect that the ancient Mesopotamians felt the same way. If the older poems had become obsolete, they would have stopped copying them, and the fact that they continue to allude to Lugal-e even in poems as late as Erra and Išum shows that knowledge of these older poems was still important for understanding new compositions.

1 Baker suggests that the statue of Marduk may have been in a side cella rather than in the main cella, but one which would still have visually dominated the entrance (2011). 2 Cf. Sommer: ‘polemic depends on the older text even while rejecting it’ (1998: 29).

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2

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Implications for Literary History

Treating these Akkadian poems as sophisticated and worthy of literary close reading has revealed a great deal of nuance and complexity, and demonstrates that they deserve to be interpreted on a deeper level. Allusions are fundamental to the construction of meaning in these poems and emerge as a cornerstone of Akkadian poetics. The richness of the Mesopotamian literary tradition can only be fully appreciated when we take its intertextuality into account. Hysteron proteron, multiple reference, reverse intertextuality, structural allusions, and allusions to allusions are well known in Classical literature (although the last three are not termed as such). This has not been a systematic attempt to classify the techniques of Akkadian poetry according to Classical terminology, which often does not exactly correspond anyway,3 but an attempt to read the poems with a similar approach to see what can be uncovered. The terms used here are sometimes used slightly differently in Classics and have more specific referents, but the underlying concepts are broadly similar. These markers of erudition in one highly esteemed literary culture have now been found in another that few previously suspected would display them, another factor that demands that we acknowledge the intricacy and refinement of Akkadian poetry. The study has also confirmed the importance of Sumerian to these Akkadian poems. All three allude to Lugal-e, and the references sometimes match the original Sumerian text rather than its Akkadian translation. Anzû also alludes to The Return of Lugalbanda and draws on the language of Sumerian ritual lament, as when Anzû utters a paraphrase of a passage from balaĝs in his spell. This shows that knowledge of Sumerian poems was just as important for interpretation as knowledge of the Akkadian ones, that they were not merely copied in late periods but fully engaged with, and used creatively to produce meaning in new compositions. They were not fossilised and obscure, but alive and well understood. That Erra and Išum, a first-millennium composition, seems to echo the Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur, a poem thought not to have survived the Old Babylonian period, raises intriguing questions about the continuity of the tradition. Although much of Mesopotamian literature has not survived to our present time, this study has shown that a high degree of interpretation is possible with the texts that we do have. That Erra and Išum, the latest poem included here, constantly refers to Lugal-e, Anzû, Enūma eliš, Atraḫasīs, and Gilgameš con3 E.g. allusion to allusion resembles the phenomenon that Classicists call ‘window reference’, but window reference has a more precise meaning (see Thomas, 1986: 188).

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firms that these poems were important classics in the first millennium, knowledge of which was an essential key to interpretation. We are fortunate indeed to have the majority of the text of these poems preserved. As interactions with them in Anzû, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum have so far shown, we can be optimistic that a deeper understanding of Mesopotamian literature is possible using the texts we already have.

3

The Power of Intertextuality

Intertextual analysis has great power as a hermeneutic tool, and has strong potential for wider application. Only three poems have been examined here, and undoubtedly many others are worthy of being investigated in this way and will reveal their own complexities. The sheer density, frequency, and intricacy of the allusive strategies found in these three poems suggest that we are likely to find them in others also. Competitive intertextuality is not the only kind: effects can also be honorific, ludic, and erudite, and texts can borrow authority along with motifs, as well as employing the subversive and differentiating strategies observed in these poems.4 The shared knowledge of texts that allusions appeal to can be invoked for all manner of purposes, not only to assert superiority. Some of the connections I have discussed have been noticed before, but their meaning had not been fully explored. Fundamentally, it is this extrication of meaning that I wish to stress. We must go further, beyond the pointing out of parallels and into their deeper significance, if we are to make the most of intertextuality. Drawing connections should not be merely a statement of fact, but an act of interpretation. While the very fact that two texts are linked can provide new and interesting information about what Mesopotamian scholars considered relevant, unpacking what those connections mean can give us even deeper insights into the workings of the culture itself. It is easy to treat allusions as evidence of ‘sameness’ in Mesopotamian literature. If one text alludes to another it can be viewed as a kind of recyling, or of perpetuating the stream of tradition. Yet this study shows that allusion is often a pointed marker of difference, a similarity drawn precicely to emphasise the difference between the new text and the old. Therefore interpreting allusions must take into account both the similarities and differences between texts, and the implications of those comparisons.

