Representations of Political Power

Representations of Political Power

Case Histories from
Times of Change and Dissolving Order
in the Ancient Near East

Edited by
Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

Winona Lake, Indiana

Eisenbrauns
2007
 ç Copyright 2007 by Eisenbrauns.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.

www.eisenbrauns.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Representations of political power : case histories from times of change and
dissolving order in the ancient Near East / edited by Marlies Heinz and Marian
H. Feldman.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-57506-135-1 (hardback : alk. paper)
1. Middle East—History—To 622. 2. Middle East—Politics and government.
3. Middle East—Social conditions. I. Heinz, Marlies. II. Feldman, Marian H.
DS62.23.R47 2007
939u.4—dc22
2007015133

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

Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii
Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix
List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi
Introduction: Representation–Tradition–Religion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

Part 1
Reestablishment of Order after
Major Disruption
Emar and the Transition from Hurrian to Hittite Power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Regine Pruzsinszky
Frescoes, Exotica, and the Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms
during the Second Millennium b.c.e. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
Marian H. Feldman
Sargon of Akkad: Rebel and Usurper in Kish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
Marlies Heinz

Part 2
Changing Order from Within
The Royal Cemetery of Ur:
Ritual, Tradition, and the Creation of Subjects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
Susan Pollock
The Divine Image of the King: Religious Representation of Political Power
in the Hittite Empire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
Dominik Bonatz
Nabonidus the Mad King:
A Reconsideration of His Steles from Harran and Babylon . . . . . . . . . . 137
Paul-Alain Beaulieu

Part 3
Perceptions of a New Order
Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
Amélie Kuhrt
The Migration and Sedentarization of the Amorites
from the Point of View of the Settled Babylonian Population . . . . . . . . . 193
Brit Jahn

Index of Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211

v
 Preface

Change is the only constant in history. Proceeding from this thought and inspired
by the many political changes that are occurring today, especially in Europe and Asia,
the present volume emerged. Former great powers have collapsed, so-called “Third
World” countries are ascending to become economic superpowers, familiar world or-
ders are displaced by new locations and shifts in centers and peripheries. In numer-
ous discussions, the effects of globalization are being debated. Many feel that change
and the substitution of the traditional known world order with a new world organiza-
tion are affecting their lives. Change is being experienced either as a threat to a famil-
iar way of living or as a chance to reject traditions and develop new concepts of life.
Many of the discussions concerning the effects of globalization and change focus on
the sphere of influence and the meaning of traditions and the customs that express
these traditions, on who benefits from maintaining traditions, who is disenfranchised,
and who controls the processes of change. The coherence of communities and the
stabilization of communal identities are preserved not only by traditions but also by
religion. Religion especially has been and still is used frequently by politicians and re-
ligious spokesmen to forge community and communal identity, particularly in the
context of globalization and the world-wide merging of political and economic inter-
ests. Continuity and change, tradition and innovation have far-reaching consequences
for communal life and for the consolidation of the ruling order. Controlling these re-
sources is thus one of the most important facets for any politician and must be tackled
on a local, regional, and global level.
If then, as stated initially, change is the only constant in history, archaeologists in-
terested in the historical, social, economic, religious, and political development of the
Near East (and not only there) are obliged to study the makeup and implications of
the metamorphoses that characterized the history and development of ancient Near
Eastern societies. Who initiated change in which areas and how? Are certain aspects
of society more exposed to change, or does the archaeological record simply preserve
some aspects better than others? Which domains of social cooperation clung more te-
naciously to the established traditions, and in which did innovation succeed more
rapidly? Who was affected by change and how? And how did the politicians and the
religious leaders of 5,000 years ago confront and control change and continuity? Fur-
ther questions that arise query the significance attached to different traditions by a
range of people and who profited or lost in each case. What were the social, political,
economic, and cultural conditions under which change or continuity took place? In
addition, the role that religion played in these processes is of central importance for
investigations of this sort.
Continuity and change are thus the main focus of our interests in the present
study—they influence our way of living as they did 5,000 years ago.

vii
viii Preface

In keeping with the theme of change, modern innovation in the area of transpor-
tation and communication made this book possible. The editors, from Freiburg and
Berkeley, met at an international conference in Berlin and established the initial com-
munication from which the plan for a coedited volume developed. The rapid commu-
nication of e-mail brought together an international group of scholars to participate
in writing the book together. But, in the end, the traditional forms of communica-
tion—one-to-one conversation, the personal acquaintance of our colleagues, and the
knowledge of their scholarly work—have produced a book in the traditional manner.
The editors would like to thank heartily all the authors for their constructive co-
operation, for the time they invested to make the project succeed, for their patience
in fulfilling all the editors’ requests, and for the intellectual stimulation they have pro-
vided in their contributions.
The editors sincerely thank Beverly McCoy, who has worked tirelessly on the
manuscript and has accompanied us up to the moment of the book’s appearance.
And our concluding sincere thanks go in particular to Jim Eisenbraun, who, with
his ready acceptance to publish the study, provided an ideal venue in which our com-
mon work could come to fruition.

Marlies Heinz and Marian Feldman

Freiburg and Berkeley
March 2007
 Abbreviations

General
A. Louvre Museum siglum
AO tablets in the collection of the Musée du Louvre
BM tablets in the collections of the British Museum
CBS tablets in the collections of the University Museum of the University of
Pennsylvania, Philadelphia
DB Behistun inscription of Darius
DSk inscription of Darius I on a brick from Susa
E siglum for texts from Emar
M. registration number of texts from Mari
Msk. registration number of tablets from Meskene/Emar
NBC tablets in the Babylonian Collection, Yale University Library
PFS registration number of an inscribed Persepolis Fortification Cylinder Seal
RE texts in the collection of Jonathan Rosen
RS field numbers of tablets excavated at Ras Shamra
Sm. tablets in the collections of the British Museum

Reference Works
ARM Archives royales de Mari
AuOr Aula Orientalis
CM Cuneiform Monographs
ETCSL The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literarture
FM Florilegium Marianum
KBo Keilschrifttexte aus Boghazköi
KUB Keilschrifturkunden aus Boghazköi
MSL Materialien zum sumerischen Lexikon
MVN Materiali per il vocabolario neo-sumerico
RlA Reallexikon der Assyriologie
TCL Textes Cunéiformes du Louvre
UET Ur Excavations, Texts
VS Vorderasiatische Schriftdenkmäler der Königlichen (staatlichen) Museen zu
Berlin (Leipzig)
ZA Zeitschrift für Assyriologie

ix
 List of Contributors

Paul-Alain Beaulieau is Professor at the University of Toronto. He is the author

of several works on the Neo-Babylonian period, including The Reign of Nabonidus,
King of Babylon, 556–539 b.c. (Yale, 1989) and Legal and Administrative Texts from the
Reign of Nabonidus (Yale, 2000).
Dominik Bonatz is Professor of Ancient Near Eastern Archaeology at the Free
University in Berlin. He has carried out field research since 1990 in Syria, Lebanon,
and Indonesia. He has a special interest in the social and cultural context of ancient
Near Eastern visual arts and in comparative studies ranging from the Mediterranean
to the Southeast Asian world. Publications in the field of visual arts include Das syro-
hethische Grabdenkmal: Untersuchungen zur Entstehung einer neuen Bildgattung im nord-
syrisch-südostanatolischen Raum der Eisenzeit (Mainz, 2000) and Bild–Macht–Geschichte:
Visuelle Kommunikation im Alten Orient (Berlin, 2002; edited with Marlies Heinz).
Marian Feldman is Associate Professor of Ancient Near Eastern Art at the Uni-
versity of California, Berkeley. Her research focuses on the mediating role of art in
the intercultural relations of the Near East, Egypt, and the Aegean. She has excavated
in Syria and Turkey and is the author of Diplomacy by Design: Luxury Arts and an ‘In-
ternational Style’ in the Ancient Near East, 1400–1200 b.c.e. (University of Chicago,
2006).
Marlies Heinz is Professor of Near Eastern Archaeology at the Albert Ludwigs
University in Freiburg. Her field research encompasses excavations in Syria, Bah-
rain, and Lebanon, where she is currently working in Kamid el-Loz. Her research
interests concern the field of political power and its expression in art and architec-
ture, processes of urbanization and deurbanization, and globalization and its impact
on cultural development. Publications concerning these fields include Bild–Macht–
Geschichte: Visuelle Kommunikation im Alten Orient (Berlin, 2002; edited with Dominik
Bonatz) and Zwischen Erklären und Verstehen? Beiträge zu den erkenntnistheoretischen
Grundlagen archäologischer Interpretation (Tübingen, 2002; edited with Manfred K. H.
Eggert and Ulrich Veit).
Brit Jahn studied classical archaeology and ancient Near Eastern studies in
Leipzig from 1997 to 2003. In 2003, she concluded this study with a Master of Arts
on a philological theme about the archives and dossiers of the so-called Manana’a Dy-
nasty. Since 2004, she has been part of the Collaborative Research Centre 586, “Dif-
ference and Integration: Interaction between Nomadic and Settled Forms of Life in
the Civilisations of the Old World” with a project supervised by Prof. Michael Streck
entitled, “Between Pasture, Town and Palace: Nomads and Settled Population in the
Mari Kingdom (19th/18th Century b.c.).”

xi
xii List of Contributors

Amélie Kuhrt, Professor of Ancient Near Eastern History, University College

London, and Fellow of the British Academy. She is the coordinator and editor of
the Achaemenid History Workshops series (Achaemenid History 1–8 [Leiden, 1987–
1994]) and the editor/author (with S. M. Sherwin-White) of Hellenism in the East (Lon-
don, Berkeley, 1987) and From Samarkhand to Sardis (London, Berkeley, 1993). In
1995, she published The Ancient Near East, c. 3000–330 b.c. (2 vols., London), which
was awarded the Breasted Prize by the American Historical Association in 1998.
Work in progress includes a collection of sources for Achaemenid history.
Susan Pollock is Professor of Anthropology at Binghamton University. She spe-
cializes in the archaeology of the Middle East and has conducted fieldwork in Iran,
Iraq, and Turkey. Her research addresses issues such as political economy, ideology,
the constitution of subjectivities, and archaeology in the media. Her publications in-
clude Ancient Mesopotamia: The Eden That Never Was (Cambridge, 1999) and a volume
coedited with Reinhard Bernbeck, Archaeologies of the Middle East: Critical Perspectives
(Blackwell, 2005).
Regine Pruzsinszky studied Altsemitische Philologie und Orientalische Archäo-
logie in Vienna, Berlin, Würzburg, and Helsinki. Her doctoral thesis was on the per-
sonal names in the archives of Emar (Vienna, 2000). From 2000 to 2004, she was a
research assistant in the Viennese special research program “The Synchronization of
Civilizations in the Eastern Mediterranean in the Second Millennium b.c.” with the
research project “Chronological Data in Mesopotamia.” Since October 2004, she has
held a scholarship from the Austrian Academy of Sciences (Austrian Programme for
Advanced Research and Technology) with the research project “The Singers in the
Ancient Near East.”
 Introduction:
Representation–Tradition–Religion

Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

Representation of political power seems to have been necessary at all times in all
complex urban societies. Representation, so we assume, serves to legitimate political
power, to strengthen, and to intensify it. Indeed, it can be seen as instrumental in the
construction of power. Representation, whether as texts, rituals, visual images, or ar-
chitecture, gives form to the ideas of order that the ruling elite seek to normalize or
make common sense. To secure order—to construct a certain social, ideological, reli-
gious, economic, and cultural stability—seems to be one of the main intentions of rep-
resentation. When order breaks down or is threatened, political power comes under
threat, as well as the cohesion of the community. In times of impending change, cri-
sis, or disorder, special effort is required to reassure the community of the rulers’
ability to maintain stability.
Two parameters seem to be especially effective in convincing the public that the sit-
uation is under control: tradition and religion. The maintenance, and even crafting,
of tradition is one of the most powerful means to constitute “community,” to establish
a “we,” and to support the development of group identity. Tradition promises conti-
nuity, stability, order; it therefore works along “normative” lines. Yet, tradition can-
not be said simply to “exist”; it is not a “thing” but a process. Tradition comes into
being and is shaped only through the actions of members of a society; in other words,
tradition needs a carrier. Tradition becomes all the more powerful if the carrier is
particularly effective in supporting its given potentials, and one such carrier is reli-
gion. Religion, as an essential structural element of the ancient Near East, was con-
nected inextricably to the organization of every aspect of life; it was a fundamental
frame anchoring the order of social life. Religion legitimated and strengthened the
social, political, economic, and cultural structures of society by making certain as-
pects of the actions of human beings appear as if unchangeable and unassailable. Tra-
dition and religion—controlled and used according to the aims of the rulers—helped
rulers to represent themselves as the “true” keepers of order and as the guarantors of
prosperity for the whole community, especially in times of change and dissolving or-
der. What those in power did to convince the affected communities of their qualities
as rulers, that is, their representational strategies—especially in times of change—is the
subject of this book.
The volume is divided into three thematic parts: “Reestablishment of Order after
Major Disruption,” “Changing Order from Within,” and “Perceptions of New Order.”
Each section is presented in the following part of the introduction, along with a brief

1
 2 Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

consideration of how the individual articles contribute to the different themes. There
are, of course, many connections among the contributions across sections, and the
multiple ways that they intersect to generate a larger dialogue on representations of
political power are advanced in the last part of the introduction, in which more de-
tailed discussions of each essay are provided.

Part 1
Reestablishment of Order after Major Disruption
Major political disruption can come both from without and from within a social
system. In either situation, the resulting newly installed power can exercise many op-
tions in its quest to continue political domination: from retaining preexisting systems
that are controlled according to the needs of the new rulers to introducing foreign or
exotic elements for the creation of new traditions to radically changing the entire
structure of the community. The most obvious external threat for a prevailing politi-
cal and social order is military aggression. The violent interference itself is a first
offense against the order of the attacked society, affecting the political, social, eco-
nomic, and cultural spheres. Rebellion and usurpation exemplify crises internal to a
community that can result in significant reorganization of hierarchies. Complete so-
cietal collapse and regeneration are further means by which major ruptures in the or-
der of society can occur. The effect of any of these scenarios may result in a range of
degrees of continuity, from the destruction of the entire structure of order to only a
change in leadership within the elite circles. This first part of this book examines how
new order is imposed after a major disruption in rule and how the new ruling body
engages with or rejects tradition. The three contributions in this part concentrate on
representational strategies of newly established rulers and their use of traditions, so-
cial order, religion, and identities after they have taken over power.
Pruzsinszky’s study on Late Bronze Age Emar explores how a foreign power, the
Hittites, acted in Emar to establish a new order in the dominated culture. In theory,
various political strategies were possible to establish and to secure the new power,
from imposing pure military force to controlling and manipulating cultural activities.
An intrusive power might have considered it necessary to be highly visible in order to
strengthen its power locally. Or more subtle assaults on the local social and political
order might avoid any sign of alteration under the pretense that although a new po-
litical power had been installed nothing had changed and life went on as usual. At
Emar, the Hittites embarked on a strategy of this sort; they inserted themselves within
preexisting traditions and religious rituals, subtly lessening the power of these tradi-
tions without their wholesale replacement. Wherever possible they deployed the exist-
ing system and structure of political and religious order, while at the same time the
insertion of new dignitaries and princes with ties to Hatti allowed them to achieve
their political aims. The shift at Emar, however, shows that, while a new concept of
authority accompanied the change to Hittite control, it was limited by traditional ele-
ments of the indigenous Syrian politics, resulting—at first glance—in an equal co-

spread is 12 points short

 Introduction: Representation–Tradition–Religion 3

existence between the local and Hittite power. Possible two-way impacts that could
potentially have developed out of the encounter between Emar and the Hittites can-
not be reconstructed.
Feldman’s essay touches on questions of intentionality in using traditions—in this
case, specifically foreign and exotic traditions—to reshape power after a major col-
lapse (whose cause still eludes us). A major component in the regeneration involved
a return to an urbancentric focus for power, and within this process a new group of
elites sought to present (and represent) their authority by references to the acquisi-
tion and use of exotica, namely, frescoed walls and floors executed in an Aegean fash-
ion that were prominently displayed in the main administrative structures of the
cities. To negotiate a potentially problematic situation of establishing (or reestablish-
ing) order, the new elite needed symbols that could signal their belonging while ex-
cluding others. Because the preexisting symbol system had been profoundly shattered
by collapse, the new elite constructed a representational system by using an exotic
style of decoration for their palaces as a means of establishing a common “we” that si-
multaneously reassured themselves about their status. The construction of this exclu-
sive representational system appears to have manifested itself fairly late in the process
of establishing new order (at the end of the Middle Bronze Age or even possibly the
beginning of the Late Bronze Age), well after the reemergence of dynastic power. The
construction, and perhaps more important the maintenance, of these elite identities
resulted from ongoing competition among the new dynasties, creating a tradition to
fill the vacuum left by societal collapse.
Sargon of Akkad, a rebel who asserted his power over southern and northern Mes-
opotamia as well as to the west, chose a different strategy to demonstrate the new or-
der that he had created. He blatantly displayed his politics through the physical forms
and spaces of almost all aspects of society, reoganizing the layout of important villages
either by rebuilding and restructuring or by destroying them, changing the political
systems, severing traditional economic connections, and reorienting them toward
more Akkad-friendly alliances. In short, Sargon pursued a radical strategy of breaking
and reformulating traditions to bend them to Akkadian concerns. Heinz’s contribu-
tion presents these activities that left noticeable and obvious traces through the Akka-
dian realm and that indelibly realigned the structures of order in Mesopotamia.

Part 2
Changing Order from Within
Violation of, or threats to, order may also occur without abrupt political disrup-
tions; they may also arise from changes and developments internal to a community,
such as the emergence of a new class of individuals (kings in the case of Pollock’s ar-
ticle; an intelligentsia for Beaulieu). And representational strategies are necessary to
maintain order or avert disorder, as is the case during the Hittite Empire period ex-
amined in Bonatz’s paper. The essays in the second part of this book explore how
changes of order were effected within a more-or-less continuous trajectory of rule—
that is, without major disruptions within the ruling base.
4 Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

The role of religion in both the maintenance and alteration of tradition and order
is preeminent and forms a central theme in the three essays that constitute this sec-
tion. The death of a leading figure, as explored in Pollock’s article on the Royal
Cemetery at Ur, may cause severe disturbances within the social fabric of a commu-
nity. Leaders who controlled traditions and behavior within the community had to
find solutions for keeping the threatened order together. Religion and, more impor-
tant, its rituals as a link that constituted identity and strengthened social order espe-
cially in times of upheaval proved to be a powerful means for overcoming threats of
this sort. Rites associated with celebratory feasting helped to prepare a group of
people to be willing to go to their deaths and a newly emerging ruling group to mark
the transition from “elected” to inherited rule during the Early Dynastic period in
southern Mesopotamia.
Bonatz and Beaulieu both discuss the uses of religious ideology in the mainte-
nance (either successful or not) of power, Bonatz mainly through images and Beau-
lieu principally through texts. Bonatz demonstrates the close relationship between
political and religious iconography that solidified the Hittite rulers’ control over their
empire through an ambiguously defined unity between king and gods. The ways in
which anomalies in rules (doxa) lead to changes and new norms allow Bonatz to argue
for a “life” of images separate from the life of texts—images that permitted an ill-
defined analogy between the Hittite king and the gods. Images of the Hittite king
tending to the gods appeared late in the Empire period (thirteenth century) and
could thus serve as references to earlier royal ancestors in their capacity as divinized
rulers, effectively blurring the line between living and deceased, human and divine.
That the activities of a ruler “at home” undermined the order and survival of the
community was the accusation made against Nabonidus. As argued by Beaulieu, the
Neo-Babylonian ruler was ineffective in drawing upon earlier Mesopotamian tradi-
tions of religious practice as he confronted the growing power of the scholarly com-
munity. Nabonidus had tried to develop a religious system according to the political
interests of those who had supported his rebellion at Babylon, namely, the religious
“lobby” of Sin of Harran. Creating a religious system centered on Sin of Harran was
perceived, by Nabonidus’s contemporaries as well as by the men who later controlled
the cultural memory, as a disregard of Marduk, the principal god of Babylon, and as
such presented a threat to the order and survival of that community; that it was also
a disempowerment of the priesthood and sages of Marduk goes without saying. That
Nabonidus did not share this view and indeed represented himself precisely as the
one who prevented society from suffering chaos and disorder in introducing the Sin
cult is hardly surprising. Yet it appears that Nabonidus and his supporters overesti-
mated their power to sway the population of Babylon. In particular, the traditional
elite in Babylon, who suffered greatest by the demotion of Marduk’s cult, sought to
counter Nabonidus’s reforms. But, while they were successful in helping to shape an
image of Nabonidus as a negligent ruler, thus undermining his authority, ultimately
they too lost out to an altogether different and new power, Cyrus the Great of Persia.
 Introduction: Representation–Tradition–Religion 5

Part 3
Perceptions of a New Order
Because major shifts in power were almost always accompanied by new represen-
tational strategies that supplanted the old ones, it can be difficult to disentangle the
superimposed “realities” that the different representations created. Thus, we are of-
ten beholden to highly biased or uneven sources in our reconstruction of these past
power shifts. Two such shifts in the Near East occurred with the sudden appearance
of the Amorite dynasties in the early second millennium and the creation of the
Achaemenid Empire under Cyrus. The two essays in this final part, by Kuhrt and
Jahn, explore the disparate textual evidence that has contributed to both ancient and
modern perceptions of these new powers, addressing issues regarding the represen-
tation and perception of newcomers to power.
Among the men who attained renown as usurpers and charismatic rulers at home
and over a wide empire and who actively intervened in local, regional, and interna-
tional traditions and religions—and thus of interest for the topic of this book—is Cyrus
the Great. However, it is not his deeds and modes of self-representation themselves
that Kuhrt makes the focus of her article. Rather, it is the disentanglement of the
later constructions of his heroic image that she investigates. Asserting the need for a
critical reading of the sources, Kuhrt carefully analyzes the disparate strands of evi-
dence that have contributed to a portrait of Cyrus as a “wise and tolerant statesman.”
Effectively deconstructing the evidence, she paints a rather different portrait of Cyrus
as a Near Eastern ruler on a quest for imperial domination. How much of the later
profile (as tolerant leader) can be directly attributed to Cyrus’s own propagandistic
activities remains difficult to disentangle, but certainly his actions (even actions of po-
tentially constructing this self-representation) speak to the calculated nature of his
motivations. And he worked most effectively by using the cultural elements and ico-
nography of the local populations that he incorporated into his vast realm both at
home in Persia and abroad. Somewhat paradoxically, Cyrus used the very upheaval of
order to create an image of himself as a culturally tolerant ruler, one who not only
respected the cultural achievements of those subdued by the Persian military but who
even took care of and cultivated them. Kuhrt’s close reading of the sources indicates
that Cyrus’s representational strategies created a strong, positive image of himself as
the keeper of order, tradition, and culture, while in fact it was he who permanently
destroyed the prevailing order of the ancient Near East.
Though appearing in less dramatic fashion than military coups or invasions, steady
processes involving the acculturation of one group into the realm of another also sig-
nificantly affect traditions. Migration and sedentarization, by their very nature, in-
volve rather significant breaks in tradition, both for the traditions of those who
migrate and settle as well as for the societies that face the integration of the “others”
into their social and cultural system. Traditions, values, norms, cultural habits, reli-
gious thinking, and last but not least the political order are potentially exposed to
change, if not threatened in their existence by these processes. The complexity of this
dynamic is compounded in the case of the Amorites’ transition to sedentarization be-
cause of the absence of written records for the nonsendentarized populations and
6 Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

the diversity of documentation for the settled groups, as illustrated in Jahn’s essay.
Thus, attempts to track a fundamental change in order that occurred through the
process of the Amorite migration and integration into the urban society of the Near
East must rely on an extremely uneven and highly biased set of written evidence. The
sedentarization of nomadic Amorite populations resulted less from a massive influx
than from a gradual infiltration, a slow process of acculturation and assimilation, a
process that occurred for the most part without open violence but as a fusion of dif-
ferent communities, cultures, and ways of living that caused a multitude of changes
within the organization of all involved parties. Nonetheless, the encounter of urban
versus nomadic ways of living was, according to the written testimony of the urban so-
ciety, seen as a basic threat. The assimilation of the migrant Amorites that resulted
from their acquisition of the cultural habits, organizational traditions, and structures
of urban communities on the one hand stabilized the order of the communities that
emerged from this process. But on the other hand their increasing presence was a
major threat to the existing authorities, creating tension in how the Amorites were
both received and perceived by the already established Near Eastern groups.

Organization and Summary of Contributions

As manifold and multifaceted as the processes and forms of each particular disrup-
tion of order are, so too are their causes and backgrounds, as well as the strategies
and efforts to establish new social order out of the chaos. Each particular case has to
be investigated through its own cultural specificity regarding the causes of the break-
down and the subsequent realignments of social order; yet at the same time, it re-
mains a worthwhile goal to try to find, in the abundance of cases, something like a
thread running through the causes, backgrounds, and developments that propelled
both subtle and radical shifts in social and political organization. This is the underly-
ing motivation of this book.
We begin our volume with Regine Pruzsinszky’s essay, “Emar and the Transition
from Hurrian to Hittite Power,” in order to highlight the subtlety and complexity by
which representational strategies of new power may be deployed. Rather than the ex-
pected, coerced imposition of Hittite power upon the formerly Hurrian/Mittanian
ruled city of Emar, the new Hittite overlords mastered the area through subtle shifts
in control, bespeaking a highly sophisticated strategy. As a foreign power, the Hittites
avoided obvious visibility, whether in restructuring public spaces or in any sizable
presence of Hittite functionaries or military personal in the city. Emar was not de-
stroyed, and the texts describe much continuity in social traditions.
The Hittite interference in tradition and order took a subtler course. The Hittites
controlled Emar through the cultural and religious life of the city, an effective means
that operated within already established normative expectations. Cultural force sub-
stituted for military violence and led to the effective control of the instances that were
of elementary importance for intellectual life in Emar—and thereby for the legitima-
tion of order. The securing of Hittite power in Emar was carried out through new
configurations of the contents of social, cultural, and political order—an effective
 Introduction: Representation–Tradition–Religion 7

means for controlling the cultural and spiritual life—and in this way gained economic
and political control over the city. The Hittites did not do away with the existing po-
litical structures that supported the local order; rather, their control resulted from in-
serting aspects of Hittite cultural practices into the traditional Syrian practices, which
led to an altogether new political significance. This modification—keeping the form
of the traditional order while changing the personnel and meaning—ultimately cre-
ated a far more effective transition than outright cancellation and replacement would
have.
After the Hittites had created a new and loyal political elite in Emar, they began
similar modifications to the religious concerns of Emar. They did not change the
composition of the pantheon or the rituals; rather, they shifted the control of respon-
sibilities and the personnel of the existing offices to fall in line with Hittite interests.
Only to outward appearances did Emar seem to function “as it always had.” The seem-
ing continuity of the familiar offered those affected the possibility of coming to terms
with the new circumstances and maybe even of identifying with the new order. The
“new” pretended not to supersede the “old,” a clever strategy of the Hittites, who,
through their control of the political and religious organizations, monitored exactly
the areas that had been significant in guarding the exertion of political power and
rulership.
The second essay, by Marian Feldman, “Frescoes, Exotica, and the Reinvention of
the Northern Levantine Kingdoms during the Second Millennium,” presents an alter-
native means of asserting authority—through the appropriation and control of for-
eign technologies and traditions. At the beginning of the second millennium, a
widespread change in the political order of the northern Levant followed the collapse
of large-scale urban societies at the end of the third millennium. While both the col-
lapse and the subsequent revitalization appear less homogeneous than once thought,
new political order is attested in the area, best exemplified by the emergence of
Amorite dynasties in control of many of the major city-states. The northern Levan-
tine dynasties that now ruled over city-states such as Alalakh and Qatna signaled their
ability to access, acquire, and manipulate knowledge through the physical presence of
Aegean-type frescoes on the walls of the very buildings of their administration. Not
only were the motifs strikingly non-Levantine in their appearance, but the technique
of true fresco—applying pigments directly onto a damp lime plaster ground without
binding agents—would have been clearly obvious to the naked eye in contrast to the
primary Near Eastern wall-painting technique of tempera, which uses binding agents
such as egg to adhere to an already dry wall surface, seen for example at Mari.
The architecture of the administrative buildings at Alalakh, Qatna, and Tel Kabri,
where the Aegean-style frescoes appear, offers clues to the social behaviors and
norms that would have taken place within them, and thus to larger cultural expecta-
tions of order. These buildings can, in turn, be situated in a broader cultural horizon
of the northern Levant comparing them with administrative buildings at Ebla and
Tell Sakka, the latter having unusual wall paintings of its own. This exercise reveals
general similarities that tie all the buildings together, arguing for a common social or-
ganization at the level of the ruling elites in the northern Levant and thus reflective
 8 Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

of the new order created by them. Yet at the same time, differences in architectural
planning, particularly in the structures at Alalakh, Ebla, and Tel Kabri and the struc-
tures at Qatna and Tell Sakka, indicate a degree of separation or competition among
these same elites. The northern Levant, as it emerges from collapse, can be seen as
both culturally unified and politically fractured. Any representational strategies of a
new elite would have operated within this dualistic framework. Indeed, the appeal of
exotica from the distant area of the Aegean may have gained in usefulness because of
this tension between competition and cohesion.
However, significantly, the patterns evident in architectural decoration and plan-
ning cannot be correlated with any single “ethnic” ruling group, such as the Amor-
ites. Although all of the cities in which Aegean-style frescoes appear had either new
Amorite dynasties or Amorite elements in the population, other cities, most notably
Mari, that were also under new Amorite rule did not exhibit this blatant Aegean con-
nection. In fact, at Mari, the decoration of the palace, though exhibiting some pos-
sible Aegean motival inspiration, is executed in the tempera technique, which visually
creates a strikingly different effect from true fresco. It seems then that the geographic
region and its longstanding cultural traditions (even when regenerated after col-
lapsed) carried a greater weight than any “ethnic” affiliations in terms of the repre-
sentational strategies of leaders who assumed power.
Following the first two contributions, which explore relatively subtle strategies for
establishing and maintaining new forms of authority, the third essay, by Marlies
Heinz, “Sargon of Akkad: Rebel and Usurper in Kish,” investigates the effects of rad-
ical and blatant breaks in tradition that Sargon instituted in his pursuit of a compre-
hensive new order. The rebellion in Kish led first to the modification of the
traditional political order in that city. Its priests were disempowered, new groups
were elevated as landowners, and the military became the most powerful confidant of
the new king. Sargon knew well where and how to keep, change, or break political,
economic, and religious traditions to secure the new order established by his rebel-
lion. As a central strategy, he shifted power from the religious to the more worldly
spheres of the palace and military and replaced officials to create loyal supporters.
These changes, especially in the sphere of officials, might not have been so obvious
to the larger populace and could have left the impression of continuity, similar to
what Pruzsinszky argues for at Emar. However, Sargon’s intentions were quite the op-
posite; his policy was to make the change of order highly visible and unarguable. The
building code of Kish was altered and a new population settled there—a change that
affected the entire population of Kish. This severance of traditions in the sphere of
daily life made the irrevocable change of order unambiguously obvious. The alter-
ations in Kish were then surpassed by the most extreme of breaks: the founding of a
new capital, Akkad, and the massive and complete disempowerment of the tradi-
tional seat of power, Kish. Clearly the new king, the rebel Sargon, was in an extraor-
dinarily powerful position that he dared to modify and even break with traditions on
such a large scale—or should the abandonment of the traditional center of power be
seen as sign of political failing? In either case, the rebellion of Sargon in Kish esca-

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 Introduction: Representation–Tradition–Religion 9

lated into an expansion of his newly established power that led to the destruction and
refashioning of the political, economic, and cultural order throughout southern Mes-
opotamia. The destruction of local order was followed by the destruction of the po-
litical system. The independent city-state organization vanished and was substituted
by the centralized Akkadian power system.
With the destruction of both the social order and physical structure of the tradi-
tional capital and the establishment of a new capital, Akkad, the former identity of
the inhabitants of Kish was likewise ruptured and a new identity created that con-
nected the king as well as the new order geographically and ideologically with the
new structure Akkad, and Akkad with power, success, and prosperity. In other words,
Akkad became the synonym and identifier for Sargon’s imperial rule.
Besides controlling political power and subsistence and resource management, the
Akkadian rulers also controlled the cultural and religious spheres by seemingly inte-
grating themselves into the ruling traditions but actually misusing this integration in
order to destroy the local orders. Destroying the order, creating new rules according
to the rebel’s needs, and then representing this violation as the salvation of order be-
came the sophisticated strategy that Sargon used wherever he interfered in local af-
fairs. Outwardly, Sargon perpetuated the religious traditions, whereas in fact the
disempowerment of the priests was a stinging intervention. Local elites were blamed
as the ones who had acted against their own gods’ will and therefore had forfeited
their authority to the newcomer. The destruction of the local political order went
hand in hand with the severance of community solidarity with the accused kings.
With Sargon’s claims of attaining the sympathy and support of the local gods, he
alone could guarantee the “good life” for the community and its future. Because, in
this representation, the gods supported the new order, the “new” became “natural-
ized”—and the “natural,” normative—and change paradoxically became the only way
of ensuring continuity. Formally, Sargon was integrated into the religious system and
a “servant of the local gods,” but in fact he abused the system for his own advantage.
The brilliance of the Akkadian ideology and propaganda lay in its success in present-
ing the very person who had overthrown the cultural rules as the one who was in per-
fect harmony with the given order (that he had just destroyed).
The change of order following the rebellion of Sargon and his policy of expansion
thus encompassed all levels and all fields of social existence. In order to gain control
of all essential resources—politics, economy, security, religion—Sargon played with
rules, norms, values, and traditions as it pleased him and as it served his interests. All
destruction and the imposition of a new order were made openly; no attempt to hide
the Akkadian actions seems to have been necessary or desirable. Sargon, according
to his representations, turned out to be a master in planning and leading military ac-
tions and in establishing control by openly breaking with the preexisting rules and
traditions. His strategies brilliantly molded the local cultural and religious value sys-
tems to fit the Akkadian ideology and dealt deftly with the various traditions he en-
countered—carrying them forward, modifying or breaking them—in order to suit the
needs of the new Akkadian politics.
 10 Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

The next essay, Susan Pollock’s “Royal Cemetery of Ur: Ritual, Tradition, and the
Creation of Subjects,” explores a case of equally high impact and visibility: the prac-
tice of “ritual sacrifice.” The death of a member of the political and/or religious elite
often meant a profound disturbance of continuity on the family and clan level as well
as in the political sphere. The community had to reestablish order to avoid further
erosion of social life. In third-millennium Ur, the celebrated Royal Cemetery appears
to have been an extremely ostentatious form of securing order after the death of an
important person. The sumptuous burial rituals at the site, for people of presumably
the highest status in the community, included not only the building of elaborate
tombs and their endowment with costly burial objects but also the accompaniment of
the dead with a great number of personnel. The question of how these individuals
were convinced to go to their death “voluntarily” (no signs of violence were found on
their bodies) has rarely been considered in any depth. That is, what ideological frame-
work existed that was persuasive enough to do this, and why was this framework so
critical for Early Dynastic society at Ur?
The initial impression is that the threat to social order caused by a “natural” inci-
dence such as the death of an elite figure could only be contained through the polit-
ically sanctioned breaking of another order—namely, the social order of the individu-
als who accompanied the deceased. While the first social rupture (the elite’s death)
threatened to destabilize society, the second (the “sacrifice” of personnel) may have
been initiated to repair the rupture in the name of safeguarding the society. However,
a closer inspection of the cultural structures and conditions of Early Dynastic society
presents a rather different picture in which ritual and ideology played key roles in the
process of obtaining the consent of the “sacrificed” personnel.
Several indicators suggest that the attendants who accompanied the deceased were
highly placed members of the deceased’s household. These personnel naturalized
their social identity as an indisolvable unit within the household through feasts, rou-
tines of daily ceremonial life, and tradition. Participation in feasts, public rituals, and
tradition served to establish conformity and to strengthen the prevailing order. In a
society that correlates the death of the head of a household with the “death” of the
household as such, following the deceased into a “new life,” the netherworld, became
natural and persuasive. The metaphorical death of a household at the time of the
death of the head of the household was part of an ideological denial of the very her-
itability of resources and wealth—that is, an abnegation of dynastic relevance (which
Pollock argues marks the transition during the Early Dynastic period from appointed
individual authority to inherited). Feasting and making food and drink offerings to
the gods and the dead acted as mundane, everyday practices that naturalized this ide-
ology during life and made persuasive the ultimate feast of poison and the offering
of one’s life. Rehearsals of cooperation in feasts and rituals during the active mem-
bers’ lifetimes and conformity in habitual daily routines may have lessened the
weightiness of the “next step”: taking part in the “final ritual” and celebrating the co-
operation in death. Such intimacy in life with the ritual practices also linked to death
may have served to lessen the fear of the unknown.
When the natural death of the elite individual and the “unnatural” death of the
personnel had been accepted by all concerned as “natural,” the cultural and religious

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 Introduction: Representation–Tradition–Religion 11

practices and traditions that went hand in hand with the ideology strengthened the
prevailing order, an order that neglected the interests of the people who were not in
control. These practices made one’s actions seem natural, even if in the end the ac-
tions went against one’s self-interest (the question of whether staying alive was even
imaginable remains unanswered).
Religion and practices are also the focus of the subsequent essay, by Dominik
Bonatz, “The Divine Image of the King: Religious Representation of Political Power
in the Hittite Empire.” As with Pollock, religion and politics, defined by Bonatz in
terms of praxis (the “doing”) rather than institutional characters, appear at least on
the surface to have functioned smoothly within the cultural continuum of the Hittite
Empire. Yet it is through the very notion of praxis—in particular visual praxis, in
which the acts of making and seeing construct “reality” for different social groups—
that order and tradition can be shaped, changed, and even manipulated.
One aspect of the imperial politics of the Hittites was the dissolution of order in
occupied territories. The Hittites must have been aware of the danger that every at-
tack on the order of “others” could and would be answered with the same weapon:
an attack on the Hittite order. In addition, the Hittites must have reckoned that
events within the Hittite community also posed a threat to “law and order” at home.
One threat of this kind for the ruling order was the death of the Hittite king, when,
for a short period, the affected community lost their supreme servant of the gods,
their intermediary between the terrestrial and numinous sphere. The potential suc-
cessors warded off this threat primarily by keeping and establishing religious rituals—
albeit with slight modifications in the performance of these rituals, such as royal
burial—if they were beneficial for the representation of their own power. The mainte-
nance of tradition as a form of crisis management, therefore, could acquire individ-
ual traits. However, the continuity of tradition and ritual in the commemoration of
the deceased connected the present with the glorious past. In representing them-
selves as successful rulers who could rely on the support of the deceased, they posi-
tioned themselves as guarantors of the preservation of the community and thus
connected the present with the future (for example, the death of Tudhaliya IV and
the actions of his successor, Shuppiluliuma II, connected the burial ritual for the de-
ceased father with the portrait of the son’s own power).
Religious images strongly shaped the introduction of a political iconography into
the Hittite royal propaganda (“rhetoric”) late in the Empire period (thirteenth cen-
tury). An analysis of the visual practice reveals that politics and religion were in-
separable components in the legitimation of rulership. The forms of this visual
representation were, however, contigent on their dynamic contextualization in vari-
ous places and with various audiences. This in turn provided the potential for assaults
on the Hittite order, both from within Hittite society and without. The annexation
(or appropriation) of the specific visual tradition by “others” and the ability of images
to promote and protect self-interests highlight their double-edged power that contrib-
uted to a crisis of Hittite power.
The ambivalence inherent in images of the Hittite king documents both the attrac-
tiveness of the ruling order and its failings, which permitted vassals and tributaries of
the Hittites to deploy the images in representing their own world views and ruling
12 Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

orders. Where it became possible for the vassals to use the iconography and terminol-
ogy of the Hittites to declare themselves in public as “great kings” (as in the relief of
Kurunta), they presented their low estimation of the validity of the prevailing order
and thereby made the crisis of the Hittite power highly visible. When appropriated
and manipulated in this manner, the traditions of the Hittite superpower experienced
a dramatic devaluation as stabilizers of Hittite culture and rulership. How, other than
as a direct attack on the validity of the prevailing political order, can one understand
the visual self-representation of the viceroy of Carchemish? In it he expressed his re-
spect not to the Hittite great king but to the storm-god and thereby declared the god
and not the king as the representative of the prevailing order.
Succession to the throne constituted another potentially critical moment for the
stability of social and political order. In case the succession was contested (as hap-
pened when Murshili III claimed power), those responsible had to find legitimacy for
obtaining power beyond the traditional means. The visual representation of the ruler
experienced strong modifications, if indeed it did not break with tradition com-
pletely. The direct ancestor was no longer presented as legitimating the new order,
but instead, a new ruler represented himself with numinous iconography during his
lifetime. Crisis management and the legitimation of the prevailing order was no
longer represented only with reference to ancestry. Not until the new king repre-
sented himself as a member of the numinous sphere was his rulership supported and
challenges to it prevented (in theory and according to the cultural rules of interacting
with the gods). However, religion and tradition were used by all parties, not just the
Hittite king. While the kings modified their own Hittite traditions, the vassals broke
with them entirely when they presented themselves as great kings, thus constructing
their identity through a reference to the traditions of the Hittites and yet at the same
time reducing the validity of the prevailing Hittite order ad absurdum.
Paul-Alain Beaulieu’s essay, “Nabonidus the Mad King: A Reconsideration of His
Steles from Harran and Babylon,” differs from the preceding contributions in that it
explores a negative instance of using religion to shape new political order. For Nabo-
nidus, attempts to draw upon the traditional modes in the construction of his own
self-representation were ineffective against the rising power of the scholarly and
priestly groups who opposed his rule. Ultimately, it came down to a struggle over who
had the authority to interpret and validate religious ideology: Nabonidus or the reli-
gious scholars. With the growing strength of the scholars, who self-servingly acted as
royal advisers, Nabonidus’s authority weakened. And it is the representation of Nabo-
nidus as constructed by his opponents that has survived in large part in the later tra-
ditions that labeled him as mad. Nabonidus, king of Babylon, came to power as a
usurper. His own “self-portrait,” of course, did not represent himself as mad but as
the keeper of tradition who had to exclude his precursor from office because, accord-
ing to the proclamation of the gods, he had ruled against the gods’ will. Being in the
gods’ favor is a familiar justification for taking power violently and a classic means of
legitimation for the new order. Although Nabonidus did not descend from the tradi-
tional political circles and families of Babylon, as a member of the Babylonian court,
he was nevertheless familiar with local norms and traditions and through these
 Introduction: Representation–Tradition–Religion 13

sought to create a connection with the legitimate kings of Babylon: Nebuchadnezzar

and Neriglissar.
Nabonidus seems to have come to power through the influence of his mother, her-
self a high priest in the service of Sin of Harran. As a result, Nabonidus was heavily
dependent on the supporters surrounding his mother, who did not belong to the tra-
ditional power circles of Babylon but to the priesthood of Sin of Harran. This, how-
ever, did not serve Nabonidus well in his search for supporters in Babylon for his new
political and religious program. His dependency on the Harran elite created virtually
inescapable opposition from the local Babylonian circles, not only in the political
realm, but, even more problematically, among the religious and scholarly groups.
While a change “only” within the political sphere and at the highest level of power
(that is, the king) might have found support among some local Babylonian elites, Na-
bonidus framed his usurpation with a radical change to the religious system—a logical
result of the intentions of his supporters from Harran but one that was perceived as
a sacrilege to the Babylonian elites. Changing the religious order was one of the most
delicate political acts a ruler could undertake in Mesopotamia, because it not only at-
tacked the basis of communal and spiritual life but also potentially angered all inter-
est groups. To attempt this feat, one would have to have been extremely powerful, or
“mad” (the fate assigned to Nabonidus’s reputation in later traditions). Only with sup-
port from outside Babylon was this attempt thinkable—that is, from interests groups
(like the Sin Harran clique) that could only win, not lose ground in this process: the
power of the Sin elite in Harran need not necessarily have been affected by a failure
in Babylon.
Nabonidus presented the systemic change as the reestablishment of a demolished
order, demolished by forces in Babylonia who, according to his point of view (and po-
litical propaganda) had disobeyed the Babylonian gods, had not fulfilled religious du-
ties, had violated rituals and religious traditions, and because of this had caused
chaos in Babylonia. Ironically, the very same allegations were made by Nabonidus’s
opponents, who added to these charges the accusation that he monopolized reli-
gious, ritual, and cultural knowledge spheres and broke with the tradition of keeping
a sage as his adviser. Thus, both the “reformers/rebels” who pushed for change and
the representatives of Marduk in Babylon who wanted to prevent religious reform de-
scribed the intentions of each other as leading to chaos, sacrilege, and disorder—
in general, threatening culture and community. Control over the religious sphere,
proper use of traditions, and accusations by the opposition of flouting the traditional
religious rules and customs turned out (once more) to be of central importance for
keeping (or gaining) political power in Babylonia.
Clearly, the camps involved in the struggle for power in Babylon understood the
inextricable integration of politics and religion. However, Nabonidus and his backers
may have underestimated the power of the Babylonian circles and overestimated the
power of the Sin clique in Harran. Changing the religious system made it extremely
difficult to create loyalty to the new power, even for those who might otherwise have
been willing to support Nabonidus. What would form the basis of identity in a situa-
tion in which (by changing the “god”) the whole legitimation of life and existence that
14 Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

had depended on Marduk was lost? What did Nabonidus offer the populace to gain
their support when reducing or even taking away the power of Marduk? He seems to
have overestimated the power of his own propaganda in establishing a new order
while underestimating the power of the local religious traditions to create the identity
of the Babylonians.
Ultimately Nabonidus did not succeed in his changes, either in politics or in reli-
gious reform. However, the Marduk supporters did not succeed either. Attempting to
keep Nabonidus and his reforms out, they supported the Persians. The discrediting
of Nabonidus worked, but at the same time it led to the disempowerment of Babylon
as a whole. The city and its elites lost what they had intended to keep: Babylon’s po-
sition as the center of the political and religious world and their authority as its rep-
resentatives.
Although located in a different section of the book (according to the theme of
later perceptions of new order), Kuhrt’s article on Cyrus immediately follows Beau-
lieu’s investigation into Nabonidus, permitting, when read sequentially, a relationship
between them that focuses on the same period of time: the end of Neo-Babylonian
rule and the formation of the Achaemenid Empire, with paths crossing in the episode
of Cyrus’s capture of Babylon. Nonetheless, we chose to place Kuhrt’s essay not in the
same section as Beaulieu’s but near Brit Jahn’s on the Amorites (see more below) in
order to highlight the difficulties that we, as modern scholars, encounter in trying to
reconstruct the ancient “realities” of royal or elite manipulations of order. These dif-
ficulties arise precisely because the ancient representational strategies (as well as
other—both complementary and competing—strategies) for instituting changes in or-
der often obscure and confuse the very presentation of the transition. And it is this
aspect of how later or competing representations of charismatic rulers have distorted
our modern perceptions of them that Amélie Kuhrt takes as her central theme in the
essay, “Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities.”
Cyrus, considered the first Persian king, was renowned in later traditions as a daz-
zling character, but getting at any kernel of historical accuracy is challenging, not
least because his “images,” which have conditioned the reception of him as a ruler, de-
rive from numerous disparate sources that do not primarily reflect Cyrus’s own (con-
trolled) self-representation. From his death onward, the portraits of Cyrus reflect
instead the vision of the diverse historians who recorded his deeds and qualities from
their own perspective and, one cannot exclude this, serving their own interests rather
than being bound to any historical “truth.”
The lineage of Cyrus, according to one of the most propagated stories, is un-
known. One particularly trenchant narrative treats Cyrus as a usurper without a past
and as the liberator of the Persians from Median rule. According to this narrative, Cy-
rus, with his violent accession to power, became the “self-made-king” of the Persians.
As always, when one order was replaced through the installation of a new person at
the top of the elite hierarchy (that is, the ruler), the new beginning needed to be le-
gitimated. And if the legitimation could not derive from the existing tradition, as is
usually the case for a usurper, it had to be constructed. According to the sources com-
posed after his death, Cyrus did not ground his legitimacy in the physical power that
 Introduction: Representation–Tradition–Religion 15

propelled him to kingship; rather, he integrated himself into a glorious past. Accord-
ing to his titles, he saw himself not as the founder of a dynasty but as the successor of
royal ancestors and, as such, as the historically legitimated ruler.
Cyrus’s use of tradition to legitimate the new order was a classic strategy deployed
by illegitimate rulers of the ancient Near East beginning in at least the third millen-
nium. With the aid of massive military support and tactical brilliance, Cyrus created
a world empire of hitherto unknown dimensions. In creating a new world order, he
dismantled the regimes, traditions, value systems, and cultural rules of all the incor-
porated communities; yet, he was glorified as a ruler who was tolerant, even support-
ive, of the cultural traditions and religions of those he conquered. Thus was the
positive image of Cyrus handed down; the ideology of power and the power of pro-
paganda fully exploited its virtue. As a foreign ruler, at least according to the later tra-
ditions, Cyrus knew how to shape his actions in order to conform to the traditions of
the conquered communities in a way that was always beneficial for his authority yet
at the same time created the appearance that he was acting in the best interests of the
subject societies. Cyrus integrated himself into the rituals and cultural traditions of
these communities and in this way concealed the actual disruption of political order
by maintaining the religious traditions.
Cyrus legitimated his take-over of Babylon by vilifying the wrongdoings of his pre-
decessor—another classic pattern of legitimation used by usurpers and foreign rulers
in the ancient Near East—in order to declare the coup an act of reestablishing “law
and order.” In contrast to Sargon’s strategies that highlighted his powerful break with
tradition, Cyrus sought to emphasize continuity by taking care of the local temples
and maintaining the spatial structure of the cities, although of course he had changed
the political order significantly. The limitation (and perhaps even falseness) of his tol-
erance is evident in the case of Babylon, where Cyrus performed the important local
religious ceremonies but did so in traditional Persian costume. Subtleties of this sort
in his dealings with the religious and cultural traditions of his conquered subjects
clearly reflect his all-embracing awareness of political imperatives.
Yet another strategically effective move was Cyrus’s political integration of the ele-
ments of the conquered that contributed most forcefully to the creation of group
identity in order to establish a new feeling of “us” not only in the individual, subject
regions but also and above all in the center of political power in Persia. When building
his prestigious capital of Pasargadae, Cyrus drew upon the cultural symbols and reli-
gious images of the subdued communities to adorn the buildings. In mixing these ele-
ments in a hybrid way, he positioned himself as the guardian of the cultural heritage
of all the conquered lands, while at the same time creating something that was
uniquely Persian and would become the shared heritage of the entire Persian Empire.
In using the cultural elements of “others” at home, Cyrus could “prove” that he was a
caretaker of all cultures and societies, and not, as he was in reality, an intruder who
occupied the land of “others” and appropriated them for Persian interests. He had
nothing that he could declare as originally “Persian,” so he had to use the cultural ele-
ments of others to construct his architecture. But he turned this “failing” into a posi-
tive attribute, effectively claiming that the Persians took care of the other traditions
16 Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

and cultural heritages; the foreign delegations that came to Persia saw only a steward-
ship of their tradition and culture. At the same time it seems that the use of cultural
elements of the “other” for visibly creating Pasargadae was another strategic move on
the part of Cyrus. The propaganda was clear: not exclusion but integration of the sub-
dued into the sphere of power as a way of creating a “global” identity. Cultural di-
versity and acceptance of the “other” became a symbol of political grandeur for the
Persians. The integration of the cultural symbols of conquered societies into the
building program of Persian political power not only acknowledged the “real” politi-
cal position of the “others” but helped to convince them that they ranked on the same
level with the Persians.
The propaganda of a militarily mighty power, one that had caused changes, disrup-
tions, and dissolutions of political and social order throughout the Empire, sought,
through the hybrid design of Pasargade, to convince the conquered of the exact op-
posite. The ideology of power, the power of the images, and the propaganda of those
in power served to establish the image of a tolerant Cyrus who created a new global
order and a new global community that came to be remembered as the natural order
among his contemporaries as well as in the memory of the ensuing ages.
We end the volume with Brit Jahn’s contribution, “The Migration and Sedentariza-
tion of the Amorites from the Point of View of the Settled Babylonian Population,”
which tackles one of the more enigmatic transitions in Near Eastern history: the
emergence of Amorite dynasties after a long, slow process of infiltration into the es-
tablished urban centers of the Near East. When urban society and the nomadic way
of life meet, the question arises: which pattern of life had what to offer the other? De-
scribing the “other” (here the Amorites) as barbarians who knew nothing about ur-
ban traditions, knowledge and culture, proper living, religion, or the proper handling
of the dead was surely intended to reinforce the superiority of urban life compared
with nomadic life. It also suggests, however, that the urban culture of the Near East
was not stable enough to handle the immigration of “others” into their society as a
“normal” routine of daily life. While urban life was seen has having much to offer
“others,” the nomadic lifestyle, according to the “folk literature” of the settled people,
had nothing to offer “civilized” (that is, urban) society. Migration and sedentarization
were thus constituted in the traditions of the urban societies as a severe affront to the
urban traditions. The written transmission of this perception illustrates still another
aspect that is central to power: it was only the urban culture as a literate culture, in
contrast to the nomadic communities, that was able to perpetuate their perspective
on “us and them” for the future (and in particular for the “future” that includes As-
syriological scholarship). Those who controlled writing thus controlled the future.
Yet, practically speaking, it was not the urban society but the people who had to
change their way of living radically through migration and sedentarization who faced
a far greater change and even loss of their cultural traditions. It was they who lost
their traditional way of living and, with it, presumably many aspects of their culture,
values, and norms. Nevertheless, the Amorites managed to acculturate themselves
and assimilate into the urban societies, although today it is hard to determine how
the majority of Amorites confronted their new situation. In contrast, one can clearly
 Introduction: Representation–Tradition–Religion 17

follow the actions taken both by the settled Amorite leaders and the urban elites in
establishing their positions in the emerging arrangements. The new order revealed
potential opportunities for powerful newcomers from nomadic backgrounds as well
as from elite precincts in the periphery to achieve rulership in the newly developing
societies. At the same time, the configuration of new social communities showed the
potential for threatening the urban establishment with the loss of their traditional au-
thority within the urban communities.
Rebellion in the periphery against the urban centers of political power was one
way to achieve power by those who were legally not (yet) in positions of authority.
Rebels and usurpers exploited the migration process of the Amorites into southern
Mesopotamia as a way of legitimating their own seizure of power by force. Claiming
to need ultimate power in order to prevent the destruction of order threatened by
the Amorites’ settlement activities, they concealed their own violation of the ruling
order and propagated a representation of themselves as the guardians of tradition.
Ibbisin and his rebellion against Ur is a good example of this kind of political action.
For the traditionally established political elite, their own political operation became
an ambivalent issue. While the local kings took care to control the immigration pro-
cess and provide the basic parameters for a successful acculturation and assimilation,
they not only permitted but forced the immigrants to assimilate into the structures of
power and political organization. This strategy, however, allowed the Amorite elite
eventually to become a threat to their “hosts,” whose positions of power they usurped
in several cases. The chosen politics of the urban political elite resulted thus on the
one hand in the stabilization of their community and on the other hand in the desta-
bilizing of their own power. Paradoxically, then, perpetuating the traditional social
order could result in the destruction of the political order and in the loss of rulership.
With the successful integration of the “others” into their community, the urban elite
had created their own rivals.
Assimilation and acculturation of the Amorites thus allowed some members of the
Amorite ruling classes to assume power in their new environment. The newcomers
represented themselves as keepers of the local traditions by adopting the traditional
royal titles. Thus, in public they demonstrated continuity, where in fact disruption
had occurred—a familiar pattern in the ancient Near East as elsewhere. In some cases,
they invented new royal titles without relation to either a local or an Amorite tradi-
tion, but the new Amorite elite still acknowledged their lineage; even as kings in a
new urban environment, they retained their Amorite personal names. In this way,
they bridged the two populations: Amorite and traditional urban. They appeased the
local population by suggesting continuity and the Amorite tribesmen by displaying
their Amorite heritage. The Amorite past was not forgotten, but at the same time this
background did not hinder the new kings. Connecting the past and the traditions of
the urban as well as the traditions of the nomadic societies with the present thus
helped the new Amorite elite secure their future.
The process of migration and sedentarization affected the ruling orders of all so-
cieties involved. The changes and disruptions of order seem to have produced win-
ners and losers on both sides—among the nomads as well as among the urban
18 Marlies Heinz and Marian H. Feldman

societies—and likewise on different levels of society. Every group affected responded

individually to the inevitable change. In learning the traditions of the respective
“others,” the nomad population lost its traditional way of living and was forced to in-
tegrate into the urban structures, and ultimately it was the urban society, though it
nursed “grievances” about being threatened, that survived.
 Part 1

Reestablishment of Order after

Major Disruption
 Chapter 1
Emar and the Transition from
Hurrian to Hittite Power

Regine Pruzsinszky

Introduction
The history of Emar presents some valuable insights on Hurrian/Mittanian rule
and the succeeding Hittite hegemony over northern Syria in the second half of the
second millennium b.c. and, as a result, on changes of power and their effects on con-
trolled cities. Emar which was situated along the Middle Euphrates, always played a
strategically important role as a center of commerce on the border between political
units. The two distinct scribal traditions reflected in the private legal documents
found at Emar combined with prosopographical observations reveal a chronological
separation of the tablets that roughly date to the second half of the second millen-
nium b.c. With the recognition of this chronological division, institutional changes
become apparent that can be linked directly to the transition from Mittanian to Hit-
tite power. The textual evidence elucidates the way the local rulers and administrative
and religious institutions were affected by the change of political power and how the
overlords maintained control and power over the Middle Euphrates region. Thus one
needs to distinguish between the local Syrian tradition and the Hurrian and Hittite
influences and innovations found in the texts, because there is hardly any documen-
tation on political affairs. While comparably little can be said about Mittanian rule
and its impact on the local Syrian traditional administrative units of the city elders
and the city god, we can say that the Hittites exercised control via their viceroy at
Carchemis and seem to have changed the local administration to some extent. Al-
though the local institutions continued to exist, the newly installed rulers and the di-
viner of Emar evidently collaborated extensively with the Hittite overlords. This
enabled the Hittites to control not only the political but also the cultural and religious
life of Emar. This essay presents an overview of the most significant features of life in
Emar, which seems to have undergone some modification caused by the change of
foreign powers during the time that these texts were written.

Author’s note: This study has been conducted with the financial support of APART (Austrian Pro-
gramme for Advanced Research and Technology), funded by the Austrian Academy of Sciences. The
complete list of publications of the Emar texts can be found in Pruzsinszky 2003: xxv–xxvii. CM 13
designates the publication number of Emar texts in Westenholz et al. (2000); CM page numbers re-
fer to accompanying commentary. I would like to thank Marian Feldman for her help with the En-
glish text.

