Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions (Volume 9, Number 2, 2009)

CONTENTS Editor’s Note ................................................................................ Articles Nadav N...

Author: Seth Sanders

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CONTENTS Editor’s Note ................................................................................ Articles Nadav Naxaman – The Sanctuary of the Gibeonites Revisited ............................................................................. Jeremiah Peterson – An Old Babylonian Incantation Collective with Incantations Involving a Counter-Measure Against Oath-Breaking and the Alteration of a Dream of the King .......................................................................... Catalin Anghelina – On the Mythology of Okeanos ............. Seth L. Sanders – The First Tour of Hell: From Neo-Assyrian Propaganda to Early Jewish Revelation ..... John P. Nielsen – Trading on Knowledge: The Iddin-Papsukkal Kin Group in Southern Babylonia in the 7th and 6th Centuries B.C. ..................................... Christopher Woods – At the Edge of the World: Cosmological Conceptions of the Eastern Horizon in Mesopotamia .... Book Review Hannah Marcuson – Review of The Hittites and Their World ...

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EDITOR’S NOTE Religion has been one of the most powerful motivations for the modern scholarly resurrection of the Ancient Near East, from the 19th-century “Babel und Bibel” controversy to today’s continuing excitement over Egyptian tombs and the Dead Sea Scrolls. What has changed is that scholarship revived some of these cultures fully enough for them to speak to us on their own distinctive terms. Today, every season offers surprising new discoveries and connections dug from both the soil and the library, as well as fresh insights on the oldest documents of human religious thought. The distinctive task of the Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions is to report from the intellectual cutting edge of this area. As the incoming editor, my goal is to maintain the superb scholarly standard set by Theo van den Hout and Christopher Woods, who led the journal to cover all parts of the Ancient Near East and related Mediterranean religious life. At the same time, I intend to emphasize the comparative and interdisciplinary dimension of the study of ancient religion. One way we plan to facilitate scholarly connections and work that would not otherwise happen, will be to propose themed issues and problem-specific panels at scholarly meetings on exciting questions such as Mysticism (precisely what does it mean, for example, for a human speaker to identify with a god, and how is this accomplished ritually?) Cryptic writing (why do esoteric texts in the Hellenistic period begin to multiply scripts, from hieroglyphic and archaic Hebrew to the charactéres that are the supposed language of the angels?), and the multiple bodies of God (can we, as Benjamin Sommer has recently argued, uncover “a lost ancient Near Eastern perception of divinity according to which an essential difference between gods and humans was that gods had more than one body and fluid, unbounded selves”?). I am interested in proposals from the journal’s scholarly audience, and invite you to get in touch with me at [email protected] to share ideas.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 JANER 9.2 Also available online – brill.nl/jane DOI: 10.1163/156921109X12520501747679

THE SANCTUARY OF THE GIBEONITES REVISITED NADAV NA AMAN Abstract The article examines three biblical narratives in which the city of Gibeon and its inhabitants play a major role ( Joshua 9; II Sam 21:1-14; I Kgs 3:3-15a). It is suggested that Gibeon’s sanctuary played—directly or by inference—a significant role in the plot of the three stories. The story of Joshua’s treaty with the Gibeonites, ostensibly describing an event in the conquest of Canaan, in reality reflects a hidden Deuteronomistic satirical polemic whose background must be sought in the time of its Jerusalemite author of the late 7th to early 6th centuries BCE. The polemic’s stimulus lies in a Gibeonite reaction to Josiah’s cancellation of their sanctuary in the time of the author. Clarifying the relation of the Jerusalem and Gibeon temples is important for understanding the rise of the former, as well as the absence of the latter in the Dtr historiography. Keywords: Gibeonites, sanctuary, David, Solomon, hidden polemic

The city of Gibeon and the Gibeonites are mentioned in numerous biblical episodes. The city and its inhabitants play a major role in three episodes ( Joshua 9; II Sam 21:1-14; I Kgs 3:3-15a), and a secondary or marginal role in other narrative contexts (i.e., Josh 10:1-14; II Sam 2:12-13, 16, 24; 3:30; 20:8; I Kgs 9:2; Jer 41:12, 16; I Chr 14:16; 16:39; 21:29; II Chr 1:3, 13). Gibeon is also mentioned in some lists ( Josh 18:25; 21:17; Neh 3:7; 7:25; I Chr 8:29; 9:35; 12:4), and in two prophetic texts (Isa 28:21; Jer 28:1). In addition to the conquest tradition, the references to Gibeon cover the time from the early monarchical to the Persian period. Archaeological excavations have shown that Gibeon was not occupied in the Late Bronze Age II.1 Hence the stories of the treaty with the Gibeonites ( Joshua 9) and the following battle with the coalition of Amorite kings near the fortified city of Gibeon ( Josh 10:1-14) do not reflect events of that period. Not many finds from the Iron Age I-IIA were discovered in the excavations of the site, but the inscription 1 For the excavations at Gibeon, see Pritchard 1961; 1962; 1964; 1993. For (an occasionally devastating) criticism of Pritchard’s archaeological reports, see de Vaux 1963; 1966; Galling 1965; Parr 1966; Lapp 1968.


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of Shishak, king of Egypt (945-924 BCE), where the city of Gibeon is mentioned, indicates that the place was settled in the second half of the 10th century.2 According to the archaeological excavations, Gibeon prospered mainly in the late Iron II. Being surrounded by strong fortifications, it was equipped with a sophisticated water system and produced large quantities of wine.3 The date of the winery and jar handle inscriptions—either in the late monarchic or the 6th century—is debated among scholars.4 A late Iron II cemetery was discovered to the east of the mound.5 The city was settled during the 6th century as indicated by the ‘Mozah’ seal impressions and wedge-shaped and reed impressed sherds found at the site. However, typical Persian-period pottery and Yehud seal impressions have not been found. Therefore Pritchard, who excavated the site, suggested that “there is only scant evidence of occupation from the end of the sixth century until the beginning of the first century BCE.”6 Stern concluded that Gibeon was occupied in the 6th and that “it is thus very likely that the late phase of settlement at Gibeon dates to the beginning of the Persian period.”7 Lipschits also suggested that the site prospered in the 6th century and declined in the early Persian period.8 Saul, David and the Gibeonites According to the Book of Samuel, Saul was born in the city of Gibeah to a firmly rooted Benjaminite family. After his rise to power he made Gibeah his residence, the place was later called by his name, Gibeah of Saul (I Sam 11:4; 15:34; II Sam 21:6; Isa 10:29). Contrary to the description in the Book of Samuel, the Book of Chronicles lists Gibeon, a personification of the city, as the ancestor of Kish and his son Saul (I Chr 8:29-33; 9:35-39). To explain the contradiction between the sources, scholars demonstrated that the artificial genealogy was 2 For Shishak’s campaign, see Kitchen 1973: 294-300, 432-447; Na aman 1992: 83-86; Wilson 2001, with earlier literature. 3 Pritchard 1961; 1962: 53-99; 1964: 1-39. 4 See Pritchard 1964: 27; Cross 1962: 18-23; Stern 1982: 32-33; 2001: 321, 433; Lipschits 1999: 172-176; 2005: 243-245, with earlier literature; Katz 2008: 173175. 5 Eshel 1987. 6 Pritchard 1993: 513. 7 Stern 1982: 32-33; 2001: 433. 8 Lipschits 2005: 243-245, 247-248. Lapp (1972: 391-392) demonstrated that the “cellars” contained a considerable number of Persian pottery.

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part of the Chronicler’s anti-Saul polemic, intended to de-legitimize the king by presenting him as a non ethnic Benjaminite, and as unsuitable to be Israel’s king because he had no blood link with the Israelite line.9 There is no real evidence to support the claim, raised by some scholars, that Saul was either born in Gibeon or made it his capital.10 On the contrary, the stories of the early monarchical period (the so-called ‘United Monarchy’) indicate a state of enmity between Saul and the Gibeonites and a reversal of the relations in the time of David and Solomon. The key to Saul’s relations with the Gibeonites lies in the chilling short story related in II Sam 21:1-14. The story has been discussed many times and I will deal with it briefly.11 In my opinion, the narrative in vv. 1-14 is a single literary unit,12 except for two interpolations that are easily detected by the appearance of a Wiederaufnahme. The first Wiederaufnahme appears in vv. 2a and 3aβ, indicating that vv. 2b-3aα were interpolated.13 The second appears in vv. 12aα and 13a, indicating that v. 12aβ–b was inserted into the story. The first interpolation artificially combines the bloodguilt of Saul with the breaking of the treaty concluded between the Israelites and Gibeonites, according to Joshua 9.14 The second is an anti-Saul comment, in which the brave deed of removing the bodies of Saul and Jonathan from the wall of Beth-shean is presented as a theft, and the men of Jabesh are called by the negative designation “lords of Jabesh-gilead.” Note the contrast in terminology between I Sam 31:11, which describes in a positive manner the courage of “the inhabitants of Jabesh-gilead” ( yōš ebe¯ yābeiš gile ād), and the denigrating description in II Sam 21:12, according to which the “lords of Jabesh-gilead” (ba a˘ le¯ yābeiš gile ād) “had stolen them from the street of Beth-shean.” The term ba a˘ le¯ hā îr in biblical historiography always carries a negative connotation due to the element Baal, which was identified with the pagan Canaanite god.15 Walters 1991, with earlier literature. For the suggestion, see Schunck 1963: 131-138; Demsky 1971; 1973; Blenkinsopp 1972: 63-64; 1974; Mettinger 1976: 245-246; Edelman 2001; 2003; Finkelstein 2002: 122-129; 2006: 171-179. 11 In addition to the commentaries, see Cazelles 1955: 165-175; Kapelrud 1959: 298-301; Grintz 1966: 113-126; Thiel 1994; Hentschel 1994: Chavel 2003, with earlier literature in p. 24 n. 4. 12 Contra Hentschel 1994: 104-108; Chavel 2003: 26-34. 13 Thiel 1994: 254-255, with earlier literature in p. 254 n. 14. 14 Contra Malamat 1955; Chavel 2003: 35, 40; Day 2007: 126. 15 For the institution of the “lords” of the city, see Cowley 1923: 280; Soggin 1972: 180-183; Altman 1985: 7-20; Fitzmyer 1995: 64; Hoftijzer and Jongeling 1995: 183184 No. 4; Lozachmeur and Lemaire 1996: 132 n. 30, with earlier literature. 9

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According to the original story in II Sam 21:1-14, the famine was the result of bloodguilt, as explicitly stated in v. 1b: “YHWH replied: (It is) because of Saul and the House of Bloodguilt, for he put Gibeonites to death.” The background of the “bloodguilt” is not related in the original story. After consulting YHWH, David applied to the Gibeonites, who asked that he hand over to them seven of Saul’s sons in order to execute them “in Gibeon, on the mountain of YHWH” (v. 6b).16 Following the extradition, the Gibeonites executed them “on the mountain before YHWH,” and exposed their bodies from the time of the barley harvest (about mid-April) until the coming winter (about mid-October). The execution and public exposure of the bodies until the rainy season was supposed to assure the return of the rain and bring an end to the famine. However, rain and fertility returned only after Saul, Jonathan and the seven executed sons of Saul, were properly buried in their ancestral tomb at Zela. It seems that the narrative contains a hidden polemic against David, who was guilty of not taking care to properly bury Saul, Jonathan and Saul’s seven executed children. Hence the end of the story (v. 14): “They buried the bones of Saul and his son Jonathan in the land of Benjamin, in the tomb of his father Kish. And they did all that the king commanded. After that, God heeded supplications for the land.” A second episode of persecution of a western Benjaminite town is mentioned in II Sam 4:2. The city of Beeroth, located to the south of Gibeon (today Kh. el-Burj),17 was settled by Benjaminites following the flight of its inhabitants to Gittaim (probably el-Burj = orvat Tittora), a village in the northern Shephelah, on the edge of the hill country.18 The flight must have resulted from Saul’s persecution of the town’s population. The historical background of the enmity between Saul and the inhabitants of Gibeon and Beeroth is not given in biblical historiography, but was probably due to the new king’s efforts to consolidate his rule in the highlands. Saul’s operations must have led to an armed conflict with some villages in the western Benjaminite hill country, including Gibeon and Beeroth. 16 The reading follows the LXX; see e.g., Driver 1913: 351-352; Hertzberg 1964: 380; McCarter 1984: 438. Some scholars favored the MT; see Haran 1985: 35-36; Barthélemy 1982: 300-301; Chavel 2003: 28 n. 14. 17 Yeivin 1971: 141-144. The site of Kh. el-Burj covers about 10 acres and was mainly settled in the late Iron II (8th-7th centuries BCE). For the excavations and surveys conducted in the site, see Feldstein et al. 1993: 231-233; Onn and Rapuano 1994: 88-90; Vaughn 1999: 191 n. 32; Feig 2000: 395; Finkelstein 2008: 6. 18 Schmitt 1980: 80-92.


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The story of the execution of Saul’s sons was detached from its original context and shifted to the “Appendix” at the end of II Samuel (chapters 21-24). What might have been the original context of the story? Originally it probably followed II Samuel 6 and was included in a cycle of stories about David’s rise to power and the extermination of the Saulides. The theme of extermination opens with the death of Saul and his sons in the battle of Mount Gilboa, continues with the enthronement of Ish-Ba al (Ishboshet) at Mahanaim, the murder of Abner, the murder of Ish-Ba al, the barrenness of Saul’s daughter Michal (II Sam 6:23), and ends with the execution of Saul’s remaining sons (except for Meri-Ba al [Mephibosheth], 21:7). The theme ends with the burial of all members of the family in the ancestral tomb at Zela, which symbolizes the burial of the dynasty. The episode of David and Meri-Ba al in II Samuel 9 is part of the story-cycle of the so-called “Succession Narrative,” and was probably written with the intention of integrating the Succession Narrative in the storycycle of David’s rise to power.19 Following the addition of Nathan’s prophecy (chapter 7), the wars with Israel’s neighbours (chapter 8) and the Succession Narrative to the earlier story-cycle, the story of the cruel execution of Saul’s children did not fit the combined narrative, which emphasized David’s innocence until the Bathsheba affair. It was therefore removed from its original place and inserted in the “Appendix,” side by side with other episodes which did not find place in the continuous history of David. Solomon at Gibeon The sacred place of Gibeon is described as “the mountain of YHWH” in the story of David and the Gibeonites. Further evidence for the importance of the sacred site for the dynasty of David appears in the story of Solomon’s dream at Gibeon.20 I Kgs 3:4 “The king went to Gibeon to sacrifice there, for that was the largest high place (habbāmāh hagg edōlāh); Solomon presented a thousand burnt offerings on that altar.” The importance of the sanctuary is emphasized by its place at 19 For discussions of the scope of the story-cycle of the History of David’s Rise (HDR) and the Succession Narrative, see de Pury and Römer (eds.) 2000, with earlier literature; Isser 2003; Barton 2004: 95-106; Bosworth 2006; Rudnig 2006, with earlier literature; Dietrich 2007. 20 On Solomon’s dream, see Kenik 1983; Carr 1991, with earlier literature in pp. 215-225; Fidler 2005, with earlier literature in pp. 243-272.

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the beginning of the history of Solomon’s reign, its designation “the largest high place,” the imaginary number of sacrifices presented on its altar and the divine revelation taking place there. The etymology and significance of the biblical term bāmah has been extensively discussed by scholars.21 It clearly designates various kinds of cult places, from important temples to marginal open cult sites located in the open. The designation habbāmāh hagg edōlāh for the Gibeon cult place indicates that the author considered it a sanctuary of great importance, so much so, that he thought it an appropriate sacred place for YHWH’s nocturnal revelation to Solomon (compare Gen 28:12; I Sam 3:1-14). Divine revelations in dreams are widely attested in ancient Near Eastern literature22 and the Bible.23 The temple was the residence of God and a natural place for all kinds of divine revelations, revelatory dreams included.24 As noted by van der Toorn, “prophets normally received their revelations in the temple. When they were not in the temple in person, they visited the temple in their dream.”25 Although prophecies and dreams should be treated separately both in the ancient Near East26 and the Bible (Deut 13:2, 6; I Sam 28:6, 15; Jer 27:9), in some biblical texts the distinction is blurred and prophets received their revelations in dreams (Num 12:6; Jer 23:25). At Mari, too, prophetic visions were sometimes received in a dream. Scholars agree that underlying the account of YHWH’s revelation to Solomon at Gibeon is a pre-Deuteronomistic [henceforth Dtr] story, which was edited by the Deuteronomist.27 The old story in I Kings 3 must have introduced the pre-Dtr history of Solomon that lies behind the present collection of stories in I Kings 3-12.28 Its author referred to the sanctuary at Gibeon as a legitimate place of worship, where the king offered sacrifices, received divine revelation and the divine gift of wisdom. The problem of having the sacrifice and revelation 21 Welten 1972; Vaughan 1974; Barrick 1991; 1996; 2004-2007; Emerton 1997; Gleis 1997, with earlier literature; LaRocca-Pitts 2001: 127-159; Kogan and Tischenko 2002; For a different (in my opinion unacceptable) view of the terms bāmāh/bāmôt, see Haran 1985: 18-25. 22 Oppenheim 1956; Sauneron and Esnoul (eds.) 1959; Sasson 1983; ZibeliusChen 1988; Durand 1988: 455-482; Butler 1998; Szpakowska 2003; Szpakowska (ed.) 2006. 23 Ehrlich 1953; Gnuse 1984; Husser 1999; Lipton 1999; Fidler 2005: 361-397. 24 Van der Toorn 1998: 57-59; 2000: 221-223. 25 Van der Toorn 2000: 222-223; see Durand 1988: Nos. 233-234, 238; Fidler 2005: 347-352. 26 Nakata 1982: 143-144; Durand 1988: 455-463. 27 Carr 1991: 7-87, with earlier literature; Cogan 2001: 189-191. 28 For discussions, see Handy (ed.) 1997.


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take place at the sanctuary of Gibeon, rather than at the site of the Ark in Jerusalem, was felt only later, when the new Dtr ideology was born. To overcome the difficulty, the Deuteronomist inserted vv. 2-3 into the old story, thereby explaining the ‘improper’ cultic behavior of the king. The date of the early pre-Dtr Solomon story-cycle, (probably “the Book of the Deeds of Solomon” mentioned in I Kgs 11:41), is not known. It might be dated tentatively to the late 8th or early 7th century BCE. Its author emphasized the great importance of Gibeon sanctuary before it was succeeded by the Jerusalem temple. We may assume that the latter was initially a chapel/shrine of the royal dynasty, erected by Solomon as an annex of the palace.29 It developed gradually, stage by stage, over many generations, until it became the major temple of the kingdom. In this light I suggest that the sanctuary of Gibeon was initially the central sanctuary of the Kingdom of Judah (or, at least, of its northern districts). It must have kept its religious prestige even after the Jerusalem temple became the kingdom’s central temple, hence its designation “the largest high place” in the pre-Dtr Solomonic story-cycle. Scholars might protest and argue that the Gibeon sanctuary is not mentioned in biblical historiography after the time of Solomon. This is true, but the same might be said of all other cult sites located within the Kingdom of Judah, none of which is mentioned in the account in the Book of Kings. Our sources for the internal affairs of the Kingdom of Judah in the monarchical period are scanty, and in many aspects do no reflect the reality of the late 10th to late 7th centuries BCE. Biblical historiographical and prophetic texts repeatedly mention the cult in the bāmôt all over the country; but not the locations of the cult sites in the Kingdom of Judah (an exception is Amos 5:5). This has led to the unhappy situation in which scholars offered a tentative list of Judahite cult places in the pre-monarchical and early monarchical period—namely, hundreds of years before the biblical historiography was put in writing—but could not present a similar list for the monarchical period.30 The reason for the scarcity of sources is obvious: the author of the Solomonic history presented a non-historical picture, according to which Solomon’s temple was built with all the grandeur and glory of the late monarchical temple. The For the dependence of the original Solomonic shrine on the palace and its gradual growth until it became the state temple, see Busink 1970: 618-646, with earlier literature; Ussishkin 2003: 534-536. 30 See for example the list made by Haran 1985: 32-38. 29

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picture of a temple that from its foundation was far more important and sacred than all other cult places in the kingdom did not leave room for describing the other sanctuaries. Glorifying them might have diminished the glory of the Jerusalem temple and violated the Dtr ideology of the place that YHWH had chosen. For these reasons the Dtr ignored all the other sanctuaries in the Kingdom of Judah, referring to them collectively by the pejorative designation bāmôt, namely, “(non-legitimate) high places.” Taking into account the prominent place of the sanctuary of Gibeon in the pre-Dtr history of Solomon, and the great limitations of our sources for the monarchical period, it is legitimate to draw on the assumed late date of “the Book of the Deeds of Solomon,” and suggest that the description of Solomon at Gibeon actually reflects the reality of the time of its author. Shishak’s late 10th century campaign was directed against the Kingdom of Israel and the non-Judahite districts of the Negev, almost entirely avoiding the Kingdom of Judah.31 The city of Jerusalem is missing from the surviving parts of the list; Gibeon is the place nearest to Jerusalem that is mentioned in the town list. By analyzing the list of towns we may suggest that the Egyptians entered the Kingdom of Judah through the Beth-horon pass, and probably negotiated with Rehoboam’s messengers at Gibeon. Having received the tribute (I Kgs 14:25-28) they retreated, leaving the kingdom unharmed (see Na aman 1982: 83-86; 1999: 5-6, with earlier literature). Finkelstein noted that “the results of the excavations at el-Ǧīb do not allow a reliable reconstruction of the site, and only a limited quantity of pottery from the ‘soundings’ was published.”32 Nevertheless, he brought up the possibility that Gibeon was destroyed and abandoned, because “no early Iron II material can safely be identified in the published material, but a tomb from this period was found on the slope of the site.”33 However, only a small segment of the ancient site was excavated and the place of the sanctuary remains unknown. Moreover, only a small part of the unearthed pottery was published.34 Finally, no destruction layer of the late Iron I period was discovered in the excavations. There is an unbroken sequence in many highlands See above, note 2. Finkelstein 2002: 124. For criticism of Pritchard’s excavations, see note 1. 33 Finkelstein 2002: 124-125. 34 See Lapp’s comment (1972: 392a): “What were the forms associated with the m h stamped handles and with the examples of impressed ware? We shall never know because this material lies in the pottery dump at el-Jîb”. 31 32


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Judahite sites from the Iron I to the late Iron Age IIB, including the city of Jerusalem. Detecting the remains of the 9th century in highlands sites is difficult, as the bedrock is very high and there is little accumulation of strata on top of it, so that new buildings sometimes entirely obliterated the previous buildings. We may conclude that there is no real evidence for the assumption that the important site of Gibeon was deserted in the 9th century BCE. Like many other places in the Kingdom of Judah, Gibeon prospered in the late Iron II, as attested by the excavations of the mound and of the nearby cemetery.35 The prosperity of the city in the late Iron II should be kept in mind when discussing the second detailed story about the Gibeonites, that of their treaty with in Israelites in Joshua 9. The Treaty between Joshua and the Gibeonites About fifteen years ago I analyzed the story of the treaty between Joshua and the Gibeonites as part of the discussion about the conquest stories of the Book of Joshua.36 Rather than revising the results of my earlier study, I will first examine briefly the episode under consideration, then suggest a possible historical background for the narrated ‘event’. Even a superficial reading reveals the semi-legendary character of the narrative. For example, why did the Gibeonites rely on such a transparent deception as a request for a covenant, although such a covenant was not needed by people who lived far away? How were the Israelites deceived so easily, although the suspicion “perhaps you live among us” was expressed at the beginning of the negotiation? Evidently, the narrative was only the means by which the author conveyed his message of the dishonesty of the Gibeonites in their dealing with the Israelites, and the deserved punishment inflicted on them by the Israelites. It is commonly accepted that there are inconsistencies in the story, which indicate the presence of secondary elements. The literary significance of these inconsistencies is debated among scholars.37 There is a See Pritchard 1964; 1993; Eshel 1987. Na aman 1994: 274-279. 37 For the literary analysis of the story, in addition to the commentaries see: Möhlenbrink 1938: 241-245; Liver 1963: 227-232; de Vaux 1971: 627-635; Blenkinsopp 1972: 28-40; Kearney 1973; Halbe 1975; Rose 1981: 173-200; Rösel 1985; Mayes 1985; Schäfer-Lichtenberger 1986; Briend 1990; 1992; Sutherland 1992; Gordon 2003; Day 2007: 117-120. 35 36

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broad consensus about the scope of the late Priestly stratum inserted into the story (vv. 15b, 17-21, and the word lāēdāh in v. 27). However, there has been long debate about the original scope of the early story and various solutions have been offered. In my opinion, there is no justification for the suggestion that the original story includes only vv. 3-15a, and that vv. 16-17 and 22-27 were added later.38 The best argument for unity was formulated by Nelson, who nevertheless supported its division to two compositional stages: “A ruse or trick continues to generate narrative tension until it is ‘discovered’. . . . It is hard to imagine that the core story could really have been told without some sort of discovery of the masquerade.”39 Nelson’s solution to the difficulty (an undeveloped ending to the story that was later replaced) is arbitrary. In fact, none of the literary or linguistic arguments for breaking the story into two compositional stages is compelling. I will therefore treat the story, minus the Priestly stratum and a few late Dtr additions (e.g., vv. 10, 27bβ), as a complete literary unit.40 A key to understanding the ideological basis of the story lies in its close relation to the rules of the conduct of warfare in Deut 20:1018.41 Vv. 10-11 proclaims the law of a remote city attacked by the Israelites, stating that if it surrenders willingly then “all the people who are found in it shall be placed in bondage (Hebrew mas) for you and shall serve you.”42 The law emphasizes the sequence of the placing in bondage, followed by service. According to the story, Joshua believed that the Gibeonites had come “from a very far country” (v. 9) and were surrendering unconditionally to the Israelites. On this basis he “made peace with them, and entered into a covenant with them, to let them live” (v. 15a). When the truth came to light, Joshua cursed the Gibeonites that “there shall not be cut off from you slaves” (v. 23), and made them “hewers of wood and drawers of water . . . for the altar of YHWH even until this day” (v. 27abα; cf. Deut 29:11 [MT 10]).43 For a two-part division of the story, see Halbe 1975: 613-629; Boling 1982: 262, 266, 270-272; Butler 1983: 99-100; Schäfer-Lichtenberger 1986: 62-77; Briend 1990: 130-167; Sutherland 1992: 66-69; Fritz 1994: 99-106; Nelson 1997: 123-128. 39 Nelson 1997: 127. Rösel (1985) suggested some other good arguments in support of the unity of the story. 40 For the literary unity of the narrative, see the analysis of Gordon 2003. 41 Blenkinsopp 1966: 207-213; Kearney 1973. 42 For the translation, see Na aman 2005. 43 The chronological relation between Deuteronomy 29 and Joshua 9 is debated among scholars and some argued that one depends on the other. See Kearney 1973: 1-8; Mayes 1985: 321-325; Schäfer-Lichtenberger 1986: 65; Briend 1990: 162-164. Only few words are common to both chapters (Deut 29:4-5, 11 in parallel to Josh 9:4-5, 12-13), and Gordon (2003: 119) correctly noted that the quality of the evidence 38


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The bondage of the Gibeonites and the enforced service exemplifies the words of the law “it shall be placed in bondage for you and shall serve you” (Deut 20:11). Several elements in the narrative suggest a relatively late date of composition. (a) The reference to the conquest of Jericho and Ai in the introduction (v. 3); also the words “they for their part (gam hēmmāh) acted with cunning” (v. 4) refer to the stratagem by which the city of Ai was conquered; finally, the Gibeonites’ reply in v. 24, answering Joshua’s question in v. 22, is similar to the wording of Rahab in Josh 2:9. It is clear that the author of the story was familiar with the conquest stories relating to Jericho and Ai. (b) The introduction to the story of the battle of Gibeon in Josh 10 (vv. 1-6) depends on the story of the treaty with the Gibeonites. (c) The reflection of the Deuteronomic law of war in the plot, and the numerous Dtr linguistic and conceptual features in the story, indicate that it was composed by a Dtr author. Therefore, the story of the treaty between Joshua and the Gibeonites must have been composed by a Dtr author as part of the conquest stories of Joshua 2-11.44 We may conclude that scholars’ reconstructions of a pre-Dtr story that ostensibly prove the antiquity of the story are not convincing. There is no compelling linguistic or literary reason for dividing the story into parts and assuming two stages of composition (in addition to the late Priestly redaction). All historical reconstructions based on an assumed early ‘original tale’, dated to the time of the Israelite settlement in Canaan or to the United Monarchy, must therefore be dismissed.45 The narrative is an integral part of the conquest stories in the Book of Joshua and should be dated at the earliest to the late 7th century BCE. advises caution. “What is usually offered consists of little more than casual wordassociations that individually or in aggregate do not count for very much.” 44 Latvus (1998:11) suggested that “the earliest text-level (DtrH) mentioned nothing about the peace treaty with the Gibeonites but referred to Gibeon as a campsite of the Israelite army.” However, his literary analysis of the text of Joshua 10:1-6 is arbitrary and reflects his aim to eliminate the Gibeonites from the original text of the Book of Joshua. Thus for example, in spite of the obvious parallel between v. 5b (“and encamped against Gibeon and attacked it”) and vv. 31b (“and encamped against it and attacked it”) and 34b (“and encamped against it and attacked it”), Latvus (1998: 113, 115) divided v. 5b into an original text (v. 5bα) and insertion (v. 5bβ), and arbitrarily translated the former “and encamped at Gibeon”. 45 Liver 1963: 233-243; Blenkinsopp 1966: 212-213; 1972: 28-40; de Vaux 1971: 627-635; Halbe 1975: 630-641; Butler 1983: 100; Schäfer-Lichtenberger 1986: 7779; Briend 1990: 152-155; Sutherland 1992: 67-69, 73; Nelson 1997: 125-127; Day 2007: 117-119, 137.