4 For a brief explanation of some of these categories see Sommer (1998: 18–19).

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Intertextuality is not only a feature of Mesopotamian literature but pervades all cuneiform culture. The very basis of Mesopotamian scholarship can be said to be intertextual, exemplified by the lists and commentaries that connect words through the homophones, graphic resemblances, and variant readings of cuneiform signs, using these principles as keys to reveal deeper connections inherent in the universe.5 Thus the applicability of this concept extends to many other kinds of text. By noticing and interpreting connections between texts we can uncover these fundamental networks of meaning that informed Mesopotamian conceptions of the world and gain a greater understanding of this profoundly interconnected culture. 5 See especially Frahm (2011) and van de Mieroop (2016).

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General Index abandonment 185, 191, 198, 219, 227, 229– 230 abu 73–76 Adad 72, 98–101 advice 41–42, 47, 116, 124, 135–136, 162, 173 Alla 125–126 allusion competitive 19–23, 245 definition of 2 interpretation of 3 prevalence of 9–10, 249–250 recognition of 23–29 to allusion 23, 246, 249 what counts as 11–16 ambiguity 15, 139, 145, 156, 208n40 amulet 24, 48, 201, 238, 242 Anšar 74–75, 84, 96–97, 99, 134, 136 Anu 36, 87–88, 98–101, 103–104, 106, 182, 195–196 Anzû passim birth of 38 evil 57–58, 65 spell of 5, 59–62, 90, 165, 207–208, 247, 249 Apsû passim as dwelling 116, 123, 130, 151, 188 murder of chapter 3 passim, see esp. 108–110, 116–119, 123, 128–130, 150, 180, 187–189, 214, 246 personification of 109–110 Aruru 45n34, 113, 208 Asag 23, 38–41, 64, 131, 141, 143, 149, 151, 174 birth of 65, 205 body of 144–146 audience 24, 239–240 author 14, 16–19, 25, 222–223, 239 authority 22, 49, 54, 73, 81–84, 87–88, 91, 118, 154, 167–168, 186–188, 190, 245, 250 see also legitimacy Babylon 3, 6, 66, 68, 94, 123, 128, 160, 166, 171, 179, 182, 184–185, 189–191, 193, 201, 212, 214, chapter 7 passim balaĝ 59–62, 217, 223–224, 226, 228n21, 231n27, 240–241, 243, 249 Barthes 16

bēl mātāti 73, 94, 129, 152 Bēlet-ilī 36, 52–54, 57, 63, 76, 89, 106, 113, 197, 207 blocking 58–59, 65, 177 of waters 146–148, 150–151 bond 6, 83, 94, 168, 187–189, 215, 232 bow 45, 47–48, 56, 60, 68, 95–96, 132, 139– 140 casting of lots 98, 109n13, 123–124 chain of allusion 7–8, 31, 40, 107, 187, 205, 214–215 character comparison passim, see esp. 21, 38–40, 130, 134–136, 156, 162, 173–174, 180, 199 civilization 182–183, 206–207, 214–215 coincidence 11, 14, 21, 41, 131, 228 counterpart 123–124, 126, 129–130, 156–157 creation 82, 92, 108, 110, 112–113, 120, 122– 124, 128–129, 143, 148, 154–157, 203, 204–205 of Babylon 123, 128 of the heavens 123–124, 144–148 of mankind 51–54, 64, 68, 107, 112, 121, 124–127, 151, 196–197, 207–208 of the netherworld 144–146 of the world 92, 123, 130, 132, 150 of the universe 68, 98, 100 cult disruption of 160, 234–235 of Marduk 6, 26 neglect of 6, 185, 191, 237 cultic texts 24–26, 131 dalāḫu 202–203 date of composition 4–5 Anzû 33, 35–36 Atraḫasīs 51–52, 105–106 Enūma eliš 66–67 Erra and Išum 159–161 Gilgameš 193–194 Labbu 45–46 LSU 217 Lugal-e 37 date palm 212–214, 224, 225, 232–234, 237, 246