21
22 Regine Pruzsinszky

Two Different Scribal Traditions and Their Impact on the

Dating of the Legal Documents of Emar
The numerous texts found at Emar, situated on the Euphrates approximately
100 km southeast of Halab, display two different scribal traditions: the so-called “Syr-
ian” and the “Syro-Hittite” scribal tradition or style. Not only do the tablets differ in
shape, format, grammatical features, orthography, and the application of seal impres-
sions, but also the formulations employed by these mostly legal documents show dif-
ferences. 1 Arnaud, the field epigrapher and editor of the excavated Emar texts,
believed that the two scribal traditions coexisted during the period beginning with
the foundation of the “new” Emar 2 by the Hittites (ca. 1325 b.c.) until its end in 1187
b.c., based on the preliminary excavation reports of Margueron. However, a number
of scholars consider the two scribal traditions to reflect to some extent two chrono-
logically distinct phases in the history of Emar: a period when Emar belonged to the
Mittanian Kingdom (beginning ca. 1400 or later) and the period when it was inte-
grated into the Hittite Empire (ca. 1325 or later). 3 This view is now confirmed by the
recent excavation report by Finkbeiner, who proved that Emar was not newly
founded by the Hittite overlord but had earlier occupation levels as well. 4 The object
of this study is to shed more light on the two distinct phases, which are concurrent
with the change of sovereignty around 1325, when Suppiluliuma I took control of
northern Syria. Emar eventually became a vassal kingdom of the Hittite Empire un-
der the jurisdiction of Carchemis, the seat of the viceroy of the Hittite emperor. Un-
fortunately, the exact date of Emar’s annexation and the time of transition to the new
power remain unknown. 5

1. Note, for instance, Seminara 1998a. The absence of some types of contracts, such as security
texts, cannot be clearly attributed to the coincidence of finds or social or historical reasons, as Skaist
(2001: 236) pointed out.
2. The “old” city, known from the Ebla and Mari texts of the third and second millenniums b.c.,
was believed to be located somewhere else (see, e.g., Yamada 1995: 297 n. 1).
3. Most notably Skaist (1998a), who separated the chronology into two distinct phases that are
represented by two local royal dynasties. An important site situated close to Emar is Ekalte (Tell Mun-
baqa), which is roughly contemporary with the phase before the Hittite domination of Emar (see
Werner [2004: 23–24], who carefully suggested dates of ca. 1400–1325 b.c.). Another revised chro-
nology of the Emar tablets, based on letter E 536, has been proposed by Durand (Durand and Marti
2003: 156–60), who dates them all to the thirteenth century. According to him, the dynasty of Iahßi-
Dagan began around 1235 b.c. and is synchronized with Kastiliasu IV and Tukulti-Ninurta I. The pre-
ceding Emarite “dynasty” is dated to the time of the Assyrian king Salmaneser I and the end of Adad-
nirari I’s reign. In contrast, Skaist (1998a) proposed following chronological periods for each of the
scribal traditions: ca. 1400–1220 b.c. (Syrian) and 1275–1210 b.c. (Syro-Hittite). In 2005, he sug-
gested the period between ca. 1325 and 1180 b.c. for the local dynasty of Emar, beginning with Baºal-
kabar I. Di Filippo’s valuable conclusions (2004) suggest that the early Syrian tablets of Emar are not
from as early as 1400 but sometime later, before Suppiluliuma’s Syrian campaigns. On p. 198, he ar-
gues that Liªmi-sarra, who is “clearly titled king” in FK 6, was a contemporary of Baºal-kabar. Thus the
change of dynasties due to the coming of the Hittites must have taken place at the time of Liªmi-sarra.
4. For a summary, see Faist and Finkbeiner 2002: 190–95.
5. Di Filippo (2004: 198 n. 100), who just presented a new, careful study on the chronology of
the legal texts of Emar, considers Mursili II to have been responsible for the change of dynasties in
Emar—shifting the dates for the Emar archives downward (see below).
 Emar and the Transition from Hurrian to Hittite Power 23

How can we trace this change within the textual evidence of Emar, and which dif-
ferences can be observed in regard to the control of the region around Emar in the
land of Astata (which is also referred to as “the land of Emar” in texts from Ugarit) 6
before and after ca. 1325 b.c.? Because the documentation mainly concerns private
and legal matters, we lack what we would consider the “most helpful” evidence, such
as historiographical texts like treaties, royal declarations, and the like. 7 The historical
and social background can only be reconstructed by external textual evidence or by
hints within the Emar texts, such as date formulas referring to events (Zaccagnini
1995; Vita 2002) or kings, officials, and institutions mentioned throughout the tab-
lets. 8 Only a few texts allude to historically interesting facts. Nevertheless, the abun-
dance of private legal texts allows us to reconstruct the transition of power at Emar
from Mittani to Hatti from an internal view. Changes and innovations within the
legal clauses represented in the Syrian and Syro-Hittite texts of Emar, 9 which pro-
vide us with an idea of the economic, legal, and administrative situation in second-
millennium Syria can be linked to a certain extent with the political changes in this
area.
The importance of Emar throughout its history beginning in the third millennium
b.c. is due to its strategically important location at the crossroads of commercial
routes along the Euphrates connecting the Levant and Syria with Mesopotamia. Dur-
ing the first half of the second millennium (Old Babylonian period), Emar was the
most remote outpost of the kingdom of Halab, bordering the kingdom of Mari. As
Fleming (2004: 213) remarks: “Imar’s distance from the shadow of the major king-
doms allowed its local political traditions to thrive with relatively little interference
from outside powers, and these local traditions were markedly collective.” During the
Hittite period, Emar and Tell Faqºus, situated ca. 12 km farther southeast of Emar,
were again the easternmost military outposts of the Hittite Empire, bordering As-
syria, whose growing expansive power was threatening Hatti. According to his annals,
Mursili II went to the “city (of) Astata” and built a fortress that he garrisoned (KBo
IV 4 ii 59–68). This city is generally identified with Tell Faqºus, 10 which is considered

6. Yamada 1994b: 264–68. Yamada thus believes Emar to be the main city of the land of Astata.
7. Note the essay by Cancik (1993) with special emphasis on the meaning of “sovereignty” in
these texts (especially contracts). In his summary on p. 130, Cancik stresses the issues that seem to
be essential with regard to cognition of “others” and self-perception. “Die vorgeführten Texte zeigen
eine genaue Fremdwahrnehmung . . . ; dem entspricht eine besondere Eigenwahrnehmung und
entsprechend ‘Selbstbewußtheit.’ ” On the structure and the relevant issues in vassal treaties, see
p. 125 (protection of and respect for defined borders, the vassal’s agreement not to become involved
in foreign affairs, loyalty toward other vassals, performance of military backup, etc.).
8. The texts from Emar are considered additional evidence to the state archives of Hattusa for
the study of Hittite society (see, e.g., Yamada 1995: 298; Bellotto 2002).
9. Faist 2002; Westbrook 2003 (with a useful summary of legal issues referring to previous stud-
ies; see pp. 683–84 with characteristics of Syrian and Syro-Hittite sale documents). Note that the
shape of the Syro-Hittite styled tablets resembles the format of the tablets from Carchemis, which
had a separate scribal tradition from the tablets of Hattusa, the Hittite capital (Faist 2002: 132).
10. Note already Bunnens (1989: 24–25), who stressed that Emar should not be identified with
the capital of Astata. He viewed Astata as a confederation or province of which the kingdom of Emar
was part. One of its representatives could have been the ugula kalam.ma (‘Chief of the Country’),
who is mentioned several times in the texts. Adamthwaite (2001: 224), who follows Margueron’s and
24 Regine Pruzsinszky

to have served as a defensive site for Emar, forming part of a system of fortresses
along the Euphrates (Margueron 1981–82). Due to similar (specifically architectural)
remains at Emar (Tell Meskene), Margueron believed that it was also a new founda-
tion by the Hittites, with no earlier traces of occupation. This widely accepted view of
the past 20 to 30 years has been challenged recently by the Syrian-German excava-
tions at Emar, as stated above.

Mittanian Rule of Emar

Little is known about the period preceding Hittite hegemony over Emar and the
political situation before 1325. 11 This is mainly due to a general lack of textual evi-
dence during this time within the region (for the main texts, see table 1, pp. 26–27).
Most studies have emphasized instead Emar under Hittite domination and influence,
since this period is much better documented. We are left with very few hints concern-
ing the governing of Emar in its earlier phase as documented in the textual evidence.
The texts do not even identify the name of the Mittanian ruler of this time.
Generally, only a few (royal) Mittanian sources have been found in northern Syria
that provide hints to political actions from the period of Mittani’s political strength:
the newly discovered texts from Tell Bazi recording donations of land by Saustatar
and Artatama (I?) to the “sons of the city of Baziri,” the city elders; 12 the tablet from
Umm el-Marra granting manumission (hanigalbatutu) to several individuals in the
presence of Suttarna II; and two legal documents from Tell Brak, which were written
in the presence of Artasumara and Tusratta. 13 After the reign of Suttarna II, Mittani’s
situation became unstable and relations with Egypt deteriorated. Suppiluliuma I fi-
nally put an end to the power of Mittani and its ruler Tusratta 14 and annexed north-
ern Syria and parts of upper Mesopotamia to the Hittite Kingdom.
Various (local) Old Syrian features of the “Syrian” tablets of Emar can be identified
that are not to be found in “Syro-Hittite” texts and that may also be used as an indi-
cation for an earlier dating of those texts. 15 In general, Old Syrian features can be de-
tected in paleography, language, the dating of documents, the formulations and legal
clauses/phraseology, sealing practices, rituals and their calendar, and archaeological
remains. Parallels to legal practices that are considered local and “Old Syrian,” such
as the satisfaction clause and penalty clause containing a payment, are found in texts

Arnaud’s proposal for the chronology of Emar, identifies Astata with another town: modern El-
Qitar. In contrast, Yamada (1994b: 267) believes that the city of Astata should be identified with
Emar.
11. For a reconstruction of the history of Mittani, see, e.g., Kühne 1999.
12. Otto and Einwag 2005: 27. Donations by the king of Mittani to the people of Astata are re-
corded in the treaty between Muwatalli II and Talmi-Sarrumma of Aleppo (CTH 75).
13. Sallaberger et al. 2006; Cooper et al. 2005; eidem in Oates et al. 1997. Further evidence, as
yet unpublished, from the early Mittanian era comes from Terqa mentioning Parrattarna II and
probably Suttarna (I) and Saustatar (Rouault 2004: 56–57).
14. Note the Sattiwaza treaty (CTH 51), which also lists the places that were given to Piyassili of
Carchemis (see Yamada 1994b; and note T. Richter 2005 on behalf of Qa†na texts).
15. Seminara 1998; Fleming 2000; Sallaberger 2003 in his review of Adamthwaite.
 Emar and the Transition from Hurrian to Hittite Power 25

from Ekalte and Nuzi and even earlier in the third millennium (for example, ceremo-
nial actions of breaking bread and anointing a table at the end of transactions). Table
1 lists texts belonging to the phase before Hittite domination of Emar and thus are
not contemporary with the “Syro-Hittite” scribal tradition that appears after the tran-
sition of power. They contain the most characteristic features of the “Syrian” docu-
ments, including “eponym-like” dating, a satisfaction clause, a hazannu (‘mayor’) 16 in
the witness list, a penalty clause in case of a vindication, with payments to the deity
dnin.urta (= dN) 17 and the city. Most of these tablets derive from the antiquities mar-

ket (those from regular excavations were found in the M1 building 18).
The sale document E 153, 19 which also contains the arana-clause, can be attributed
to one of the family members according to its witness list. E 12, written by Ehli-Kusa,
belongs to the earlier texts as well; but unlike the others, it was recovered in the “pal-
ace” of Emar.
The eponym-like dating “month x, year PN 1st/2nd time” only occurs in these early
nonroyal Syrian type tablets. Fleming (2000: 224) has pointed out its origin in the
“collective governance identified as the ‘city’, associated in part with elders or free cit-
izens. Parallel eponym and city administrative systems . . . must have arisen out of the
older social pattern.” 20 CM 13:4, which is described by its editor as “classical Old
Babylonian,” also contains this dating formula and uses clauses that are characteristic
for these early documents. These include most notably the ceremonial clause con-
cluding the legal transaction, an extra payment (ku-ub-bu-ru) 21 to the “brothers” or the
fraternal clan (lu.meßa˘.˘i.a, ah-hu) and the penalty clause (compare with E 171 and
RE 34 in table 1). 22 All these observations point to a strong urban authority as is
also suggested by the historically interesting text FK 6, which was ratified by the seal
of dnin.urta but not by a royal authority. The dynastic seal, with the exception of
AuOrS 1 14 and E 148, is never attested on these early tablets, while nin.urta’s seal
can always be found on tablets from the beginning of the Emar archives onward. In
FK 6, Irªib-Dagan is rewarded for his expenditures for the “city and his lord” by “the
king and the city of Emar.” 23 In comparison with the evidence from Ekalte and Azû,

16. See Mayer (2001: 23–24) for the mayors attested in the documents from Ekalte and in the
eponym-like datings.
17. For discussion of the reading of dnin.urta, see Westenholz 1999.
18. An exception may be E 12, which was found in the “palace.”
19. Note the restoration made by Skaist (1998a: 62 n. 45) based on the witness list of E 150.
20. Unfortunately, the texts do not inform us about the administrative function of the persons
who serve as eponyms. The eponym-like dating is also attested at Ekalte, which names the mayor.
21. On this term, see Zaccagnini 1989: 37–40.
22. Only rarely is a palace referred to in these early documents: for example, in AuOrS 1 14
dnin.urta, the city and the palace (!) are named as recipients of the penalty. In other known cases

where the palace is named in the penalty clause, members of the royal family are usually quoted
within the document.
23. The city of Emar and its lord are also referred to in RE 34 listed above. Here Ikun-Dagan,
the owner of a house, has his house taken away because of an ‘offense’ (hi†u) committed against his
city and his lord (uruKI-su ù be-lí-su). As a consequence, dnin.urta and the ‘great ones of Emar’
(lu.meßgal-gal URUE-mar KI) sold the house (the penalty-clause names the city and dnin.urta as re-
cipients). On additional hi†u-clauses at Emar that do not refer to the king (lugal), see Adamthwaite
2001: 89–97. Ekalte text no. 3, 36 states that the buyer of a house is to hand over the acquired house
26 Regine Pruzsinszky

Table 1. Texts Explicitly Dating to the Earlier Local “Dynasty” of Irªib-dißkur

Penalty
Text Parties Clause Witness Other Additional Comments
AuOrS 1 14 dN+elders dN+city+ Irªib- [ ]-malik, arana, the witnesses are also
Sale (plot of (sellers) palace dißkur-en scribe mentioned in ZA 89 4 and
land) Izraº-Dagan, and AuOr 5 3
son of Óimas brothers
(buyer)
AuOr 5 17 Istabu son of Igmil- Dagan -ba-ah-li
Testament Zu-Aba Dagan scribe
(testator)
AuOrS 1 15 lost (dN+elders dN+city Igmil- Rasap-ili scribe The city of Emar demanded
Sale (hills sellers?) Dagan 2,000 seqels of gold, they sold
and fields) hills and fields for silver and
gold, which they gave to the
a-ra-na a
E 150 dN+elders dN+city Igmil- Dagan-en
Sale (plot of (sellers) Dagan and scribe,
land) Óimasi-Dagan, Liªmi-sarra dißkur-en
son of Abi- hazannu
Dagan (buyer)
HCCT-E 4 dN+elders dN+city Igmil- Rasap-ili scribe arana (payment in garments)
Sale (plot of (sellers) Dagan and
land) Idumu.meß Ahi- Liªmi-sarra
hamiß (buyers)
HCCT-E 11 var. private — dißkur-gal Rasap-ili scribe

Loan of silver persons son of

Liªmi-sarra
RE 91 dN+elders dN+city Igmil- Dagan-en
Sale (plot of (sellers) Dagan and scribe,
land) ? (name lost, Liªmi-sarra dißkur-en
buyer) hazannu
FK 6 Liªmi-sarra Ehli-Kusa i-na u4-ma-ti ILi-lugal dumu
Appointment together scribe Ir-ib-dißkur; reference to the
of a sanga- with the Abi-Rasap Hurrian king!
priest of the city of hazannu
Nergal Emar
temple by the
king and the
city of Emar
AuOrS 1 16 dN+elders dN+city Liªmi-sarra Ehli-Kusa
Sale doc. (sellers) scribe
(field) Milki-Dagan, Abi-Rasap
son of Ihi-Rami hazannu
(buyers)
AuOrS 1 17 dN+elders dN+city Liªmi-sarra Ehli-Kusa
Sale (field) (sellers) scribe
Samas-gamil, Abi-Rasap
Igmulu, Dagan- hazannu
malik, Ikun-
Dagan
(buyers)
AuOrS 1 18 dN+elders dN+city Liªmi-sarra Ehli-Kusa
Sale (field) (sellers) scribe
Ilú.meß Abi-

Rasap son of
Óinna-dißkur
(buyers)
 Emar and the Transition from Hurrian to Hittite Power 27

Table 1. Texts Explicitly Dating to the Earlier Local “Dynasty” of Irªib-dißkur (cont.)
Penalty
Text Parties Clause Witness Other Additional Comments
AuOrS 1 87 + Liªmi-sarra Elders of Emar i-na u4-ma-ti IL[i-mi-lugal]
Foundation (recipients Pilsu-Dagan dumu Ir-ib-d[ißkur], curse b
document not lú.sanga Ehli-
(Nergal named) Kusa scribe
temple) Abi-Rasap
hazannu
RE 22 dN+elders to dN+city Liªmi-sarra Ehli-Kusa
Gift (plot of Isbi-en, the scribe
land) physician
(recipient)
E 148 dN+elders dN+city Isbi-Dagan, Ehli-Kusa
Sale (plot of (sellers)c son of scribe
land) Ili-Gasru s. of Liªmi-sarra Abi-Rasap
Zu-Baºla hazannu
E 149 dN+elders dN+city lost Ehli-Kusa
Sale (field) (sellers) (Isbi-Dagan scribe
Baia (buyer) son of Abi-Rasap
Liªmi-sarra) hazannu
E 171 Zu-Baºla son of lost — [ ]-dißkur dißkur-gal son of Liªmi-sarra

Sale (plot of dißkur-x[ ] scribe is named as one of the

land) (seller) neighbors, ceremonial clause
Zu-Astarti son kuburu-payment
of Itu[r- (buyer)
RE 34 dN+elders dN+city Ili-abi son Alal-abu scribe hi†u against the city and his
Sale (house) (sellers) of Liªmi- Dagan-kabar lord
Itur-Dagan son sarra hazannu ceremonial clause
of Iahßi-Dagan
(buyer)
AuOrS 1 19 dN+elders dN+city Zu-Baºla Alal-abu scribe
Sale (field) (sellers) son of Isbi- Pilsu-Dagan
Íilla-Baºla Dagan hazannu
(buyer)
General note: The texts listed here name members of this family in their witness list (exception: E 171).
The family tree by Skaist (1998a: 60) can be extended (see the catalog in Pruzsinszky 2003).
a. Skaist 1998b. Compare also with AuOrS 1 14, where this Hurrian term for ‘tribute’ (a-ra-[na lugal]
is attested as well. It is unknown whose “palace” in this penalty clause is referred to (theoretically it could
refer to the lugal mentioned in connection with the arana). Since E 153 also dates to the same early phase
of Emar (compare with the testimonies in E 150), all attestations seem to refer to a tribute payment to the
Hurrian (Mittanian) king before 1325 b.c.
b. A clause stating that, if anyone alters the words, Nergal will destroy his house and his seed. Only
early texts involve Nergal, as noted by Fleming 2000: 24 n. 33.
c. Beyer (2001: 432) notes that a dynastic seal is impressed on this tablet (“E 2a?”). However, according
to pl. 17, cylinder seal E 2b seems to be found on this tablet.

these features hint at a fairly strong position of the urban authority including the city
elders, the Temple of dnin.urta, and the body that is referred to as “brothers.” As
pointed out by Yamada (1994a: 59), both institutions of Emar, the elders and

to the Temple of Dagan in the case of an “offense” commited by the buyer (hi-†á-am sa PN). Accord-
ing to Westbrook (2003: 688), this term signifies treason or a range of crimes against the state.
The (local) king (of Emar) can only be identified in text FK 6. Otherwise, no evidence exists for a
local king in the texts from Emar. More evidence on local kings comes from Ekalte, which may have
belonged to the administrative district of Emar (see Mayer 2001: 14).
28 Regine Pruzsinszky

dnin.urta, can be divided into two different bodies, a civil and religious, both of
which constituted a corporate body of urban authority at Emar. 24 This close relation-
ship between the city god and the “elders” or “brothers” is also attested at Ekalte and
Azû. Clearly, Ekalte, Azû, and Emar share a common sociocultural heritage, which ex-
emplifies the local Syrian traditions. The local king—best represented in FK 6—plays
only a minor role in the earlier texts from Emar and the documents of Ekalte.
One of the most important terms identified by Skaist (1999) is the Hurrian word
for ‘gift, tribute’, arana, which is attested in these early documents. The city, repre-
sented by the elders together with dnin.urta, is reported to have sold land in order
to pay its arana. 25 FK 6 also refers to a payment consisting of gold, silver, and jewelry
to a Hurrian king. Apparently the city of Emar was liable for a certain amount of sil-
ver and gold to be paid as tribute to the Hurrian king. 26

Hittite Rule of Emar

Emar did not suffer destruction during the course of the Hittite take-over, and the
texts demonstrate that the local inhabitants retained their legal rights despite politi-
cal and administrative changes. 27 Under Hittite hegemony over Astata, Emar’s “own”
institutions (local dynasty and the representatives of the city-community), also re-
ferred to as “its own political identity” (Vita 2002: 114), continued alongside princes
of Carchemis and Hittite dignitaries, who were involved in the administration of
Emar. 28 Fundamental to the structure of the Hittite state according to Klengel (2003:
288) was:

Die Erkenntnis, dass jenseits des Taurus eine Kontrolle fremder Territorien schwer
dauerhaft auszuüben war, hat nicht zuletzt auch zur Entscheidung Suppiluliumas I.
beigetragen, in Syrien ein hethitisches Vizekönigtum mit Sitz in der Euphratfestung
Karkamis einzurichten . . . indem man in Karkamis—zeitweilig in Halab—hethitische
Prinzen als Herrscher etablierte . . . Dementsprechend galt fortan im Bereich von

24. Yamada concludes that dnin.urta “was a figure central to the elders” (1994a: 59 n. 7; and see
Yamada 1993: 454 n. 7). On the city elders and their function in Late Bronze Age towns in Syria
and the Levant, most notably Ugarit, see Heltzer 2004. For interesting differences between the elders
and the body termed “brothers,” see Bunnens 1989: 30–31. On further observations on “elders,” “fa-
thers,” and “brothers” as part of city government, see Mayer 2001: 25–26. Furthermore, there are
‘great ones’ (lú.mesgal-gal or rabbu) referred to in the Emar texts.
25. See also Durand and Marti 2003: 157. Interestingly, arana is attested at neither Ekalte nor
Azû, which also indicates their less important role among cities along the Euphrates bend.
26. Skaist 1998a: 171. Freu (2003: 83) suggests that this Hurrian king is Artatama I, who ruled at
the beginning of the fourteenth century and is known to have had strong relations with Egypt. The
ultimate identification depends on the overall chronological setting of the Emar archives, which is
still under discussion (see lately Di Filippo 2004). Too little is known about the political situation in
the Middle Euphrates region and Mittanian status during this period to identify with certainty a spe-
cific Mittanian ruler. However, it seems very likely that the arana-payment was due to a Hurrian king
before Emar was annexed to the Hittite Empire.
27. Salvini and Trémouille (2003) published the Hittite texts found at Emar (two letters and four
divinatory protocols). Among the texts is Msk. 73.1097, which parallels CM 13: 32, a letter by the Hit-
tite king concerning the confiscation of Zu-Baºla’s property by a Hittite official at Emar.
28. On the institution of the Hittite administration, see the overview by Westbrook 2003: 660–61.
 Emar and the Transition from Hurrian to Hittite Power 29

Karkamis die hethitische Rechtsordnung in weit stärkerem Maße als in anderen

syrischen Fürstentümern. Die Hethiter haben somit versucht, ihr bereits nach der
Staatsgründung in Hattusa eingeführtes Herrschaftssystem der Angliederung, nicht
der Eingliederung auch auf nicht-anatolisches Gebiet zu übertragen, d.h. ohne es
zugleich auch wirtschaftlich oder kulturell zu integrieren. . . . Gleicherweise sind
offenbar auch keine spezifischen hethitischen Gottheiten im syrischen Reichsteil
verehrt worden.

Anatolian rituals recorded in Akkadian, such as E 470–491 and CM 13: 31, prove that
rites for the gods of Hatti were performed at Emar. These rites are understood as a
result of the foreign religious practice of Hittite officials stationed in Syria. According
to Fleming (2000: 228), “these texts demonstrate the results of the most immediate
borrowing conceivable.” Other than that, little Hittite impact on religious life at Emar
is detectable; only a few Hittite words and practices are observed in the Emar ritual
texts. Hittite dignitaries and members of the Hittite royal family did not actively par-
ticipate, nor were they honored in the local festivals (Fleming 2000: 226–27). How-
ever, the local king, possibly put in place by the Hittites, took part in the festivities
(for example, the zukru) by funding them, an event that does not appear in the earlier
tradition of the texts. 29 Older versions of the ritual known as “the installation of the
nin.dingir” show that the elders (not the king) were present at the enthronement
of the nin.dingir priestess and thus represented the local authority. Also the king
(lugal) of Emar and Satappu, another town near Emar, are mentioned in the ban-
quets for dignitaries celebrating the nin.dingir installation (E 369), a topic exten-
sively dealt with by Fleming (1992b: 99–102). According to Sallaberger’s observations
(1996: 144–47), the text naming these local kings belongs to the latest phase of a
longer tradition of this ritual, which shows parallels to the ones at Ebla. Apparently,
the local kings were now included in the ritual installing the nin.dingir-priestess, con-
tinuing a tradition that had previously involved the city elders. However, one notices
a general absence of the local king in these ritual activities, particularly in contrast to
the evidence from Ugarit, Hatti, and Assyria, where they play a prominent role.
Furthermore, the pronounced Hittite interest in the family of the diviner (lú.˘al)
Zu-Baºla might indicate that Emar was a center of divination for Hittite monarchs, as
stated in Singer’s commentary (in Westenholz et al. 2000) on the Hittite letter CM
13:32. 30 The family of Zu-Baºla was the “semi-autonomous local religious establish-
ment” responsible for the administration of the city’s cult and divination and shared
close relations with the administration of Carchemis. Thus Fleming (2000: 44–45)
and others have suggested that the position of this family strongly depended on the
Hittite leadership, who had some interest in preserving the city’s religious life by con-
trolling the ritual tradition. In contrast to this, the earlier texts FK 6 and AuOrS 1 87
indicate that religious life, including the appointment of priests, was under the au-
thority of the city alone. Moreover, the texts of the diviner’s archive of M1 belonging

29. See, for example, Fleming 2000: 56 in connection with the zukru festival.
30. Note also Sallaberger (1996: 142), who concludes that by analogy with the texts from Hattusa
the, lú.˘al (diviner) played a major role in divination at Emar.
 30 Regine Pruzsinszky

to the scribal center and school of Emar suggest strong (traditional) ties continued
with Mesopotamia as shown by lexical and literary texts, while Fleming (2000) has
demonstrated that ritual tablets and the calendars or religious activities are native to
Syria and contain many earlier elements that remained throughout Hittite hegemony.
As stated above, the Hittites installed Hittite sovereigns in Carchemis and partly in
Halab in contrast to the Assyrians in the first millennium b.c., who substituted admin-
istrative officers for the local institutions. It seems that at Emar they kept the local
traditions in order to guarantee stability in an area that was far from the Hittite heart-
land and always threatened by raids. After Tusratta’s son Sattiwaza fled to Supplilu-
liuma, the Hittite king installed his own son Piyassili as viceroy of Carchemis and
launched another campaign against Mittani, which was now governed by the usurper
Artatama II and his son Suttarna. This campaign sought to establish Sattiwaza as ruler
of what was left of imperial Mittani (Hanigalbat) in order to integrate its lands into
the Hittite Empire, creating a buffer state between Hatti and Assyria (east of Carche-
mis, including Taide; Kühne 1999: 220–21). Despite the treaties between Mittani and
Hatti (KBo I 1 and 3), “Hurrian troops” continued to attack the city of Emar, as the
Emar texts report during the time of Pilsu-Dagan. 31 As documented in year names,
Emar was attacked on numerous occasions during the thirteenth century (“year of
distress and war,” 32 “year when †ár-pi troops besieged the city of Emar”) This was a
result most likely of its geographical situation at the edge of the Hittite Empire which
bordered Assyria, between the two rival political powers that were fighting over the
remains of the Mittanian state. Despite having its own troops (Vita 2002: 123–27),
Emar was dependent on the presence and protection of the Hittites, who engaged in
(external) political issues on their behalf. 33 Some Emarites had to perform the giß.
tukul-obligation and the ilku-service (see CM 13: 2 for its existence) in turn, which
obviously derived from and belonged to the Hittite social world. 34 More references
to military service can be found in E 17 and 18. The ilku-service might be connected
with the Hittite terms sahhan and luzzi that are attested in the Hittite letters Msk.
73.1097 and CM 13: 32, in which the diviner is freed from these obligations. How-
ever, these clearly went beyond military tasks and could have referred to “work
squads,” as originally proposed by Beckman (1996) for RE 78. In Hittite laws, ilku in-
volved land tenure that was assigned by the palace, as noted in CM 13, p. 6, and that
included the sahhan obligation.

31. Adamthwaite 2001: 261–80; Vita 2002 (especially pp. 117–21: here, Vita argues that Pilsu-
Dagan is a contemporary of Tukulti-Ninurta I instead of Adad-nirari as proposed by Skaist 1998a:
64–67). The synchronism between Pilsu-Dagan and Adad-nirari I is based on an unpublished text
from Tell Fray, that reports a Hanigalbatean attack on Emar.
32. As pointed out by Vita (2002: 116), the phrase “in the year of distress and/or war” is attested
in both Syrian and Syrian-Hittite style tablets.
33. Archaeological remains seem to prove an elaborated defense system erected by the Hittites
and supplemented by the fortress of Tell Faqºus according to the French excavators. However, the
city wall already existed during the Middle Bronze Age, as the excavations by Finkbeiner have
shown. Thus, the influence of the Hittites on the urban topography of Emar should be questioned
anew. See Faist and Finkbeiner 2002: 192–93.
34. Westbrook 2003: 663 (a feudal duty is expressed by the term ‘bearing a weapon’ [giß.tukul
nasû]); see also Bellotto 2002; Yamada 1995 (on arawannu people, who are said to perform the
giß.tukul-obligation/service).

spread is 3 points long

 Emar and the Transition from Hurrian to Hittite Power 31

The installation of (local) dynasties in Syria by the Hittites possibly had an effect
on Emar as well, if we accept the chronology proposed at the beginning of this essay;
the local dynasty of Iahßi-Dagan coincided with the period of Hittite domination at
Emar and therefore has been described as a “relatively new feature of Emar society.” 35
However, these kings ruled under Hittite jurisdiction, and their power was limited.
This might be demonstrated by the fact that a resident from Emar (the diviner Zu-
Baºla) could hold feudal land (sahhan and luzzi) directly from the Hittite king and not
the local king. 36 Furthermore, the local city government and the Temple of dnin.urta
continued to play an important role until the city’s end, around 1180 b.c. 37 Thus,
both the local city administration (of the past) and the newly established local dynasty
coexisted side by side, and the existing legal system concerning internal affairs (in
contrast to external political affairs, which the texts from Emar do not touch upon)
was not completely altered after the take-over by the Hittites. However, it might be
argued that the power of the city’s administration must have been diminished consid-
erably by the local royal family that gained importance thanks to the Hittite overlords
and that took over some of the tasks of the city elders, as shown above. Nonetheless,
the role of the local king (lugal) cannot be compared with the Mesopotamian king
but should be seen more as an official such as the rabianum (‘mayor, headman’), who
was ultimately dependent on the ruler of Carchemis. 38 Of course this picture could
be altered by a discovery of palace archives comparable to the archives at Ugarit. No
such archives have been found yet, nor can a palace be clearly detected. Interestingly,
the royal family of Iahßi-Dagan is attested in various transactions of property, which
may demonstrate a transition from the communal property system to royal power. 39
But, unfortunately, attestations for members of the royal family as buyers are few.

Summary
One can tentatively conclude that the Hittites employed two “institutions” to serve
as mediators between the traditional Syrian system and the new Hittite overlord rep-
resented mainly by the administration of Carchemis. While we observe more or less
direct Hittite influence in the “Syro-Hittite” documents, including the texts of the di-
viner’s family, communication with the collective city-community and consequently

35. Fleming 1992a: 70–71: it was “not yet able to overshadow other traditional authorities,” and
“the institutions of an earlier age . . . remain visible below the covering kingship.”
36. See Cooper et al. 2005: 50 on CM 13: 32. Salvini and Trémouille (2003: 228) identify the king
in Msk. 73.1097 with Mursili II and propose the years 1312–1311 for the Hittite letters Msk. 73.1097
and CM 13: 32. Here, the important and privileged role of the diviner is revealed once again.
37. Furthermore, Heltzer (2001: 236) concludes that there was limited royal power in Emar but
points to features that survived from the earlier tribal society. He refers to a “more archaic society”
at Emar compared with the society at Ugarit. Unfortunately, Heltzer did not differentiate between
the two chronological phases adopted in this study. Note also CM 13: 2, in which a legal decision is
made before the overseer of the land (lú.ugula kalam.ma) and the (city) elders (lú.meß.ßu.gi).
38. Sallaberger (personal communication) kindly pointed out that the lugal-lugal at Ebla des-
ignated some kind of an official rather than a king (perhaps a governor?). For a broader meaning of
lugal at Emar, see Seminara 1996.
39. CM 13, p. xv. In contrast, the Irªib-dißkur-family is never directly involved in these transac-
tions but appears only in the list of witnesses.
32 Regine Pruzsinszky

control over Emar was probably exercised through the installation of a local royal
family, the lowest level of authority from the Hittite point of view. Both city elders and
a local Emarite king are attested in tablets of the “Syrian” scribal tradition, thus dem-
onstrating the Syrian affiliation. However, before the Hittite take-over, the figure of
the king is only rarely documented (FK 6 and two attestations in the Ekalte texts). The
postulated kings, Irªib-dißkur and his sons, are never referred to as “kings,” and the
arana-payments to the Hurrian king were “managed” by the city elders and dnin.urta.
Also, rituals of the old Syrian tradition add to the reconstruction of a strong urban au-
thority. The “eponym-like” dating system—most likely according to people connected
with the city government—was abolished as soon as the local royal family of Iahßi-
Dagan, which had loyal relations with the Hittite king and the rulers of Carchemis,
came to power. 40 This drastic change can be seen as evidence of the changes in local
politics due to the Hittites, who clearly restrained the role of the city elders.
Although it is clear that the local inhabitants of Emar kept their rights, as evi-
denced in the legal documents in the archive of the M1 building, some changes in
their rights might be observed, for example, in “innovative” clauses in contracts that
can be assigned to external influence (such as the so-called téß.bi-clause, the redemp-
tion clause only attested in Syro-Hittite tablets). Other clauses, such as the satisfac-
tion- and penalty-clauses, are missing in Syro-Hittite texts. Yet some of the legal
clauses, and therefore presumably some issues of legal practice, that can be traced to
the beginning of the second millennium were maintained and adapted in the Syro-
Hittite tablets. The local dynasty clearly continued to employ its own scribes, who
worked within the Syrian tradition. In contrast, the contemporary legal texts from
Ugarit, a Syrian kingdom in the west, when referring to internal issues, reveal less Hit-
tite influence than the texts from Emar (Faist 2002: 130–34 and 140). Only the texts
dealing with rights between two different states, that is, external political issues, show
Ugarit’s political dependency on Hatti or Carchemis.
Hittite dignitaries appear to have respected the indigenous, traditional institutions
of Emar and to have acknowledged those local authorities equally, as was shown by
Yamada (1993: 453–60) with regard to E 194 and other evidence. 41 Even if “Hittite
politics in Syria enabled Emar to have its own political identity” (Vita 2002: 14), Emar
never occupied a politically relevant position, seeming always to have been depen-
dent on external powers. It appears that Hatti installed at Emar a (local) kingdom, as
it did to a greater extent at Halab and Carchemis. However, in contrast to Carche-
mis, at Emar there was only a “limited kingship” (comparable to the contempoary
one of Satappu); the internal administrative power remained in the hands of the tra-
ditional institutions, namely, the elders of the city and the Temple of dnin.urta (the
dnin.urta-seal continues to be used to the end of the Emar archives, as shown by Ya-

mada 1994a: 60–61; and Beyer 2001: 206–7 and 432–35). It appears that the viceroys

40. An exception may be RE 16, in which Iahßi-Dagan and his son dißkur-kabar I act as witnesses;
however, the strong urban authority of the elders and dnin.urta is expressed here by the hi†u-clause
(see n. 23, above).
41. In this respect, the ‘oath of Emar’ (mamitu sa URUEmar), according to which certain decisions
were regulated, is to be noted as one of the traditions respected by the rulers of Carchemis.
 Emar and the Transition from Hurrian to Hittite Power 33

and officials of Carchemis did not interfere to any large extent but, rather, shared
power with the local institutions and fully acknowledged them as local authorities. In-
terestingly, they also seldom appear together in the texts. In connection with E 194 42
and HCCT-E 8, Yamada (1993: 456–59) pointed out that there were tablets sealed
with both the “dynastic seal” (usually used in royal documents) and dnin.urta’s seal
(used from the earliest phase on and specifically of tablets dealing with issues of the
city administration), which were presented to the king of Carchemis. Furthermore in
the testament E 181, the official of Carchemis (dumu lugal) Tuwatta-ziti, Puhi-senni,
‘overseer of the land’ (ugula kalam.ma), and the city elders (lú.meß si-bu-ti uru.ki)
are mentioned together at the end of the document among the witnesses and sealers.
Because the local king, most likely installed by the Hittites, and the city elders are at-
tested together more frequently, the administration of Carchemis clearly exercised
control and had contacts by means of the local kings of Emar. Despite being domi-
nated by larger empires, Emar was always able to preserve its individual cultural tra-
ditions and identity, which helped to stabilize and strengthen its commercial and
political position. This was certainly the case during the hegemony of the Hittites,
who managed to link the local institutions with their own institutions, thus avoiding
a radical break. A complete reorganization of local institutions might have been too
costly and risky and not necessarily effective for the Hittite interests. However, one
needs to consider that, due to the new authorities installed by the Hittites and the in-
fluence upon the religious and scholarly center of Emar represented by Zu-Baºla, the
position of the local institutions certainly was weakened to a great extent. Gallagher
(2003: 180) is right in describing the diviner of Emar as a powerful priest and “inter-
national chaplain,” diplomat, schoolmaster, and author, “molder of young minds,”
controller of the intellectuals, who was totally aware of his importance and wide
range of power.
For the time before Hittite domination, our evidence for the nature of governance
at Emar is very weak; it seems that tribute payments to the Hurrian king were part of
the system, which sometimes forced the city government to sell communal land. The
exceptional text FK 6 may reveal an active Mittanian rule in its report on four (Emar-
ite) princesses who were taken as hostages by the king of the Hurrian land. Aside
from that text, no activity by the Hurrian king or any other Mittanian political agents
is attested in the city of Emar. Further evidence on the local lugal is missing as well.
Therefore the local city government, represented by a civil and religious body, seems
to have been fairly autonomous and continued with its administrative tasks to the end
of Emar.

42. The “Carchemis document” was restored by Yamada (1993: 456–59), according to whom the
mentioned “king,” who sealed one of the three documents (with his dynastic seal), should be identi-
fied with the king of Emar, whose son is involved in this settlement over fields in the presence of the
king of Carchemis.
34 Regine Pruzsinszky

Appendixes

Appendix 1. General Time Table

Mesopotamia Emar (Syria)
1800 Old Baylonian Old Syrian Period (Mari, Halab)
Period
1700
1600
1500 Mittanian Period

1400 Middle Syrian tradition: ca.1400 or

Babylonian later, but before 1325–
1300 Syro-Hittite tradition:
Period ca. 1189 b.c.
ca. 1325–ca.1189 b.c.
1200
1100

Appendix 2. The Royal Dynasties of Emar according to Skaist (1998a)

Irªib-dißkur

Igmil-Dagan Liªmi-sarra

Isbi-Dagan

Zu-Baºla

Iahßi-Dagan

dißkur-kabar I

Zu-Astarti Abbanu Pilsu-Dagan

Elli
dIßkur-kabar II

Changes as to the succession of rulers of the 2nd Emarite dynasty have been recently proposed
by Skaist (2005, with table on p. 572). According to Di Filippo (2004: 198), these two “dynasties” are
overlapping.
 Emar and the Transition from Hurrian to Hittite Power 35

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 Chapter 2
Frescoes, Exotica, and the Reinvention
of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms during
the Second Millennium b.c.e.

Marian H. Feldman

The Middle Bronze Age (ca. 2000–1600 b.c.e.) in the northern Levant represents
a period of fundamental changes and transitions both politically and culturally. After
the collapse of a major period of urbanization in the mid- and late-third millennium,
newly emerging regional powers embarked on an intense and ongoing process of re-
definition and reinvention that was to lay the foundation for the rest of the Bronze
Age. As Akkermans and Schwartz (2003: 288) have recently remarked, “In the suc-
ceeding Middle Bronze period, we encounter one of the most compelling issues of
Bronze Age archaeology: how did Syrian complex societies reinvent themselves after
‘collapse’?” It is also during the Middle Bronze Age that frescoes of distinctly Aegean
style and technique appear in palatial buildings of new regional powers. This essay ex-
plores the conjunction and possible codependency of Aegean-type frescoes and a re-
invention of power and authority in the northern Levant during the Middle Bronze
Age. Given the exotic nature of the frescoes within their Levantine context of use and
reception, I examine the implications for their conscious and active placement in pa-
latial structures and argue for their centrality in constructing and presenting a new
ruling elite.
Wall and floor paintings in the Near East, including the Levant, have a long history
stretching back to at least the Neolithic period, so the mere presence of painted ar-
chitectural surfaces would hardly qualify as novel or exotic (Nunn 1988). However,
during the second millennium several Levantine sites provide evidence of a radically
different technique and style of architectural surface decoration (both wall and floor)
that contrast strikingly with previous and contemporary paintings from the region
and elsewhere in the Near East. Thus far, three main sites have yielded Aegean-type
frescoes in the Levant. From north to south they are: Alalakh (Tell Atchana) in the
Amuq plain in present-day Turkey, Qatna (Tell Mishrife) along the middle Orontes
River in Syria, and Tel Kabri along the coast of the northern Akko valley in Israel. 1

1. In addition to these three Levantine sites, wall paintings have been excavated at Tell Sakka near
Damascus, which the excavator claims were executed in a technique similar to the Qatna paintings
(Taraqji 1999), and, most recently, at Tell el Burak near Sidon in Lebanon (Sader 2006). The imagery
at Sakka, however, is strongly Egyptianizing, as is that at Burak. Until further publication of these two

39
40 Marian H. Feldman

Figure 1. Plan of “Yarim-Lim” palace at Alalakh, Level VII (after Frankfort 1996: fig. 283;
reprinted, courtesy of Yale University Press).

The Levantine examples join the well-known paintings from Tell ed-Daba (ancient
Avaris) in the eastern Delta of Egypt 2 and less publicized examples from Miletus
along the southwestern coast of Turkey (Niemeier 1998: 34) and Trianda on Rhodes
(Immerwahr 1990: 190; Mee 1982: 4–7; Monaco 1941: 68–72, 88–89, 117, 128) that
form a geographic bridge with the profusion of frescoes found throughout Crete and
the Cyclades, including Akrotiri on Thera, Phylakopi on Melos, and Ayia Irini on Kea
(Immerwahr 1990).
At Alalakh, Woolley (1955: 228–34) excavated fragments from two rooms of the
Level VII palace (so-called Palace of Yarim-Lim; see fig. 1). 3 Though Alalakh chronol-
ogy is notoriously contentious, Level VII can be assigned generally to the late eigh-
teenth and/or seventeenth century b.c.e. (MB II in the north Levantine/Syrian
chronology; Heinz 1992). Imitation marbling covered stone dados in Room 5, and
fragments of a griffin’s wing, a bull’s horn, and swaying grasses appear to have fallen
from an upper room, landing in the ground floor storerooms 11–13 (figs. 2–5). At Tel
Kabri, another late Middle Bronze Age palatial structure has produced an in situ
painted floor in a large room (no. 611) measuring 10 x 10 meters (Niemeier and Nie-
meier 2002; see figs. 6–9 here). Fragments attributed to a miniature frieze were found

sites, it is not clear exactly how these paintings relate to the other Levantine material. Architectur-
ally, Sakka presents an illuminating counterpoint to the three main sites discussed in this essay (see
below). The excavator of Burak has compared its palace to the Middle Bronze Age palace at Tell Biªa,
though comparisons with Alalakh and Tel Kabri might also be relevant.
2. The bibliography on the Tell ed-Daba paintings is large and appears in diverse publications;
final reports have not yet appeared. For some overviews and recent discussions, see Bietak 1996; Bie-
tak and Marinatos 1995; Bietak, Marinatos, and Palyvou 2000; and Morgan 1995, 2004.
3. Woolley (1955: 231) also found paintings in the Late Bronze Age Level IV.
 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 41

Figure 2. Reconstruction of fresco fragments of griffin from the Alalakh palace, Level VII, by
B. Niemeier (Niemeier and Niemeier 2000: fig. 22; reprinted, courtesy of W.-D. Niemeier).

in a secondary context under a later resurfacing of one of the doorways off of this
room, which have been reconstructed to decorate the upper parts of Room 611’s
walls (figs. 10, 11). 4 The Qatna frescoes also derive from a palace that was probably
begun in the Middle Bronze (Novák 2004; see fig. 12 here). 5 The first few fragments—
all nonfigural designs—were discovered in the 1920s and dated to the Mitannian pe-
riod (Du Mesnil du Buisson 1935: 143). In renewed excavations, the German compo-
nent of a Syrian-Italian-German team has uncovered further examples from a mixed,
late MB and early LB context (Novák and Pfälzner 2002: 226–31; Novák and Pfälzner
2003: 138; see figs. 13–16 here). The scholar in charge of the restoration and study of
the frescoes has recently proposed that they date most likely to an LB I phase of the
palace, though she considers them part of a longer tradition in Syria in which Aegean-

4. Recently, Lyvia Morgan (2006) has suggested that the miniature frieze might have decorated
the walls of the adjoining room, 740.
5. Debate continues over the dating of the Qatna royal palace, which continued in use into the
Late Bronze Age (Morandi Bonacossi 2006).
42 Marian H. Feldman

Figure 3. Fresco fragment of bull’s horn from the Alalakh palace, Level VII, Ashmolean
Museum, Oxford, 1957.36–37 (reprinted, courtesy of the Ashmolean Museum).

style paintings of this sort occur in the context of Syrian material culture. 6 More than
3,000 small pieces were found in collapsed fill from Room N and Room U in a cistern
in the basement room of Room U. Isolated fragments from two other locations in the
palace (Rooms P and AG) suggest even more extensive use of wall paintings in this
building. While the date of the wall paintings remains uncertain, the probable earliest
building phase of the palace during the later Middle Bronze Age, along with the com-
parisons from palaces at Alalakh and Kabri suggest a very late Middle Bronze or very
early Late Bronze Age horizon. 7
These paintings can be classified together as a coherent group according to their
shared technique of execution, motival repertoire, and style of depicting this reper-
toire. Foremost in setting this group apart from other architectural painting in the re-
gion is the technique. All were executed to some degree in the true fresco method,
which entails applying pigments without the aid of binding media onto damp lime
plaster (Brysbaert 2002; Immerwahr 1990: 14–15; Nunn 1988: 5–17). The use of a
damp lime-based surface is essential for the pigments to adhere to the wall or floor
(through the physical penetration of the pigment into the plaster). Secondary tech-

6. Von Rüden 2006: personal communication. Von Rüden also stresses that by the early LB I pe-
riod this use of Aegean-style wall paintings appears to be more integrated into the indigenous mate-
rial culture of Syria.
7. An early Late Bronze Age date for the Qatna frescoes would align them with the newly pro-
posed lower dates for the Tell ed-Daba frescoes that Bietak assigns to the early Eighteenth Dynasty.
In the context of a possible later date for the Qatna frescoes, it might be noted that the purported
break between the Middle and Late Bronze Ages is not very distinct, particularly in terms of material
culture, despite what appear to have been rather significant historical shifts that led to the general
demise of many Amorite dynasties in Syria and Mesopotamia—a point with relevance for my argu-
ment presented below (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 326).
 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 43

Figure 4. Reconstruction of fresco fragment of bull’s horn from the Alalakh palace, Level VII,
by B. Niemeier (Niemeier and Niemeier 2000: fig. 15; reprinted, courtesy of W.-D. Niemeier).

niques that are associated with the true fresco method of application and apparent in
the dried plaster today include the use of string guidelines that were snapped against
the damp plaster, polishing or rubbing of the plaster surface to generate a better ad-
hesive for the pigments, incised contour lines, and relief elements that become an in-
tegral part of the finished composition (Brysbaert 2002: 96–99; Shaw 2003: 186).
The motifs and styles of the Levantine frescoes are challenging to assess because
of their fragmentary nature and the preliminary state of their reconstruction and
publication. Yet in general, the motival and stylistic analysis complements the techni-
cal evidence that situates these frescoes more closely within an Aegean than a Levan-
tine artistic tradition. Such correspondences reveal themselves in motifs such as
sprays of crocuses and a “V-type” iris painted on the Tel Kabri floor, representations
of isodomic masonry and round timber beams seen in the Kabri miniature frag-
ments, griffins whose wings display the so-called notched-plume pattern at both Kabri
and Alalakh, swaying reed-like plants also found at both Kabri and Alalakh, and run-
ning spirals, pinnate foliage, and blue palmate leaves from Qatna. It should be
stressed that these parallels may not be exact (for example, the Qatna paintings in-
clude unique depictions of crabs and turtles) and that they may not shed light on the
identity of the producers of these frescoes (Feldman forthcoming). Rather, the close
association of the Levantine frescoes with both a specific Aegean tradition of painted
surface decoration and a larger Aegean artistic tradition in toto indicates a strongly
rhetorical expression of relatedness between the two. That is, the Levantine frescoes
seem to call attention purposely to their “Aegeanness.”
I have argued elsewhere that, in opposition to their connections with the Aegean,
the features found in the paintings from Alalakh, Qatna, and Tel Kabri would have
44 Marian H. Feldman

Figure 5. Fresco fragments of reeds

from the Alalakh palace, Level VII,
Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, 1957.35
(reprinted, courtesy of the Ashmolean
Museum).

stood out markedly against the broader material cultural landscape of the northern
Levant, effectively signaling their “exotic” quality within a northern Levantine milieu
(Feldman forthcoming). 8 In particular, the technique of painting without a binding
medium on a damp lime plaster is not attested elsewhere in the Near East or Egypt,
despite the large number of preserved wall paintings from these areas, including
paintings from the roughly contemporary palace at Mari on the Middle Euphrates or
the Middle Kingdom tombs at Beni Hasan in Middle Egypt. However, frescoes of this
sort seem perfectly at home in the Aegean context, where they correspond to and
find parallels with the broader spectrum of material culture, such as ceramics, seals,
and even the rare, surviving sculptural monument (Immerwahr 1990). 9
Distinctions in the architectural contexts of the Levantine and Aegean frescoes
indicate an aspect of functional difference between the two corpora, bolstering the

8. See similar arguments put forth by Barbara and Wolf-Dietrich Niemeier (1998: 88–93; 2002:
279–82), who, however, are focused primarily on the national/ethnic identity of the artists. The Nie-
meiers (1998: 95; 2002: 283) embrace the idea that the frescoes belong to a Mediterranean koiné, an
idea that I reject because the frescoes present a stark contrast to other Levantine elite material cul-
ture and, as the Niemeiers argue, are best situated within an Aegean tradition. A koiné by definition
consists of a shared repertoire such as the repertoire seen in the hybridity of the Late Bronze Age
“international style” (see Feldman 2006).
9. Tell ed-Daba seems to fall more into the pattern seen with the Levantine examples; that is, they
contrast with surrounding/existing Egyptian material culture in ways that make them stand apart.
The Rhodian and Miletian examples, on the other hand, though their contexts are not as well stud-
ied, appear to belong to a social environment that embraced Aegean traditions to such a degree that
many scholars identify these sites as Minoan colonies (Niemeier 1998).
 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 45

Figure 6. Restored plan of the palace at Tel Kabri, after Kempinski (from Niemeier and
Niemeier 2000: fig. 1; reprinted, courtesy of W.-D. Niemeier).

case for understanding the Levantine examples as exotica, and specifically, exotica
deployed in conjunction with the ruling elite. Painted frescoes decorate a variety of
building types within the Aegean sphere, including palatial, residential, and possibly
cultic structures (Blakolmer 2000). For example, at Knossos, most likely the pre-
dominant center on Crete, not only is the massive palatial compound filled with
frescoes, so too are several of the subsidiary “villas” that surround it, such as the
aptly named House of the Frescoes or the Caravanserai (Immerwahr 1990: 42–46,
46 Marian H. Feldman

Figure 7. Drawing of painted floor in Room 611, Tel Kabri palace, by B. Neimeier (Niemeier
and Niemeier 2000: fig. 2; reprinted, courtesy of W.-D. Niemeier).

78–79). Chronological precedence is extremely difficult to demonstrate given the

multiple problems of Middle Bronze Age chronology in both the Levant and the Ae-
gean. Yet, the wealth of frescoes in the Aegean, their relatively widespread architec-
tural distribution, and their intimate formal and stylistic connection with other
Aegean artistic production such as pottery all point to these frescoes’ being thor-
oughly at home in the Aegean.
In contrast, in the Middle Bronze Age Levant, frescoes are relatively rare and ap-
pear to be restricted to palatial structures (Winter 2000: 747–49). Because excava-
tions in the Levant have focused heavily on palatial structures at the expense of other
types of buildings, any architectural comparison between the Aegean and the Levant
must proceed with a certain amount of caution. Nonetheless, according to what evi-
dence we do have, a clear pattern emerges. In comparison with the Aegean, the fres-
coes from the Levant occur only in a single architectural structure at any given site,
which can be identified as that site’s most important building, typically understood as
 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 47

Figure 8. Water-color reconstruction of painted floor in Room 611, Tel Kabri palace, by
B. Niemeier (from Niemeier and Niemeier 2000: fig. 8; reprinted courtesy of W.-D. Niemeier).

a palace. 10 This suggests that, not only were they not part of the indigenous tradition,
but that their creation and use were tied with the ruling elites, perhaps to be read as
one part of an ongoing process of “reinvention” characterizing the Middle (and pos-
sibly also the beginning of the Late) Bronze Age (Schwartz 2006).
While on the one hand, the architectural contexts between the Aegean and the Le-
vant appear divergent, on the other hand, a comparison of the architectural contexts
among the Levantine buildings produces evidence that points to a certain amount of
shared social and political activities within the Levant itself. Although the frescoes
themselves stand out in contrast to their surrounding Levantine material culture as-
semblage, an architectural comparison among the buildings in which they are found
presents intriguing similarities of form that suggest that the buildings belong to a
broader indigenous tradition and participated in a common sociopolitical environ-
ment. The buildings in which the frescoes appear at all three sites (Alalakh, Kabri,
and Qatna) share more or less similarly conceived architectural plans: a roughly rec-
tilinear design with irregular arrangements of rooms linked by courts and an em-
phatic use of columns.
The Yarim-Lim palace at Alalakh is the best preserved of the three (fig. 1). 11 The
building rises along three terraces, from north to south, with the principal ceremonial
rooms, indicated by their size and basalt orthostat revetment, occupying the lowest

10. Woolley (1955: 231) found fragments of wall paintings in houses from Level IV (Late Bronze
Age) but none from Level VII outside the palace.
11. Woolley 1955: 91–110. Nonetheless, the palace was not excavated in its entirety due to over-
lay from later buildings, leaving Woolley to reconstruct parts of the plan, such as the ramp/stairway
in the northeast corner (Room 6).
 48 Marian H. Feldman

Figure 9. Detail of single blossom from painted floor in Room 611, Tel Kabri palace (Niemeier
and Niemeier 2000: fig. 5; reprinted, courtesy of W.-D. Niemeier).

level (numbered by Woolley, Rooms 1–13). Originally, traffic flowed into the large
court (Room 9) that divided the palace into the “public”/ “ceremonial” rooms to the
north and the “private”/ “residential” areas to the south. The only access from the
court northward was through Room 8, which led to a staircase to the upper (not pre-
served) storey and to the main reception suite on the ground floor, what Woolley
called the “Chamber of Audience” (Rooms 5 and 5A). At a later period in the build-
ing’s history (still in the Middle Bronze Age), the palace entrance was shifted from
Court 9, where the doorway was blocked up and faced with basalt orthostats, to the
room immediately to its north (Room 7), which in turn led into Rooms 5 and 5A. The
central reception rooms (5 and 5A) and the large (retiring?) room behind them em-
ployed columns to delineate space. The residential section of the palace lay to the
south on two rising terraces and presented an array of small rooms, courts and corri-
dors, although Woolley (1955: 94) speculated that the main living areas would have
been on the upper storeys that no longer survive. In general, the walls of the palace
follow straight lines, which, however, rarely meet at right angles with one another, cre-
ating a sense of irregularity. Its overall plan follows a main axis that runs roughly
north–south.
The palatial structure at Kabri is quite poorly preserved, with only a few rooms sur-
viving intact and its full plan still uncertain (Oren 2002; fig. 6 here). 12 It has been com-

12. Excavations in the area of the Kabri palace were recommenced in 2005, which has shown
that the building occupied a greater extent than previously thought (Yasur-Landau and Cline 2006).

spread is 12 points long

 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 49

Figure 10. Reconstruction of fresco fragments of griffin from Tel Kabri palace (Niemeier and
Niemeier 2000: fig. 13; reprinted, courtesy of W.-D. Niemeier).

pared to the Yarim-Lim palace, and in fact its plan has been heavily reconstructed on
the basis of this comparison (Kempinski 1997: 329–30; Oren 2002: 69–70). Justifica-
tion for this comparison derives from parallels that exist between the two buildings,
including the arrangement of a central court (Kabri 703; Alalakh 9) leading to a main
ceremonial suite (Kabri 611; Alalakh 5A, 5, and 2) along with a connecting unit (Kabri
690; Alalakh 8) between the ceremonial wing and a staircase. If the Kabri reconstruc-
tion can be accepted in general, it too presents a strikingly linear plan with straight
edges set slightly askew. Kabri also, like Alalakh, boasts the use of wooden columns to
delineate spaces, here seen in Court 703.
This architectural type is seen elsewhere in Levantine palatial buildings—for ex-
ample, at Ebla in the Western Palace in Area Q (Matthiae 1997: 384–87; fig. 17 here).
As at Alalakh and probably at Kabri, the Western Palace sports a mainly rectangular
plan, extending along a north–south axis, with straight walls that often join at irregu-
lar angles. The whole comprises a series of irregularly formed blocks linked by small
courts. If a large court existed, it would have been located in the badly preserved
southern extent of the palace. The entrance to the palace probably pierced the south-
ern façade, now mostly destroyed, and was marked by a columned porch. Columns
also served to delineate the outer and inner spaces of what has been identified as the
main reception room or throne room.
A primary goal of the renewed Qatna excavations has been to reassess and reexca-
vate the palace structure initially uncovered by Du Mesnil du Buisson in the 1920s. 13
Du Mesnil du Buisson (1935: 71–111) interpreted the remains as three separate units:

With the renewed excavations, our understanding of the Kabri palace architecture might change
significantly.
13. For overviews of the ongoing work in the palace, see preliminary excavation reports pub-
lished in the journals Mitteilungen der deutschen Orientgesellschaft and Akkadica, and for the 1999 and
2000 seasons, see al-Maqdissi et al. 2002.
50 Marian H. Feldman

Figure 11. Reconstruction of fresco fragments of architecture from Tel Kabri palace (Niemeier
and Niemeier 2000: fig. 11; reprinted, courtesy of W.-D. Niemeier).

a unit to the east comprising the palace, an area to the west that he considered a
temple to the deity Belet-Ekallim (Nin-Egal) mentioned in inventories found in that
location, and the so-called High Place (Haut-Lieu) to the north of the temple area. A
major result of the new excavations has been to demonstrate that the three units are
part of the same palatial structure and that the construction of the palace most likely
dates back to the late Middle Bronze Age (al-Maqdissi et al. 2002: 63; Novák 2004; fig.
12 here). Thus stitched together, the plan of Qatna’s palace looks somewhat different
from the plans of Alalakh, Kabri, and Ebla. Its principal feature is a large, square
court (Hall C), about 37 meters x 37 meters, set with four columns on basalt bases in
a square in its center. Long, rectangular (broad-room) reception suites lie to the east,
while smaller rooms of varying functions (where the wall painting fragments were
found) reside to the north.
Unlike the previous three Levantine palaces that we have considered, Qatna pre-
sents a more regularized plan based on squares and right angles, reminiscent of Mes-
opotamian palaces such as Mari, although the use of columns distinguishes it from
these (Novák 2004: 305). It does, however, find a parallel (on a smaller scale) at the
recently excavated site of Tell Sakka, near Damascus, where wall paintings have also
been found, perhaps executed in the fresco technique, but employing clearly Egyp-
 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 51

Figure 12. Plan of the palace at Qatna (after Novák 2004: fig. 2; reprinted, courtesy of
Dr. M. Novák).

tianizing motifs and style (Taraqji 1999; fig. 18 here). 14 The Middle Bronze Age pala-
tial structure at Tell Sakka features a rectilinear courtyard (close to square in shape,
measuring 14.5 x 22.5 meters) with a set of four large columns forming a square in
the center and another set of smaller, paired columns marking the southern en-
trance. The wall paintings were excavated from the walls enclosing the columned
courtyard, as well as elsewhere in the building. Adding Tell Sakka to the comparison,
though it is not possible to classify its paintings easily, further emphasizes architec-
tural links binding the Levantine corpus together at the same time as setting it apart
from the larger corpus of Aegean frescoed buildings.