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What might have been the historical background of this late story in which the Gibeonites are presented in such negative light? Some scholars recognized that the story was composed by a Dtr author, but did not try to reconstruct its historical setting.46 Briend suggested four successive compositional stages for the story, dating the original story to the time of Saul, the second “early Dtr redaction” to the time of Hezekiah, the third to the early post-exilic period and the fourth to the time of Ezra and Nehemiah.47 However, dating the “early Dtr redaction” to the time of Hezekiah is highly unlikely. SchäferLichtenberger suggested that the early story was possibly composed in the time of Josiah, and that it reflects the early treaty concluded between the Gibeonite Tetrapolis and the Israelite tribal league of the pre-monarchical period, confirmed by David and re-confirmed by Josiah when he expanded northward, to the territory of the former Kingdom of Israel.48 However, the assumption that a privileged status of the ‘Gibeonite Tetrapolis’ was maintained for about 500 years, from the Iron Age I until the late monarchical period, is unconvincing. The Jerusalem dynasty did not inherit the treaties made by tribal institutions in the pre-monarchical period, and authors who lived in the late monarchical period did not deal with pacts made hundreds of years before their time. The anti-Gibeonite story must be interpreted in the context of the time in which it was composed, and so far no historical solution has been offered for the composition of the story. In the discussion of the story of YHWH’s revelation to Solomon at Gibeon I suggested that the sanctuary at Gibeon still held its prominent position when “the Book of the Deeds of Solomon” was written (probably in the late 8th or early 7th century). I would suggest that the Gibeonite temple was abolished in the course of Josiah’s reform, and that the story of the treaty between Joshua and the Gibeonites was written in the time of the reform, or shortly afterward, in reaction to the resistance of the Gibeonites (and possibly by the other three ‘Gibeonite’ towns mentioned in v. 17) to the cancellation of the temple at Gibeon.49 Rösel 1985: 35; Rose 1981: 188-192. Briend 1990: 152-155, 165-167; 1992: 9-10, 17-20. 48 Schäfer-Lichtenberger 1986: 77-79. 49 According to II Kgs 23:8a, Josiah’s reform extended “from Geba to Beersheba”. Demsky (1973: 30-31) considers it preferable “to identify the cultic center at Geba with the well-known bāmāh of Gibeon,” since “there is no explicit evidence for a cultic centre there”. However, Geba was located on the northern border of Judah (see I Kgs 15:22) as against Beersheba’s location on Judah’s southern border (for the identification of Geba, see Lipschits 2004, with earlier literature). Although Demsky’s 46 47


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To introduce the discussion of the story of Joshua and the Gibeonites let me state that, in my opinion, the description of Josiah’s reform as related in II Kings 23 (minus some late additions) was written shortly after the events and describe accurately the cultic reform carried out by the king in his kingdom.50 An important element in the reform was the covenant the king made in the Jerusalem temple “before YHWH” with “all the elders of Judah and Jerusalem” (II Kgs 23:1-3). The participants in the ceremony swore to maintain the arrangements the king made in the official cult of the kingdom. Although details are missing, we may assume that the covenant, culminating in an oath before God, was made in a way not unlike that conducted by Esarhaddon in his kingdom, imposing an oath on his officials, priests and the elite, to maintain the arrangements he made for the succession of the throne (672 BCE).51 The imposition of the covenant in Jerusalem opened with a ceremonial oath taken in the temple, and was later imposed on the other members of the Judahite officialdom and elite. We can interpret the story of the treaty with the Gibeonites against this background. The narrative opens by describing how the Gibeonite delegates used fraud to conclude the treaty with Joshua and the men of Israel. This is a hidden satirical polemic directed against the Gibeonites, who participated in the covenant and swore the oath, but broke their oath by refusing to implement the reform in their sanctuary. According to the story, Joshua and the Israelites reached the district of Gibeon and discovered the fraud. This might be an allusion to the situation in which Josiah and his officials discovered that the Gibeonites carried on the rites and cult in their sanctuary. In the story, Joshua cursed the Gibeonites and made them hewers of wood and drawers of water for the temple/altar (vv. 23, 27) “until this day.” Josiah must have punished the Gibeonites by reversing their former priestly function: instead of serving YHWH in the local sanctuary, he imposed on them the humiliating role of hewers of suggestion fits well my historical reconstruction, it is not supported by the versions and the suggested textual emendation cannot be sustained. 50 See Na aman 2006, with earlier literature. The historicity of Josiah’s reform is hotly debated among scholars and an enormous amount of literature has been written on this controversial issue. For a list of some works recently published on this subject, see Sweeney 2001: 41-49; Arneth 2001: 189-216; Barrick 2002; Albertz 2005: 27-46; Hardmeier 2005: 123-163; Uehlinger 2005: 279-316; van der Toorn 2007: 143-155. 51 Watanabe 1987; Parpola and Watanabe 1988: xxix-xxxi, 28-58.

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wood and drawers of water for YHWH’s temple in Jerusalem.52 The Gibeonites must have performed this task at the time when the story was put in writing. Years ago, Nelson suggested that the figure of Joshua depicted in the Dtr history is a disguised figure of King Josiah and that historical elements of the time of the latter are hidden behind the mask of the Dtr Joshua.53 Not all the parallels suggested by Nelson are convincing. Particularly unlikely is his assumption that Josiah was a great conqueror who aspired to restore the kingdom of David in all its glory, which he compared to Joshua, who conquered the Land of Israel up to its farthest borders. Josiah’s kingdom was modest and his territorial aspirations must have been in line with his political and military power.54 Nelson also combined post-Dtr text (e.g., Josh 8:30-35) and even Priestly text ( Josh 5:10-12) in his discussion of the figure of Joshua. The comparison of the two figures might be essentially correct, but we know so little about the historical Josiah that it is difficult to compare his figure with the literary figure of Joshua. Be that as it may, the place held by Joshua in the story of the Gibeonite treaty may well reflect that of Josiah in his handling of the Gibeonites and their sanctuary. Scholars have noted that the structure of the Gibeonite society reflected in the story is similar to that of their rivals, the Israelites.55 At the head of the city were elders who directed the negotiations with the Israelites. The reason for the similarity is obvious: the narrator depicted the reality of his time, when every locale, large or small, formed a body of representatives to supervise its internal affairs and negotiate with the royal authorities. The negotiations between the delegates of Gibeon and the Israelites reflect the normal state of affairs in the Kingdom of Judah, where the elders of a town or village (who

52 Gordon (2003: 178-186) interpreted the motif of becoming hewers of wood and drawers of water as a literary implementation of a curse included in ancient Near Eastern treaties and directed against the violators of the oath. The warriors of the transgressing side would be converted to women and perform women’s work. On the literary level this is possible, but I suggest that behind the punishment “until this day” is the reality of the author’s time. For the “until this day” formula, see Geoghegan 2006: 80-83. 53 Nelson 1981. The conclusions of Nelson’s article were accepted by Finkelstein and Silberman 2001: 94-96. 54 Na aman 1991: 33-60. 55 Schäfer-Lichtenberger 1986: 67-68.


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might be called derogatorily “lords of the city”) negotiated with the royal officials on controversial issues.56 The designation ‘Hivite’ for the Gibeonites ( Josh 9:7; see 11:19) is surprising, as the name appears only once in the story and does not play a significant part in the plot. According to biblical tradition, the Hivites settled between the mountainous ranges of Hermon and Lebanon ( Josh 11:3; Judg 3:3; II Sam 24:7), within the confines of the Aramean kingdom of Beth-rehob, where the Ituraeans settled in the Second Temple period.57 The Hivites are also mentioned in connection with Shechem in the post-exilic story of Genesis 34 (v. 2). Some scholars suggested that the Hivites came from the plain of Cilicia (classical Cilicia pedias).58 However, Cilicia was called in the Assyrian texts by the name Que, in Babylonian texts umē (possibly pronounced uwē), in Aramaic and the Bible qwh, and in Phoenician kw.59 An interchange of /q is linguistically possible and the interchange of the vowel /u/ to /i/ is known from West Semitic dialects. And yet the shift from qewēh (I Kgs 10:28), which is the standard transcription of the toponym in West Semitic dialects, to ivvî, which is not attested in any other source, is not easy to reconcile. The Cilician origin of the Hivites is not impossible, but should have a very big question mark above it. The Hivites appear in the biblical tradition as one of the six/seven nations dispossessed by the Israelites. Why did the author select this ethnic term to designate the inhabitants of Gibeon? Unfortunately, the ethnic components of the district of Benjamin in the 8th-7th century are unknown. The reference to the Hivites might have been a historical memory of the origin of the Iron Age settlement of Gibeon; but it is equally possible that it reflects the reality in the time of the author when, as a result of the Assyrian conquests and mass deportations, a group of Hivites migrated from the southern Beqa of Lebanon along the Jordan Valley and settled in the districts of Benjamin and Shechem. The author of the story utilized it to denigrate the Gibeonites by presenting them as originating from a non-Israelite ethnic group.

56 For the role of the elders in First Temple Judahite society, see Buchholz 1988; Willis 2001; Wagner 2002. 57 Schmitt 1982; Schotroff 1982; Will 1983; Görg 1992; Dar 1993. 58 Albright 1950: 23; Mendenhall 1974: 154; Görg 1976; Lemaire 2004: 310-312; 2006: 102-104. 59 Zadok 1985: 166; Bagg 2007: 198-200, with earlier literature.

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The archaeological research has shown that the four ‘Gibeonite towns’ prospered in the Iron IIB.60 Of the four towns, only Gibeon and Beeroth (Kh. el-Burj) were excavated; their importance in the Kingdom of Judah in the late 8th-early 7th century BCE is evident from the number of lmlk seal impressions discovered in their sites: 95 at Gibeon and 24 at Beeroth.61 Prof. Oded Lipschits, who is currently researching the internal chronological division of the Judahite seal impressions of the 8th-7th centuries BCE, kindly informed me that out of the 95 lmlk seal impressions discovered at Gibeon, 43 are dated to the late 8th century and 52 to the early 7th century. Also 41 concentric circular incisions on jars of the lmlk type have been discovered at Gibeon, which Lipschits dates to the mid-7th century BCE. Only 2 rosette seal impressions, dated to the late 7th century, have been discovered in the site.62 Assuming that the numbers of marked jar handles reflect the relative economic activity at Gibeon, it seems that there was a drastic reduction in the economic activity of the site in the late 7th century. This fits well with my suggestion that Josiah cancelled the sanctuary of Gibeon, a deed which significantly influenced the economic activity in the place. In conclusion, the sanctuary of Gibeon was probably founded in the Iron Age I and its importance grew in the early days of the dynasty of David. It was probably one of the most important sanctuaries in the Kingdom of Judah in the First Temple period, possibly second in importance only to the Jerusalem temple. Evidence of the sanctuary’s centrality are its designations “the mountain of YHWH” in the story of David and the Gibeonites, and “the largest high place” in the story of YHWH’s revelation to Solomon at Gibeon. Except for the sanctuary of Gibeon, only Jerusalem’s Temple Mount is called “YHWH’s mount.” Due to its importance in the early monarchical period, it was possibly the place where Rehoboam’s delegates delivered his tribute 60 For the excavations of Gibeon see note 1; Lipschits 1999: 172-176. For the excavations of Beeroth (Kh. el-Burj) see note 17. For the survey of Chephirah (Kh. el-Kefīreh), see Vriezen 1975. For the archaeological research of Kiriath-jearim (Deir el- Ajhar), see Abel 1921; Cooke 1925: 115-117; Finkelstein 2008: 5. For David’s transfer of the Ark from Kiriath-jearim to Jerusalem (II Samuel 6), see Rezetko 2007, with earlier literature. Recently, Leuchter (2008) suggested magnifying the role of the cult site of Kiriath-jearim in the pre-monarchical period. Unfortunately, his study is not controlled by sound philological and historical methodology and must be dealt with cautiously. 61 Vaughn 1999: 190-191. 62 Pritchard 1961: 20 and Fig. 46 Nos. 77, 109; Cahill 1995: 232.


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to Shishak when the latter’s troops invaded the Jerusalem area. With the rise of the temple of Jerusalem, which gradually developed from a royal shrine into the national temple, the importance of Gibeon’s sanctuary declined, but it did not lose its sacred status and prestige. The YHWH temple at Gibeon was probably abolished in the course of Josiah’s religious reform. The Gibeonites’ strong opposition to the closing of their temple is reflected in the satirical polemic initiated by a Dtr author against the Gibeonites and their elders. They are portrayed as dishonest foreigners who entered the covenant by fraud and were appropriately condemned to serve as menial workers of lower rank in the temple of Jerusalem. Bibliography Abel, F.M. 1921. “Découverte d’un tombeau antique à Abou Ghoch,” Revue biblique 30: 97-102. Albertz, R. 2005. “Why a Reform like Josiah’s must have Happened.” In Good Kings and Bad Kings, ed. L.L. Grabbe, pp. 27-46. Library of Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament Studies 393. London and New York: T&T Clark. Albright, W.F. 1950. “Cilicia and Babylonia under the Chaldean Kings,” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 120: 22-25. Altman, A. 1985. “Ba a˘ lē hā îr in the Bible.” In Milet: Studies in Jewish History and Culture II, eds. S. Ettinger, Y.D. Gilat, and S. Safrai, pp. 5-35. Tel Aviv: The Open University of Israel (Hebrew). Arneth, M. 2001. “Die antiassyrische Reform Josias von Juda. Überlegungen zur Komposition und Intention von 2 Reg 23,4-15,” Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 7: 189-216. Bagg, A.M. 2007. Die Orts- und Gewässernamen der neuassyrischer Zeit. Teil 1: Die Levante. Repertoire Géographique des Textes Cunéiformes 8; Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, Reihe B Nr. 7/7/1. Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert. Barrick, W.B. 1991. “The Bamoth of Moab,” Maarav 7: 67-89. ———. 1996. “On the Meaning of ‫במות‬/‫ה‬-‫ בית‬and ‫הבמות‬-‫ בתי‬and the Composition of the Kings History,” Journal of Biblical Literature 115: 621-642. ———. 2002 The King and the Cemeteries: Toward a New Understanding of Josiah’s Reform. Supplement to Vetus Testamentum 88. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2004-2007. “Prepositional Ambiguity and the Semantics of Bamah Usage: A Response to J.A. Emerton,” Zeitschrift für Althebraistik 17-20: 11-35. Barthélemy, D. 1982. Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament. Vol. 1: Josué, Juges, Ruth, Samuel, Rois, Chroniques, Esdras, Néhémie, Esther. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 50/1. Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Barton, J. 2004. “Dating the ‘Succession Narrative’.” In In Search of Pre-Exilic Israel. Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar, ed. J. Day, pp. 95-106. London and New York: T&T Clark. Blenkinsopp, J. 1966. “Are There Traces of the Gibeonite Covenant in Deuteronomy?,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 28: 207-213.

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Driver, S.R. 1913. Notes on the Hebrew Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel. Oxford: Clarendon. Durand, J.-M. 1988. Archives épistolaires de Mari I/1. Archiv Royale de Mari 26. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations. Edelman, D. 2001. “Did Saulide-Davidic Rivalry Resurface in Early Persian Yehud?.” In The Land that I will Show You: Essays on the History and Archaeology of the Ancient Near East in Honour of J. Maxwell Miller, eds. J.A. Dearman and M.P. Graham, pp. 69-91. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 343. Sheffield: Sheffield University Press. ———. 2003. “Gibeon and the Gibeonites Revisited.” In Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period, eds. O. Lipschits and J. Blenkinsopp, pp. 153-167. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Ehrlich, E.L. 1953. Der Traum im Alten Testament. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 73. Berlin: de Gruyter. Emerton, J.A. 1997. “The Biblical High Place in the Light of Recent Study,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 129: 116-132. Eshel, H. 1987. “The Late Iron Age Cemetery of Gibeon,” Israel Exploration Journal 37: 1-17. Feig, N. 2000. “The Environs of Jerusalem in the Iron Age II.” In The History of Jerusalem—The Biblical Period, eds. S. Ahituv and A. Mazar, pp. 387-410. Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi (Hebrew). Feldstein, A. et al. 1993. “The Southern Part of the Maps of Ramallah and el-Bireh and the Northern Part of the Map of ‘Ein Kerem.” In Archaeological Survey of the Hill Country of Benjamin, eds. I Finkelstein and Y. Magen, pp. 133-264. Jerusalem: Israel Antiquity Authority (Hebrew). Fidler, R. 2005. ‘Dreams Speak Falsely’? Dream Theophanies in the Bible. Their Place in Ancient Israelite Faith and Traditions. Jerusalem: Magnes (Hebrew). Finkelstein, I. and Silberman, N.A. 2001. The Bible Unearthed. Archaeology’s New Vision of Ancient Israel and the Origin of Its Sacred Texts. New York: Free Press. Finkelstein, I. 2002. “The Campaign of Shoshenq I to Palestine. A Guide to the 10th Century BCE Polity,” Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 118: 109-135. ———. 2006. “The Last Labayu: King Saul and the Expansion of the First North Israelite Territorial Entity.” In Essays on Ancient Israel in Its Near Eastern Context. A Tribute to Nadav Na aman, eds. Y. Amit et al., pp. 171-179. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. ———. 2008. “Archaeology and the List of Returnees in the Books of Ezra and Nehemiah,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 140: 1-10. Fitzmyer, J.A. 1995. The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefîre (revised edition). Biblica et Orientalia 19A. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute. Fritz, V. 1994. Das Buch Josua. Handbuch zum Alten Testament I/7. Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr. Galling, K. 1965. “Kritische Bemerkungen zur Ausgrabungen von eğ-ğib,” Bibliotheca Orientalis 22: 242-245. Geoghegan, J.C. 2006. The Time, Place, and Purpose of the Deuteronomistic History. The Evidence of “Until This Day.” Brown Judaic Studies 347. Providence: Brown University. Gleis, M. 1997. Die Bamah. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 251. Berlin and New York: de Gruyter. Gnuse, R.K. 1984. The Dream Theophany of Samuel: Its Structure in Relation to Ancient Near Eastern Dreams and Its Theological Significance. Lanham: University Press of America.

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Brücken bauen . . .”. Collected Communications to the XVIth Congress of the International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament, Cambridge 1995, eds. K.-D. Schunck and M. Augustin, pp. 111-115. Beiträge zur Erforschung des Alten Testaments und des Antiken Judentums 42. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Lemaire, A. 2004. “ ‘Maison de David’, ‘maison de Mopsos’ et les Hivvites.” In Sefer Moshe. The Moshe Weinfeld Jubilee Volume. Studies in the Bible and the Ancient Near East, Qumran, and Post-Biblical Judaism, eds. C. Cohen, A. Hurvitz and S.M. Paul, pp. 303-312. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. ———. 2006. “La maison de Mopsos en Cilicie et en Pamphylie à l’époque du Fer (XIIe-VIe s. av. J.-C.),” Res Antiquae 3: 99-107. Leuchter, M. 2008. “The Cult of Kiriath Yearim: Implications from the Biblical Record,” Vetus Testamentum 58: 526-543. Lipschits, O. 1999. “The History of the Babylonian Region under Babylonian Rule,” Tel Aviv 26: 155-190. ———. 2004. “From Geba to Beersheba”: A Further Consideration,” Revue biblique 111: 345-361. ———. 2005. The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem. Judah under Babylonian Rule. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Lipton, D. 1999. Revisions of the Night: Politics and Promises in the Patriarchal Dreams of Genesis. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 288. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Liver, J. 1963. “The Literary History of Joshua IX,” Journal of Semitic Studies 8: 227-243. Lozachmeur, H. and Lemaire, A. 1996. “Nouveaux ostraca araméens d’Idumée (collection Sh. Moussaïeff ),” Semitica 46: 123-142. Malamat, A. 1955. “Doctrines of Causality in Biblical and Hittite Historiography,” Israel Exploration Journal 5: 1-12. Mayes, A.D.H. 1985. “Deuteronomy 29, Joshua 9, and the Place of the Gibeonites in Israel.” In Das Deuteronomium: Entstehung, Gestalt und Botschaft, ed. N. Lohfink, pp. 321-325. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 68. Leuven: Peeters. McCarter, P.K. 1984. II Samuel. A New Translation with Introduction, Notes and Commentary. Anchor Bible 9. Garden City: Doubleday. Mendenhall, G.E. 1974. The Tenth Generation. The Origins of the Biblical Tradition. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press. Mettinger, T.N.D. 1976. King and Messiah. The Civil and Sacred Legitimation of the Israelite Kings. Coniectanea Biblica, Old Testament Series 8. Lund: Wallin & Dalholm. Möhlenbrink, K. 1938. “Die Landnahmesagen des Buches Josua,” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 56: 238-268. Na aman, N. 1992. “Israel, Edom and Egypt in the 10th Century B.C.E.,” Tel Aviv 19: 71-93. ———. 1991. “The Kingdom of Judah under Josiah,” Tel Aviv 18: 3-71. ———. 1994. “The ‘Conquest of Canaan’ in the Book of Joshua and in History.” In From Nomadism to Monarchy. Archaeological and Historical Aspects of Early Israel, eds. I. Finkelstein and N. Na aman, pp. 218-281. Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi & Israel Exploration Society and Washington: Biblical Archaeology Society. ———. 1999. “The Contribution of Royal Inscriptions for a Re-evaluation of the Book of Kings as a Historical Source,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 82: 3-17. ———. 2005. “From Conscription of Forced Labour to a Symbol of Bondage: Mas in the Biblical Literature.” In “An Experienced Scribe who Neglects Nothing”. Ancient

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Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Jacob Klein, eds. Y. Sefati et al., pp. 746-758. Bethesda: CDL Press. ———. 2006. “The King Leading Cult Reforms in his Kingdom: Josiah and Other Kings in the Ancient Near East,” Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 12: 131-168. Nakata, I. 1982. “Two Remarks on the So-Called Prophetic Texts from Mari,” Acta Sumerologica 4, pp. 143-148. Nelson, R.D. 1981. “Josiah in the Book of Joshua,” Journal of Biblical Literature 100: 531-540. ———. 1997. Joshua: A Commentary. Old Testament Library. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press. Onn, A. and Rapuano, Y. 1994. “Jerusalem, Khirbet el-Burj,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 14: 88-90. Oppenheim, A.L. 1956. The Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient Near East, with a Translation of an Assyrian Dream-Book. Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 46/3. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Parpola, S. and Watanabe, K. 1988. Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths. State Archives of Assyria 2. Helsinki: University Press. Parr, P.J. 1966. “Reviews and Notices: Winery, Defenses and Soundings at Gibeon, by James B. Pritchard,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 98: 114-118. Pritchard, J. B. 1961. The Water System of Gibeon. Philadelphia: University Museum. ———. 1962. Gibeon, Where the Sun Stood Still, The Discovery of the Biblical City. Princeton: University Press. ———. 1964. Winery, Defenses and Soundings at Gibeon. Philadelphia: University Museum. ———. 1993. “Gibeon.” In The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, vol. 2, ed. E. Stern, pp. 511-514. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and Carta. Pury, A. de. and Römer, T. (eds.). 2000. Die sogenannte Thronfolgegeschichte Davids. Neue Ansichten und Anfragen. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 176. Fribourg: Universitätsverlag and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Sutherland, R.K. 1992. “Israelite Political Theories in Joshua 9,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 53: 65-74. Rezetko, R. 2007. Sources and Revision in the Narratives of David’s Transfer of the Ark. Text, Language, and Story in 2 Samuel 6 and 1 Chronicles 13, 15-16. Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 470. New York and London: T&T Clark. Rose, M. 1981. Deuteronomist und Jahwist. Untersuchungen zu den Berührungspunkten beiderLiteraturwerke. Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments 67. Zürich: Theologischer Verlag. Rösel, H.N. 1985. “Anmerkungen zur Erzählung vom Bundesschluss mit den Gibeoniten,” Biblische Notizen 28: 30-35. Rudnig, T.A. 2006. Davids Thron: Redaktionskritische Studen zur Geschichte von der Thronnachfolge Davids. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 358. Berlin: de Gruyter. Sasson, J.M. 1983. “Mari Dreams,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 103: 283293. Sauneron, S. and Esnoul, A.M. (eds.). 1959. Les songes et leur interpretation. Sources Orientales 2. Paris: Éditions du Seuil. Schäfer-Lichtenberger, C. 1986. “Das gibeonitische Bündnis im Lichte deuteronomischer Kriegsgebote: Zum Verhältnis von Tradition und Interpretation in Jos 9,” Biblische Notizen 34: 58-81.