272

general index

de-emphasis 36, 83–85, 134–136 see also downgrading destinies decreeing of 81, 84–85, 89, 142, 143–144, 151–154, 156, 186, 204 tablet of 47–49, 62, 64, 78–88, 118–119, 153, 165–168 deluge 110–115, 119, 122, 130, 132–133, 138– 139, 151, 156, 177, 182, 186–187, 192–198, 206–210, 214, 215, 247 door 22, 58, 59, 162, 175–178, 205 downgrading 20, 42, 85–86, 103, 135–138, 153, 156 see also de-emphasis

Errakal 210 Esagil 6, 123, 128, 130, 213n52, 236, 248 exorcist 24, 240 expectations 14, 21, 23, 39, 64–65, 78–81, 90, 99, 101, 143, 225

Ea 71–73, 84, 209 advice of 42, 47, 78, 95–97 failure of 98–99 father of Marduk 73–74, 115–116, 124–125, 130 intervention of 117, 128, 175–177, 196–197 replacement of 99–102, 108, 122–125, 162, 180 see also Apsû, murder of elâtu 145–146 Eninnu 36n17, 43, 152 Enlil passim father 73–75 helping Ninurta 138, 154 number 50 93–94, 108 overthrow of chapter 3 sidelining of 92, 98–101, 108, 124 surpassed by Ninurta 152–153 thoughtlessness of 112, 129 tyranny of 115, 121, 151 see also Apsû, murder of; deluge; forced labour; sleep deprivation; destinies, tablet of Eridu 43n29, 94, 123 see also Eridu Lament Erra passim as Anzû 166–168, 177 behaving like a man 199, 210–211 as Enlil 194–195, 230–232, 237 fickleness of 173–174, 199–200 insatiability of 199 as guardian 166 superseding Marduk 171, 182–183, 190, 205, 239

Genette 21n48 Girra 58n61, 72, 98–101 Girsu 43, 50 god list 92–93, 102n76, 134, 153n56, 210n44 guarding 38–39, 59, 147–148, 150, 151, 158, 166, 175

famine 111, 146, 158n2, 175, 177, 230, 235 foam 196–197 folktale 13–14, 41, 154–155, 224–225 forced labour 51–52, 112, 121, 126–128, 151, 200n30 foreshadowing 62, 81, 88, 116, 123, 165n16, 209 formulaic language 12–15, 27, 59n63

heaping up 148–149, 177 historical background see date of composition of Erra and Išum 191, 224 Homer 9–10, 13 see also Iliad; Odyssey hymnic form 84–85, 99, 241 hymnic prologue 38, 95n65, 169–173 hysteron proteron 22, 49–50, 63, 91–92, 249 Ibbi-Sîn 222–223 ikkillu 62 imitation of imitation 246 imtu see poison inconsistency 79–80, 87 intentio operis 16 intention 16–19, 22 intentional fallacy 17 intertextuality passim, see esp. 9–10 definition of 1–2 in Assyriology 10–11 vs allusion 2, 18–19 irony 23, 31, 57–58, 75, 116n27, 166, 168, 177, 179, 186, 189, 194, 239, 246 dramatic 65, 79, 180 irresponsibility 22, 30, 109–112, 129, 168, 194–199, 210, 214

273

general index irrigation 38, 143, 146–151, 155, 177 Ištaran 50 Išum passim concern for people 196, 211–212, 215, 230–231, 237 holding back destruction 175–178 as Marduk 190 as Nanna 230–231, 237 as Ninurta 161–165, 169–173, 180 protecting against evil 164, 177 and Šar-ur 173–174 warrior of reason 195, 245

mistakes, learning from 20, 90, 114, 127–129, 197–198, 247 motif transference 21, 48–50, 57, 65, 90, 247 mountains 38–40, 52, 57n59, 58, 64, 132– 137, 141–142, 146–149, 155, 169, 177, 202–203 multiple reference 22–23, 31, 180, 249 Mummu 116, 150–151, 188–189 see also Apsû, murder of mutīr gimilli 68, 71, 74–75, 83, 179 manuscripts see date of composition