14. With respect to the Egyptianizing nature of the Sakka wall paintings, it may be noted that
Egyptian elements feature as yet another form of foreign, elite material culture deployed in the
Middle Bronze Age Levant. For example, Palace P at Ebla contained a series of strongly Egyptianiz-
ing cutout ivories, and from Hypogeum C under Palace Q, a mace staff bearing the name of a minor
Middle Kingdom ruler was found (Scandone-Matthiae 1997: 417–22); at Qatna, an Egyptian statue
of a sphinx bearing an inscription of Princess Ita, daughter of Amenemhet II (ca. 1900) was found
in Hall C (“Le Sanctuaire”; Du Mesnil du Buisson 1928: 16, pl. 12). While the use of “Egyptiana” pre-
sents a case related to the Aegean-style frescoes, it also entails distinctions, which require more ex-
tensive discussion than is possible in this essay.
52 Marian H. Feldman

Figure 13. Wall painting fragment

with pinnate foliage, Qatna palace
(from Novák and Pfälzner 2002:
fig. 13; reprinted, courtesy of
Dr. P. Pfälzner).

Thus, we can locate these wall paintings within a restricted type of building, namely,
palatial structures. The buildings at Qatna and Tell Sakka look remarkably similar,
with their main court set round with a four-columned portico. Meanwhile, the struc-
tures at Alalakh, Ebla, and Kabri appear comparable, although the Kabri building was
poorly preserved and reconstructed in large part through comparison with Alalakh.
One approach to understanding the sociopolitical significance of the frescoes lies
in the application of architectural theories relating built environments to social ac-
tion. According to such theories, highly culture-specific social behavior is condi-
tioned in part by the built environment as a whole (Kent 1990; Rapoport 1990). That
is, both architecture and its decoration create, constrain, and prompt social action
through their forms and elements, enclosed spaces, patterns of circulation, and em-
bedded cues regarding behavior. In addition, such theories postulate that the paint-
ings themselves might be expected to have had some effect on the social action taking
place within the buildings, which raises the question whether these paintings were
purposely deployed for the very reason of affecting, changing, or molding social be-
havior. If we accept that architectural space helped to structure and condition human
action, we might propose that the similarity of architectural space found in these
buildings indicates a sharing of human behavior at a level much greater than, for ex-
ample, between these buildings and the much more dissimilar architecture of fres-
coed buildings from the Aegean. Likewise, the presence of frescoes in these buildings
strengthens the theory that they operated within a shared cultural realm and, more-
over, that they served similar sociopolitical purposes and were received and deployed
within a shared system of values that was, however, distinct from the values of the Ae-
gean. This architectural context is revealing of the role the frescoes played in the Le-
vant; that is, in the Middle Bronze period, they appear in palatial types of buildings,
not residential, signaling their intimate association with the group in power and with
the establishment of authority in general.
 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 53

Figure 14. Wall painting fragment with blue

palmate leaves, Qatna palace (Novák and
Pfälzner 2002: fig. 15; reprinted, courtesy of
Dr. P. Pfälzner).

Palaces, as the architectural expression of power par excellence in the Near East
and as symbols of a kind of conspicuous consumption, provide one of the richest
showcases for asserting, establishing, or negotiating authority (Russell 1998; Winter
1993). Winter (1993: 27) has noted that both the Sumerian and Akkadian words for
palace rely on the adjective “great,” which implies not just large size but also elevated
status. The palace can be understood both as a concrete structure in which numerous
activities (administrative, industrial, ceremonial) took place and as abstractly as the
institution of rulership. In this sense, form, space, decorative program, and function
are all interdependent. Later Assyrian inscriptions describe palaces as awe inspiring
and built for the astonishment and wonder of the people, giving them a highly
charged rhetorical aspect (Winter 1993: 37–38). The palace would thus be the ideal,
perhaps even imperative locus for any “reinvention” processes undertaken by the
Middle Bronze Age Levantine rulers.
After the burst of urbanism that characterized the end of the third millennium in
the Levant, the region witnessed widespread collapse of city settlements, an event that
remains shrouded in obscurity (Cooper 2006; Nichols and Weber 2006). With the re-
vival of urbanism in the second millennium comes the appearance of dynasties bear-
ing new ethnolinguistic names, such as Amorite, suggestive of fundamental changes
among the ruling elite. These power shifts seem to correlate with changes in material
culture that distinguish the Middle Bronze from the preceding Early Bronze Age.
The chronology of the period in question is fraught with many complications, not
least of which is a lack of agreement on the terminology to be used to describe the
messy chronological divisions. In general, scholars have concentrated primarily on ei-
ther the southern or northern Levant, and two distinct scholarly traditions have de-
veloped. The northern Levant, including parts of Cilicia, the Amuq plain, western
Syria, and Lebanon, presents less dissention, with the Middle Bronze Age more or
less bisected into MB I, from around 2000 to 1800, and MB II, from around 1800 to
54 Marian H. Feldman

Figure 15. Wall painting

fragment with spiral frieze,
Qatna palace (Novák and
Pfälzner 2002: fig. 14;
reprinted, courtesy of
Dr. P. Pfälzner).

1600 (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 291–92). 15 The southern Levant, however, re-
mains encumbered by several competing dating systems that use variations on the
same terminology (for example: EB IV, Intermediate Bronze Age, or MB I; MB I or
MB IIA; MB II or MB IIB; and MB III or MB IIC) to designate different assemblages
ranging in date from 2300 to 1500 b.c.e. (Dever 2003: 84–85; Ilan 1995: 297; Kem-
pinski 1992; Mazar 1990: 152, 175). While Kabri can be comfortably understood as
occupying the southernmost part of the northern Levantine cultural sphere, its geo-
graphic position in present-day Israel has meant that southern Levantine chronolo-
gies have been applied to its archaeology. It is therefore necessary to tread carefully
when comparing chronological aspects of the three Levantine sites.
Regardless of terminology, however, the final centuries of the third millennium
and the first centuries of the second millennium are marked by a seemingly cataclys-
mic collapse of urbanism followed by decentralization and relatively small settle-
ments that display varying degrees of discontinuity in their material culture. By
sometime around 1800 or 1700, a vibrant new urbanism appears. 16 This period also
witnessed an expansion of regional powers, including the kingdoms of Yamhad in the
north centered at Aleppo, Qatna along the middle Orontes River, and Hazor to the
south in the Upper Galilee area. Textual evidence, almost entirely lacking for the ear-
lier part of the Middle Bronze Age, becomes relatively more abundant with the siz-
able archive from Alalakh VII and assorted finds from Ebla, Qatna, and Hazor. The
documentation found at Levantine sites is, moreover, amply supplemented by textual

15. The absolute chronology of the Middle Bronze remains very much in debate (for an overview
of some of these debates, see Ben-Tor 2004).
16. Recent scholars highlight the fact that both the collapse and subsequent regeneration during
this time were not homogeneous across space or time but, rather, witnessed a variety of degrees of
collapse as well as a diversity of responses leading to revival (see, for example, Cooper 2006; Nichols
and Weber 2006).
 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 55

Figure 16. Wall painting fragment with

landscape, Qatna palace (Novák and
Pfälzner 2002: fig. 16; reprinted, courtesy
of Dr. P. Pfälzner).

references to the area from other locales, most notably Mari on the Middle Euphra-
tes. Although the exact date of the Levantine frescoes remains elusive, it seems likely
that they appeared at the end of the Middle Bronze Age (what might be considered
its apogee), perhaps persisting into the early Late Bronze Age, and then fairly quickly
disappearing.
The Middle Bronze Age period of the main city of Yamhad, Aleppo, has been little
explored archaeologically, given the enormous overlay of later occupations; however,
the kingdom itself is relatively well attested in texts from elsewhere (Akkermans and
Schwartz 2003: 297; Klengel 1992: 44–64). Archaeologically, Yamhad is best repre-
sented by Alalakh to the northwest and Ebla to its south, both cities that eventually
came under the political authority of the Yamhad rulers. Alalakh was founded in the
Middle Bronze I period (levels XIV–XII), but little is actually known of the city during
this early time. Level VII has produced the best evidence in the form of a large ar-
chive and substantial architectural remains, although its absolute date remains con-
tested; it should be somewhere in the late eighteenth and/or seventeenth centuries.
The archive includes the reigns of Yarim-Lim (probably a son of Hammurapi I of
Yamhad), his son Ammitaqum, and Hammurapi. It is also the level from which the
fresco fragments derive, found in the so-called palace of Yarim-Lim. Ebla appears to
have flourished even during the first centuries of the second millennium (MB I/
Mardikh IIIA), boasting a large earthen rampart and massive stone gateway. The city
continued to prosper while under the authority of Aleppo, as indicated by the mul-
tiple palaces and their associated finds from the later Middle Bronze (MB II) period.
Qatna, controlling the area immediately to the south of the kingdom of Yamhad,
took advantage of its position in the middle Orontes region. Though the recent exca-
vations at the site have discovered a major royal archive (so-called archive of Idanda),
it dates to the Late Bronze Age periods of the palace (Richter 2003). Only a few
56 Marian H. Feldman

Figure 17. Plan of Western Palace (Q) at Ebla (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003:
fig. 9.6; reprinted, courtesy of Paolo Matthiae).

Middle Bronze Age written documents have been discovered at the site (several Old
Babylonian school tablets and a couple administrative texts; Richter 2003: 182–83);
however, textual information concerning the kingdom also derives from the Mari
and Alalakh archives (Klengel 1992: 65–70; 2000). From these sources, it is evident
that Qatna was a formidable power, rivaling Yamhad (Klengel 2000). The Middle
Bronze Age city covered about 100 hectares and included fortifications. The palace,
 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 57

Figure 18. Plan of palace at Tell

Sakka (Taraqji 1999: fig. 7;
reprinted, courtesy of Dr. A. F.
Taraqji and the Direction Générale
des Antiquités et des Musées,
Ministry of Culture, Syrian Arab
Republic).

founded during this period, continued in use down to the Late Bronze Age, some-
time in the fourteenth or thirteenth centuries. Recent excavations have discovered a
sealed royal tomb beneath the palace, primarily dating to the Late Bronze Age, but
with evidence of Middle Bronze Age material as well (al-Maqdissi et al. 2003).
Kabri, in the far north of present-day Israel (commonly referred to in the scholarly
literature as Canaan during this period), culturally and in all likelihood politically
bridges the northern and southern Levantine regions. It too experienced a period of
collapse and reurbanization during the transition from the third to the second millen-
nium (Kempinski 2002: 450–51). There is very little occupational evidence for the pe-
riod between the Early Bronze Age and the Middle Bronze Age. Then, during the
first centuries of the second millennium, Kabri, like many of the other sites in the Le-
vant, displays dramatic changes in its urban character, notably the construction of a
rampart and city wall and the reappearance of monumental architecture including
the palace in Area D. During the later Middle Bronze period (MB IIB, according to
the excavators), Kabri probably served as the commercial and administrative center
of the northern part of the Akko Valley with strong ties to the island of Cyprus, a tra-
ditional gateway to southwestern Anatolia and the Aegean, evidenced in the numer-
ous Cypriot finds at the site. Like Alalakh, Kabri itself was probably not the capital
city of the regional power, which most likely was based at Hazor (Ilan 1995: 306–8;
58 Marian H. Feldman

Kempinski 1997: 327). 17 Rather, Kabri appears to have served as a primary link be-
tween the coastal routes and Hazor inland.
Among other factors considered in relation to the reemergence and realignment
of urban kingdoms in the Middle Bronze Age is the possible impact of new “ethnic”
groups, in particular the Amorites (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 288–91). The
Amorites, typically identified by the presence in written documents of names in the
Semitic Amorite language, remain highly enigmatic with respect to their origins and
rise to prominence during the first centuries of the second millennium (Schwartz
1995: 254–55; Whiting 1995). 18 The designation Amorite (m a r t u in Sumerian,
Amurru in Akkadian) first appears in texts from the mid- and late- third millennium at
Ebla and southern Mesopotamia and seems to refer to nomadic pastoralists occupy-
ing the area around the Jebel Bishri and the Middle Euphrates such as Emar and Tut-
tul (Streck 2000: 26–29). After a period at the end of the third millennium with no
textual documentation and little archaeological evidence, Amorite dynasties appear
in control of major kingdoms in western Syria (Yamhad and Qatna), northern Meso-
potamia (Ekallatum-Shubat Enlil), the Middle Euphrates (Mari), and southern Meso-
potamia (Babylon, Larsa, Sippar, and elsewhere). Amorite names are also attested at
Hazor (Streck 2000: 146). 19
Despite the strong Amorite link between the kingdoms of Yamhad and Qatna,
both of which also boasted palatial structures decorated with Aegean-type frescoes,
we cannot equate simplistically the use of frescoes with the Amorites, because there
is no evidence for these painting techniques’ being employed by Amorite dynasties
elsewhere, in particular at Mari, where wall paintings have survived and are all done
in the tempera technique. Moreover, Qatna shows a strong Hurrian element in its
Late Bronze Age phase, exemplified by the recently excavated royal archive. These
observations have significant implications for our assumptions that expect material
culture production to map neatly onto ethnolinguistic groups. Indeed, the Middle
Bronze Age Levant in general can be characterized as a highly multicultural society,
linguistically evident in the presence of other Semitic speaking groups (for example,
Akkadian) and Hurrians, in addition to Amorites. 20 This multiculturalism is also evi-
dent in syncretisms found in literary and religious texts and in the general heteroge-
neity of the material culture. Yet even within this diversity, the frescoes stand out
forcefully in their “Aegeanness,” increasing their quotient of “exoticism.”

17. Hazor, with its large city plan and textual associations with Mari, can be considered the south-
ernmost part of the Syro-Mesopotamian sphere (Ben-Tor 2004; Horowitz and Wasserman 2004;
Maeir 2000). Current excavations at Hazor are focusing in part on Middle Bronze Age levels. The
work has uncovered a late Middle Bronze Age palace complex in Area A-4 that partly underlies a Late
Bronze Age palace (http://unixware.mscc.huji.ac.il/~hatsor/hazor.html, accessed 29 December 2005).
18. And see the essay by B. Jahn in this volume, pp. 193–209.
19. The attestation of Amorite names and even ruling dynasties does not demonstrate any direct
link, such as invasion, to the processes of collapse and reurbanization, as has been argued in the past
for the situation in the southern Levant (contra Kenyon 1966; Mazar 1992: 169–71), though at the
very least Amorites benefited from a situation of instability and an absence of any single centralized
power (Schwartz 1995: 255; Whiting 1995: 1234–35).
20. For Hurrian names in Middle Bronze Age texts, see Wilhelm 1989: 12–15.
 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 59

Perhaps counterintuitively, the frescoes in the Levant appear quite late in the
Middle Bronze Age and possibly even into the Late Bronze Age, when the new urban-
ism was fully established. However, if one considers that the process of invention and
reinvention of traditions is ongoing (Hobsbawm 1992) and that marshaling the re-
sources and technologies to produce these frescoes required an already powerful and
internationally connected community, their late date makes more sense. In this re-
spect, they seem to signal the consolidation of power and the expression of this
power at its height; that is, they are the end result of the process of reinvention that
began earlier in the second millennium. That this power is not sustained for long and
that these frescoes exist in a relatively short chronological horizon pose another set
of questions relating to the Middle Bronze–Late Bronze Age transition that fall out-
side the scope of this study.
A further point of interest with respect to the appearance of frescoes in the Levant
is their relative newness at this time in the Aegean as well. Indeed, the near contem-
poraneity of frescoes in both the Aegean and the Levant (depending, of course, on
which chronology one chooses to use and how early one dates the Aegean examples)
has suggested to some authors that the “dominant direction of influence” may have
been from east to west rather than the reverse (Sherratt 1994: 238). This is, however,
a difficult argument to make, given the complete integration of frescoes within an Ae-
gean tradition in contrast to their striking “exoticism” within a Levantine framework
(Feldman forthcoming). Nonetheless, the fact that figural frescoes in the Aegean may
not significantly predate the examples from the Levant 21 suggests that, if we consider
an active deployment of technique, motif, and style by the Levantine elites, then what
seems to contribute to the “added value” of the works should be associated with long-
distance and exotic associations, as has been proposed by Knapp (1998: 195) and
others (for example, Niemeier and Niemeier 1998: 96; 2002: 285). This stands in con-
trast to the deployment of symbols of Egyptian power, such as are found in Egyptian-
izing ivories from Ebla and the wall paintings from Tell Sakka, which, although also a
major aspect of elite representational strategies in the late Middle Bronze Age, ap-
pear to provide legitimation by means of their references to an older and well-estab-
lished tradition of rulership—namely, Egypt. 22
In their studies of second-millennium frescoes, both the Niemeiers (1998: 96) and,
more extensively, Knapp (1998) invoke Mary Helms’s anthropological study that links

21. There is evidence of nonfigural precursors to the fresco tradition in the Early Minoan period
at Vasiliki and Myrtos on Crete, where red-painted lime-plastered walls were discovered (Immerwahr
1990: 11). The date of the earliest figural frescoes remains debated due to the poor preservation of
architectural evidence from the first palace period (Middle Minoan, ca. 1900–1700 b.c.e.) and the
difficulties in determining the chronological sequence of the early frescoes (Immerwahr 1990: 39).
This discussion is compounded by the newly proposed higher chronology for Thera that would
place the Akrotiri frescoes (and hence Late Minoan IA frescoes in general) in the mid-to-late seven-
teenth century (Manning 1999).
22. The concept of “age value,” that is, a value derived primarily because something is old, has
been most commonly associated with the early-twentieth-century scholarship of Riegl (1982: 23–24).
However, it is clearly also relevant to the ancient Near East and in particular the second millennium,
evident for example in the use of patronymns and the general emphasis in dynastic lineages that in
the Late Bronze Age manifests itself in the use of dynastic “heirloom” seals.
60 Marian H. Feldman

power with the acquisition of esoteric knowledge from distant areas. According to this
approach, “objects, information, and experiences obtained from afar are imbued with
latent power, and have the capacity to increase the prestige and status of those who
acquire them” (Knapp 1998: 195). Yet neither addresses the specific motivations or
sociopolitical situation of the Levantine rulers who chose to incorporate these fres-
coes in their palaces. 23 The concept of exoticism, when considered with specific re-
gard to the reemergence and reinvention of an urban-based Levantine elite during
the second millennium, can help us better understand the sudden, yet relatively short,
appearance of these frescoes at Alalakh, Qatna, and Kabri. Exoticism, as has been dis-
cussed for nineteenth-century orientalism, rests more on an apprehension of differ-
ence, strangeness, or otherness than on any specific physical attribute (Bohrer 2003:
11). And, similar to proposals made for nineteenth-century European exoticism as a
prime participant in the construction and mechanism of power relations (Bohrer
2003: 16; Said 1979)—in concert with the anthropological theories connecting esoter-
ica, knowledge, and power—we might understand the Levantine frescoes as primary
players in, not just the display of new authority, but even the accruing of power itself
by means of the access and control that these frescoes physically manifest.
Indeed, it is not just the renewal of urban kingdoms that occurs during the Middle
Bronze Age; the period also witnesses a complicated kaleidoscope of both competing
and shared interests among the kingdoms. Thus, while the architectural comparisons
suggest that the Levantine kingdoms engaged in related sociopolitical activities and
perhaps shared ideologies, other evidence such as the textual documentation reminds
us of the extreme competition that existed between the various dynasties, perhaps
most dramatically noted in Hammurapi of Babylon’s conquest of Mari. These fac-
tional divisions might, in fact, account for the distinctions seen in the architectural
configurations between the palaces at Alalakh, Kabri, and Ebla and the palaces at
Qatna and Tell Sakka. Given the historically known antagonism between the king-
doms of Qatna and Yamhad (represented here by its dependencies of Alalakh and
Ebla) and the geographic proximity of Qatna and Tell Sakka, it is tempting to read
these architectural differences as expressive of competition among Levantine elites,
while interpreting their shared use of frescoes as expressive of their common needs
to establish and maintain regional power bases vis-à-vis other groups. 24 Seen in this
light, frescoes, prominently displayed in palatial structures and signaling connections
with distant lands and access to esoteric knowledge, would have contributed to an in-
traregional competitiveness that fostered and helped construct a major reinvention of
Levantine society during the Middle Bronze Age.

23. Knapp (1998: 205) in fact argues for an “Asiatic origin” of the iconography of both the Levan-
tine and Aegean frescoes and thus analyzes “exotic motifs” within the Aegean from the perspective
of Aegean elites who sought to gain “access to the mystical world of Egypt and western Asia, and of
creating a dialogue with it.”
24. How Kabri fits into this picture remains unclear. Its palace plan appears closer to the plans
at Alalakh and Ebla, although its poor preservation leaves these comparisons in some doubt. The
current excavation of an MB II palace at Hazor should also contribute to this question when its floor
plan is published.
 Reinvention of the Northern Levantine Kingdoms 61

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 Chapter 3
Sargon of Akkad:
Rebel and Usurper in Kish

Marlies Heinz

When Sargon of Akkad (ca. 2340–2280 b.c.) seized power in Kish, it was the begin-
ning of a reign that would restructure the entire political landscape of the Near East.
Legend has it that Sargon was the son of a high-ranking priestess who immediately
after his birth placed him in a basket and abandoned him to the Euphrates. 1 A man
named Aqqi discovered the baby, pulled him out of the river, and adopted him. Sar-
gon became a gardener at his father’s estate. It is not known in detail how he ended
up at the royal court in Kish. Traditionally it is believed that he was taken there by the
town goddess, Ishtar, who had seen him in his father’s garden.
Sargon did not belong to the traditional elite of Kish; he did not know anything
about his origins. At court he became the king’s cupbearer. From this position, he re-
belled against the authorities and deprived the legitimate (!) king, Urzababa, of his
power with the approval of, and by the will of, the deities An, Enlil, and Ishtar. Sargon
became Urzababa’s successor and sealed his accession to the throne by taking the title
Sharru-kin (= Sargon), which means ‘the legitimate king’.
At the beginning of his reign, Sargon changed most of the traditional political
structure of Kish. The “old ones” (intimates of the former king?) and the temple
priests were deprived of their power, and the palace took over the economic domains
of the temples. The economic importance of the temples was thus noticeably margin-
alized (Steinkeller 1993: 122). Private individuals were now allowed to buy land, in-
cluding land previously owned by the temples. A number of loyal families became
increasingly powerful (Steinkeller 1993: 553ff.), influencing politics, the economy,
and the military. Sargon paid special attention to the military, and when he claims in
his military reports that he catered to “5,400 men” daily, researchers take this as an
indicator of the special attention that Sargon bestowed upon this special unit. 2
The reforms in personnel structure and the specific development of loyal troops
were followed by changes in the organization of the town, its architectural appear-
ance, and the makeup of its population. Kish, according to Sargon’s inscriptions, was

Author’s note: Translated from the German text by Bettina Fest; language editor: Ymke Muler.
1. See Westenholz 1997 and Lewis 1980.
2. See Gelb and Kienast 1990: 167, Text Sargon C1.

67
68 Marlies Heinz

remodeled; that is, its urban structure was changed. Reminders of the old were mod-
ified if not removed, and the new order was made highly visible. These far-reaching
changes culminated in the settling of new citizens in the town, people who were not
in any way connected to the original population. 3
One of the changes Sargon made “at home” was probably both the biggest in
terms of organization and the most influential when it came to political importance:
Sargon founded Akkad, the new political “capital,” the precise location of which re-
mains unknown to this day. Whether this city completely took over the role of the tra-
ditional residence of Kish is not known, but its great importance was underscored by
Sargon’s title “Sargon, King of Akkad.” Sargon did not identify with Kish but with
Akkad, and it was as king of Akkad that he wanted to be seen and remembered. 4
Sargon heavily intervened in the existing order “at home” in Kish with his takeover
and his political goals. This was also the case in the neighboring countries he at-
tacked: they faced the complete breakdown of their political systems, both locally and
regionally, by the end of Sargon’s military incursions. Sargon’s campaigns into south-
ern Mesopotamia (today southern Iraq)—the region where his most important enemy,
Lugalzagesi of Uruk, lived—left behind chaos and destruction. 5
Uruk, Ur, and Lagash, the big cities of the Sumerian union of cities, were con-
quered, their walls (city-walls?) demolished, and their elites deprived of power. Lu-
galzagesi’s hometown of Umma also fell into Sargon’s hands, and he went on to gain
control over Elam in the south of Iran, and Mari, in what is today Syria. Mari, an
important harbor and trading center on the Euphrates, was spared destruction by
Sargon. Akkadian conquests reached beyond Mari to the northwest and to the Medi-
terranean Sea. The area of the “Upper Sea,” as the Mediterranean was called then,
was, by his own account, bestowed on Sargon by the local god Dagan. This area in-
cluded the region between Mari and Lebanon with its cedar forests, the southwest of
Anatolia, and the coast. In the north, the Akkadians progressed as far as the fertile
regions of Assyria, where they took over the local agricultural resources as well as the
well-developed infrastructure, roads, and communication networks.
From the “Upper Sea” to the “Lower Sea,” from the Mediterranean in the west to
the Persian Gulf in the southeast, Sargon waged war, conquered cities, plundered and
destroyed, robbed local elites of their offices, and replaced them with loyal Akkadian
administrators. The economic resources of these regions henceforth primarily in-
creased Akkadian wealth, and by controlling the conquered territories, the Akkadi-
ans secured a new distribution system. Sargon established his daughter Enheduanna
as EN-priestess in Ur, in what was perhaps the most important strategic step in his po-
litical life, thus securing Akkadian control over the spiritual and religious life of the
conquered south alongside economic and political dominance.

3. See Gelb and Kienast 1990: 161, Text Sargon C1 and 173, Text Sargon C4.
4. See Franke 1995: 94 and n. 47 for a reference to the Sumerian list of kings, in which Sargon is
listed as the founder of Akkad.
5. For the texts of Sargon, see Gelb and Kienast 1990; Westenholz 1997; and Lewis 1980.
 Sargon of Akkad: Rebel and Usurper in Kish 69

The Rebel Seizes Power

As a rebel and usurper, Sargon came to power in a way that could be considered
almost classic. In Kish, as in the south of Mesopotamia, established structures were in
the process of dissolving. The gods prophesied that the legitimate king of Kish and
“lord” of Sargon, Urzababa, would soon lose his power (Cooper and Heimpel 1983;
Afanas’eva 1987). Urzababa, who was then still ruling, recognized Sargon as a threat.
He unsuccessfully tried to keep him from becoming his successor and to rid himself
of the danger to his life and rulership. 6 In the south of the country, Lugalzagesi con-
tinued on a grander scale what the rulers of the Sumerian city-states had begun on
the local level a generation earlier, from at least the time of Eannatum of Lagash. 7
Eannatum had enlarged the economic sphere of his city as far as Iran by means of
warfare and had thus threatened the balance of power among what used to be equally
strong city-states. During Lugalzagesi’s reign, the union of early dynastic cities had al-
ready ceased to exist. The interests of Uruk’s ruler lay in the north and thus poten-
tially threatened the realm of Kish as well. The traditional roles in Kish and the
surrounding region were destabilized. As cupbearer at court, Sargon was familiar
with the politics and personnel there. The problematic situation in the country, the
dissolution of the old order, as well as Lugalzagesi’s activities presented new opportu-
nities that could not have escaped him. From his privileged position, Sargon took ad-
vantage of the situation in order to initiate a takeover in Kish.
Like all rebels, Sargon theoretically had several ways in which he could establish
his new position. If he broke all the rules and traditions of the former social commu-
nity in all domains, a change in the system would be possible as a result of a change
in leadership at the top. If he only broke the traditions in select areas of the system,
this would lead to changes in broader circles of society and not just the elite and the
government apparatus. The system as such and the social, cultural, and economic
structure, however, would remain unharmed. Rebellions, according to one common
definition, are to a greater or lesser extent the result of hierarchical conflicts in which
a group of attackers sees a possible alternative to the ruling system and tries to put
this into place by rebelling. 8 Hierarchical conflicts, according to this model, are sel-
dom associated with further consequences to the social system, and usurpation is
more or less seen as just a change in leadership at the top of the system, a change that
does not necessarily affect the whole community and its concerns. According to
Moore (1963: 85), a rebellion is a major change in politics that normally does not re-
sult in far-reaching structural changes in the governmental, power, and ruling system.
This third type of rebellion would have been a possibility in Kish as well.
Every rebellion causes critical instability in the society concerned. No matter
which strategy the rebels choose, they have to succeed in gaining control over the pa-
rameters that form the identity and self-definition of the community. In ancient Near

6. Afanas’eva 1987: 244, with a reference to lines 37–48: Urzababa tries to put Sargon into a fur-
nace; and line 53 (p. 245), in which a letter addressed by Urzababa to Lugalzagesi of Uruk is men-
tioned: the letter suggests that the death of Sargon be arranged; this attempt also fails.
7. For the activities of Eannatum, king of Lagash, see Steible 1982: 143, Text Eannatum 1.
8. See, for example, Giesen 1991: 104ff.
70 Marlies Heinz

Eastern societies, these parameters were often linked to religion. In addition, the
community had to be convinced that only the new order could secure the “good life.”
Therefore, control over life-sustaining resources was as important as control over the
military. The latter formed a guarantee of protection against threats from the outside
and in many cases also served as protection for the ruler from internal opposition.
Control of religious life and control of economic and military resources provided the
means for securing the “superstructure” and the basis for society—that is, provided
the connection between symbolic values and real events.
Success, according to the traditional theory of rebellion (Maurer 2004: 107ff.; Ei-
senstadt 1982), must be achieved quickly in order to demonstrate power while the re-
bellion is still ongoing. Opposition forces must not only be frightened by threats but
must also be confronted with the results of their resistance by actual punishment.
Loyal groups and potential supporters, on the other hand, are given material rewards
immediately and are promised more in the future in order to secure their support.
With his takeover in Kish, Sargon destroyed the ruling order. With wars against
the “others,” he destroyed the political system in the south. He disregarded cultural
and religious rules and destroyed the organization of the autonomous city-states.
The precise course of Sargon’s takeover cannot be gleaned in detail from the writ-
ten sources. It is only known that the takeover was not desired by the local elites. Af-
ter the takeover, Sargon’s management of the religious traditions of Kish and the
surrounding regions became apparent. It was strategically cunning and probably was
culturally unavoidable. Taking control of the religious traditions was presumably for
the purpose of (and definitely suited for) legitimating his reign, winning supporters,
and securing his position.

Rebellion and Religion

The change in the ruling order gained legitimacy by its association with the deities
An, Enlil, and Ishtar. According to written sources, these gods had decided on the de-
thronement of the king. “Not Sargon but the gods are the agents of change” was the
ideological message. Sargon did not plan the rebellion; he just benefited from it and
at the same time fulfilled the will of the gods—he left his father’s house for the court
by the will of Ishtar.
The claim that the local deity, in this case Ishtar, clearly welcomed the takeover by
a new ruler was part of the tradition of political renewal in the ancient Near East, ir-
respective of whether the new ruler gained power legitimately or not. The claim that
An and Enlil were active in Kish is at first more surprising; their domains should have
been in the south and not in northern Babylonia at the beginning of Sargon’s rule.
This surprise, however, vanishes in light of Sargon’s political intentions and gives rise
to admiration for his cunning ability to evoke the right gods at the right time and in
the right place. He did not just intend to change the system in one city; he planned
to change the entire societal system from the “Upper to the Lower Sea” to fit Akka-
dian ideas. In the third millennium b.c., An was the head of the Sumerian pantheon;
he was the father of all the other gods and of all creatures and therefore the ultimate
authority in the south. Enlil was not only his son and a second-rank god but also the
 Sargon of Akkad: Rebel and Usurper in Kish 71

god responsible for order and royalty in the country. The involvement of these two
deities in Kish’s political situation was strategically clever in two ways. In order to le-
gitimate his expansionist goals and to secure his hegemonic struggle for power, Sar-
gon needed the support of the gods of the region concerned, just as he had needed
Ishtar’s support in Kish. If Sargon wanted to legitimate his power in the new areas
and find loyal allies among the local people, he needed to offer potential supporters
an identification with a new order that appeared attractive. Consequently, Sargon’s
support by the most powerful deities in the south of Mesopotamia was publicized.
Quite rightly one would not choose a city god as partner if one wanted to change the
order of the whole country, because a city god’s responsibilities were only to the city
and did not extend to the country as a whole.
It is doubtful whether Sargon had the support of the religious elites. The propa-
gation of Ishtar’s help, which meant the de facto approval of the priests, may just
have been a traditional proclamation at the beginning of the reign. This assumption
is based on reports on Sargon’s treatment of temple property. Land owned by the
temples was overtly given to the palace and private individuals, and the priests were
thus robbed of their economic base. 9 Trade, which was traditionally an aspect of the
economy in which the temples were involved, was now entirely controlled by the pal-
ace. The local priests thus appear to have lost rather than profited by the change. By
evoking the gods to legitimate his takeover, Sargon showed the priests the limits of
their influence in no uncertain terms.
By naming Ishtar as a supporter of the new order, Sargon continued the tradi-
tional religious custom and thus evoked a sense of continuity in a time of change. At
the same time, he interfered drastically in the local religious organization by margin-
alizing the priests and by evoking “foreign” deities. Sargon was a master at playing
with traditions. Where they furthered his cause, he formally continued them, yet he
also deprived them of meaning and subverted them. The management of traditions
was crucial for the fate of the whole community as well as the rebel. He had to be
wise when deciding what to continue and what to change. How subtle these changes
could be is shown by, for example, the religious titles he used to describe his relation-
ship to An, Enlil, and Ishtar (Franke 1995: 96ff.). He appeared as Ishtar’s trustee, En-
lil’s governor, and An’s priest, thus assuming roles that were only possible and
successful when there was cooperation between humans and gods. In the real world,
trustees and governors were installed by kings; in other words, these offices could
only be gained by royal approval. Just as the officials were dependent on the king in
acquiring a position, the king was dependent on their loyalty in exercising his gover-
nance effectually. Only in cooperation with the officials could the reign be successful.
Sargon imposed the same relationship on his interaction with the gods. The king was
no longer primarily a servant of the divine will but a potentially active and creative
part of the divine plan. This new and powerful position of the king, in both the world
of humans and the realm of the gods, once again underscored the priests’ loss of
power and influence.

9. For the Akkadians’ treatment of occupied land, see Foster 1993: 25ff.
72 Marlies Heinz

Rebellion and the Local Political Elite

In the political field, the change in the status quo was much more radical than in
the religious sector. The dethronement of Uzarbaba was followed by the impeach-
ment of the “old ones,” presumably the counselors of the old king, and their removal
from the sphere of the new ruler. When the established elite openly opposed the new
order, the most important act of every rebel (once the elite had been removed) must
have been the establishment of a new, loyal clientele. These new supporters were not
recruited from the religious or the existing political elite of Kish, as has already been
demonstrated.
Sargon found a trustworthy and strong clientele within the ranks of the military.
According to his own statements, 5,400 men ate with him on a daily basis. The mili-
tary was an essential and crucial part of his politics and must have worked as a protec-
tive force at home, as well as a powerful means of expansion abroad.

Rebellion and the Control of Resources

An important way of demonstrating to a wide audience that the new order had
brought the “good life” to the community was to secure its economic needs. In an-
cient Near Eastern societies, the economy played a crucial part in constructing and
sustaining the community, and its representatives were accordingly powerful. The
control of resources also meant the far-reaching control of the present and future
state of society.
Sargon of Akkad used the field of economics to establish a loyal clientele in Kish.
The concentration of control over all resources at the palace made it possible to give
temple lands to private individuals. The new landowners who profited from the new
order were probably Sargon’s first followers. The break in political tradition was fol-
lowed by a break in the traditional organization of the economy (and later also in the
organization of trade). Control over economic aspects of society was especially im-
portant to Sargon. Unlike religion, economics was an area in which he broke radically
with tradition ( just as in the sphere of politics) and distinguished himself with inno-
vations that were probably essential for the approval of the new order by new social
groups and were absolutely necessary for the stabilization of his reign.

Rebellion and Structural Change in the Ruling Order

With his interference in the political, religious, and economic order of Kish, with
his disposal of the old clientele and establishment of a new clientele, Sargon secured
his reign and changed the structures of the political and social community much
more profoundly than traditional research into rebellions normally dictates. While
most researchers postulate just a change in leadership at the top as the usual result of
rebellion, the changes brought by Sargon’s takeover went much further and were not
limited to the elites. Although one cannot speak of a change in system in Kish itself,
the measures taken after the takeover meant profound changes in the cultural and so-
cial conditions that were particularly visible to the population of the town.
 Sargon of Akkad: Rebel and Usurper in Kish 73

Giving land to individuals implied that Sargon consciously addressed circles be-
yond the traditional elites in order to recruit new supporters. In Lagash, the usurper
and outsider Urukagina had already pursued this strategy of allowing a wider audi-
ence to profit from the new order and thus turning them into its supporters. 10 The
structural change in the elites should thus have been enforced by a change in the priv-
ileged social groups.

Resettlement as a Political Means of Establishing a Clientele

These measures were seemingly not sufficient in Kish to safely establish the new
order in the minds of the people. To achieve this, a new strategy was put into action
and a relocation campaign was begun that resulted in the settlement of new groups
in Kish. 11
The relocation of human beings and their integration into a new and strange social
system are a huge intervention for all concerned—the old population as well as the
newcomers. Relocation means the destruction of established social bonds, not just
where people are removed from their familiar environment, but also in the areas
where the resettlement takes place. In the new place, the strangers are at first iso-
lated, torn from their familiar relationships and power structures; they have not yet
established structures to organize their community. The new settlers are dependent
on the protective power of the leaders responsible for their relocation in order to ori-
ent themselves. Although the reasons for the resettlements in Kish are not explicitly
stated in the sources, one can assume in this particular case that the newcomers (who
would have been in need of protection) were established there in order to create a
new loyal clientele for Sargon.
The political aims and the impact of resettlement activities on the established
population as well as on the resettled population can be seen in the structural changes
in Tibet as enforced by the “protective power,” China. By relocating and giving pref-
erential treatment to the new population in their new home, the rulers try to establish
a stable, long-term, and irreversible basis for their power abroad. This intervention in
the status quo is ambivalent and risky for the protective power as well, because the
new population might form an alliance with the old one and oppose the new order.
Sargon must have been aware of this potential danger; nevertheless, relocation and
restructuring of the population in Kish were part of his political program.

Spatial Order as a Visible Sign of the Ruling Order

By the time the resettlements began, the innovations in Kish must have been obvi-
ous to everybody. But Sargon did not stop at intervening in the social structures of
Kish as a visible sign of his rule. The remodeling of the political and social order was
followed by a remodeling of the public space, in order to impose the new order on

10. For those privileged by Urukagina’s reforms, see Steible 1982: 311, Text UKG 4–5.
11. For the remodeling and resettlement of the city, see Gelb and Kienast 1990: 161, Text Sar-
gon C1.
74 Marlies Heinz

the cultural memory of the inhabitants of Kish and surrounding areas. The traces of
the old order had to be removed from Kish’s appearance. Every ruler in ancient Near
Eastern societies used architecture and the design of public space as a political
means—as a way of presenting his reign as successful.
Sumerian kings usually dedicated their architectural endeavors to the gods, but
this is not something known from Sargon’s reign. Designing public space demon-
strated both economic power and the power of the ruler over the availability of
space—and it allowed the ruler to associate symbols of power with the memory of his
particular reign. That this measure was by nature very visible made this strategy just
as ambivalent as resettlement was: the construction of representative architecture was
a sign of power and was visible to everyone, yet at the same time, its destruction
clearly demonstrated political decline and could also be observed by everybody!
It is reported that Kish (as the only place in the region) was remodeled, but we do
not know how and to what extent this was done. The officials of Akkad must have
known that changes in the spatial order—the concealing of old architectural orders
and the destruction of old symbols of power—were an important and powerful strat-
egy in removing the old from memory and postulating the new as relevant. The mes-
sage of a changed architectural and spatial order was intended to make the new
obvious but also to document the economic and political power of the new ruler.
This potential was used to transfer the traditional center of political power, Kish,
into a place that demonstrated the ideas of a new ruling class. The fact that it was
Kish, the capital of the former kings, that underwent a structural remodeling is strik-
ing and indicates once more that it was necessary to a establish a highly obvious sign
of the new order.

Sargon of Akkad, Founder of a City

Whether the many measures taken to establish Sargon’s reign were successful in
Kish is not reported explicitly. We do know, however, that Sargon, apart from the re-
forms already mentioned, intervened profoundly in the existing religious, social, and
cultural structures for a second time when he decided to found another political res-
idency alongside Kish and built the city of Akkad. 12 Whether the old networks in Kish
remained powerful and obstructive in the establishment of the new order or whether
it was politically opportune to place a new city next to the redesigned Kish remains
open to debate. The development, however, has to be regarded as a major break with
tradition that potentially meant more than just a break in using one place continu-
ously. The traditional places of worship and ritual were located in Kish, as were pre-
sumably the cemeteries of the ancestors, and according to the beliefs of the time
these could not simply be abandoned and left behind. 13 Sargon, however, saw in this

12. The location of Akkad and its appearance remain unknown. The site of the town has not
been identified and excavated. That Sargon founded Akkad is reported in the Sumerian list of kings,
which calls Sargon the “King of Akkad, the man who built Akkad” (Franke 1995: 94).
13. The care of the ancestors even after their death was the imperative duty of the living. Neglect-
ing this duty meant bad luck for the dead and the living.
 Sargon of Akkad: Rebel and Usurper in Kish 75

tradition no obstacle to building a new city, a fact that is not really surprising given
his biography and the attitude of the traditional elite toward his reign.

The Political Titles of Sargon and Their Identity-Constituting Effects

Whether Sargon considered himself to be within the traditions of Kish at all and
identified with them is doubtful. The titles with which he is recorded and with which
he wanted to be remembered do not indicate this! Akkad was clearly more important
to him as a symbol and as a sign of royal identity than Kish was. Sargon bore the title
“King of Akkad.” He identified with the new order. The old political order was no
longer commemorated with highest priority, while the new order was aggressively
promoted and there was a clear break with the old traditions of political order.
Whether Sargon’s second title was “King of Kish” or “King of the Country” is
heavily disputed. 14 It would have been strategically wise to add the new next to the
old—King of Akkad and (!) King of Kish—and thus make the new acceptable via the
old, to refer back to the old customs of society and to make the new ones appear
less threatening. To integrate the new via the old would also fit into the building
program for the city: a new city is built in addition to the old center of power.

Conclusion: The Rebellion of Kish and Its Local Consequences

The break with tradition in the political field at first needed a powerful façade that
glossed over the break and suggested a continuity of tradition. What would have been
more appropriate than the use of religion? This was precisely what the rebel and fu-
ture king Sargon had in mind when he made the gods responsible for the changes.
From a modern perspective, this was a strategically clever move that at the same time
obscured the next break with tradition. Referring responsibility and agency to the
gods should theoretically strengthen the priesthood after a political rebellion, yet the
priests were de facto robbed of their power. The newcomer Sargon cleverly used tra-
dition. The only possible way to gain ultimate legitimacy for the takeover and thus
also gain approval for a change in government was by not challenging religious cus-
toms openly but continuing them. The subtle measures that initiated the change in
religious traditions have already been mentioned.
In politics, however, radical interference with the traditions of cooperation was
necessary. The rulers in the south had, according to the rules, acceded to the throne
as successors to their fathers, and thus the continuation of tradition had secured suc-
cess. Sargon, however, could not rely on such a tradition. Instead he challenged this
“defect” and created his own tradition. A new clientele was established, and the old
networks were broken up. Interventions in the spatial order and the makeup of Kish’s
population made the change in power in the traditional center visible to everyone,
while the founding of the new residence of Akkad and the new ruler’s clear identifi-
cation with this new center emphasized the manifestation of the new far beyond the
immediate area. Sargon followed the classic steps to success that a rebel at the center

14. For the reconstruction of the title “King of Kish,” see Franke 1995: 95–96.
76 Marlies Heinz

of a rebellion should take: oppositional forces are heavily punished by the loss of
property and responsibilities, while potentially loyal groups are established by be-
stowing material privileges upon them.
Structural change occurred where Sargon allowed new population groups access
to influential positions. He also transferred control over resources and access to re-
sources to new institutions. In particular, he concentrated responsibility for the con-
trol of the resources of several institutions in one administrative unit—the palace. The
consequences of the rebellion in Kish affected broad circles of society and were not
limited to a change at the top of the government, as postulated by some researchers
in rebellion theory. Sargon recognized the need to make his political activities visible.
By remodeling Kish, relocating new inhabitants there, and founding Akkad, he dem-
onstrated his seemingly unlimited power over space, people, and resources. The
building activities could have been read as a sign of political and economic power,
but they could also have been intended to gloss over weak spots and to distract the
subjects’ attention from problems and divert it to prestigious operations of success.
The ambivalence shown by his building activities must have been clear. Architec-
ture is both a witness to and sign of a ruler’s power, yet in its decay and destruction
it also mirrors the precariousness of the prevailing order.
After his takeover, the rebel and usurper Sargon established unmistakable and
highly visible signs that symbolized the new order and gave the old order a new posi-
tion. The founding of Akkad, the title that emphasized Sargon’s connection with
Akkad and not Kish, the emphasis on the military and the “5,400 men” he fed daily,
as well as the relocation of the population to Kish provided Sargon with a geograph-
ical space and a social clientele that expressed the new order, an order that was radi-
cally different from the older traditions and customs in Kish. The danger or the goal
of this strategy—that it risked, or even intended, a split in society—was inherent to Sar-
gon’s activities. He offered opportunities for identification that at first appeared like
the establishment of a privileged elite rather than a way of achieving conciliation
within a population that was facing the manifold changes brought on by the takeover.

Expansion and Invasion:

Sargon the King of Akkad, Sargon the Conqueror
Sargon’s rebellion “at home” was followed by “foreign” domination over the south
and the expansion of control and dominance over parts of northern Mesopotamia,
and over what is today western Syria. The principle of structural change that Sargon
applied in Kish was continued “abroad.” By removing the local elites in the con-
quered cities, Sargon secured political control over the occupied territories once his
military actions were over. 15 The destruction of cities and the political dethronement
of enemies were followed by the next step necessary for securing his rule: establishing
control over the losers’ economic resources and concentrating the means of survival

15. “From the Lower Sea [the Persian Gulf ] citizens of Akkad are governors, even Mari and Elam
serve Sargon, the King of the Country” (see Gelb and Kienast 1990: 161, Text Sargon C1).
 Sargon of Akkad: Rebel and Usurper in Kish 77

in the hand of the usurper and foreign ruler. Imports from Tilmun, Maggan, and Me-
luhha in southern Mesopotamia reached Akkad. This means that the wars in the
south had opened up new trading routes to Akkad that transcended regional board-
ers. 16 Northern Mesopotamia was a transit region for Akkadian trade and also pro-
vided Akkad with the necessary agricultural resources. Via the Euphrates, and using
Mari as a trading center, the Akkadians reached and controlled the west and from
there extended their power to the Levant and Anatolia in order to secure supplies of
wood and metal. The direct interventions in the conquered communities’ political
and military systems were accompanied by more subtle measures, which may not
have been immediately visible to everyone but which may have led to profound
changes in traditional conditions. Once the Akkadians controlled the politics and the
economy of a region, they also took over the cultural realm by dethroning the priests
in the most important religious centers and replacing them with intimates of Sargon.
In Ur, for example, Sargon’s daughter Enheduanna became EN-priestess. 17 By inte-
grating religion into his politics and by using the gods of the conquered to legitimate
these events, the Akkadian ruler potentially contributed to a split in the communities
concerned, which had to decide whether to remain loyal to their own elite or to em-
brace Sargon and the new order.
With the restructuring of the old political center of Kish and the founding of
Akkad, Sargon made it impossible to overlook the new order “at home” on an archi-
tectural level. The interventions in the visible “public” order made Sargon appear as
a “constructive” and economically and politically potent ruler. In the occupied re-
gions of the south, to begin with it was the destruction of the cities that made the new
order visible, 18 and thus Sargon may have appeared more as a ruthless military leader
than a constructive ruler there. With the loss of their architectural environment,
these communities also lost the order of their Lebenswelt. The razing of city walls
documented in equal measure the very obvious defenselessness of the cities and the
loss of political autonomy (which, while not directly visible, was certainly discernible
to everyone). The loss of order and the symbolic meaning of a destroyed city must
have had a deep impact on its citizens’ concepts of their own identity. The loss of ar-
chitectural order was followed by the loss of political order due to the removal of the
traditional elites.
Controlling the cities that were most important to the reign of the Akkadians in
the occupied areas in the south was the responsibility of trustworthy followers of Sar-
gon. This was a dramatic change in the political tradition of the south, where ruler-
ship was traditionally organized dynastically. The dissolution of the autonomy of
cities in the south benefited the establishment of a new territorial ruling system based
on a concentration of power in Sargon and his political center, Akkad. This was an-
other serious break with tradition, which was begun by Lugalzagesi (Sargon’s contem-
porary and main rival) and completed by Sargon.

16. Gelb and Kienast 1990: 167, Text Sargon C2.

17. See Gelb and Kienast 1990: 64, Text Sargon A1.
18. See Gelb and Kienast 1990: 16, Text Sargon C1: “He has conquered the city and demolished
its walls.”
78 Marlies Heinz

Whether the Akkadians conquered the west and the north with their military or
whether they “only” controlled it politically and exploited it economically is not re-
ported in the written sources. That access to the resources of both regions was essen-
tial for the establishment of an Akkadian realm is shown in the case of the north by
archaeological sources. For the west, written documents also exist.
The rebellion in Kish and the reorganization of the political systems in central and
southern Mesopotamia had serious and far-reaching consequences. Ebla and Mari
were especially affected by the increasing strength of the Akkadian superpower. Lo-
cated on the Euphrates, Mari had always been an important trading center between
the Levant and Mesopotamia and a harbor for the shipping of goods to the south.
The Akkadians took advantage of the easily accessible and controllable junction and
managed to dominate this place as well.
Ebla was the economic and administrative center of the west, with a focus on wool
and textile production as well as the processing of metal, wood, and gemstones.
These were imported as raw materials and were then turned into high-quality luxury
goods before finally, like the wool and the fabrics, being exported. Highly specialized
craftsmanship as well as the import of raw materials and export of finished goods
formed the economic bases that guaranteed the city’s wealth. A far-reaching network
of trade relations (Pettinato 1991: 83) connected the city with autonomous urban cen-
ters both near and far, including Tell Brak and Tell Leilan in the northeast and the
city of Assur in northern Iraq, and with areas rich in raw materials, such as the
Amanus and Taurus Mountains and northern Lebanon, as well as with Palestine and
Egypt via Byblos.
The changes in the internal organization of southern and central Mesopotamia
were followed by a new direction in foreign politics under Akkadian rule. The far-
reaching contact of the formerly independent city-states with more-or-less equal trad-
ing partners that extended from Mesopotamia to the Levant was replaced with an ag-
gressive Akkadian policy of territorial expansion through a centralized control of
resources.
Tell Leilan and Tell Brak were major trading partners with Ebla. With their fertile
hinterlands, they were well suited for agriculture and cattle breeding and were also
easily reached and controlled from all directions through the integration of a good
road system. In order to enrich the capital, Akkad, the Akkadians placed the fertile
agricultural zone around the two cities under their own administration and made
them part of their realm. It is not known whether the Akkadians replaced the local
elite or just controlled it. Particularism and independence, in any case, gave way to
Akkadian centralism. Massive tax duties kept a stranglehold on the cities and made
the Akkadian center even richer. The Akkadians controlled the well-developed net-
work of roads that connected the Khabur region with the south and with the neigh-
boring regions in the north and west. They also used the roads for the transport of
regional products to the center, Akkad.
The western Levant with its powerful economic and administrative center in Ebla,
the Amanus region, northern Lebanon as a provider of cedar wood, and the Taurus
with its source of silver were more difficult to access and control than the north and
 Sargon of Akkad: Rebel and Usurper in Kish 79

the Euphrates region, but they were very much desired by the Akkadians. Sargon
boasts in his inscriptions of not only having seen the west but of having ruled it. A de-
tailed analysis of the reports shows that another scenario was more plausible. By spo-
radic campaigns directed at the sources of raw material, the Akkadians secured the
necessary goods without being constantly present in the west. Both written and ar-
chaeological sources document this short-term occupation, control, and plundering
of the periphery by the Akkadians. The consequences of their expansive rule, how-
ever, went far beyond these activities. They intervened profoundly in the infrastruc-
ture that had developed during the second half of the third millennium b.c. in Syria/
Lebanon, and eventually caused its destruction. The occupation and control of the
north and east resulted in a structural change in the relations of the formerly auton-
omous cities of the Levant. Trade was now replaced by an exchange of goods between
center and periphery that was controlled by the Akkadians and that had only one
taker—the Akkadians. Where the well-developed road and communication networks
were useful for the foreign occupants, they were maintained; where they could not be
controlled, they were destroyed. With the change in the organization of trade, the
trade routes also altered. The new routes and the forced structural changes that also
took place in the west of the Levant must have robbed Ebla of its economic base. Due
to the interregional interventions by the Akkadians, Ebla lost control of the wood and
metal sources and thus also lost the ability to provide its own highly specialized arti-
sans with raw materials. At the same time, the formerly independent trading partners
and consumers of luxury goods produced in Ebla had vanished due to Akkadian oc-
cupation of the north, their control of the city of Mari, and the change in the political
organization of Mesopotamia itself. The intervention of the Akkadians in the trade
and communication system of the autonomous city-states led to the destruction of
this system first in Mesopotamia and later also in Syria/Lebanon. The removal of
goods instead of trade and the central political control instead of autonomy of the
“Syrian” towns were of greatest benefit to the center of the new order.
The restructuring of the political organization from a decentralized to a central-
ized system was by necessity followed by a concentration of the control of resources
in the center, Akkad. Access to the resources that were not directly available in Akkad
and its surrounding area was blatantly put under Akkadian control. The formerly in-
dependent and wealthy trading cities of Ebla, Mari, Brak, and Leilan lost their power
and autonomy and, just like the regions on the Gulf, came under the domination and
control of Akkad. Trade profits were asymmetrical, concentrated entirely on the
needs of the political center of Akkad.