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Schmitt, G. 1980. “Gat, Gittaim und Gitta.” In Drei Studien zur Archäologie und Topographie Altisraels, eds. R. Cohen and G. Schmitt, pp. 77-138. Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, Reihe B Nr. 44. Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert. ———. 1982. “Zum Königsreich Chalkis,” Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 98: 110-124. Schotroff, W. 1982. “Die Ituräer,” Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 98: 125-152. Schunck, K.D. 1963. Benjamin. Untersuchungen zur Entstehung und Geschichte eines Israelitischen Stammes. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 86. Berlin: de Gruyter. Soggin, J.A. 1972. “Il regno di ’Abîmelek in Sichem (‘Giudici’, 9) e le istituzioni della città-stato Siro-Palestinese nei secoli XV-XI avanti Cristo.” In Studi in onore di Edoardo Volterra, vol. VI, pp. 161-189. Milan: Giuffre. Stern, E. 1982. Material Culture of the Land of the Bible in the Persian Period, 538-332 B.C. Warminster: Aris & Philips and Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. ———. 2001. Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, vol. II: The Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian Periods (732-332 B.C.E.). New York: Doubleday. Sutherland, R.K. 1992. “Israelite Political Theories in Joshua 9,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 53: 65-74. Sweeney, M.A. 2001. King Josiah of Judah. The Lost Messiah of Israel. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Szpakowska, K. 2003. Behind Close Eyes: Dreams and Nightmares in Ancient Egypt. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. ———. (ed.). 2006. Through a Glass Darkly. Magic, Dreams & Prophecy in Ancient Egypt. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Thiel, W. 1994. “Rizpa und das Ritual von Gibeon.” In “Wer ist wie du, Herr, unter den Göttern?” Studien zur Theologie und Religionsgeschichte Israels für Otto Kaiser zum 70. Geburtstag, eds., I. Kottsieper et al., pp. 247-262. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Toorn, K. van der. 1998. “Old Babylonian Prophecy between the Oral and the Written,” Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages 24: 55-70. ———. 2000. “From the Oral to the Written: The Case of Old Babylonian Prophecy.” In Writings and Speech in Israelite and Ancient Near Eastern Prophecy, eds. E. Ben Zvi and M.H. Floyd, pp. 219-234. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. ———. 2007. Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible. Cambridge, Mass and London: Harvard University Press. Uehlinger, C. 2005. “Was There a Cult Reform under King Josiah? The Case for a Well-Grounded Minimum.” In Good Kings and Bad Kings, ed. L.L. Grabbe, pp. 279-316. Library of Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament Studies 393. London and New York: T&T Clark. Ussishkin, D. 2003. “Jerusalem as a Royal and Cultic Center in the 10th-8th Centuries B.C.E.” In Symbiosis, Symbolism, and the Power of the Past. Canaan, Ancient Israel, and Their Neighbors from the Late Bronze Age through Roman Palaestina, eds. W.G. Dever and S. Gitin, pp. 529-538. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Vaughan, P.H. 1974. The Meaning of ‘Bāmâ’ in the Old Testament. A Study of Etymological, Textual and Archaeological Evidence. Cambridge: University Press. Vaughn, A.G. 1999. Theology, History and Archaeology in the Chronicler’s Account of Hezekiah. Atlanta: Scholars. Vaux, R. de. 1963. “Recensions,” Revue biblique 70: 622-624. ———. 1966. “Recensions,” Revue biblique 73: 130-135. ———. 1971. The Early History of Israel. London: Darton, Longman & Tod.

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Vriezen, K.J.H. 1975. “ irbet Kefīre: eine Oberflächenuntersuchung,” Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 91: 135-158. Wagner, V. 2002. “Beobachtungen am Amt der Ältesten im alttestamentlichen Israel,” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 114: 391-411, 560-576. Walters, S.D. 1991. “Saul of Gibeon,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 52: 61-76. Watanabe, K. 1987. Die adê-Vereidigung anlässlich der Thronfolgeregelung Asarhaddons. Baghdader Mitteilungen Beiheft 3. Berlin: G. Mann. Welten, P. 1972. “Kulthöhe und Jahwetempel,” Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 88: 19-37. Will, E. 1983. “Un vieux problème de la topographie de la Beqā antique: Chalkis du Liban,” Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 99: 141-146. Willis, T.M. 2001. The Elders of the City. A Study of the Elders-Laws in Deuteronomy. Society of Biblical Literature Monograph Series 55. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Wilson, K.A. 2001. The Campaign of Pharaoh Shoshenq I into Palestine (Ph.D. Thesis). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University. Yeivin, S. 1971. “The Benjaminite Settlement in the Western Part of their Territory,” Israel Exploration Journal 21: 141-154. Zadok, R. 1985. Geographical Names according to New- and Late-Babylonian Texts. Repertoire Géographique des Textes Cunéiformes 8; Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients, Reihe B Nr. 7/8. Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert. Zibelius-Chen, K. 1988. “Kategorien und Rolle des Traumes in Ägypten,” Studien zur altägyptische Kultur 15: 277-293.

AN OLD BABYLONIAN INCANTATION COLLECTIVE WITH INCANTATIONS INVOLVING A COUNTERMEASURE AGAINST OATH-BREAKING AND THE ALTERATION OF A DREAM OF THE KING JEREMIAH PETERSON1 Abstract A previously unpublished fragmentary Old Babylonian incantation collective that is housed in the University Museum in Philadelphia furnishes a duplicate to VAS 17: 28, a royal ritual text that is devoted to changing an ill-portending dream into a good one.

The following article treats the contents of the previously unpublished Old Babylonian incantation collective UM 29-13-569, a core fragment of an imgida that probably came from Nippur.2 The obverse and reverse of this tablet are not entirely certain from the state of preservation, but the configuration that is maintained here is a reasonable guess based on relative curvature. If this configuration is correct, the original text seems to have contained at least three separate incantations, two of which are partially preserved. A third incantation, which is not preserved, appears to have spanned the rest of the obverse and perhaps part of the reverse as well. The first incantation that is preserved on this piece, which was probably the first incantation to occur on the original tablet, has significant parallels to the bilingual incantation which occurs in

1 I would like to thank Professor Christopher Woods and Professor Seth Sanders, successive editors of JNER, for their editorial assistance in conjunction with this article, which led to substantial improvements, and Dr. Jon Taylor of the British Museum for his helpful responses to queries about tablets housed there. 2 The exact provenience of pieces belong to the 1929 University Museum lots 13, 15, and 16 cannot be verified to be from Nippur in every instance (see, for example, the comments of George 2003: 216 and Rutz 2006: 64). However, it remains a reasonable assumption in most cases.


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UM 29-13-569 obverse

an old babylonian incantation collective

UM 29-13-569 reverse

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the later ritual series Šurpu tablet 5+6, lines 144-172.3 This later incantation bears the subscript ka-inim-ma nam-erim2 bur2-ru-dake4 “incantation for the undoing of an assertory oath.”4 If this later incantation from Šurpu is restored correctly at the beginning, Inana/Ištar and the weaving goddess Uttu create a magical thread that counters the effects of oath violation to be attached to the head, hands and feet of the ritual subject. Marduk then cuts the thread, perhaps constituting an act of magical substitution for the broken oath, and banishes it to the steppe. Considering the fact that the other incantation that is preserved on UM 29-13-569 involves the king, thus possibly implicating the first incantation that is preserved as involving the king as well, one may also compare an incantation contained within the OB incantation collective from Babylon VAT 17152 (VAS 24: 52) that preserves the following subscript (reverse(?) i' 9'): ka-inim-ma gu gada lugal keš2-da-kam “incantation for tying a linen thread(?) to the king.”5 However, no specific mention of the oath (nam-erim2) is preserved in conjunction with this incantation. UM 29-13-569 Obverse (beginning of obverse missing) obv 1') [nam?-l]u2-⌈u18⌉-l[u? . . .] Humanity . . . obv 2') [a]š2?-bi dingir-re-ne [. . .] The curse? of the gods . . . This incantation is preserved in sources A, B, C, D, F, H, I, K as compiled by Reiner 1958: 8, 34-35. The duplicate mentioned by Reiner, now K 2856 + K 3266 + K 5014 + K 5070 + K 5103 + K 6038 + K 6406 + K 6462 + K 9416 + K 10044 + K 10189 + K 10638 + K 11633 + K 18807 + SM 73 col. ii 4'-9', which she used to restore parts of the beginning of the incantation, lines 144-149, is not completely verified and seems to belong to a separate incantation. However, it does appear to partially duplicate the lone source that preserves any part of these lines, Reiner source A (K 65 + K 2397 + K 10706 (IV R 7-8)). 4 For an overview of nam-erim2-bur2-ru-da incantations, which were apparently not serialized but are mentioned in the “Litany of the Exorcist” (KAR 44 and duplicates) line 13 (Geller 2000: 44) and are included, for example, in the serialized ritual series Šurpu, see Geller 1998: 127-128. 5 Cunningham 1997: 136 (text 135). The introductory lines of the next incantation also praise the gu, perhaps indicating that this incantation was closely related to the preceding incantation. 3


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obv 3') [g]u nam-erim2-⌈ma⌉-bi lu2 [. . .] . . . the one who. . . the thread of the oath obv 4') [s]a‘g-bi šu-bi [‘g]ir3-bi zu2-keš2-[bi. . .] The head, hands, feet, and joints . . . obv 5') [d]Asal-lu2- i dumu Eridugki-g[a. . .] Asallu i, citizen of Eridug . . . obv 6') [. . .]x šu sikil-e e2-em-ma-an-D[U . . .] . . . pure-handed, may he . . . ! (double ruling) obv 7') [ka-ini]m-ma gu du3-du3-u3-[kam] Incantation for planting/erecting(?) thread. (double ruling) (remainder of obverse missing)

Commentary obv 4') For the vocalization zu2-keš2 for the noun KA-keš2, which has the approximate meaning of “joint” in conjunction with human anatomy, see Cavigneaux and al-Rawi 1995: 36-37 and Cavigneaux and al-Rawi 2000: 46. obv 6') I elect to understand šu sikil-e as containing the ergative marker here as opposed to the locative-terminative. As such, the phrase, which is attested elsewhere in conjunction with both deities and cultic functionaries, probably functions as an epithet in this context in order to emphasize Asallu i’s worthiness and the corresponding worthiness of his human proxy to perform the ritual. The reading of the finite verbal root in this line as expressed by the polyvalent DU sign is not decisively apparent to me. obv 7’ (subscript)) The exact meaning of the phrase gu du3-du3-u3, which is, to the best of my knowledge, without parallel, is not entirely clear, but presumably it involves the gu nam-erim2-ma, perhaps to be literally understood as “planting” or “erecting” the thread. . . . . . .

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The second incantation that is preserved on this piece duplicates the unprovenienced imgida VAT 8395 (VAS 17: 28).6 VAT 8395 preserves the subscript ka-inim-ma nam-tar lugal bur2-ru-da-kam, “incantation for undoing the (negative) fate of the king.” I prefer the reading nam-tar “fate” as opposed to nam-kud “curse,” although the latter possibility cannot be decisively excluded. Van Dijk briefly discussed this incantation in his edition of the somewhat cryptic and partially abbreviated bilingual royal ritual text VAT 8382, which includes a countermeasure against the “tongue that engenders evil” (eme ni‘g2- ul-dim2-ma),7 noting further that the similar hand on these two pieces may indicate that the two tablets were authored by the same scribe.8 The contents of this incantation demonstrate that the fate of the king that is described in the subscript could be dictated by a predictive dream. A ritual counter-procedure involving the tamarisk, a well-attested Kultmittel, was to be performed by an unnamed functionary9 who is introduced via the standard Marduk-Ea formula. It is noteworthy that a reflex of such a ritual is known from later contexts, as counter-measures against dreams involving purification via washing with both water and an alkali solution are known from the later context of the Assyrian Dream Ritual Compendium.10 Presumably, this procedure was intended to be performed after the dream occurred, although nothing in the current context would seem to exclude the possibility that it was to be performed while the dream was occurring, in response to signs of distress in the sleeping king. This procedure was understood to be capable of changing the contents of the king’s dream—and therefore of his ensuing fate. Neither the specific contents of the dream nor their correct interpretation appear to possess a direct role in this ritual.

6 The attribution of this and other texts to Old Babylonian Larsa (see, for example, the remarks of van Dijk 1967: 233) on internal criteria remains largely speculative at present. 7 For this text, see also Cunningham 1997: 144 (incantation no. 249), and Geller 2001: 226. This text does not contain a specific unequivocal reference to coronation, as Geller suggests. For occurrences of the relatively rare expression eme ul-dim2-ma, see Sjöberg 1998: 358 n. 5. 8 Van Dijk 1967: 263 n. 88. 9 The typical incantation priest was the maš-maš, but one will note that there are several known titles which seem to pertain to dream specialists (for a recent treatment of these functionaries, see Zgoll 2006: 401f.) 10 ADRC col. iii 2, 3b: see Butler 1998: 191-193.


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1) VAT 8395 o1

lugal bar-ra-na ni‘g2-dingir-re-[e-ne-ka?] /⌈g‘ iš⌉⌈‘gedru⌉ DA-ta [. . .] The king, on his back, that of the gods(?) . . . the scepter(?) from/at (his) arm/side . . . 2) VAT 8395 o2 nam gal dingir-re-e-ne ba- [. . .] . . .the great fate of the gods 3) VAT 8395 o3

ki ul kug du 3 A-nun-na-ke 4-e-[ne . . .] /su-na t[e . . .] UM 29-13-569 r1' [ ]-⌈A⌉.⌈AN⌉? [. . .]? In(?) the ancient and holy place, built by the Anuna . . . it approaches his body 4) VAT 8395 o4 lugal u3-sa2-bi um-b[i2?! . . . te . . .?] UM 29-13-569 r2' [ ] u3-sa2-a-bi um-ma-t[e . . .] When deep sleep came upon the king, 5) VAT 8395 o5

e‘gir u3-sa2-bi maš2-‘gi6 ul ⌈su⌉?-⌈na⌉? ⌈te⌉?-a-meš UM 29-13-569 r3'-4' [e‘g]ir u3-sa2-a-b[i] //[m]aš2-‘gi6 ul su-na te-am3 [. . .] After deep sleep, a bad dream (variant: bad dream(s)) approached? his body 6) VAT 8395 o6

igi bar igi du 8 -a-ni šag 4 -ni ⌈x⌉ ⌈gal⌉?-⌈la⌉? / su-na ⌈du7⌉-⌈du7⌉-d[e3]-da UM 29-13-569 r5' [i]gi bar igi du8-⌈a⌉-⌈ni⌉ šag4-⌈ga⌉? ⌈x⌉ dab5-ba su-na d[u7 ] He looked around, and when he saw it, it seized inside (him)? in order to thrash around in his body 7) VAT 8395 o7

d En-ki-ke4 dumu-ni dAsar-lu2-⌈ i⌉ /gu3 mu-na⌈de2⌉-e UM 29-13-569 r6' [ dEn]-ki-ke 4 dumu-ni dAsal-lu 2- i ⌈gu 3⌉ [ ] Enki spoke to his son, Asarlu i

8) VAT 8395 o8 dumu-‘gu10 ni‘g2-⌈dug4⌉ a-ra-ab-⌈kin⌉-⌈‘ge26⌉? UM 29-13-569 r7' [ ] ni‘g2-dug4 a-ra-ab-kin-[ ] “My son, a ritual that will work for you: 9) ‘giš VAT 8395 o9 šin[i]g ‘giš x-eden-na mu2-a UM 29-13-569 r8' [‘giššini]g ‘giš [ ] The tamarisk, a tree grown in the steppe,

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sukud-ra 2 an kug-ga-⌈ke 4 ⌉? ⌈tag⌉? ama-a-bi / ki-sikil-la-a dim2 UM 29-13-569 r9' [ ]-ra2 an kug-[ ] It touches(?) the height of pure heaven, its mother fashioned it in a holy place 11) VAT 8395 o11 SU-bi ‘gišeren-na bar-bi ‘giš a-šu-ur2-g[in7?] UM 29-13-569 r10' [ b]i ⌈‘giš⌉eren-am3 pa-bi a-⌈šu⌉-[ ] Its bark/trunk is cedar, its branch is like(?) a cypress tree 12) VAT 8395 o12 a kug a-ab-ba a tu5-a-ba ⌈mu⌉-⌈ni⌉-⌈la2⌉ UM 29-13-569 r11' [ ]-ba a tu5 [ ] Soaked(?: lit. suspended) in a bath of pure seawater 13) VAT 8395 o13 ni‘g2-gu7 dingir-re-e-ne-ke4 ‘giššinig kug [. . .?] UM 29-13-569 r12’ [ n]e?-gin7 [ ] Like(?) the food of the gods, the holy tamarisk!

The remainder of the incantation is only preserved on VAT 8395: 14) giš VAT 8395 o14 šinig kug-ga šu um-me-ti Once you take hold of the holy tamarisk 15) VAT 8395 o15 bar-ra-na su!(ZU) dingir-re-e-ne-ka On his back, the body of the gods, 16) VAT 8395 o16 a sikil-la a sikil u3-me-[x]-⌈x⌉ Once you . . .holy sap(?) into(?) holy sap 17) VAT 8395 o17 lu2-ulu3 dumu dingir-ra-[ni . . .] The man, the son of his god . . . 18) VAT 8395 o18 a kug sa‘g-‘ga2-na ⌈x⌉ [. . .] . . . pure sap on his head 19) VAT 8395 r1 [a] sikil bar-ra-na a [. . .] . . . holy sap on his back 20) VAT 8395 r2 a dadag-ga šu-[na? . . .] . . . unblemished sap on his hand


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21) VAT 8395 r3 a nam-šub ‘gir3 ⌈x⌉ [. . .] Sap (that was purified by an) incantation on his feet . . . 22) VAT 8395 r4 a kug bar-ra-na kug-g[a . . .] The pure sap on his back . . .pure! 23) VAT 8395 r5 a sikil bar-ra-na sikil-l[a . . .] The holy sap on his back . . . holy! 24) VAT 8395 r6 a dadag bar-ra-na dadag-g[a . . .] The unblemished sap on his back . . . unblemished! 25) VAT 8395 r7 maš2-‘gi6 ul bar-ra bur2-ra [. . .] The evil dream(s) are released from the back/body 26) VAT 8395 r8 maš2-‘gi6 sag9-bi su-na ‘gal2-l[a . . .] (While) the good dream(s) remain in the body 27) VAT 8395 r9 ka-inim-ma nam-tar lugal bur2-⌈ru⌉-⌈da⌉-kam Spell by which to undo the fate of a king.

Commentary 1-2) These incompletely preserved lines seem to be emphasizing the divinity of the king as well as divine involvement with the king’s fate, as expressed by the phrase nam gal di‘gir.ene.(ak), “great fate of the gods.” This introductory praise probably was intended to describe the normal harmony between the king and the gods that the ensuing ritual procedure was intended to preserve or restore, a process that is potentially stressed by the echo of line 1 with line 15, where the initial anatomical locus of the purification procedure is described as bar-ra-na su!(ZU) di‘gir-re-e-ne-ka “on his back, the body of the gods.” 4-5) The interpretation of these two crucial lines is somewhat problematic due to syntactic uncertainties, but I elect to understand the subject of line 4 as u3-sa2(g), “deep (dream producing?) sleep,” which is replaced syntactically in the next line by the maš2-‘gi6 ul, “bad dream.”

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4) The term u3-sa2(g) has been discussed recently by Zgoll (2006: 62-66, 105), who defines it according to contextual evidence and its association with Akkadian šittu(m), “dream” as well as qūlu(m) “silence” and kūru(m) “daze, stupor” in later bilingual contexts11 as “Tiefschlaf ” as well as “Starre,” or “Offenbarungsschlaf.”12 Although some contexts seem to imply that u3-sa2(g) could occur at the same time as ma-mu2(d),13 which Zgoll defines as “bedeutungsvoller Traum, Traumomen,”14 the occurrence of u3-sa2(g) in the current context suggests that it could occur entirely separately from the maš2-‘gi6, possibly as a precondition of it .15 5) Zgoll (2006: 55-59) defines maš2-‘gi6 as the general Sumerian term for a dream. Dreams are routinely attributed with positive or negative valence in later rituals, and this classification is also evident in select Old Babylonian contexts. Note, for example, Man and God 76-77,16 where reference is made to a “good dream” (ma-mu2-da sag9-ga) in contrast to an “inappropriate dream” (maš2-‘gi6 nu-‘gar-ra), 11 An apparent association of u3-sa2 with the Eblaite reflex of šittu(m) and kūru(m) obtains in the ED Ebla incantation that is attested in two duplicates, ARET 5: 8b vii 1f. and ARET 5: 9 i 1f. See Civil and Rubio 1999: 255-257. 12 A particularly unclear occurrence of u3-sa2 is found in Dialogue 1 (Two Scribes) 92-93, within a larger context of insults that are exchanged between two scribes: e2 di‘gir eš3 didli-ka i3-du8 gudu4-bi u3-sa2 igi-bi-ta a-ra-ab-dag en-nu-u‘g3 a-ra-ab-AKne “The gatekeeper and the gudu priest of each temple and shrine roam around for you (as if there was?) a deep sleep/trance before them(?): (in this manner) they stand guard (in the temple?) for you.” 13 Note the identical sentence that describes waking up from a dream in Lugalbanda urrim 361, Dumuzi’s Dream 17, Gilgameš and uwawa 65, Gilgameš and uwawa B 84, and Gudea Cylinder A xii 12-13 (discussed by Zgoll 2006: 112-113, who describes this sentence as a “Traumbeschlussformel ”). This sentence would seem to imply the coeval occurrence of u3-sa2(g) and ma-mu2(d): i-im-zig3 ma-mu2-da i-im-bu(var. a)-lu u3-sa2-ga-am3: “He awoke—it was a dream! He shivered—it was deep sleep!” 14 Zgoll 2006: 60f. 15 The separation of the occurrence of u3-sa(g) and ma-mu2(d) may or may not be implied in the identical sentence which introduces an account of a dream in Lugalbanda urrim 340 and the Sumerian Sargon Legend (3N-T 296 line 13: see Cooper and Heimpel 1983: 75), which has been recently discussed by Zgoll (2006: 104-105), who describes it as a “Traumeinleitungsformel ”: . . . u3-sa2-(ge/gin7) la-ba-nu2 ma-mu2-de3 ba-nu2, perhaps to be translated as: “X did not lay down ( just) in deep sleep, he laid down in a dream” (note also the additional potential translations proposed by Zgoll). The occurrence of this approximate sentence in the Meturan and Nippurian version of Death of Gilgameš (Meturan version 138139, CBS 8551 (SEM 28) (+) N 6856 (source N2) line 11”-12” (Cavigneaux and al-Rawi 2000: 15, 30), as suggested by Zgoll (2006: 102-104) is uncertain, as it requires partial emendation of fragmentary sources. 16 These lines are numbered according to the ETCSL edition (5.2.4). An edition of this text by Klein is forthcoming: see the remarks of Klein 2006: 124-125.