Kakka 40, 96–97, 103, 134–136 kingship 45, 54, 75, 82–83, 85, 115–117, 129, 134, 141–142, 152, 154, 156, 161, 169–170 Kristeva 2

naḫarmumu 204 naḫarmuṭu 204 names 42–59, 140 of Marduk 92–94, 100–101, 149–154, 239 Nanna 230–231, 236–237 neo-anaylsis 9 Nergal 158, 163–164, 168n19, 210 net 154, 168 netherworld 144–146 Nin-e’iga 233, 235, 237–238 Ninazu 45, 50 Ningirsu 35–36, 42–44, 50–51, 152 Ninḫursaĝ 52, 219 Nintu 52, 84, 113–114 Nippur 43–44, 50, 67, 94, 189 see also Nippur Lamen; Return of Ninurta to Nippur noise 108–112, 117, 118–122, 129, 186–187, 195– 196, 198–200, 202, 206, 215

Lagaš 36, 43 lament 24, 113–114, 178, 207, 211–214, chapter 7 passim see also balaĝ legitimacy 69, 75, 78–88, 115–117 see also authority liver 145–146 Lugalbanda 44 see also Return of Lugalbanda mace 132–139, 172 Mami 52–53, 130, 171, 201 marāṣu 202–203 Marduk passim cleverness of 5, 129, 155 as Ea 99–103, 108, 122–125 as Enlil 93–94, 98–101, chapter 3 passim, 194 lament of 3, 166, 178–179, 232–234 as Ninurta chapters 2 and 4 passim, 161 sidelining of 170–171, 194–195 superseding of 166, 189–190, 211–214, 239 tricking of 166–168, 186–187, 191, 232 weakness of 184–185, 190–191, 205, 211, 237 memorisation 14–16, 26–27 mirroring 39–40 misdirection of the reader 23, 143, 156, 209 of power 168–169, 212

oral tradition 24, 225 Ovid 12–13, 63 Pabilsag 43n28, 45n38, 50 Panigarra 50 Papsukkal 43 parāku 59, 148n45, 150–151 parallelism 84–85, 99 parody 201 persuasion 7, 20, 53, 161–162, 165, 173–174, 179, 188, 200–201, 238, 241, 243, 245 Pisag-Unug 43n28, 50 Plant-stone 23, 141–143, 151, 156 poison 56, 88–91, 171–172, 204–205, 247 power of language 5–7, 42, 162, 165, 245

274 praise 7, 38, 77, 113, 154–155, 164, 171, 238– 243 see also prayer prayer 40, 152, 197, 201, 217, 219, 225, 235, 241–242, 247 prefiguring 123, 150 Propp, Vladimir 13–14, 41, 154–155 pun 24, 125–126, 178–179 see also word play Qingu 23, 80–89, 124–126, 141–143, 144, 156 quiver 139–140, 156 raising the stakes 48–49, 62 rare words 12–13 refusing reference 86 regression 183, 206–211, 214 repetition 13–15, 36, 89, 94–98, 119–122, 142, 200–201 restoration of cities 219, 221, 224–225, 235– 236, 238 reversal 4, 7, 15, 20, 21, 48, 58, 62, 120, 124, 125, 153–154, 165, 176, 190, 199, 205, 211 reverse intertextuality 22, 57, 62–64, 88, 115, 117, 140, 249 šaḫāṭu 117–119, 167–168 Šar-ur 20, 40–42, 65, 96, 103, 133–138, 156, 162, 173–174, 180, 246 Šara 55–58, 72, 98–101 ṣarāḫu 240 scribal education 10, 14–15, 24, 26–29 self-consciousness 1, 15, 23, 103, 198, 237– 238, 246–247 ṣerretu see bond Seven, the 20, 40, 141n25, 173–174, 177, 180, 185, 195–196, 199–207, 214–215, 219, 229, 242, 245, 246 sleep deprivation 22, 109–113, 116n28, 119– 122, 195–201, 215 spell 59–62, 65, 90, 99, 101–102, 116, 165, 190, 207, 247 statue 3, 66–67, 178–179, 185, 191, 233–235, 237–238, 248 steppe 149, 206–208 stock description 13