Direct and Structural Violence: Politics and Religion

The rebellion of Kish was followed by a drastic change in the political and eco-
nomic organization from southern Iraq to northern Mesopotamia and the Mediterra-
nean in the west. Interference in the political and economic organization of the
conquered region, supported by the military, led to changes in traditional conditions,
customs, and rituals. But in the long term, securing Akkadian dominance abroad was
 80 Marlies Heinz

not possible by the establishment of military, political, and economic control over the
region alone. Cultural integration was essential if Sargon was to find loyal supporters
in the conquered population, supporters who would identify with the new order and
accept it. However, attempts to gain broad approval of his politics are not immedi-
ately discernible in the various forms of Sargon’s self-image that have survived. He
only provided for certain groups, such as the military, the citizens of Akkad, the clien-
tele that he had established abroad, and possibly the people who had been relocated
to Kish.
The image of the “good shepherd” providing the “good life” for all of his subjects
was not propagated by Sargon, and in this he differed from the rulers in southern
Sumeria before him as well as from the rebel Lugalzagesi, who broke with the politi-
cal system yet fulfilled traditional cultural and social obligations. The self-representa-
tion of Sargon, on the other hand, also showed a break with the traditions of the
social community of ruler and population, including—by the removal of the priests in
the most important temples of the south—the handling of the conquered people’s re-
ligious customs and rituals. In order to gain approval and support as the legitimate
ruler in spite of these breaks with social and religious rules, Sargon was forced (de-
spite the realities) to present his own actions as beneficial to everyone and to make
the changing of traditions and customs appear not only necessary but the only and
right way to the “good life.” He had to present his attitude as universally valid and as
normatively “natural,” to harmonize divergent opinions and conditions, and to estab-
lish a system of meaning that included the potential of creating a new tradition in
which everyone would find his or her place.
One of the most important measures Sargon had to take was to integrate his ac-
tions in the realm of the religious. It was culturally essential to secure divine approval.
However, this does not mean that the rulers in ancient Near Eastern societies were
unaware of the strategic potential of the use of religion in politics. Religion was the
major parameter used to legitimate actions in these societies and was probably espe-
cially relevant when it came to its fluctuating use by foreign rulers: religion legiti-
mates and stabilizes order and promises security. At the same time, it is a threat to
people who do not act according to the divine will. This ambivalence was used by Sar-
gon as legitimation for his actions abroad. Seemingly free of traditional, religious
bonds, he also proclaimed at any time the support of the gods who happened to be
particularly appropriate for his political needs.
The god An, who resided in Uruk, was, as already mentioned, the head of the Su-
merian pantheon, and thus the ultimate authority in the whole country, while his son
Enlil was responsible for order in the country. In Kish, according to the legend, both
were involved in the divine conspiracy against the ruling king; Enlil bestowed the ter-
ritory from the Upper to the Lower Sea upon Sargon and made sure that Sargon was
not confronted by an equal opponent.
In the western periphery, Sargon used the god Dagan to legitimate his actions. Da-
gan, the king of the country, leader of the gods, and the highest deity in what is today
Syria (his position in the hierarchy of gods is comparable to Enlil) had made the con-
quest of the foreign territories Armanum and Ebla possible in the first place, accord-
ing to Sargon’s propaganda.

spread is 6 points long

 Sargon of Akkad: Rebel and Usurper in Kish 81

The manipulation of religious responsibilities abroad against the personnel con-

cerned developed into a system of structural and cultural violence, in which the
“others” were more or less ideologically defenseless against the Akkadians. With their
takeover of the religious system, the Akkadians attacked the most basic religious and
political norms and thus also the basis of social community. At the same time, they at-
tacked the conquered elites ideologically in what was politically one of the most pow-
erful fields: religion—which was also the grounds for legitimating their power to their
own people.
Only after Enlil pronounced his verdict and gave his order did Sargon conquer
Uruk. 19 By showing the conquered that it was their own deities who caused the po-
litical change (or at least supported and legitimated it), the Akkadians must have
managed to legitimate their victory almost “automatically” even in the eyes of the
conquered. The Akkadians therefore put further pressure on the conquered elite
and population, who were not only conquered militarily but were also robbed of the
divine protection and support of their own gods. Victims were thus turned into per-
petrators; the conquered elites were themselves to blame for the violence they had to
suffer. This powerful reversal of facts worked well wherever Sargon could demon-
strate that the local elites had acted against the will of the local gods, and therefore
also against their own culture and society, and had thus lost the support of the gods.
The inhabitants of Nippur must have stood by powerless and watched Sargon put his
most important opponent, Lugalzagesi, king of Uruk, in the pillory in front of the
Enlil Temple, and they must have observed that Enlil did not intervene on Lugal-
zagesi’s behalf. 20 With ideological and propagandistic ruses of this sort, the Akkadi-
ans effectively defined war and violence as necessary for reestablishing order in the
conquered regions. The legitimacy of the Akkadian actions, according to the ideol-
ogy of Akkadian propaganda, was not to be questioned because, through the active
support of the deities of the conquered societies, the actions of the victors and the
new order in the conquered societies could be postulated as happening by the will of
the gods. The Akkadian claim to be the legitimate preservers of the traditional order
also carried an enormous potential for splitting society. The aim of Akkadian propa-
ganda was to turn the conflict between Akkadians and conquered societies into a
conflict within the society and thus destabilize the solidarity that the conquered
population felt with their elites.
However, Akkadian ideology went beyond “sowing the seeds of discord amongst
their enemies” and thus destroying the solidarity between them. By presenting them-
selves to the conquered as the preservers of their traditions and values, they pre-
tended to be integrated into the norms and beliefs of the local religious field and in
the realm of divine responsibilities. Thus the otherness of the Akkadians was ideolog-
ically hidden, and their political dominance was more deeply anchored in the cul-
tural system of the conquered societies. This is a masterful application of the old rule
of perfidy, according to which, after a reversal of facts, the victims become the caus-
ers of the suffering and the oppressors become the saviors. The appropriation of the

19. Gelb and Kienast 1990: 175, Text Sargon C5.

20. Gelb and Kienast 1990: 171, Text Sargon C4.
 82 Marlies Heinz

local deities by the Akkadians left the conquered population literally “god-forsaken.”
This transgression of the fundamental pillars of cultural and ideological order was
exacerbated by the fact that Sargon replaced not only the political elite in the polit-
ically most powerful places but also the leaders responsible for religion and cults
and placed the control of matters of cult in the hands of close intimates. He installed
his own daughter Enheduanna as EN-priestess in Ur, the most important place of
worship in the south, and this symbolic destruction of the old and the traditions was
perhaps even more serious than the removal of the worldly elite. Sargon managed
to get away with an open break with tradition in politics, yet it was advisable to legit-
imate it. The political “use” of religious traditions was an influential and powerful
tool that was not to be underestimated and a tool that Sargon applied cleverly. He
subtly used the tradition of Sumerian religious values that stabilized the community
while he destroyed the traditions and propagandized this very destruction as the sal-
vation of the religious, cultural, and social order. All the activities of the Akkadians
appeared to be accepted and ordered by the gods who represented law and order in
southern Sumeria.
By breaking down the social systems of the conquered—by attacking the spatial or-
der through territorial conquest, by breaking the political order it was connected to,
by dethroning the elites, and by interfering with the cultural and religious order and
the values and norms of the conquered, which convinced them that they were being
punished by their own gods, Sargon had chosen a powerful ideological weapon. He
beat the enemy with the enemy’s frame of order; he took away the enemy’s acknowl-
edged preservers of order and used them against the conquered and showed them
how the gods that used to be their own from now on would protect the Akkadian—
that is the new, legitimate—order.
The selective and well-aimed interventions of Sargon in the basic, identity-giving
cultural and religious parameters of the others—and at the same time their replace-
ment by his own cultural and religious values and norms—were an important part of
the ideological manipulation of the conquered nations with which the Akkadians
handled conflicts and stabilized and legitimated their power.

Conclusion
Sargon—Ruler and Usurper:
The Ruler Who Caused Disorder and “Globally” Enforced
the Establishment of a New Political Order

A revolution (rebellion) can be expected, says Andrea Maurer (2004: 107ff.) in her
study of the sociology of governance, “if on the one hand the power of the old rulers
dwindles and on the other hand new ideologies, successful isolated actions and an in-
tensive communication make a successful revolution more likely.” The initial situa-
tion during Sargon’s rebellion in Kish may have presented just such a scenario. A
rebel has to be able to demonstrate his success quickly (as described above in the clas-

spread is 12 points short

 Sargon of Akkad: Rebel and Usurper in Kish 83

sic theory of rebellion) 21 in order to demonstrate his power while the rebellion is still
ongoing. The opposition must be punished directly and thus be confronted with the
consequences of their subversion, while supporters should be rewarded materially in
order to reward and strengthen their loyalty.
A successful rebellion needs organizational skill as well as a subtle ideology, a con-
cept that is based on the hypothesis that the rebellion against the existing order leads
to a new and better social order (see Eisenstadt 1982: 16–17). The roots of rebellion
often lie in conflicts between different elites; its consequences, however, often go be-
yond a mere change in leadership at the top. The consequences of Sargon’s rebellion
seem to reaffirm Eisenstadt’s remarks comprehensively (1982: 85ff.).
With Sargon’s rebellion in Kish, southern Mesopotamia, and the regions in the
north and west, the political system, the basis of legitimating political actions, and the
symbols of political power underwent a massive change. The top political positions
were filled with new representatives, without any spontaneous coalitions between the
old elites and Sargon appearing in Kish or in the conquered cities of the south. In
fact, the opposite was true. Old social boundaries dissolved, both in Kish and in the
occupied territories, which was especially apparent in the restructuring of the com-
munities of Kish and Akkad. New social groups and lobbies formed or were estab-
lished through Sargon’s measures (new landowners, resettlers) and were integrated
into the emerging political system. As a result of the rebellion, it is possible that a
broader stratum of society now had an influence on politics (see Eisenstadt 1982: 96).
With the shifting of inner and outer boundaries of the community, the political
system changed massively, especially in the conquered regions. The political system
of the south disappeared (1982: 96) and was absorbed by the strongly centralized po-
litical organization of the Akkadians. At the same time, the economic sector was not
exempt from drastic changes. The new landowners mentioned above formed a new
economic group and frame of action (1982: 97), while the form and extent of eco-
nomic distribution also changed. Akkad unremittingly drew resources from the pe-
riphery and used them to the benefit of the center. The result of these interventions
in the economic maintenance of center and periphery was a break down in working
communication and distribution networks, and cities formerly acting as economic
centers of what was now the Akkadian periphery lost the basis of their activities. As
Eisenstadt (1982) states in his discussion of a model of rebellion, the new center de-
stroyed the established relationships in the periphery.
Sargon’s rebellion thus led to a multifaceted, radical break with the social, political,
cultural, and religious traditions of the societies in question (1982: 17), symbolized in
a highly visible way by the founding of Akkad, the only political center in the new
realm. The change from a peer system to a centralized government led to a funda-
mental redefinition of religious and cultural values as well as basing the different tra-
ditions in the realm of Akkad. Along with the control of immediate worldly concerns,
the new rulers also aimed for control over the cosmic order. The restructuring by the

21. See also Eisenstadt 1982.

84 Marlies Heinz

Akkadians seriously limited the authority of local city deities. The autocrat Sargon
primarily communicated with the gods who held relevant and far-reaching positions
in the pantheon of the conquered community! Thus the Akkadians destroyed the
conquered societies’ established structures and symbols collective identity and stated
collective aims according to the new ruling order (1982: 104).
The center, Akkad, fashioned itself as—and actually became—the guardian of cen-
tral order, symbolizing the ruling system, monopolizing the symbolization of the re-
lationship between cosmic and social order, and linking these symbols with the
political order.

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 Part 2

Changing Order from Within

 Chapter 4
The Royal Cemetery of Ur:
Ritual, Tradition, and the Creation of Subjects

Susan Pollock

The Royal Cemetery of Ur, excavated by C. Leonard Woolley three-quarters of a

century ago, has been famed since its discovery for the lavishness of its burials and in
particular for the indications of so-called “human sacrifice” in the 16 Early-Dynastic-
IIIa-period (ca. 2600–2450 b.c.e) royal tombs for which the cemetery was named
(fig. 1). Woolley distinguished the 16 tombs from the remaining 2,000 or so graves in
the cemetery in terms of what he called “peculiarities of structure and ritual” (Wool-
ley 1934: 33). These “peculiarities” included the presence of underground chambers
built of brick or stone, evidence for a ritual sequence that occurred in several stages,
and multiple simultaneous burials or “human sacrifices” that accompanied the inter-
ment of the principal deceased individual. Based on the orderly arrangement of the
skeletons in some of the better preserved tombs and the absence of any indication of
struggle, Woolley (1934: 41–42) contended that the people who went to their deaths
in the tombs did so willingly: “From the first[,] one could not but remark the peace-
fulness of the bodies; all were in order, not only set out in neat rows but individually
peaceful; there was no sign of violence” (1934: 35). Remarkably few scholars have
challenged or even seriously reconsidered Woolley’s argument that the multiple “at-
tendants” in the tombs went to their deaths willingly, although in a recent treatise on
les morts d’accompagnement Alain Testart (2004) reaches a related conclusion, arguing
that the practice rests on the existence of personal ties of loyalty and dependence.
The general acceptance of Woolley’s argument is, on reflection, astonishing. Why
and on what basis would people acquiesce in their own (premature) deaths? Bruce

Author’s note: I would like to thank Marlies Heinz for the invitation to contribute to this book. Some
of the ideas in this essay were presented at the conference (Re-)Sounding Ur: New Perspectives on
the Royal Tombs at Harvard University and in a talk at the Department of Near Eastern Studies at
Johns Hopkins University. I would like to thank Irene Winter and Glenn Schwartz for the invitations
to present those papers and the audiences for their thought-provoking comments. Bruce Dickson
and Andrew Cohen kindly made available prepublication versions of their works, for which I am
most appreciative. Cohen’s book arrived after this essay was finished; if there are obvious places
where references to it are omitted, it is due to the unfortunate circumstances of timing. Comments
on previous versions of this paper by Reinhard Bernbeck, Scott Beld, Marlies Heinz, and Gebhard
Selz were most helpful in clarifying my thinking on many of the issues involved.

89
90 Susan Pollock

Figure 1. Plan of the Royal Cemetery of Ur (after Woolley 1934: pl. 274).

Dickson (2006) has recently argued that the royal tombs might better be viewed as
“state-sponsored theaters of cruelty and terror.” When one ponders the events that
produced the tombs, especially the killing of up to 74 people on the occasion of an-
other person’s death, it is hard not to be struck by the sheer enormity of the ideolog-
ical project that “persuaded” numerous people to lay down their lives, without
apparent struggle, upon someone else’s death and to do so in a ritual that was staged
multiple times over the course of 100 or more years. It hardly seems sufficient to say
that people simply fell prey to what James Scott (1990) refers to as the public tran-
script—that is, that they believed fully in the ideology of the dominant group(s) and
thereby endorsed their own subordination. Nor is my own previous instrumental ap-
proach to the question adequate—namely, that people’s willingness to be killed and
buried in a royal tomb might result from “bribery” in the form of promises of a
proper funeral and postfunerary rites in return for affiliation with a major institution
(Pollock 1991). Rather, in trying to come to grips with the ritual practices for which
we have evidence in the royal tombs, it is critical to pose a broader question: how is
the consent of state subjects to their own subordination achieved?
 The Royal Cemetery of Ur 91

Ritual, Ideology, and Consent

One of the significant problems facing people who benefit most from the exis-
tence of state structures is how to create bonds of allegiance to the notion of the state
(Mitchell 1999) in ways that convince state subjects that they actually share common
interests and a common identity (Smith 2004). Benedict Anderson (1991) has re-
ferred to this as the creation of an imagined community. Perhaps the most stunning feat
is to persuade people to consent to give up their lives, either actually or potentially,
for an idea of the state. To put the point in current terms, we need only think of the
ability of modern state actors to convince their young men, and sometimes women,
to enroll in an institution—the military—where they may be called upon to fight, to kill
others, and possibly lose their own lives for such abstractions as “preserving freedom
and our way of life.”
In trying to understand how bonds of allegiance to a state are created among its
subjects, I have found especially useful the arguments of David Kertzer (1988) and
James Scott (1985; 1990) concerning the role of ritual, performance, and legitimacy
in politics. Using studies of contemporary as well as historical cases, both scholars
have suggested that it is striking how rarely people who are repressed, even to an ex-
traordinary degree, actively rebel against their oppressors; rather, people show a
great tendency to conform. Kertzer (1988: 39–40) argues that in stable conditions,
people do accept the legitimacy of the political system and thereby its ideology. He
suggests that people’s acceptance of the dominant ideology and thereby the likeli-
hood that they will conform to rather than rebel against their own subordination is
enhanced markedly by the use of public ritual. Politics is expressed through ritual and
symbolism where ritual is “a potent means of legitimation . . . that . . . offers a way to
unite a particular image of the universe with a strong emotional attachment to that
image” (1988: 40).
Scott (1985; 1990) takes a rather different position, contending that people gener-
ally consent because they see themselves as having no choice, not because they nec-
essarily believe in the system that oppresses them. He (Scott 1990: 4) suggests that “it
is in the interest of the subordinate to produce a more or less credible performance,
speaking the lines and making the gestures he [sic] knows are expected of him.” In
other contexts or in other manners, “hidden transcripts” are created by subordi-
nated persons to express their dissent and to do so in a way that is hidden from pub-
lic scrutiny. For Scott, the threat of repression and intimidation is sufficient to
explain why people acquiesce in public; indeed, his principal concern is to under-
stand where and how spaces for (public) resistance arise, rather than the reasons why
they so often do not.
Based on his survey of archaeological and ethnographic cases in which people
went to their death to accompany others, Testart (2004) concludes that the practice
rests upon personal ties of loyalty and dependence, which, he suggests, are “natu-
rally” extended beyond life into the realm of death. Importantly, in Testart’s argu-
ment (2004: 222–31), the people in question are bound by personal ties, not by
dedication to an abstract cause. His emphasis on the role of personal loyalties has
connections to Weber’s (1972) concept of charismatic leadership, a point to which I
92 Susan Pollock

will return later. Testart (2004: 211) claims that an ideology of loyalty and depen-
dence may lead people to go to their deaths unwillingly, but it may also produce ac-
ceptance and even valorization of deaths of this sort. In other words, for Testart,
consent comes about as a relatively unproblematic result of a particular ideology of
social relations. 1
The work of Louis Althusser (1971; Ricoeur 1994; Lock 1996) on ideology offers
another important way of examining how consent is created among subjects—indeed,
how subjects are created in such a way that it is difficult for them to question self-
evident notions and practices and hence makes it hard to resist them. One of Althus-
ser’s most important insights is that ideology is not to be understood as a set of ideas
alone but rather as practices. In other words, ideology has a material and an embod-
ied existence in the practices through which people enact it, and thereby live it, on a
daily basis. Ideology is inculcated into every state subject, according to Althusser,
through what he calls Ideological State Apparatuses, or ISAs. These ISAs consist of
multiple institutions or locations through which a dominant ideology is instilled into
people from birth onward; examples include the family, religious institutions, and
schools. ISAs are especially effective at creating unquestioning subjects, says Althus-
ser, because the various institutions that make them up are both multiple and hence
mutually reinforcing and because these institutions appear to be dedicated to very dif-
ferent ends, so that people are unaware that they are being molded according to a
particular ideology. ISAs instill a dominant ideology not just by promulgating particu-
lar ideas about the world (ideological content) but also through particular formalized
embodied actions (Bernbeck 2003–4: 279–82): for example, the proper way to behave
when in a public library; or, to cite Althusser’s famous example, when one performs
a ritual action such as kneeling in a church, one becomes in some sense a believer. Alt-
husser argues that as a result of internalizing a dominant ideology in these ways, sub-
jects become effectively interpellated by ideology. In other words, each and every
person feels directly interpellated, or “hailed,” by the dominant ideology and thus
conforms to it virtually automatically. Althusser’s concern with embodied practices
has been echoed in a wide range of literatures, including those concerned with per-
formance (in the sense of Butler [1990; 1993]), tradition (for example, Bourdieu
1999: 69–70; Joyce 2000; Pauketat 2001), and ritual (Bell 1992: 98–101).
Althusser’s conception of ideology has its problems: most importantly, the implica-
tion that people are unthinkingly duped into acting in accordance with a single dom-
inant ideology, leaving little theoretical space to understand how resistance, change,
and withdrawal of consent are possible (Cormack 1992; Zizek 1994; Montag 1996).
Nonetheless, his work does help to point the way toward understanding how people’s
daily actions—the most mundane aspects of how they live their lives as well as the un-
usual and theatrical (the state ritual on which Kertzer focuses)—come together to pro-
duce state subjects who often consent, willingly or not, to a dominant ideology.
Incorporating Scott’s insights allows us to think of this consent not as absolutely un-
questioning but as an acquiescence that does not openly question, or at least not to

1. On the implications of the concept of loyalty for an understanding of the Royal Cemetery, see
Pollock 2007.
 The Royal Cemetery of Ur 93

the point of refusal to participate. Subordinates go along, at least publicly, because

they know they will bear the consequences if they do not. Unlike Scott, who sees this
grudging consent prinicipally as a product of actual or threatened repression, Althus-
ser shows how mundane daily practices produce subjects who have imbibed ideolog-
ical understandings so deeply that, often, little repression is required in order to
make them conform. In this way, his insights offer an extension to Kertzer’s focus on
public ritual.
With these ideas in mind, an understanding of how people in Early Dynastic (ED)
Ur were brought to acquiesce to the killing of themselves or others as accompani-
ments to an important deceased person must come to grips with several issues. These
include the practices that formed part of people’s daily lives and traditions (Pauketat
2001) and helped to shape their consent to these public transcripts (cf. Walker and
Lucero 2000) as well as the form of the spectacular funerary rituals that drew people
in through their strong symbolic and emotional elements (Kertzer 1988). An analysis
of this sort will need to consider both the content of ideology and the form by which
it was inculcated—made into unquestioned, embodied practices, or the production of
docile bodies, in Foucault’s (1995) terms. To do this involves looking beyond the
Royal Cemetery burial practices to consider other constituents of life in the city-states
of southern Mesopotamia in the mid-third millennium b.c.e.

Early Dynastic City-States of Southern Mesopotamia

Early Dynastic southern Mesopotamia was a landscape of city-states, each consist-
ing of one or a few major cities surrounded by a rural hinterland (fig. 2). By the
middle of the third millennium b.c.e.—around the time of the most spectacular buri-
als in the Royal Cemetery—most of these states were ruled by kings who claimed
the right to leadership through a principle of dynastic succession (Gebhard Selz
1998; 2004c). 2 The bulk of the settled population in the alluvial lowlands appears to
have lived in urban centers, despite the overwhelming agrarian and pastoral basis of
the economy (Pollock 1999).
Although sharing many similarities of culture, religion, and languages, city-states
had numerous distinctive characteristics, not least of which were their local gods and
associated rituals (Gebhard Selz 1990). City-states engaged in frequent conflicts with
one another as well as with lands outside the alluvial lowlands, as each struggled for
economic and political advantages. These conflicts occasionally broke out into war,
as attested by references in contemporary cuneiform texts, images of violence in vari-
ous media (especially seals and stelae), and the occurrence of weapons and city walls.
City-states formed alliances of convenience to deflect incursions by others or to un-
dertake acts of aggression against their neighbors (for example, Cooper 1983).
Not all of the conflict was external. There are also indications of substantial con-
flict within city-states, often glossed as a struggle between temple and palace. Hans

2. I will return below to a discussion of some of the problems with the use of English terms such
as king for Mesopotamian concepts.
 94 Susan Pollock

Figure 2. Map of southern Mesopotamia with some of the principal Early

Dynastic urban centers.

Nissen (1988) has suggested that these struggles were principally between local de-
centralizing elements associated with temples and independent city-states, on the one
hand, and the centralizing forces connected to the interests of the palace and at-
tempts to create political alliances that transcended individual city-states, on the
other hand (see also Beld 2002). Nonetheless, there was probably not a sharp division
between palace and temple in Early Dynastic times. In his consideration of the ritual
cycle of the e m u n u s a (‘house of the lady’) in Lagash, Beld (2002) argues that the
temple and the royal economy were deeply interwoven. Members of the royalty ex-

spread is 6points short

 The Royal Cemetery of Ur 95

erted substantial control over cult institutions (temples), as can be seen in the “re-
forms” of Irikagina, one of the last Early Dynastic rulers of the Lagash state. On the
surface a sign of Irikagina’s piety in the face of corruption, the reforms amount to a
redefinition of the property of the ruler’s family as belonging to the gods. In this way,
Irikagina was made into a more direct representative of the divine world than previ-
ous rulers (2002: 80–84), thereby undercutting the power of other elites, perhaps in-
cluding members of the temple priesthood (for a different interpretation based on
changing concepts of leadership, see Gebhard Selz 1998).
Each city-state had one or a small handful of patron deities with whom its well-
being was closely connected and to which the principal temple(s) was dedicated. In
addition, a host of other gods and goddesses were integrated into a pantheon and
worshiped in the numerous other temples and shrines that could be found in each
city. Gebhard Selz (1990) has argued that an ongoing process of syncretism encour-
aged the adoption of deities from other cities and the meshing of different attributes
into individual divine figures.
Religion and ritual were an integral part of Mesopotamian life. Most of our knowl-
edge about these matters is confined to elite-sponsored ritual and religion, because
these were the practices, beliefs, and ideologies that found their way into the corpus
of written texts and inscriptions, and most of the buildings identified archaeologically
as loci of religious activities are imposing structures located in major urban centers.
The daily beliefs and practices of the bulk of the populace as well as the localities con-
nected with cultic practices in the countryside remain almost unknown and uninves-
tigated, with the exception of those that have found some echo in the urban-based
scribal record or the occasional shrine that has been excavated (1990: 111–12; Cooper
1993; compare with Sallaberger 1993: 264–70).
The picture of ritual that has been formed from the available archaeological and
cuneiform sources emphasizes the intricate and locally specific character of the an-
nual ritual cycle in particular city-states. The best documented example is a large cor-
pus of texts belonging to an institution known as the e m u n u s a (= é - m í, the ‘house
of the lady’, or é -db a - b a6 ‘house of the goddess Baba’) from the city of Girsu in the
state of Lagash (for analyses of the e m u n u s a archive, see Rosengarten 1960; Mae-
kawa 1973–74; Gebhard Selz 1995; Cohen 2001; 2005; Beld 2002). A substantial por-
tion of the texts deals, directly or indirectly, with the rituals in which the queen of
Lagash—the earthly head of the e m u n u s a—took part, rituals that were closely con-
nected to the annual agricultural cycle (Beld 2002). In certain months, especially dur-
ing the growing season, these rituals included offerings of food (bread, flour, oil, fish,
fruits, and vegetables), drink (beer and wine), cloth and clothing, and jewelry to dead
members of the royal family as well as to the gods (Cohen 2001; Beld 2002: 162–82).
Texts as well as image-bearing artifacts make clear the centrality to ritual practices of
offerings of food and drink as well as their consumption in feasts (Gudrun Selz 1983;
Collon 1992; Pinnock 1994; Schmandt-Besserat 2000; Helwing 2003). Feasts were not
confined to agricultural rituals; they also occurred in celebrations of military victo-
ries, dedications of new buildings, diplomatic missions, marriages, and funerals (Pin-
nock 1994; Cohen 2005).
96 Susan Pollock

Temples were more than places of worship; some were also institutional landown-
ers and major players in the economic life of the city-state. These and other great
households or oikoi (including the households of members of the royal family and
temples) were large, hierarchically organized socioeconomic units with dependent
workforces, managerial personnel, flocks of animals, fields, pastures, orchards, work-
shops, and artisans’ facilities. Members of households were bound to them by ties of
dependency rather than by ties of kinship. A household head could be a man, woman,
or child; various staff administered the household’s day-to-day affairs and oversaw a
labor force composed of permanent as well as part-time workers. During the Early Dy-
nastic period, these great households appear to have become increasingly dominant
economically. They drew on traditional meanings of the household both linguistically
(being designated by the same root word as kin-based households in both Sumerian
[é] and Akkadian [bîtum]) and socio-functionally, serving as units of production and
consumption (Pollock 1999: chap. 5; for discussions of ‘houses’, see Lévi-Strauss 1987;
Carsten and Hugh-Jones 1995; Joyce 2000; Joyce and Gillespie 2000).
Some scholars have suggested that ‘kingship’ (n a m - l u g a l, in Sumerian) was be-
coming established as an institution distinct from the temple leadership in the later
part of the Early Dynastic period (Frankfort 1978; Heimpel 1992; Gebhard Selz 1998;
2004c; Steinkeller 1999; Cohen 2001; 2005). It should be noted that, although the
terms ‘king’ and ‘kingship’ are convenient glosses, they carry a conceptual baggage
that may hinder understanding more than promote it. The variety of Sumerian terms
that connote types of rulers in the first half of the third millennium (including e n,
e n s i k, and l u g a l), the indications for their changing meanings over time, and differ-
ences in their semantic range by region all speak to the need for caution when substi-
tuting modern terminology. Textual evidence suggests that in southern Mesopotamia
prior to the later part of the Early Dynastic period, accession to the position of ruler
of a state—mostly designated by the term e n—did not follow lines of inheritance but
rather was based on appointment by a temple-based elite. In contrast, the position of
l u g a l or e n s i k—terms that largely supplant e n for the designation of a state’s leader
by ED III in southern Mesopotamia—seems to have been inherited.
Andrew Cohen (2001; 2005) has proposed that, in order for early rulers to estab-
lish a notion of rulership that transcended specific persons holding that position,
they had to transfer some of their authority as individuals to the office. In a related
fashion, Gebhard Selz (2004a: 38) has suggested that institutions and offices, includ-
ing n a m - l u g a l, were more important than the individuals who filled the positions.
Some scholars have viewed the establishment of kingly power as a sign of an increas-
ing separation between a predominantly secular/military and a religious sphere
(Steinkeller 1999), although others have questioned whether an attribution of secular
power is not anachronistic. Whatever its precise contours, the emergence of a par-
ticular notion of rulership at this time is unlikely to have taken place without struggle,
whether this struggle was confined to the upper echelons of society or extended
beyond them. Like many other political innovations, notions of kingship may have
drawn on traditional images and practices as sources of legitimacy; indeed, Weber
(1972: 142–44) has argued that, to produce long-term leadership out of a charismatic
 The Royal Cemetery of Ur 97

form, it is necessary to establish the basis of leadership as deriving from tradition or

rule-based authority rather than from specific qualities of an individual.
In summary, southern Mesopotamia in late Early Dynastic times was characterized
by multiple sources of conflict and considerable social, political, and economic exper-
imentation and change. Under these circumstances, competition among powerful
groups ran the risk of spilling out into broader domains and displaying to subordi-
nates the cracks in the edifice of elite domination. To avoid this was in the interests
of all powerful groups. Struggles internal to elite groups and institutions likely in-
cluded attempts to win over supporters through ideological and other means and
may have involved the establishment of nam-lugal as a stable and inheritable position.
In circumstances such as these, it is hardly surprising to find overt and spectacular
public rituals such as the rituals evident in the Royal Cemetery (compare with Geertz
1980), which drew on “traditional” means of claiming legitimacy, such as connections
to natural rhythms of the agricultural cycle and the deities who ensured that cycle.

The Royal Cemetery

My argument concerning the Royal Cemetery burials begins with the contention
that the cemetery was the burial place for a select group of people from Ur, specifi-
cally for the interment of members of great households, with each royal tomb rep-
resenting one of these households. I suggest that the differences between the ways
people in various tombs were prepared for burial as well as the rituals themselves rep-
resent distinctions among these households. The killing of household personnel to
accompany the head of household upon her or his death along with the elaborate ac-
companying ritual evident in tomb burial combined to make an ideological statement
concerning the supposed demise of the entire household. By drawing parallels be-
tween representations of elite feasting and the structure of tomb burial, I suggest that
feasting was an important means of inculcating “bodily dispositions,” so that, when
called upon to do so, selected members of Ur’s great households went to their deaths
in the tombs.
The Royal Cemetery was excavated during the years 1922 and 1934, as part of the
work conducted by C. Leonard Woolley at Ur (Woolley 1934; 1955). Approximately
2,000 graves were recorded, spanning a 500-year period from ED III to the post-
Akkadian period (Nissen 1966; Pollock 1985). Woolley made clear that he did not un-
cover the full extent of the cemetery, and he also remarked that many graves he en-
countered were so badly preserved that he did not even attempt to record them
(Woolley 1934: 16).
As already mentioned, Woolley differentiated 16 of the graves from the remain-
der, calling them the “royal tombs” and the others “private graves” (fig. 3). He attrib-
uted all of the tombs to the earliest phase of the cemetery’s use, now referred to as
Early Dynastic IIIa (ED IIIa), a period lasting approximately 100 to 150 years. Woolley
argued that the people who were privileged to be buried with the pomp and circum-
stance distinctive of the royal tombs were royalty accompanied to their graves by
members of their courts. He based his contention on several lines of reasoning, most
98 Susan Pollock

Figure 3. Plan of the royal tombs at Ur

(after Woolley 1934: pl. 273).

crucially the occurrence of objects inscribed with royal titles (l u g a l, n i n) in several

of the tombs (1934: 37–40); however, very few of these inscribed items were found in
direct connection with the principal burials in the tombs. Some scholars have ac-
cepted Woolley’s interpretation (for example, Reade 2001; Marchesi 2004); others
have argued that the tombs’ principal occupants were substitute kings, important
members of the religious establishment (high priestesses and priests), or unspecifi-
able powerful and important people (Frankfort 1978: 400–401 n. 12; Moortgat 1949;
Moorey 1977; Pollock 1991; Charvát 2002: 224–28; Sürenhagen 2002).
In addition to the 16 royal tombs, 137 of the so-called private graves can be attrib-
uted to the ED IIIa period, contemporary with the tombs (Pollock 1985). There are
also many graves from the cemetery that cannot be assigned a specific date, so the ac-
tual number of non-tomb burials from this period is almost certainly larger. The “pri-
vate graves” lack built structures, containing instead coffins or mat-wrapped bodies
laid in earthen pits. In nearly all cases, they consist of single interments, and although
a few contained substantial riches, most were much less lavishly furnished than the
royal tombs. Overall, this early phase of the cemetery (to which I confine my discus-
sion here) includes many well-provisioned burials. These burial practices, as well as
those from contemporary sites in the alluvial lowlands, represent the culmination of
several centuries of increasingly elaborate mortuary patterns in which distinctions
among people at death became ever more marked (Pollock 1999: chap. 8).
The Royal Cemetery was apparently reserved for the burial of selected persons
(Pollock 1991). I base this argument on two kinds of demographic evidence. First,
there are not enough dead in the cemetery to account for the population of the city
 The Royal Cemetery of Ur 99

of Ur during ED IIIa times. At a size of approximately 50 ha, Early Dynastic Ur would

have been home to a minimum of 5,000 residents at any one time; quite likely the
population was double this, if not higher. Assuming approximately 30 years per gen-
eration, a minimum of 15,000 people would have lived and died at Ur during the ED
IIIa period. The 509 bodies that can be attributed to the ED IIIa phase of the ceme-
tery clearly do not come close to reaching this number. 3 Even inflating the number
of dead by 10 times to account for the undated, unrecorded, and unexcavated buri-
als, the total (5,090) would still be far below the 15,000 necessary to account for the
minimum estimated population of the city.
The second part of the demographic argument comes from the remarkable under-
representation of children in the cemetery. According to Woolley’s (1934) records,
only 7, or a little more than 1%, of the bodies from this period were bodies of chil-
dren. 4 This would be an unheard-of child mortality rate for a preindustrial population.
The demographic evidence suggests that the cemetery was reserved primarily for
the interment of adults—and only certain adults. On what basis were they selected? I
have previously proposed that the dead were members of great households, whether
royal or temple-based, a suggestion that receives support from textual references (Co-
hen 2005: 80) and the absence of burials in any excavated temples or palaces in south-
ern Mesopotamia from this period. People whose ties were principally to their familial
households rather than to public institutions may have been buried within their
houses, a practice that is well attested at Early-Dynastic-period sites where houses have
been excavated, including Abu Salabikh (Martin, Moon, and Postgate 1985; Steele
1990), Fara (Martin 1988), and Khafajah (Delougaz, Hill, and Lloyd 1967).
Royal Cemetery burial was confined to members of great households, but more
specifically, I suggest, to adults who held ritual/cultic or managerial posts within these
institutions. The royal tombs were clearly not burial places for families, as indicated
by the presence of a single principal occupant in each tomb (where information about
the primary burial can be ascertained) and the virtual absence of children. Grave
goods accompanying the deceased—principally elaborate forms of dress, symbols of
officialdom (such as seals), and weaponry—point to their identities as cultic or mana-
gerial personnel. This argument receives some circumstantial support from Beld’s
(2002: 137–40) analysis of the Lagash e m u n u s a. Upon Irikagina’s ascent to power,
there was a significant reorganization of household personnel with a portion of the
staff removed and replaced by outsiders. Although not conclusive evidence, this shift
in personnel offers a provocative indication that some household members might “dis-
appear” upon the decease of the head of household under whom they had worked.
Significant differences exist among the tombs, which may be indicative of differ-
ences among the households from which they were derived (Pollock 2007). These in-
clude architectural variability (multichambered and single-chambered examples as
well as others with little evidence of architectural construction); marked differences

3. The number of 509 bodies is based on the 137 private graves plus 372 bodies in the 16 Royal
Tombs.
4. Although neither Woolley nor any of his team members was a trained osteologist, he was a
careful observer and is unlikely to have neglected noting the skeletons of young children.
100 Susan Pollock

in sequences of ritual activities, including tombs that exhibit complex vertical depo-
sitional sequences (for example, tombs 1050 and 1054) and others consisting of
more or less simultaneous depositional events (for example, tombs 789 and 800);
number of interments per tomb; and striking variations in the kinds and quantities
of grave goods. These distinctions are not only those of preservation, nor do they
seem to be solely a product of variable individual wealth or social standing. Rather, I
suggest that differences among households (between temples and royal households,
for example, but also between particular temples or particular royal households)
were carried over into burial practices, which emphasized similarities in the styles of
costume and adornment of persons buried in a single tomb and their differences
from others.
This argument for the household affiliations of tombs can be taken a step further
to suggest that they marked the metaphorical death of these households, coinciding
with the death of the head of household. The ritual “killing” of households is widely
attested in ethnographic and archaeological literature (Hill 1995; Stevanovic! 1997;
Walker and Lucero 2000). In the case of the royal tombs, a notion that the household
was supposed to have died might help account for the presence of people representing
a relatively stereotyped set of roles, such as guards and attendants. The metaphorical
killing of a household may have been part of an ideological denial of the heritability
of the resources and wealth of the great households, akin to the principle that lands
held by state officials were not to be inherited (Gelb 1976: 196). Alternatively, if (some
of) the tombs held the interments of kings (or queens), the “death” of the royal house-
hold may have been an expression of the fragility of kingship at the time (Pollock
2007). If tomb burials were metaphorical deaths of households, valuables found in the
tombs may have been the property of the household, not the personal possessions of
individual household members (Gebhard Selz 2004b: 203–4). 5
Although households may have metaphorically died (and along with them a not-
insignificant number of household members), other personnel remained alive. An ex-
amination of what was and was not buried in the tombs suggests that the fundamen-
tal economic basis of the household remained intact. Children (the next generation
of administrators and/or workers), laborers, and most tools used in agricultural, do-
mestic, and ordinary artisanal pursuits were not buried in the tombs. Overall, there
is a near absence of anything that would indicate the occupations or economic roles
of the deceased. 6 Rather, the material accompaniments of the dead seem to have ac-
centuated ritual, class, gender, and household affiliations.
It is now possible to ask the principal question of this essay with more precision:
how were certain members of great households in Early Dynastic Ur convinced to go
to their deaths in the royal tombs as an accompaniment to someone else? Following

5. For an attempt to categorize grave goods by their meanings to and possession by the living,
see Meyer 2000.
6. Although there are tools in some of the graves (for example, chisels, awls, fishhooks, saws, and
whetstones), many of these are made of metal or semiprecious stones, and they occur in very small
quantities in comparison with the items of personal adornment and vessels that predominate in the
graves. Numerous kinds of tools (for example, tools associated with agricultural tasks, such as sickles)
are entirely absent.
 The Royal Cemetery of Ur 101

the ideas of Weber and Testart, one might postulate that personal loyalties bound
subjects to a charismatic leader. Yet this does not in itself explain why this loyalty ex-
tended beyond life into death (contra Testart 2004), because the practice was of quite
limited temporal duration. A further exploration of this question requires an exami-
nation of the formal aspects of the burial ritual and the parallels between these ele-
ments and contexts of daily life.
Connections between mundane practices and the formalized actions of ritual per-
formances have been characterized “as a form of repeated citation of a disciplinary
norm” (Joyce 2000: 187, emphasis in original). In a related vein, a number of scholars
have emphasized that “successful” changes (those that are accepted and adopted) of-
ten begin from familiar practices or traditions (Walker and Lucero 2000: 133; Alt
2001; Pauketat 2001). What kinds of mundane practices might have prepared mem-
bers of Ur’s great households to acquiesce to their own early death? Drawing on the
earlier discussion of ritual and ideology, those practices may have been the sort that
incorporated specific embodied routines that “naturalized” them and helped to en-
sure their proper performance, not just in daily activities but also on spectacular and
unusual ritual occasions. One of the practices that bridged the mundane and the
spectacular was feasting and the closely associated practices of making food and
drink offerings to the gods and to the dead.
The importance of feasting in Early Dynastic Mesopotamia has already been noted.
In addition to the connections of feasts to the annual ritual cycles of city-states, an em-
phasis on the consumption of food, drink, and libation-pouring in the context of fu-
nerals has been frequently remarked upon (Wright 1969: 83; Forest 1983: 136; Winter
1999) and most recently has been the subject of an extended analysis by Cohen
(2005). 7 Texts mention the distribution of bread and beer to mourners and singers at
royal funerals (Bauer 1998: 558–59; Beld 2002: 173, 212). The offering of food and
drink to the dead was an important obligation of the living and formed one of the pri-
mary points of contact between the dead and the living (Heimpel 1987–90; Cohen
2005). Votive offerings that included food and drink formed central parts of what
Beld (2002) refers to as the ritual economy, which involved obligations such as m a s -
d a - r i - a offerings from elite members of temples and the royal family to other temple
institutions (Rosengarten 1960; Beld 2002) and deliveries of produce by the people
working in temple properties (Bauer 1998: 522). Images of banquet scenes on seals,
votive plaques, and inlaid musical instruments portray people (most commonly in
pairs) drinking together in a formalized scene that occasionally includes food as well
(fig. 4; Amiet 1980; Gudrun Selz 1983; Schmandt-Besserat 2000; Pollock 2003). Seals
with banquet scenes are especially common at Ur (Amiet 1980: 123).
The centrality of feasting and offerings of drink and food in the regular ritual life
of members of the elite in Mesopotamia in the mid-third millennium would have

7. Cohen argues that the kinds of vessels present in the tombs and graves, as well as the kinds
that are absent, indicate that they were used in graveside feasts rather than being equipment for pre-
paring food in the afterlife. I am not convinced by this argument, because the lack of vessels used to
prepare food may be another part of the general absence in the graves of tools used in productive
enterprises.
 102 Susan Pollock

Figure 4. A banquet scene on a seal from

tomb 1237, body 7 (U. 12374) (reprinted
by permission of the University of
Pennsylvania Museum, Philadelphia).

helped to inculcate correct etiquette, procedures, and unquestioning obedience to

the rules of the feast, thereby creating “docile bodies” (Foucault 1995). I should em-
phasize that I am speaking here specifically about elite participation in feasting; nei-
ther the images nor the texts at our disposal tell us much about feasting among the
masses of people. 8 Similarly, the feasts associated with royal tomb burial must be un-
derstood as involving people of the highest standing—those who were buried as prin-
cipal occupants of the tombs—plus the persons “privileged” to share their last earthly
feast or the feasts of which they would partake in the netherworld. Through the in-
culcation of the practical knowledge of the appropriate decorum of elite feasting—the
bodily positions, gestures, protocol—to the point that participants performed their
parts without reflecting on how or why they acted as they did, subjects were prepared
in a formal sense to partake in the ultimate feast leading to death. Beyond formalities
there must also have been notions of why it was appropriate for certain people to ac-
company certain others to their deaths, perhaps following ties of loyalty (see Testart
2004; Pollock 2007). For present purposes, I concentrate on the ideological form, as
expressed through participation in feasts.
The evidence from the royal tombs points clearly to the importance of the burial
feast, regardless of whether the accompanying persons in the tombs actually partook
in a ritual meal before going to their death or if the provisions were intended for use
in the netherworld or for the journey there (Cohen 2005). I base this argument on
the numerous similarities in details between the ways feasts and votive offerings are
portrayed among the living (in texts and images) and the material remains of the
royal tombs.
(1) The presence of vessels in graves, principally ceramic but also stone and metal
examples, was part of a tradition that had existed for centuries, in which the deceased
were interred with various kinds and quantities of containers (Pollock 1999: chap. 8).
It is not just a matter of the number or type of vessels present but the fact that many
of the dead in the royal tombs held a cup in one hand, raised in front of their chest

8. As I have suggested here, most of the people interred in the royal tombs probably belonged
to middle or upper social echelons (contra Pollock 1991). The near absence of information on feast-
ing and other ritual practices among the laboring classes that formed the bulk of the population is
due not just to problems of sources but also to the limited research that has been addressed to these
issues.

spread is 6 points short

 The Royal Cemetery of Ur 103

or toward their mouths (fig. 5; Woolley 1934:

35–36). This gesture is the same as the gesture
seen in depictions of feasts on seals and other
image-bearing artifacts. Even where no cup was
present, the dead were in many cases buried
with their hands in front of their chest, in a ges-
ture very similar to the drinking pose. Although
less common than drinking cups, large jars are
also present in some of the tombs, and Puabi’s
tomb (800) included several examples of drink-
ing tubes that parallel the tubes used by ban-
queters in seal scenes to drink out of jars.
(2) Feasting scenes on seals, plaques, and in-
laid items depict people bringing animals, loads
on their heads, and jars presumably filled with
foodstuffs or drink, all seemingly to be under-
stood as votive offerings and/or provisions for
feasts, as indicated in texts. Graves often con-
tained an abundance of jars and bowls, some
with remnants of foodstuffs, including wheat,
barley, peas, chickpeas, apples, dates, bread,
meat of sheep or goat, fish, and perhaps pig and
birds (Ellison et al. 1978). The similarities be-
tween this food in the graves and the food men-
tioned in texts concerning votive offerings and
feasts are striking (for example, Beld 2002: 108,
164, 174).
(3) In some of the tombs, there is evidence
for the pouring of liquids that may be an indica-
tion of libation-pouring known from texts and
images (Heimpel 1987–90; Winter 1999). These
include drains (tomb 1054), holes in the floor
Figure 5. Skeleton of Meskalamdug,
that may have served as conduits for liquids (in
the person buried in grave 755, with a
789 and 800), and “offering tables” (in 337 and gold bowl in his hands (after Woolley
1237) as well as long-necked spouted metal jars 1934: fig. 35).
and ceramic “lamps,” which Winter (1999) has
suggested may have been used in making liquid
offerings.
(4) Depictions of feasts often feature musicians playing lyres or harps, instruments
that are present in several of the royal tombs and in only one other contemporary
grave in the cemetery. The inlays on some of the lyres depict feasting scenes, a kind
of double referent in which scenes of feasting are present on objects used in the
feasts. They are similar in this regard to banquet seals found commonly in the royal
tombs (fig. 6).
104 Susan Pollock

(5) Several of the tombs contain wagons

or sledges drawn by animals, similar to the
wagons that can occasionally be found in
scenes of feasts (Gudrun Selz 1983: 332–36,
470–71; Jans and Bretschneider 1998: 161,
pl. 2). Wheeled vehicles, including wagons
and chariots, were commonly connected
to war ( Jans and Bretschneider 1998: 165),
suggesting that associated banquets may
have been victory celebrations or may have
made reference to them, in addition to con-
nections between wagons and transporta-
tion of the dead to the underworld (Meyer
2000).
(6) Some tombs include model boats of
bitumen, silver, or copper that evoke im-
ages and textual mentions of boat proces-
sions to cultic destinations where offerings
and feasts took place (Gudrun Selz 1983:
469–70; Beld 2002).
(7) Iconographic representations of
feasts frequently portray individuals with
elaborate hairdos and, where there is suffi-
cient detail to discern it, elaborate cloth-
ing. The tomb occupants, both the princi-
pal burial as well as most of the “atten-
dants,” were dressed in elaborate jewelry,
much of it emphasizing the head and per-
haps the hair.
(8) There are also parallels in terms of
what is not found in the tombs and the con-
nections of these absences to text- and im-
age-based portrayals of feasts and votive
offerings. Most striking is the almost total
absence of anything in the burials that
refers directly to the economic roles and
Figure 6. Depiction of a feasting scene on a
lyre found in tomb 789, with animals and activities of the deceased. As already men-
half human–half animal figures as the tioned, the graves contain few tools, and
musicians, dancers, and servers (U. 10556) especially notable by their absence are im-
(reprinted by permission of the University plements that would have been used in
of Pennsylvania Museum, Philadelphia). agrarian pursuits or in textile production,
which together formed the backbone of the
Mesopotamian economy. These absences closely parallel Early Dynastic images of
feasting and offerings, which also focus on end products—the ritual occasions them-
selves and not the ways the provisions were acquired and produced (contra
 The Royal Cemetery of Ur 105

Schmandt-Besserat 2000: 396). 9 Texts concerned with festivals and offerings also tend
to ignore the productive dimensions behind these activities, focusing instead on the
allocation of raw materials and end products.
Feasting and related offerings cannot alone account for all elements of the mortu-
ary rituals evident in the royal tombs or for the coerced consent that led nearly 350
people to give up their lives in these ceremonies. Some of the tombs were the prod-
uct of a rather different set of ritual actions; for example, tomb 1054 includes a
lengthy sequence of depositional acts, and there is also much more emphasis on men
than women among the dead in this tomb, in contrast to many of the others, and on
weaponry among the material accompaniments (Pollock 1983). Nonetheless, the pre-
ponderance of similarities between elements of tomb burial and feasts, many of them
associated with religious ceremonies, points to practices of elite feasting as one of the
ways in which residents of Ur were persuaded to participate in funerary feasts that led
in many cases to their own deaths.

Conclusion
The crux of my argument for why several hundred people in Ur acquiesced to
their own premature deaths on the occasion of the death of another person rests on
the importance of (invented) tradition, routine practices, and the establishment of a
notion of kingship that transcended individual holders of that office. In particular, I
have highlighted the embodied practices—involving feasting and offerings of drink
and food—that contributed to the formation of “disciplined bodies” that were prone
to perform appropriately because they had internalized the scripts for doing so,
along with a sense of loyalty and lack of alternatives should they “choose” to live on
(Scott 1985; Wagner 2002; Testart 2004). The public and spectacular character of
Royal Cemetery funerals likely played a significant part in the process (Cohen 2005),
adding to the emotional weight of the events and to widespread knowledge of each
person’s role as participant.
Some 100 to 150 years after they began, the royal tombs and the practices they in-
corporated came to an end. Although it is tempting to view the cessation of tomb
burial as a sign of resistance and refusal on the part of the people of Ur, it is perhaps
more likely that the reasons lie elsewhere. Borrowing from Testart’s (2004) argu-
ments, I argue that the end of tomb burial may have been part of a process by which
the ties between leaders and subjects became increasingly formalized and bureaucra-
tized. In the case of Ur, this transition may have been linked to the establishment of a
tradition of kingship that was increasingly based on a formal office with specific rules
of inheritance. With a growing acceptance of a hereditary institution of kingship, an
ideology that incorporated the notion of the “death” of a royal household upon the
death of the king or queen would cease to make sense (Pollock 2007).

9. This forms a distinct contrast to many Late Uruk seal images that depict what appear to be
mundane activities, including textile production, care of animals, filling of storehouses, and tasks in-
volving vessels.
 106 Susan Pollock

In this essay I have proposed a way to understand burial practices in the royal
tombs at Ur. 10 Moving beyond the Royal Cemetery, these thoughts may point the way
toward understanding not just how people in Early Dynastic Ur were persuaded to
participate in these death rituals but also how we today continue to be drawn into the
ideologies of the powerful against our interests and perhaps even against our better
judgment.

10. For a discussion of the relationship between the tombs and the “private graves,” see Pollock
2007.

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 Chapter 5
The Divine Image of the King:
Religious Representation of Political Power
in the Hittite Empire

Dominik Bonatz

Introduction
This essay aims to scrutinize the use and function of religious images during the
Hittite Empire period (ca. 1350–1200 b.c.e.). It is, however, not concerned with im-
ages of divinities as such but, rather, with secular rulers, insofar as their images ful-
fill clear religious functions. That is, components of political iconography can be
compared with aspects of attested religious iconography. It will be seen that within
this network of relationships, habitual patterns associated with early state society—
in this case Hittite—can be detected, patterns that help in the reconstruction of vi-
sual praxis as mirrored in both politics and religion. Before I embark on this un-
dertaking, however, to put the chosen material to the test, I must briefly discuss
what is meant by visual praxis and indeed how the terms religion and politics may be
defined within the context of this praxis.
David Morgan in his book The Sacred Gaze (2005: 55) has provided a very usable ty-
pology of the functions of religious visual culture. He writes that religious images ac-
complish one or more of the following aims for the people who cherish und use
them: (a) they order space and time, (b) they “imagine” community, (c) they commu-
nicate with the divine or transcendent, (d) they embody forms of communion with
the divine, (e) they collaborate with other forms of representation, (f) they influence
thought and behavior by persuasion or magic, and (g) they displace rival images and
ideologies. This typology of functions is, for our purposes, pertinent in almost every
case and not only offers a meaningful list of ready-made questions but also helps to
clarify a few ideas vis-à-vis the differences between religion and politics. Were “divine”
in (c) and (d) above, for example, to be replaced with “tradition,” “civilization,” or “na-
tion,” would the same functions also be found to apply to nonreligious images Mor-
gan 2005: 55), especially to political images? Religion and politics both serve in the
structuralization of social order. As is commonly made manifest in the ancient Near
East, the very slight difference between the two depends on the form of the forces or
powers to which they appeal. Whereas in the case of religion one would claim these
powers to be “supernatural” or “transcendent,” in the case of politics they are human.
Catherine Albanese (1999: 11), however, in her definition of religion speaks similarly
of “ordinary and extraordinary powers, meanings, and values” that permit a religious

111
112 Dominik Bonatz

orientation; this indirectly underlines the fact that often no great difference exists be-
tween what people consider to be religiously motivated and what they consider to be
politically motivated. My treatment of the historical material is based on this assess-
ment. On the one hand, it serves in defining religion and politics based not on their
institutional characters but on their praxis. On the other, it facilitates the investiga-
tion of the phenomenon of the interaction of religious and political praxis as symbol-
ized by the visual practices of their respective cultural communities.
Before I begin in this essay to speak of the Hittites, a cultural community that
passed long ago into history, I must clarify methodologically what we mean by the
expression visual praxis. A technical definition of visual culture would be, for ex-
ample, “the analysis and interpretation of images and the ways of seeing (or gazes)
that configure the agents’ practices, conceptualities, and institutions that put im-
ages to work” (Morgan 2005: 33). It is clear, though, that the second aspect of visual
culture—namely, the ways of seeing—can only be discussed very superficially in the
context of the ancient Near East. We lack the sources to answer how the images
were viewed, what emotions they elicited in those who gazed upon them then, and
who within the restricted circles of the elites had access to the images. 1 Indeed, it is
hard to speak of a visual culture at all, for various reasons, but we may, nevertheless,
begin with the concept of visual praxis. The images have survived the millennia, physi-
cal manifestations of the acts of visual praxis. They outlasted their creators and, fre-
quently, on this basis have become endowed with meaning. As instances of the
construction of reality, they mirror the various ways of thinking and behaving of past
cultures. From each image emerges a timeless agency, whose message it is possible
both to preserve and transform. 2 It is this agency that should stand at the center of
any consideration of visual praxis in Hittite times.

The Hittite Royal Couple as Bound to the Gods

In Hittite religion, the king and the queen were the principal servants of the gods.
They were responsible for tending to the well-being of all the deities within the realm
of their dominion and represented the central figures responsible for binding the em-
pire into a single unified entity. We can deduce this role from numerous ritual texts
and visual representations, such as the relief from Alaca Höyük, in which king and
queen stand worshiping the statue of a god represented by a bull (fig. 1). It seems that
the libation ritual, in particular, functioned as a motif of the closeness of the royals to
the gods. On the Boston Silver Rython, it is the king alone who is depicted pouring
out water in front of the Storm-god, who is driving his chariot (Emre 2002: 230–32,

1. Very few sources, and then mainly sources from the Neo-Assyrian areas, provide information
regarding the esthetic function of the images and of the reactions they were supposed to provoke in
the contemporaries who gazed upon them; on this, see Cancik-Kirschbaum 1999: 112–15; Winter
1997. A study of the visual experience articulated in earlier Mesopotamian texts has been presented
by Winter 2000. With regard to Hittite areas, there have so far been no investigations that have ad-
dressed the issues of seeing and the esthetic function of images.
2. On image agencies in the ancient Near East, see Bonatz 2002.
 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 113

Figure 1. Orthostats from Alaca Höyük representing Hittite queen and king, ca. 1300–1200
(drawing by Ulrike Zurkinden-Kolberg after Bittel 1976: fig. 214).

fig. 15). The most monumental example of a libation scene can be found on the rock
relief of Fraktın, which depicts Hattushili III and Puduheba: he is in front of the
standing Storm-god, unusually represented shouldering a crook and therefore alter-
natively interpreted as a hunting-god (van Loon 1985: 15) or a tutelary god of the
fields (Mayer-Opificius 1993: 361); and she is before the enthroned Sun-goddess, who
holds a bowl in her right hand (fig. 2). What we see in the visual representations, then,
is a privilege exclusively ascribed to the king and the queen. In Hittite visual practice,
performing in honor of the gods was represented as being more than a matter of re-
ligious ritual. It was a matter of divine destiny.
From these images, we may conclude that the “body politic” of the king was deeply
connected with the sphere of supernatural powers to which Hittite religion ap-
pealed. 3 As a consequence, the death of a king (and a queen) was thought not only to
create a politically unstable situation but to be highly disconcerting from a religious
point of view. To put it in a formula that was current then, kings and queens who died
“became gods.” Expressis verbis, from the first lines of the rituals for cremation and
burial of deceased Hittite kings and queens, the disaster that the disturbance of the
political and religious order announced is evoked: “If a great disaster or disturbance

3. Following Louis Marin’s fundamental study on the portraiture of Louis XVI, scholars of the
ancient Near East have begun to discuss the concept of the multifaceted nature of the king (Bahrani
2003: 138–45; Winter 1997: 374). They claim that in the images of kings in the ancient Near East we
also often recognize different embodiments: first, the specific, historical personage; second, the ex-
emplar of the institution of kingship; and third, the sacred person sanctioned by the gods. The
“body politic” thus exemplifies the institution of kingship, deeply intertwined with the “sacred body,”
the expression of the king’s religious status. For Hittite kings, a similar approach has been taken by
van den Hout (1994: 38, 52).
114 Dominik Bonatz

Figure 2. Rock relief of Fraktın representing Puduheba and Hattushili III, ca. 1270–1250
(Ehringhaus 2005: fig. 112; photo reprinted courtesy of Prof. Horst Ehringhaus).

occurs in Hattusha, in that a king or queen has become a god . . .” (KUB XXX 16+ vs.
I 1–2; after Otten 1958: 20–21; compare Haas 1994: 216). In order to overcome this
disaster and in order to deal with the threat to social order that the death has brought
about, not least emotionally, a 14–day ritual of the dead is held, the central aspect of
which is the transference of the royal corpse together with its paraphenalia to the un-
derworld. To this end, the deceased is accompanied to the hereafter by cattle, horses,
mules, and sheep, a piece of turf as pars pro toto for the pastureland, as well as picks
and spades, broken into pieces (KUB XXX 24a+ vs. I 1–26, vs. II 1–6; Otten 1958: 58–
61; Haas 1994: 224). The image of the deceased king as farmer and livestock holder
in the underworld corresponds to the significance of the agrarian economy in Hittite
society and the role that the royal pair played in guaranteeing agricultural pro-
duction. 4 The royal ancestors (Hittite: karuilies LUGALmes) existed in the hereafter
among the divine ancestors (Hittite: karuilies DINGIRmes), who were also known as

4. As is made most clear in the function the king and queen played in the ritual for the great
spring festival AN.TAH.SUMSAR in Hattusha and in other parts of the realm (Haas 1994: 772–826).
The function of the king as “shepherd” in the Hittite ritual for the dead is particularly clear at the
point of transference of the turf as pars pro toto for the pasturelands. It takes place at the point of
appeal to the Sun-god and ends with the words: “Now, Sungod, take this as legitimately dedicated
pasture/meadow-land! And none shall snatch it away from him (or) contest it legally! There shall pas-
ture cattle, sheep, horses and mules for him on this pasture/meadow-land!” (KUB XXX 24 vs. II 1–
4; after Haas 1994: 224–25; compare Otten 1958: 60–61).
 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 115

the gods of ‘below’ (katteres Dingirmes), that is, subterranean divinities led by the god-
dess of the dead, Lelwani. They all influenced growth on earth—which is one reason
why the agrarian cult was so closely linked to the ancestor cult (Gonnet 1995: 192–
93). It was also a reason why an effective afterlife was conjured up for the deceased
kings and queens—a continued existence in the hereafter, which at the same time
guaranteed the survival and prosperity of the ruling dynasty. The various forms of
Hittite ancestor cult (see Haas 1994: 243–48; van den Hout 1995: 45–46; Gonnet
1995) served the purpose of securing the maintenance of this existence and thereby
of counteracting one of the possible crises that the Hittite dynasty believed itself to
be exposed to through the absence of divine assistance. It was, indeed, possible to
turn the disaster evoked by a death in the royal family into a positive sign by means
of the “becoming-a-god” notion, what van den Hout (1994: 38) referred to as a “priv-
ilege of death,” from which those who remained should also be able to profit.
The creation of the rock reliefs at Fraktın may have been stimulated by the status
of the royal ancestors as divine powers in the life hereafter who were capable of ef-
fecting change. Closer analysis reveals that the ritual behavior represented there took
place less in this sphere than in a transcendent sphere. The robe and headgear of the
royal pair are conspicuously similar to the attire worn by the divine pair before them;
this is the main reason that it has been suggested that the scene depicts Hattushili and
Puduheba in the afterlife (Hawkins 1990: 311 n. 48; Mayer-Opificius 1993: 361–63).
The bond between humankind and the gods that the king and queen sealed while
alive, they obviously continued to maintain after death—the representation of which
this appears to verify.
The libation scene conveys the basic religious ideas that lie behind the pictorial
representation of the royal pair. Aside from the examples cited in this context, how-
ever, royal females are rarely portrayed in the art. 5 The king shown alone is the focus
of many more representations within the realm of the divine than is the queen. As
will be shown, iconographic forms are evident here that make no reference to known
canonical textual material, simply because the message they convey has little to do
with religious conventions and more to do with political aims.