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Dumuzi’s Dream 42-43, where a dream is referred to as “not good” (ma-mu2-zu nu-sa6-sa6), the hymn to Marduk for an unnamed king, lines 11 and 26,17 where a dream is hoped to be good (ma-mu2-zu e2-en-sag9), Proverb Collection 18.15, where a dream is referred to as “false” (maš2-‘gi6 lul),18 and Proverb Collection 11.57, where a dream is referred to as “true” (maš2-‘gi6 zid-da).19 In VAT 8395, the maš2-‘gi6 appears to be reckoned as a plural entity here, to judge from the use of the plural enclitic copula meš. 6) In this context, the compound verbs igi—bar and ig—du8 describe a progression of actions consisting of looking around indiscriminately in a subconscious state and then witnessing a specific dream. For the general semantic distinction between igi—bar and igi—du8, see Gragg 1973: 22, Karahashi 2000: 113-122, and Woods 2008: 188. Note especially the co-occurrence of igi—bar and igi—du8 in the same sentence in Gilgameš and Agga 90: igi barre-da-ni Ag-ga igi ba-ni-in-du8 “When he looked, Agga saw him (Gilgameš).” This sentence seems to involve the progression of Agga’s looking about and then finding a specific target of interest, Gilgameš, atop the city wall. The compound verb igi—du8 frequently describes the witnessing of a dream, as in Curse of Agade 86 (with the semantic object maš2-‘gi6), Man and God 76 (with the semantic object ma-mu2(d)), and Enmerkar and Ensu girana 31, 62 (with the semantic object mamu2(d)). It is also used as a Sumerogram in later Akkadian contexts involving dreams.20 It is tempting to conclude that this sequence of verbs furnishes a notably literal description of the occurrence of dreams during REM sleep,21 demonstrating an ancient appreciation of the marked co-occurrence of these two phenomena. The apparent corporeal means by which the bad dream afflicts the host appears to vary across the two sources, although VAT 8395 is in need of collation at this point. I understand here a locative phrase šag.a acting with the verb dab1/5 to describe the bad dream overtaking the inside of the king’s body. The accompanying non-finite verb du7, “to thrash, gore,” is performed by a variety of 17 18 19 20 21

Alster 1990: 11-12 Alster 1997: 242. See the discussion of Zgoll 2006: 380, 449-450. Alster 1997: 194. For occurrences, see Butler 1998: 105, 108. Note the brief discussion of modern research of REM sleep by Zgoll (2006: 507).

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entities, including animals, deities, demons, storms, surging water, and lightning.22 In the current context, the behavior of the maš2-‘gi6 seems to be modeled after that of a demon. 7-9) These lines have been previously treated by van Dijk (van Dijk 1967: 263). 7-8) Note in comparison to the current context that Marduk is specifically attributed with the ability to change bad dreams into good dreams in Šurpu tablet 4, lines 21-22.23 See the discussion of Butler 1998: 37. 9) For a detailed discussion of ‘giššinig/bīnu(m) “tamarisk,” including its ritual usage, see Streck 2004: 251-254, 274-286. It is possible that the sign van Dijk copies as IGI is a distortion of or an error for the AN sign, which would yield the well-known location an-edinna “steppe.” Compare the late reflex of this line in Šurpu tablet 9 line 1:24 en2 ‘giššinig ‘giš dil an-edin-na mu2-a “Incantation: tamarisk, single tree growing in the steppe.” 11) The itemized description of the roots and branches of the tamarisk is known from elsewhere in the Sumerian incantation tradition, and is known already in the ED incantation tradition, as attested at Fara and Ebla.25 Note especially the description of the tamarisk in the Ur III Nippur incantation CBS 8380 (PBS 1/2: 123) 4-5: ur2 kug-zu-še3 eren duru5 pa-zu-še3 a-šu-ur2 “at your holy roots, (you are like) a sappy cedar, at your branches, (you are like) a cypress.” In VAT 8395, the grapheme SU reflects a words used to describe part of the tree. Whether this sign is referring to the bark of the tree, yielding the putative vocalization kuš, or its internal trunk, yielding the putative vocalization su, is not entirely clear.26 See, for example, Heimpel 1968: 300-307 and Peterson 2007: 636-637. Reiner 1958: 25, Borger 2000: 60. 24 Reiner 1958: 45. For the corresponding catch-line, see Borger 2000: 90. 25 VAT 12684 (SF 71, Krebernik 1984: incantation no. 18) i 3-4, TM 75 G 1519 (ARET 5 13, Krebernik 1984: incantation no. 20) i 3, TM 75 G 1627 (ARET 5: 14, Krebernik 1984: incantation no. 20) i 4, TM 75 G 1501 (ARET 5: 12, Krebernik incantation no. 19) ii 1. 26 For a general discussion of the two identically spelled lexemes su and kuš and the difficult issue of their exact semantic differentiation, see Cavigneaux and al-Rawi 1993: 202-205. 22 23


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The variant BAR which occurs in VAT 8395 against the PA of UM 29-13-569 is likely to be an error of preservation or anticipation that was prompted by the prevalence of the grapheme BAR elsewhere in this text. In light of this variance, it is also possible that UM 29-13-569 had another word denoting the other part of the tree, perhaps ur2,, a well-attested semantic complement to pa in contexts involving trees. 12) This line occurs in the context of praise of the tamarisk, which might suggest that an allusion to the mythical origins of the tree occurs here. The reference to a “bath of seawater”27 in the description of the tamarisk may reflect a folk understanding of the origins of the salt exudation of the tamarisk, for which see Streck 2004: 279-282, 284-285, who identifies it with Akkadian u(m)babû(m). The use of the highly polysemous verb la2 in conjunction with the locative in this context is not entirely transparent, but the translation of “soak” seems to be a reasonable conjecture from the context. 13) It appears that the ni‘g2.gu7 di‘gir.ene(.ak) “food of the gods” is being compared to or equated with the tamarisk here, with preference given in my translation to the variant featuring the comparative -gin7 offered by UM 29-13-569 versus the -ke4 offered by VAT 8395, as this line is likely to have been a copula sentence. This is a rather unanticipated comparison, as the tamarisk is not an edible item. 15) The grapheme ZU, as copied by van Dijk, is difficult to interpret as such. It should most likely be emended to SU and read as su “body” or “flesh.” It is not entirely clear from a syntactic standpoint if this phrase is in apposition to the preceding locative phrase bar.ani.a, constituting the locative phrase su di‘gir.ene.ak.a, Some insight into the indigenous categorization of seawater relative to other types of water is offered by BM 78185 (CT 44: 31) rev. 10-12 (Geller Evil Demons [Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2007 tablet 15:46-47]), corresponding to Geller OB forerunner to Udug ul III 338-339, which is also duplicated by the so-called Udug ul forerunner “appendix” Ni 630 186’-187’ (Geller 1985: 38, 145). Here seawater is described in conjunction with various other designations of water, apparently describing the different types of water that would have been accessible to humans, within a list of various behaviors that Enki prohibits ghosts and phantoms from engaging in with the living: a a-ab-ba a dug3 a mun4 a Idigna a Buranun!(UD.NUN.KIB.NUNki) a pu2 a id2-da ba-ra-ab-šu2šu2-de3-de3-en “you shall not be covered with(?) either seawater, sweet water, salt water, water from the Tigris, water from the Euphrates, water from a well or water from a canal.” 27

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or if it applies to the a sikil, “holy (tamarisk) sap,” in the next line, although I have favored the former possibility in my translation. The phrase su di‘gir.ene.ak “flesh/body of the gods,” which seems to be a means of describing divine essence, analogous to the well-known Akkadian expression šīr ili(m), corresponding to the Sumerogram UZU DIŸGIR-MEŠ, is applied to a variety of entities in other contexts, including the cedar tree (‘gišeren) in the Kultmittelbeschwörung collective TCD 4687/9 line 728 and linen in a description of divine garments in a Sumerian riddle.29 This phrase also occurs in a difficult passage of the aforementioned royal ritual text VAT 8382, lines 6-7,30 where either a copper cauldron (šen) or, to judge from the Akkadian translation, verdigris, is described in conjunction with the purification of the hands of the king: šen šu GUR31 an-na su di‘gir-re-e-ne in-dim2-ma šu-u -tu2 ŠU-GUR ša a-nim a-na ep-šu

“Verdigris32 wiped(?) (from a (copper) basin(?)) by(?) An, which he uses(?) to create the flesh of the gods.” Note as well that in later Akkadian tradition, the tamarisk and the šaššūgu(m) trees are related to divine physiognomy and statuary by reference to Akkadian e emtu(m) “bone” or “skeleton,” including a description utilizing the partially analogous genitival phrase G Ÿ IR3PAD-RA2 DIŸGIR-ti = e emet ilūti, “bone of divinity” in the ritual text šēp lemutti ina bīt amēli parāsu ii 81.33 The analogous Sumerian phrase ‘gir3-pad-ra2 di‘gir-re-ne “bone/skeleton of the gods” is Geller 2001: 227. Civil 1987: 24, riddle no. 5, line 3. See also Geller 2001: 235. 30 van Dijk 1967: 246. 31 In his edition of the text, van Dijk read šu-lu , “cleansing rite,” but the sign as copied by van Dijk is more reflective of the GUR sign, and was emended accordingly by the CAD (CAD Š III 209). This adjusted reading results in less transparent meaning, but perhaps it reflects an atypical application of the rare compound verb šu gur, “to wipe/clean the body with bread (as a magical rite)” that has been discussed by Civil (Civil 1987: 53-54). 32 Sumerian šen, which is typically defined as “kettle” or “basin” when it reflects a noun, does not appear to fit with its apparent Akkadian translation šu tu(m) “verdigris, patina, rust,” leading van Dijk to consider the translation to be an error. However, since verdigris is used for medical and ritual purposes in later Akkadian contexts, it is possible that the Akkadian translation simply anticipates the relevant byproduct associated with the Sumerian term. It is also possible that šen is an allograph of the še-en = SA AR.URUDU = šu tu(m) that is reported in the Diri tradition (Diri 6B: 91 (MSL 15: 194) and the [URUDU?]še-enSA AR of the lexical fragment K 11557 line 1 (MSL 17: 248), and that the Sumerian word is in full agreement with the Akkadian translation. 33 Wiggermann 1992: 8. See also Selz 1997: 197 n. 171. 28 29


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attested, apparently in self-praise, in conjunction with Silver (kug) in the unpublished manuscript of the debate poem Silver and Copper34 CBS 6833 + N 2509 + 2 unnumbered fragments35 rev. ii 2, which corresponds to section E line 1 in the version of the Electronic Textual Corpus of Sumerian Literature (5.3.6).36 16) It is not entirely clear what the lexeme a refers to in this context. It is possible that it refers to the sap of the tamarisk instead of water, another well-known Kultmittel. Although the lexeme a does not typically describe tree sap,37 there is attestation of the ritual use of Akkadian mê bīni(m) “tamarisk sap,”38 and it is possible that the *a g‘ iššinig that may be reflected here reflects a loan-adaptation of mê bīni(m). If this interpretation is correct, then the broken verb in this line may have involved the extraction of sap from the tamarisk. 21) The use of nam-šub, “incantation,” to describe the sap instead of a standard synonym for purity here would seem to be the result of the fundamental role of the incantation in furnishing purity to the Kultmittel. 22-26) It is likely that these lines ended with the enclitic copula, possibly also with the deontic modal e2-. 25-26) The conclusion of this text demonstrates that the objective of the ritual was to alter the contents of the dream, removing its negative elements while retaining its positive elements. Compare the rubric maš2-‘gi6 ul sig5-ga of the “Litany of the Exorcist” (KAR 44 and duplicates) line 14,39 which, as Butler suggests,40 could reflect an unidentified compendium of rites to make a bad dream favorable.

34 This text is clearly pre-OB in origin, given its reference to Ur-Namma and its orthographic features, for which see the discussion of Civil 1994: 6 n. 7, Rubio 2000: 211, 215-216, and Veldhuis 2004: 245. 35 All these joins were made by author. 36 This line is also minimally preserved in HS 1601 (TMH 4: 80) obv. line 1'. 37 Note the range of meanings proposed in PSD A I 1. 38 For a discussion of the mê bīni(m), see Streck 2004: 284-285. 39 Geller 2000: 245. 40 Butler 1998: 121.

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27) The meaning of the non-finite verb bur241 here is presumed to be analogous to its occurrence in conjunction with entities such as witchcraft, oaths, or spells, with a basic meaning of “to undo,” which commonly occurs in the subscripts to incantations. As noted above, the reading of the grapheme TAR in nam-TAR is not entirely certain. PSD (B 193) and Cunningham (1997: 144) elect to read nam-ku5, “curse.” If this interpretation is correct, then it would suggest the bad dream featured in the incantation was understood to have been brought about by a curse. However, the reading nam-tar, “fate,” seems more likely, given the fact that the ritual is designed to alter the content of a predictive dream and thus presumably alter the king’s future. References Alster, B. 1990. “The Sumerian Poem of Early Rulers and Related Poems.” Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica 21: 5-25. Black, J.A., et al. 1998- The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (online publication: URL http://www.etcsl.orient.ox.ac.uk/). Borger, R. 2000. “Šurpu II, III, IV und VIII in ‘Partitur.’ ” In Wisdom, Gods, and Literature: Studies in Assyriology in Honour of W.G. Lambert, eds. George, A.R., and I.L. Finkel, pp. 15-90. Winona Lake, Eisenbrauns. Butler, S.A.L. 1998. Mesopotamian Conceptions of Dreams and Dream Rituals. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 258. Münster, Ugarit Verlag. Cavigneaux, A. and al-Rawi, F. 1995. “Textes magiques de Tell Haddad (Textes de Tell Haddad II).” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 85: 19-46. ———. 2000. Gilgameš et la mort (Textes de Tell Haddad VI). Cuneiform Monographs 19. Groningen, Styx Publications. Charpin, D. 1986 Le Clergé d’Ur au siècle d’Hammurapi. Hautes etudes orientales 22. Paris, Librairie Droz. Civil, M. 1987a. “Sumerian Riddles: A Corpus.” Aula Orientalis 5: 17-37. ———. 1987b. “Feeding Dumuzi’s Sheep: The Lexicon as a Source of Literary Inspiration.” In Language, Literature, and History: Philological and Historical Studies Presented to Erica Reiner, ed. F. Rochberg-Halton, pp. 37-56. American Oriental Series 67. New Haven, American Oriental Society. ———. 1994. The Farmer’s Instructions: A Sumerian Agricultural Manual. Aula OrientalisSupplementa 5. Barcelona, Editorial AUSA. Civil, M. and Rubio, G. 1999. “An Ebla Incantation Against Insomnia and the Semiticization of Sumerian: Notes on ARET 5 8b and 9.” Orientalia 68: 254-266. Cunningham, G. 1997. ‘Deliver me from Evil’: Mesopotamian Incantations 2500-1500 BC. Studia Pohl: Series Maior 17. Rome, Pontifical Institute.

41 The meaning of the notably polysemous verb bur2, particularly in conjunction with dreams, where it describes dream interpretation, has been discussed recently by Zgoll 2006: 373-381.


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van Dijk, J.J. 1967. “VAT 8382: Ein Zweisprachiges Königsritual.” In Heidelberger Studien zum Alten Orient: Adam Falkenstein, ed. D.O. Edzard, pp. 233-268. Wiesbaden, Otto Harrassowitz. Geller, M. 1985. Forerunners to Udug ul: Sumerian Exorcistic Incantations. Freiburger Altorientalische Studien 12. Stuttgart, Franz Steiner Verlag. ———. 1998. “An Incantation Against Curses.” In Maul, S.M., ed.: Festschrift für Rykle Borger, ed. S.M. Maul, pp. 127-140. Cuneiform Monographs 10. Groningen, Styx Publications. ———. 1999-2000. Review of G. Cunningham, Deliver Me from Evil. Archiv für Orientforschung 46-47: 269-273. ———. 2000. “Incipits and Rubrics.” In Wisdom, Gods, and Literature: Studies in Assyriology in Honour of W.G. Lambert, eds. and I.L. Finkel, pp. 225-258. Winona Lake, Eisenbrauns. ———. 2001. “A Kultmittelbeschwörung in Trinity College Dublin.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 91: 225-237. George, A. 2003. The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Gragg, G. 1973. Sumerian Dimensional Infixes. Alter Orient und Altes Testament Sonderreihe. Neukirchen-Vluyn, Neukirchener Verlag. Heimpel, W. 1968. Tierbilder in der Sumerischen Literatur. Studia Pohl 2. Rome, Pontifical Institute. Karahashi, F. 2000. Sumerian Compound Verbs with Body-Part Terms. PhD Thesis, University of Chicago. Klein, J. 2006. “Man and His God: A Wisdom Poem or a Cultic Lament?” In Approaches to Sumerian Literature: Studies in Honour of Stip (H.L.J. Vanstiphout), eds. P. Michalowski and N. Veldhuis, pp. 123-143. Cuneiform Monographs 35. Leiden, E.J. Brill. Peterson, J. 2007. A Study of Sumerian Faunal Conception with a Focus on the Terms Pertaining to the Order Testudines. PhD. Thesis, University of Pennsylvania. Reiner, E. 1958. Šurpu: A Collection of Sumerian and Akkadian Incantations. Archiv für Orientforschung 11. Graz. Rubio, G. 2000. “On the Orthography of the Sumerian Literary Texts from the Ur III Period.” Acta Sumerologica 22: 203-226. Rutz, M. 2006. “Textual Transmission between Babylonia and Susa: A New Solar Omen Compendium.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 58: 63-96. Selz, G. 1997. “The Holy Drum, the Spear, and the Harp: towards an Understanding of the Problems of Deification in Third Millennium Mesopotamia.” In Sumerian Gods and their Representations, eds. I.L. Finkel and M.J. Geller, pp. 167-213. Cuneiform Monographs 7. Groningen, Styx Publications. Sjöberg, Å. 1998 Sumerian Texts and Fragments in the University of Pennsylvania Museum Related to Rulers of Isin. In dubsar-anta-men: Studien zur Altorientalistik: Festschrift für Willem H.Ph. Römer, eds. M. Dietrich and O. Loretz, pp. 345-378. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 253. Münster, Ugarit Verlag. Streck, M. 2004. “Dattelpalme und Tamariske in Mesopotamien nach dem akkadischen Streitgespräch.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 94: 250-290. Veldhuis, N. 2004. Religion, Literature, and Scholarship: The Sumerian Composition “Nanshe and the Birds.” Cuneiform Monographs 22. Groningen, Styx Publications. Wiggerman, F. 1992 Mesopotamian Protective Spirits: The Ritual Texts. Mesopotamian Civilizations 1. Groningen, Styx Publications. Woods, C. 2008. The Grammar of Perspective: The Sumerian Conjugation Prefixes as a System of Voice. Cuneiform Monographs 32. Leiden, E.J. Brill. Zgoll, A. 2006. Traum und Welterleben im antiken Mesopotamien. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 333. Münster, Ugarit-Verlag.

ON THE MYTHOLOGY OF OKEANOS CATALIN ANGHELINA There is no doubt that the historical Greeks beginning with Homer viewed Okeanos as a river encircling the earth.1 Okeanos represented this river for the epic tradition as well. This is most obvious in Homeric passages in which the poet talks about the sun or stars ‘setting in Okeanos’.2 Okeanos in these passages cannot be anything other than the river surrounding the earth at the horizon, where the sky meets the earth. Okeanos, however, is not originally a Greek concept. This is possibly shown by both its unknown, non-Indo-European etymology, and the fact the Greeks themselves could not explain logically what a river surrounding the earth meant.3 The main feature of the mythological aspect of the god Okeanos is its primeval nature. In the Hesiodic tradition, Okeanos is a Titan and the son of Ouranos and Gaia, the latter being born directly from Chaos. In the Orphic tradition, on the other hand, Okeanos came into being even before Ouranos and Gaia. This latter tradition has been connected to the Homeric passages in which Okeanos is viewed as ‘the father of gods’ or ‘the father of all beings’.4 Regardless of how different genealogies belong to different traditions, the relation between Okeanos and Ouranos seems to be a close one. For this reason, Berger (1904) 2-3 saw Okeanos as an original sky-god.5 In fact, why would Okeanos represent primeval water, since his descendants are celestial gods?6 It seems 1 F. Gisinger, RE XVII (including etymology); Reinhardt (1971); Lesky (1947); for etymology, see Fauth (1988) 361-79. 2 Pocock (1960) 371 suggests that the use of such phrases is metaphorical only. 3 Herodotus 4.8, 2.21 and 23; cf. Kirk (1957) 12-3. 4 Il. 14.201, 246; cf. West (1983) 118-9, 236. 5 Berger (1904) 2-3. 6 The correspondences with other Near Eastern mythologies are not perfect: e.g., between Okeanos and Tethys, on one side, and the Babylonian Apsu and Tiamat, on the other. Tiamat was split in two by Marduk, her body becoming parts of the sky; Apsu did not encircle the earth. The biblical tehōm, on the other hand, does not have a pair; cf. West (1997) 144-8.


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more natural to see the Greek celestial gods as having the origin in the sky and not elsewhere. Berger’s suggestion, though quite old, has found only one echo, which has also been long forgotten. In his monumental work about Zeus, Cook (1925) 479-82, building on Berger’s hypothesis, conjectured that Okeanos might have been originally not an earthly river, but a celestial one: the Milky Way. Our Galaxy seems, indeed, to be a river of stars, which surrounds the earth. The epithet ἀψόρρ´οος, (apsorrhoos) ‘back-flowing’ or ‘flowing in itself ’, which is applied to Okeanos in the epic tradition, seems also appropriate for describing the Milky Way.7 The identification of Okeanos as the Milky Way seems to be a strange hypothesis. There are, however, additional facts that may point in this direction. First, the Milky Way has been seen as a celestial river by people in Australia, Japan, Siberia, Mesopotamia, Arabia and China. Even the Mycenaeans seem to have known it as a celestial river.8 All these facts may be an indication of how common this view was in ancient times. Another issue concerns the Homeric depiction of Okeanos on the shield of Achilles, which would represent the river encircling the earth. On this shield, Okeanos is situated on its extreme rim, surrounding the whole universe, including the sky, which is generally assumed to occupy the central position. If the ordering of the scenes depicted on the shield is indeed logical, then it is hard to see how the river that surrounds the earth can surround the sky as well. The logical construction would have been to arrange the sky scenes and not Okeanos on the extreme rim. It may be then that the sky is not located in the center of the shield, but towards the outer edge of it.9 Under this hypothesis, the sky and Okeanos would be closely associated. It has been long noticed10 that this depiction of Okeanos on the shield of Achilles is similar to the one on a Babylonian world-map inscribed on a tablet in the British Museum.11 The river is called marratum and is depicted as two concentric circles that surround the 7 Th. 776, Od. 20.65; Il. 18. 399; cf. West (1997) 148, Kelly (2007) 280-2, Pocock (1960) 371-4. 8 Cook (1925) 479-80. The Chinese called it the ‘Sky River’ or ‘Silver River’; cf. Schafer (1974) 401-7; for Mycenaean, cf. West (2007) 350-51. 9 Il. 18.607-8; cf. Edwards (1991); Gärtner (1976) 46-65. 10 Cf. Roscher’s Lexicon IV 1448. 11 BM 92687; cf. West (1997) 145; Horowitz (1998) 21 and 406 (Plate 6).

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earth.12 West (1997) 145 sees this similarity as ‘unequivocal’. On the Babylonian map, however, there are also some other strange things depicted. On the outer shore of the marratum are shown several triangular shapes called nagû ‘regions’. This makes the assumption that marratum would be a river encircling the whole earth very questionable: if this river were the limits of the earth, the presence of other regions beyond it still needs an explanation. By contrast, on the shield of Achilles, Okeanos is supposed to surround the whole universe.13 Thus, it is not clear whether the Babylonian map and the shield represent the same thing (see Figs. 2 and 3). The fact that Okeanos has something to do with a celestial river rather than with an earthly one might be shown by one of his epithets: ταυρόκρανος (taurokranos) (E.Or.1378) ‘bull-head’.14 The epithet is not Euripides’ invention. Ancient representations of Okeanos show this one bearing indeed bull-horns.15 If Okeanos were located in the sky, then the epithet ταυρόκρανος could be explained in astronomical terms. The constellation Taurus heliacally announced the spring equinox between approximately 4,000 and 2,000 B.C.16 In other words, during this time-frame the ‘Bull’ was indeed the ‘head’ of the stellar year.17 A similar situation 12 The word is used with the determinative íd used for rivers and canals. See Horowitz (1998) 29-30. 13 The presence of the Cimmerians in the Odyssey (11.14) beyond the outer shore of Okeanos would also be a strange thing if Okeanos were originally the ‘limit’ of the earth; cf. West (1997) 145. 14 River-gods are usually depicted this way; cf. Cornutus 22: καὶ τοὺς ποταμοὺς κερασϕόρους καὶ ταυρώπους ἀναπλάτουσι ‘. . . depicting the rivers as bearing horns and having a bull-face’. Acheloios is consistently depicted this way; cf. LIMC I 1 12-36. It is the greatest of rivers (cf. Il. 21.194-5, Acusil. 2 F 1); Waser, O., RE VI 2780 argues that all other representations may derive from it. Acheloios was seen sometimes as identical to Okeanos: cf. Schol.T Il. 21.195; D’Alessio, G.B. (2004) 16-37 argues for Acheloios being originally the source of all rivers and the whole sea; this function would have been taken over later by Okeanos: cf. Wilamowitz (1931 I) 93, 189-90, 219. In Hesiod (Th. 340), however, Acheloios is already the son of Okeanos and Tethys. 15 LIMC VII 1, 31-3; VII 2, 22 (Plate 1); the earliest representation belongs to 590 B.C. 16 Today the spring equinox is in Pisces and moves towards Aquarius. This is due to the astronomical phenomenon of precession. Regarding the origin of Taurus, the claim has been made that it originates in Egypt; cf. Gundel (1936) 336; Gurshtein 2005 (103-50); also cf. Helck (1972-92) VI, 16; Hartner (1965) 1-16 argues for Sumer. 17 Cf. Neugebauer (1949) 15-6; the earliest Babylonian system had 17 or 18 ecliptical constellations, which included the zodiac with 12 signs. This latter zodiac was probably created later (5th century B.C.?); cf. Waerden (1974) 127; Rochberg-Halton (1984) 121-3.