general index stock phrases 4 stones 38, 141–142, 146–148, 151–154, 176–177, 206 see also Asag; Plant-stone storm 39–40, 42, 47, 76–78, 98, 133, 138–139, 154, 203, 221, 235, 246 stream of tradition 3–4, 247, 250 structural allusion 14, 21–22, 91–101, 153– 156, 168, 172, chapter 7 passim see esp. 224–225, 229, 249 subversion 47–48, 59, 62, 174, 187, 197–198, 201, 246 see also reversal Sumerian, importance of 23–28, 156–157, 173, 226–227, 249 Suteans 160, 169 syncretism 35, 41n25, 42–46, 50–51, 93–94, 100–102, 123, 213–214, 248 ṭēmu 125–126 textual fixity 29–30 Ti’āmtu passim army of 88–91, 141, 204–206 as deluge 122, 214–215 disturbance of 120, 201–204 as mother goddess 113–114 slaying of 75–78, 132–133, 136–137, 150, 211–214 see also creation of the world Tišpak 44–51 tribute 235–236 turn back 60–62, 90, 99, 207, 221, 235, 247 Uruk 160, 183n2, 222 see also Uruk Lament versions 29–30, 34n5, 106–107, 229n23 wabālu 212–213 Wê 125–126, 210–211 winds 75–78, 119–120, 132–133, 138, 212–214 word play 48, 134–135, 148n47 see also pun Zababa 41n25, 42, 43n28, 45n37, 50, 229– 230

Index of Texts Cited Abzu Pelam B+110–112

61–62

Aeneid

18, 62–63

An-gin₇

36–38, 41, 57, 68, 88– 89 39 39 141 50 39 152 139 139 39, 57n59

3 24 51–63 93 94 106 141 142 159

Anzû I.1–4 71, 169–171 I.6 38 I.10 38 I.13–14 71 I.14 72 I.15–18 49 I.25–42 38 I.50–53 38 I.56 58 I.79–82 118–119, 167 I.82 81 I.82 = I.109 49 I.83 = I.110 = I.152 39 I.86 119 I.90–103 99 I.104–114 99 I.106–112 = I.127–133 = I.148–154 99 I.115–124 99 I.125–145 99 I.136–145 99 I.146–156 99 I.181–182 53 II.9 59 II.10 56, 89, 172 II.17–18 = 113–114 = 135–136 75–78 II.18 68

II.29 39 II.49 62 II.61 = 77 = 92 90, 99 II.61–99 96 II.63–65 = 79–82 = 94–96 60 II.71–85 95–96 II.89–100 96 II.103 = 124 = 145 72 II.105–113 47–48 II.105–123 96 II.125 = 143 72 II.127 72 II.127–145 96 II.127–147 42 II.147 39 III.22–23 75–78 III.26 39 III.30–31 72 III.39 45 III.63–65 207 III.147 54 Atraḫasīs, Neo-Assyrian U.15 210 U rev. 14 210n43 Atraḫasīs, Old Babylonian I.1 117, 210 I.12–18 98 I.15 175 I.44 210–211 I.58 210–211 I.60 210–211 I.194–197 121 I.223–230 125 I.246–247 52–54 I.353 195 I.354–359 112 I.v.42 199 I.vii.52 210n43 II.vii.42–43 113 II.vii.51 210 II.viii.34 112n20 II.viii.35 109n11 III.iii.34–35 112, 113, 197

276

index of texts cited

Atraḫasīs, Old Babylonian (cont.) III.iv.4ff. 112, 197 III.iv.6 197 III.iv.15 112 III.iv.15–22 112 III.v.34–35 112 III.v.37-vi.4 112, 197 III.v.40 196 III.v.42 112 III.vi.7–8 112n20 III.vi.11–14 196 Atraḫasīs, Standard Babylonian V.53–54 175 ms. x rev. ii 4–6 175 Curse of Agade 231–236