Visualizing the Divine Ancestor

The pictorial decoration of the rock sanctuary Yazılıkaya, which lies near Hattusha,
dates back essentially to Tuthaliya IV (ca. 1240–1215). In the main Chamber A of the

5. Danuheba, for example, Muwatalli II’s spouse, indeed possessed her own seal, upon which an
image of a female personage appears dressed in a veiled gown (Neve 1993: fig. 157). However, it is
not likely that the seal owner is depicted here but, rather, the Sun-goddess of Arinna, just as is the
case with the representation on Tuthaliya IV’s seal (fig. 9 here). More commonly, the queens’ or
kings’ mothers share one or more seals with their spouses or sons, as do Hinti und Malnigal, the
wives of Shuppiluliuma I, and Malnigal again in her role as the mother of Murshili II (Neve 1993:
figs. 147, 153); Danuheba and Puduheba as the spouses of Muwatali II (Neve 1993: fig. 155) and Hat-
tushili III (Neve 1993: figs. 152, 158), respectively; and Danuheba as Urhi-Teshub’s mother (Neve
1993: fig. 147). In the middle of these seals, there are no anthropomorphic forms to be seen but
merely the hieroglyphic inscription of the names of both seal owners.
116 Dominik Bonatz

Figure 3. Relief no. 64 of Yazılıkaya

representing Tuthaliya IV, ca. 1230
(Bittel et al. 1975: pl. 39.2; photo
reprinted courtesy of Gebr. Mann
Verlag, Berlin).

cult complex, there are 65 reliefs still surviving in which a procession of the gods of
the Hurrian pantheon is represented that leads toward the highest gods of the pan-
theon, Teshub and Hebat (Bittel et al. 1975: pls. 12–38; Seeher 2002: figs. 1–8). The
image of the complex’s founder, Tuthaliya IV (fig. 3 here), appears on a rock face in
a position that overlooks the entire procession and makes direct eye contact with the
pair of chief gods on relief nos. 42–43. In general, the function of Chamber A is to
be connected with the New Year and Spring festival AN.TAH.SUM (Otten 1956: 101–
2; van Loon 1985: 19–20; Macqueen 1999: 128; Seeher 2002: 113), although Haas
(1994: 639), in view of the image of Tuthaliya there, suggests that the chamber was the
location of the coronation ceremony.
The adjoining Chamber B houses further representations of Tuthaliya IV. On relief
no. 81, he appears being embraced and led by his protective deity, Sharruma (Bittel
et al. 1975: pls. 48–49). In addition to this, however, a colossal statue of the king
stood within the chamber (Neve 1989: 350–51, figs. 2–3). The limestone base of the
statue is still in situ at the northern end of the chamber. A basalt panel found in the
village of Yekbaz, not far from Yazılıkaya, which preserves the remains of two feet ob-
viously clad in pointed shoes with turned-up toes, fits the base exactly (Neve 1989:
351 n. 51). On the basis of the size of the feet, it can be estimated that the statue had
an original height of some 3.8 meters. Its attribution to a standing image of Tuthaliya
 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 117

IV is based on the cartouche (relief no. 83) on the rock wall to the right of the statue’s
pedestal, in which the name Tuthaliya is written in Hittite hieroglyphs.
When one examines the colossal standing image of Tuthaliya IV in the context of
the other images in Chamber B, it becomes clear that we are dealing here with a com-
plex linked to the death cult of this king (compare Neve 1989: 349). In front of the
image in which Sharruma leads the king is the relief (no. 82) of the underworld-god
Ner(i)gal in the form of a colossal sword (Bittel et al. 1975: pl. 51). Opposite him ap-
pear 12 marching gods, armed with scimitars (nos. 69–80), probably an anonymous
group of underworld-gods (Güterbock 1965: 198; Bittel et al. 1975: 117, 124, 256, pls.
44–46). Tuthaliya’s statue is located, therefore, among (indeed amid) a row of repre-
sentations of divinities drawn from the hereafter. It must have been installed here
after the death of the ruler, to which an inscription in the name of Shuppiluliuma II,
Tuthaliya’s son and successor, bears witness (KBo XII 38):

But this image [of my father] Tuthaliya was (still) n[ot made]. Thus, I, Shuppiluli-
uma, [the Great King], King of Hatti, son of Tuthaliya, the Great King, grandson of
Hattushili, the Great King, and descendant of Murshili, the Great King, made it. As
my father, the Great King Tuthaliya, was a veritable King, just so I drew the veritable
manly deeds. (In this way) I ensured nothing was missing (and) I withheld nothing.
I erected a constant/eternal rock-hekur (and) I made an image; this I brought into
the constant/eternal rock-hekur, I decorated it and pacified him (the spirit of the
dead King). 6

The “rock-hekur,” one of the places consecrated by the gods for the worship of the
ancestors of the dynasty, is probably referring to chamber B in Yazılıkaya, in the case
of Shuppiluliuma’s inscription, although I recognize that places of this sort may have
existed elsewhere in the realm (Otten 1963: 22; Haas 1994: 245–46). The erection of
a memorial statue for the dead father obviously coheres with the reference to the re-
building measures that Shuppiluliuma II had undertaken there (Neve 1989: 349). The
enthroning of the dead ruler as a divine(?) ancestor in the underworld would proba-
bly have taken place simultaneously with or shortly after Shuppiluliuma II’s enthrone-
ment as the new ruler. 7
Shuppiluliuma built his father a monument at a time when the Hittite Kingdom
found itself in serious difficulty with regard to foreign policy. Besides a growing loss
of state authority on the borders of the realm, a new problem in the shape of pirates
had come to the fore—the so-called Sea Peoples. Shuppiluliuma was compelled to pur-
sue a military operation against Alashiya (Cyprus) and fight there against the ever-
approaching foe of the sea. The very same text that mentions the erection of the
statue for Tuthaliya reports on these events (KBo XII 38 RS III; Otten 1963: 20–21),
and although it is admittedly fragmentary, it does appear that Shuppiluliuma is
thereby drawing a direct connection between the erection of the hekur-cultic location

6. After Haas 1994: 639; compare Otten 1963: 16–17.

7. Arnuwanda III, who was regent for a brief time in between, does not alter the picture here. He
obviously failed to erect a memorial to the deceased Tuthaliya, which Shuppiluliuma II, with proper
self-interest, now takes responsibility to do.
118 Dominik Bonatz

Figure 4. Relief block from Temple

5, House A in the upper town of
Bogazköy representing Tuthaliya
(probably I), ca. 1240–1215 (Neve
1993: fig. 100; photo reprinted
courtesy of Dr. Peter Neve).

in Yazılıkaya and his own victorious deeds in Alashiya. Shuppiluliuma allows himself
to be guided by the manly deeds of Tuthaliya, who had previously defeated Alashiya,
establishing a memorial in the hekur through the erection of the statue. The compo-
sition must originally have been inscribed on the statue in monumental script, as an-
other or similar version of it that is attested as a rock inscription at Ni§antepe in
Hattusha suggests (Neve 1989: 63, fig. 124). This was a political statement that was
promulgated during the time of crisis shortly before the fall of the Hittite Kingdom,
and Shuppiluliuma sought to circumvent the crisis through reenacting the deeds of
his father. In accordance with Hittite traditions of belief, a deceased father takes up
a protective function as an ancestor virtually automatically and thus receives the nec-
essary care devoted to the dead. The spatial and pictorial production by Shuppiluli-
uma in memory of the dead paternal ancestor was supposed to lend this function a
special and hopefully long-lasting expression. It aimed at establishing communion
with the divine for the strengthening of both political and religious power.
We can only speculate about the exact appearance of Tuthaliya’s statue. On the ba-
sis of the torso of a monumental statue from Alaca Höyük, Neve reconstructed the
image of a standing man, dressed in a long robe, with his hands crossed over his
breast (Neve 1989: 351, fig. 3). Mind you, the head is also missing from the statue
from Alaca Höyük (Koçay 1973: pls. 40–41). One may imagine that it was adorned
 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 119

with a horned headdress, given that the figure represented a deified personage, and
on the basis of representations of other deified rulers. The same thing is to be found
on a relief block set in the wall as a pilaster from the “Chapel” (House A) in Temple
5 in the upper town of Hattusha, for example (fig. 4; see also Neve 1987: 63–64, figs.
16–17). The figure is turned to the right. It is clad in a short skirt, pointed shoes with
turned-up toes, and a pointed hat with four pairs of horns representing divinity, and
a large earring. A spear, poised over the right shoulder in attacking pose, underlines
the martial aspect of the man—the ruler Tuthaliya, according to the hieroglyphs on
the outstretched fist. In contrast to the names of the ruling monarchs, this name is
supplied with the epithet “Great King” alone. The signs for “Tabarna” and “My Sun”
are missing. The image thus represents one of Tuthaliya IV’s similarly named prede-
cessors and not the man himself, seeing that he should be regarded as the architect
of the structural ensemble at Temple 5 and therefore as donor of the reliefs in
House A. 8 Most likely we have here an image of Tuthaliya I, to whom Tuthaliya IV
refers before referring to his father, Hattushili (III), and grandfather, Murshili (II),
in his geneaology. 9
We may judge the psychological reasons behind the allusion to a forefather of
almost 200 years earlier 10 in the context of the entire Temple 5 complex and the
enclosed Houses A–C (Neve 1987: fig. 14). The temple has at its disposal, in its north-
western corner, an annex, similar to a house, which on the grounds of its architectural
peculiarities likely represents a combination in form between a cult location and a resi-
dence for the royal family (compare Neve 1987: 66). While members of the ruling
house were able to conduct their private cult for the highest gods—that is, Teshub and
Hebat—in this place, the cult of the dynastic ancestors was pursued in the connecting
area of the chapel-like Houses A–D, an area surrounded by Temenos walls. 11 We may
assume that Houses B and C, in the same complex and virtually identical to house A,
were dedicated to the other two regents named in Tuthaliyas IV’s genealogy, Hattushili
III and Murshili II, given the particular circumstances of their rule (compare Neve
1987: 68). Worked pilasters were found here that were similar to the relief block from
House A; they had no images but nevertheless could have fulfilled a cultic function
(Neve 1987: 64–65, fig. 15). The cult of the royal ancestors that would have been en-
acted in this area stretched therefore beyond the immediate forefathers of the ruling
dynasty back to the period before the foundation of the great kingdom. It shows the
extent of the effort made to maintain continuity within this dynasty and the strength
of the desire to secure a political inheritance through the conscious evocation of the
ancestors. The architecture of the building ensemble bears witness to this as occurring
in close correlation with the cult for the highest gods—a cult that was performed in a
way analogous to the cult of the ancestors, because these too had become gods.

8. Neve 1987: 68; 1993: 36; see, however, van den Hout (1995: 548), who on unconvincing
grounds sees it as the image of the incumbent ruler and founder, Tuthaliya IV.
9. Gonnet in Neve 1987: 70. Besides that, Shuppilulima (I) is named first in the list of Tuthaliya
IV’s predecessors, albeit not frequently (van den Hout 1995: 557).
10. Tuthaliya I’s dates of rule may be taken to be ca. 1420–1400 b.c.e.
11. Another complex, named House D, was interpreted by the excavator as a podium altar,
which could have served the cultic function of both temple and ancestor chapel (Neve 1987: 66, 68).
120 Dominik Bonatz

Figure 5. Relief block from

Chamber 2 on the “Südburg” of
Bogazköy representing
Shuppiluliuma (probably I),
ca. 1200 (Neve 1993: fig. 214;
photo reprinted courtesy of
Dr. Peter Neve).

The Image of the Divine Warrior

The iconography of the ruler in the relief from House A is that of a martial god.
He is dressed in a tall, pointed hat adorned with many horns, the symbol of a god.
With his attacking posture and shouldered lance in the right hand, he resembles the
image of the Storm-god with lance from Çagdin (near Gaziantep; Bittel 1976: fig.
207). The hand-held lance corresponds to hieroglyph L. 28 for ‘strong’/‘powerful’
(muwatalli; Laroche 1960: 21), a common epithet of the Storm-god. The similarity be-
tween the two images is indeed not a matter of mere chance but serves to emphasize
the supernatural power of the divinized royal ancestor. That this power is now picto-
rially associated with the character of a martial god does not necessarily correspond
to the image of the dead ruler as agriculturalist and husbandman of livestock in the
afterlife that the Hittite ritual of the dead evokes. The martial components obviously
counted for more in the pictorial world, because, being expressions of the power of
the Hittite royal house, they served to underline the latter’s political ambitions.
The image of Shuppiluliuma, on a relief block inserted into the wall of Chamber 2
on the “Südburg” of Bogazköy, is similar (fig. 5). The Great King appears as a divin-
 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 121

ized warrior with a horned, pointed hat, with a lance in one outstretched hand and
the other holding a bow slung over his shoulder. At the end of the chamber, a relief
with the representation of the Sun-god is displayed (Neve 1993: fig. 211). To the side
is an inscription of Shuppiluliuma II, in which the function of the chamber as a “di-
vine earth road” (that is, a route to the underworld) is described (Hawkins 1995: 44–
45, fig. 15). Based on the perceptions of the afterlife of the Chamber 2 complex, it
seems unlikely that Shuppiluliuma II is represented here, especially because he
was the last known ruler of the Hittite realm, and a posthumous construction is
hardly probable. 12 It is far more likely that the image represents Shuppiluliuma I,
who as an ancestor guarded the entry to the afterlife. It is not at all surprising that
Shuppiluliuma II chose the image of this patron, who as founder of the great re-
gime embodied the strength and power that Shuppiluliuma II himself craved in the
face of the destruction that threatened it.

Protecting the Kingdom:

The Divine Image of Kings and Princes on Hittite Rock Reliefs
In contrast to the “private” sphere of the temple and cult buildings in Hattusha,
Hittite kings and princes in the iconography of divine warriors are portrayed on pub-
lic monuments—the rock reliefs. The figures in question on the rock reliefs from
Imamkulu, Hanyeri, and Hamide/Hemite 13 all hold a spear in an outstretched hand,
wear a sword hung from a belt, and shoulder a bow with the other hand. Each has a
round cap, upon the forehead side of which a single horn is portrayed. The head-high
captions identify the persons represented as princes. 14 Their supernatural status is
underlined on the one hand by their closeness to the images of gods, and on the
other hand by the proximity of the Storm-god, who is portrayed in front of the
princes in the rock reliefs at Imamkulu and Hanyeri (here symbolized as a bull).
Among the rock reliefs at Karabel A and Karabel B are royal figures in the guise
of god-warriors, 15 and there are similar figures on the newly discovered rock reliefs
at the Hatip Springs as well (fig. 6). Just like the princes, these figures carry a sword,
spear, and bow; but based on the horned, pointed hats that they wear, they were per-
sonages of a higher rank. 16 A caption appears in front of the head of the relief at

12. For alternative views, see Neve 1993: 72, 80; and van den Hout 1995: 558.
13. Börker-Klähn 1982: 258–60, nos. 314–16; Kohlmeyer 1983: 80–95, figs. 33, 36, 39, pls. 22,
23.4, 32, 33.2, 34, 36.1; Ehringhaus 2005: 70–80, 107–12, figs. 133–35, 142–45, 193–95.
14. Thus, in general, the identity of the represented person is considered to be accounted for
(thus Börker-Klähn 1982: 258–59; Kohlmeyer 1983: 83, 90, 93; Beyer 2001: 351; Ehringhaus 2005:
72–73, 80, 108). Only Herbordt (2005: 58), in the context of her study of the prince and official seals
from Hattusha, doubts that the bow-carrying figure in the rock reliefs can be indisputably identified
as a prince.
15. Börker-Klähn 1982: 255–257, nos. 311–12; Kohlmeyer 1983: 12–28, 25–28, figs. 2, 5, pls. 2–
4, 6; Ehringhaus 2005: 87–91, figs. 161–62.
16. It remains unclear whether both figures on the rock reliefs in Gavurkalesi, presented in ado-
ration pose before an enthroned goddess and armed with a sword are gods or rulers (Börker-Klähn
1982: 257–58, no. 313; Kohlmeyer 1983: 43–48, fig. 16, pls. 19–20). Their existence will thus be men-
tioned here only in passing.
 122 Dominik Bonatz

Figure 6. Rock relief of Hatip representing Kurunta, ca. 1220 (Ehringhaus 2005: fig. 186;
drawing reprinted courtesy of Prof. Horst Ehringhaus).

Karabel A that refers to King Tarkasnawa of Mira (Hawkins 1998: 4, fig. 3). In Hatip,
the caption reads: “Kurunta, the Great King, [. . . .], son of Muwatalli, the Great King,
the hero” (Dinçol 1998: 161, fig. 1).
Without doubt, the creation of the images as rock reliefs and their geographical
locations indicate that these pictorial messages should be understood within a geo-
political context. 17 Imamkulu lies southeast of Kayseri on the western side of the Bey
Dag, at the beginning of one of the roads leading over the Gezbel Pass and at the bor-
der of the land of Kizzuwatna. At the other end of the pass route, that is, on the east-
ern side of the Bey Dag, there is a relief from Hanyeri. Both reliefs fulfilled a cultic
function and assisted the traffic between differing geographical areas, as indicated by
their presence at exposed locations, in each case near a mountain and a spring, and
by the fact that the Storm-god was presented at the center of the reliefs (Kohlmeyer
1983: 86, 90; Ehringhaus 2005: 76).
Farther south, on the way to Cilicia, where the Ceyhan emerges from the moun-
tains, the Hamide relief was produced. The view from here stretches as far as the Misis

17. For maps with details about the geographical location of the rock reliefs, see Kohlmeyer 1983:
153; and Ehringhaus 2005, endnote at the back; and see both for a comprehensive description of the
location. For the location of the reliefs lying to the west, see also the map in Hawkins 1998: fig. 11.

spread is 6 points short

 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 123

Mountains in the Cilician Plateau, where the rock relief at Sirkeli representing Mu-
watallis II may be found. Only Tarhundapiya, the name of the father of the donor of
the Hamide relief, is preserved, but Kohlmeyer (1983: 94–95) argues that the relief
was an expression of the ambitions of some prince at a strategically important loca-
tion to rule in that area at the moment of the fall of the great Hittite Kingdom, fol-
lowing Tuthaliya IV’s death.
At another geographical location, to the west, we have the reliefs at Karabel Pass.
They are at an exposed point along an important route across the Boz Dagları (the
Tmolos range in classical antiquity), linking the valleys of the Gediz (Hermos) and the
Küçük Menderes (Cayster) rivers, and thus leading from the region of Sardis to the
region of Ephesus, to be identified with the Late Bronze Age Apasa. The reliefs and
their inscriptions demonstrate that Tarkasnawa, king of Mira (one of the lands of
Arzawa) and a contemporary of Tuthaliya IV, sought to secure his area of rule toward
the west as far as the coast and the Meander Valley (Hawkins 1998: 21–31).
Kurunta’s relief at the Hatip Springs is 17 km south of Konya, thus within former
Ikuwaniya and the Hittite realm. Its donor, the reasonably well-known king of Tar-
huntassa, has most recently come to light as a result of the discovery of a bronze tab-
let in Bogazköy (Otten 1988). As the son of Muwatalli II, Kurunta was installed as
king in Tarhuntassa by Hattushili III and consequently ruled there as a vassal of Tut-
haliya IV. At the end of his career, however, he appears to have harbored ambitions
for the Hittite throne itself. This, at least, makes sense of the discovery of seal impres-
sions from Bogazköy in which he is described as the “Great King” in Hattusha (Otten
1998: 4–6, figs. 1–2). He also takes the title “Great King” in the rock relief at the
Hatip Springs (fig. 6), which suggests that the monument was erected on Hittite soil
as an expression of his new demands for power (compare Dinçol 1998: 163).
The rock reliefs mentioned may be connected above all with the expression of
clear political statements aimed at the Hittite Empire at the moment of its greatest
crisis, if we follow the aforementioned interpretations of the rock reliefs from Ha-
mide, Karabel, and Hatip. The donors of the reliefs pursued their geopolitical aims
using pictorial propaganda with iconography taken entirely from the Hittite reper-
toire. The choice of a divine warrior as the central motif in the majority of the rock
reliefs, however, poses the question whether the donor had arranged to present an
image of himself with divine attributes or an image of a deceased ruler, turned god,
as an ancestor. Dinçol (1998: 162–63) does not opt for either of these interpretations.
He prefers to see the representations of the divine warrior (such as the one at Hatip)
not as the depiction of the ruler as donor of the image but as a god with an apotro-
paic function to protect the image and inscription. Herbordt (2005: 57–58, fig. 39a–
f) expressed similar reservations in her study of the motif of the bow-carrier on clay
bullas in the Ni§antepe archive in Hattusha. The motif is identical to the representa-
tion of the princes on the rock reliefs. As a motif on the seals of princes and high of-
ficials (scribes and priests), it obviously enjoyed substantial popularity at the time of
the Empire. Whether the seal owner intended it as a reproduction of his own image
or the image of his protective god is, according to Herbordt (2005), impossible to
determine.
124 Dominik Bonatz

The Contingent Nature of Hittite Art

Any discussion of the divinization of Hittite rulers obviously suffers from our not
knowing when a Hittite ruler was able to adopt the attributes of a god in pictorial art
and what these attributes actually said about the divine status of the ruler. As was
made clear above, it is possible to see deceased rulers who have become divinized an-
cestors in some of the representations in question, which reflect the expression “king-
becomes-god” found in the texts. However, anyone who sees in this possibility a Hit-
tite doxa—a convention regarding divination that required that all pictorial represen-
tations of it were also reflected in the written record—must also question whether
representations of living rulers with divine attributes were even possible. Develop-
ment of the images certainly must have followed some rules but this development
was not necessarily paralleled in the texts. Therefore, the unfolding of Hittite visual
art may be more accurately described as contingent.
According to one of the essential realizations of Bourdieu’s theory of praxis, each
form of praxis is contingent. 18 There is no culture in which the forms of life-praxis
can be predicted with certainty. The location of an individual within society is indeed
a consequence of an understandable (insofar as it follows from society’s rules—the
doxa) but nevertheless contingent praxis. This applies as much to individuals at the
pinnacle of Hittite society as elsewhere and, therefore, to the images through which
they function in the field of visual praxis. As Bourdieu explains, the style of a society
continually redefines and alters itself anew; this can be called “evolving meaning”
(Bourdieu 1994: 152). Hittite works of pictorial art are also linked to each other
through a chain of significant relationships that together constitute a unique Hittite
style. These relationships, however, were not carved in stone but were interconnec-
tions that formed a composite system made up of rules and exceptions (compare
Bourdieu 1994: 153). Of particular interest to our analysis are the exceptions that led
to changes in the norms. These exceptions are evidence of broader political events
and instances of individual political fates set against the wider historical backdrop.
These exert influence on the so-called habitus 19 as embodied by the system of Hittite
society: the king and his family. Thus, the system of images alters itself just as does the
habitus of the high-ranking personalities under the influence of unpredictable even-
tualities. The world of images, on the constant lookout for what was new, absorbed
whatever political stimulation it found while remaining within the preestablished re-
ligious forms—without there necessarily being any textual reflection of this alteration.
Thus it becomes clear that the formula “if a king becomes a god” was able to escape
its ritual and textual confines and, via the production of new forms of images, be-
came linked with notions other than those for which there is textual attestation.
Anthropomorphic representations of kings appear late in Hittite art, from the
time of Muwatalli II (ca. 1290–1272) on. From the beginning, the royal image took on

18. Saake (2004: 96–99), for example, adopts a contingency-theoretical approach in his reflec-
tion on Bourdieu’s work.
19. In the terminology of Noam Chomsky’s generative grammar, the habitus may be defined as a
system of internalized, “deep-structure” forms that lead to all typical thoughts, perceptions, and ac-
tions of a culture (Bourdieu 1994: 143).
 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 125

Figure 7. Seal impression of

Murshili III, ca. 1270–1260
(drawing by Ulrike Zurkinden-
Kolberg after Neve 1993: cover
photograph).

the traits of a god in such a way that the differences between the images of king and
god were commonly very slight. Van den Hout (1995) describes this process in some
detail as part of his investigation into the iconography of the Hittite Great Kings and
attempts to explain it. He makes reference to the numerous pictorial similarities be-
tween ruler and god that significantly altered the image of the Hittite king. He distin-
guishes formally between a pictorial group A, in which the king carries the lituus and
wears the long robe and rounded skull cap that are associated with the image of the
Sun-god, 20 and a group B, in which the king wears a horned, pointed cap and is
mostly presented in warrior-like aspect. 21 With respect to group A, it is not hard to
find an explanation for the similarity of the images with those of the Sun-god, for at
least from the time of Hattushili on, the Hittite kings used the title ‘My Sun’, dUTUsi
(Fauth 1979: 229–30), thereby presenting themselves as the Sun-god’s representative
on earth, which also eventually resulted in a pictorial expression of this idea. There is
no reason to assume that in this case the image and ruler were not contemporary. It
is, however, harder to account for the images in which the king wears the horned,
pointed hat, the unmistakable symbol of divinity. In contrast to the conventional view,
a view also supported here so far as some of the images are concerned (namely, the
images in which royal ancestors are presented), van den Hout (1995: 559–60) has pos-
tulated that these images are representations of living rulers. The earliest attestation
of this phenomenon to which he refers is the seal bearing the name Murshili (III).

20. Van den Hout 1995: 551–53; see, for example, the image of Muwatalli II on the rock relief in
Sirkeli (Bittel 1976: fig. 195) and on seals of the same ruler (Beran 1967: pl. 12.250–252); further-
more, the image of a king on a relief from Alaca Höyük (fig. 1) and the representation of Tuthaliya
on relief nos. 64 (fig. 3) and 81 in Yazılıkaya.
21. Van den Hout 1995: 553–61; in essence, the images from Hattusha already treated here are
to be counted among these.
126 Dominik Bonatz

Here, the figure of the divine warrior with lance, sword, and bow stands behind the
Storm-god steering a wagon led by bulls (fig. 7). According to van den Hout (1995:
559), the king is being portrayed in this image of the god. 22 In accordance with Hit-
tite seal practices, the use of a dynastic seal is excluded, which would mean that this
seal must represent the ruler, namely, Murshili III/Urhi-Teshub (ca. 1272–1265). 23 It
may follow, then, that the same applies to the seals of princes and officials from Hat-
tusha mentioned above. Although these images use round hats and not the horned,
pointed ones, given the lower status of the seal owners, the figures represented could
be deified self-portraits (Herbordt 2005: 57–58, fig. 39a–f). The impressions of two
seals of Urhi-Teshub as crown prince (tuhkanti-) recently found in the Ni§antepe ar-
chive have provided the first clear evidence for the use of divine features in the im-
ages of living individuals, for there the seal owner is represented as a god with a
pointed hat in the embrace of the god Sharruma (fig. 8; see also Herbordt 2005: 69–
71, fig. 46a–d, cat. nos. 504, 505, 507). This cannot be an image of the deceased Urhi-
Teshub, for we know that he followed his father, Muwatalli II, as Great King, with the
throne name Murshili (III). Van den Hout’s (1995: 559) thesis that rulers from Mur-
shili III on were able to appropriate the iconography of gods while still alive has thus
been confirmed retrospectively through the discovery of Urhi-Teshub’s crown-prince
seals. Perhaps, this extraordinary step in the development of the representation of
kings occurred in connection with the difficult state in which Urhi-Teshub found him-
self as he succeeded his father to the throne and used this form of representation to
legitimate his claims in the face of the demands for the throne made by his uncle,
Hattushili (III) (Herbordt 2005: 71; 2006: 31).
After Urhi-Teshub, Tuthaliya IV has himself represented twice as a god with a
horned crown in the embrace of the Storm-god. One is the image of a stamp seal im-
pression on a tablet (RS 17.159) from Ugarit (fig. 9); the other is the recently pub-
lished impression of a cylinder seal, the use of which by a Hittite king is unique. It was
found among the sealed bullas from the royal archive of Nißantepe in Hattusha (Her-
bordt 2006: figs. 130–31). In both cases, the image only superficially resembles relief
no. 81 in Yazılıkaya. On the seals, the god doing the embracing is not Tuthaliya’s per-
sonal protective god, Sharruma, but the Storm-god Tarhunta (on the stamp seal) or
Kummani (on the cylinder seal), and the ruler does not don the simple round cap but
the many-horned, pointed hat, just as does the Storm-god. Unlike the Yazılıkaya re-
lief, which may be accounted for within the context of the religious rock sanctuary in
which it is found, the seal evokes a political demand that is manifested by the image’s
closeness to the Storm-god, the highest god of the empire.
It is thus clear, that beginning in the thirteenth century, Hittite rulers, princes, and
probably even high officials as well began to use divine iconography for their pictorial
self-representations. This does not mean that they claimed divine status during their

22. Dinçol (2002: 91) sees here instead the image of the protective deity DINGIRLAMMA, while
Hawkins (2006: 50) favors the Stag-god.
23. Schaeffer (1956: 16–17) had already pointed out that the well-known seal impression of Tut-
haliya IV on tablet RS 17.159 from Ugarit (fig. 9) must have depicted the ruling monarch because
the tablet records the king’s verdict (compare also Hawkins 1990: 311–12 n. 48).
 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 127

Figure 8. Seal impression of Urhi-

Teshub, ca. 1275 (drawing by Ulrike
Zurkinden-Kolberg after Herbordt
2005: pl. 40:504.2a).

lifetimes (as noted also by van den Hout 1995: 559). The self-portrait as a god is,
rather, an expression of an increasing awareness of the need for legitimation and
should be evaluated as a common reaction to difficult outside circumstances. The im-
ages of rulers and other highly ranked individuals as gods were thereby able to serve
the purpose of underpinning personal claims to power and offering protection
through the proximity of the supernatural, just as did the images of the ancestors
among the ranks of the gods.

International Politics and the Persuasive Function of Religious Images

The representations on seal images therefore had a special meaning, for seals en-
sured that the message could be spread over great distances and also ensured the re-
peated validation of this message. The above-mentioned seal impression of Tuthaliya
IV from Ugarit (fig. 9) is relatively well known. The king is represented to the right,
in the Storm-god’s embrace, 24 while to the left stands the Sun-goddess. In the middle
of the image, Tuthaliya’s cartouche is presented twice, crowned by the winged Sun. As
in heraldry, the seal image unites essential aspects of Hittite rule in which the king is
the protégé of the highest gods. The message appears, on the basis of the picto-
graphic character of both image and script, to have been generally understandable,
even for those who lived far from central Hittite areas. The document from Ugarit
with Tuthaliya’s seal dealt with the divorce of Ammishtamru, king of Ugarit, from the
princess of Amurru. It is indicative of the powerful influence that he sought to exer-
cise over the political (marriage) alliances of his vassals that Tuthaliya sanctioned this

24. For a discussion as to whether it is, in fact, Tuthaliya and not a god who is represented here,
see the note above as well as van den Hout 1995: 558 n. 63.
128 Dominik Bonatz

Figure 9. Seal impression of

Tuthaliya IV, ca. 1240–1215 (Bittel
1976: fig. 192; photo reprinted
courtesy of Editions Gallimard).

divorce. This was one instance in which the royal seal fulfilled its restricting foreign
policy objectives.
However, it was not only the message of the Great King that was successfully
broadcast in this way within the north Syrian area. The strong presence of seal images
with representations of kings, princes, and high officials in the guise of divine war-
riors is particularly noticeable in the north Syrian area. 25 In places such as Emar that
were under the control of the Hittite kingdom based in Carchemish, images such as
these functioned more than ever as proof of central state authority. The power of the
custodian of the Hittite Empire was obviously strengthened by using an image of him-
self with supernatural and militaristic attributes on the seals. The custodians used this
image to project themselves as powerful figures, who toward the end of the thir-
teenth century were striving for ever greater independence.
Documents from Ugarit (Schaeffer 1956: 20–29, figs. 27–35) and Emar (Beyer
2001: 47–49, A2a–b, A3) have been found with the seal of Ini-Teshub (ca. 1270–
1220), the Hittite viceroy in Carchemish, for example, and bear witness to his unlim-
ited authority. 26 On two of the three attested types of seal, only the name and royal

25. Beyer 2001: 347–53, figs. 65–67. According to the seal inscription, leading private individuals
are the owners of the seals, sometimes described as scribes, and on this basis to be understood as
referring to high officials in the local administration (for example, Beyer 2001: 106–7, A101–A103).
If the captions with the names were to be interpreted similarly to the captions on the royal seals
(which are taken to refer to the figure of the divine warrior beside which they are placed), then it
follows that these officials would also be presenting images of themselves in this way.
26. On this, see Klengel 1992: 124–26. Ini-Teshub, who had occupied the post of viceroy at Car-
chemish beginning with the days of Hattushili III, later acquired the title “Great King” from Tut-
haliya IV himself (Klengel 1992: 124–25 n. 197).
 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 129

Figure 10. Seal impression of Ini-

Teshub, ca. 1270–1220 (Schaeffer
1956: fig. 34; drawing reprinted
courtesy of Mission archéologique
des Ras Shamra–Ougarit).

titulary of this ruler appear, without mention of his genealogy (figs. 10, 11). 27 Ini-
Teshub is represented on both seals as a god with a club on his shoulder, greeting the
Storm-god, who stands in front of him on a bull, with his right hand raised. Two dif-
ferences in the otherwise identical seal images are informative, because they may in-
dicate a change in the status of the seal owner. In one, the ruler has a round hat with
a horn, and in the other, he wears a horned, pointed hat. In the first case (fig. 10), the
so-called solar figure makes an appearance as a third form in the image. This figure
wears a long robe, carries a lituus, is supported by a bull man, and has the winged Sun
attached to its head. Differing opinions exist as to the identity of this figure, though
Beyer (2001: 341–47) has argued plausibly on the basis of material in Emar that the
motif parallels the royal Hittite title dUTU si ‘My Sun’ and may have been created in
northern Syria to evoke the image of the Hittite “Great King.” The particular dialect
of the glyptic workshop in Carchemish is expressed in this “solar figure.” Here a “su-
pernatural image” that was allegedly capable of symbolizing the umbrella-like rule
and protective power of the Hittite Great King is shown off to advantage. The identi-
cal figures are also found, for example, on the seal of one Shahurunuwas (Beyer
2001: A1), the father of Ini-Teshub and his predecessor on the Carchemish throne,
and on the seal of Prince Heshmi-Teshub (2002: A4a–b), Ini-Teshub’s brother. It is
missing from Ini-Teshub’s seal, in which he represents himself as a god with a horned,
pointed cap (fig. 11). Instead, a male figure standing on a bull and marked as a god
by wearing a round horned hat appears with a raised spear attacking an upright lion.
The motif of the lion-conquerer has a secure place within the iconography of the an-
cient Near East, on the basis of which Beyer (2001: 49) suggests that we also see Ini-
Teshub, king of Carchemish, as being represented in this figure. Ini-Teshub would
thus be represented twice on this seal: once as a divine adorant of the Storm-god and
once as a heroic lion-hunter. This composition makes it quite clear that Ini-Teshub

27. The inscription alone claims: “seal of Ini-Teshub, king of Carcemish.” In contrast, the first of
Ini-Teshub’s well-known seals has a longer inscription (see Beyer 2001: 47, A2a) in which he describes
himself as the servant of Kubaba, the son of Shahurunuwa, the grandson of Sharri-Kushuh and great-
grandson of the Hittite Great King Shuppiluliuma. This is the only seal on which a god is repre-
sented with a double axe and a club, who according to the caption is Sharruma.
130 Dominik Bonatz

Figure 11. Seal impression of Ini-

Teshub, ca. 1230 (Schaeffer 1956:
fig. 32; drawing reprinted courtesy
of Mission archéologique des Ras
Shamra–Ougarit).

feels himself to be subordinate not to the political protective power but to the highest
god, the Storm-god. His own status is emphasized in the image by means of the
pointed, horned hat and club, and by placing himself opposite the symbol of the
highest ranking god, with whom he obviously compares himself.
As the use of this seal on a tablet found in Ugarit shows, 28 it is to be dated to a later
period of Tuthaliya IV’s reign and may be readily understood to be the last in a series
of Ini-Teshub’s royal seals. It demonstrates the means by which the viceroy of Carche-
mish employed iconography to project a supernatural image of himself, one that lent
expression to his elevated claims to power, which on the one hand raised his image
to the level of the Hittite Great Kings but on the other hand differentiated him from
the deified self-representations used by the elite who surrounded him. The choice
and assemblage of motifs on Ini-Teshub’s seal were therefore deliberate, original, and
exemplary of the Carchemish style. Only the religious aspects of the seal iconography
remains within the tradition of Hittite royal art, an art that constantly used pictorial
religious language.
The connection between the religious context and the political meaningfulness of
the images will be demonstrated here with a final example, Tuthaliya’s relief in Ala-
lakh. The representation is found on a basalt orthostat, uncovered in the level I
temple that was also used in a secondary context as a step between the lion sculptures
(fig. 12). Woolley (1955: 241–42) dated the original presentation of the reliefs to level
III of the temple; however, this is not possible on historical grounds, because level III
bears all the hallmarks of Mitannian dominance over Alalakh (compare Heinz 2002:
164). Only with Shuppiluliuma I, at the end of level II (around 1340), can we be cer-
tain of a Hittite presence and therefore be able to explain the existence of Hittite
monuments. The ruler, who is named Tuthaliya on the monument, must therefore be
Tuthaliya IV (ca. 1240–1215). His relief was obviously erected in level IA and, after
the destruction of the building by fire, was purloined along with other orthostats
(Woolley 1955: 85) and used in the new building of level IB as a step in the temple
entrance. In this way, the inhabitants of Alalakh toward the end of the twelfth century
discharged their duty vis-à-vis a symbol of Hittite dominance.

28. RS 17.59; Schaeffer 1956: 28–29. The content of the tablet deals with the conflict between
Tuthaliya and the strengthened Assyrian Empire in which Ugarit sought to remain neutral, but as
compensation for which Ugarit had to pay the Hittite king a considerable amount of gold. Ini-Teshub
was the intermediary in this transaction.
 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 131

Figure 12. Orthostat from the temple in Alalakh representing a royal family and inscribed with
the name Tuthaliya, ca. 1240–1215 (Woolley 1955: pl. 48a; photo reprinted courtesy of the
Society of Antiquaries of London).

The form of the representation and the identity of the person depicted have drawn
little attention so far. Woolley (1955: 241) saw there a Hittite king (Tuthaliya IV) fol-
lowed by his spouse and an “attendant.” The identitification of the person as Tut-
haliya, however, appears to me to be problematic for various reasons. The figure is
wrapped in a long cloak that is open at the front, revealing a short skirt. The head-
wear consists of a round cap with a single horn at the front. On the basis of all the
images cited thus far, this is a divine attribute used in the representations of viceroys,
princes, and high officials, but not the Hittite Great King. He dons either the pointed,
horned cap or appears in the guise of the Sun-god with lituus in hand, as in Muwa-
talli’s rock relief in Sirkeli (Bittel 1976: fig. 195) and an orthostat from Alaca Höyük
(fig. 1). From an iconographic viewpoint, the main figure in the Alalakh relief cannot
represent the Hittite Great King. Its gesture with raised fist with thumb forward is
nevertheless identical with the gesture of the Hittite kings represented in the reliefs
at Sirkeli and Alaca Höyük. The latter reveal the meaning of the gesture. It consti-
tutes a form of greeting to the gods or divine symbols. In Alaca Höyük, for example,
it is directed toward an altar, behind which stands a podium with a bull on it, the sym-
bol of the Storm-god (fig. 1). In Alalakh, in contrast, the greeting gesture is directed
toward the over-large hieroglyphs of the name Tuthaliya. 29 The Hittite king is thus

29. On the reading, see Güterbock in Woolley 1955: 241.

132 Dominik Bonatz

not presented pictorially but pictographically in the form of the hieroglyphs of his
name. This interpretation makes sense, because it explains why the figure standing to
the left of the hieroglyphs is not the Hittite king but a vassal who in reverential mode
turns toward the name of his master. Behind his neck, a second hieroglyph caption
was inscribed, of which only the title, “the king’s son,” can still be read. I do not hesi-
tate to read this as the designation of a person from the family of the local regency
and thus of the king of Alalakh, serving under Tuthaliya. 30 The woman who follows
him is wearing a long, floor-length, closed gown similar to the gown worn by the
woman following the king in the relief from Alaca Hüyük. Other details cannot be
discerned; even the long object in her outstretched hand cannot be identified. Be-
hind, worked onto the surface of the small side of the basalt block is the figure of a
male, virtually identical to the main figure, only smaller. 31 In summary, we see here
the family of the local regent of Alalakh bearing witness to their respect for Hittite
sovereignty.
We know from the texts of the Emirgazi altars that a cult dedicated to Tuthaliya
was introduced during his lifetime (Hawkins 1995: 86–102; 2006: 54–65). This cult
also involved the erection of a stele to the Hittite king. Thus, one may assume that the
Alalakh relief was also related to the concept of a political theology during the reign
of Tuthaliya IV. It is one of the (no doubt forced) pictorial evocations of loyalty to the
Hittite Great King made at a time when Alalakh was still under Hittite domination.
The context in which this loyalty was expressed, on the other hand, is revealing. It
took place within the context of a treatment that may be described as religious,
given that the location was the temple in Alalakh. The protagonists are themselves
designated with divine symbols. Their cultic treatment, however, did not address a
godhead but the Hittite Great King, whose name alone suffices as an object of “super-
natural power” worthy of devotion. The image shows that there is barely any discern-
ible difference between the appearance of the transcendant divine and the appear-
ance of a living ruler. The particular form by which religious imagery expresses Hittite
power eliminates this difference.

Concluding Remarks
The late appearance in Hittite pictorial art of the representation of the ruler oc-
curs within the context of a visual culture, which is almost without exception deter-
mined by religious motivation. The iconographic phenotype of the king integrates

30. Unfortunately, the absence of textual sources from Alalakh dating to level I at the end of the
thirteenth century means that we are unable to reconstruct the history of the period or the names
of the rulers. However, in the annex to the level IB temple, a white steatite bulla seal was found with
the following hieroglyphic inscription: “Pa-lu-wa, son of the king, lord of the land” (Woolley 1955:
266, pl. 67, no. 155). Given that the object found was a seal and not a seal impression, it is probable
that this Paluwa was resident in Alalakh and was likely regent there. It is thus also possible that he is
represented on the relief.
31. This figure does not hold a spear in his outstretched hand as Woolley (1955: 141) writes. The
straight line running from the elbow of his raised arm is instead the braid trim of a cloak of the same
length as the cloak worn by the main figure.
 Religious Representation of Political Power in the Hittite Empire 133

itself seamlessly with this world of religious imagery because it bears the characteris-
tics of the gods. His representation as a god or as godlike is not necessarily evidence
of the supposed divine existence of the ruler, whether in this life or the next. It shows,
rather, the supernatural powers with which he was believed to interact, either while
alive or dead. It was precisely because of the possibilities afforded by the medium of
an image in overcoming the physical boundaries of interaction and in presenting the
ruler as one with the gods that the images could function as propaganda. Via this
unity with the divine, the Hittite royal house was able to cultivate the notion of a
world of rule for itself and its ancestors reaching out over time and space.
As an icon of universal power, the divine image of the ruler enjoyed an exclusive
status and was first and foremost an instrument of political interest. As a religious
representation, however, it remained part of a system that sought to derive its power
from communion with the divine, and this consequently led to a very unique reli-
gious form of political representation. The Hittite image of rule embodied both po-
litical and religious aspects, taken together; it was a fiction of power that was neither
historically typological nor explicable by reference to a canonical text but was unique
to the historical moment.

Appendix
Approximately one hundred years after the fall of the Hittite Empire, a ruler called
Taitas in Halab (Aleppo) reworked the Hittite tradition of propaganda through reli-
gious imagery. On a central relief on the eastern wall of the cella of the temple on the
citadel at Aleppo, he is presented opposite the Storm-god of Aleppo with fist raised
in greeting (Gonella, Khayyata, and Kohlmeyer 2005: figs. 124–26). 32 No sacrificial
table or other object separates the two similarly sized figures. This opposition of god
and ruler brings a far greater sense of unity to the composition, in which the bound-
aries between worldly and religious power have been comprehensively removed. In
order to round off this unit, a procession of regional and interregional deities moves
from the left hand side, along the north wall of the cella, toward the main image of
the Storm-god and the king facing him (Gonella, Khayyata, and Kohlmeyer 2005: figs.
157, 159). It is as if at a time in history shaped by the struggle of Hittite successor
states in north Syria to survive, the spatial and pictorial production in the temple at
Aleppo is recording the emigration of supernatural powers charged with represent-
ing the interests of the state in a new area of rule.

32. On the dating and more detailed description of this and the other reliefs from the Aleppo
temple, see Gonella, Khayyata, and Kohlmeyer 2005: 90–111.
134 Dominik Bonatz

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 Chapter 6
Nabonidus the Mad King:
A Reconsideration of His Steles from Harran and Babylon

Paul-Alain Beaulieu

The legend of the madness of Nabonidus, Babylon’s last king (556–539 b.c.), has
haunted the literature and historiography of Babylonia, ancient Judaism, and the
Western world for more than 25 centuries. The version of this legend most familiar
to us is the fourth chapter of the book of Daniel, where the madness is reattributed
to another king of Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar II (605–562 b.c.). Yet the number of an-
cient sources alluding to other versions of the story points to the existence of a once
richer tradition, of which only scattered elements have survived. This makes the task
of disentangling the web of legend that grew around the life and personality of Nabo-
nidus fraught with difficulties. Even among our relatively small body of sources, one
can recognize conflicting points of view. In cuneiform sources the theme of the king’s
eccentric behavior appears mainly in the Verse Account of Nabonidus (Schaudig
2001: 563–78). This text probably originates in the period shortly after the conquest
of the Babylonian Empire by Cyrus in 539 b.c., although it is known only from a
single later copy. The Verse Account harshly censures the deeds of the fallen king, de-
picting the capture of Babylon by Cyrus the Great as an act of liberation. It remains
to this day one of the few truly polemical documents from ancient Mesopotamia. The
Verse Account voices no direct claim that Nabonidus was insane. Of course, madness
is a culturally bound notion, one that would be very difficult to define for an ancient
society. Nevertheless, none of the few Akkadian words and expressions that might
suggest madness occurs in the Verse Account to describe Nabonidus. The text pre-
sents itself as a criticism of policies more than personality—that is to say, the intima-
tion of madness, if any, stems from the allegedly unusual nature of the decisions
made by the king, not from a diagnosis of his mental state.
Other cuneiform sources offer negative accounts of the king. The Cyrus Cylinder
depicts Cyrus as emancipator and severely condemns Nabonidus, yet makes no allu-
sion to his madness (Schaudig 2001: 550–56). The same is true of the Dynastic Proph-
ecy, a document stemming from the clerical environment of the Esagil temple in
Babylon in the latter part of the fourth century b.c. (Grayson 1975b: 24–37). This is
presumably the same milieu that had generated much hostility to the religious ideas
of Nabonidus 200 years earlier, and not surprisingly the Prophecy contains an ac-
count of his reign that is almost entirely disapproving. Yet the motif of madness is also
absent from it. Other sources are more neutral. The Babylonian Chronicle records

137
138 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

year after year the king’s absence from Babylon and his cancellation of the New Year’s
Festival yet expresses no specific outrage at this behavior (Grayson 1975a: 104–11). It
also reports other events of his reign in typically dispassionate tone. Berossus in his
Babyloniaca also refuses to embark on a wholesale condemnation of Nabonidus.
While he presents him as a usurper, a fact that Nabonidus himself admitted openly,
nothing else he reports in his succinct account of the king’s reign can be construed as
an element in the dark legend of a mad ruler (Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996: 60–
61). Thus, the memory of Nabonidus was not unanimously negative after all. This is
perhaps how we should explain the fact that the two usurpers who arose in Babylon
at the beginning of the reign of Darius I and took Nebuchadnezzar (III and IV) as
throne names both claimed to be sons of Nabonidus (Streck 2001a). The transmission
of the memory of Babylon’s last king during the first two centuries after his downfall
appears as a complex issue, with impartial chronographers, opponents, and possibly
even supporters leaving traces of their narratives in the tradition. Still, however, one
cannot find a source that raises the issue of Nabonidus’s mental or physical health to
explain his behavior.
The picture changes, however, as we move into the Hellenistic period and shift the
focus of our attention to the Jewish tradition. The discovery of the Aramaic Prayer of
Nabonidus among the Qumran manuscripts has provided the missing link proving
that the figure of Nebuchadnezzar in the book of Daniel resulted from a conflation
of two traditions, one about Nebuchadnezzar, the other about Nabonidus (Collins
1996). This had been suspected long before the discovery of the Prayer, for there are
several clues as to the presence of a Nabonidus tradition in the book of Daniel. The
most obvious one is the fact that Belshazzar, who was in reality the son of Nabonidus
(Bel-sar-ußur), appears in the book as a son of Nebuchadnezzar. But the crucial aspect
of the Daniel and Qumran traditions is the transformation of the king’s legend of er-
ratic rule into one of disease and insanity. The motif of Nebuchadnezzar’s sudden
madness in Daniel 4, of his beastly behavior and removal from human society, obvi-
ously finds its origin in Nabonidus’s ten-year-long sojourn in the northern Arabian
oasis of Teima. Here the Prayer of Nabonidus has proved crucial because it provides a
bridge between the Jewish stories and their Babylonian sources. The Prayer claims
that Nabonidus, afflicted with a grievous skin disease for seven years, was cured after
praying to the god of the Jews. The rest is fragmentary but appears to reproduce an
encyclical letter, written by the king at the behest of a Jewish diviner, acknowledging
the superiority of the Most High God over Babylonian idols.
Some have noted the analogy between these claims of a skin disease that forced
the king into isolation and a standard curse formula found in cuneiform sources of
the second and first millennium calling for the moon-god Sîn to inflict on the trans-
gressor the skin disease saharsubbû and send him roaming the arid steppe like a wild
ass (Watanabe 1984; Grelot 1994). As recently pointed out by Cavigneaux (2005), a
cuneiform chronicle from Uruk dated to the Hellenistic period associates a similar
curse with Sulgi, the second and most successful ruler of the Third Dynasty of Ur. In
this chronicle, Sulgi is accused of desecrating the cult of Marduk and favoring Ur, the
city of the moon-god Sîn and historically the capital of Sulgi’s kingdom. As punish-
 Nabonidus the Mad King 139

ment, he is afflicted with a skin disease that covers his body. The chronicle belongs to
an apocryphal tradition that attributed to Sulgi various sacrileges against the cult of
Marduk. There is little doubt that this tradition was eventually conflated with ele-
ments of the legend of Nabonidus, who was also guilty of neglecting the cult of Mar-
duk in favor of the moon-god Sîn of Ur and Harran. The entire story was probably
picked up by Babylonian Jews, who reformulated it, associating mental illness with
skin disease, and the forced quarantine in the desert imposed on the king with his
withdrawal to the oasis of Teima. All this eventually found its way into the Qumran
corpus and the book of Daniel. The legend of the mad king of Babylon had reached
maturity. Of course, one can argue that these motifs already circulated during the
lifetime of Nabonidus to resurface in writing only later due to accidents of preserva-
tion. This may well be the case. Nevertheless, considering the fairly large corpus of
sources dating from the Neo-Babylonian, Achaemenid, and Hellenistic periods, it
seems more reasonable to assume that the legend of the madness of Nabonidus crys-
tallized at a later date, outgrowing a dominant strain in the cuneiform tradition that
remembered him as unorthodox and misguided, though not necessarily as insane.
If Nabonidus’s madness was a secondary motif, should we still believe the more
mundane claims of malfeasance and impiety voiced in the Verse Account? While this
text is a piece of propaganda, it is remarkable that sources dated to the reign of Na-
bonidus often corroborate its claims. For instance, it decries Nabonidus for his pre-
tensions to literacy, knowledge, and wisdom, and indeed one can find claims of this
sort in the building inscriptions of the king and other writings commissioned by him.
Similarly, it accuses Nabonidus of various crimes of impiety, asserting that he made a
horrifying new image of the moon-god of Harran and even tried to convince the cler-
ics of the Esagil temple in Babylon that their sanctuary belonged to the moon-god Sîn
because of its symbol in the shape of a lunar crescent. These accusations do not seem
so excessive in the light of the king’s own inscriptions, which provide direct evidence
for the making of a new statue of Sîn for Harran, for the notion that the Esagil temple
belonged to the moon-god, and even for the association of the lunar crescent with the
city of Babylon. The list could go on. The real question is: to what extent did any of
the claims made by Nabonidus and denounced in the Verse Account reflect actions
that were illegitimate for a king? Previous Mesopotamian kings boasted of literacy,
knowledge, and wisdom. In the previous century, Ashurbanipal had laid the very
same claims. Even Nabonidus’s attempts to syncretize Marduk with the moon-god Sîn
and prove the latter’s superiority plunge their roots very deep in the history of Meso-
potamian thought. They also stand in remarkable continuity with some religious de-
velopments of the late Assyrian period. Lewy (1948) demonstrated long ago that the
rise of the moon-god Sîn of Harran began in the late Assyrian period and was particu-
larly favored by the monarchs of the Sargonid dynasty, in particular Esarhaddon and
Ashurbanipal. Recently Schaudig (2002) has discussed additional evidence for this
process. Official texts of seventh-century Assyria promote the syncretism between the
gods Assur and Sîn, and even in Babylonia the inscriptions of Sîn-balassu-iqbi, who
was governor of Ur during the early years of the reign of Ashurbanipal, raise Sîn to
the position of supreme leader of the gods, equating him with the god Enlil.
140 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

The Verse Account even extends its wholesale condemnation of Nabonidus to his
military conquests and alleged oppression of subjected peoples. One can hardly think
of another case where adding new conquests became ground for criticism of a Meso-
potamian ruler by his own constituency. Is the Verse Account, by satirically mirroring
the king’s own claims, not simply trying to delegitimize actions that in other contexts
would seem perfectly acceptable? It seems essential to take a fresh approach to the
question and consider the inscriptions of Nabonidus from another angle. How did
Nabonidus choose to represent his own power? In the context of what type of legiti-
macy did he strive to convey his religious ideas and political designs to his subjects?
In considering these questions, I will concentrate mostly on inscriptions that were in-
tended to be in public view and conveyed an image of his regal power that was likely
to reach a wider audience. Among these inscriptions, the Harran Stele (Schaudig
2001: 486–99) and the Babylon Stele (Schaudig 2001: 530–32, as Tarif-Stele) stand
out as the most important monuments.

The Neo-Babylonian Figure of the Ideal King

Royal inscriptions were most likely composed by scribes in the central administra-
tion. We can assume that scribes always worked under close royal supervision, but
the degree of involvement on the part of the sovereign must have varied consider-
ably. Nabonidus, who claimed to know the art of writing, probably exercised even
tighter control of the official scriptorium. We know almost nothing about the process
of composing and editing royal inscriptions other than what we can infer from the
texts themselves. However, some interesting evidence has recently been adduced by
Gesche (2000) in her doctoral dissertation on the late Babylonian school curriculum.
She has demonstrated that, after a basic introduction to cuneiform (Elementarunter-
richt), the curriculum was broadly divided into two branches: the first level of training
(Erste Schulstufe) and the second level (Zweite Schulstufe). In the first level, students cop-
ied a basic canonical corpus of syllabaries, vocabularies, and lexical lists (Syllabary Sa,
Vocabularies SbA and SbB, H a r - r a = hubullu I–III and the Weidner god list) and a cor-
pus of noncanonical lists devised in the late periods specifically for student training (a
list of male and female personal names, acrographic lists of verbal paradigms, LÚ lists,
list u m m i a = ummânu, basic arithmetical and metrological lists, lists of month names,
lists of geographical names, and excerpts from administrative and legal texts). At this
level of education, few literary texts were copied except proverbs and a group of five
compositions that all portrayed the king as protagonist. These included the Weidner
Chronicle (Al-Rawi 1990), the Letter of Samsuiluna to Enlil-nadin-sumi (Al-Rawi and
George 1994), the Standard Babylonian Recension of the Cuthean Legend of Naram-
Sîn (Westenholz 1997: 294–368), the Birth Legend of Sargon (Westenholz 1997: 36–
49), and the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh (George 2003: 379–741). Miscella-
neous excerpts from historical inscriptions completed this corpus. The prominence
of the royal ideology in texts studied in the first level of the schools has led Gesche to
postulate that most students who completed it were initially destined to pursue ca-
reers in the royal administration. Students who graduated into the second level of
 Nabonidus the Mad King 141

training, on the other hand, probably planned to embrace one of the higher intellec-
tual disciplines of the scribal craft. This stage included advanced study of the lexical
corpus and texts that belonged to the asiputu. Texts propagating the mystique of the
monarchy were largely absent from this curriculum. These students probably contin-
ued their training in the temple or under the supervision of senior exorcists (asipu),
lamentation singers (kalû), or diviners (barû), who were often members of their ex-
tended families.
Scribes in the royal administration who composed official inscriptions must have
found inspiration in the texts they studied in school, in particular the works of litera-
ture that centered on the figure of the king. The most conspicuous case of this sort of
influence is the Cuthean Legend, which bears striking affinities to the inscriptions of
Nabopolassar recording his expulsion of the Assyrians from Babylonia. The figure of
Naram-Sîn, who enjoins future kings to avoid war, remain passive, and trust in the
providential guidance of the gods, provided an illustrious model for Nabopolassar
who, in a similar address, presents himself as a contemplative ruler who remained
faithful to the gods Marduk and Nabû in times of adversity and requited brutality with
kindness (Beaulieu 2003). One can also point to an interesting parallel between the
Weidner Chronicle and the Istanbul Stele of Nabonidus (Schaudig 2001: 514–29, as
Babylon-Stele). We now know that the chronographic portions of the Weidner Chron-
icle belong to an apocryphal letter of Damiq-ilisu, king of Isin, to another ruler who is
probably Apil-Sîn, king of Babylon. Damiq-ilisu relates to his correspondent his expe-
rience of an incubation dream, in which the goddess of Isin, Ninkarrak (= Ninisinna =
Gula), revealed to him that the gods Ea and Marduk would raise Babylon to the status
of cosmological and political capital. This bears an intriguing resemblance to a pas-
sage of the Istanbul Stele in which Nabonidus seeks a confirmation of his rule from
the goddess Nintinugga (= Gula) during an incubation dream. After a favorable omen
from the goddess, Nabonidus proceeds to be confirmed king in the temple E-niggidri-
kalamma-summu. There he receives the scepter from Nabû and beholds the seat of
his wife Tasmetu, who is equated with Gula in the inscription. Then Nabonidus seeks
approval of his rule from Marduk and bestows gifts on Ea and other gods of Babylon.
One could argue that the resemblance with the Weidner Chronicle is coincidental.
However, these are the only two reports of actual incubation dreams involving the
goddess Gula in the entire cuneiform record, and they both involve legitimation of
kingship and the recognition of Babylon as political center and Marduk as its main
god (Butler 1998: 233–35).
It is also significant that, of the five educational compositions that centered on the
figure of the king, no fewer than four belong to the genre of narû literature. Narû
compositions were fictional accounts of the deeds of famous kings allegedly inscribed
on steles (narûs) to instruct present and future generations. The Cuthean Legend of
Naram-Sîn is the archetypal narû composition. The text of the Legend was purport-
edly copied from a genuine stele onto a tablet, and the opening lines of the composi-
tion even invite the reader to open the tablet-box that contains the copy and read
from it. The same motif appears in the Epic of Gilgamesh (Westenholz 1997: 300). The
Epic claims that Gilgamesh inscribed all his travails on a stele. The text of this stele,
142 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

which is identical with the text of the Epic, was allegedly copied on tablets and buried
under the walls of Uruk as a foundation deposit to be retrieved by future generations.
Hardly could the analogy with building inscriptions have been conveyed in more ele-
gant fashion. The Birth Legend of Sargon also belongs to the same genre, even
though the word narû does not appear in the preserved portions of the text. Finally,
the Letter of Samsuiluna specifies that its content must be inscribed on a stele, this
being indicated by the formula umma ana narê (‘thus for the stele’). Of the five com-
positions outlined above, only the Weidner Chronicle lacks an explicit connection to
narû literature. However, it displays another fundamental feature shared by all five
compositions. All of them portray kings addressing other kings, officials, or a larger
audience of their subjects, always with the purpose of giving instructions for proper
guidance and government. In this sense, Gilgamesh also belongs to this category, be-
cause Gilgamesh addresses not only his contemporaries but also future generations,
kings, and commoners alike. Finally, and this is probably the most important thread
that unites our five compositions, it is noteworthy that they present a consistent and
distinctive image of the monarchy. They depict the king always in the same role; not
as conqueror, administrator, or provider of social justice but as religious leader and
teacher of wisdom. This, no doubt, corresponded to the ideal figure of the king pro-
moted by official circles in the time of the Babylonian Empire.
This last point is important to understand the ancient polemic around the figure
of Nabonidus, because professing to be a religious leader and teacher of wisdom is
precisely the main charge brought against him in the Verse Account and is also the
guise under which Nabonidus chose to present himself to his subjects. The evidence
obtained from Gesche’s reconstruction of the school curriculum shows that the
claims laid by Nabonidus, far from embodying the fantasies of an eccentric, stemmed
from the mainstream tradition of cuneiform learning. The possibility that Nabonidus
was a court official before his accession to the throne should also be considered, be-
cause his status as royal functionary would have made him familiar with the corpus
studied in the first level of scribal training, in which all the texts propagating the royal
ideology were studied (Beaulieu 1989: 79). This particular construct of the role of the
monarchy would have been deeply imbedded in his consciousness long before his ele-
vation to kingship. We must therefore conclude that on this particular issue the Verse
Account attempts to delegitimize acts that belonged to the realm of royal preroga-
tives. As far as representations of his own power and role as king are concerned,
Nabonidus was acting within the recognized and legitimate parameters of late Baby-
lonian civilization.