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one can find in the astronomical texts mulAPIN, dated to the beginning of the first millennium B.C. or even earlier. There, the lists of the constellations defining the astronomical year begin with Aries (mul lú hun.gá), which announced the spring equinox from about 2,000 B.C to the beginning of our era.18 The idea that an equinoctial sign is the ‘head’ of the year can be found even later. Marcus Manilius (1st century A.D.) names Aries the ‘head’ of the zodiac.19 If Okeanos were the Milky Way, the epithet ταυρόκρανος would be appropriate, since the head and horns of Taurus lie closely to the band of the Milky Way. A last observation regards an aspect of Egyptian mythology. If, indeed, Okeanos were originally a celestial river, this would be similar to the Egyptian celestial ‘Winding Waterway’ (Mr nhú), which the dead pharaoh had to cross in a boat. This river is often mentioned in the Pyramid Texts and is assumed to represent the Milky Way.20 This seems to be identical to the concept of ‘celestial Nile’, which is echoed by the Homer scholiast, when he says the Egyptians believed the Nile to be a river flowing from heaven.21

18 Cf. Horowitz (1998) 168, 174. The astronomical significance of the bull may also be represented in some of the Near Eastern iconography belonging to about 2,300 B.C. The Mesopotamian representations of a celestial bull or bull-horns in a solar context seem to have equinoctial connotations. These symbols may represent the constellation Taurus, which once announced the spring equinox as the ‘head’ of the solar year. This hypothesis could explain the strange association between the bull and the sun-god Shamash. A similar case may be represented by the well-known Egyptian solar disc crowned with horns, which, for example, the goddess Hathor was wearing (see Figs. 1a and b). Representations and commentaries for the Mesopotamian data can be found in Frankfort (1939) 99-100 (Plate XVIII g), Ward (1910) 87-8 and 123-6, and Ward (1920) 46-52. 19 E.g., 2.457: Aries caput est…; also cf. 1.263, 2.34, 3.278. Weidner (1915) 122-3 mentions a zodiacal list from the time of the Arsacids (200 B.C.), which opens with Taurus (kakkab GÙ.AN.NA); on the tablet, the scribe added the phrase rēšu GÙ ‘the Bull is the beginning (i.e., head?)’, which Weidner interprets as a proof that the tablet is a duplicate of an original one belonging to the Taurus’ astronomical era. If this is true, it would be a striking parallel to ταυρόκρανος. 20 Faulkner (1966) 154; also Faulkner (1985) Spell 99; for the ‘Winding Waterway’ in the Pyramid Texts, see Faulkner (1969) 326. Bergk (1886) 691-6 argues for Okeanos being originally a heavenly stream, which the souls of the dead had to cross; contra Bergk, see Rohde (1898) 123, who argues that this representation of Okeanos is only a later borrowing from Egypt (where it possibly represented the Milky Way!); cf. Eisler (1910) 204 n. 4. 21 Schol. Od. 4.477: τὸν ποταμὸν τοῦτον . . . κατὰ τοὺς Αἰγυπτίους οὐρανόθεν ῥεῖν ‘this river . . . in Egypt flows from heaven’; for the ancient Egyptians, the Nile had no name: it was simply called either ítrw ‘river’ or py ‘inundation’; the ‘Nile in heaven’ was called py m pt; cf. Griffith (1997) 356-7.


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Diodorus Siculus (1, 19) also mentions that the Egyptians viewed their Nile as Okeanos.22 It is then possible that the pre-Greek Okeanos was originally the Milky Way. Cook’s intuitions may have some truth in them. Also, the astronomical relation between Taurus and the Milky Way could explain the metaphorical use of horns for Okeanos and all the rivers. However, this hypothesis still cannot explain how Okeanos could end up as an earthly river. It may be that different traditions became conflated: one that viewed everything as originating in or surrounded by water (Acheloios?),23 and another one that saw Okeanos as a celestial river. But this is, of course, conjectural. Bibliography Berger, E.H. 1904. Mythische Kosmographie der Griechen. Teubner. Bergk, T. 1886. Kleine philologische Schriften 2. Halle. Cook, A.B. 1925. Zeus II. Cambridge: The University Press. D’Alessio, G.B. 2004. ‘Textual Fluctuations and Cosmic Streams: Ocean and Acheloios’. JHS 124: 16-37. Edwards, M. 1991. The Iliad: A Commentary V. Cambridge. Eisler, R. 1910. Weltenmantel und Himmelszelt. München. Faulkner, R.O. 1966. ‘The King and the Star-Religion in the Pyramid Texts’. JNES 25: 153-61. ———. 1969. The Pyramid Texts. Oxford. ———. 1985. The Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead. 2nd ed. London. Fauth, W. 1988. ‘Prähellenische Flutnamen: Og(es)-Ogen(os)-Ogygos’. Beiträge zur Namensforschung 23: 361-79. Frankfort, H. 1939. Cylinder Seals. London: MacMillan and Co. Furnée, E.J. 1972. Die wichtigsten konsonantischen Erscheinungen des Vorgriechischen. The Hague. Gärtner, H.A. 1976. Studien zum Antiken Epos (edd. H. Görgemanns and E.A. Schmidt, Meisenheim am Glan), 46-65. Griffith, R.D. 1997. ‘Homeric ∆ΠΠΕΤΕΟΣ ΠΟΤΑΜΟΙΟ and the Celestial Nile’. AJP 118: 353-62. Gundel, W. 1936. Dekane und Dekansternbilder. Glückstadt und Hamburg. Gurshtein, A.A. 2005. ‘Did the Pre-Indo-Europeans Influence the Formation of the Western Zodiac?’ JIES 33: 103-50. Hartner, W. 1965. ‘The Earliest History of the Constellations in the Near East and the Motif of the Lion-Bull Combat’. JNES 24: 1-16. Helck, W. and Eberhard, O. (eds). 1972-92. Lexicon der Ägyptologie. Wiesbaden. Horowitz, W. 1998. Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography. Indiana. Kelly, A. 2007. Αψορρόου ᾽Ωκεανοῖο: A Babylonian Reminiscence?’ CQ 57: 280-2. Cf. Furnée (1972) 124. In the Vedic tradition, the earth floats on water like a lotus (ŚB II.1.1); cf. Kirfel (1920) 9, 15-6. 22 23

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Kirfel, W. 1920. Die Kosmographie der Inder. Hildesheim. Kirk, G.S. 1957. The Presocratic Philosophers. Cambridge. Lesky, A. 1947. Thallatta. Wien. Neugebauer, O. 1949. ‘Babylonian Astronomy II. The Thirty-Six Stars’. JNES 8: 6-26. Pocock, G.L. 1960. ‘Note on ἀψορρόου ᾽Ωκεανοῖο’. Hermes 88: 371-4. Reinhardt, J. 1971. Le thème de l’eau primordial dans la mythologie grecque. Berne. Rochberg-Halton, F. 1984. ‘New Evidence for the History of Astrology’. JNES 43: 115-40. Rohde, E. 1898. Psyche 2. Leipzig/Tübingen 1898 Schafer, E.H. 1974. ‘The Sky River’. JAOS 94: 401-7. Van der Waerden, B.L. 1974. Science Awakening II. Oxford. Ward, W.H. 1910. The Seal Cylinders of Western Asia. Washington D.C. ———. 1920. Cylinders and Other Ancient Oriental Seals in the Library of J. Pierpont Morgan. New Haven: Yale University Press. Weidner, E.F. 1915. Handbuch der babylonischen Astronomie. Leipzig. West, M.L. 1983. The Orphic Poems. Oxford. ———. 2007. Indo-European Poetry and Myth. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. 1931. Der Glaube der Hellenen. Berlin.


Fig. 1a: The Egyptian goddess Hathor

Fig. 1b: Hathor as cow

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Fig. 2: Babylonian Map of the world or Mappa Mundi

Fig. 3: The Shield of Achilles (Reconstruction)

THE FIRST TOUR OF HELL: FROM NEO-ASSYRIAN PROPAGANDA TO EARLY JEWISH REVELATION SETH L. SANDERS I. A Genre Is Born The oldest known visionary journey to hell is found in a NeoAssyrian text of the 7th century B.C.E. known as the “Underworld Vision of an Assyrian Crown Prince.”1 As a forerunner of the apocalyptic otherworldly journey and the visionary Tour of Hell, its lineage includes the books of Enoch, the Revelation of John, and Dante’s Inferno. Scholars have therefore agreed that the text has great significance for the history of religions and literature.2 But no one can agree on precisely what that significance is. The text’s interpretation has been hampered by its very distinctiveness: in 2,000 years of cuneiform literature, there are no other examples of the genre it represents, and its nearest relative is the Enochic Book of the Watchers, which first appears in Qumran Aramaic manuscripts of the second century B.C.E. While the Underworld Vision has clear mythic and epic roots in the descents of Inanna/Ishtar and Gilgamesh, it is distinguished 1 Edited by Alasdair Livingstone Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea. State Archives of Assyria III (Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1989). 68-76. This paper was first presented at the 2001 meeting of the American Oriental Society. I thank Tim Collins, Walter Farber, Jerrold Cooper and Gonzalo Rubio for comments on early versions, and am grateful to Bernard Levinson and the anonymous reviewer for JANER for detailed and thoughtful readings of the penultimate draft. All errors are my own. 2 “Formally the Akkadian vision is of great interest for the background of early Jewish apocalypses, but is more relevant to the otherworldly journeys of Enoch than to the symbolic vision of Daniel.” John J. Collins “Stirring up the Great Sea. The Religio-Historical Background of Daniel 7,” in A. S. van derWoude, ed., The Book of Daniel in the Light of New Findings (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1993) 121-36, reprinted in Collins, Seers, Sibyls and Sages in Hellenistic-Roman Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 1997); the assessment occurs on pp. 147-8 of the republication. Collins is responding to the more detailed arguments of Helge Kvanvig, which agree on the text’s interest but draw very different conclusions about what they are: Kvanvig sees the text as providing a background for the vision of Daniel 7. See Roots of Apocalyptic: the Mesopotamian Background of the Enoch Figure and of the Son of Man. WMANT 61 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1988).


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from its Sumerian and Akkadian ancestors in multiple ways. Its hero is a contemporary human being, not a god or demigod of the mythic past, who travels to the underworld not physically but in a dream or night-vision. There he experiences a revelation from an enthroned deity, before whom he collapses in fear. The revelation is couched in a distinctive style involving demonstrative pronouns, as if the god is explaining or interpreting something, but there is no prior description of what is being explained. The revelation concerns the protagonist’s ancestor, a great earthly king who now lies buried in the netherworld. The awe-inspiring glimpse of divine justice concludes with a message from the enthroned deity, chastening the protagonist into a conversion, a sweeping change in his personality and behavior when he returns to earthly life. These features make it both unique in the ancient Near East and intriguingly similar to a well-established genre of late antique literature, starting with the Jewish apocalypses of the Hellenistic period.3 With particular clarity and force, the Underworld Vision raises a fundamental question in the history of religions: to what should it be compared? Because of its apparent isolation in Mesopotamian culture and its potential relationship with Jewish and later materials, scholars have been tempted to decontextualize its contents, directly correlating its striking features across place and time. But analysis of the text without regard for cultural and historical context has yielded predictably unsatisfactory results.4 Can we take a different tack, seeing the Underworld Vision’s distinctive generic features in light of its richly documented historical context? 3 The only comparable Egyptian tours of hell are Hellenistic and later. These include the story of Setne Khamwas and Si-Osire (Miriam Lichtheim Ancient Egyptian Literature (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980) v. 3:138-51) and the brief reference in the Coptic Christian martyrdom of S. Shenoufe (119 R ii-V ii in E. Reymond and J. Barns, Four Martyrdoms from the Pierpont Morgan Coptic Codices. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1973) 203. The story of Setne’s journey to Hell (139-142) appears in a Demotic papyrus of Roman date (Lichtheim 125) and displays Hellenistic conceptions such as the posthumous reward of the just, the graded suffering of sinners according to their sins, and the role of interpreting angel, played by the god Horus posing as Setne’s son. Thanks to F. P. Gaudard for this information. 4 It was the merit of Helge Kvanvig to provide the first detailed interpretation of the text in relationship to apocalyptic literature. But his work is just one instance of a widespread approach with serious drawbacks: Kvanvig was not the first to describe a set of general similarities between an isolated Near Eastern “background” text and a “foregrounded” Biblical or Jewish literary culture. What is needed are comparisons between equally contextualized literary cultures.

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The following article seeks to identify the first known Tour of Hell, locate it in Near Eastern and Jewish cultural history, and investigate the circumstances within Neo-Assyrian history that gave rise to the text. The fact that this forerunner of an apocalyptic genre can be confidently located in an imperial court has further implications: the roots of apocalyptic cannot be ascribed exclusively to marginalized priests and intellectuals. The text affords us a remarkable opportunity to see how the ulterior motives and historical embeddedness of politics come to shape a discourse of intimate personal religious experience. Rather than explaining away its religious value, the Underworld Vision’s political context offers a precious opportunity to illuminate the development of Jewish traditions of otherworldly revelation. Through its transformation in apocalypticism and mysticism, this type of text went on to play a role in the political and religious imagination that the authors of the “Underworld Vision” could hardly have conceived. II. The Text and Its Interpretation The Underworld Vision’s history of publication has its own political context, disturbing but significant for Near Eastern studies’ own 20th century history. When the tablet VAT 10057 was excavated at Assur, it was mostly complete but badly effaced on the front and obscured by dirt. It was first published in transcription and translation in 1931 by Erich Ebeling.5 Ebeling’s pioneering edition was hampered by the unprecedented nature of the text and the fact that he had to work from excavation photos of a poorly cleaned tablet. Using photos of the cleaned tablet, Wolfram von Soden was able to vastly improve on Ebeling’s edition.6 In an article sharply critical of Ebeling, he produced the first and most significant Assyriological study of the text, setting it in a rich linguistic and historical context.7 Less impressively, he attempted to use the text to find the true 5 Edited as “Höllenfahrt eines assyrischen Königs” in Ebeling, Tod und Leben nach der Vorstellungen der Babylonier. 1 Teil: Texte. (Berlin and Leipzig: de Gruyter, 1931) 1-9. The planned second volume never appeared. 6 “Die Unterweltsvision eines assyrischen Kronprinzen” in ZA 43 (1936) 1-31. 7 The second sentence justifies the study due to the inadequacy of Ebeling’s work: “Leider ist nur Ebelings Bearbeitung dieses einzigartigen Textes . . . so ungewöhnlich fehlerhaft, daß sie als Grundlage für ein eingehendes Studium ganz ungeeignet ist.” (p. 1). This follows the excoriating review von Soden had written of the same book two years previously (OLZ 1934). With Benno Landsberger’s

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historical identity of the legendary Aramean scribe Ahiqar.8 After an indignant response by Ebeling came a defense of him in 1941 by Carl Frank, an arch-National Socialist.9 Despite a hectoring and pedantic presentation, Frank’s rich set of textual parallels and wide range of art-historical identifications remain useful today. But this esoteric debate had its Sitz im Leben in a political conflict with the highest stakes for the participants as human beings and for Assyriology as a whole. While tacitly accepting many of von Soden’s readings, Frank vigorously attempted to expose him for being covertly dependent on his “Jewish teacher and co-author”—Benno Landsberger—in producing his edition (see p. 24). By contrast, he praised Ebeling for having produced his work in an independent and therefore ethnically and morally pure fashion (25n4). Yet von Soden had already joined the Nazi party in 1934, and his 1936 reedition of the Underworld Vision was contemporary with a series

help, von Soden read over 150 signs he felt Ebeling had misidentified or not seen (OLZ 1934: 414)—noting only obscurely and in small print (ZA 43 p. 2) the fact that those signs may not have been visible on the poor photographs of the badly cleaned tablets from which Ebeling worked (compare the condition of the tablet in the original excavation photo S. 4601, plate VI in ZA 43) with the new photos von Soden had obtained (plates III and IV). On the rivalry between von Soden and Ebeling, see the obituary by Rykele Borger, “Wolfram von Soden (19.6.1908-6.10.1996) in AfO (1996/7) 588-94. Borger also notes von Soden’s obfuscation of the fact that he was working from a cleaned tablet, a move which took place in the context of an already bitter personal feud. On pages 6-7 of the ZA article von Soden identifies the Underworld Vision as a piece of 7th-century political propaganda. 8 On the search for the historical Ahiqar, likely a fruitless quest which has nonetheless fascinated more than one Assyriologist, see Jan van Dijk. “Die Inschriftenfunde.” in H. J. Lenzen, XVIII. vorläufiger Bericht über die von dem Deutschen Archäologischen Institut und der Deutschen Orientgesellschaft aus Mitteln der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft unternommenen Ausgrabungen in Uruk-Warka (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1962) 39-62. On pp. 44-52, van Dijk edits a list of largely mythical kings and sages, beginning with the figures of the Sumerian King List (the first line pairs Ayalu with Adapa, the semidivine sage who ascended to heaven), which includes Ahiqar on lines 19-20. This new information cast serious doubt on von Soden’s hypothesis (51n139). 9 Frank MAOG 14/II (1941). The characterization of Frank is that of Borger AfO (1996/7) 592. Frank’s chilling but useful article should be added to the brief bibliographic list in Livingstone’s SAA re-edition, itself based partly on new readings by von Soden. Despite its vile presuppositions, Frank’s article remains a valuable contribution, with readings that are occasionally preferable to von Soden and Livingstone’s; an example will be pointed out below.


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of three articles (1936-38) founded on distinctive Nazi concepts, most pervasively the differentiation of “our kind” (artverwandt) of people and culture from inferior foreign ones.10 In other words, von Soden was being attacked for violating in his scholarly practice the very ideal of ethnic purity on which other contemporary scholarly articles of his were based. While von Soden survived this attempted “exposure” of his hybrid Jewish-influenced scholarship, his teacher Landsberger fled for his life to Ankara and then Chicago.11 And it was this very migration of German Near Eastern scholarship to America that made the achievements of U.S. Assyriology such as the Chicago Assyrian Dictionary possible.12 Frank’s attack thus

10 Jakob Flygare, “Assyriology under Nazism: A contextual analysis of three texts by Wolfram von Soden from 1936-38,” JAGNES 11/2 (2006):7-8 citing von Soden’s 1936 “Leistung und Grenze sumerischer und babylonischer Wissenschaft.” Die Welt als Geschichte 2: 411-64 and 509-57, reprinted with B. Landsberger, Die Eigenbegrifflichkeit der babylonischen Welt as a Sonderausgabe from Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, Darmstadt (1965); the citation is from p. 21 of the reprint. 11 On Landsberger and Güterbock in Turkey, see Stanford J. Shaw, Turkey and the Holocaust: Turkey’s Role in Rescuing Turkish and European Jewry from Nazi Persecution 1933-1945 (New York: NYU Press, 1993), which is, however, an apologetic work. On Assyriology in this period, see Omar Carena, History of the Near Eastern Historiography and its Problems, 1852-1985 (I). AOAT 218 (Kevelaer: Butzon and Bercker; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1989), and most recently Flygare (op. cit) 3-42, who demonstrates that von Soden’s scholarship from this period “was strongly influenced by Nazism” and “helped lay the ‘scholarly’ foundations of the Nazi Weltanschauung.” That von Soden also suffered attacks for his close relationship to his Jewish teacher Landsberger is a perfect example of the tension between ideology and practice. In the context of 1930’s Germany, even denial of Jewish background or influence could work to confirm the underlying presupposition that Jewish identity is a contagious disease. For evidence of this thinking in the German Assyriology of the period, one need look no further than the 1933 pamphlet Verleumdung (“Slander”) by Bruno Meissner, whose incomplete manuscript provided the basis for the first complete modern dictionary of Akkadian, von Soden’s AHw. This tract, produced at Meissner’s own expense, was sent to German scholars and others (a copy is available in the Oriental Institute research archives, and I thank Charles Jones for bringing it to my attention). For testimony from another eminent scholar who knew the participants in these events, see the letter of Hans Güterbock archived at http://www-oi.uchicago.edu/OI/ANE/ANEDIGEST/V01/v01.n024, which should be compared with Borger’s account. 12 As Erica Reiner notes, the CAD “may have arisen, ironically, from a wish to outdo the Germans or at least to prove to the world that America could hold its own against, and better, the simultaneously despised and envied Germans. It is also ironic that ultimately the viability of the CAD project was precisely due to post-World War II immigrants from Europe.” An Adventure of Great Dimension: The Launching of the Chicago Assyrian Dictionary.Philadelphia, PA: American Philosophical Society, 2002:xv.

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complicates a stereotypical image of von Soden as the most infamous Nazi Assyriologist: here we see him accused of the very hybridity that his writings of the period worked against and that this text exemplifies.13 Second, it reminds us that scholarly work (as well as religious vision) is produced in a historical and moral context which it cannot—and should not—always escape.14 In the Underworld Vision itself we see the first signs of a new literary form entering the world. The text is fascinating for its generic promiscuity, reworking previously separate features found in fictional royal autobiography, scholarly commentaries, scribal lists, royal inscriptions and epic.15 This newness is our first significant datum about the text: it represents a departure from the known genres being produced in Mesopotamian scribal circles. The text is formally intriguing and creative in several ways. It is narrated in the third person, but the vision breaks this frame and switches without warning into a first-person confession, and in an exquisite narratological twist, the story itself becomes its narrator’s expiation for the sin that the vision condemns. The narrative is enlivened by such weird stylistic features as an overwhelming, pedantic scholarly list of gods and demons that ends with the narrator admitting ignorance of the last two gods’ names (r. 8) and lofty epic similes that climax with the image of a flatulent pig having sex (r. 30-31). The text describes the predicament of one Kummay (as Assyrians

For von Soden’s reputation see Flygare, op. cit., 20, with references. For a rich exploration of precisely this topic in the context of biblical scholarship see Bernard M. Levinson and Douglas Dance, “The Metamorphosis of Law into Gospel: Gerhard von Rad’s Attempt to Reclaim the Old Testament for the Church,” in Recht und Ethik im Alten Testament (ed. Bernard M. Levinson and Eckart Otto; Münster: LIT, 2004), 83-110. 15 von Soden recognized and provided parallels for the last three of these genres (ZA 43:2-3). For fictional autobiography, see Tremper Longman III’s Fictional Akkadian Autobiography: A Generic and Comparative Study (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990), with the important caveats of Walter Farber JNES 56 (1997) 228-30. The exegetical quality of Nergal’s revelation relates it to scribal commentaries, for example SAA III 39. But the form of explanation of a vision with deictic particles is distributed across multiple genres: for one important manifestation, see A. Leo Oppenheim, The Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient Near East: With a Translation of the Assyrian Dream Book (Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, Volume 46/3 [1956]; Philadelphia, PA.: American Philosophical Society, 1956). The most directly relevant form of scribal list was edited by Franz Köcher as “Der babylonische Göttertypentext,” MIO 1 (1953) 53ff. 13 14


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would likely have pronounced his name),16 a crown prince17 who is undergoing a personal crisis. After a damaged portion, we find him consulting diviners for help (l. 2) and piling up jewels like dirt (8-9). Surrounded by luxury he is nonetheless in a panic, “he did [not] rest by night, he did not stop wailing” (19). After a second bout of weeping, (37), he decides to go to down to the netherworld (28 . . . ana arādi Aralli ) and sets up a stand of incense (29). The prince’s sequence of actions has mythic and ritual connotations, albeit ones we do not fully understand. Certainly, the reference to descent to the netherworld evokes a long tradition in both myth and exorcistic ritual of journeys to the realm of the dead, since both Ishtar and terminally ill patients are said to “set their mind to going down to the netherworld.”18 This suggests that Kummay is attempting to deliberately induce a vision or even travel to the netherworld of his own volition. This attempt to break the barrier between worlds seems to constitute the very hubris for which he is punished by the terrifying vision he experiences. Adapa, the semi-human sage who does successfully enter heaven, also features in an underworld journey with horrifying consequences.19 In praying 16 27 ku-um-ma-a; 37 [ku-m]a-a-a; r. 1 [ku-um]-ma-a-a. There is a dispute over normalization within the volume: Livingstone follows Soden in normalizing Kummâ, while the index reflects a normalization as Kummāiu, reading what appears to be a graphically unrealized case vowel at the end. A third option, which I follow, is offered by the most recent treatment of Neo-Assyrian grammar, J. Hämeen-Anttila, A Sketch of Neo-Assyrian Grammar. SAAS XIII (Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2000) pgh. 1.2.3 c), citing Parpola AOAT 5/2 152n294. 17 r. 13 DUMU NUN-e r. 32 NUN. 18 Cf. the reference in UDUG.HUL to the patient who has “set his mind on the netherworld,” meaning “is planning to or destined to die,” cited along with a mythic echo of Ishtar/Ea’s descent in an Ur III incantation by Piotr Michalowski in “The Early Mesopotamian Incantation Tradition” in Pelio Fronzaroli, ed., Literature and Language at Ebla. Quaderni di Semitistica 18. Florence: Dipartimento di linguistica, 1993: 305-326 (citations on 311-12). On the ritual use of incense see I. J. Finkel, “Muššu’u, Qutāru, and the Scribe Tanittu-Bēl” in Aula Orientalis 9 (1991) 91-104. 19 This remarkable text has not been widely discussed. Too badly broken to make continuous narrative sense, it seems to parallel the Underworld Vision in its description of an attempt, motivated by grief, to glimpse the afterlife in person, and the disturbing knowledge gained. It was edited by S. A. Picchioni (Il poemetto di Adapa. Eötvös Loránd Tudományegyetem Ókori Történeti tanszékeinek kladványai 27 (Budapest: Eötvös Loránd Tudományegyetem, 1981) 105-9) from five fragments and more recently translated by Benjamin Foster (Before the Muses. 3rd ed. [Columbia, MD: CDL Press, 2005] 531-32). My citations follow Picchioni’s edition. The clearly readable portions begin by stating that someone, perhaps Adapa, “was wailing to Marduk” (l. 5). The gods react somehow to the lament but do not seem to help. Enmerkar, king of Uruk, becomes involved and together

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to Ereshkigal, queen of the netherworld, for help, Kummay manages to offend her: he “angered the heart of the god, while he kept uttering blessings.” (29) She appears to him in a šuttu, a dream, apparently for the express purpose of telling him she has nothing to say to him (“I shall not answer” 36). The prince awakes, cursing the dream and weeping, and makes the mistake of praying to her again. He then experiences a fullblown vision of the netherworld. This time his experience is referred to as a tabrītu rather than merely a šuttu. While these two terms occasionally appear in the same context, they are sharply differentiated. While a šuttu is simply a dream, tabrītu appears frequently in the vocabulary of Sennacherib and Essarhaddon to describe building projects—actually existing physical objects. It refers to awe-inspiring things seen with the eye.20 Far from a strictly mental event, numerous Sargonid occurrences of tabrītu refer to material things seen in daylight. The way this vision is narrated emphasizes its reality. The overwhelming quality of Kummay’s vision is simulated by an elaborate list of the terrifying beings present, following the well-known scholarly format of texts like the Göttertypentext. This is an established way of describing images of gods and demons which proceeds from head to hands and feet to objects carried or trampled on, using a standard terminology. The list concludes with the figure of a man with a black body and a face like an Anzu bird, an ominous character.21 In Enkidu’s death dream in the standard Gilgamesh epic, it is the Anzu-headed man who drags Enkidu down to the underworld.22 with Adapa descends into the earth and enters a tomb; they may engage in some form of necromancy: The text mentions “an ancient corpse from remotest times” (24) and their journey “down nine cubits [into the depths]” (26). There “he/they destroyed the door of the tomb” (28), whereupon follows some sort of traumatic experience. When the text becomes readable again, they have a smith reseal the tomb (rev. 4-5). Adapa encounters the smith again and anxiously asks him if the door to the grave is secure (rev. 6-8). 20 See simply von Soden, AHw q.v., “das Schauen, Gesicht; Meldung” (1299). On the larger role of tabrītu in the Mesopotamian lexicon of vision, see Irene Winter’s “The Eyes Have It: Votive Statuary, Gilgamesh’s Axe, and Cathected Viewing in the Ancient Near East” in Robert S. Nelson, ed. Visuality Before and Beyond the Renaissance. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000) 22-44, esp. 33ff. 21 As Frank noted, in describing this being’s limbs the sign is best read here not with Soden and now Livingstone as a numeral, producing the unidiomatic “4 hands and feet”, but rather GAR for šakin, as in r. 9. 22 Listen, my friend, to the dream that I had last night! The heavens cried out and the earth replied, and I was standing between them.