59–62 61

Death of Gilgameš

109

E turgin Niginam

77

Enki and Ninmah 56

107, 200n30, 226 207n38

Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta 224 59n63 Enūma Anu Enlil 1–3, 8–10

24 99–100

Enūma eliš I.21–24 I.27–28 I.37–38 I.37–40 I.45–46 I.51–52 I.67–70 I.69–70 I.73–74 I.102 I.103–118 I.105–106 I.107–108 I.109–112 I.115–116 I.121–122

110 202 202 111 113 115 118–119 150–151 116 99 99 132 203 120 120 120–121

I.123 74n25 I.129–162 = II.15–48 = III.19–52 = III.77–110 96–97, 142 I.133–146 88 I.135–136 = II.21–22 = III.25–26 = III.83–84 205 I.139–140 204 I.139–140 = II.25–26 = III.29–30 = III.87–88 90 I.147–152 142 I.153–154 82 I.157–162 80–82 I.161–162 85 I.161–162 = II.48–49 = III.52–53 = III.109–110 89 II.9 74n22 II.11–48 96–97 II.15–48 96–97 11.53 74n22 II.60 74n22 II.61 74n22 II.61–64 84 II.73–76 99 II.78 99 II.79–94 99 II.82 = III.112 99 II.91 74n22 II.97 99 II.102 99 II.103–118 99 II.127 74 II.127–130 71 II.139 74 II.147 74 II.149 74n22 II.155–158 75 II.156 74 II.156–162 96–97 II.159–162 81–82 II.160 84 III.6 74n22 III.10 74 III.13–66 96–97 III.15–52 96–97 III.58 74 III.58–64 96–97 III.65 = III.123 84 III.71–124 96–97 III.77–110 126

277

index of texts cited III.116 III.138 IV.4 IV.7–10 IV.13 IV.13–16 IV.25–26 IV.27 IV.31–32 IV.32 IV.35 IV.37 IV.37–38 IV.40 IV.41–47 IV.49–50 IV.61–62 IV.71 IV.91 IV.93 IV.96–99 IV.96–100 IV.120–122 IV.129–130 IV.130 IV.131–132 IV.137–140 IV.146 V.1–45 V.8 V.9–11 V.53–58 V.69–70 V.80 V.83–85 V.139–142 VI.21–26 VI.21–38 VI.29–30 VI.33–34 VI.37–38 VI.39–46 VI.39–58 VI.62 VI.64 VI.89 VI.101 VI.103–106 VI.105

74 74 74n22 82 74 83 78n33 74n22 75–78, 211–214 68 154 132, 135 140 154 132 138 101 101 101 101–102 78 132 83 137 135 75–78, 211–214 147–148 108 100 108 145–146 148 83 108 154 127 190 151 125–126 126–127 124 151 190 123 100 140 100, 102 154 74

VI.147 VI.163 VI.165–166 VII.6 VII.11–12 VII.59–60 VII.61–63 VII.64 VII.82 VII.100 VII.136 VII.140 VII.145–162

100, 102 74 153 108 190 149 149 149 187 115 73, 108, 152 100 239

Eridu Lament 6.7’ = 13’ = 19’ = 24’

chapter 7 passim 219, 230

Erra and Išum I.1–4 I.3 I.4 I.6–9 I.7 I.7–8 I.13–14 I.13–15 I.15–20 I.23–43 I.27 I.34 I.38 I.41 I.41–44 I.44 I.44–91 I.46–91 I.49 I.58 I.59 I.61 I.69–70 I.74 I.76–77 I.77–80 I.79 I.81 I.81–82 I.83–86 I.93

169–172 196 163 229 56, 171–172 205 208–209 198–199 229 173 175–178 204–206 56, 204–206 202 195–196, 200 173 173 229 206 206 206 206 202–203 207 206–207 203–204 195 206, 211 195 185 241