The Letter of Samsuiluna as Model for the Harran Stele

The Letter of Samsuiluna presents an interesting example of the sources of Nabo-
nidus’s self-representation as king. This text reproduces a letter allegedly sent by the
Old Babylonian king Samsuiluna to a certain Enlil-nadin-sumi, governor of the land
(sakin †em mati). Enlil-nadin-sumi is ordered to inscribe on a stele the text of a royal
proclamation chastising temple administrators and the priesthood of the cult centers
 Nabonidus the Mad King 143

of Akkad for lying, committing abominations, desecrating the rites of their gods, and
altering divine commands. The proclamation then reviews the correct state of affairs
mandated by Marduk in primeval times and extends an invitation to the sinful priests
to acknowledge the contents of the stele and speak to Samsuiluna, presumably as an
indication of their repentance and willingness to learn the correct ways. Al-Rawi and
George propose to seek the historical setting of this text in the time of Nebuchadnez-
zar I (1125–1104 b.c.). This is supported by the occurrence in it of the formula umma
ana narê, which is also found in a historical-literary text relating to Nebuchadnezzar
I’s campaign against Elam, the Letter of Nebuchadnezzar I to the Babylonians (Frame
1995: 21–23). They also argue that the religious reforms that crystallized during his
reign and resulted in the consecration of Marduk as king of the gods and the displace-
ment of Enlil must have provoked widespread anger among the traditional priest-
hood of cities such as Nippur and Uruk. The composer of the text would have served
the royal purpose in asserting the duty of the priests to submit to the authority of the
king in these matters. Why was Samsuiluna chosen to illustrate this point? The ques-
tion is impossible to answer. We know that some religious upheavals occurred during
his reign, notably in the wake of the abandonment of southern cities and the migra-
tion of their cults to northern Babylonia (Charpin 2004: 342–46). But this in no way
suffices to explain the origin of the letter. Its apocryphal nature seems, at any rate,
quite obvious. However, an inscription of king Ipiq-Estar of Malgium demonstrates
that the ideology propagated by the letter was already in existence during the Old
Babylonian period. In this inscription, Ipiq-Istar accuses the people of his country
(matum in naphari kalûsu) of having committed a sacrilege by destroying the temple
and cult of the goddess Belet-ili and then proceeds to restore them in their original
form (Frayne 1990: 669–70). The inscription does not specifically charge temple offi-
cials and the priesthood with the crime, yet the substance of the message is quite simi-
lar to the Letter of Samsuiluna. It also proclaims that the duty of the king is to
safeguard ritual prescriptions in his realm and restore them when his own subjects
rebel and commit sacrileges.
The Letter of Samsuiluna instructs the recipient to record the accusation of sacri-
lege on a stele (umma ana narê). Similar accusations leveled by a Babylonian king at
his subjects are otherwise attested only in two inscriptions of Nabonidus, and signifi-
cantly these two inscriptions also happen to be recorded on Steles. The first accusa-
tion occurs in the Istanbul Stele. There, Nabonidus blames the people of Uruk for
having removed the image of Istar from the Eanna temple during the reign of Eriba-
Marduk in the eighth century and replacing it with an improper representation of the
goddess. The stele then recalls the return of the proper image to Uruk, which we know
to have taken place under Nebuchadnezzar II, who was probably mentioned in the
break at the beginning of column III. Two later sources from Uruk, the Uruk Prophecy
and the Crimes and Sacrileges of Nabû-suma-iskun, ascribe the very same misdeeds to
this eighth-century king, thus indirectly exonerating the inhabitants of Uruk (Beaulieu
2001). The second accusation appears in the Harran Stele. This inscription certainly
dates to the period after the return of the king from his sojourn in Teima and com-
memorates the rebuilding of the Ehulhul temple in Harran. The opening segment of
144 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

the inscription recalls how intimately the order to rebuild Ehulhul was tied to Nabo-
nidus’s call to kingship by the patron deity of the temple, the moon-god Sîn. Yet, after
reporting that the moon-god had sent him a dream ordering the rebuilding of his
sanctuary, Nabonidus goes on, accusing the inhabitants of the cities of Babylonia of
rebellion, sacrilege, sinful behavior, and, above all, of disregarding the great godhead
of Sîn and forgetting the proper rituals of their cult places. This, claims Nabonidus,
forced him into exile. Only after a ten-year-long sojourn in Arabia did the propitious
time arrive for returning to Babylonia and rebuilding the Ehulhul, thus fulfilling the
divine command. It may be instructive here to compare the Letter of Samsuiluna with
the Harran Stele.

Letter of Samsuiluna
1. a-na Iden-líl-na-din-mu lúgar-uß4 kur [o o] ªx xº [o]-ªxº-bit-tu4
2. a-pil su-ú-nu ru-bu-tu lúgìr.níta ªxº [ma-ha-zi? a]k-ka-di-i
3. ma-la ba-su-ú qí-bi-ma um-ma [Isa-am-su-i-lu-n]a lugal kis-sat [o o o]-ªx-ma!º
4. um-ma a-na na-re-e gi-mir ma-ha-ªzi kur uriº[ki sá?]
5. ul-tu ßi-it dutu-si a-di e-reb dutu-si [o]
6. nap-har-sú-nu a-na ßu.min-ka us-tag-m[i?-ru?]
7. ás-me-e-ma lúku4-é! ki-na-al-tu lú!nu.èß lúpa-si-s[i? o]
8. ù lúdingir.gub.ba.meß sá ma-ha-zu kur uriki ma-la ªgalº-[ú?]
9. sar!?-ra-a-tu4 i-ta!-haz an-zil!-lu4 ik-tab-su da-me il-ªtap-tuº
10. la sal-ma-a-tu4 i-ta!-mu-ú sap-la-nu dingir.meß-sú-nu ú-ha-an-na-pu!?
11. ú-sá-an-na!-pu i-ßab-bu-ru i-sur!-ru a-mat dingir.meß-sú-nu la iq-bu-ú
12. a-na ugu dingir.meß-sú-nu sak-nu

To Enlil-nadin-sumi, governor of the land, x x x x x x x, son of the loins of prince-

ship, superintendent of all [the cult centers of A]kkad, speak, thus [Samsuilun]a,
king of the world, [o o o o] x, thus for the stele: “(Concerning) all the cult centers of
the land of Akkad, all of those from east to west [which] I have given entirely into
your control, I have heard (reports) that the temple officials, the collegium, the ne-
sakku-priests, the pasisu-priests, and the dingirgubbû-priests of the cult centers of the
land of Akkad, as many as there are, have taken to falsehood, committed an abomi-
nation, been stained with blood, spoken untruths. Inwardly they profane and dese-
crate their gods, they prattle and cavort about. Things that their gods did not
command they establish for their gods.”

Harran Stele
1. i-pis-ti d30 gal-ti sá dingir.meß ù dis-tar
2. ma-am-ma-an nu zu-sú sá ul-tu u4-mu ru-qu-tu
3. a-na kur la tu-ri-du u un.meß kur <la> ip-pal-su-ma
4. ina †up-pi la is-†u-ru-ma la is-tak-ka-nu
5. a-na u4-mu ßa-a-ti d30 en dingir.meß u dinnin a-si-bu-tú
6. sá an-e sá ina pa-ni Idpa-ní.tuk lugal tin.tirki
7. ul-tu an-e tal-li-ku a-na-ku Idpa-i
 Nabonidus the Mad King 145

8. dumu e-du sá mam-ma-an la i-su-ú sá lugal-u-tú

9. ina lìb-bi-ia la tab-su-ú dingir.meß u dinnin a-na ugu-
10. -[i]a ú-ßal-lu-ú ù d30 ana lugal-ú-ti
11. [i]m-ba-an-ni ina sá-at mu-si máß.ge6 ú-sab-ra-an
12. um-ma é.˘úl.˘úl é d30 sá urukaskal ha-an-†is
13. e-pu-us kur.kur.meß ka-la-si-na a-na ßu.min-ka
14. lu-mál-la un.meß dumu.meß tin.tirki bár.sipki
15. en.lílki ßeß.unugki unugki ud.unugki lúsanga.meß
16. un.meß ma-ha-zi kur uriki a-na dingir-ú-ti-su
17. gal-ti ih-†u-ªi-i-ma i-se-ti u ú-gal-li-lu
18. la i-du-u e-ze-ez-su <gal-tú> sá lugal dingir.meß dnanna-ri
19. par-ßi-sú-nu im-su-ªi-i-ma i-dab-bu-bu sur-ra-a-tú
20. u la ki-na-a-tú ki-ma ur.gi7 it-ta-nak-ka-lu
21. a-ha-mís di-ªu u su.gu7-ú ina ßà-bi-sú-nu
22. ú-sab-su-ú ú-ßa-ah-hi-ir un.meß kur

The great deed of Sîn, which nobody among the gods and goddesses knew, which
since distant days had not come down to the land, and (which) the people had <not>
seen and not recorded on tablets for eternity, (that) you Sîn, lord of the gods and
goddesses residing in heaven, have come down from heaven in the time of Naboni-
dus, (and) I, Nabonidus, the only son who has nobody, in whose hearth was no
(thought of) kingship, the gods and goddesses prayed on my behalf to Sîn and he
called me to kingship. He revealed to me in a night dream (what follows): “Build
quickly Ehulhul, the temple of Sîn in Harran, and I will deliver all lands into your
hands.” (But) the people, the citizens of Babylon, Borsippa, Nippur, Ur, Uruk, (and)
Larsa, the temple administrators (and) the people of the cult centers of the land of
Akkad, offended his (Sîn’s) great godhead and they misbehaved and sinned, (for)
they did not know the great wrath of the king of the gods, Nannar. They forgot their
rites and would speak slanders and lies, devouring each other like dogs. (Thus) pes-
tilence and famine appeared among them, 1 and he (the moon-god) reduced the
people of the land.

The two texts formulate in a similar way the failure of the inhabitants of Babylonia to
carry on the old rites of their cult centers. Given the extreme rarity of these accusa-
tions, it seems likely that the motif was borrowed from the Letter of Samsuiluna into
the Harran Stele, thus providing one more example of the influence of the school
curriculum on official inscriptions. However, the Harran Stele contains one addi-
tional motif that is not present in the letter, the motif of divine abandonment. The
preamble of the stele declares in cryptic terms that Sîn, after a long absence, finally
came down from heaven to the land in the reign of Nabonidus. The funerary stele of
Adad-guppi, the mother of Nabonidus, which was also found at Harran, provides a
precise chronology for the duration of the god’s absence (Schaudig 2001: 500–513).

1. I understand the verb usabsû to be an impersonal 3rd-person plural, and the subject of ußahhir
to be the moon-god Sîn.
146 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

The inscription states that in the 16th year of Nabopolassar (610–609 b.c.) Sîn be-
came angry with his city and temple and went up to heaven. As a result, the people of
Harran and their city turned into ruins.

Funerary Stele of Adad-guppi

1. a-na-ku fdim-gu-up-pi-iª ama
2. Idna-bi-um-na-ªi-id lugal tin.tirki

3. pa-li-ih-tu d30 dnin.gal dnusku

4. ù dsa-dàr-nun-na dingir.meß-e-a
5. sá ul-tu mé-eß-he-ru-ti-ia ás-te-ªu-u
6. dingir-ú-ut-su-un sá ina mu 16-kam Idpa-a-ùri
7. lugal tin.tirki d30 lugal dingir.meß it-ti uru-su
8. ù é-sú iz-nu-ú i-lu-ú sá-ma-mís uru ù
9. un.meß sá ina ßà-bi-sú il-li-ku! kar!-mu-ti
10. ina ßà-bi sá as-ra-a-tú d30 dnin.gal dnusku
11. u dsa-dàr-nun-na ás-te-ªu-u pal-ha-ku dingir-ut-su-un
12. sá d30 lugal dingir túg.síg-sú aß-bat-ma mu-si u ur-ra
13. ás-te-né-ªa-a dingir-ut-su gal-ti

I am Adad-guppi, mother of Nabonidus, king of Babylon, worshiper of Sîn, Ningal,

Nusku and Sadarnunna, my gods whose divinity I have sought since my childhood.
Because in the 16th year of Nabopolassar, king of Babylon, Sîn, the king of the gods,
became angry with his city and temple and went up to heaven, the city and the
people inside it became ruins. On account of the fact that I had (always) sought the
sanctuaries of Sîn, Ningal, Nusku and Sadarnunna, worshiping their great divinity, I
took hold of the hem of the garment of Sîn, king of the gods, and day and night I
besought his great divinity.

The Harran Stele does not openly state that the sinful behavior of the people resulted
from the absence of Sîn from his sanctuary of Harran, yet the two motifs are juxta-
posed in a manner that suggests a causal relation between the two facts. The Stele of
Adad-guppi contains no accusation of sacrilege, yet it clearly attributes the derelict
state of Harran and its inhabitants to the absence of the god Sîn. The two monuments
espouse a doctrine that views divine abandonment as the direct cause of the devolu-
tion of a human community from a blessed state to one of sinfulness and decrepi-
tude. This doctrine was not new. It is already formulated in Seed of Kingship, a
historical-literary text concerning the reign of Nebuchadnezzar I (Frame 1995: 23–
28). After a long introduction celebrating the mystical ancestry of Nebuchadnezzar,
the text states that in the reign of a former king Marduk became angry and full of
wrath, ordering that the land be abandoned by its gods. As a consequence, the people
lost their minds, becoming treacherous and godless. Demons filled the land and even
entered the cult centers, and in the end the population diminished, presumably be-
cause of diseases. Finally the Elamites came in and plundered the land, carrying off
its gods.
 Nabonidus the Mad King 147

Seed of Kingship is one of several texts that celebrate Nebuchadnezzar’s victory

over Elam and his return of the statue of Marduk to Babylon. These texts all explain
these events in light of the theology of divine abandonment. The Letter of Nebuchad-
nezzar I to the Babylonians, which contains a message allegedly sent by Nebuchad-
nezzar to the people of Babylon during his campaign against Elam, belongs to this
group. Al-Rawi and George pointed out that the Letter of Nebuchadnezzar and the
Letter of Samsuiluna display the same general structure, beginning with an address
of the king followed by the substance of his message to be inscribed on a stele, the
message proper being introduced by the formula umma ana narê. The Letter of Nebu-
chadnezzar describes how Marduk finally relented from his anger at all the cult cen-
ters and commissioned Nebuchadnezzar to declare war on Elam and bring back his
statue to the Esagil temple. Here also we find suggestive resemblances with the Har-
ran Stele. The medium for the two texts is a stele (narû). They share the motif of the
return of the absent deity to its city, Marduk to Babylon in the time of Nebuchadnez-
zar I, and Sîn to Harran in the time of Nabonidus. Finally, in both cases the king must
leave his country for some time and lead a military campaign in order to return the
god to his abode. It seems as if the king must undergo the same ordeal of absence and
exile experienced by the god, to earn the privilege of taking his hand and restoring
him to his sanctuary.
To sum up, the dramatic regression of a human community into sin appears in two
different contexts. In Seed of Kingship, the devolution is caused solely by divine
abandonment. In the Letter of Samsuiluna, the cause is not stated; it merely provides
ground for the reigning king to lecture his subjects and pose as supreme leader in re-
ligious matters. The Harran Stele combines the two motifs. The passage describing
the disobedience and sinfulness of the people does not appear immediately after the
statement that Sîn had been absent from the land a long time. Between these two
statements is inserted the report on the dream sent by the god Sîn to Nabonidus, in
which he promises to deliver all the countries into his hands and orders him to re-
build his temple. Yet, in spite of this propitious omen of divine return and reconcil-
iation, which no doubt was widely publicized by the king, his subjects broke out in
rebellion and disregarded their rites. There is a very distinct reason why the two mo-
tifs were joined in the Harran Stele. The god who is about to return to the Ehulhul
temple is not the same as the one who left it when Harran was sacked by the Medes
in 609 b.c. It is, in a sense, a new deity, and this, I believe, explains the cryptic formu-
lation of the preamble of the Harran Stele. An aura of mystery must surround the
epiphany of the deity whose wondrous deeds had never come down to the land and
never been recorded for posterity. To be sure, the deity about to take up residence in
the restored Ehulhul is a deity with the same name as the old one but with a different
theology and a different appearance. For the new deity to be accepted, Nabonidus
must emphasize his role as religious leader, as teacher of rituals and cultic prescrip-
tions. Therefore, the sacrilegious behavior of his subjects must not only be attributed
to the long absence of Sîn from his temple, which in itself would be a sufficient cause,
but also, and especially, to their inherent shortcomings in religious matters, especially
when it comes to the god Nannar (Sîn), and this is perhaps why the stele specifies that
148 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

the people “did not know the great wrath of the king of the gods, Nannar.” The land
will return to a harmonious state only when the people learn the proper rituals and
behavior from their king and when the new representation of the god Sîn that has
been revealed to him comes down from heaven and takes up residence in the Ehulhul
temple. Nabonidus relied on a solid tradition to make these claims, a tradition that
was still very alive in Babylonia. The Letter of Samsuiluna belonged to the school cur-
riculum, and such texts as the Letter of Nebuchadnezzar and Seed of Kingship are
known from Neo-Babylonian manuscripts and were therefore in circulation in the
time of Nabonidus.

The Theology of the Moon

One dissonance must be emphasized, however. All these texts from the stream of
cuneiform tradition propagate a vision of Babylon as a cosmological and political cap-
ital, with Marduk at the core and the king as his representative and alter ego. The the-
ology of Nabonidus, centered on Harran and the moon-god Sîn, seems at odds with
these principles. Because our effort to understand Nabonidus’s theology depends
largely on the Harran Stele, it is essential to investigate the details of this monument
in greater depth. One important feature of the Harran Stele that has not been satis-
factorily commented upon is the iconography of the relief on its rounded top. There
we see Nabonidus carrying a long staff and paying heed to the symbols of the moon
(Sîn), the sun (Samas), and Venus (Istar). The staff is surmounted with the wedge-
shaped symbol of the god Nabû representing the stylus of the scribe, the qantuppu
(Gadd 1958: 40). The presence of Nabû’s symbol on the staff was motivated by the
fact that the investiture of the king in that period took place in the Temple of Nabû
in Babylon, where the new monarch received the scepter. This scepter is certainly the
long staff carried by Nabonidus on the relief of the Harran Stele. The ceremonial
name of the Temple of Nabû in Babylon was E-niggidri-kalamma-summu ‘House that
bestows the scepter of the land’ (George 1993: no. 878) and, as mentioned earlier,
Nabonidus reports on his enthronement there in the Istanbul Stele.
The full significance of this relief emerges only as we compare the Harran Stele
with the Babylon Stele, its counterpart from Babylon. This monument was discovered
early in the nineteenth century and is now in the British Museum (BM 90837). The
portion of the inscription that is still preserved does not duplicate the Harran Stele.
However, the occurrence in it of the phrase ipisti Sîn ippalsu ‘they (the people of
Akkad) saw the deed of Sîn’ is an obvious reflex of the opening lines of the Harran
Stele. It seems therefore that the Babylon Stele was a local adaptation of the Harran
Stele. A stele with an almost identical inscription to that of the Harran Stele was also
found at Larsa (Schaudig 2001: 532–34), and additional fragments of steles that
might be ascribed to Nabonidus and represent additional local versions of the Harran
Stele were discovered in Uruk and Babylon (Schaudig 2001: 535–43).
The relief on top of the Babylon Stele is nearly identical with the one found on the
Harran Stele but with one notable exception. The staff carried by Nabonidus on the
Babylon Stele is not surmounted with the symbol of Nabû but with the lunar crescent
of the god Sîn, the uskaru (Gadd 1958: 41). One would normally expect the symbol
 Nabonidus the Mad King 149

of Nabû to appear in Babylon and the symbol of Sîn to be displayed at Harran. Obvi-
ously, the swapping of symbols carried a specific intent. The closest parallel I can
think of is the swapping of names between the walls of Babylon and Nippur in the
wake of the consolidation of the Marduk theology under the Second Dynasty of Isin.
At that time, the inner and outer walls of Babylon, the city of Marduk, came to be
known as Imgur-Enlil and Nemetti-Enlil, and the inner and outer walls of Nippur, the
city of Enlil, as Imgur-Marduk and Nemetti-Marduk (George 1992: 344–51). This was
a means of proclaiming the identity of Marduk and Enlil and, by the same token, that
of Babylon and Nippur. However, the swapping of symbols on the Harran and Baby-
lon Steles lacked this perfect symmetry. Indeed, although Sîn was the main god of
Harran, Nabû was not the main god of Babylon. Theological arguments could be in-
voked to propel Nabû to that position, yet the tradition unanimously ascribed the
role of chief god of Babylon to Marduk. However, there is one way in which the swap-
ping makes more immediate sense. It equates the two gods who bestow kingship.
Nabû filled this role in Babylon, and we know from Neo-Assyrian sources that Sîn
performed the same deed in Harran, which functioned almost as a western capital of
the empire under the Sargonids and was the last capital of Assyria from 612 to 609.
The swapping also implies that Harran and Babylon are one and the same city, the
city of kingship. One finds a distant echo of this notion in the Dynastic Prophecy,
which alludes to Nabonidus as the king who ‘[will establish] the dynasty of Harran’
(palê Harran [isakkan]). Another implication of the swapping is that it proposes a syn-
cretism between the gods Sîn and Nabû. As will be discussed below, this notion finds
support in late religious and theological texts that equate Nabû with the god Sîn. This
syncretism was reinforced by other scholastic texts and rituals equating Nabû with the
god Anu or explaining Anu as the crescent of the new moon, the uskaru. This implied
a triple syncretism among Nabû, Sîn, and Anu. The most important complex of tra-
ditions to elucidate these theological speculations is the Theology of the Moon. 2 It is
quoted as follows in the Harran Stele (Exemplar 2, col. II)

22. d30 en dingir sá ina u4 1-kam tukulda-nù

23. zi-kìr-sú an-e ta-lap-pa-tú u ki-tì
24. ta-he-ep-pu-u ha-mi-im garza da-nù-
25. tú mu-gam-mi-ru pa-ra-aß den.líl-ú-tú
26. le-qu-u garza didim-ú-tú
27. sá nap-har gi-mi-ir garza an-e
28. ina qa-ti-sú tam-hu den.líl dingir.mes
29. lugal lugal.lugal en en.en
O Sîn, lord of the god(s), whose name on the first day (of the month) is “weapon of
Anu,” (insofar as) you touch (or strike) heaven and smash the earth, who gathers the
rites of Anutu, completes the rites of Enlilutu, (and) grasps the rites of Eaªutu, who
grabs in his hands the totality of the rites of heaven, Enlil of the gods, king of kings,
lord of lords.

2. The denomination “Theology of the Moon” does not refer to one specific text but to a tradi-
tion reflected in a number of theological and religious texts from the late periods.
150 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

This is an incomplete version of the Theology of the Moon, which focuses largely on
the first day of the month and the uskaru, here reinterpreted as a weapon. More-
detailed versions can be found in the esoteric series i-nam-gis-hur-an-ki-a (i-nam) and
a late astrological compendium that reads as follows (Livingstone 1986: 47):

1. diß 30 ina igi.lá-sú ta u4 1-kam en u4 5-kam 5 u4-mi u4.sakar da-nù

2. ta u4 6-kam en u4 10-kam 5 u4.meß ka-li-ti dé-a
3. ta u4 11-kam en u4 15-kam 5 u4-mi aga tas-ri-ih-ti ip-pi-ir-ma den-líl
4. d30 da-nù den-líl u dé-a par-ßu-su

1. The moon, in its appearance, from the 1st to the 5th day, for 5 days, is the
crescent, the god Anu.
2. From the 6th to the 10th day, for 5 days, it is the kidney, the god Ea.
3. From the 11th to the 15th day, for 5 days, it dons a tiara of glory, the god Enlil.
4. (This is why) the rites of the god Sîn are (those of) Anu, Enlil, and Ea.

Similar details are recorded in the fourth division of i-nam (Livingstone 1986: 28–33).
There we read that the moon’s ‘appearance on the 1st day (of the month is) a crescent,
the god Anu’ (1. igi.du8.a u4 1-kam u4.sakar da-nù); that it becomes ‘a half crown on
the 7th day (in) a kidney shape, the god Ea’ (2. mas-lu4 aga u4 7-kam ka15-lit dé-a); and
finally that it waxes ‘to wear a crown on the 15th day (in the shape of) a circle, the god
Enlil’ (3. a-pa-ru aga u4 15-kam bùr den-líl). The series records additional information,
including the important heading to the effect that ‘[Fruit is (the name of) S]în because
the god Anu called [it]s name’ (1. [diß gurun d3]0 mu da-nù im-bu-ú mu.n[i]). After this
short exposition, the fourth division continues with a well-known type of henotheistic
exegesis that explains the names of many gods as names of Sîn, including not only
Anu, Enlil, and Ea but also Samas, Adad, Bel and Marduk, Istar, Ninurta, Nergal, Sak-
kan, Gibil, Nusku, and even Uras and Ki (heaven and earth).
These theological texts do not propose a syncretism between Sîn and Nabû. Nor
do they advance the notion that Nabû and Anu are one and the same god. In fact,
they do not mention Nabû at all. Yet this omission is only apparent. The first words
of the 4th division of i-nam yield the key to the solution of this double theological
equation: Inbu Sîn assu Anu imbû sumsu ‘Fruit is (the name of) Sîn because Anu called
its name’. The phrase is construed as a pun on the word inbu ‘fruit’ and the 3rd-
person preterite of the verb ‘to call’, ibbû, which is inbû in its morphographemic form,
and imbû with dissimilation. The appellation Inbu for the moon-god Sîn occurs in
other sources. We find it in the inscription of Nabonidus recording the elevation of
his daughter to high priestess of Sîn in Ur (Schaudig 2001: 373). The assonance be-
tween Inbu and Nabû must have induced the identification of Sîn, the Divine Fruit,
with Nabû. The entry could also be invoked to support the triple identification of Sîn,
Nabû, and Anu with one another. The god Anu, by calling (imbû) the Divine Fruit
(Inbu = Sîn = Nabû), became the ‘caller’ (nabû), the word ‘caller’ being one of the pos-
sible etymologies of the divine name Nabû as participle of the verb nabû ‘to call’.
It seems difficult to dismiss these resemblances as purely coincidental, especially as
they are supported by theological texts that identify Sîn with Nabû and Nabû with
 Nabonidus the Mad King 151

Anu. The identification of Nabû with Anu is proposed in BM 34030, a late Babylo-
nian text of undocumented provenance (Lambert 1997). The obverse consists of five
lines, each of which invites a deity to a procession. Each line proposes a syncretism
for that deity, first for Marduk who is identified as Enlil, then for Zarpanitu as Belet-
ili, followed by Tasmetu as Gula, Nanaya as Istar, and finally Nabû as Anu: obv. 5. ri-
i-di dpa da-nù lugal an-e kù.meß ‘Process, Nabû, Anu, king of the pure heavens’. The
reverse, also consisting of five lines, describes the presence of the same deities, in
their syncretized forms, taking part in a religious ceremony. The last one is Nabû,
who is present as Anu: a-sib dpa ki-ma da-nù ‘Nabû is present as Anu’. The origins of
this tradition must be sought in Borsippa. The cylinder of Antiochus I commemorat-
ing the restoration of Ezida in that city qualifies Nabû’s sanctuary as the temple of his
Anutu, his power of Anu: rev. 7. é.zi.da é ki-i-ni 8. é da-nu-ti-ka su-bat †u-<ub> lìb-bi-ka
‘Ezida, the legitimate temple, the temple of your power of Anu, your favorite temple’
(Kuhrt and Sherwin-White 1991). But most important is the late ritual SBH 145 VIII,
which describes festivals of Nabû in the month Ayaru. The city of origin of the ritual
is uncertain, although Borsippa and Babylon are the most obvious candidates. 3 Here
Nabû is not only equated with the god Anu but also with the moon-god Sîn (Matsu-
shima 1987):

14. u4 2-kam tar-ba-ßi u4-mu sá-ha-†u dutu qu-ra-du

15. dingir dnà sá ha-da-ás-su-tú in-na-an-di-iq te-di-ªiqº da-nu-tú
16. ta qé-ªrebº é.zi.da ina sat mu-si us-ta-pa-a na-an-na-ri-is
17. ki-ma d30 ina ni-ip-hi-sú ú-nam-mar ik-let
18. ina qé-reb é.ur5.ßà.ba us-te-sir i-sad-di-hu ªnamº-ris
19. i-ru-um-ma ana ma-har dnin ka-li sit-ku-nu ana ha-d[a-ás-su-tú]
20. ina qé-reb é.ur5.ßà.ba gin7 u4-mu i-sak-kan na-mi[r-tú]

14. On the second day, (in) the courtyard, at the time of the rising ofSamas the
warrior,
15. the god, Nabû, (as) bridegroom, puts on the garment of the power of
Anu (Anutu).
16. From the midst of Ezida at nighttime he shines forth like the lunar crescent
(= Nannar).
17. Like Sîn at his rising he illuminates the darkness.
18. In the midst of Eursaba he marches in procession brightly.
19. He enters into the presence of Beltu (= Istar); everything is set up for
the wed[ding festival].
20. In the midst of Eursaba, like the day, he establishes the li[ght].

The basic notions expressed in this ritual are identical with the Theology of the Moon
for the first six days of the month. The ritual takes place at the beginning of the

3. It is not entirely certain that this ritual took place in Borsippa because Ezida and Eursaba, the
temples of Nabû and Istar (as Nanaya), respectively, in that city were also the names of cellas conse-
crated to the same deities in the Esagil temple in Babylon (George 1993: s.v. é . u r 5 . s à . b a and é . z i .
d a).
152 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

month and celebrates the emergence of Nabû as new moon. Nabû is compared to the
lunar crescent (nannaris) shining forth on the second day, at which point he assumes
the identity of the god Anu. This exaltation of Nabû was ritually enacted by the cloth-
ing of his image with a special vestment, the garment of the power of Anu. Nabû is
further syncretized with the moon-god Sîn. It is even probable that the appellation
“the god” that precedes the name of Nabû on the second line should be understood
as the common name ilu for Sîn. This appellation was favored by Nabonidus, espe-
cially in its logographic plural form dingir.meß. The appellation ilu for the moon-god
seems to have been especially popular in Harran. Pagan Syrian inscriptions from this
region dated to the first two centuries of our era still address the god of Harran as
ellaha, echoing the theology favored during the late Assyrian and Babylonian empires
(Drijvers 1980: 122–45). At any rate, this ritual provides the background for under-
standing certain details of the Theology of the Moon. In particular, it enunciates ex-
plicitly what is esoterically suggested in the first line of the fourth division of i-nam.
The moon-god Sîn, as inbu ‘the fruit’, as he is called by the god Anu at the beginning
of the month, is none other than the god Nabû, who turns out to be Anu himself dur-
ing the first phase of the moon. Nabonidus, by swapping the symbols of Nabû and Sîn
on his staffs depicted on the Harran Stele and the Babylon Stele, clearly followed this
tradition.

An Old Myth of Creation

The summary of the Theology of the Moon in the Harran Stele, while being
broadly congruent with expositions of the same theology in scholarly texts, introduces
new elements in the description of the lunar crescent. The name of the moon-god on
the first day of the month in the Harran Stele is not, as we should expect, uskaru. It is
kakki Anu ‘weapon of Anu’, provided that our reading of the sign ku (tukul) as kakku
is correct. 4 Therefore, the Harran Stele reinterprets the lunar crescent as the weapon
of the god Anu. This seems congruent with the rest of the stele, which continues with
a praise of the god Sîn that portrays him as the one who touches (or strikes) heaven
and smashes the earth with the weapon of Anu when he reappears at the beginning
of the month. Is this just a poetic image of the light of the crescent moon radiating in
the sky and down to the earth, or should we presume a more meaningful allusion?
The verb lapatu appears in a number of passages in astrological texts that refer to the
shadow of a lunar eclipse touching or covering a particular region of the earth, but
this relates to the text of the stele only in a very general way, and the verb hepû does
not to my knowledge occur in any context where it refers to the light of the moon cov-
ering the earth or the sky.

4. Another possibility is to read the sign ku as uskaru, in which case the name of Sîn at the begin-
ning of the month would be uskar Anu ‘crescent of Anu’. An echo of this uskar Anu appears in the
Verse Account, which derides Nabonidus for claiming a wisdom greater than the alleged series uskar
Anu Enlilla composed by the mythical sage Adapa. However, a reading uskaru for the sign ku is not
otherwise documented.
 Nabonidus the Mad King 153

The monthly renewal of the moon is a recurrent beginning that may well have de-
noted the time of creation in the ancient imagination. We should therefore consider
the possibility that the Harran Stele alludes here to a myth of creation and organiza-
tion of the world. Indeed, the Harran Stele alludes to some essential elements of a
myth of this sort, such as the weapon wielded by the divine hero (Anu or Nabû as
forms of Sîn) and the effect of wielding this weapon on both heaven and earth. 5 Some
traditions testify to the existence of a myth involving the god Anu at the time of cre-
ation. Recently, Sjöberg (2002) has discussed two short, difficult mythological texts in
Sumerian, one dated to the Early Dynastic period (AO 4153) and the other to the Ur
III period (NBC 11108). Both texts describe the world just before creation, with the
god An, referred to as ‘the Lord’ (En), being the protagonist. In AO 4153, the god An
is further described as a ‘young hero’ (sul), not his habitual portrayal as ancestral fig-
ure. The text does not tell us how creation happened. It specifies that in primeval
time heaven and earth already existed, though probably in unseparated form, while
the other gods did not yet live and the sun and moon had not yet shone. CBS 11108
presents a very similar formulation of the same mythologem but adds one important
episode. The first deed of An before creation was to illuminate the sky, while leaving
the earth in darkness: 1. a[n e]n - n é a n m u - z a l a[g ]-ªg e k i m uº- g e6 ‘An, the En, il-
luminated the sky (but) let the earth (still) be dark’. The interpretation of the Theol-
ogy of the Moon found in the Harran Stele seems to reinstate the god Anu in the
same role he held in AO 4153 and CBS 11108. Because of his identification with the
new moon, Anu illuminates the world before the beginning of creation in the Harran
Stele in a way that is very similar to CBS 11108—touching both heaven and earth with
his primeval light in the former, illuminating heaven but leaving earth in darkness in
the latter. As seen above, shining forth to illuminate darkness is also the role of Nabû
in his incarnation as Anu and as the new moon in the ritual SBH 145 VIII.
The Harran Stele also introduces the concept of the weapon of Anu (tukul da-nù).
The reading of the sign ku as tukul is uncertain. However, there are reasons to be-
lieve that the text refers here to an object reminiscent of the lunar crescent. Indeed,
if we rely on other expositions of the Theology of the Moon, the logogram ku in the
Harran Stele takes the place normally reserved for the word uskaru. Therefore the
weapon of the god Anu is likely to be a crescent-shaped object. If we follow the notion
that the Harran Stele alludes here to a myth of creation, then this weapon should be
the scimitar, scythe, or harpe sometimes carried by divine heroes. There is one Baby-
lonian tradition of the primeval combat that agrees remarkably well with the Harran
Stele. This is the tradition of the Man in the Moon. Mythological interpretations of
the configuration of the surface of the moon seem to be a universal phenomenon.
The Babylonians were no exception. They saw on the lunar surface a representation
of the divine hero fighting the dragon (Beaulieu 1999). An astrological tablet from
Seleucid Uruk bears a drawing of the moon illustrating this belief. Inside the circle of

5. The most intriguing expression in the Harran Stele is erßetu taheppû ‘you smash the earth’. Sig-
nificantly, the verb hepû occurs in Enuma elis to describe Marduk’s creative process in splitting (hepû)
Tiamat into two halves and creating heaven out of one half: tablet IV, 137. ih-pi-si-ma ki-ma nu-un mas-
†e-e a-na si-ni-su ‘He split her into two halves like a dried fish’ (Talon 2005: 56).
154 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

the moon, we see a male deity holding a lion serpent by the tail and carrying a
weapon that is curved at the bottom end. There is no caption identifying the god.
However, two late expository texts clearly state that Marduk can be seen in the sun
and Nabû in the moon. They also specify that the dragon of chaos, alternatively a lion
or Tiamat, can be seen on the lunar surface. Therefore it is probable that the drawing
on the Uruk tablet depicts on the lunar surface the god Nabû battling the lion serpent
of primeval chaos, thus replacing Marduk in the role of demiurge. This is congruent
with the tradition that links Nabû to the moon and syncretizes him with the god Sîn.
This evidence supports the notion that the Harran Stele offers a new interpreta-
tion of the traditional theology of the first phase of the moon in the light of old my-
thologems of the creation of the world. These mythologems may have survived in
various forms. Although the traditions recorded in AO 4153 and CBS 11108 proba-
bly disappeared from the written record during the second millennium, they may
well have continued in oral form. Nabonidus tried to conflate the two traditions just
described. The first one viewed the god Anu as demiurge. His first act of creation was
to illuminate the sky and the earth in their pristine state. The second act attributed to
Nabû the role of divine hero, and possibly also of demiurge, in the cosmological fight
against the dragon of chaos. The conflation of the two mythologems presupposed the
identity of Anu and Nabû and the belief that both gods were manifestations of the
god Sîn as new moon at the beginning of the month. The view of Anu as divine hero
appears in AO 4153, which attributes the epithet sul ‘young hero’ to the god. Remem-
brance of the youthful and heroic character of the god Anu survived into the late pe-
riods. The initial verse of the myth of the triumphal return of the god Ninurta to
Nippur after his defeat of Asakku, the monster of chaos, compares Ninurta to An: An-
gim dimma ‘shaped like An’ (Cooper 1978: 56–57). Ninurta also receives the power of
An (usu an-na) from his father Enlil in Lugale, another myth that celebrates his vic-
tory over Asakku (Annus 2002: 6–7). Like its counterpart, Angim dimma, Lugale is
also known from first-millennium manuscripts. Ninurta’s assimilation of An’s power
as divine hero in these myths probably lies at the root of the assumption of the power
of Anu by the god Nabû in late theology. Indeed, some theological texts from the first
millennium attribute to Nabû the epithets and victories of Ninurta (Pomponio 2001:
21b). This syncretism derived in a large measure from the identification of Marduk
with Enlil, which also entailed the identification of their respective sons, Nabû and
Ninurta.
A survey of personal names from Harran indicates that Nabû enjoyed some popu-
larity in the area. 6 Yet, he did not belong to the group of major gods worshiped in the
Ehulhul temple (Sîn, Ningal, Nusku, and Sadarnunna), and indeed the god is present
in the Harran Stele only in the guise of his symbol, the qan†uppu. But there is evi-
dence that Nabonidus designed more overt means to signify Nabû’s presence. A large

6. Theophoric names honoring Nabû occur several times in the various documents of the Har-
ran Census, dated to the seventh century (Fales and Postgate 1995: 121–45). However, most of the
names in the region were West Semitic. In a Neo-Babylonian letter from Sippar published by
MacGinnis (1996: 124, no. 28; BM 60105), the administrator of the city of Harran is called Nabû-ah-
iddin (line 14. Idnà-ßeß-mu, 15. lúqí-i-pi sá uruhar-ra-nu).
 Nabonidus the Mad King 155

number of inscribed bricks with the royal titulary of Nabonidus were found at Harran
during excavations in the 1980s. Photographs of bricks initially published by Donbaz
give the name of the father of Nabonidus as Nabû-balassu-iqbi, which is the same
name found in inscriptions from Babylonia. Subsequently, however, Donbaz pub-
lished a conflated copy of an additional set of bricks found in the same area. They
bear an inscription that is identical with the inscription of the earlier set, with the
exception that in most of them the name of Nabonidus’s father is spelled Nusku-
balassu-iqbi rather than Nabû-balassu-iqbi (Donbaz 1991). The difference between
the two theophoric elements is slight (dpa for Nabû, dpa.túg for Nusku), and the two
gods may have been considered identical in the north (Schaudig 2001: 342–43). At
any rate, this intentional double spelling provides one more indication that the cen-
terpiece of the theological program of Nabonidus for Harran was the identification
of its patron god Sîn with Nabû. In this case, the equation was reinforced by proclaim-
ing the identity of Nusku, the vizier and son of Sîn of Harran, with Nabû.

The God Lugal-sudu

Nabonidus may have introduced Nabû at Harran in yet another guise, that of the
god Lugal-sudu. The Harran Stele commemorates the introduction of a new statue of
Sîn to the restored Ehulhul temple. Yet it gives no clue as to the features of that cult
statue. However, in the Istanbul Stele, Nabonidus mentions an image of Sîn carved
on a cylinder seal presented by Ashurbanipal to the Esagil temple in Babylon. This
image may well have served as a model for the new statue he introduced into the Ehu-
lhul (Lee 1993: 135). This would imply that the statue of Sîn of Harran had been de-
stroyed during the sack of the city by the Medes in 609 b.c. It also means that the
necessity of making a new cultic image of Sîn for the city of Harran gave Nabonidus
the opportunity to modify it in accordance with his theological views. This is one of
the numerous misdeeds laid on him in the Verse Account, which describes the cult
statue as follows:

Col. I
21u. [o o o]-na ib-ta-ni za-qí-qí
22u. [dingir sá pa-na]-ma ina kur la i-mu-ru-us mam-ma-an
23u. [o o o]-ªúº ki-gal-la ú-sar-me
24u. [o o o] dßeß.ki it-ta-bi zi-kir-sú
25u. [sá kù.gi u na4] za.gìn a-pi-ir a-gu-sú
26u. [o o o] si-kin-sú d30 an.mi
27u. [i-tar-ra]-aß* ßu.min-su ki-ma dªLugalº-su-du
28u. [o o o] ßi is ªpeº-re-e-tu-us ki-gal-la
29u. [en-du man-za-a]s-su a-bu-bu u ri-i-mu
30u. [o o o] a-gu-sú i-te-me si-kin-sú
31u. [o o o] ªxº-ud-sú ut-tak-ki-ir zi-mu-sú
32u. [o o o us]-te-lip gat-tu-us
33u. [o o o]ªxº gal zi-kir-sú
34u. [o o o s]á-pal-sú
156 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

21u. [o o o] x he created a phantom,

22u. [a god] whom nobody had seen [previous]ly in the country.
23u. [o o o] x he installed (him) on a pedestal,
24u. [o o o] he called his name Nannar.
25u. His tiara that he dons [is made of gold and lapis] lazuli.
26u. [o o o] his appearance is the god Sîn in eclipse.
27u. [He stret]ches his hand like the god Lugal-sudu
28u. [o o o] x x his hairdo (to?) the pedestal.
29u. [Flanking] his [cult soc]le are a Flood Monster and a Wild Beast.
30u. [o o o] his tiara, his appearance changed,
31u. [o o o] x x he transformed his facial features.
32u. [o o o he] increased his stature.
33u. [o o o] x x his name.
34u. [o o o un]derneath him.

According to the Verse Account, one of the prominent characteristics of the new
statue of Sîn of Harran is that it stretches its hand like the god Lugal-sudu. Lee points
out that dLugal-su-du is almost certainly a spelling of dLugal-sùd-dè, a god who ap-
pears as a form of Ninurta in the series An = Anum I and in the Weidner God List
(Lee 1994: 34 and 36 n. 18). Indeed, the compound su-du appears several times in
lexical lists as phonetic writing for the sign s ù d (kaxsu). He argues that this identifi-
cation proves that Nabonidus tried to shape the statue of Sîn of Harran into a form
of Ninurta in order to reinforce the equation of Sîn with Marduk, who assimilates the
attributes of Ninurta in his role as dragon slayer. 7 However, further investigation
shows that the question is somewhat more complex.
The main clues to an identification of dLugal-sùd-dè are An = Anum I, 218 (dLugal-
sùd-dè = min, dNin-urta dumu-sag-dbad-ªláº-[ke4] ‘Lugal-sudde is Ninurta, the first-
born son of Enlil’), and the Weidner God List, where he also appears among various
forms of Ninurta (Lambert 1987). However, the god surfaces again in An = Anum V,
265, where he is listed with Alla among the retinue of the god Ningiszida, either as
herald or vizier (Litke 1998: 193). A similar connection occurs in MVN 13, 17, an Ur
III text that associates Lugal-sudde with Alla and places his cult in the city of Gis-
banda, which was the center of the cult of Ningiszida (Wiggermann 2001: 369a and
372a). These data firmly anchor Lugal-sudde within the family of chthonic and neth-
erworld deities, of dying and rising gods. These aspects of Lugal-sudde explain why
he appears again in An = Anum VI, which is devoted to Nergal and other gods of the
netherworld. However, Lugal-sudde appears there as himself (= ßu), not as a form of
Nergal (Litke 1998: 206, l.87). The chthonic connection is also evident in the equa-
tion of Dumuzi with the herald Umun-sudde (li-bi-ir ù-mu-un\umun-sùd-dè, without
divine determinative) in Emesal litanies (Lambert 1987). Umun-sudde is the Emesal
form of Lugal-sudde. One such litany is 4 R 30, 2:11–35 + Sm. 2148, recently edited

7. Similar points are conveyed in column II of the Verse Account. There Nabonidus is accused
of having turned Ehulhul into a replica of Ekur, the Temple of Enlil in Nippur, and also with setting
up guardian spirits at its gates, which are reminiscent of the Esagil temple in Babylon.
 Nabonidus the Mad King 157

by Katz (2003: 318–20). In this litany, Umun-sudde and Alla appear as forms of Du-
muzi in his descent to the netherworld. Therefore, if we rely on the evidence from
god lists and religious texts, Lugal-sudde was a chthonic and netherworld deity, a dy-
ing and rising god, a god of periodic disappearance and renewal. Ninurta also pos-
sesses chthonic attributes, and this should probably account for the equation of
Lugal-sudde with Ninurta in the Weidner God List and An = Anum I, 218. How then
can we relate these aspects of the god to the theology of the moon-god Sîn of Harran,
and to Nabonidus’s reformulation of that theology? Is the answer really that Lugal-
sudde, because of his equation with Ninurta, was thought to be a form of Marduk?
The connection of Marduk with the netherworld is not a significant trait of his per-
sonality. Therefore, the fashioning of the cult image of Sîn of Harran in the shape of
Lugal-sudde would seem a rather unconvincing way of advancing a syncretism be-
tween Marduk and Sîn.
The investigation must proceed in another direction. We have recognized earlier
the importance of the Theology of the Moon to explain the program of the Harran
Stele. In line with this, one may wonder if the chthonic aspect of Lugal-sudde and his
identification or association with Dumuzi, Alla, and Ningiszida as god of disappear-
ance and renewal were not understood by Nabonidus and his entourage in light of
the mythology of the moon’s periodic occultation and reappearance. Some sources
support a connection of this sort in an oblique way. The main form of lunar occulta-
tion was the bubbulu, the period of disappearance of the moon at the end of the
month, ideally set on the 29th and 30th days. God lists and rituals associate the bub-
bulu with the god Arabalah. This explanation occurs in An = Anum I, 145, é - b a r - r a -
l a h5 = dumu u4 30-kam u4.ná.a ‘Abaralah = the son of the 30th day, the day of disap-
pearance of the moon’, where Abaralah appears among the seven sons of the god En-
mesarra (Litke 1998: 36). A more elaborate explanation occurs in the ritual of the
kalû, AO 6479, where Abaralah is identified with Nusku: col. III, 13, da - b a r - r a - l a h5
dumu u4 30-kam u4.ná.àm 14. dpa.túg dumu se-la-se-e bu-um-bu-li ‘Abaralah (is) Nusku,
the “son” of the 30th day, the day of the disappearance of the moon’ (Livingstone
1986: 200). Further details are found in TCL 6, 47, a late commentary from Nippur:
obv. 14. da - b a - r a - l a h5 dpa.túg 15. dnin-urta : d30 : dnà nu.bàn.da dingir.gub.ba.
meß sá ina igi dda-gan ta ul.dù.a den-me-sa-ra ù[ri] ‘Abaralah, (who is) Nusku, (is also)
Ninurta = Sîn = Nabû, the foreman of the standing gods who have been kee[ping
watch] over Enmesarra in the presence of Dagan since time immemorial’ (Living-
stone 1986: 190–91).
The Theology of the Moon deals only with the first half of the month. Therefore
this tradition made up an important addition to it by providing a theological explana-
tion for the last day of the month. It also gave a central role to Nusku, the son of Sîn
and the second god in importance at Harran. The identification proposed between
Nusku, Ninurta, Sîn, and Nabû in TCL 6, 47 agrees perfectly with a number of theo-
logical concepts promoted by Nabonidus in his Harran inscriptions, notably the iden-
tification of Sîn and Nusku with Nabû. The introduction of Ninurta in this multiple
syncretism is especially interesting. He is often equated with Nabû in late theology,
and his equation with Nusku can be justified by the fact that both gods were sons of
158 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

Enlil. Therefore the god Lugal-sudde, by virtue of his identification with Ninurta in
An = Anum and the Weidner God List, could easily be introduced in this equation. It
is also important to note that these gods appear here in their chthonic aspect. They
keep watch over Enmesarra, who is imprisoned in the netherworld. This tradition is
already present in An = Anum, which lists Abaralah as son of Enmesarra. This evi-
dence provides the best approach to understanding the presence of the god Lugal-
sudde in the Verse Account. Lugal-sudde was viewed as a chthonic manifestation of
Ninurta, as well as of Nusku, Nabû, and Sîn. He represented the moon in its period
of complete occultation, the bubbulu.
Finally, we must turn to the form under which Lugal-sudde appears in the Verse
Account, Lugal-sudu. On the surface, the spelling dL u g a l - s u - d u carries no specific
meaning other than being a phonetic rendering of dL u g a l - s ù d - d è. Yet, as pointed
out by Maul (Schaudig 2001: 566 n. 914), the form seems more purposeful if we un-
derstand it as a spelling for a hypothetical dL u g a l - s u - d u8 ‘The Divine Lord who
stretches the hand’ (l u g a l = belu; s u = qatu; d u8 = taraßu). Indeed, the god appears in
a verse that, if correctly restored, ascribes this gesture to the god. Some scholars have
remarked that the iconography of this region sometimes depicts gods, including
probably Sîn of Harran, with the gesture of stretching the hand (Seidl 2000). It is con-
ceivable that, of two possible spellings, the author of the Verse Account adopted dL u -
g a l - s u - d u because it allowed the making of a pun with dL u g a l - s u - d u8. The name
dL u g a l - s ù d - d è means ‘The Divine Lord who utters benedictions’. If we understand

the divine stretching of the hand (qata taraßu) as a gesture of benediction, then the
choice of dL u g a l - s ù d - d è finds a ready explanation, and so does the oblique pun
dL u g a l - s u - d u . The Divine Lord who stretches the hand, the Lord of Harran, is also
8
the Divine Lord who utters benedictions.
I would argue tentatively that the author of the Verse Account, probably reproduc-
ing Nabonidus’s own speculations, concocted the spelling dL u g a l - s u - d u because it
conceals an additional pun, this time on the name of the god Nusku. The logogram
Lugal in divine names does not mean primarily sarru ‘king’ but belu ‘lord.’ Therefore,
the meaning ‘lord’ can be retrojected in these divine names with the more-common
logogram for belu, that is En. This is in a sense what happens in the litanies that equate
Dumuzi with Umun/Ù - m u - u n - s ù d - d è, Umun being the Emesal form of En. There-
fore the god dLugal-su-du in the Verse Account could also be understood as dEn-su-
du, and under this form it comes quite close to a reading of the logogram dNusku
found in late texts, dE n s a d a or dE n s a d u (Streck 2001b: 630a). If we rely on the con-
flated brick inscription published by Donbaz, Nabonidus propagated the notion that
Nusku and Nabû were one and the same god. Indeed, because Nusku originated in
Nippur as son and vizier of Enlil and only later migrated to Harran to become son of
Sîn, he was at an early date equated with Ninurta, Enlil’s other son. This explains his
later identification with Nabû, who was Ninurta’s equivalent. The equation of Ninurta
and Nusku with Sîn, found in several texts, including TCL 6, 47, may have ultimately
originated during the period of the Third Dynasty of Ur, when the god Nanna of Ur
also became a son of Enlil to consolidate the claims of the new dynasty (Klein 2001).
The mention of Lugal-sudu and the allusions carried by his name may reflect a dis-
 Nabonidus the Mad King 159

pute over the shape of the features of the statue of Sîn of Harran, which Nabonidus
may have intended to look like a form of Nabû or Nusku. The apparent contradiction
in having the father (Sîn) borrow the attributes of the son (Nusku = Nabû) was a com-
mon phenomenon, and it was specifically vindicated in this case by the textual evi-
dence supporting the identity of Sîn, Nusku, Nabû, and Ninurta.
Why was Nabonidus especially interested in making a new image of the god Sîn of
Harran that depicted him stretching his hand like Lugalsudu ([ittar]aß qassu)? Nabo-
nidus promoted the syncretism beween Sîn and Nabû. Therefore the most likely ex-
planation seems to be that the gesture of stretching the hand is attributed to the god
Nabû in the building inscriptions of the Babylonian Empire. Nabû confers kingship
and in this role is the god who stretches his hand to the king. Among Neo-Babylonian
rulers, only Nabopolassar and Nabonidus employ the standard royal epithet express-
ing this gesture in their inscriptions, tiriß qati DN (Seux 1967: 345). The motif is ab-
sent from the inscriptions of Nebuchadnezzar. In the inscriptions of Nabopolassar,
we find the formulas tiriß qati Nabû u Marduk ‘the one to whom Nabû and Marduk
stretch their hand’ and tiriß qati Nabû u Tasmetu ‘the one to whom Nabû and Tasmetu
stretch their hand’. In the inscriptions of Nabonidus, we find once tiriß qati Tutu ‘the
one to whom Tutu stretches his hand’ (Schaudig 2001: 355) and once in a Borsippa
inscription tiriß qati Nisaba ‘the one to whom Nisaba stretches her hand’ (Schaudig
2001: 474), with Nabû mentioned in the next line as the god who calls Nabonidus to
kingship: [o o ni-b]i-ªitº dna-bi-ªumº ‘[the one cal]led by Nabû’. The mention of Tutu
seems ambiguous and was perhaps deliberately so. Tutu was a name for both Nabû
and Marduk. The mention of Nisaba is significant. She belonged to the circle of Nabû
and was identified in late theology with Tasmetu, Gula, and Nanaya. As mentioned
earlier, the account of Nabonidus’s accession in the Istanbul Stele includes a revela-
tion by incubation dream from Gula, glossed as Tasmetu. The syncretism of Gula
with Tasmetu stemmed from the theological equation between their husbands,
Ninurta and Nabû. For a king who claimed to have been taught the art of the scribe
by the god Nabû himself, what better token of legitimacy than a personal blessing
from the old goddess of writing, now become the consort of her old rival? The fact
that Nabû conferred kingship in Babylon and possessed a lunar aspect explains why
the god occupied an important place in the theological thinking of Nabonidus. After
all, Nabonidus’s own name, Nabû-naªid ‘Nabû is praised’ could not be a better expres-
sion of his personal devotion.