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The vision culminates in a theophany of Nergal, the king of the underworld, enthroned. Kummay quivers in terror at his splendor and falls to his knees before the god. Nergal siezes him by the forelock—another echo of Enkidu’s death dream—and roars, intending to kill him, but his advisor Ishum instead advises him to spare Kummay, that he may return penitent to the upper world to begin the glorification of Nergal that results in the story we now read. Nergal commutes his death sentence to a prophecy, probably of the vaticina ex eventu (“prophecy after the event”) type, predicting political upheaval: “distress, acts of violence and rebellion” (r. 2021) so he cannot sleep. After this judgment, Nergal begins an explanation. Although Kummay has not asked him, he proceeds to identify “this” (annû) spirit (or corpse) that Kummay sees.23 He explains that these remains are that of “the proud shepherd to whom my father granted full authority,” a description of the deceased ancestor’s royal sovereignty.24 That the figure is an Assyrian king is further made explicit There appeared a man of black visage— his face resembled the Anzu, his hands were the paws of a lion, his nails the talons of an eagle!— he seized me by my hair and overpowered me. My translation follows Maureen Gallery Kovacs’ rendering of Standard Babylonian Version Tablet VII, lines 165-171, slightly modified. The Underworld Vision clearly alludes to the Gilgamesh epic’s description of this creature’s face, using the same wording (ana ša anzî panūšu mašlu in SAA III 32 r. 10, ana ša anzê panūšu mašlu in Gilgamesh VII 169) and intensifying the description from ukkulu panīšu “his face was very dark” in Gilg VII 168 to zumuršu kīma ittê ālim “his body was black as pitch” in 32 r. 10. For the text, see Andrew R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts. 2 vols. (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2003) 642-43. 23 [LU.UŠ] annû ša ina er ētim tāmru; the noun is broken but it must be something relating to a human being that is seen (or, as Livingstone reads, following a new proposal of von Soden, “buried,” which seems unnecessary given the straightforward option of deriving the verb from amāru) in the netherworld. 24 Though his book is full of valuable insights, Kvanvig’s interpretation of this text is impossible on both grammatical and historical grounds. He translates the line as “to whom my father [ ] the king of the gods, gives full responsibility” (391). But the form ušam û, a Shin stem preterite of ma û in a subordinate clause, is unambigously past tense, and has been translated this way in every Assyriological treatment. Kvanvig produces a confusing discussion of this grammar, 396-7 where he asserts that the form, despite the clearly preterite morphology, can be read as a “present-subjunctive,” a category not recognized in Akkadian grammar. While the preterite begins its life as a form denoting punctual Aktionsart and therefore can be used without specific tense reference in earlier stages of Babylonian, its usage has narrowed in Neo-Assyrian grammar. Here the preterite is consistently

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as Nergal describes him as a conqueror (r. 23) and “high priest of Assur” (r. 24), a role exclusively reserved for the Neo-Assyrian king. The specific historical identification with Sennacherib is made clear when Nergal says that he built the Akitu house, an act uniquely identified with Sennacherib in this period.25 A second demonstrative explanation, this time using the third masculine singular pronoun šu, connects the dead king to the visionary: r. 26 [šu]-u zār[û ]ka “he is your ancestor.”26 Nergal concludes with a curse, breaking the frame of the narrative by addressing whoever hears, in the second person plural, against whoever would neglect Sennacherib’s words. Kummay wakes up and has a fit of terrified remorse. The story then—at least apparently—steps away from him, to focus on a character called “that scribe,” probably already mentioned in a damaged part of the text. But this character is a double of the crown prince: like the prince a sinner who occupies the post of his father. Observing the prince’s actions, he also takes Nergal’s warning to heart in a used for the past in subordinate clauses, a drift that has already begun in Old Babylonian (Anttila SAAS XII 4.2.2.1.1). This forced grammatical interpretation makes the scene appear parallel to God’s grant of authority to the son of man in Daniel 7:14, “And to him was given authority, honor and kingship” (wlh yhyb šl n wyqr wmlkw), since Kvanvig sees the connection with the son of man as the major significance of this text for apocalyptic literature. But this cannot be what the text is saying, for historical as well as grammatical reasons. The string of epithets and descriptions applied to the figure given responsibility (in the past!), as high priest of Assur, builder of the Akitu house, and progenitor of the protagonist, make it certain that the figure Nergal is describing is the now-dead Sennacherib, not a future eschatological king, and certainly not the Anzu-headed underworld messenger Kvanvig associates with this pronouncement. From the point of view of the history of religions, Collins (op. cit.) found Kvanvig’s interpretation implausible on six grounds: 1) Daniel’s vision is symbolic, while the Underworld Vision revolves around a direct verbal message which requires no interpretation; 2) the Underworld Vision is primarily concerned with the fate of the visionary, while Daniel’s is eschatological, concerned with the broad outcome of history; 3) the four hybrid monsters of Daniel 7 are only comparable to the 15 Mesopotamian divine beings in the most general way; 4) Daniel’s vision occurs in heaven, while the Underworld Vision takes place in a different place; 5) in Daniel the beast from the sea is judged, while in the Underworld Vision it is the visionary himself; 6) Kvanvig describes an “ideal ruler designated as a man,” as occurring in both texts, but in fact the ruler is not given an eschatological kingdom in the Mesopotamian text, and the designation ištēn e lu “a man” is commonplace, and has nothing to do with the “son of man” in Daniel. 25 For Sennacherib’s rebuilding of the Akitu-house at Assur, see OIP 2:135-43. 26 Livingstone’s “father” for zārû does not quite fit, neither in general (the word can equally mean “progenitor”) nor within this particular context, where it is implausible that Esarhaddon, the son of Sennacherib, is the protagonist.


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conclusion that produces an etiology of the text itself: “[the scribe] went and repeated [the story] to the palace, saying ‘Let this be my expiation.’ ” von Soden first identified this text as a piece of propaganda, written when Assurbanipal was crown prince, on the part of a putative “Assyrian national” party.27 But even if we accept, as we should, that the text is political communication, its distinct mode of communication is religious. Thus its religious kernel, the underworld vision, merits a closer look. Prominent in the text is the reworking of a scribal list describing the features of divine things. The Göttertypentext format is known from a number of contexts—what is unique about its use here is how it has been transformed by its framing. It is framed not objectively, in the voice of the omniscient third person “speaker” of scholarly texts, but in the subjective first person voice of someone who has actually seen what he is talking about—not the copies, plaster models or figurines of the underworld gods that the Göttertypentext text describes, but the originals: the gods themselves. Thus while we might call the form “secondary,” derivative of the Göttertypentext, the Underworld Vision makes the opposite claim: Kummay is seeing the actual divine forms on which the texts and figurines are based. While this type of reworking is an option that literary language makes available to any narrator, the choice to reframe authoritative religious materials in the first person to emphasize the directness of revelation is worthy of note. The move by which traditional mythic notions are made personal has been considered typical of apocalyptic; in other cultural contexts it has been considered typical of the shaman, who personally encounters the characters and geography of myth in his real life.28 Von Soden, ZA 43:7. In Hellenistic Jewish culture the technique of shifting the grammatical person of revealed texts is best-attested, and has been richly studied, at Qumran. For a recent detailed study see Bernard Levinson and Molly Zahn, “Revelation Regained: The Hermeneutics of ‫ יכ‬and ‫ םא‬in the Temple Scroll” Dead Sea Discoveries: A Journal of Current Research on the Scrolls and Related Literature 9:3 (2002): 295-346, and for a book-length discussion, Dwight Swanson, The Temple Scroll and the Bible: The Methodology of 11QT. (Leiden: Brill, 1996). More broadly, Mircea Eliade argued that in many traditional societies the shaman is the one who experiences in the present tense and in person the geography of past myth. Yet if the account of the Underworld Vision is in fact partly constructed from pre-existing epic and scholarly sources, this suggests that at least here we find evidence of a dialectical relationship between personal visionary accounts and mythic or epic narrative. See Eliade’s Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy, translated from the French by Willard R. Trask. New York: Bollingen Foundation, 1964, e.g. 182, 214, 510. 27 28

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A second prominent feature is the theophany of the terrifying Nergal on his throne. This throne-theophany is known from other otherworldly journeys in Mesopotamian literature: Etana’s eagle has a dream of an enthroned goddess and her terrifying lion guardians in heaven, Ishtar/Inanna encounters an enraged Ereshkigal in her descent to the underworld, and Nergal himself kneels before Ereshkigal’s throne. But there is an important feature here not shared with these earlier otherworldly journeys. This is the collapse and abasement of a human visionary before the divine throne: the eagle wakes up from his dream as soon as he sees the throne, Ishtar may even try to sit above the throne, and Nergal, a god probably more powerful than Ereshkigal, is just being polite. There is something significant and new in emphasizing that the text’s narrator (or a figure strongly identified with him) saw the god and experienced the terror of divine revelation himself. And precisely this visionary collapse before the throne is typical of the apocalyptic otherworldly journey, first known from the Enochic Book of the Watchers (Enoch 14). From a generic point of view, perhaps the most interesting feature of the Underworld Vision is its use of demonstrative particles: annû “this (is)” (r. 22) and [š]u “he (is)” (r. 25). Nergal explains to the visionary the identity of the beings he is seeing in hell. What is striking is the fusion of the text’s mythic themes with this exegetical language, offering an interpretation of what is seen. This explanatory style fits with the vision’s scholarly list of gods and demons that opens the vision, and the identification of the narrator as a scribe. The use of these demonstratives in dream interpretation and Mesopotamian scholarly exegesis was long ago detailed by Leo Oppenheim, and connected historically to the development of early Jewish exegesis by Michael Fishbane.29 Later, Martha Himmelfarb argued in her study of Jewish and Christian apocalyptic Tours of Hell that the presence of these deictic explanations is the most essential taxonomic feature of this later literary form.30 In its own context, this text walks a remarkable line in building a public 29 Fishbane, “The Qumran Pesher and Traits of Ancient Hermeneutics” in Proceedings of the 6th World Congress of Jewish Studies. Vol. 1 ( Jerusalem: Jerusalem Academic Press, 1977) 97-114; Oppenheim, The Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient Near East. Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 46 (1956). 30 “[ T ]he presence of demonstrative explanations in a Tour of Hell may be sufficient to mark it as belonging to the tradition discussed here” Tours of Hell: An Apocalyptic Form in Jewish and Christian Literature. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylviania, 1983) 6.


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description of private religious experience from the building blocks of scholarly tradition. It partakes of what modern scholars have seen as a central paradox of ancient prophetic and visionary text genres: is it an erudite literary construct or a personal testimony? In this context, it becomes clear that this is something of a false dichotomy: literary constructs are precisely what make written personal testimony possible by giving it the forms through which it can communicate. Although each individual element of the Underworld vision has forerunners and analogies within Mesopotamian literature, they come together to form a distinctive new whole. The narrated list of things in the otherworld, the terrifying throne of the god, and the demonstrative explanation of a vision are brought together only here. Why were they brought together under Assurbanipal? The most recent discussion of the text, in the work of the Second Temple scholar Helge Kvanvig, focuses on the text as a forerunner of a very specific theme in Hellenistic Judaism.31 He compared the vision of monsters and a terrifying enthroned ruler to those found in Hellenistic Jewish journeys to heaven, and found in the man with the black body and bird head a forerunner of the angelomorphic “son of man,” especially important to scholars in search of Christian origins. But the text should first be seen in the context in which it was written, in the language and concerns of Akkadian literature produced under Assurbanipal. Here we find precise parallels of another sort. These appear in Assurbanipal’s royal inscriptions, with their focus on communication with the gods via dreams and on Assurbanipal’s first-hand possession of scribal knowledge of things divine. One of Assurbanipal’s most dramatic descriptions of a dream-oracle in a historical context comes in connection with the episode of Teumman.32 His battles with Teumman, an Elamite king who may have been a usurper, appears to have caused 31 I provide a critique of this method of extracting a “foreign” text from its practical contexts and replacing it as “background” for a Jewish text in my forthcoming Rituals of Revelation (Brill). 32 Assurbanipal Prism B V 15-76, edited by Maximillian Streck Assurbanipal und die letzten assyrischen Könige bis zum untergange Niniveh’s 3 vols. Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1916 (though the figure of Teumman as evil usurper is introduced earlier, at IV 71, as “the image of a demon,” the events narrated in V 15-76 were understood as a unity by the Assyrian scribes. For the attestations of this episode in various versions see Borger Rykele Beiträge zum Inschriftenwerk Assurbanipals (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1996) 101).

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Assurbanipal considerable anxiety, which was alleviated by visions of Ishtar reported by a soothsayer (šabrû).33 The soothsayer has a night vision, referred to as a šuttu, which frightens him, whereupon he has a second vision, this time specified as a tabrītu, of a terrifying Ishtar, girt for battle and promising victory to Assurbanipal. Here we find a similar sort of language and sequence as in the Underworld vision, including the progression from šuttu to tabrītu and the vision of a terrifying divine being proclaiming the king’s political fate. In addition to his distinctive interest in dream visions, Assurbanipal, alone among Neo-Assyrian kings, described himself as a scribe.34 There is even a text in which Assurbanipal is depicted as participating in a personal dialogue with Nabu, the god of writing.35 Of further interest for the identification of the circle in which this text originated is the string of stereotyped wisdom epithets that describe Sennacherib: “the eminent one, experienced in matters, wide of understanding, comprehensive in the seat of ordaining fate, who scanned the plans of the foundation of the earth” (r. 66 u urāti ša markās qaqqari īru). This last epithet echoes one ascribed to Adapa, probably Assurbanipal’s favorite mythic figure.36 At what point in Assurbanipal’s career was the text written? von Soden (3-4) argued that the protagonist’s epithet, “prince” (DUMU NUN in r. 13) must be taken literally. But it does not necessarily indicate that he was a crown prince when the text was written: to take this at face value makes no more sense than assuming that all references to a king being “formed by the gods in the womb” can be securely dated to his gestation period. Nergal’s prophecy of political unrest—inauspicious propaganda for the beginning of a royal career—is more plausibly a vaticinum ex eventu written when the 33 The dream-vision is described in lines 49-76. For the most up-to-date textual readings see Borger 100-101. A short discussion and useful bibliography appear in Martti Nissinen, References to Prophecy in Neo-Assyrian Sources. SAAS VII. (Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1998) 53-4. For Assurbanipal’s particular interest in dreams see e.g. Rassam cylinder X 70, Prism A iii 118-127, and Prism B V 95. The two most remarkable instances are Prism A V 95-103, which claims that Assurbanipal’s entire army had the same dream, and the episode of Gyges and Assurbanipal, in which he claims that the Lydian king Gyges had a dream in which Assur commanded him to “lay hold of [Assurbanipal’s] lordly feet!” (BM 134445 C, lines 12’-14’, edited with parallels by M. Cogan and H. Tadmor “Gyges and Assurbanipal” Or 46 (1977) 71-73). 34 See L4 I. 13 (Streck Assurbanipal: 254), with the variant published by E. Weissert and H.-U. Onasch “The Prologue to Assurbanipal’s Prism E” Or 61 (1992):71. 35 The “Dialogue Between Assurbanipal and Nabû” (SAA III 13). 36 Bît mēseri tablet III incantation 1. ed. von Weiher SpBTU II no. 8, line 1.


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crown prince had already become king and was in fact experiencing the unrelenting political unrest which Shamash-Shuma-Ukin and others were to create for Assurbanipal. And we know that he himself experienced this unrest as divine persecution.37 Placing this text in its most plausible historical context—the period of unrest and anxiety during which Assurbanipal was receiving night-visions, šuttu and tabrītu, begins to suggest an explanation of its overall form. Assurbanipal’s concern with his own divinely ordained education and development, his closeness to and knowledge of the gods that stem from it, is well known. The pinnacle of Neo-Assyrian literary creativity comes in this period, as Assurbanipal orders old texts to be compiled and cataloged in an attempt to shore up his continuity with the past and future. It is here that the Assyrian past is most intensely drawn on and reused. The Underworld vision, then, in its unification of a first-person confessional narrative with epic visions of the other world and scribal genres of revealed knowledge functions as “documentary evidence” that Assurbanipal has indeed seen divine things as part of his education, at the hands of the gods as well as humans, and that these divine things jibe with the ones listed in his archives. As a narrative of a man’s moral development, the vision constructs a three-dimensional image of an imperfect being who is brought into line and made pious by a troubling but precious intimacy with the gods. III. The Text’s Historical Significance: From King to Prophet and from Propaganda to Revelation Apocalyptic literature is generally studied in terms of influences: earlier texts with clusters of features found in later texts are understood as evidence for the origins, and thus the explanation, of the later texts.38 From this point of view, the Underworld Vision provides the earliest clear evidence for the “origins” of the Tour 37

251f.

For Assurbanipal’s divine persecution complex see e.g. Streck Assurbanipal:

38 Exemplary studies are those of James VanderKam, Enoch and the Growth of an Apocalyptic Tradition. CBQ Monograph Series 16 (Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1984) and Martha Himmelfarb’s paired works Tours of Hell: An Apocalyptic Form in Jewish and Christian Literature (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1983) and Ascent to Heaven in Jewish & Christian Apocalypses (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993).

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of Hell. The first-person narration of a scribal list of revealed things, the terrifying throne-theophany, and the set of demonstrative explanations of otherworldly visions, each known from Hellenistic Jewish Tours of hell, are all attested here. Apocalyptic literature is the only ancient realm in which we find these formal features united.39 It has been well established that apocalyptic literature has significant Mesopotamian influences. The earliest forerunner within Biblical tradition of the Jewish and Christian apocalyptic Tour of Hell is Ezekiel 40-48, a text composed in Babylon.40 The earliest actual example of the genre apocalypse, the Enochic Book of the Watchers, contains significant Mesopotamian elements in geography and in the identity of the protagonist.41 And the earliest 39 It should be emphasized that the definition of a Tour of Hell understood here is relatively minimal: a visionary is taken to the realm of the dead and receives a message from a divine being interpreting what is seen. In her definitive study of the genre, Himmelfarb (Tours of Hell ) developed a more sophisticated set of criteria. However, this project encountered a classic problem in the morphology of genres: since the criteria were themselves based on the corpus of texts she had chosen, they pose a certain circularity. For example, while the primary criterion she uses is the demonstrative explanation (“the presence of demonstrative explanations in a Tour of Hell may be sufficient to mark it as belonging to the tradition discussed here” 6), her more detailed analysis of these demonstrative explanations reveals that this criterion disqualifies up to a quarter of the corpus, depending on how many demonstrative pronouns are required to form a pattern. She notes that this corpus includes tours with only one demonstrative explanation (the Bodleian MS of the Chronicles of Yerahmeel ), two (the Testament of Isaac and the Life of Pachomius) and two with none (the Joshua fragment in Reshit Hokhma and the Gedulat Moshe) (p. 46). Reflecting on the fact that the Egyptian Setne Kamwas story—which is not included in the corpus, though it is clearly influenced by the Tour of Hell tradition—has a demonstrative explanation, she writes “One explanation, of course, is not a pattern.” But then how do the three versions in her corpus that contain one or none belong in the corpus? She relegates the Testament of Isaac and Life of Pachomios to this dubious category (p. 47). Following this problem logically through to the end seemingly leads her to question the distinctiveness of her central criterion: “Indeed, the presence of the pattern of demonstratives in other texts, Muslim and Zoroastrian, might suggest that the form is so commonplace as to lack any special significance” (47). 40 While the tour is of a very different mythic geography—the future Temple in Zion—the otherworldly journey guided by an interpreting divine being provides an important link. 41 For an up-to-date analysis of Mesopotamian elements in Enoch’s cosmic geography, see Kelley Coblentz Bautch, A Study of the Geography of I Enoch 17-19: ‘No One Has Seen What I Have Seen’ JSJSupp 81. (Leiden: Brill, 2003) 231-38, with bibliography. On Mesopotamian and Israelite esotericism, see Alan Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods: Secret Knowledge in Ancient Mesopotamia and Biblical Israel (Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2008). On the figure of Enoch, see the rich


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known community with apocalyptic beliefs, the sectarians of the Qumran texts, used a solar calendar, perhaps the single most important distinctive feature of both their ritual and ideology, which is unknown in the Bible and unarguably of Mesopotamian origin.42 While some features of the Tour of Hell can be found in Zechariah, the combination of demonstrative explanations with a tour of the underworld, tormenting divine beings, and a famous earthly ruler is not found in the Bible but is clearly attested in the Underworld Vision. But the Underworld Vision’s context also calls this basically unhistorical mode of analysis into question: texts do not create texts; people create them under particular circumstances. Why, then, does the first known instance of the Tour of Hell genre appear four or five centuries before its closest apparent relatives, and what would it gain us to discover the genre’s “origins” here? Considering the apocalypses’ twin cultural roles as a literature of resistance, promising the end of the earthly powers that be, and as a tool of mystical speculation, producing visions of other worlds that flow into the later streams of Western mysticism, it is striking that the first Tour of Hell is in fact a piece of propaganda for the powers that be, not condemnation or speculation. The Underworld Vision reimagines the king, not as a warrior, leader, or builder, but as a visionary. Why is it at this historical moment that these generic elements are united to produce this sort of textual “evidence” for a king’s knowledge and experience? A compelling historical explanation lies in dreams, those dreams reported in Assurbanipal’s inscriptions in which he describes other people, including his own troops and seers, as being visited by the gods at night with messages promoting his rule. We see here in the late seventh century a new emphasis on psychic life in royal propaganda, an emphasis uniquely suited to a king whose image treatment of James VanderKam, Enoch and the Growth of an Apocalyptic Tradition (op. cit.) which, as one might expect, contains some misinterpretations of the large and difficult corpus of Mesopotamian evidence. For these issues and alternative arguments see my forthcoming Rituals of Revelation (Brill). 42 For the Mesopotamian sources of the 364-day calendar and its attestations in the Dead Sea Scrolls see briefly Jonathan Ben-Dov and Wayne Horowitz, “The 364-Day Year in Mesopotamia and Qumran” in Moshe Bar-Asher and Devorah Dimant, eds., Meghillot: Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls. 2 vols. ( Jerusalem: Bialik Institute; Haifa: Haifa University, 2003) I:3-26 and now Jonathan Ben-Dov, Head of All Years: Astronomy and Calendars at Qumran in their Ancient Context (Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2008).

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as ruler was that of a sage and a knower of divine secrets.43 At a time when the connection between divine knowledge and political power is especially intense, this text, in the context of Assurbanipal’s other inscriptions, attests to the manipulation of literary genres in service of a sort of imperial colonization of dream life. It has been argued convincingly that the chief political innovation of exilic and later Judaism is the replacement of the figure of the king as sovereign with the prophet and his revealed text.44 While prophets played a significant role in political communication earlier in the Iron Age Levant, the loss of native kingship is often thought of as fostering a radical break of Israelite religion and with its context and earlier history.45 But the Underworld Vision shows us that in the Neo-Assyrian period the most powerful king in the known universe had already begun to see, and represent himself in his publications, as a visionary scribe. It is as a part of this shift in the image of the sovereign that we can understand later texts such as Exodus 31:18, “And He gave to Moses, when He had finished speaking with him on Mount Sinai, the two tablets of the testimony, tablets of stone inscribed with the finger of God.” The narrative of God’s writing of the tablets is the first Near Eastern myth in which the high god serves as his own scribe. From a Levantine viewpoint, as a late pre-exilic text the Underworld Vision also helps us understand the shifts that made such authoritative prophetic narratives as Exodus, as well as Deuteronomy, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel possible. The Underworld Vision, along with the contemporary Erra epic, is the first Mesopotamian mythic narrative that claims to have been revealed to a living, historical human being. During a renaissance that was also a crisis of tradition, new mythic narratives were introduced under the rubric of personal experience: people now This shift in the strategies used by religious authority suggests a different explanation than that offered by von Soden for those phenomena he noted in his groundbreaking “Religiöse Unsicherheit, Säkularisierungstendenzen und Aberglaube zur Zeit der Sargoniden” in Analecta Biblica 12 (1959) 356-67. 44 Cristiano Grottanelli, “Making Room for the Written Law” History of Religions 34 (1994) 246-64, reprinted in Kings and Prophets: Monarchic Power, Inspired Leadership, and Sacred Text in Biblical Narrative (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999) 185-201. 45 For datable, epigraphic documentation of Iron Age prophetic political communication see my The Invention of Hebrew (Champagne: University of Illinois Press, 2009) 139-45. The theory of a radical shift with the loss of native kingship was most sharply put by Jonathan Z. Smith, “Wisdom and Apocalyptic,” in B.A. Pearson ed., Religious Syncretism in Antiquity (Missoula: Scholars Press, 1975) 131-56. 43


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claimed, as individuals, to have experienced mythic events. In their own way, the Assyrian conquerors were beginning to undergo the same profound cultural shifts as the Israelite conquered.46 As rulers of the sovereign state, served by the bureaucratic producers of writing, they were the masters of history. And it is precisely because the Assyrians were the masters of history that their documents are the best places to view these religious changes historically. Genealogical backgrounds for apocalyptic literature have typically been built by removing ancient Near Eastern texts from their native contexts and placing them as ancestors in a sequence of Jewish texts. By replacing one of the roots of apocalyptic back in its native context, we witness the growth of an apocalyptic genre in a new light. It has been suggested here that the Tour of Hell’s original context is the Assyrian empire’s colonization of dream life.47 What is most striking, then, is how this colonization will later be reversed, as the colonized individuals use the new literary possibilities for their own purposes, producing what we know as apocalyptic.48 We will never know if the king himself experienced anything like what is described here—though given the atmosphere in which he lived and his servants’ efforts to bolster his semi-divine self-image, it seems entirely possible. What we do know is that this incipient genre, when it reached full bloom, would provide a template for new forms of religious experience. This strange passage from propaganda to revelation testifies to the profound slipperiness of the human religious imagination certain texts exceed their historical contexts in ways that should surprise us.