278 Erra and Išum (cont.) I.94–94 I.95–99 I.106–123 I.119–120 I.122 I.123 I.127–128 I.132 I.150–151 II.1 II.13/28 II.11/26–14/29 II.30 II.41–42 II.c.1/30’ II.c.23/11 II.iii.22’–23’ III.43 III.44 III.C.1-IV.127 III.C.30 III.C.33 III.C.40–44 III.C.40–65 III.C.45–49 III.C.47 III.C.58ff. III.D.1–15 IV.2 IV.3 IV.6–35 IV.14 IV.23 IV.34–35 IV.36–44 IV.40 IV.40–41 IV.40–44 IV.43 IV.44 IV.68 IV.73 IV.104–112 IV.118–120 IV.129 IV.129–130 IV.131–136 IV.136

index of texts cited

200–201 173 229 192 185 205, 211 167 194 178–179 219, 230 197 196–197 191 207 192 197 186 186 191 230–231 173, 231 168 176 231–232 167–168, 187–189 185 230 241 189 210 232 228 179 211–212 189 212–213 232–234 216 3 166 197 235 199 209–210 241 200–201 235 238

IV.139–150 IV.150 V.1 V.1–3 V.5–15 V.25 V.25–38 V.26 V.33–34 V.35 V.37 V.38 V.44 V.49–56 V.57–58

173 207 236 190 190 235 190, 236 235 235 235, 238 235 236 239 164, 240 201, 242

Exaltation of Ištar 25 49–60

109–110 100

Gilgameš I.102 I.103 I.111 I.112 I.117 I.127 I.132 I.133 I.142 I.145 I.154 I.159 I.160 I.163 I.166 I.172 I.173 I.176 I.179 I.196 I.198 I.208 I.223 V.99–100 XI.102 XI.103 XI.113–115 XI.119

207n36, 207–208 207n36 207n37 207n37 207n37 207n37 207n36 207n36 207n37 207n37 207n37 207n36 207n36 207n37 207n37 207n37 207n37 207n37 207n36 207n37 207n36 207n36, 207n37 207n36 118n30 210 210n43 192 207

279

index of texts cited XI.135 XI.161 XI.183–196 XI.194–195

207 192 197 209

Gilgameš, Enkidu, and the Netherworld 110n13 Gudea Cyl. A VII.2 XXV–XXVI

152 141

Gudnim Ekura 86–91

60–61

Iliad

9, 15, 63, 86, 109

Iqqur īpuš

115

Ištar’s Descent 85

27, 46, 118n30, 226 145n33

Labbu rev. 1–7

45–51 47

Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur chapter 7 passim 1–54 229 35 222 104–105 222 116 229 118 231n27 195 234 241 234 296–299 230 341–347 231 341–356 230 361–370 231 379–448 232 412–417 233–234 438–448 234 475–477a 236 483–491 236 488–490 235 486 235 492 235 495 235 499–500 235 509 235

512 513

235 235

Lugal-e 5 12 24–69 33 34–39 42 77 78 81 82 128–134 135–150 149 236 251–263 253 256–280 259 262 296 310–311 327–328 329 334–367 334–335 335 351 354 372–386 420–422 422 432 460 606–609 652–671 681 684–700 688 688–689 691 694 699

172 152 38 172–173 38 40 138 140 138 138–139 39 174 40 50 135 138 174 140 40 149 178–179 151 144–145 38 146 149 59n63, 176–177 149 52 142 142–143 151 151 151 154 138 154 138 154 138 138 154

Marduk Ordeal

184

280

index of texts cited

Marduk Prophecy

236

Multābiltu

24

Nippur Lament 88 252–258

chapter 7 passim 219, 230 235

Odyssey

9, 15, 79–80

Return of Lugalbanda 101–103 102 109 142–145 145 168–177

41, 54–59, 64 58–59 177 57n59 55 56 55

Series of the Fox

113–114

Ur Lament 1–36 247–248

chapter 7 passim 230 231n27

Uruk Lament 1.1–12 A.2 A.4

chapter 7 passim 229 234 234

2.14’–15’ 2.21’–22’ 2.21’–25’

228 228 230

Uruk List of Kings and Sages 12–13 222–223 Tintir = Babylon I.35 I.51 IV.1–2 V.85

94 94 123 68n8

Udug-hul

124, 164

Underworld Vision of an Assyrian Crown Prince r. 16–17 164 Ursaĝ Mešarur 165–171

61–62

Uru amirabi 62–68

226 231n27

Uruhulake 1–2 8–9

231n27 231n27