A Conflict of Authority and Legitimacy

The theological interpretations of Nabonidus were not accepted by all. This should
not surprise us. Interpretation is by nature controversial. Did Nabonidus transgress
boundaries? In his defense, one notes that his theological claims can always be sup-
ported by textual evidence from the learned tradition of Babylonia. The issue at stake
was more likely an issue of authority. Who had the power to sanction an interpreta-
tion and validate it? It is important to remember that in late Babylonia both king and
scholar claimed to represent this authority. We have examples in the previous history
160 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

of Mesopotamia in which radical new theological interpretations originated from the

monarchy and enjoyed widespread endorsement. The syncretism between Enlil and
Marduk, which probably took place during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar I, is one ex-
ample. Sennacherib’s redefinition of the cult and theology of Assur is another one.
Nabonidus provides an example of the contrary. Why? Can it be ascribed solely to ex-
ternal political circumstances? Had the Persians never conquered Babylon, can we
speculate that the changes contemplated by Nabonidus would have lasted? Is what we
read in sources hostile to him nothing more than the vilification of a fallen regime by
collaborationist clerics? Or was the opposition to Nabonidus vocal and active already
during his reign? The hints at opposition contained in the Harran Stele seem to sug-
gest the latter option. This induces us to understand the Verse Account not only as a
piece of posthumous counterpropaganda but also as a reflection of a conflict of au-
thority within late Babylonian civilization.
To justify his claims, Nabonidus could rely on a tradition that viewed the king as
ultimate authority in matters of religion and ritual. One of the most important state-
ments of this tradition occurs in Gilgamesh. Gesche has demonstrated that the Epic
belonged to the basic core of late Babylonian school texts that served to propagate
the ideology of the monarchy. Gilgamesh did not only travel to distant places in
search of all wisdom, to learn the secret, and discover the hidden (tablet I, 6–7). After
his return, now versed in all antediluvian knowledge, he “restored the cult-centers
that the Deluge destroyed, and established the proper rites for the human race” (tab-
let I, 43–44). The motif of the ideal king as restorer of proper rituals after the Flood
was very old (George 1999: xlviii–l). The recently recovered version of the Sumerian
tale of The Death of Gilgamesh expresses the same idea in closely identical terms
(George 1999: 202). The same motif resurfaces in The Instructions of Ur–Ninurta
(Alster 1991). This tradition viewed the postdiluvian monarchy as a restoration of the
antediluvian one. The figure of Ziusudra, better known later as Utanapisti, became
pivotal as the archetype of the last antediluvian king who transmitted the proper
knowledge to humanity that survived the Flood. Indeed, Gilgamesh receives his in-
structions personally from Ziusudra in The Death of Gilgamesh, in the same way that
he is instructed by Utanapisti in the later version of the Epic. In the latter part of the
second millennium, King Nebuchadnezzar I of the second dynasty of Isin claimed to
have received personal instruction from the god Marduk and to belong to a distant
lineage going back to the last antediluvian king who reigned in Sippar, Enmeduranki
(Frame 1995: 25). This tradition provides the background for understanding a text
such as the Letter of Samsuiluna, which portrays the king overruling the priesthood
in religious and cultic matters. As discussed earlier, the same notion was coopted in
the Harran Stele.
During the first millennium, however, claims that ran counter to the king’s monop-
oly on the religious and cultic domain began to emerge. Alongside the tradition of
antediluvian kings, the learned classes created a parallel tradition of antediluvian
sages. Eventually these traditions were merged into parallel lists such as the one com-
piled by Berossus and its closely related cuneiform counterpart from Hellenistic
Uruk (Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996: 70–71). Parallel lists such as these, which
 Nabonidus the Mad King 161

pair each antediluvian king with a sage, must be viewed as retrojections to antedilu-
vian times of the role of scholars, ummânus, as royal advisors. A role of this sort is
documented in detail by the correspondence of the late Sargonid kings of Assyria.
Yet, in spite of the deference shown to the king in this correspondence, it is obvious
that all the knowledge resides with scholars. When the latter feel obliged to flatter the
king for his scholarship, they do not compare him with Ziusudra, Utanapisti, or any
antediluvian king, not even Gilgamesh. They compare him with the antediluvian ap-
kallu Adapa (Pongratz-Leisten 1999: 309–19). Uªanna-Adapa, known under the form
Oannes in Berossus, became the archetype of antediluvian knowledge and wisdom.
But he was not a king. He was in a sense the first scholar, the primeval sage instructed
by the god Ea personally, and with whom all knowledge originated. The replacement
of antediluvian kings by sages in that role reflected the rising claims of the learned
elites, especially in Babylonia, to assume the intellectual and religious leadership of
their culture. This is the very conflict that is portrayed in the Verse Account, which
caricatures Nabonidus as an ignorant man who claims greater knowledge than Adapa
himself:

Col. V
8u. gub-zu ina ukkin ú-sar-ra-hu r[a-man-sú]
9u. en-qé-ek mu-da-a-ka a-ta-mar k[a-ti-im-tú]
10u. mi-hi-iß qan-†up-pu ul i-di a-ta-mar n[i-ßir-tú]
11u. ú-sab-ra-an dil-te-ri kul-lat ú-ta-[ad-da-a]
12u. u4.sakar da-nù den-líl-lá sá ik-ßu-ru a-da-p[à]
13u. ugu-sú su-tu-qa-ak kal né-me-q[u]
14u. i-bal-lal par-ßi i-dal-la-ah te-re-e-ti
15u. a-na pél-lu-de-e ßi-ru-ti i-qab-bi ma-ßi-t[ú]
16u. ú-ßu-rat é.sag.íl ªgiߺ.˘ur.˘ur sá ib-si-mu didim mu-um-mu
17u. i-dag-gal ú-ßu-ra-a-ti i-ta-mi ma-ag-ri-ti
18u. u4.sakar é.sag.íl i†-†ul-ma i-sal-lal ßu.min-sú
19u. ú-pah-hi-ir dumu.meß ªumº-man-nu i-ta-mi it-ti-sú-un
20u. é e-pu-us a-na man-nu an-nu-ú si-mi-is-su
21u. lu-ú sá den su-ú mar-ri se-mi-it-ma
22u. d30 u .sakar-sú il-te-mi-it é-su
4

8u. He would stand up in the assembly and praise h[imself as follows]:

9u. “I am wise, I am learned, I have seen hid[den things]!
10u. (Although) I do not know the art of the stylus, I have seen sec[ret knowledge]!
11u. The god Sahar (= Ilteri) has revealed (it) to me (in a dream), he has sh[own
me] everything!
12u. As for the Series Uskar Anu Enlil which Adap[a] composed,
13u. I surpass it in all wisdo[m]!”
14u. He would confuse the rites, upset the omens,
15u. speak what he could concerning the august cultic prescriptions.
16u. As for the plan of Esagil, the designs which Ea-Mummu (himself) fashioned,
 162 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

17u. he would look at the plans and utter blasphemy.

18u. (Once) he saw the crescent-shaped symbol of Esagil and took it with his hands.
19u. He gathered the assembly of experts and spoke to them (as follows):
20u. “For whom is the temple built? This is its symbol.
21u. Were it indeed Bel’s, it would be marked with the spade.
22u. (Therefore), Sîn has (indeed) marked his temple with his crescent-shaped
symbol!”

This is probably the most significant part of the Verse Account. It contains very ex-
plicit allusions to claims aired by Nabonidus in his inscriptions. It also articulates its
criticism around the motif of the king’s ignorance in an attempt to overturn the no-
tion that royal authority should prevail in religious matters. Indeed, the mention of
‘hid[den things]’ (= katimtu) and ‘sec[ret knowledge]’ (= nißirtu) in lines 9u–10u, if cor-
rectly restored, is possibly a direct allusion to Gilgamesh I, 7, where the same two
words embody the knowledge that Gilgamesh seeks on his quest for antediluvian wis-
dom. The alleged royal confession of not knowing the art of cuneiform writing on
line 10u is in flagrant contradiction with the opposite statement of Nabonidus, that he
received the scribal craft from the god Nabû himself. With the reference to revelation
sent by the god Sahar on line 11u begins an enumeration of alleged misdeeds with
clearer references to materials found in the Harran Stele. The god Sahar (written Il-
teri) was the West Semitic form of the moon-god worshiped in northern Syria, where
theophoric names honoring him are common. The allusion might well be to the
dream reported in the Harran Stele, although Nabonidus narrates several dreams
sent by Sîn in various inscriptions from Babylonia. In any case, the passage mocks his
obsession with these dreams and his urge to publicize them.
Lines 12u–13u contain a crucial statement that Nabonidus claimed a wisdom
greater than Adapa, the first antediluvian sage, especially in relation to the contents
of the series Uskar Anu Enlil. The various arguments for the interpretation of this
passage have been carefully weighed by Machinist and Tadmor (1993). Two essential
points are pressed against Nabonidus. First, his claim to override the wisdom and ed-
itorial work of Adapa with his royal authority is void. No reason is given, although the
answer is clearly that only scholars—the living ummânus who hold their knowledge
from antediluvian apkallus—have received a mandate to voice authorized interpreta-
tions. The second point relates to the name of the series Uskar Anu Enlil. That this is
an allusion to Enuma Anu Enlil is obvious. The polemic focuses more specifically on
an episode reported in the Royal Chronicle, a historical-literary text praising Naboni-
dus’s achievements (Schaudig 2001: 590–95). The episode in question occurred in
the king’s second regnal year, when he consecrated his daughter as high priestess of
Sîn in Ur on the basis of a lunar eclipse omen recorded in the series Enuma Anu En-
lil. The Royal Chronicle offers what is certainly a grossly exaggerated view of Naboni-
dus’s depth of knowledge by claiming that the scholars in charge of interpreting the
tablets of Enuma Anu Enlil brought from Babylon could understand the omen prop-
erly only after the king had explained it. The crux of the passage is the modified
name of the series, Uskar Anu Enlil. This most likely alludes to the designation for
the first five days of the month, uskar Anu ‘crescent of Anu’ in the Theology of the

spread is 6 points long

 Nabonidus the Mad King 163

Moon. This satirical pun directed at a king who apparently saw lunar crescents every-
where anticipates the episode related a few lines below. Nabonidus allegedly saw a
crescent symbol in the Esagil temple and on that basis claimed that the temple really
belonged to Sîn. This finds some confirmation in some of his late inscriptions, which
name Esagil and other Babylonian temples as sanctuaries of Sîn’s great godhead. Yet
the most significant parallel to the crescent symbol episode is probably the relief on
top of the Babylon Stele, where Nabonidus carries a staff crowned with the lunar cres-
cent, the uskar Anu, instead of the stylus symbol of Nabû that he proudly displays at
Harran. Even the sweeping accusations of cultic neglect and ignorance leveled by Na-
bonidus at the Babylonians in the Harran Stele find an echo in this passage of the
Verse Account. Similar accusations are now hurled back at the king, who “would
confuse the rites, upset the omens, and speak what he could concerning the august
cultic prescriptions.”

Conclusion
The conflict between king and scholar came to a resolution when the Babylonian
monarchy disappeared, leaving the scribal elite solely responsible for the intellectual
and religious leadership of their civilization. The Verse Account reflects the views of
a segment of this elite who opposed the designs of Nabonidus and were willing to col-
laborate with the administration imposed by the conquerors. What had they found so
objectionable in the theological views of the ousted king? One can detect in the in-
scriptions of Nabonidus an endeavor to symbolize in religion the cosmopolitan char-
acter of the Babylonian Empire. The idea is not new. Lewy theorized more than half
a century ago that Nabonidus tried to create an imperial religion centered on the
moon-god that would unify the various nations he ruled. The reality was certainly
more complex, yet this idea still retains much validity. A similar goal may have been
contemplated by the late Sargonid kings of Assyria with the syncretism between Assur
and Sîn of Harran, both equated theologically with Enlil. All this would have implied,
however, a decentering of Babylon as cosmological and political capital, a notion that
pervaded the intellectual and religious culture of late Babylonia (George 1997). It is
this and perhaps only this that may explain the vocal opposition to Nabonidus’s reli-
gious designs. The loss of centrality by Babylon and its god Marduk reminded the
Babylonians of the terrible ordeal their city had suffered under Sennacherib, who bru-
tally stripped the old religious capital of its cosmological role. This was certainly not
Nabonidus’s intention. However, some of his inscriptions appear to propagate the
idea of the subordination of Babylon to a larger political system and of its god Mar-
duk to a new theological expression of this system. Ironically, this is precisely what the
Persians achieved. Nabonidus, while appealing to deeply entrenched Babylonian tra-
ditions in presenting himself as religious leader and teacher of wisdom, nevertheless
failed in his endeavor to create a new theology that would reflect the complex political
reality of the Babylonian Empire at the transcendental level. In this respect, he exem-
plifies the failure of an old monarchy to maintain its legitimacy in times of dissolving
order and the incapacity of an ancient but waning civilization to reinvent itself in a
world dramatically transformed.
164 Paul-Alain Beaulieu

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 Part 3

Perceptions of a New Order

 Chapter 7
Cyrus the Great of Persia:
Images and Realities

Amélie Kuhrt

Introduction
Cyrus the Great of Parsa (modern Fars in southwestern Iran) founded the great
Achaemenid Persian Empire, which stretched from the Indus Valley to the Aegean
and lasted well over two hundred years (550–330 b.c.). The name of the Empire de-
rives from the eponymous ancestor of the royal line, first cited as such by the fourth
ruler (and usurper) of the Empire, Darius I (DB §2: Kent 1953; Schmitt 1991). It was
the largest empire the world had yet seen and had no rivals for most of its existence. 1
Its administrative structure, embracing an enormous number of very different cul-
tures, peoples, languages, was remarkably effective in holding this enormous territory
together. Elements of the Achaemenid system were adopted and adapted by its con-
queror, Alexander the Great (336–323), and the successor kingdoms established on
its former terrain after his death (see, for example, Briant 1990; Sherwin-White and
Kuhrt 1993).
The diverse pieces of evidence, when combined, yield the following picture of Cy-
rus. Although a Persian, Cyrus had close links to the Median king Astyages. Median
power, based in Ecbatana (modern Hamadan in northwest Iran), included Fars, parts
of Central Asia to the east, and reached westward as far as the Halys River in Anato-
lia. Cyrus led a successful Persian revolt against his Median overlord in 550, took over
the larger part of his dominions, and extended them by conquering adjoining areas:
the Lydian Kingdom, including the Greek cities of the Aegean seaboard in the 540s,
and the Neo-Babylonian Empire, which embraced the entire Fertile Crescent (from
the Persian Gulf to the Egyptian frontier) in 539. He rounded off these successes by
mounting a campaign of conquest against tribes living beyond the Jaxartes River
(modern Syr Darya) in northeastern Central Asia. Here he met his death in 530, and
the region remained outside direct Persian control. Egypt, too, had not been con-
quered by the time he died, but his son and successor, Cambyses (530–522), added
this important territory in the 520s. Darius I (522–486) subsequently added north-
western India and consolidated frontiers in the west, involving a temporary expansion

1. The most up-to-date, detailed study of the Empire is Briant 1996 [2002]; see also his critical
bibliographical updates: Briant 1997; 2001. A brief introduction can be found in Kuhrt 1995: chap.
13; excellent longer discussions are Wiesehöfer 1993 [1996] and Allen 2005, the latter beautifully
illustrated.

169
 170 Amélie Kuhrt

into Europe. After this, the Empire broadly stabilized inside its frontiers. Cyrus was
thus responsible for about 90% of Persia’s territorial conquests, achieved within the
remarkably short time of 20 years. With the exception of his last unsuccessful venture,
Cyrus’s progress was marked throughout by the generosity with which he treated his
defeated opponents, the respect he showed to local cultures, and his support for local
cults. These policies laid the foundations for the Empire’s remarkable success. The
Persians celebrated his achievements in song and story, and his tomb was the object
of a centrally funded cult down to the last days of the Empire.

Evidence Shaping the Traditional Image of Cyrus

That is the picture we have of Cyrus, based on very disparate material, which has
been read selectively and fitted together to provide this attractive, heroic image. It
has dominated modern European perceptions of Cyrus as the model of the enlight-
ened and tolerant ruler from the fifteenth century to the present. 2 What are its con-
stituent elements?
First, there is the evidence contained in the Old Testament. Isaiah 44–55 (“Deutero-
Isaiah”) hails him as Yahweh’s anointed, chosen and named by Israel’s god to destroy
Babylon. This will deliver his people, the Jews, from their captivity in the land of
Nebuchadnezzar, the hated king who had deported the population of Judah and de-
stroyed Jerusalem together with its temple between 597/6 and 582. This, in turn, will
allow the restoration of the Jewish community and its central cult. Ezra 1 and 5–6 of-
fer two versions (in Hebrew and Aramaic, respectively) of an edict issued by Cyrus
after his Babylonian victory. According to this, he ordered the Jews to rebuild their
temple with moneys from the royal treasury and reactivate its cult. The account of Je-
rusalem’s restoration is elaborated by the first-century a.d. Jewish historian Josephus
(Ant. 11.1–18).
Second, we have the fifth- and fourth-century b.c. Greek writers, on whom later vi-
sions of Cyrus and the Persian Empire (in Greek and Latin) were generally based. 3
The first to make a lasting impact on Western scholars and create the normative pic-
ture of Cyrus as a ruler and conqueror of unparalleled wisdom, competence, justice,
generosity, and piety is the work of the Athenian soldier-philosopher Xenophon, Ed-
ucation of Cyrus, translated into Latin in the 1440s. 4 Herodotus’s Histories, written sev-
eral decades earlier, trace the rise of the Persian Empire to the point where its
seemingly unstoppable expansion was brought to a halt by the Greeks of Europe in
480 and 479. His account of the heroic founder is less idealized than Xenophon’s and

2. See the articles by Lewis, Brosius, and Sancisi-Weerdenburg in Sancisi-Weerdenburg and Drij-
vers, eds. 1990.
3. There are occasional divergences in later classical writers, suggesting divergent or additional
stories told about Cyrus; for example, Strabo 15.3, 6, who says that Cyrus took his name from the
Cyrus River near Pasargadae, his birth-name being Agradates (Henkelman 2003a: 195–96). But the
outlines of Cyrus’s character and progress generally follow the earlier writers.
4. Xenophon lived in the later-fifth and well into the fourth century. See Sancisi-Weerdenburg
1990 for the reception of his work and its wide circulation in fifteenth-century Italy.

spread is 6 points long

 Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities 171

diverges considerably on many points of fact, but the generally positive impression of
Cyrus that readers draw from Herodotus is solid. A full translation (into Latin) of He-
rodotus was first published in 1474, and his account gradually gained in popularity,
although it was not necessarily always trusted. 5 A third important writer, whose work
certainly originally contained a long and detailed story of Cyrus’s origins and rise to
power, is Ctesias, the composition of whose Persica only just predated Xenophon.
Apart from substantial selections of his work in later writers, 6 his Persian history is
known primarily from a summary made by the ninth-century Byzantine patriarch
Photius—the original is lost. This became known in the West in the middle of the six-
teenth century and was often published as an appendix to Herodotus, whose version
of events it frequently contradicts. It has for long been considered an inferior, un-
reliable, gossipy work, although its value, at least as a source for Persian traditions
about the past, is now being more and more appreciated. 7 The heroic nature of Cy-
rus and his triumphs against all odds emerge clearly in what we have of Ctesias. The
differences in his story do not undermine a modern reader’s favorable impression of
the Persian king.
These then were the prevailing images of the Achaemenid Empire’s founder in the
minds of scholars before the decipherment of the Old Persian and Mesopotamian cu-
neiform scripts in the 1850s. Not a single one of these works was written less than a
100 years after Cyrus’s death, and not one emanated from his homeland. Archaeolog-
ical exploration in the nineteenth century changed this situation to some extent by
adding material from Persia itself, as well as texts from the time of Cyrus. Most im-
portant was the discovery in 1879 of a clay foundation cylinder in the area of the Mar-
duk Temple in Babylon. 8 Although damaged, it presents Cyrus, after his victory over
the Babylonian king Nabonidus, proclaiming the restoration of sanctuaries and the
return of deportees. This seems to harmonize perfectly with the Old Testament texts:
the decree reverses the destructive, intolerant policies of earlier Assyrian and Babylo-
nian regimes and proves Cyrus to have been an active supporter, even promoter, of
local cults. Not only captive Jews but the Babylonians themselves can be seen in this
document (as well as a Babylonian literary text published in 1924) 9 to have rejoiced
at their liberation. Sadly, no informative texts in Cyrus’s name have ever been found
in Fars. But his new royal city of Pasargadae, first studied by Ernst Herzfeld in 1908, 10
bears witness to the regime’s new spirit. Its fine stone structures and airy, columned

5. Contrast Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, a translation of which into French already existed in 1470,
possibly even earlier (see Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1990: 43). For the transmission and translation of
Herodotus’s Greek text, see Rollinger in Bichler and Rollinger 2000: 122–29.
6. Most important is the lengthy paraphrasing of the rise of Assyria and its fall to the Medes by
Diodorus (see Lenfant 2004: F1b) and the extensive use made of him by Plutarch for his Life of Arta-
xerxes (II).
7. See the detailed reassessment by Lenfant 2004.
8. BM 90920; Weissbach 1911: XI; 2–9.
9. The “Persian Verse Account,” first published by Smith (1924: 27–97, pls. 5–10).
10. The fundamental work on Pasargadae is Stronach 1978. For the history of exploration and
excavation at Pasargadae, with full references, see Boucharlat 2005. The brief inscriptions in Cyrus’s
name at Pasargadae were (almost certainly) added later by Darius I; see, for example, Stronach 1997.
 172 Amélie Kuhrt

pavilions were dotted over an area of 5 square kilometers, set in gardens, with no sign
of any permanent habitation. 11 It had no fixed defenses and had a free-standing gate
building, in contrast to the enclosed, inward looking, heavily fortified palaces of Nin-
eveh and Babylon. 12

A Critical Reasessment
By tracing the accumulation of these very different pieces of evidence over time,
one piled on top of the other, we can see how they might be fitted together to re-
inforce the prevailing image of Cyrus, the wise and tolerant statesman. It explains how
the very positive reputation he enjoys came into being, was reinforced over the centu-
ries, and has scarcely ever been challenged. 13 But it is important to realize that this
reputation is the result of selective and/or uncritical reading. In order to assess the
complexities of the figure of Cyrus and get closer to some of the historical realities,
we need to consider each testimony critically and assess it within its proper context.
The biblical material is exceptionally complex, and there is no agreement among
biblical scholars as to when Isaiah 44–55 or the book of Ezra was written or compiled.
There is also no agreement on what kind of material underlies these presentations or
how historically reliable it might be. Opinions vary so hugely that neither text can be
treated as providing independently trustworthy evidence. 14 Certainly, the Jerusalem
community within the tiny province of Yehud was reconstituted at some point after
the Babylonian depredations within the period of Persian rule; certainly, there was a
restoration of the Jerusalem temple and its cult. But exactly when this happened re-
mains obscure. For the idea that it occurred under Cyrus or that he played a decisive
role in this reconstruction, there is no supporting evidence. The earliest hints at a
possible rebuilding do not occur until the reign of Darius I (522/1–486) and make no
reference to Cyrus. 15 Moreover, it is quite unclear how or why this rebuilding was un-
dertaken, and the evidence for any Persian royal involvement is extremely shaky. A
further, at present insoluble, problem is knowing how extensive Nebuchadnezzar’s
destruction in Judah was, so that it is hard to evaluate the impact and scope that any
restoration might have had. 16 So, while we can see that Cyrus came to be credited with
this reversal in Judah’s fortunes and thus came to occupy a favorable place in Jewish
(and, indeed, Christian) visions of the past, this may well have been a retrospective
honor bestowed upon him as the emblematic Persian king rather than a reflection of
a historical event. Whatever one’s position in the debate, it must be admitted that the

11. For the idea, still much in vogue, that, apart from the stone buildings, Pasargadae only ever
housed temporary nomadic encampments, see Hansman 1972.
12. See the lyrical evocation of Stronach 2001a: 96–97.
13. A rare exception is D. W. Griffith’s great silent screen epic Intolerance, of 1916, which portrays
Cyrus as a bigot, crushing the free and easy life enjoyed by the Babylonians under a pleasure-loving
Belshezzar and the kindly dreamer Nabonidus.
14. See Ackroyd 1990; Bedford 2001; Grabbe 2004.
15. Haggai and Zechariah 1–8; see the detailed discussion by Bedford (2001), who argues that
the initiative to rebuild the temple came from the Jews who had remained in Jerusalem and was not
inspired or ordered by any of the Persian kings.
16. See particularly the perhaps slightly overstated arguments of Barstad 1996.

spread is 6 points long

 Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities 173

biblical evidence, echoed by Josephus, has no independent value with respect to the
nature of Cyrus’s policy toward his new subjects.
The defining classical accounts present by no means a uniformly consistent picture
of Cyrus as particularly “good” as opposed to a generally successful conqueror. Xen-
ophon’s Education of Cyrus is the exception, but it is clear that this work is more in the
nature of a philosophical novel on the ideal ruler than a history founded on facts. It
fits into contemporary Greek political debates about kingship and, where his account
can be tested against hard and fast evidence, is plainly ahistorical. 17 Herodotus pre-
sents Cyrus as the grandson of the Median king Astyages, who attempts unsuccess-
fully to have him killed at birth because of a dream prophesying his future power.
Foiled in this, Cyrus defeats the Medes and liberates the Persians from Median servi-
tude. In response to a challenge from the Lydian king Croesus, he victoriously defeats
him and is only stopped from executing him by divine intervention. Only when frus-
trated by this miracle does Cyrus decide to take Croesus into his entourage as a val-
ued adviser. His generals are ordered to bring the Aegean coastal regions to heel,
which is achieved by exceptionally brutal means (enslavement, massacre, and whole-
sale destruction; see Hdt. 1.153–76). The Persian conquest of Babylon is preceded by
the anecdote of an enraged Cyrus, “punishing” a river for causing the death of one
of the sacred white horses (Hdt. 1.189). Cyrus’s bloody end in the land of the Massa-
getae is a textbook example of what befalls the greedy expansionist whose ambitions
know no bounds (Hdt. 1.201–14). 18 Ctesias’s Cyrus hails from the poorest of pastoral
tribes and the most ignoble parentage but manages to work his way up to an honored
position in the Median court (Lenfant 2004: F8d* [1–7]). His defeat of Astyages in-
volves the torture of his children and grandchildren, followed by the execution of his
son-in-law, and ultimately Astyages’ death (FGrH 688 F9 [1–3; 6]). In the course of the
Lydian war, Cyrus executes Croesus’s son, resulting in the suicide of Croesus’s wife.
Only after repeated attempts to chain up Croesus are divinely frustrated 19 does Cyrus
relent and treat him with honor (FGrH 688 F 9 [4; 5]). The stories show a man of
great ability in the field, a brilliant tactician, ready to deploy whatever measures nec-
essary to achieve his ends.
What about the Cyrus Cylinder (for the text, see appendix no. 1 below), which has
played such a prominent part in confirming Cyrus’s unprecedented humaneness? 20
The first point to note is that the cylinder is a document commemorating Cyrus’s
building work, which was placed in the foundations of the Marduk sanctuary in

17. See the useful discussion in Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1993.

18. See Sancisi-Weerdenburg (1990: 33–35) on this as the dominant and defining feature of Cy-
rus for Dante (in both Purgatorio and De Monarchia), Bocaccio, and Petrarch, before the arrival of
Greek texts from Byzantium, the most decisive of which in revolutionizing his reputation being Xen-
ophon’s Cyropaedia. Until then, Cyrus was put on a par with Xerxes as an exemplar of vice and tyran-
nical rule. Note also the important discussion by Wiesehöfer (1993: 71–89), showing how the
popular images of Cyrus and Xerxes can be reversed.
19. Note that at one point in this episode, Croesus’s guards were beheaded.
20. Note the much-repeated statement that it is the “First Declaration of Human Rights”; see par-
ticularly some of the contributions to the volume celebrating the 2,500th commemoration held by
the Shah of Iran in 1971 (“Homage Universel,” Acta Iranica 1st series [1974]). A notice on the Circle
of Ancient Iranian Studies (www.cais-soas.com) electronic bulletin board in January 2006, reporting
on the loan of the cylinder to Tehran, described the document in the same words.
174 Amélie Kuhrt

Babylon, the Esagila. Place and function inevitably help to determine its message.
Thus it is, inevitably, Babylon’s patron god Marduk who appears as the chief protag-
onist, personally engineering Cyrus’s triumph. 21 Because it is by his will that Cyrus
becomes the new king, it is inescapable that the preceding ruler’s reign must have
run counter to the divine order. This is the standard way in which Babylonians dealt
with the problem they had faced repeatedly in the preceding two centuries, when
they had had to submit to the rule of a series of usurpers and Assyrian conquerors
(Kuhrt 1987). Closer examination of the text and comparison with earlier material
shows, indeed, that each motif in the Cyrus Cylinder was drawn from a repertoire of
traditional Mesopotamian themes, used by earlier claimants to the Babylonian
throne to legitimize their rule. One such example is the commemorative cylinder of
the Chaldean leader Marduk-apla-iddina II (the biblical Merodach-baladan, 721–
710), who had no rightful claim to the Babylonian throne but seized it by force dur-
ing the uncertain period that followed Sargon II’s usurpation of the Assyrian king-
ship in 722/1 (see appendix, no. 2). 22 If we compare this text with the Cyrus
Cylinder, we find many of the elements that appear there being deployed by Marduk-
apla-iddina in order to strengthen his grip on the throne. Thus, he has been person-
ally chosen for kingship by the head of the Babylonian pantheon, who has ensured
his victory over the previous Assyrian rulers. In response, Marduk-apla-iddina per-
forms the sacred rites and restores the sacred shrines. The confirmation that he is
acting correctly and piously is that he finds a royal inscription placed in the temple
foundations by an earlier, legitimate Babylonian king. This he honors by leaving it
undisturbed and placing his own memorial document next to it. Cyrus, it should be
noted (appendix, end of no. 1), acted in precisely the same way, reverently acknowl-
edging the Assyrian king, Ashurbanipal, as an earlier, revered predecessor, whose pi-
ous work on the temple’s fabric is marked and honored (see further, Kuhrt 1983). 23

21. A fragmentary cylinder from Sin’s (the moon-god) Temple in Ur (UET I, no. 307) is normally
attributed to Cyrus, because its wording resembles the wording of the Cyrus Cylinder from Babylon:
[. . .] and over the people joyfully named my name, Sin, [the lamp] of heaven and earth,
with his favorable omen filled my hands with the four quarters of the world. I returned the
gods to their shrines [. . .] let them dwell. [. . .] life of long days, a firm throne, an everlast-
ing reign and kingship without equal, grant me as a gift.
But the argument is not watertight. As is clear (see below), the wording of the Cyrus Cylinder is stan-
dard Babylonian for texts and situations of this sort. So Schaudig’s contention (2001: 480–81) that it
could well refer to Nabonidus (himself a usurper of the Babylonian throne; see Beaulieu 1989) car-
ries considerable weight. But this also must of course remain hypothetical. If it should eventually be
found to relate to Cyrus, then it would reflect the fact that, when carrying out work in Sin’s city and
on his house, the Persian king would have presented his achievements as due to Ur’s patron god.
22. Further motifs comparable to the Cyrus Cylinder (divine abandonment in response to the
plight of inhabitants, gathering the scattered peoples, etc.) are inscribed in the introduction to the
land-gift bestowed by Marduk-apla-iddina II on Bel-ahhe-eriba, the governor of Babylon. The dona-
tion is commemorated on an exceptionally fine boundary stone (Akk. kudurru, VS I 37, esp. i 17–42;
ii 28–29), now in the Vorderasiatisches Museum, Berlin (see Leemans 1944–48: §7). The image of
the king making the grant to Bel-ahhe-eriba is often reproduced (see, for example, the cover of
Kuhrt 1995, vol. 2).
23. Note that the section mentioning Ashurbanipal at the end of the text is a fragment originally
in the Yale Collection, now joined to the Cyrus Cylinder. The fact that it belongs to the Cyrus Cylin-
der was only recognized in the early 1970s (see Walker 1972: 158–59) and has had an important effect
 Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities 175

Interestingly, the annals of Sargon II (722–705) present the Assyrian king’s own de-
feat of Marduk-apla-iddina, 12 years later, in very similar terms to the words used by
his enemy earlier (appendix, no. 3). What this text adds, significantly, is that, after tri-
umphing over the current ruler, the new claimant to the Babylonian throne enters
into negotiations with representatives of the Babylonian citizen body (appendix
no. 3, section iii). Their successful conclusion is signified, in Sargon’s case, by the
community leaders’ formally offering the ‘left-overs’ (Akk. rihate) from the divine
meals, which were regularly presented to the acknowledged king of Babylon (see
Fuchs 1994: 332 n. 349). In accepting these, the new aspirant also accepted the duties
that went with being a Babylonian sovereign: to respect and uphold the privileges of
the urban elite and care for divine and civic dwellings. Work on sanctuaries and ur-
ban buildings was not something that could be undertaken at will; it required consul-
tation with the gods (through divination) to see whether the proposed work was in
line with divine plans. Approval of the plan to build, through the proclamation of
positive omens, in turn demonstrated that the gods favored the new ruler. And this
favor was reconfirmed by the new king, who traditionally formed and brought the
first building brick, finding the inscription of a pious earlier ruler who had per-
formed work that was similarly blessed. 24
These comparisons must make it plain that the Cyrus Cylinder fits perfectly with
established Babylonian traditions for coping with the serious disruptions created by
war and conquest. This, of course, has important implications for the historical con-
clusions we can draw from it. Thus, nothing in it signals the introduction of a new
Persian (as against Assyro-Babylonian) policy. All references to the “restoration” of
shrines and their staffs are part of a familiar rhetoric deployed by conquerors and
would-be kings, ready to accept the duties incumbent on them in their new position
as rulers in Babylon. In fact, it reflects the pressure that Babylonian citizens were able
to bring to bear on the new royal claimant more than it casts light on the character of
the potential king-to-be. In this context, the reign of the defeated predecessor was au-
tomatically described as bad and against the divine will—how else could he have been
defeated? By implication, of course, all his acts became, inevitably and retrospec-
tively, tainted.
This is also, perhaps, how we should understand the so-called “Persian Verse Ac-
count.” 25 The composition, which may have been publicly sung, 26 is a litany of crimes
that slander Nabonidus mercilessly and end with a veritable paean of praise for Cyrus.
It repeats and elaborates some of the themes found in the introductory passage of the
Cyrus Cylinder, echoes of which appear in Deutero-Isaiah’s vision of Cyrus as the
anointed of Yahweh, the chosen tool to deliver his people from oppression and usher
in a Judean renaissance. Getting at the complex historical realities that lie behind

in clarifying our understanding of the text. The new version of the text, including the Yale fragment,
was first edited by Berger (1975).
24. On the elaborate rituals of building in Mesopotamia, see Kuhrt and Sherwin-White 1991;
Bedford 2001: 157–80; Fried 2003.
25. See above, n. 9. Schaudig 2001: 563–78 is the most recent edition, with a new translation.
26. The suggestion was made by Von Voigtlander 1963.
176 Amélie Kuhrt

these standardized proclamations propounded in the name of and in support of a vic-

tor after his triumph is virtually impossible. But one thing must be clear: neither text
can be used to support the idea that Cyrus introduced radical new policies of religious
tolerance, including the unprecedented return of deportees to their former homes.

Historical Realities
Let me now turn to a text that gives us a clearer sense of Cyrus and confirms some
of the conclusions already drawn. It still inevitably provides only a partial picture, but
what we have is revealing. This is a Babylonian chronicle (the “Nabonidus Chronicle”;
see appendix, no. 4). It covers (with breaks) the reign of Nabonidus (556–539), in-
cluding his defeat and Cyrus’s conquest. The chronicle is part of the Babylonian
chronicle series, which begins in the middle of the eighth century and continues into
the second century b.c. The texts were (almost certainly) compiled on the basis of
contemporary notations relating to astronomical observations—part of a kind of data-
base correlating planetary movements, weather, prices, and political events. 27 Their
exact purpose is not known, but it is probable that they were linked to attempts to
manage the future. Important for the historian is the fact that the chronicles, based
on material of this sort, were not written at the behest or in the interests of any po-
litical agency. The chronicles are scrupulous in noting defeats suffered by Babylonian
kings, the kings’ failure to arrive on time in the military arena, or the fact that the text
being used by the writer is damaged or has omitted information and his compilation
is thus incomplete. 28 The chronicle’s dispassionate statements (terse as they may be)
are, where we have them, extremely reliable.
What emerges from this particular chronicle? First, and valuably, it gives us a virtu-
ally certain date for Cyrus’s defeat of the Median king Astyages (550) and a very pre-
cise chronology for his conquest of Babylon itself (October 539). From the moment
of Cyrus’s victory, the Babylonian business community dated its transactions by him
as ruler, which thus provide us with a date for his death: between the 12th and 31st
of August, 530. Herodotus’s curiously precise figure of 29 years for Cyrus’s length of
reign may well be right (Hdt. 1.214), which would place Cyrus’s accession to the Per-
sian throne in 559. These are the only chronologically fixable points of Cyrus’s career.
Apart from this, the chronicle has a (now unfortunately fragmentary) account of the
struggle between Cyrus and Astyages. It states clearly that the conflict was provoked
by the Median king, whose expansion plans included the conquest of Persia. This con-
tradicts the still-widespread and reiterated notion that Persia was subject to the
Medes. 29 Conversely, it agrees with Herodotus’s account that the Median army muti-
nied and handed Astyages over to Cyrus (Hdt. 1.127–30).
The chronicle contains a further mention of Cyrus in 547/6, which is usually taken
to be a reference to Cyrus’s conquest of Lydia (see appendix, no. 4 ii 15–18). But, it

27. This has been contested by Brinkman (1990) but is defended by van der Spek (2003) and
Kuhrt (2000).
28. See, for example, ABC 1, i 6–8, 36–37; 3, line 28.
29. See on this the discussion by Rollinger 1999.
 Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities 177

is worth emphasizing yet again that, however attractive this is, the traces in the tablet
do not make this reading possible, so we do not know the object of Cyrus’s campaign
in that year. Neither Herodotus nor Ctesias has a precise, reliable chronology for the
sequence of events, and we know very little in detail of Cyrus’s other activities, so we
should resist the temptation to force the chronicle entry to fit in with what we should
like it to say. 30
Most important, and largely preserved, is the chronicle’s account of Cyrus’s con-
frontation with Nabonidus. It is possible that tension between the two powers had
been growing for some time—certainly there is a reference to Persia in a very broken
context in the chronicle’s entry for 540. This may explain Nabonidus’s action in col-
lecting the divine statues of several cities in Babylon for (one assumes) safety in the
face of the expected Persian attack (Beaulieu 1993). In late September 539, the Baby-
lonian army led by its king faced the Persian troops on the Tigris, near Opis. The
battle was won by Cyrus, who followed up his victory by plundering the city and mas-
sacring its inhabitants. Shortly after this, Sippar, which was next in line of attack, sur-
rendered, perhaps in order to avoid sharing the fate of Opis. 31 From what follows, it
is clear that Cyrus halted there but sent his general (Gubaru/Gobryas) with an army
ahead to invest Babylon and take the defeated Babylonian king prisoner. Only after
Babylon had been secured (three weeks later) did Cyrus himself enter the city, which
was now prepared to receive him as its new ruler (see Pongratz-Leisten 1993: chap. 5;
Kessler 2002), almost certainly as a result of negotiation with representatives of the
Babylonian citizenry. 32 Cyrus made the appropriate royal gestures in response—that
is, initiating the “restoration” of order following the disruptions of war. After making
arrangements for the administration of the country, which (as we know from Babylo-
nian documents) continued to rely heavily on the existing Babylonian framework and
personnel, he installed his son, Cambyses, as king of Babylon. The formal occasion
for this was the Babylonian New Year Festival, celebrated in late March 538. This was
a lengthy ceremony (two weeks) during which the king’s contract with the Babylonian
gods and citizens was publicly reaffirmed. The festival had grown in importance dur-
ing Babylonia’s disturbed history in the immediately preceding centuries, 33 and its
correct celebration by Assyrian kings had been carefully noted by Babylonian chron-
iclers. An important phase in the festival was the point where the king led the image
of the god Nabu from the “Sceptre House” in procession into the main temple court-
yard. Because Cambyses had already been formally installed as king of Babylon in
Nabu’s cella (confirmed by the local dated documents), he would have been expected
to enact this phase of the ceremony. But a recent restudy of the last lines of the chron-
icle (George 1996: 379–81) suggests strongly that it was Cyrus who took the lead in

30. This problem was trenchantly analyzed by Cargill (1977), and the position has not changed
since, although it continues to be asserted that the chronicle provides a precise date for Cyrus’s con-
quest of Lydia. For a full reexamination, see Rollinger in press.
31. Note Tolini’s discussion (2005) of Babylonian evidence indicating a longer, planned, con-
certed resistance by Nabonidus and his army after the Battle of Opis.
32. See the passage in Sargon’s Annals (see appendix, no. 3 [iii]), and compare with Babylon’s
surrender to Alexander (Kuhrt 1990; van der Spek 2003).
33. See Kuhrt 1987; Pongratz-Leisten 1993 and the comments and corrections in George 1996.
 178 Amélie Kuhrt

this—but robed, as the chronicle observes, in Persian (“Elamite”) dress. The political
message of this action, in the context of this very traditional Babylonian ceremony,
must be that there was a clear limit to how far Cyrus was prepared to fall in with Baby-
lonian custom. Instead, the Babylonians were made to recognize, unmistakably, that
they were now subjects of a foreign ruler.
In trying to trace something of Cyrus’s background, we find that the Babylonian
material is again revealing. With one exception, Cyrus’s title in the chronicle is “King
of Anshan.” Until perhaps the early seventh century, the region of Fars in south-
west Iran and its main city, Anshan, formed a significant part of the old kingdom
of Elam. 34 It is now generally accepted that, by at least the late second millennium,
Iranian pastoralists (that is, Persians) had moved into this territory and mingled
with the local population. 35 From the late eighth century onward, Elam experienced
political problems as a result of conflict with Assyria. In the course of this, its kings
had lost control of the Fars region, certainly by the middle of the seventh century, if
not earlier. One outcome was the emergence of a new, small kingdom there, ruled by
a Persian dynasty, whose members took the ancient and sonorous Elamite title “King
of Anshan.” Cyrus, whose name may itself be Elamite (Henkelman 2006: 32), proudly
traces their genealogy in the Cyrus Cylinder: “Son of Cambyses, great king, king of
Anshan, grandson of Cyrus, great king, king of Anshan, great-grandson of Teispes,
great king, king of Anshan” (see appendix, no. 1 [iv]). The historical reality of this
claim is confirmed by the Elamite legend on an heirloom seal impressed on five of
the published Persepolis Fortification tablets, which reads: “Cyrus, the Anshanite, son
of Teispes,” that is, Cyrus’s grandfather. 36 So this “Persian” dynasty perceived itself to
be ruling part of the old Elamite realm, using a venerable Elamite title. Further, it had
clearly held this position for about a century before Cyrus’s reign. And the archaeo-
logical evidence from Fars suggests that, from around the time of the dynasty’s for-
mation, the region became much more densely settled (de Miroschedji 1985). This
evidence contradicts the later traditions found in Herodotus, Ctesias, and Xenophon,
according to whom Cyrus’s family was not royal, with the Persian dynasty only begin-
ning with him. Instead, we now need to see him as fourth in a line of “great kings”
who had begun to lay the groundwork on which the Persian Empire was built. It is
quite possible that Astyages’ attack on Cyrus was a move to try and contain the
growth of this threatening power.
Although it is possible to see something of this development, it still remains rather
shadowy, and nothing prepares one for Cyrus’s immense achievements. It is only with
him that the landscape of Fars was transformed by the creation of the great royal resi-
dence at Pasargadae, which was a name taken from Cyrus’s tribe (Hdt. 1.125). It con-
tained a series of substantial stone buildings, using novel architectural forms and
layouts. Elaborately columned buildings took their inspiration from a building tradi-

34. Anshan (modern Tal-i Malyan) is located 48 km west-northeast of later Persepolis.

35. See the thorough and very clear analysis in Henkelman 2003a; 2003b.
36. PFS 93* impressed on PF 692–5, 2033, dating between 503/2 and 500/499 (see Hallock 1977:
127–28, fig. E5; Garrison and Root 1996/1998, figs. 2a–c).

spread is 12 points short

 Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities 179

tion used in previous centuries and on a smaller scale for palatial residences in the
northern and middle Zagros. 37 A series of palaces (or pavilions) was set around an
artificially irrigated formal garden. 38 The magnetic surveys recently conducted by
French and Iranian archaeologists show that the seemingly isolated stone structures
were surrounded by mud-brick buildings and walls; thus, the urban nature of Pasar-
gadae can no longer be denied (Boucharlat and Benech 2002; Boucharlat 2003). Parts
of the palaces (P and S) were decorated with reliefs clearly derived from the Assyrian
iconographic repertoire, although one, the winged genie on Gate R, combines Elam-
ite and Egyptian features. A large structure, the Zendan, possibly associated with royal
ceremonies (Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1983), displays features found in a seventh-century
temple in the central Zagros (Tepe Nush-i Jan, Stronach 2001b: 624–25, figs. 1–3). A
substantial and well-fortified citadel dominates the site. Particularly intriguing is a
great precinct containing a stepped altar set on a platform; a similar platform with
stair access faces it. 39 It reminds one, inevitably, of what was to become the standard
image of the king on the facade of the rock-cut royal tombs from Darius I on: the king
with the tip of his bow resting on his foot, stands on a stepped podium facing a fire
altar on an identical podium; he raises his hand in a gesture of salutation to a figure
in a winged disc, with hand outstretched in the same manner; the whole scene is set
on a throne-like structure borne aloft by labeled representatives of the imperial sub-
jects (Schmidt 1970). The tomb of Cyrus himself, 40 which was the focus of a royally
funded cult until the last days of the Empire, sits high on a stepped base. This evokes
a ziggurat, perhaps the great Elamite ziggurat at Chogha Zanbil (Khuzestan), which
was certainly still visible. Its gabled roof is reminiscent of the architectural traditions
of western Anatolia. The masonry techniques, indeed, confirm that people from that
part of the world were engaged in the construction work at Pasargadae (Nylander
1970; Boardman 2000: 53–62). The creation and building of the city (5 km sq.) was
an immense undertaking that implies the existence of a developed administrative
structure to deal with the logistics of so large an enterprise. It not only drew man-
power from the newly conquered territories but also selected motifs, techniques, and
layouts from the new imperial lands to create a spectacular setting in which Cyrus’s
vision of his kingship could be celebrated in an appropriate ceremonial setting (Root
1979). It remained an important center in the region throughout the Empire’s exis-
tence and was the locus for the initiation of each new king, who was ritually associ-
ated with the founder of the Persian Empire there before being crowned (Plutarch,

37. The main sites are Hasanlu IV (Dyson 1965; 1989; Young 2002), Tepe Nush-i Jan (Stronach
2001b; see now Stronach and Roaf 2007), Baba Jan (Goff 1969, 1970, 1977, 1978, 1985), Godin Tepe
(Young 1969; Young and Levine 1974).
38. Stronach 1989. The recent French-Iranian research on the site indicates that more sections
of the city were laid out as parkland than previously thought (Boucharlat and Benech 2002).
39. It was thought that associated with the precinct was a structure intended to accommodate an
audience. But the French survey (above, n. 37) has established that this terrace and the walls are later
in date.
40. See Arrian’s description, Anabasis VI 29.4–7, derived from Alexander the Great’s companion,
Aristobulus, which suggests that the tomb was set within a garden, although this could be a misread-
ing (see Henkelman 2006: chap. 5.7.4).
180 Amélie Kuhrt

Artaxerxes 3.1–2). The combination of motifs from earlier, now-subject polities and
the use of a mixed labor force tangibly reflect Persian claims to world dominion—an
ideology fully developed by Cyrus’s successors.

Conclusions
Although the evidence is not immense, it is sufficient to counter the image of the
Cyrus of modern European and Judeo-Christian tradition. Instead of a young idealis-
tic liberator with a new vision for ruling the world, we can begin to define a king, heir
to an already fairly significant realm, who deployed both brutal and placatory ges-
tures in a calculated and effective manner. Evidence for his treatment of defeated
enemies is not unequivocal. While Ctesias and Herodotus both have him treating
Croesus kindly, the lyric poet Bacchylides has Croesus and his family vanish from the
face of the earth, suggesting that, according to some traditions, he was killed. 41 For
Nabonidus’s fate, we have the statements of the early-third-century b.c. Babylonian
scholar Berossus (FGrH 680 F10a) and the hellenistic Babylonian “Dynastic Proph-
ecy,” 42 according to both of which he survived. But both are late, and Xenophon has
him killed in battle, a fate that is not confirmed by the reliable “Nabonidus Chron-
icle” (see appendix, no. 4); it reveals no more than that he was taken prisoner, with
his ultimate fate being unknown. It would not, of course, be unprecedented for de-
feated kings to be taken into the victor’s court and provided with resources: the ration
texts from Nebuchadnezzar’s palace illustrate precisely this practice (Weidner 1939).
Building on the local infrastructure in order to administer newly conquered territory
was a standard and logical interim measure for any conqueror. 43 In terms of religious
tolerance, too, it is hard to define the difference between Assyrian and Achaemenid
practices. The Assyrians acknowledged the potency of local deities. 44 Imposing the
“yoke of Assur” on or setting up “the weapon of Assur” in conquered territory sym-
bolized incorporation into the empire and the duties that this entailed, not the forc-
ible imposition of a new religion (Holloway 2002: 158–77). This is comparable to the
ideology propagated by Darius I and his successors: Auramazda was the god of the
king, most clearly expressed in one of Darius’s inscriptions from Susa:

41. Bacchylides of Keos lived ca. 520–450 and thus represents an earlier tradition than Herodo-
tus (see Maehler 1982: F3, for the relevant poem).
42. Grayson 1975: 32–33, ii 20–21, which reads “The king of Elam [i.e., Persia] will change his
place[. . .]. He will settle him in another place[. . .]. He will settle him in another land[. . .].” For a de-
tailed discussion of this text, arguing against Grayson’s interpretation that it shows Cyrus in a poor
light, see van der Spek 2003: 319–20.
43. The example of Judah under Babylonian rule between 597/6 and 582 is a rather obvious ex-
ample of this.
44. Some may be reluctant to accept the speech of the Assyrian commander at the siege of Jeru-
salem in 701 (2 Kgs 18:19–25) or the story of the Assyrian king responding to a request to send an
expert to instruct the new inhabitants of Samaria about Yahweh (2 Kgs 17:25–28) as evidence of the
fact that the Assyrian regime acknowledged the power of local gods and may even have supported
their cult. It nevertheless seems to me revealing that these stories were included in the biblical nar-
rative. In addition, there is the material from elsewhere presented and discussed by Cogan 1974.
 Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities 181

1 I (am) Darius, the great king, king of kings, king of countries, son of Hystaspes,
the Achaemenid.
2 King Darius proclaims: Auramazda is mine; I am Auramazda’s; I worshipped
Auramazda; may Auramazda bear me aid. (Kent 1953: DSk)
The king’s deity, who had created the universe and placed it under the care of the Per-
sian ruler, encapsulated the ideals of Persian imperial order, which it was the duty of
all subjects to obey and uphold.
Finally, political considerations motivated Cyrus’s actions at every step. In order to
establish and consolidate control as firmly as possible, he needed to woo the support
of local elites, something best done by accommodating himself to local norms when-
ever possible. But this was preceded by victory in battle and a definitive show of
force, followed by no uncertain reminders to new subjects of their subservient posi-
tion. What we can define of his career fits smoothly with the behavior of his imperial
predecessors and successors.
Cyrus was a remarkable soldier and was politically pragmatic. The explosion in size
of the tiny Persian Kingdom during his reign remains astonishing. 45 His rapid con-
quests of vastly dispersed territories not previously united under one political um-
brella are easily comparable with, possibly greater in their breath-taking scope and
scale than Alexander the Great’s epic achievements. This, together with the widely
diffused messages of his piety and statesmanship derived from Ezra, Isaiah, and Xen-
ophon, combined with heroic stories of his rise to power help to explain the contin-
ued persistence of his reputation as a uniquely able and merciful ruler. It is hard for
the less-immediately-attractive, down-to-earth evidence with its gaps and uncertainties
to compete with, let alone displace them. Legend and tradition have the power to cre-
ate their own persistent truths. 46

Appendix

1. Cyrus Cylinder 47
(i) vilification of predecessor:
An imitation of Esagila he made [. . . .] to Ur and the other cult centers. A cult or-
der that was unsuitable [. . .] he spoke daily, and, an evil thing, he stopped the regular
offerings [. . .] he placed in the cult centres. The worship of Marduk, king of the
gods, he removed from his mind. He repeatedly did that which was bad for his city.
Daily [. . .] he destroyed all his [subjects] with an unending yoke. In response to their

45. The importance of the Elamite element in the “ethnogenesis” of the Persians is emerging
ever more clearly: bureaucratic practice (Cameron 1948; Hallock 1969); iconography (Alvarez-Mon
2004); cult (Henkelman 2006). The political significance of the Elamite Kingdom and its survival
into the sixth century have been stressed by several scholars recently (Potts 1999; 2005; Waters 2000;
Henkelman 2003a; 2003b; 2006: 1–38). All this illuminates an important aspect of the Persian Em-
pire’s prehistory but still leaves the development of the kingdom of Anshan/Persia up through the
reign of Cyrus II largely in the dark.
46. For a striking example of this, see Kuhrt 2003.
47. Text edition: Berger 1975: 192ff.; Schaudig 2001: 550–56. English translation is my own.
 182 Amélie Kuhrt

lament the Enlil of the gods grew very angry [. . . .] their territory. The gods who lived
in them left their dwelling-places, despite his anger (?) he brought them into Babylon.

(ii) a good, new ruler is personally picked by Babylon’s god:

Marduk [. . . .], to all the places, whose dwelling-places were in ruins, and to the
inhabitants of Sumer and Akkad, who had become like corpses, he turned his
mind, he became merciful. He searched through all the countries, examined
(them), he sought a just ruler to suit his heart, he took him by the hand: Cyrus, king
of Anshan (= Parsa/Fars), he called, for the dominion over the totality he named
his name. Gutium and all the Ummanmanda (= Media) he made subject to him.
The black-headed people, whom he allowed his hands to overcome, he protected
in justice and righteousness. Marduk, the great lord, who cares for his people,
looked with pleasure at his good deeds and his righteous heart. He ordered him to
go to Babylon, and let him take the road to Babylon. Like a friend and companion
he went by his side. His massive troops, whose number was immeasurable like the
water of a river, marched with their arms at their side.

(iii) the new ruler enters in triumph amid public rejoicing:

Without battle and fighting he let him enter his city Babylon. He saved Babylon
from its oppression. Nabonidus, the king who did not honor him, he handed over to
him. All the inhabitants of Babylon, the whole of the land of Sumer and Akkad,
princes and governors knelt before him, kissed his feet, rejoiced at his kingship; their
faces shone. ‘The lord, who through his help has brought the dead to life, who in (a
time of) disaster and oppression has benefitted all’—thus they joyfully celebrated him,
honoured his name.
(iv) genealogy and titles:
I, Cyrus, king of the universe, mighty king, king of Babylon, king of Sumer and
Akkad, king of the four quarters, son of Cambyses, great king, king of Anshan, grand-
son of Cyrus, great king, king of Anshan, great-grandson of Teispes, great king, king
of Anshan, eternal seed of kingship, whose reign was loved by Bel and Nabu and
whose kingship they wanted to please their hearts—when I had entered Babylon
peacefully, I set up, with acclamation and rejoicing, the seat of lordship in the palace
of the ruler.

(v) the new ruler cares for city and cults:

Marduk, the great lord, [. . . .] me the great heart, [. . .] of Babylon, daily I cared
for his worship. My numerous troops marched peacefully through Babylon. I did not
allow any troublemaker to arise in the whole land of Sumer and Akkad. The city of
Babylon and all its cult centres I maintained in well-being. The inhabitants of Baby-
lon, [who] against the will [of the gods . . . . . . .] a yoke unsuitable for them, I allowed
them to find rest from their exhaustion, their servitude I relieved.

(vi) divine blessings provoke the homage of rulers further afield:

Marduk, the great lord, rejoiced at my [good] deeds. Me, Cyrus, the king, who wor-
ships him, and Cambyses, my very own son, as well as all my troops he blessed merci-
fully. In well-being we [walk] happily before him. [At his] great [command] all the

spread is 7 points long

 Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities 183

kings, who sit on thrones, from all parts of the world, from the Upper Sea to the
Lower Sea, who dwell [in distant regions], all the kings of Amurru, who dwell in tents,
brought their heavy tribute to me and kissed my feet in Babylon.

(vii) Return of cult statues and their staffs:

From [. . . .], Ashur and Susa, Agade, Eshnunna, Zamban, Meturnu and Der as far
as the territory of Gutium, the cities on the other side of the Tigris, whose dwelling-
places had [of o]ld fallen into ruin—the gods who dwelt there I returned to their
home and let them move into an eternal dwelling. All their people I collected and
brought them back to their homes. And the gods of Sumer and Akkad, which Nabo-
nidus to the fury of the lord of the gods had brought into Babylon, at the order of
Marduk, the great lord, in well-being I caused them to move into a dwelling-place
pleasing to their hearts in their sanctuaries. May all the gods, whom I have brought
into their cities, ask before Bel and Nabu for the lengthening of my life, say words in
my favour and speak to Marduk, my lord: ‘For Cyrus, the king, who honors you, and
Cambyses, his son, [. . . .] the kingship.’ The lands in their totality I caused to dwell in
a peaceful abode.

(viii) increased offerings and repair/completion of buildings in Babylon:

. . .] goose, 2 ducks and 10 wild doves, over and above the goose, ducks and wild
doves [. . .] I supplied in plenty. To stengthen the wall Imgur-Enlil, the great wall of
Babylon [. . . .], I took action. [. . .] The quay-wall of brick on the bank of the moat,
which an earlier king had built, without completing the work. [. . .] on the outer side,
what no other king had done, his craftsmen (?), the levy [. . .] in Babylon [. . . with]
asphalt and bricks I built anew and [completed the work on it (?)]. [. . .] with bronze
bands, thresholds and nukuse (door-posts) [. . . in] their [gates]

(ix) reference to act of pious earlier ruler:

[. . . An inscription] with the name of Ashurbanipal, a king who preceded me [. . .]
I found [. . .]

2. Cylinder of Marduk-apla-iddina II, Chaldean King of Babylon (721–710) 48

(i) a good, new ruler is personally picked by Babylon’s god:
He (Marduk) looked (with favor) upon Marduk-apla-iddina, king of Babylon, the
prince who reveres him, to whom he (Marduk) stretched out his hand [. . .] The king
of the gods [. . .] duly named him to the shepherdship of the land of Sumer and
Akkad, personally said: ‘This is indeed the shepherd who will gather the scattered
(people).’
(ii) Marduk causes the Assyrians to be defeated:
With the power of the great lord, the god Marduk, and of the hero of the gods, the
god Utulu, he defeated the widespread army of Subartu (i.e., Assyria) and shattered
their weapons. He brought about their overthrow and prevented them from treading
on the territory of the land of Akkad.

48. Text and English translation: Frame 1995: B.6.21.1.

184 Amélie Kuhrt

(iii) Maruk-apla-iddina performs the divine rituals and restores shrines:

With the excellent understanding which the god Ea, the creator, maker of all
things, had bestowed upon him, (and with) the extensive knowledge which the god
Ninsiku had granted him, he directed his attention to performing the rites, to admin-
istering correctly(?) the rituals, and to renovating the cult centres and the sanctuaries
of the divine residences of the great gods of the land of Akkad.
[. . .]
(iv) reference to act of pious earlier ruler:
I saw the royal inscription of a king who had preceded me (and) who had built that
temple. I did not alter his inscription, but (rather) I placed (it) with my own inscrip-
tion. [. . .]

3. Annals of Sargon II of Assyria (722–705)

(defeated Marduk-apla-iddina II, 710–709) 49
(i) reviling of previous ruler:
He (Marduk-apla-iddina, the Chaldaean) entered the land of Sumer and Akkad,
dominated (it) and ruled Babylon, the city of the lord of the gods, 12 years against the
will of the gods.
(ii) Marduk picks Sargon as king:
But Marduk the great lord, saw the evil deed of the land Kaldu, which he hates,
and on his lips was (the command) to remove sceptre and throne of his kingship from
him. Me, Sargon, the reverent king, he chose definitively from among all the kings
and raised my head (i.e., elevated me to this role). In order to block the path of the
Kaldu, the evil enemy, into the land of Sumer and Akkad, he made my weapons
strong.

(iii) After Sargon’s victories in Babylonia, Marduk-apla-iddina flees to his homeland;

Sargon waits in the Assyrian fortress of Dur-Ladinnu, north of Babylon:
The citizens of Babylon and Borsippa, the erib-biti, the ummâne, those skilled in
workmanship (and) who go before and direct the land, who had been subject to him
(i.e., Marduk-apla-iddina), brought the ‘remnant’ (of the divine meals) of Bel and Sar-
panitum, of Nabu and Tashmetum to Dur-Ladinnu into my presence, invited me to
enter Babylon and made glad my soul. Babylon, the city of the lord of the gods, I en-
tered amidst rejoicing, stood before the gods, who dwell in Esagil and Ezida, and
made pure, additional offerings before them.

4. Cyrus’s Defeat of the Medes and His Conquest of Babylonia

(The Nabonidus Chronicle) 50
(col. ii) 1. (550/49) (Astyages) mustered (his army) and marched against Cyrus, king
of Anshan, for conquest [. . .]