46 Baruch Halpern provides a comprehensive theory of social change in contemporary Judah in his “Jerusalem and the Lineages in the Seventh Century BCE: Kinship and the Rise of Individual Moral Liability,” in B. Halpern and D. Hobson, eds., Law and Ideology in Monarchic Israel. JSOTSup 124 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991) 11-107. 47 For a literary vision of a similar colonization, in which an imperial bureacracy monitors the dreams of its citizens for politically significant omens, see Ismail Kadare’s novel The Palace of Dreams (New York: William Morrow and Company, 1993), banned when it first appeared in Albania in 1981. 48 An analogous, richly documented transformation is the rethinking of Assyrian vassal treaties in Deuteronomistic law; an exemplary article with extensive bibliography is Bernard Levinson, “Textual Criticism, Assyriology, and the History of Interpretation: Deuteronomy 13:7a as a Test Case in Method,” JBL 120 (2001) 211-43.

TRADING ON KNOWLEDGE: THE IDDIN-PAPSUKKAL KIN GROUP IN SOUTHERN BABYLONIA IN THE 7TH AND 6TH CENTURIES B.C.1 JOHN P. NIELSEN Loyola University of New Orleans Abstract The witness list in BM 113927 dated at Ur in 658 includes the names of a father and son who, on the basis of evidence from three colophons, can be shown to have been members of the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group. These men appear to have had their origins at Borsippa, were active in temple affairs at Ur, and they or their descendants may have become part of the personnel at the Eanna temple at Uruk. The author makes arguments concerning the identity of these men and then proposes a link between them and a lineage from the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group at Uruk. The author concludes with observations about the movements of scholars between temples in Babylonia.

Introduction The college of officials, priests, and scribes of a Mesopotamian temple oversaw both elaborate religious rituals and extensive economic operations. The expertise these men possessed made them essential to the temple and bestowed upon them prestige and material benefits. Not surprisingly, those affiliated with the temple were a restrictive body in which membership was desirable and tended to reflect the local ties between the city and its patron deity. In spite of these impediments, it was possible for outsiders to gain entry into these circles. As Van Driel has noted, participants in temple affairs were “fundamentally a single class of people,” who, due to their scribal education, were positioned to respond to both institutional contraction and expansion throughout Babylonia’s history.2 I wish to thank Michael Kozuh of Auburn University and an anonymous reviewer for JANER for their careful reading and valuable comments. 2 G. van Driel, Elusive Silver: In Search of a Role for a Market in an Agrarian Environment. Aspects of Mesopotamia’s Society, PIHANS 95 (Leiden: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologish Instituut te Istanbul, 2002), 44. 1


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Babylonians may have thought of the temples as the eternal dwelling places of their gods but the histories of these institutions were far from static, and the polytheistic Babylonians were able to accommodate those gods who were forced from their homes along with the priests who served them. The most notable example of temple personnel from one city practicing in another occurred late in the Old Babylonian period when large-scale deurbanization in southern Babylonia compelled southern priests to migrate northward.3 On a smaller scale, Sutean depredations in the eleventh century forced priests from the Ebabbar at Sippar to flee to Babylon where they received royal aid. Simbar-Šipak settled them within the city and Eulmaš-šākin-šumi later diverted offerings from Marduk in the Esagil in order to satisfy the needs of the transplanted Šamaš cult.4 A home could even be found for foreign gods. Nebuchadnezzar I welcomed two priests of Ria (father and son) who fled to him from territory held by the Elamites and made an endowment of land for the support of the god.5 All these examples point to a degree of dynamism among priests and a flexibility that undoubtedly helped cults weather tumultuous times. But what of more stable and prosperous times? While the expulsion of priests and other personnel from their home temples necessitated their incorporation at different locales, traditional links between a city and its patron deity remained strong enough to ensure the resumption of the cult in its home temple following the reassertion of political and economic stability. Under such circumstances, the reinvigoration of temples and cities may have created new opportunities that attracted men who possessed scribal training and ritual expertise. In the early Neo-Babylonian period conditions at Ur appear to have been ripe for new prospects. 3 After Samsuiluna’s eleventh year there are indications that the cities of the south were abandoned (H. Gasche, La Babylonie au 17e siecle avant notre ere: Approche archeologique, problèmes et perspectives, MHEM 1 [Ghent: University of Ghent, 1989], 127-131), and that their cults were removed to cities in the north (Charpin, Le clergé d’Ur au siècle d’Hammurabi (XIX e-XVIII e siècles av. J.-C.), École pratique des hautes études, IV e Section, Sciences historiques et philologiques II, Hautes études orientales 25 [Paris and Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1986], 403-415; Rosel Pientka, Die spätbabylonische Zeit: Abiešu bis Samsuditana; Quellen, Jahresdaten, Geschichte, IMGULA 2/1 [Münster: Rhema, 1998], 179-196; and K. van der Toorn, “Migration and Spread of Local Cults,” in Immigration and Emigration within the Ancient Near East: Festschrift E. Lipiński, eds. K. Van Lerberghe and A. Schoors, OLA 65 [Leuven: Uitgeverij Peeters en Departement Oriëntalistiek, 1995], 369-370). 4 BBSt 36 i 13-ii 17. 5 BBSt 24.

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Settlement surveys indicate that the city had probably reached its nadir at some point before 900 B.C.,6 and the subsequent rebuilding of temples at Ur by Sîn-balāssu-iqbi, the governor (šakkanakku) under the patronage of Ashurbanipal, was part of an effort to renew the city.7 The physical renovation of the structures was one key to Ur’s revitalization, but for these institutions to function properly they would need a full complement of personnel. Did these projects and the environment of growth at Ur attract scribes and priests who were not native to southern Babylonia? Two lines of prosopographical evidence from a witness list on the unpublished legal text BM 113927 suggest that such may have been the case. In the following paper, I will argue that a father and son from the IddinPapsukkal kin group had come south to Ur from Borsippa in order to pursue opportunities in the temple. Supporting this argument are the aforementioned witness list and three scribal colophons. The witness list is key because it sheds light upon the contents of the colophons, permitting restorations that justify my contention. Interestingly, two of the colophon-bearing tablets indicate that these men may not have ended their careers at Ur and that they or one of their descendents eventually became involved in temple affairs at Uruk. The archeological context in which the two tablets were found supports my contention and I will close my arguments with a reconstructed genealogy linking the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group at Ur with a lineage from the same kin group attested at Uruk. The Iddin-Papsukkal Kin Group and the Priesthood at Ur: BM 113927 8 On the eighteenth day of Ara samnu (VIII) in the year 658 at the city of Ur, Sîn-balāssu-iqbi, a scribe named Sîn-iddin, and eleven other men were convened to witness a document in which a man 6 Henry T. Wright, “The Southern Margins of Sumer: Archaeological Survey of the Area of Eridu and Ur,” in Robert McC. Adams, Heartland of Cities: Surveys of Ancient Settlements and Land Use on the Central Floodplain of the Euphrates (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), 334. 7 Grant Frame, Babylonia 689-627 B.C.: A Political History, PIHANS 69 (Leiden: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologish Instituut te Istanbul, 1992), 110. Frame, RIMB 2 B.6.32.2001-2016. 8 BM 113927 is part of a small archive from Ur that is part of the British Museum’s 1919-10-11 collection. Michael Jursa, Neo-Babylonian Legal and Administrative Documents: Typology, Contents and Archives, GMTR 1 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2005), 137.

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willed slaves, a field, and a house to his wife. The details of the will are of little significance here but among the witnesses to the agreement were two men who pursued very interesting careers: Nabû-gāmil DUMU-šú šá Iddin-Papsukkal and Nabû-šuma-iddin DUMU-šú šá Nabû-gāmil.9 The manner in which Nabû-gāmil’s patronym was recorded deserves special attention. With the exception of Sîn-balāssu-iqbi, the scribe identified the witnesses by their patronyms, using the writing DUMU-šú šá before each one. The appended -šú šá typically indicated that the following patronym was the referent’s father’s name and not a family name; however, by the mid-seventh century, Iddin-Papsukkal was exclusively in use as a family name. It is therefore likely that Iddin-Papsukkal was Nabû-gāmil’s family name. The scribe may have used the writing DUMU-šú šá prior to the family name because he was following norms in use in southern Babylonia in the mid-seventh century BC. In contrast with contemporary tablets from northern cities, family names rarely appear in texts from the southern cities of Uruk and Ur and two-generation citations were still the rule at this time. He also may not have recognized Iddin-Papsukkal as a family name, as none of the other patronyms in BM 113927 were family names.10 Taken on its own, BM 113927 only provides us with a slightly peculiar genealogy and does not make it certain that Nabû-gāmil’s fellow witness, Nabû-šuma-iddin, was Nabû-gāmil’s son. Fortunately, colophons found on three tablets lend additional support to the proposal that Nabû-gāmil was a member of the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group by demonstrating that he was the father of Nabû-šumaiddin and that Nabû-šuma-iddin also claimed to be a member of the same kin group. The presence of Nabû-gāmil and Nabûšuma-iddin in a witness list with the šakkanakku of Ur, Sîn-balāssuiqbi, is indicative of the social standing they held. In fact, this high social standing may explain why Nabû-šuma-iddin was charged with copying a building inscription of king Amar-Suen BM 113927:34.41. Pohl, AnOr 9 13:31 = San Nicolò, BR 8/7, No. 15 (VAT 8449), a tablet from Uruk possibly dating to 647, may present a similar case. Mušallimu A-šú šá ābi -kāri was a witness in a tablet in which the writing A-šú šá was used for the genealogies of the principals and all other witnesses. None of the other men named in the texts had patronyms that could be identified as family names, but ābi -kāri (wr. mLÚ.GÍR.LÁ-ka-a-ru) is attested elsewhere as a family name (Tallqvist, NBN, 160). 9

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that Sîn-balāssu-iqbi’s workmen turned up while renovating the ziggurat terrace at Ur. In the colophon that accompanies the copy, Nabû-šuma-iddin identified himself as descendant (DUMU) of Iddin-Papsukkal and lamentation priest (kalû) of Sîn.11 Though a two-tier genealogy is used, the sign DUMU without the appended -šú šá more clearly marks Nabû-šuma-iddin’s affiliation with the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group. Consequently, the equation of Nabûšuma-iddin descendant of Iddin-Papsukkal with Nabû-šuma-iddin son of Nabû-gāmil confirms that Nabû-gāmil was a descendant of Iddin-Papsukkal in spite of the manner in which the scribe expressed his affiliation in BM 113927. Furthermore, Nabû-šuma-iddin’s title, lamentation priest of Sîn, clearly situates him as a member of the priesthood at Ur. In addition to the colophon from Ur, two tablets excavated in the Eanna at Uruk also provide insight into Nabû-gāmil and Nabûšuma-iddin’s careers while strengthening the argument that they were father and son.12 The first is a liver-omen list with a colophon featuring the names Nabû-šuma-iddin and Nabû-gāmil. The colophon is damaged, but it indicates that the tablet is a copy from Borsippa made from an original. Nabû-šuma-iddin was the copyist, and the tablet may have come from the house of Nabû-gāmil. Unfortunately, a break on the text obscures both men’s patronyms or family names; however, the second names in their genealogies begin with the signs mSUM.⌜NA⌉-[. . .] and m⌜SUM⌉.[. . .] respectively making a restoration of Iddin-Papsukkal very likely.13 The Iddin-Papsukkal kin group had a strong association with the city of Borsippa,14 and although there is no evidence that Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin’s contemporaries from the kin group filled

UET 1 172 and RIMB 2, B.6.32.2016. The tablets were discovered amongst a collection of literary and scholarly compositions in the northeast corner of the Eanna. For more on their archaeological context see LKU p. 1; UVB 1 16, 20, and plates 9-10; and O. Pedersén, Archives and Libraries in the Ancient Near East, 1500-300 B.C. (Bethesda: CDL Press, 1998), 205-209. 13 LKU 133 r. 9-11 and Hunger, Kolophone, 36 no. 75 (VAT 14593). The broken signs prior to the name Nabû-gāmil could be reconstructed as ⌜ina É⌉. 14 I am aware of nineteen early Neo-Babylonian legal or economic tablets that mention men with the family name Iddin-Papsukkal: twelve of these were dated at Borsippa, three were dated at Dilbat, two were dated at Babylon, and one was dated at Uruk. A total of thirty members of the kin group appear in the twelve tablets dated at Borsippa while only single individuals with the family name appear in the tablets dated at other cities. 11 12

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priestly offices at Borsippa,15 two men from the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group did hold priestly titles there a century earlier.16 The second colophon appears on a tablet that shares its archaeological provenance with the omen tablet. It contains a ritual text that was copied by a man named Nabû-šuma-iddin. Again a break in the tablet has destroyed the patronym,17 but the first line of the colophon has been restored on the basis of parallels to read nēpeši [ša qāt kalê] (ritual [of the hand of the kalû]).18 Admittedly the evidence for equating the Nabû-šuma-iddin from Ur with the copyist of the ritual tablet is tenuous but it should be noted that the title kalû also was used by Nabû-šuma-iddin in the Ur colophon. The proposal here is that: (1) the same Nabû-šuma-iddin is named in both colophons from Uruk and is identical to the man named Nabû-šuma-iddin in the witness list and colophon from Ur; and (2) his father, Nabû-gāmil, is mentioned in the witness list from Ur and the liver-omen colophon from Uruk. Three points need to be addressed if this interpretation is to be accepted: the tablets excavated at Uruk lack internal evidence with which to date them, the names Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin are not unique, and two of the tablets were found at Ur while two were found at Uruk. With regard to the date of the omen list and the ritual text, dated tablets from the same archeological context range from the reign of Nabopolassar to that of Darius I,19 a time frame that begins just over three decades after Sîn-balāssu-iqbi served as governor of Ur.20 As scholarly texts, the functional lives of both tablets could have extended into this period if they had been copied in the midseventh century. 15 Members of the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group do not figure in Grant Frame’s study of prominent families at Borsippa. “The ‘First Families’ of Borsippa during the Early Neo-Babylonian Period, JCS 36 (1984): 67-80. 16 According to VAS 1 36, a kudurru that records the induction of an ērib-bīti priest at Borsippa in the eighth year of Nabû-šuma-iškun (mid-eighth century B.C.), two men from the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group had the title ērib bīti Nanaya (VAS 1 36 iii 22-24) and the scribe had the titles šangû Sutīti, kalû Nabû, and upšar Ezida (VAS 1 36 iv 7-10). 17 LKU 48 r. 10’ and Hunger, Kolophone, 36 no. 76 (VAT 14521). 18 Falkenstein proposed such a restoration in his own transliteration of the tablet (LKU p. 16), though Hunger chose to omit it (Kolophone, 36 no. 76:3). Maul followed Falkenstein’s transliteration and included justification for the restoration by citing a ritual text published by Moshe Elat in “Mesopotamische Kriegsrituale,” BiOr 39 (1982): 11-21 (Maul, Erša unga, 40-42). 19 LKU p. 1. 20 Frame, Babylonia, 278.


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The names Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin were not uncommon in Babylonia (a survey of Tallqvist NBN indicates that the name Nabû-šuma-iddin was particularly popular).21 There are no other attestations of men named Nabû-gāmil at Ur during the early Neo-Babylonian period; but at Uruk, three men with that name were active in the mid-seventh century, and there were two men who had fathers named Nabû-gāmil. The only other man active at Ur with the name Nabû-šuma-iddin appears in a tablet dated c. 700; however, four men with that name were active at Uruk: the šatammu of the Eanna who is attested without patronym in 651, a witness to a house purchase in 639, and two men who were active in the 620s.22 In spite of the presence of these contemporaries, there are four factors that reinforce the likelihood that BM 113927 and the colophons discussed above all refer to the same men: first, Nabûgāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin are named together in the will from Ur and the liver-omen text from Uruk; second, the contents of the will from Ur and the colophons on the Amar-Suen inscription and the omen list all lend support to the contention that Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin were members of the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group; third, the ritual text is of the same archeological provenience as the liver-omen list and seems to record a rite associated with the kalû, the title claimed by Nabû-šuma-iddin in the Ur colophon; and fourth, all three colophons are evidence of Nabû-šuma-iddin’s scribal expertise. Though his flawed copy of the Sumerian in the Amar-Suen inscription does not evince mastery of that language,23 the three tablets suggest that his capabilities exceeded the formulaic phraseology of legal documents. Regarding the division of these four tablets between Uruk and Ur, the evidence suggests that Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin had close ties to Ur: BM 113927 places both men at Ur in 658; Nabû-šuma-iddin’s title kalû of Sîn aligns him with Ur’s patron deity; and Nabû-šuma-iddin copied the Amar-Suen inscription there. However, Uruk’s proximity to Ur would have enabled Nabû-gāmil 21 Tallqvist lists seven active individuals with the name Nabû-gāmil and six individuals who were sons of a man named Nabû-gāmil. The name Nabû-šumaiddin was more common: Tallqvist lists fifty-six individuals named Nabû-šumaiddin and fifty-one individuals claiming the name as a patronym (Tallqvist, NBN, 131, 144-145). 22 Just thirteen tablets dated at Ur survive from this period and approximately seventy dated at Uruk survive. 23 It is also possible that Nabû-šuma-iddin made his copy from a damaged original (RIMB 2, p. 246).

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and Nabû-šuma-iddin to frequent both cities making it possible that Nabû-šuma-iddin or one of his descendants brought the omen list and ritual text to Uruk. Any sort of movement between Uruk and Ur by temple personnel would be remarkable but not impossible; there is very little evidence of economic links between institutions at two cities in texts from the Eanna temple at Uruk.24 The Iddin-Papsukkal Kin Group and the Eanna Temple Given such a scenario, it could be that members of the IddinPapsukkal kin group at Uruk were descended from Nabû-gāmil. In his prosopography of the Eanna in the sixth century, Hans Martin Kümmel identified two scribal families from the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group that can be traced back to men named Šumā and illā, both of whom were only attested as patronyms in the tablets collected by Kümmel.25 A man named Šumā son of Nabû-šuma-iddin from the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group was active at Uruk and Borsippa in the late seventh and early sixth centuries.26 Could this man link Nabû-šuma-iddin at Ur with the branch of the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group descended from Šumā in the Eanna? In 611, Šumā sold a cultivated field on the royal canal to the Eanna, the institution that owned a neighboring field.27 He also witnessed a sale of an empty lot in Uruk between 616 and 605.28 There is little evidence suggesting that Šumā was a part of the administration of the Eanna; rather, he appears to have used connections in Borsippa 24 M. Kozuh as alerted me to YOS 3 32, a letter to the šatammu at Uruk that refers to Ur. 25 Kümmel, Familie Beruf und Amt im spätbabylonischen Uruk: prosopographische Untersuchungen zu Berufsgrupen des 6. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. in Uruk, ADOG 20 (Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag, 1979), 131. For additional published tablets that mention members of Šumā’s lineage see AUWE 11 229; YOS 17 26, 32, 33, 351, and 323; and YOS 19 65. 26 The family may have already had a presence in Uruk in 666 if it is possible that Bēl-a a-iddin, who appears in Weidner, AfO 16 (1952-53):43-44 and Anhang 1:42 (BM 130827), was the son of the Nabû-gāmil known to have been a member of the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group. The same man may also have been at Borsippa in 650 to witness the sale of an orchard in Uruk (BM 118977:41). 27 BIN 1 130 and San Nicolò, BR 8/7, No. 31 (NBC 1193). 28 OIP 122 9:39 (A 3517). The regnal year is lost but the tablet is dated to the reign of Nabopolassar and the first two witnesses are Marduk-šuma-u ur, the šākin ēmi of Uruk, and Nabû-nādin-šumi, the šatammu of the Eanna. According to Kümmel, the earliest Nabû-nādin-šumi could have held the title šatammu was IV-29-616 (ibid., 142), and Nabopolassar’s reign ended in 605.


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during his career at Uruk. In a tablet dated at Borsippa in 594, Šamaš-šuma-ukīn of the Ma û kin group put up a house in Uruk as a pledge for silver that Šumā had paid out for the benefit of men in Uruk.29 In 592, Šumā witnessed a tablet at Borsippa that relates how Mušēzib-Marduk, son of Nabû-kēšir and descendant of Iddin-Papsukkal, assumed Šamaš-šuma-ukīn’s debt to Šumā by paying silver to the governor of Uruk.30 If Šumā son of Nabû-šuma-iddin was the progenitor of one branch of the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group outlined by Kümmel, then his son, Balā u, may mark the branch’s entrance into the Eanna. Balā u’s career extended from 595 to 549.31 He held baker’s prebends in the Eanna, was involved in cultic functions,32 and acted as an agent for the Eanna outside of Uruk, having witnessed a tablet at Babylon concerning sheep withheld from the Lady-of-Uruk.33 He also was the second of sixteen men addressed in a document that was composed by Nabû-šarra-u ur, the ša rēš šarri of Nabonidus, inquiring about cultic property in the Eanna.34 Balā u is not attested as a scribe, but a grandson and a great-grandson acted in that capacity for the temple administration.35 In this reconstruction, Šumā is the lynchpin joining members of the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group known to have been present at Ur with a branch of the kin group at Uruk. The connection is possible chronologically: 42-53 years separate BM 113927, which was dated in 658, from the first attestation of Šumā. If they were father and son, Nabû-šuma-iddin must have been fairly young in 658, and Šumā must have achieved a more advanced age by the end of the seventh century. Nabû-šuma-iddin and his father, Nabûgāmil, witnessed the will together so it is reasonable to suggest that Nabû-šuma-iddin was a young man at that time. Likewise, the last tablets detailing Šumā’s activities overlap with the earliest attestations YOS 17 336 (YBC 4057). YOS 17 357 (YBC 3854). 31 The first attestation of Balā u was dated on XI-2-595 (YOS 17 26:10-11 [YBC 3701]), and the last was dated on X-[. . .]-549 (YOS 6 93:5 [YBC 7546]). 32 In YBC 3498, Balā u appears to be responsible for a receipt recording barley given as maššartu (YOS 6 32:67); and YBC 7546 demonstrates that he held a baker’s prebend, as he too is a recipient of maššartu (YOS 6 93:5). An allusion to Balā u’s cultic functions appears in YBC 9518, in which he is entrusted with bronze vessels for use in the divine meal (YOS 17 351:5). 33 YOS 17 32:13 (YBC 4103). 34 YOS 6 71:3 and 72:[3] (YBC 4158 and YBC 4163). 35 Kümmel, Familie, 110 and 120. 29 30

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john p. nielsen Proposed Family Tree of Nabû-gāmil of the Iddin-Papsukkal Kin Group Iddin-Papsukkal Nabû-gāmil Nabû-šuma-iddin

=(?)

Nabû-šuma-iddin

Šumā =(?) Šumā36 Balā u Nūrea Lâbā i-(Marduk)

Nabû-mušētiq-uddê (?)

Anu-zēra-šubši

Šamaš-bēl-kali

of his putative son, Balā u, in the 590s. It is therefore conceivable that Šumā was born in the 650s and had an adult son in 595. The following genealogy links Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin with a lineage from the Iddin-Papsukkal active at Uruk.36 Conclusion Though this reconstruction is speculative and cannot be proven correct, there are features that recommend it: the individuals identified with this branch shared the same family name, were active in southern Babylonia, and had patronyms aligning them in an acceptable chronological order. Furthermore, several members of this branch were scribes. The combination of scribal training and kin-group ties would have facilitated the careers of individuals from this branch at Ur and Uruk and aided their entrance into the more important circles in those cities. Nabû-šuma-iddin held a religious title at Ur and may have been in the service of Ur’s governor; two generations later his putative grandson, Balā u, appears to have been an important individual in the Eanna at Uruk. If it were possible to trace this branch further back, it seems likely that its roots were at Borsippa. During the early Neo-Babylonian period, a 36

The genealogy as it descends from Šumā is based on Kümmel, Familie, 131.