49. Text edition: Fuchs 1994: lines 260–63; 311–14. English translation is my own.
50. Text edition: Smith 1924: 98–123; ABC no. 7; Glassner 2004: no. 26. English translation is my
own.
 Cyrus the Great of Persia: Images and Realities 185

2. The army rebelled against Astyages (Ishtumegu) and he was taken prisoner. They
handed him over to Cyrus [. . .]
3. Cyrus marched to Ecbatana ((kur)Agamtanu), the royal city. The silver, gold,
goods, property [. . .]
4. which he carried off as booty (from) Ecbatana he took to Anshan. The goods
(and) property of the army of [. . .]
_____________________________________________________________________

(ii 5–12: report on Nabonidus’s activities and events in Babylonia, 549–547 b.c.; then:)
13. (547/6) On the fifth day of the month Nisanu (6 April) the queen mother died
in Durkarashu which (is on) the bank of the Euphrates upstream from Sippar.
14. The prince and his army were in mourning for three days (and) there was (an
official) mourning period. In the month Simanu ( June)
15. there was an official mourning period for the queen mother in Akkad. In the
month Nisanu (April) Cyrus, king of Parsu, mustered his army
16. and crossed the Tigris below Arbailu (= mod. Erbil). In the month Ayyaru
(May) [he marched] to [. . . .]
17. He defeated its king, took its possessions, (and) stationed his own garrison
(there) [. . . .]
18. Afterwards the king and his garrison was in it [. . . .]
_____________________________________________________________________

(ii 19–end of column: primarily internal Babylonian affairs)

(col. iii; beginning broken)
1. (540/539) [. . .] killed(?)/defeated(?). The river . . . [. . .]
2. [. . .] . . . Ishtar of Uruk [. . .]
3. [. . .] of Per[sia(?) . . . .]
4. [. . . . . . . . . . . .]
_____________________________________________________________________

([539/8] iii 5–10: description of New Year festival performed by Nabonidus and his
measures to protect divine statues)
10. Until the end of the month Ululu (ended 26 September) the gods of Akkad
[. . .]
11. which are above the . . . and below the . . . . were entering Babylon. The gods
of Borsippa, Cutha,
12. and Sippar did not enter. In the month Tashritu (27 September–27 October)
when Cyrus did battle at Opis on the [bank of ]
13. the Tigris against the army of Akkad, the people of Akkad
14. retreated. He carried off the plunder (and) slaughtered the people. On the
fourteenth day (6 October) Sippar was captured without battle.
15. Nabonidus fled. On the sixteenth day (8 October) Ug/Gubaru, governor of Gu-
tium, and the army of Cyrus without a battle
16. entered Babylon. Afterwards, after Nabonidus returned, he was captured in
Babylon. Until the end of the month the shield
186 Amélie Kuhrt

17. of the Guti (i.e., troops) surrounded the gates of Esagila. Interruption (of rites/
cult) in Esagila or the temples
18. there was none, and no date was missed. On the third day of the month Arah-
shamnu (29 October), Cyrus entered Babylon.
19. They filled the haru-vessels in his presence. Peace was imposed on the city, the
proclamation of Cyrus was read to all of Babylon.
20. He appointed Gubaru, his governor, over the local governors of Babylon.
21. From the month Kislimu (25 November–24 December) to the month Adaru
(22 February–24 March 538) the gods of Akkad which Nabonidus had brought down
to Babylon
22. returned to their places. On the night of the eleventh of the month Arah-
shamnu (6 November 539) Ug/Gubaru died. In the month [. . .]
23. the king’s wife died. From 27 Adaru (20 March) to 3 Nisanu (26 March) [there
was] mourning in Akkad.
24. All of the people bared(?)/shaved(?) their heads. When on the 4th day (of
Nisanu = 27 March 538), Cambyses, the son of Cyrus,
25. went to E-ningidar-kalamma-summu (= temple of Nabu sa hare in Babylon), the
official of the sceptre-house of Nabu [gave him(?)] the sceptre of the land.
26. When [Cyrus(?)] came, in Elamite attire, he [took] the hands of Nabu [. . .]
27. lances and quivers he picked [up, and(?)] with the crown-prince [he came
down(?)] into the courtyard.
28. He (or: they) went back [from the temple(?)] of Nabu to E-sagila. [He/they li-
bated] ale before Bel and the Son of [. . .]

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 Chapter 8
The Migration and Sedentarization of the Amorites
from the Point of View of the
Settled Babylonian Population

Brit Jahn

Introduction

Cuneiform Texts and the Ethnicity of the Amorites

The Amorites have left no written documents in the Amorite language, or if Amor-
ite documents ever existed, they have not survived. Thus, we must rely on Sumerian
and Akkadian cuneiform texts for information about the migration and sedentariza-
tion of the Amorites in the ancient Near East. But how are we to identify the Amor-
ites in the cuneiform texts? The clearest reference is found in texts in which people
are referred to as Amorites (Sumerian = m a r t u, Akkadian = amurrû). 1 However, by
the end of the Ur III period (2111–2003 b.c.), the m a r t u/amurrû designation had
disappeared, because of the assimilation and integration of the Amorites. 2 From then
on, it is hardly possible to differentiate between the Amorites and the older, estab-
lished population of Babylonia.
A linguistic analysis of personal names is a second way to distinguish Amorites
from other peoples. Amorite personal names appear mostly in a Northwest Semitic
dialect that can be differentiated from Akkadian, and they seem to characterize an
ethnic group (see also Streck 2004a: 318). Nevertheless, we must be cautious in using
this method because of the possibility that names were changed during the process of
acculturation and integration into Babylonian culture. Traditions or memories of
personal ancestors could also influence name choice. Last but not least, the choice of
names was surely influenced by passing fashion. However, one must assume that the
Amorites would have taken on Akkadian names due to the higher prestige of the
Sumero-Babylonian culture, rather than the other way round. The use of Amorite
names in the heartland of Babylonia decreased during the reign of ‡am¶u-ªiluna,

1. The terms m a r t u and amurrû are mostly collective terms for nomads from the point of view
of Babylonians, but this does not imply that the nomads belonged to only one tribe. We have to
reckon with the possibility that the name of a single tribe was used to refer to all nomads. See also
Streck 2000: 26–29.
2. Some texts from Tell Asmar (ancient Esnunna) speak of persons described as m a r t u only in
the Old Babylonian period (see Gelb 1968).

193
 194 Brit Jahn

which may have been due to the increasing integration of the Amorites and their
adoption of the Babylonian social and cultural way of life. 3

The Amorites from the Fara Period to the Ur III Period

Cuneiform texts from Suruppag (ancient Fara, about 2550 b.c.) and Ebla (about
2300 b.c.) provide the first evidence of a hitherto unknown ethnic group (Edzard,
Farber, and Sollberger 1977; Bonechi 1993; Archi 1985). This population is called
mar-du/tu/tum, marking them as strangers and non-Babylonians. The Amorites are
also attested in cuneiform texts from the Akkad period (about 2340–2198 b.c.).
An inscription of Naram-Suªen, the fourth king of the Akkad dynasty, recounts his
military victory on the Amorite mountain of Basar (Gebel Bisri; Frayne 1993: 90–94). 4
Col. ii 16–20: 16a-na 17ba-sa-ar 18s a.d ú-ì 19 m a r-t uki 20. . .
. . . to Basar, the Amorite mountain. 5
Col. iii 1–24: na-<ra-am>-/ds[uªen] 2da-núm 3b u r a n u n/íd-tám 4a-na 5ba-¶a-ar 6¶ a . d ú - ì
7m a r-t uki 8ik-¶u-ud/-su -ma 9 s u d u l 10is-{ku }-ni!-a-ma 11i¶-ku -na/-ma 12i-tá-ah-za-ma
4 8 8
13in d i.k u 14an-nu-ni-[t]im 15ªùº 16e[n-lí]l 17na-<ra-am>/-d<suªen> 18da-[núm] 19in
5
k a s k a l[+()] 20in ba-¶a-a[r] 21¶ a.d ú-ì 22m a r - t u[k]i 23u n uki-[a]m 24is11–ªarº
Naram-Suªen, the mighty, (crossed) the Euphrates River in the direction of Basar,
the Amorite mountain, reached him (Amar-girid), and they joined battle and fought
one another. By the verdict of the goddess Annunitum and the god Enlil, Naram-
Suªen, the mighty, was victorious over the Urukean at Basar, the Amorite mountain.
Although this text gives an account of a military campaign of Naram-Suªen against
Amar-girid, the king of Uruk, without mentioning the Amorite population, the year-
name of Sar-kali-sarri, the last king of the Akkadian Empire, shows that war was also
waged against the Amorites in Gebel Bisri (Gelb 1952: 139, no. 268; Thureau-Dangin
1898: pl. 6, no. 17; 1903: 57, no. 124):
in 1 m u sar-kà-lí-l u g a l-rí m a r. t u-am in ba-sa-ar kur is11- a-ru
In the year in which Sar-kali-sarri defeated the Amorites at Basar.
The main reason for these battles was surely the rulers’ expansionist desires, and
closely connected with this was the procurement of important resources, especially
wood and stone, which were in insufficient supply in Babylonia. It is known that, for
example, Gudea received na-stones and alabaster for his buildings from Gebel Bisri.
Gudea Statue B (Edzard 1997: 30–38)
Col. vi 3ù-ma-núm 4 hu r - s a g m e - n u - a - t a 5 b a11- s a l - l a 6hu r - s a g m a r - t u - t a
7 na4n a - g a l 8 i m - t a - e 9–12. . . 13ti-da-núm 14hu r - s a g m a r - t u - t a 15n u - g a l l a g a b -
11 11
b é - a 16m i - n i - t ú m . . .

3. In this regard, Streck (2004a: 335–42) has examined and evaluated the personal names of the
Old Babylonian period.
4. For the connection of basalla and basar with Gebel Bisri, see Edzard 1957: 35.
5. Wilcke (1997: 23) reads e-il ?-lí-a-[a]m ‘war dabei hinaufzusteigen’, and Sommerfeld (2000: 423)
reads ßu.du8.a ‘hielt er (den Weg) ein (?)’. For a summary, see Streck 2000: 32 n. 1.

spread is 12 points long

 The Migration and Sedentarization of the Amorites 195

3–12Hebrought down large na-stones from Umanum, the mountain of Menua, and
from Basalla, the Amorite mountain 9–12. . . 13–16He brought alabaster blocks from
Tidanum, the Amorite mountain. . . .

Apart from the campaigns of the rulers of Akkad and Gudea, it is impossible to iden-
tify Amorites within the Babylonian heartland at this time. It seems that the Amorites
were exclusively associated with the region of the Middle Euphrates. 6

Migration into Babylonian Territory during the Ur III Period

I understand the term migration to mean a unique, directed movement. In contrast
to this, transhumance (often called seasonal migration) characterizes seasonal pastoral
mobility, which will not be taken into consideration in this essay.
From the Ur III period on, the pressure of Amorite migration into Babylonia in-
creased, for some unknown reason. The “dimorphic oscillations” that have been de-
fined by Rowton probably played an important role. A sudden change in climate,
illnesses and epidemics, famines, population growth, or political changes—any of
these could be the catalyst for a shift in the balance of settled people and nomads
(Rowton 1976: 24–30; also Schwartz 1995: 255a–b). Attempts to keep these people
out of Babylonia culminated in the building of a fortification wall, the existence of
which is recorded, although no ruins have yet been located. The wall was begun un-
der Sulgi, the second king of the Ur III Dynasty, and finished by the fourth king of
this dynasty, Su-Suªen, in his fourth year of reign. This event was recorded as a
year- name: 7
m u dsu-dsuªen l u g a l - u r íki b à d - m a r - t u mu-ri-iq ti-id-nim m u - d ù
Year: Su-suªen, the king of Ur, has built the Martu-wall, which keeps away the
Tidnum.

Nevertheless, letters by Ibbi-Suªen, Su-Suªens’s successor and the last king of the Ur
III period, refer to attacks by Amorites, demonstrating that the Amorites’ migra-
tion into Babylonia was not substantially affected by the construction of this wall
(see pp. 196–97).
The massive penetration of Amorites into Babylonia at this time, however, does
not mean that there were no Amorites in southern Mesopotamia previously. One
must assume that they gradually infiltrated Babylonia, conformed to urban life, and
became integrated into the social and cultural structures of the settled population
(Wilcke 1969–70: 16; Lemche 1995: 1201a; Schwartz 1995: 254b). This may explain
the considerable increase of towns under Amorite influence immediately after the
collapse of Ur. 8

6. For a summary of this conclusion, see Streck 2000: 31–36.

7. For the building of the wall and its possible location, see Wilcke 1969–70: 2–12.
8. Whiting (1995: 1234–36) explains the rise of Amorite dynasties as resulting from a prior de-
pendence on Amorite mercenaries: “Amorites simply took over cities they were once hired to protect,
cities that were weakened by long years of dominance by a central, though no longer effective,
authority.”
 196 Brit Jahn

The Threat to Babylonian Towns in the Ur III Period

Although the increasing number of Amorites in Babylonia was already perceptible
during the reign of Sulgi, it was Ibbi-Suªen, the last king of Ur, who was especially
threatened by Amorites on several different fronts (see below). The secession of the
urban centers of Esnunna, Susa, Umma, Lagas, and Nippur further weakened the
kingdom. 9 A famine in Ur was probably the reason that Isbi-Erra, 10 governor of Isin,
abandoned Ibbi-Suªen, keeping back the necessary grain.
In an apparently fictitious letter to Ibbi-Suªen, Isbi-Erra writes: 11
7i n i m m a r - t u (lú)k ú r - r a s à m a - d a - z u(-s è) k u4(var. k u r)-r a g i s (ì; var. b í)-
t u k u-(à m)
8144,000 s e g u r s e - d ù - a - b i s à ì - s i - i n - n a(-s è; var. k e ) b a - a n - k u - u r (var. r e - e n)
4 4
9a-da-al-la-bi mar-tu dù-dù-a-bi sà kalam-ma (var. m u)- s è (ba-an/n i)-k u -(r e-e n)
4
10b à d - g a l - g a l - b i i m - m i - i n - d a b
5
11m u m a r - t u s e - b a s ì g - g e(-d[è) n u - m u - e - d a - s u m - m u (var.]- u n - d a - a k - e)
12u g u - m u m u - t a - n i(-i b)-kal b a - d a b - e n
5

One heard information that hostile Amorites penetrated the interior of your coun-
try. I took 144,000 kor barley, all of the grain, into the town of Isin. Now, all of the
Amorites have penetrated the interior of the country. They have occupied all large
fortresses. Because of the Amorites, I cannot give the barley rations for supplies.
They are stronger than I. I could be taken prisoner. 12

Although Isbi-Erra is surely exaggerating, it is clear that the invasion of the Amor-
ites was a factor that needed to be taken seriously and that the Martu-wall was ulti-
mately ineffective. 13 Unfortunately, specifics regarding the duration of the Amorite
migration process are lacking.

9. The absence of year-names under Ibbi-Suªen and the use of localized year-names is conclu-
sive evidence of the independence of these towns (Sallaberger and Westenholz 1999: 174–78).
10. Ibbi-Suªen called Isbi-Erra the “man from Mari” and made a point of noting that he was not
of Sumerian descent.
Letter to Puzur-Numusda from Ibbi-Suªen (see Falkenstein 1950: 61; see also Edzard 1964: 150):
19 I i s - b i-dè r - r a
n u m u n - k e - e n - g e - r a n u - m e - a . . . 34 l ú m á - r í ki-k e4 . . .
Isbi-Erra, who isn’t of Sumerian stock . . . the man from Mari . . .
11. Text publication: Legrain 1922: 33 and pl. 4, no. 9; transliteration and translation by Jacob-
sen 1953: 39–40; Wilcke 1969–70: 12–13. Summary of the letter by Edzard 1957: 45–46. The Ibbi-
Suªen texts are not original compositions. Based on linguistic and historical criteria, we believe that
these texts were later scribal-exercise copies of previously composed literature. Thereforer, these
texts cannot be entirely trusted (see Streck 2000: 36–37 and comment 1).
12. In the following part of this letter, Isbi-Erra asked Ibbi-Suªen to send 600 ships so that he
could transport barley. But Ibbi-Suªen was not in a position to send the ships. Instead of turning to
the governors who were allied with Ibbi-Suªen for help, Isbi-Erra took advantage of the crisis to be-
come the independent ruler of Isin.
13. In his reply, Ibbi-Suªen accused Isbi-Erra of not having stopped the Amorite invasion (Gurney
and Kramer 1976: 15–16, copy p. 83; Wilcke 1970: 55):
14p u z u r s a g i n b à d - i g i - hu r - s a g - g á 15m a r - t u lúk ú r - r a s à k a l a m - m u - s è
4-n u - m u s - d a
16a - g i n
7 i m - d a - a n - k u 4- r é - e n
How can you permit that Puzur-Numusda, the governor of Badigihursav, to let the hostile
Amorites penetrate the interior of my country?

spread is 6 points long

 The Migration and Sedentarization of the Amorites 197

The threat to the urban centers by the Amorites in the Ur III period stands in con-
trast to the subjugation of the Amorites under Ibbi-Suªen, which is evident in two
documents (see below). Unfortunately, it is impossible to determine the reasons for
this change during the reign of Ibbi-Suªen.

Year-name of Ibbi-Suªen (the 17th year of reign; see RlA 2:146):

m u di-b í-ds u ª e n l u g a l u r iki- m a - r a m a r - t u á i m - ù l u - u l - t a u r uki n u - z u g ú
i m - m a - a n - g a2- a r
Year: Ibbi-Suªen, king of Ur, subjected the Amorites, the strength of the southern
storm, who do not know towns.
The subjugation of the Amorites is also mentioned in a letter from Ibbi-Suªen to Pu-
zurnumusda (Falkenstein 1950: 62–63):
35ì-n e - s è m a r - t u k u r - b i - t a de n - l í l á - d a h - m u i m - m a - z i
Now, Enlil, my helper, has mobilized the Amorites from the mountain.
However, it seems as though Ibbi-Suªen succeeded in controlling the Amorites only
during the 17th year of his reign and then only by forming an alliance with them.
This year-name also supplies evidence that the Amorites made troops available to
the king. 14 Because only important incidents appear in year-names, which is typical of
the Sumero-Babylonian tradition, it is particularly significant that a year-name in-
cludes a reference to the subjugation of the Amorites.
A military conflict between Isbi-Erra and the Amorites can be dated to the time of
the alliance between Ibbi-Suªen and the Amorites. It is likely that the expulsion of the
Amorites from Babylonia was not as much the primary motivation as the destruction
of Ibbi-Suªen’s ally.

Year-name of Isbi-Erra (8th year of reign; Sigrist 1988: 13–14):

m u u r uki m a r - t u b a - hu l
Year: the towns of Amorites were destroyed.
This year-name also shows that the Amorites were not exclusively transhumant pasto-
ral nomads, but also settled in one way or another. 15 This evidence suggests that their
settlement was a long-term process of infiltration rather than a single mass migration.
Finally, we should mention that, in addition to military conflicts inside Babylo-
nia, economic interactions between Isbi-Erra and Amorites outside Babylonia are
well known. 16

18a - g i n m a r - t u - e a n - t a n a m - m u - s i - i n - g i
7
How can it be that you did not go into action against the Amorites?
14. The Amorites in the Kingdom of Mari also had to perform military service in the regiments
of the Mari king or his vassals, as indicated in numerous documents.
15. The cuneiform tablets from Mari often mention alanu ‘settlements’ of the Amorites on
which they farmed and to which they returned after transhumance in the spring (see Streck 2002:
169–70).
16. See Buccellati 1966: 238–39 and references to Amorites named Samanum (Isbi-Erra 21 and
25) and Usî (Isbi-Erra 13–15, 26) on pp. 116–17 and 119.
 198 Brit Jahn

Sedentarization and Striving for Power

The processes of Amorite sedentarization cannot be precisely determined for
Babylonia. Rowton describes sedentarization as a normal process of nomadism that
primarily affected the richest and the poorest within a tribe and was caused by the at-
traction of nearby urban centers (Rowton 1973: 254). Weak strata of the population
tended to become sedentary if their herds were reduced because of unfavorable
events such as drought, disease, and so forth, so that they could not ensure food for
their families. During the reign of Ibbi-Suªen, a letter from Isbi-Erra speaks of a lack
of barley; administrative and economic documents from this time also show a drastic
rise in the price of barley and cattle, a shift in cattle feed from barley to reeds, and a
change from wages paid in barley to wages paid in dates and oil. 17 These difficulties
would have affected the Amorite nomads as well and may have been one reason that
they became sedentary. The economically and socially privileged strata, however, es-
pecially the tribal elite, were lured by the advantages of a sedentary life. Their com-
paratively quick integration into the political apparatus of a state without losing
influence in the tribe was one important factor. In this way, these Amorite groups
served as mediators between tribe and state. Simultaneously, the state gained oppor-
tunities to control nomadic activities. This process must have taken place even before
we find evidence for rulers bearing Amorite names. An external attack and takeover
by the Amorites can probably be excluded because there is no record of such an
event whatsoever in the cuneiform texts (except for the letters of Isbi-Erra and Ibbi-
Suªen), which we would expect to find for an incidence of such importance. 18 Consid-
ering Rowton’s thesis, we may tentatively conclude that the Amorite usurpers already
held influential positions in the urban centers before they came to power and that
they had gradually become assimilated into urban life. 19
With the fall of Ur at the end of third millennium b.c., numerous small city-states
developed that were not united under a central power again until the reign of
ºAmmu-rapiª of Babylon. During these 200 years, approximately, the Amorites as-
sumed political leadership of many Babylonian towns. At the same time, the Sumer-
ian culture was nearly replaced by the culture of the Akkadians. 20

Traditions, Reflections, and Perceptions

Royal Titles
Royal titles are found in royal and votive inscriptions as well as on seals in the an-
cient Near East and were an expression of a king’s influence and power. Which titles

17. Sallaberger (Sallaberger and Westenholz 1999: 177) proposes that an important reason for
the decrease in the production of cereals lies in a change of the river, but he does not exclude over-
salinization of the soil, the decreasing size of fields, or the emigration of the population.
18. The Sumerian text of the Lamentation of Ur does not mention the m a r t u, while in contrast,
the people of Simaski and Elam are explicitly mentioned as the l ú - h a - l a m - m a ‘destroyer’ of Ur
(see Römer 2004: 1 and 57).
19. See n. 8 above.
20. For a summary, see Streck 2000: 37–38.

spread is 3 points long

 The Migration and Sedentarization of the Amorites 199

did the autonomous Amorite rulers assume after the fall of Ur? Did they have any of
their own epithets for referring to kings?
A comparison of royal titles shows interestingly enough that Amorite rulers as-
sumed the titles of Sumerian kings. The titles used most often were:
1. l u g a l k a l a-g a ‘m i g h t y k i n g’ o r n i t a-k a l a-ga ‘mighty man’ and the
Akkadian equivalents da-núm and dan-nu ‘the mighty’;
2. l u g a l of GN ‘king of GN’; 21
3. l u g a l k i-e n-g i-k i-u r i and l u g a l k a l a m su-me-ri-im ù ak-ka-di-im ‘king (of the
land) of Sumer and Akkad’.
Other titles were introduced by the Amorite rulers and hint at Amorite descent, but
not every Amorite ruler used these new titles. It may be that personal preferences and
awareness of one’s own descent or traditions played an important role.
One of these titles was ra-bí-an-(nu-um) m a r-t u ‘chief of the Amorites’, 22 which was
used by Zabaya and Abi-sare, both kings from the Larsa dynasty. In inscriptions of
Warad-Sîn, he calls his father Kudur-Mabuk a d-d a k u r m a r-t u ‘father of the Amor-
ite land’, whereas inscriptions of Kudur-Mabuk himself use the title a-bu/a d-d a e-mu-
ut-ba-la ‘father of the Emutbala’, the name of an Amorite tribe. An inscription of Itur-
Samas, governor of Kisurra, mentions the title ra-bí-an ra-ba-bi-ma ‘chief of Rabbeans’,
also an Amorite tribe. 23 The title l u g a l (d a-g a-a n k u r) m a r-t uki ‘king of (all lands
of the) Amorites’, which is introduced by ºAmmu-rapiª and otherwise used only by
ºAmmi-ditana, is similarly novel.
Although royal titles appear that may have referred to a king’s Amorite descent,
they are very rare. The use of an Amorite personal name was another indicator of a
king’s descent. 24 Royal titles that followed the Sumerian or Akkadian tradition ap-
pear much more frequently. The adoption of Sumerian and Akkadian royal titles may
be another indication that the Amorite kings were assimilated before they became
kings and probably held important offices in towns. 25 Because the Amorites were a
minority in comparison with the Babylonian population, we can also assume that the
influence of the Sumero-Babylonian culture was great enough that the Amorites con-
tinued to use well-known Babylonian traditions.
It is also worth looking at Syria, an area that can rightly be called the heartland
of the Amorites, and from which various Amorite tribes maintained close contact
with the urban centers. In this region, an Amorite dynasty was established at Mari al-
most 200 years after the fall of Ur and was destroyed by ºAmmu-rapiª of Babylon
about 60 years later. 26 There were no Amorite royal titles used by the Mari kings,

21. GN is an abbreviation for “Geographical Name.”

22. For other evidence for the title rabianum martu, see Seri 2005: 55–60.
23. See Seri 2005: 60–61.
24. For example, ª Ab i-q a r y i (a-bi-sa-ri-e), ‡ u m u-ª e l (su-mu-el) of the Larsa dynasty; ‡ u m u-
ª a b u m (su-mu-a-bu-um), ‡ u m u-l a-ª e l (su-mu-la-dingir) and º A m m u-r a p i ª (ha-am-mu-ra-bi) of the
First Dynasty of Babylon, and so on. For the reading and translation of these personal names, see
Streck 2000.
25. See p. 195 above and n. 8.
26. Perhaps for reasons of dimorphic oscillations (see p. 195 above), Yaggid-lîm succeeded to
the throne of Mari (ca. 1825+X b.c.), founding the so-called Lîm Dynasty (1825+X–1760/1 b.c.). This
200 Brit Jahn

although we have to take into consideration the fact that royal titles are only known
for Yaºdun-lîm and Qimri-lîm. These two kings called themselves:

1. l u g a l ma-ri ki tu-ut-tu-ul ki ù ma-at ha-na ‘king of Mari, Tuttul and the land of
Hana’,
2. l u g a l k a l a-g a or l u g a l da-[núm] (only Qimri-lîm) ‘mighty king’,
3. l u g a l ga-as-ru-um ‘powerful king’,
4. ri-im sar-ri (only Yaºdun-lîm) ‘wild bull of the king’, and
5. na-ra-am dd a-g a n (only Qimri-lîm) ‘beloved of the god Dagan’.

All these titles are linguistically well within the Akkadian tradition. Akkadian was also
the official language there, as the corpus of Mari texts shows. 27 Thus it is not surpris-
ing that royal titles were also written in Akkadian. The reasons that Akkadian was
preferred at Mari can only be speculated. Perhaps even then, international relations
rendered the use of Akkadian necessary, considering that Akkadian became the lin-
gua franca of the ancient Near East after the fall of Ur, as we all know.
This section on Mari and the royal titles of its rulers shows that no titles that are
obviously Amonite can be found and that, instead, the titles are completely consistent
with the Sumero-Babylonian tradition. Thus, the royal titles do not provide much in-
formation about Amorite traditions. Perhaps the use of titles in the Babylonian tradi-
tion is an indication that the Amorites appropriated the Babylonian principle of
genealogical rights to the throne.

Perception of the Amorites by the Settled Population

In various cuneiform literary texts (myths, epics, hymns, royal inscriptions, prov-
erbs), there are allusions to the strangeness of the Amorites, primarily in the repre-
sentation of their way of life and their lack of what were considered essential customs.

Myths and Epics

There are five myths and epics that refer to the Amorites (a–e):
a. Enki and the World Order (Benito 1969: 99; also Kramer and Maier 1989: 43)
248u r u nu-tuku é nu-tuku-ra 249 de n - k i - k e mar-tu más-anse sav-e-es
4
m u - n i - r i[g7]
To those who know no towns, who know no houses, to the Amorites did Enki give
animal herds.

dynasty ruled during the heyday of Mari, when the city enjoyed international renown. Originally
peaceful relations with ºAmmu-rapiª of Babylon were severed, because the Mari king entered into an
alliance with the king of Esnunna, who made an enemy of ºAmmu-rapiª of Babylon. This ultimately
led to the destruction of Mari by ºAmmu-rapiª (ca. 1761/60), based on his year-names. However, it
remains uncertain whether the last king of the Lîm Dynasty, Qimri-lîm, was able to escape or was
killed in the encounter. After the destruction, Mari became an insignificant town, never again to at-
tain prominence.
27. Some letters use Northwest Semitic terms that are not attested in Babylonia: For example:
qa†alum ‘kill, slaughter’ instead of the usual Akkadian verb dâkum ‘kill’; harum ‘donkey stallion’ in-
stead of imerum ‘donkey, donkey stallion’; and hazzum ‘goat’ instead of enzum ‘goat’.
 The Migration and Sedentarization of the Amorites 201

b. Curse of Akkad (Cooper 1983: 52–53)

46m a r - t u kur-ra lú se nu-zu 47g u d u7 m á s d u 7 - d a m u - u n - n a - d a - a n - k u4-k u4
4

The Amorites from the mountains, people who know no barley, offered her
(Inanna) perfect cattle and perfect goats.

c. Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta (Cohen 1973: 70, 119)

144k u r - m a r - t u ú-sal-la ná-a
The land of Amorites lies in the pasture.

d. Lugalbanda and Enmerkar (Wilcke 1969: 118–19 and 124–25)

303/369 k e - e n - g i ki-uri nigín-na-a-ba 304/370m a r - t u l ú s e n u - z u hu - m u - z i
In the whole land of Sumer and Akkad, the Amorites, people who know no barley,
revolted.

e. Marriage of Martu (Klein 1997)

The best-known reference to the strangeness and barbarity of the Amorites ap-
pears in the myth called the “Marriage of Martu.” 28 The leading person is the god
Martu, who was the theos eponymos of the Amorites. He was not worshiped by the
Amorites, but he was already integrated into the Mesopotamian pantheon as early as
the Old Akkadian period. He reflected characteristics and way of life of the nomadic
population, which from the point of view of the sedentary population were strange
and uncivilized.
127á-s e s u - b i h a - l a m ú l u t i m u[guu g u4- b i ] 128a n - z i l - g u7 dn a n n a-[ k a m] n í
n u - [t u k u] 129s u d a g - d a g - g e - b i x [. . .] 130[n í v - g i]g é d i n g i r - r e - e - n e -[k a m]
131[v a l g a-b]i m u - u n - l ù - l ù s u [s ù h-a d u g - g a] 132l[ú k]usl u - ú b m u - a [. . .] 133z a -
4 4
l a m - v a r t i i m i m-s è v-[v á . . .] s i z k u r [n u-m u-u n-d u g4-g a] 134hu r-s a v-v á t u s-e
k i [d i n g i r - r e-n e n u-z u-a] 135l ú u[z]u - d i r i g k u r - d a m u - u n - b a - a l - l a d ù g g a m
n u - z u - à m 136u z u n u - s e v - v á a l - g u7- z e 137u4-t ì l-l a-n a é n u-t u k u-a 138u4 b a - u g7-
a -n a k i n u-t ú m-m u-d a m
127Lo, their hands are destructive, (their) features (are those of) [monkeys]. 128 They
are those who eat what is taboo to the god Nanna, [they have] no reverence. 129In
their roaming around. [. . .] 130 They are an abomination [to] the temples of the
gods. 131Their [counsel] is confused. They are those [who cause] (only) dis[tur-
bance]. 132A m[an] who is clothed in leather-sac [. . .] 133A tent-dweller, [in] wind and

28. This myth deals with the dissatisfied Martu, who does not yet have a wife and children, al-
though he is a very successful hunter. Therefore, he asks his mother to let him marry. With her con-
sent, a festival is held in the town of Inab, to which Numusda, the god of the town of Kazulla,
together with his wife and daughter and others are invited. Martu, who is an excellent athlete, excels
in the war game taking place there. Consequently, he gains the favor of Numusda, who wants to re-
ward him with gifts. Martu, however, does not want the awards but instead asks for the hand of Nu-
musda’s daughter. Finally (the text is not extant or is only fragmentary at this point), Numusda
agrees. The bride’s friend warns her about marrying a god because of his rough behavior; however,
the bride does not change her mind.
202 Brit Jahn

rain [. . .] [who offers no] prayer, 134who lives in the mountains, [who knows not] the
places [of the gods]. 135A man who digs up truffles near the mountains, who knows
no submission (lit., bending of the knees), 136who eats meat that is uncooked, 137who
has no house in his lifetime, 138(and) on the day on which he dies, he will not be
brought to a (burial) place.

Proverb
To date, only one proverb is known that refers to the Amorites.
f. Proverb (Alster 1997: 107, 3.140)

g i g - g ú - n id a l à l - g i n7 í b - a k m a r - t u ì - g u7- a n í v - s à - b i n u - u n - z u
Gunida-wheat was made instead of honey. 29 The Amorites who ate it did not
recognize what was in it.

Royal Inscriptions and Hymns

g. Inscription of Su-Suªen (Frayne 1997: 299, lines 24–29):
24u 25m a r-t u l ú h a - l a m - m[a] 26d í m - m a - u r - r a - g i n 27u r - b a r - r a - g i n
4- b i - t[a] 7 7
28t ù r x [x] x 29l ú s e n u]-z u
Since these times, the Amorites, the destroyers, who are created like dogs, like
wolves, [. . .] the hurdle. A person who knows [no barley].

h. “Hymn of Isme-Dagan” (= Isme-Dagan A+V, Römer 1989: 53; see also ETCSL:
c.2.5.4.01, “A praise poem of Isme-Dagan [Isme-Dagan A+V],” with bibliography)
266m a r - t u é n u - z u u r uki! n u-z u 267 lúl í l - l a hu r - s a v - g á t u s -a
The Amorites, who know no houses, who know no towns, . . . 30who live in the
mountains.

An allusions to problems with the Amorites in foreign policy appears in the lam-
entation of Nippur, which dates to the reign of Isme-Dagan of Isin (Tinney 1996:
114–15): 31
231u g u - b i - t a ti-id-nu-um n u - g a r - r a í b - t a - a n - z i - g e4- e s - à m
They have removed the treacherous Tidnum from upon it!

29. Alster completes: “(A cake) was made of Gunida-wheat instead of honey. . . .”
30. The translation of l ú l í l-l a by Edzard 1957: 32 and Römer 1965: 54, line 272 is lillu ‘Tölpel’.
The translation by the ETCSL as ‘primitives’ also goes back to the equation l ú l í l-l a = lillu. For l í l,
see Edzard 2003: 180: “Der Kontext legt eine Übersetzung ‘der aus der windigen (Zone)’ oder ‘der
aus der Leere’ nahe, was eine passende Beschreibung des Nomaden wäre.” This opinion is based on
the equation l ú l í l - l a = a-wi-il zi-qi-qí-[im] (MSL 12: 186, lines 27–33), known from the Babylonian
Lu-series, which, interestingly, was followed in the list by various groups of the population (Su-
teans, Amorites, Assyrians, mountain-dwellers, and Elamites). Streck (2000: 75) translates ‘Leute des
Windes’, where l í l = zaqaqum ‘wind, breath, spirit’ is also associated with the idea of a deserted and
barren place. This association is also shown in the reading l í læerum = ‘steppe’ in the Old Babylonian
series proto-Lu (MSL 12:63, line 824).
31. For a short summary of the historical background of the Isin I Dynasty, see Tinney 1996: 2–6.
 The Migration and Sedentarization of the Amorites 203

Interpretation
Texts a, b, d, (g), and h stereotype the Amorites as “not knowing” towns, houses,
or grain, which must have seemed uncivilized from the point of view of the Babylo-
nian population. 32 However, these clichés have nothing in common with the real life
of the Amorites, and various statements—that (1) the god Enki offered cattle to the
Amorites, (2) the Amorites offered perfect cattle and goats to the goddess Inanna,
and (3) they lie in the pasture—are not negative. These statements describe typical
Amorites as cattle-breeders who originally lived near the mountains and hills, which
they used for the pasture during their transhumance.
Although literary texts do not necessarily reflect real historical situations, I would
nevertheless like to consider their references to the presence of the Amorites in
Sumer and Akkad. The written version of the Lugalbanda Epic (d), which originated
in the Ur III period, 33 proves indirectly that the Amorites had already infiltrated
Babylonia but had not been completely integrated at the time of its writing. 34 Perhaps
the date of origin can be more precisely pinpointed if one takes the construction of
the Martu wall into consideration. Because this wall was supposed to keep away the
Amorites, its completion should certainly be dated to a point in time when the major-
ity of the Amorites were not yet present in Babylonia. Accordingly, this epic can be
dated to sometime after the construction of the wall at the earliest, when the Amor-
ites had already infiltrated the Babylonian heartland in large numbers.
The Marriage of Martu (e) provides the best insight into a nomadic way of life, es-
pecially aspects of nomadism as perceived by the sedentary population. Thus, the
Amorites are called “tent-dwellers who dig for truffles and eat uncooked meat.” We
learn from Old Babylonian Mari correspondence that the nomads used tents during
transhumance and dug for truffles. 35 Perhaps there is some truth to the idea of eating

32. In spite of this, the Guteans are depicted much more negatively in the Curse of Akkad:
155g u-t i-u mki u n k é s-d a n u - z u 156d í m-m a l ú-ù l ulu g a l g a u r - r a sig7.alan uguu g u4-b i
Gutium, a person who knows no inhibitions, with human instincts, but of canine intelli-
gence and monkey’s features.
33. For the time of origin of Sumerian literary texts, see Wilcke 1969: 1 with bibliography.
34. This is also shown by the economic and administrative texts that single out Amorite differ-
ences. Research is currently being done at the Institute of Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Leipzig,
where Constance Dittrich addresses questions concerning the social and cultural integration of the
Amorites in the Ur III period in the Collaborative Research Centre: “Difference and Integration: In-
teractions between Nomadic and Settled Forms of Life in the Civilisations of the Old World” (see
http://www.nomadsed.de/) as part of the German Research Foundation. Ur III–period economic, ad-
ministrative, and legal texts from Puzris-Dagan, Girsu, Umma, Nippur, Ur, and Isin as well as letters
from Esnunna are the focus of the research (forthcoming).
35. For example, ARM 26/1, 115 n. 70: A.3200
13ui-nu-ma im-me-er-tum sa lúha-names 14ui-na ma-ti-ma ir-te-ú mi-im-ma a-na im-me-er-ti-s[u] 15uù

a-na ku-us-ta-ra-ti-su tu-ga-al-la-al-ma 16uit-ti-ka a-na-ak-ki-ir

If, when the cattle of the Haneans are being pastured in the country, you should cause any
damage to their cattle or their tents, I will become hostile to you.
FM 2 68: 34 [M.6006]
22[x] lúaw-na-na-i sa ªaº-na kam-a-tim 23[a-na na-we-em] ªil-liº-ku-[nim] ª†e4-ma-amº 24[ú-te-ru-nim
um-ma-mi]
 204 Brit Jahn

uncooked meat. First of all, equipment for food preparation would have to be small
and transportable for logistical reasons. Second, transporting meat requires a certain
amount of rationing in order to limit the need for slaughter during the time of trans-
humance. For this reason, drying raw meat was probably of primary importance, just
as even today meat is dried in many countries as a means of preservation.
The lack of knowledge about burials that is mentioned in the Marriage of Martu
seems to be a reference to the lack of houses, because in Mesopotamia there is a long
tradition of burials in the interior of houses (Novák 2000: 132–35). The Amorites’ ap-
pearance, both their physiognomy and their unfamiliar clothes, also mentioned in
the Marriage of Martu, is surely exaggerated. Nonetheless, one should bear in mind
the facts that nomadic clothing had to be practical and tough and that personal hy-
giene could only be realized within limits. In this respect, perhaps the comparison
with dogs and wolves in (g), which is suggestive of shaggy and dirty fur, can be under-
stood. In addition, this comparison associates the Amorites with animal behavior.
An important point that the Marriage of Martu mentions is (the lack of) religion.
The Amorites are incapable of saying prayers or knowing gods and their temples. In
this context, personal names that are formed with a theophorous element are inter-
esting. The use of a god’s name in one’s own name does not hint at an official cult but
at personal piety. Among the 6,662 Amorite personal names listed by Gelb (1980),
about 9% contain theophoric elements, and another 10% use the general term god
without naming him or her explicitly. In the first category, about 41% contain the
weather-god Haddu (241 names), 19% the grain-god Dagan (112 names), 14% the
moon-god Yarah (93 names), 11% the Venus goddess Astar (67 names), 7% the sun-
god Samas (40 names), and about 4% the goddess Ishara (22 names). Personal names
with the gods Enlil (2 names), Erra (9 names), Tispak, Marduk, and Zababa (1 name
each) are rare. These data are certainly distorted because: (1) since Gelb’s analysis,
the number of Amorite personal names has increased due to new discoveries; (2) the
linguistic classification of a name is not always clear; (3) personal names of different
chronological periods were collected and analyzed together as a single group; and
(4) personal names from the Kingdom of Mari were also included, so there was no
distinction from names from Babylonia. Nevertheless, it is interesting that the pre-
ferred gods were the gods who could be connected to the nomadic way of life be-
cause of their astral appearance or their function.
Personal names alone are not sufficient, however, to grasp the religious customs of
the Amorites in Babylonia. Some letters from Mari grant further insight. 36 For ex-
ample, tribal leaders visited the great temples to conclude treaties. 37 Smaller shrines

[X] ªAwnaneans, who went [to the steppe] for truffles, [have brought back the following]
news.
36. See Streck 2004b: 422–24.
37. For example, ARM 6 73: 10–12:
10 Iás-di-ta-ki-im ù l u g a lmes sa za-al-ma-qí-imki ù 11 lúsu-ga-gumes ù lús u-g i4mes [s]a d u m umes-ia-
mi-na 12ªiº-na é ds u ª e n sa ha-ar-ra-nimki anseha-a-ri iq-†ú-ú-lu-[n]im
Asdi-takim (king of Harran) and the kings of Zalmaqum and the sugagu and the oldest of
the Yaminites slaughtered donkey stallions in the temple of Sîn in Harran (“to slaughter a
donkey stallion” is synonymous with “to sign a treaty”).

spread is 9 points long

 The Migration and Sedentarization of the Amorites 205

or something similar in nomadic villages are also noted in the written documenta-
tion. 38 The performance of extispicies by Hanean nabu is also an allusion to the reli-
gious customs of the Amorites. 39 A letter mentions a humußum ‘memorial stone’ of
ªAyyalum, which may have been a gravestone or something similar, to which four
ªUprabeans (Amorite tribe, subtribe of the Yaminites) traveled, perhaps as part of a
cult of the dead. 40 These and much other evidence reveal aspects of the Amorite re-
ligious traditions. A comparison with texts from Mari proves that the Marriage of
Martu in no way reflects the real situation; its presentation of a lack of religiousness
is an exaggeration in order to emphasize more clearly the contrast between the
Amorites and Babylonians. The central idea of this literary representation is the sed-
entary Babylonians’ perception of the strange customs of the Amorite nomads rather
then the lack of religious customs.
A similar situation appears to obtain in the proverb (f), which alludes to ignorance
about the cultivation of grain and therefore at general stupidity and lack of intelli-
gence. Numerous texts from the palace archive of Mari show clearly, however, that
the Amorite tribes cultivated their fields and were even asked to contribute to the
harvest. 41 However, the amount of cultivation by the Amorites, who were primarily
occupied with cattle-breeding, was much less than for the sedentary population of
Babylonia, with its extensive field irrigation.
In conclusion, all the quoted texts present a distorted image of the Amorites
through their exaggerated representations, as the texts from Mari show. These exag-
gerations make it possible, however, to point out differences between the sedentary

38. For example, ARM 14 8: 5–18:

5 lú-messu-ga-gu sa h[a-a]l-ßí-im 6as-sum d i n g i rmes sa i-na s[a]-ga-ra-timki 7ù b à dki-ia-ah-du-li-im
8ka-lu-ú i-na a-wa-[tim] 9ki-a-am iß-ba-tu-ni-i[n]-n[i5] 10um-ma-a-mi s í s[k u rHI-A-ma] 11d i n g i rmes
wa-as-se-e[r-ma] 12i-na éHI-A-[s]u-[n]u 13s i s k u rHI-[A] [l]i-i[q]-q[ú-s]u-nu-si-im 14ù as-sum be-lí la a-
sa-lu 15d i n g i rmes ú-ul ú-wa-as-se-er 16i-na-an-na sum-ma d i n g i rmes 17a-na kap-ra-timki.[HI]-A ú-ta-
as-sa-ru 18ù sum-ma la ú-ta-as-sa-ru
5–9 Because of the gods who are held in Saggaratum and Dur-Yaªdun-Lîm, the sugagu of the
district addressed the following words to me: 10–13 “Release the offerings and the gods, and
in their temples may they be offered as sacrifices.” 14–15And because I had not asked my
lord, I did not release the gods. 16–18Should now the gods be set free in the villages, or
should they not be set free?
39. For example, ARM 26/1 216: 5–9:
5u 6 7 lúna-bi-imes sa ha-names ú-pa-h[i-
4-um a-na ße-er as-ma-a[d] ak-su-du i-na sa-ni-i-im u4-m[i-im]
ir] 8te-er-tam a-na sa-la-am be-lí-i[a] 9ú-se-pí-is. . . .
The day after I arrived before Asmad, I assembled the prophets of the Haneans. I had ex-
tispicies done for the well-being of my lord. . . .
For the use of nabû = ‘prophet’, see Durand 1988: 377–78.
40. For example, ARM 14 86: 9–11:
9. . . 4 lú-mesup-ra-pí-a-yuki 10i-na hu-mu-ßí-im sa Ia-ia-lim 11[is]-hi-{x}-†ú-su-nu-ti-ma
Four ªUprabeans had raided them near the memorial stone of ªAyyalum.
41. For example, ARM 3 38: 24–26:
24ù qa-tam-ma i-na e-ßé-di-im 25i-na a-la-ni sa d u m umes ia-mi-na 26ma-am-ma-an ú-ul ú-se-zi-ba-an-ni
And likewise, nobody from the villages of the Yaminites supported me during the harvest.
For a comprehensive account, see Anbar 1991: 170–74.
206 Brit Jahn

population and the nomadic Amorites. The texts do not reflect the historical situa-
tion of the Amorites who integrated quickly into the social fabric of the Babylonians,
but instead refer to the nomadic Amorites both inside and outside Babylonia.

Summary
As noted at the beginning, no written documents of the Amorites exist, so one
must turn to the Akkadian and Sumerian cuneiform texts to study the migration and
sedentarization of the Amorites in Babylonia. Texts of completely different genres re-
fer to the Amorites: historical sources such as royal inscriptions and year-names, lit-
erary compositions such as epics and myths, as well as administrative and economic
records that were not examined in this essay due to their large number.
On the basis of the above-mentioned cuneiform sources, some general conclu-
sions may be proposed. The term Amorite appears first in the middle of the third mil-
lennium b.c. in texts from Fara and Ebla. Military campaigns into the region of the
Middle Euphrates suggest contacts with the Amorite population living there during
the Akkad period. However, during this period no immigration into Babylonia can
be determined. During the reign of Sulgi, the number of immigrating Amorites in-
creased enormously. Because of the increasing pressure, the king felt compelled to
build a wall to bar the Amorites from entering Babylonia. Nonetheless, a mass pene-
tration of Amorites could not be prevented. However, the literary sources do not
refer to the immigration of the Amorites. These texts characterize the Amorites as
mountain dwellers, which automatically excludes the area of Babylonia, due to its flat
alluvial topography, and instead refers to the northern regions of Samiya and the
Gebel Bisri as well as the eastern regions of the Tigris and the Gebel Óamrin (Streck
2000: 32; Wilcke 1969–70: 15–16). The precise migration route is unknown, but the
Martu wall points to an origin of the Amonites in the north (Wilcke 1969–70: 9–12).
After the fall of Ur and the breakdown of the empire into numerous local city-states,
Amorite dynasties (recognizable by their names) appear in Babylonia. Their sudden
appearance and the use of royal titles derived from the Sumero-Babylonian tradition
demonstrate that an Amorite upper class had emerged and was already entrenched
in Babylonian culture. Between the Amorite infiltration and the establishment of
Amorite dynasties, we can see that a process of sedentarization must have taken place
there. In addition to the name, the term m a r t u, used to refer to Amorite persons
during the Ur III period, gradually came to be used less frequently and ultimately dis-
appeared, which is also significant evidence of their sedentarization (see Buccellati
1966: 355–62).
The mostly negative perception of the Amorites by the Babylonian population is
well documented in literary and historical compositions. A comparison of these texts
points to the use of stereotypical phrases to emphasize the contrasts between the no-
madic Amorite population and the settled and cultivated Babylonian population.
However, the cuneiform texts from Mari show that these negative representations are
clichés without much basis in reality. The Amorites are described in the Babylonian
sources as uncivilized and even barbaric—people who look and behave like animals.
 The Migration and Sedentarization of the Amorites 207

References to their origin in the steppe plateau and their “ignorance of houses” dem-
onstrate that these texts are describing not the already-settled Amorites but, rather,
the nomadic population. Finally, I must point out that the settled Amorites did not
represent themselves, nor did others describe their way of life. This “missing” refer-
ence suggests that the integrated Amorite population was considered neither strange
nor uncivilized.

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 Index of Authors

Ackroyd, P. 172 Cargill, J. 177 Gelb, I. J. 67–68, 73, 76–77, 81,

Adamthwaite, M. R. 23–25, 30 Carsten, J. 96 100, 193–194, 204
Afanas’eva, V. K. 69 Cavigneaux, A. 138 George, A. R. 140, 143, 147–149,
Akkermans, P. M. M. G. 39, 42, Charpin, D. 143 151, 160, 163, 177
54–56, 58 Charvát, P. 98 Gesche, P. D. 140, 142, 160
Albanese, C. L. 111 Cline, E. H. 48 Giesen, B. 69
Allen, L. 169 Cogan, M. 180 Gillespie, S. 96
Alster, B. 160, 202 Cohen, A. 89, 95–96, 99, 101– Glassner, J.-J. 184
Alt, S. 101 102, 105 Goff, C. 179
Althusser, L. 92–93 Cohen, S. 201 Gonella, J. 133
Alvarez-Mon, J. 181 Collins, J. J. 138 Gonnet, H. 115, 119
Amiet, P. 101 Collon, D. 95 Grabbe, L. L. 172
Anbar, M. 205 Cooper, J. S. 24, 31, 69, 93, 95, Grayson, A. K. 137–138, 180
Anderson, B. 91 154, 201 Grelot, G. 138
Annus, A. 154 Cooper, L. 53–54 Gurney, O. R. 196
Archi, A. 194 Cormack, M. 92 Güterbock, H. G. 117, 131

Bahrani, Z. 113 Delougaz, P. 99 Haas, V. 114–117

Barstad, H. M. 172 Dever, W. G. 54 Hallock, R. T. 178, 181
Bauer, J. 101 Di Filippo, F. 22, 28, 34 Hansman, J. 172
Beaulieu, P.-A. 3–4, 12, 14, 141– Dickson, B. 89–90 Hawkins, J. D. 115, 121–123, 126,
143, 153, 174, 177 Dinçol, A. 122–123, 126 132
Bedford, P. 172, 175 Donbaz, V. 155, 158 Heimpel, W. 69, 96, 101, 103
Beld, S. 89, 94–95, 99, 101, 103– Drijvers, H. J. W. 152 Heinz, M. 3, 8, 40, 89, 130
104 Du Mesnil du Buisson, R. 41, 49, Heltzer, M. 28, 31
Bell, C. 92 51 Helwing, B. 95
Bellotto, N. 23, 30 Durand, J.-M. 22, 28, 205 Henkelman, W. 170, 178–179,
Benech, C. 179 Dyson, R. 179 181
Benito, C. A. 200 Herbordt, S. 121, 123, 126–127
Ben-Tor, A. 54, 58 Edzard, D. O. 194, 196, 202 Hill, H. 99
Beran, T. 125 Ehringhaus, H. 114, 121–122 Hill, J. D. 100
Berger, P.-R. 175, 181 Einwag, B. 24 Hobsbawm, E. 59
Bernbeck, R. 89, 92 Eisenstadt, S. N. 70, 83 Holloway, S. W. 180
Beyer, D. 27, 32, 121, 128–129 Ellison, R. 103 Hout, T. P. J. van den 113, 115,
Bichler, R. 171 Emre, K. 112 119, 121, 125–127
Bietak, M. 40, 42 Hugh-Jones, S. 96
Bittel, K. 113, 116–117, 120, 125, Faist, B. 22–23, 30, 32
128, 131 Fales, F. M. 154 Ilan, D. 54, 57
Boardman, J. 179 Falkenstein, A. 196–197 Immerwahr, S. 40, 42, 44–45, 59
Bohrer, F. N. 60 Farber, G. 194
Bonacossi, M. 41 Fauth, W. 125 Jacobsen, T. 196
Bonatz, D. 3–4, 11, 112 Feldman, M. H. 3, 7, 21, 43–44, Jahn, B. 5–6, 14, 16, 58
Bonechi, M. 194 59 Jans, G. 104
Börker-Klähn, J. 121 Finkbeiner, U. 22, 30 Joyce, R. 92, 96, 101
Boucharlat, R. 171, 179 Fleming, D. E. 23–25, 27, 29–31
Bourdieu, P. 92, 124 Forest, J.-D. 101 Kempinski, A. 45, 49, 54, 57–58
Bretschneider, J. 104 Foster, B. R. 71 Kent, R. G. 169, 181
Briant, P. 169 Foucault, M. 93, 102 Kent, S. 52
Brinkman, J. A. 176 Frame, G. 143, 146, 160, 183 Kenyon, K. M. 58
Brosius, M. 170 Franke, S. 68, 71, 74–75 Kertzer, D. 91–93
Brysbaert, A. 42–43 Frankfort, H. 40, 96, 98 Kessler, K.-H. 177
Buccellati, G. 197, 206 Frayne, D. R. 143, 194, 202 Khayyata, W. 133
Bunnens, G. 23, 28 Freu, J. 28 Kienast, B. 67–68, 73, 76–77, 81
Butler, J. 92 Fried, L. 175 Klein, J. 158, 201
Butler, S. A. L. 141 Fuchs, A. 175, 184 Klengel, H. 28, 55–56, 128
Knapp, A. B. 59–60
Cameron, G. G. 181 Gadd, C. J. 148 Koçay, H. Z. 118
Cancik, H. 23 Garrison, M. B. 178 Kohlmeyer, K. 121–122, 133
Cancik-Kirschbaum, E. 112 Geertz, C. 97 Kramer, S. N. 196, 200

211
212 Index of Authors

Kühne, C. 24, 30 Oren, R. 48–49 Smith, A. 91

Kuhrt, A. 5, 14, 151, 169, 174– Otten, H. 114, 116–117, 123 Smith, S. 171, 184
177, 181 Otto, A. 24 Sollberger, E. 194
Sommerfeld, W. 194
Lambert, W. G. 151, 156 Palyvou, C. 40 Spek, R. van der 176–177, 180
Laroche, E. 120 Pauketat, T. 92–93, 101 Steele, C. 99
Lee, T. G. 155–156 Pettinato, G. 78 Steible, H. 69, 73
Leemans, W. F. 174 Pfälzner, P. 41, 52–55 Steinkeller, P. 67, 96
Legrain, L. 196 Pinnock, F. 95 Stevanovic, M. 100
Lemche, N. P. 195 Pollock, S. 3–4, 10–11, 90, 92–93, Streck, M. P. 58, 138, 158, 193–
Lenfant, D. 171, 173 96–102, 105–106 199, 202, 204, 206
Levine, L. D. 179 Pomponio, F. 154 Stronach, D. 171–172, 179
Lévi-Strauss, C. 96 Pongratz-Leisten, B. 161, 177 Sürenhagen, D. 98
Lewis, B. 67–68 Postgate, J. N. 99, 154
Lewis, D. M. 170 Potts, D. 181 Tadmor, H. 162
Lewy, J. 139, 163 Pruzsinszky, R. 2, 6, 8, 21, 27 Talon, P. 153
Litke, R. L. 156–157 Taraqji, A. 39, 51, 57
Livingstone, A. 150, 157 Rapoport, A. 52 Testart, A. 89, 91–92, 101–102,
Lloyd, S. 99 Rawi, F. N. H. Al- 140, 143, 147 105
Lock, G. 92 Reade, J. 98 Thureau-Dangin, F. 194
Loon, M. N. van 113, 116 Richter, T. 24, 55–56 Tinney, S. 202
Lucero, L. 93, 100–101 Ricoeur, P. 92 Tolini, G. 177
Riegl, A. 59 Trémouille, M.-C. 28, 31
MacGinnis, J. 154 Roaf, M. 179
Machinist, P. 162 Rollinger, R. 171, 176–177 Verbrugghe, G. P. 138, 160
Macqueen, J. G. 116 Römer, W. H. P. 198, 202 Vita, J.-P. 23, 28, 30, 32
Maehler, H. 180 Root, M. C. 178–179 Von Voigtlander, E. N. 175
Maekawa, K. 95 Rosengarten, Y. 95, 101
Maier, J. 200 Rouault, O. 24 Wagner, E. 105
Manning, S. W. 59 Rowton, M. B. 195, 198 Walker, C. B. F. 174
Maqdissi, M. al- 49–50, 57 Rüden, C. von 42 Walker, W. 93, 100–101
Marchesi, G. 98 Russell, J. M. 53 Watanabe, K. 138
Margueron, J.-C. 22–24 Waters, M. 181
Marinatos, N. 40 Sader, H. 39 Weber, J. A. 53–54
Marti, L. 22, 28 Said, E. W. 60 Weber, M. 91, 96, 101
Martin, H. 99 Sallaberger, W. 24, 29, 31, 95, Weidner, E. F. 180
Matsushima, E. 151 196, 198 Weissbach, F. H. 171
Matthiae, P. 49, 56 Salvini, M. 28, 31 Werner, P. 22
Maurer, A. 70, 82 Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H. 170– Westbrook, R. 23, 27–28, 30
Mayer, W. 25, 27–28 171, 173, 179 Westenholz, A. 196, 198
Mayer-Opificius, R. 113, 115 Scandone-Matthiae, G. 51 Westenholz, J. G. 21, 25, 29, 67–
Mazar, A. 54, 58 Schaeffer, C. F.-A. 126, 128–130 68, 140–141
Mee, C. 40 Schaudig, H.-P. 137, 139–141, Whiting, R. M. 58, 195
Meyer, J.-W. 100, 104 145, 148, 150, 155, 158–159, Wickersham, J. M. 138, 160
Mitchell, T. 91 162, 174–175, 181 Wiesehöfer, J. 169, 173
Monaco, G. 40 Schmandt-Besserat, D. 95, 101, Wiggermann, F. A. M. 156
Montag, W. 92 105 Wilcke, C. 194–196, 201, 203,
Moon, J. 99 Schmidt, E. F. 179 206
Moore, W. E. 69 Schmitt, R. 169 Wilhelm, G. 58
Moorey, P. R. S. 98 Schwartz, G. M. 39, 42, 47, 54–56, Winter, I. J. 46, 53, 89, 101, 103,
Moortgat, A. 98 58, 89, 195 112–113
Morgan, D. 111–112 Scott, J. 90–93, 105 Woolley, C. L. 89–90, 98–99, 103
Morgan, L. 40–41 Seeher, J. 116 Woolley, L. 40, 47–48, 97, 130–
Selz, Gebhard 89, 93, 95–96, 100 132
Neve, P. 115–121, 125 Selz, Gudrun 95, 101, 104 Wright, H. 101
Nichols, J. J. 53–54 Seminara, S. 22, 24, 31
Niemeier, B. 40–41, 43–50, 59 Seri, A. 199 Yamada, M. 22–24, 27–28, 30,
Niemeier, W.-D. 40–41, 43–50, 59 Seux, M.-J. 159 32–33
Nissen, H. 94, 97 Shaw, M. C. 43 Yasur-Landau, A. 48
Novák, M. 41, 50–55, 204 Sherratt, S. 59 Young, T. C. 179
Nunn, A. 39, 42 Sherwin-White, S. 151, 169, 175
Nylander, C. 179 Sigrist, M. 197 Zaccagnini, C. 23, 25
Sjöberg, Å. 153 Zizek, S. 92
Oates, D. 24 Skaist, A. 22, 25, 27–28, 30, 34