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preponderance of individuals with the family name Iddin-Papsukkal are attested at Borsippa; there are indications that this branch, as it has been reconstructed, had ties to that northern city: the colophon on the omen tablet labels it as a copy from Borsippa, and Šumā interacted with descendants of Iddin-Papsukkal at Borsippa. Less clear are the motivations for these proposed moves. There were no environmental collapses or foreign invaders that forced Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin to relocate, so the motivation must have been positive. Oppenheim’s proposal that scholar-scribes enjoyed remarkable freedom of movement and broad opportunities due to greater economic prosperity in the first millennium seems particularly apt here.37 We may speculate that Nabû-gāmil, Nabûšuma-iddin, or their immediate forebears came south from Borsippa drawn by Ur’s florescence under Sîn-balāssu-iqbi, but we do not know if a lack of opportunity at Borsippa compelled them to leave or if a lack of expertise among the citizens of Ur created an opening for them. Did Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin’s knowledge of ritual, extispicy, or Sumerian fill a need at Ur?38 Such a scenario would reflect on the state of operations at Ur’s temples prior to Sîn-balāssu-iqbi’s projects, yet the paucity of family names among the attested residents of Ur suggests that there was not an influx of northerners in the city, indicating that the local population was sufficient to staff the temples. Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin may have filled a niche at Ur or they may have been able to exploit connections of which we are not aware. We can state that Nabûgāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin present another example of educated men gaining entry into a temple with the help of their expertise. We have the witness list in BM 113927 to thank for providing us with evidence linking the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group at Borsippa, Ur, and Uruk thus furthering our understanding of the intersection between temples, specialized knowledge, and the scribal families that preserved and benefited from this knowledge. Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin’s continued use of their family name at Ur and the apparent scribal unfamiliarity with conventions for denoting such names in BM 113927 is evidence that the diffusion of family 37 A. Leo Oppenheim, “The Position of the Intellectual in Mesopotamian Society,” Daedalus 104, no. 2 (1975): 41-44. 38 Several Sumerian building inscriptions commemorating Sîn-balāssu-iqbi’s projects were excavated at Ur. We do not know who composed them, but as the copyist of the Amar-Suen inscription, Nabû-šuma-iddin can be put forward as a candidate.

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names at various Babylonian cities was the result of individual movements of kin-group members between cities. The simultaneous use of family names at different Babylonian cities therefore cannot be used as evidence for the fictive, non-agnatic nature of kin groups such as the Iddin-Papsukkal kin group.39 Furthermore, the fact that Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šuma-iddin were father and son suggests that the transmission of scribal learning occurred, in part, within the family. Finally, the presence of scholarly texts at Uruk with colophons likely naming Nabû-gāmil and Nabû-šumaiddin point to cultural and intellectual ties between Mesopotamia’s religious institutions that do not match the pattern of economic links between temples that have been observed.

39 As M. Van De Mieroop argues in The Ancient Mesopotamian City, rev. ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 107-109.

AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD: COSMOLOGICAL CONCEPTIONS OF THE EASTERN HORIZON IN MESOPOTAMIA* CHRISTOPHER WOODS Chicago It was on the banks of the Hyphasis that Alexander’s march through Asia finally came to a halt. This was the furthest extent of his conquests, the terminal point of his campaign, the place where later would stand a brass column bearing the inscription ΑΛΕΞΑΝΡΟΣ ΕΝΤΑϒΘΑ ΕΣΤΗ “Alexander stayed his steps at this point.”1 He would not cross that river. There would be no bridgehead on the * This paper has its genesis in two earlier studies that are also concerned with the Sun-god: “On the Euphrates,” ZA 95 (2005) 7-45; “The Sun-God Tablet of Nabû-apla-iddina Revisited”, JCS 56 (2004) 23-103. I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Monica Crews, John Dillery, Jennie Myers, Martha Roth, Piotr Steinkeller, Theo van den Hout, and Irene Winter for their insights, suggestions, and assistance. I also thank P. Steinkeller for making available to me an early draft of his “Of Stars and Men: The Conceptual and Mythological Setup of Babylonian Extispicy”, in Biblical and Oriental Studies in Memory of W. L. Moran (Biblica et Orientalia 48), ed. A. Gianto (Rome 2005) 11-47—this seminal article influenced my thinking on this topic. Finally, I would like to acknowledge the dissertation of J. Polonsky (“The Rise of the Sun God and the Determination of Destiny in Ancient Mesopotamia” [University of Pennsylvania, Ph.D. 2002]), which deals with much of the same evidence, but places it within a different conceptual framework (see also now J. Polonsky, “The Mesopotamian Conceptualization of Birth and the Determination of Destiny at Sunrise,” in If a Man Builds a Joyful House: Assyriological Studies in Honor of Erle Verdun Leichty, ed. A. K. Guinan, et al. [Leiden/Boston 2006] 297-311). Although her exhaustive study became known to me only after the initial drafts of this paper were written, I was able to incorporate a number of important citations from her work which have benefitted the present version. Portions of this paper were presented at the 50th meeting of the Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale (Skukuza, South Africa August 2nd, 2004). Citations of Sumerian sources often follow The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/); those of the Epic of Gilgameš follow A. R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts, 2 vols. (Oxford 2003). The abbreviations used are those of The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago and/or The Sumerian Dictionary of the University of Pennsylvania Museum. 1 As claimed by Philostratus, following the translation of F. C. Conybeare, Philostratus I: The Life of Apollonius of Tyana (Loeb Classical Library 16; Cambridge, MA/London 1912) 228-229 (II.43); on the reliability of Philostratus in this regard, © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 JANER 9.2 Also available online – brill.nl/jane DOI: 10.1163/156921109X12520501747912

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far bank. Eight years had passed since crossing the Hellespont, but here, on the Indian frontier, his men reached the very limits of human endurance and refused to go on.2 And so Alexander was forced to make his ill-fated return to Babylon. He was not destined to reach the uncharted lands that lay beyond, lands that lay at the edge of the map, upon whose shores, classical geographers were sure, the waters of the cosmic river Ocean gently lapped. So astounding was Alexander’s halt that it reshaped the classical imagination. India had long been held to lie at the end of the earth, a land of marvels where reality gives way to fantasy and where empirical and mythical geography blur. But with Alexander’s campaign these vague notions took a more definite form with the Hyphasis becoming something of a ne plus ultra, a perimeter of the commonplace and the mortal beyond which lay the arcane and the divine. In the legendary tradition that inevitably grew from his conquests, Alexander’s failure to cross the Hyphasis came to symbolize a failed quest for immortality and heavenly wisdom—an allegory of man’s inability to transcend the limits of the human condition.3 The eastern frontier is where, in the Greek Alexander Romance,4 the Macedonian army becomes hopelessly lost in the Land of Darkness, to be rescued not by youthful bravery, but by the wisdom of a solitary old man; where the elusive waters of the Spring of Immortality flow (II.39); where Alexander learns of his untimely death at the oracle of Apollo in the City of the Sun (II.44); and where dwell the Naked Philosophers—Brahmins living lives of primitive simplicity, dedicated to the pursuit of wisdom—with whom Alexander engages in a losing battle not of arms, but of wits (III.5-6). This is a tale of the darkness of ignorance giving way to the enlightenment of knowledge, of immortality and divinely inspired wisdom that is only to be found beyond the bounds of the known world.5

note the comments of P. Green, Alexander of Macedon 356-323 B.C.: A Historical Biography (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London 21992) 411. 2 Green, Alexander of Macedon 409-410. 3 On the rise of the Alexander romantic tradition, see J. S. Romm, Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought: Geography, Exploration, and Fiction (Princeton 1992) 109-120. 4 Citations following R. Stoneman, The Greek Alexander Romance (London 1991). 5 And it is a tale that would be repeated and embellished by Philostratus in his Life of Apollonius of Tyana. The hero, a latter-day Alexander in the form of a mystic, succeeds in crossing that symbolic terminus, the Hyphasis, his experiences with the wonders of the east culminating in his interview with an Indian

at the edge of the world

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The Alexander tradition recasts history with a fantasy that is invariably conjured up by thoughts of the ends of the earth. Indeed, no region of the cosmos plays upon the imagination like the horizon; seemingly approachable, but ever distant, it is the great divide between day and night, between what is known and what is unknown. It is a liminal space that for many cultures, as for the Greeks, is removed from the laws that govern the natural world, not subject to the constraints of space and time, a region populated by fantastic creatures that can only exist beyond the map. In Egypt this is the realm of Aker, guardian of the mountains of sunrise and sunset, the traditional points of access to the Netherworld. As the manifestation of the polarity inherent to the horizon, Aker is commonly depicted as two opposing lions or sphinxes, who, facing west and east, bear the respective names Sef and Tuau—‘yesterday’ and ‘today’—and look simultaneously to the past and to the future.6 As the personification of the Netherworld, more broadly, Aker was naturally associated with death, but also, in accord with his twin nature, with the Netherworld’s regenerative aspects, being closely connected to the Sun-god’s nightly journey and rebirth at dawn.7 So, too, in Mesopotamia the edges of the earth are shrouded in myth and it is the Sun-god who is master of this domain by virtue of his daily journey: “To the distant stretches that are not known and for uncounted leagues, Šamaš, you work ceaselessly going by day and returning by night.”8 The Mesopotamian horizon—ki dUtu è(-a) = ašar īt dŠamši “place of the rising Sun(-god)”9—is a region with its philosopher-king, Iarchas. (Romm, Edges of the Earth 116-120; see also G. Anderson, Philostratus: Biography and Belles Lettres in the Third Century A.D. [London/Sydney/ Dover, NH 1986]). 6 “Aker”, in Lexikon der Ägyptologie, vol. 1 (Weisbaden 1975) 114-115. 7 The primary sources for Aker are the New Kingdom Books of the Netherworld— the Amduat, the Book of Caverns and the Book of Earth (Book of Aker), see E. Hornung, Tal der Könige (Zurich/Munich 1982); idem, Altägyptische Jenseitbücher (Darmstadt 1997). 8 ⌈a⌉-na šid-di šá la i-di ni-su-ti u bi-ri la ma-n[u-ti ] dŠamaš dal-pa-ta šá ur-ra tal-li-ka u mu-šá ta-sa -r[a] (BWL 128: 43-44). 9 E.g., KAR 46: 15-16. As will be clear from the evidence presented below, the expression also occurs with kur/šadû, i.e., “mountain of sunrise/sunset.” On the Sumerian genitival compound as well as writings without the divine determinative, see J. Polonsky, “ki-dutu-è-a: Where Destiny is Determined”, Landscapes: Territories, Frontiers and Horizons in the Ancient Near East, Part III: Landscape in Ideology, Religion, Literature and Art (HANE Monographs III/3, CRAI 44; Padova 2000) 90 nn. 8-9, with previous literature.

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own iconography and imagery, with a cosmography that straddles reality and myth. As in the Egyptian conception, it is the gateway to the Netherworld, the womb of the future, the point where the Sun-god emerges into the heavens bringing to fruition the coming day. It is at daybreak that fates are determined and judgments are decided on the horizon. This is the moment of manifestation—[ìne]-éš dUtu è-a ur5!(GÌRI) hé-en-na-nam “Now, as the Sun rises, it is indeed so,” to quote a popular Sumerian turn of phrase.10 And, like its Greek counterpart—with which it has so much in common and with which comparisons are inevitable—the Mesopotamian horizon is intimately bound up with heavenly wisdom, immortality, and creation, from cosmogony to birth. Of Animals, Trees, and Insects: The Iconography of the Eastern Horizon The path of the sun defines the limits of the Mesopotamian world, d Utu è-ta dUtu šú-a-šè/ištu īt dŠamši adi ereb dŠamši “from sunrise to sunset.”11 In the cosmological conception, in its broadest terms, the Sun-god, Utu-Šamaš, scales the eastern mountains in his daily ascent and emerges through the gates of heaven in a thunderous event that ushers in a new day. Cosmography clearly mimics geography, bound as Mesopotamia is to the east and southeast by the southern course of the Zagros. And as the Taurus and Amanus provide a northwestern perimeter, the mountain of sunrise has a cosmic counterpart to the west, the mountain of sunset.12 But these 10 A Mythic Narrative about Inana 45; this is a unique morphological variant of an expression usually written dUtu ud-dè(-e)-a (see Cooper Curse of Agade 257 ad 272; B. Brown and G. Zólyomi, Iraq 63 [2001] 151 and nn. 17-18). 11 SBH 47: 19-20. Other idioms referring to the horizon include zag-an-na (an-zag [ pā šamê, šaplan šamê ]) ‘edge/lower parts of heaven’, zag-ki(-a) ‘border of earth’, an-šár ‘entirety of heaven’, ki-šár ‘entirety of earth’, an-úr (išid šamê) ‘foundation of heaven’, as well as kippat mātāti ‘circle of the lands’, kippat er eti ‘circle of earth’, kippat tubuqāt erbetti ‘circle of the four corners’, kippat šār erbetti ‘circle of the four (regions)’—see W. Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography (MC 8; Winona Lake, IN 1998) 234-236, 330-334. 12 Occassionally, the horizon is defined in terms of the mountains of sunrise and sunset, e.g., sig-šè igi mu-íl an-ùn-na kur dUtu è-ke4-ne igi bí-du8 nim-šè igi mu-íl an-ùn-na kur dUtu šú-ke4-ne igi bí-du8 “(Šukaletuda) looked down(river [i.e., east]) and saw the heavens of the land where the sun rises. He looked up(river [i.e., west]) and saw the heavens of the land where the sun sets” (Inana and Šukaletuda 149-150; also 101-102, 271-272; see Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 249); d Utu è-a-ta kur dUtu šú-a-šè “from the mountain of sunrise to the mountain of


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are symbolic, mythical locations as sunrise and sunset vary by nearly 56º during the course of the year. From the perspective of southern Mesopotamia, the sun rises over the central Zagros at the summer solstice, migrating south until it rises over the Persian Gulf at the winter solstice.13 Little is known of the mountain of sunset. Udughul identifies the Dark Mountain (hur-sag/kur gi6-ga), the mountain of sunset, as the remote birthplace of seven demons who were subsequently reared on the Bright Mountain (hur-sag/kur babbar-ra), the mountain of sunrise.14 Elsewhere, there is mention of a Mt. Buduhudug that carries the epithet nēreb dŠamaš dAya “the entrance of Šamaš to Aya,”15 and so too must be a name for the mountain of sunset since it is upon his return to the Netherworld that the Sun-god is reunited each night with his spouse.16 As in other cultures, there is a natural association in Mesopotamia between the west, the sun’s failing light, and death. Nergal and Ereškigal are master and mistress of the realm of the setting sun, bearing the respective epithets lugal ud šú and nin ki ud šu4.17 Incantations that compel ghosts to return to the Netherworld do so by commanding them to travel west, to the place of sunset,18 while figurines of ghosts ritually expelled from homes were buried sunset”—referring to the extent of Enlil’s domain (CT 42, 39 [85204] 26; ed. Cohen Lamentations 339-341). 13 See B. Alster, “Dilmun, Bahrain, and the Alleged Paradise in Sumerian Myth and Literature”, in: D. T. Potts, Dilmun: New Studies in the Archaelogy and Early History of Bahrain (BBVO 2; Berlin 1983) 45. 14 von Weiher Uruk 1 ii 2-5, 16-19; CT 16 44: 84-87, 98-101—see M. J. Geller, Evil Demons: Canonical Utukkū Lemnūtu Incantations (SAACT 5, Helsinki 2007) 167: 46-47; cf. KAR 24: 5-7—see George, Gilgamesh 493 n. 169, with previous literature. For further attestations of ki (d)Utu-šú, see Polonsky, “Rise of the Sun God” 275-276 n. 824. 15 MSL 11, 23: 5//von Weiher Uruk 114 i 5 (Hh.)—see George, Gilgamesh 863 ad 38-39, for discussion, previous literature, and duplicates. Further, note the equation hur-sag dUtu-šú-a-šè : ana šadî ereb dŠamši (Udughul IV 61)—cited in ibid. 864. 16 See M.-J. Seux, Hymnes et prières aux dieux de babylonie et d’assyrie (Paris 1976) 215-216; W. Heimpel, “The Sun at Night and the Doors of Heaven in Babylonian Texts”, JCS 38 (1986) 129. 17 Nergal: Temple Hymns 44: 464 (cf. dLugal sur7(KI.GAG) šú-a “lord who descends into the pit” [CT 25, 35 rev. 10; 36 rev. 16; 37: 12—see Tallqvist Götterepitheta 355; Temple Hymns 136]); Ereškigal: Steible NBW 2, 343: 2; 344: 2—šu4 is syllabic for šú. 18 E.g., ana ereb dŠamši lillik ana dBidu Ì.DU8.GAL ša er etim lū paqid “May he (i.e., the ghost) go to where the sun sets, may he be placed in the charge of Bidu, the chief-gatekeeper of the Netherworld” ( J. A. Scurlock, “KAR 267//BMS 53: A Ghostly Light on bīt rimki?”, JAOS 108 [1988] 206: 18-20; see also George, Gilgamesh 500 n. 192).

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at sunset, often facing west.19 And, of course, the Sun-god’s descent beyond the western horizon is intimately connected with the judging of the dead in the Netherworld at night.20 But it was the more auspicious eastern horizon with its promise of a new day that captivated the Mesopotamian imagination, a preoccupation that is reflected in the choice of the Sun-god’s spouse, Aya-Šerida—Dawn. Just before sunrise, gatekeepers21 thrust open the gates to the heavens in anticipation of the Sun-god’s ascent. In text, the sun’s youth at dawn is epitomized by the epithet šul d Utu “young man Utu” and his daily ascent into the azure heavens is portrayed as a series of images in lapis lazuli: ascending a lapis stairway, bearing a lapis staff, sitting upon a lapis dais, or donning a lapis beard that, in one instance, is described as “dewy,”22 a particularly striking image of dawn. These are the symbols of the night sky just prior to daybreak, fixed epithets not unlike Homer’s “Rosy-fingered dawn,” “Dawn the saffron-robed” and, notably, the purple steeds of Ushas, Dawn, in the Rig Veda.23 In one of the most recognizable scenes from the glyptic of the Sargonic period, Šamaš 19 J. A. Scurlock, “K 164 (BA 2, P. 635): New Light on the Mourning Rites for Dumuzi?”, RA 86 (1992) 64, who further points out that apotropaic figurines, on the other hand, faced east and were consecrated at sunrise; discussed by M. Huxley, “The gates and guardians in Sennacherib’s addition to the temple of Assur”, Iraq 62 (2000) 110-111 and n. 6. 20 See Heimpel, JCS 38, 148. 21 Described as “(the two) guards of heaven and the Netherworld” in the Elevation of Ištar: [dimmer min-na]-bi en-nu-un an-ki-a giš ig-an-na gál-la-ar d Nanna dUtu-ra gi6gi ud-da šu-ta-ta an-ni-ši-íb-si : ana DINGIR.MEŠ ki-lal-la-an ma-a - ar AN-e u KI-tim pe-tu-ú da-lat dA-nu ana d30 u dUTU u4-mu u mu-ši ma-alma-liš ba-šim-ma “For the two gods, the guards of heaven and the Netherworld, the ones who open the gates of An, for Sin and Šamaš, the day and night are divided equally” (TCL 6, 51 rev. 1-4; ed. B. Hruška, ArOr 37 [1969] 473-522); cf. the two protomes that manipulate the solar disk on the Nabû-apla-iddina tablet (BBSt., pl. 98 [no. 36]). 22 su6-na4za-gìn-duru5-e lá (Temple Hymns 27: 173; cf. 87 ad 173). References to simmilat uqnîm ‘lapis staircase’, šibirri uqnîm ‘lapis scepter’, barag-za-gìn-na ‘lapis dais’, and su6-na4za-gìn ‘lapis beard’ are collected and discussed by Polonsky, “Rise of the Sun God” 192-193, 196. 23 Note also the phrase an-za-gìn ‘lapis heavens’ discussed by Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 166-168, where the author further observes that Nisaba’s ‘Tablet of the Stars of Heaven’ (dub-mul-an) is made of lapis lazuli. Further, referring to the nether sky, note: dUtu an za-gìn-ta è-a “Utu, who comes forth from the lapis heavens” (Incantation to Utu 1; ed. B. Alster, ASJ 13 [1991] 37)—the cosmic identity between the Netherworld sky and the night sky is discussed below. On the metaphorical uses of lapis lazuli more generally, see I. J. Winter, “The Aesthetic Value of Lapis Lazuli in Mesopotamia”, in: Cornaline et pierres précieuses: la Méditerranée, de l’Antiquité à l’Islam (Paris 1999) 43-58.


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rises between the two peaks brandishing his distinctive šaššaru-saw. In some scenes lions atop the eaves serve as visual metaphors for this thunderous event,24 an image that is but one facet of a broader motif that contrasts the stillness and silent anticipation that night engenders with the bustle and clamor that announces a new day: “When dawn was breaking, when the horizon became bright, when the birds began to sing at the break of day, when Utu emerged from his cella . . .”25 In yet other seals, the setting of this scene is couched in the symbolic code of a subtler iconographic language. In figs. 1 and 2, two opposed recumbent bison replace the peaks of the mountain of sunrise. As the logogram for kusarikkum bears witness, i.e., GUD. DUMU.dUTU ‘Bison-Son-of-the-Sun-god’, bison, and with them the mythical bison-men, enjoy an intimate association with the Sun-god, being indigenous to the hilly flanks of the Zagros where the sun rises.26 Indeed, it is this aspect of the natural history of the east that accounts for the bellowing roar with which daybreak was associated, as well as the bovine epithets of the Sun-god that include gud, gud-alim, and am: ur-sag gud ha-šu-úr-ta è-a gù huš dé-dé-e šul dUtu gud silim-ma gub-ba ù-na silig gar-ra “hero, bull rising from (Mt.) Hašur, bellowing truculently, the youth Utu, the bull standing triumphantly, audaciously, majestically.”27 Of a different type is the visual gloss of location that appears in figs. 3 and 4—a E.g., R. M. Boehmer, Die Entwicklung der Glyptik während der Akkad-Zeit (UAVA 4; Berlin 1965) Abb. 409, 420. 25 ud zal-le-da an-úr zalag-ge-da buru5 ud zal-le šeg10 gi4-gi4-da dUtu agrun-ta è-a-ni . . . (Gilgameš, Enkidu, and the Netherworld 47-49; similarly, 91-93). Also note, among many other possible examples: ud-ba lugal-mu è-da-ni-ne an mu⌈un⌉-da-⌈dúb⌉-dúb ki mu-un-da-⌈sìg⌉-[sìg] “as my king (Utu) comes forth, the heavens tremble before him and the earth shakes before him” (Hymn to Utu B 13-14); en dumu dNin-gal-la . . . ud-gim kur-ra gù ⌈mu⌉-[ni]-ib-bé “the lord (Utu), the son of Ningal . . . thunders over the mountains like a storm (27-28); mušen-e á ud zal-le-da-ka ní un-gíd Anzumušen-dè dUtu è-a-ra šeg11 un-gi4 šeg11 gi4-bi-šè kur-ra Lu5-lu5-bi-a ki mu-un-ra-ra-ra “when at daybreak the bird stretches his wings, when at sunrise Anzu cries out, at his cry the earth in the Lulubi mountain quakes” (Lugalbanda 44-45). 26 Wiggermann Protective Spirits 174; on these two seals (figs. 1 and 2), see also P. Steinkeller, “Early Semitic Literature and Third Millennium Seals with Mythological Motifs”, Quaderni di Semitistica 18 (1992) 266, pl. 8 nos. 5 and 6. 27 Enki and the World Order 374-375. The association between the Sun-god and the bison is attested already in the ED Šamaš literary text, ARET 5, 6//IAS 326+342: na-mu-ra-tum dUTU GABA HUR.SAG i-gú-ul “the radiance of Šamaš ‘ate’ (his) wild bull(s) in front of the mountain” (following M. Krebernik, Quaderni di Semitistica 18, 76: C6.6). 24

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large horn atop a mountain that the Sun-god, or perhaps Moongod, scales. Quite likely, it belongs to the wild or Bezoar goat, Capra aegagrus, a species that is recognized for its majestic recurved horns and is also native to the slopes of the Zagros.28 Thus, like the bison, the Bezoar goat serves as a visual metonym for the mountainous eastern horizon, a claim that finds support in fig. 5 where two wild goats are depicted flanking a rising Sun-god. Flora also play a part in this iconography. A number of scenes of the rising Sun-god incorporate a particular conical tree (figs. 6-10). Its shape suggests a conifer of some type, although the occasional addition of an apex of three off-shoots may imply further, mythical influences (figs. 11-12). Likely, the tree of the seals is to be connected to the hašur/ ašurru-tree of text, a tree so closely associated with the rising Sun-god that it lends its name to the mountain of sunrise in literary sources: “Utu, as you emerge from the pure nether heavens, as you pass over Mt. Hašur . . . ”29 Identification of the hašur-tree is somewhat facilitated by the fact that few coniferous trees are indigenous to the central and southern stretches of the Zagros. One likely candidate, which accords well with the depictions in text and art, is the stately Indian Juniper, Juniperus polycarpos, a tall, upright-growing conifer that climbs high along the slopes of the Zagros.30 28 See already the comments of Boehmer, Die Entwicklung 73. On the identification with the Moon-god, see E. A. Braun-Holzinger, “Die Ikonographie des Mondgottes in der Glyptik des III. Jahrtausends v.Chr.”, ZA 83 (1993) 119-135. 29 d Utu an šag4 kug-ga-ta e-ti-a-zu-de3 kur ha-šur-ra-ta b[a]la-dè-zu-dè : dUTU ul-tu AN-e KUG.MEŠ ina a- e-ka šá-du-u a-š[u]r ina na-bal-kut-ti-ka (Akk.: “pure heavens;” T. J. Meek, BA 10/1, 66 and 68: 11-14; ed. ibid., p. 1—discussed by Heimpel, JCS 38, 143; George, Gilgamesh 864). Regarding Sum. an šag4, see the discussion of šag4-an-na below. Further, note: dUtu ha-šu-úr-ta ⌈è⌉-[àm] “(Ninurta) like Utu who came forth from the (Mt.) ašur . . .” (Ninurta A, Segment A 13); gud gišeren duru5 nag-a ha-[šu]-úr-⌈ra peš⌉-a “(Utu) bull who drinks among the dewy eren-trees, which grow on (Mt.) Hašur” (Utu Hymn B 10); šul dUtu en kur! giš ha-šu-úr-ra “Youth, Utu, lord of Mt. ašur” (VAS 2, 73: 12); see also Enki and the World Order 374-375 (quoted above) and Lugalbanda and the Mountain Cave 228-229 (quoted n. 123). 30 Note the diverging definitions of the CAD sub ašurru ‘(a kind of cedar)’ and AHw. sub ašūrum, ašurru ‘eine Zypressenart’. According to M. Zohary, Juniperus polycarpos grows to a height of 20 m. and climbs to an altitude of 2,700 m. (Geobotanical Foundations of the Middle East, 2 vols. [Stuttgart/Amsterdam 1973] 351; 352 fig. 141 a [distribution]; 585 fig. 251 [photo]). J. Hansman, “Gilgamesh, Humbaba and the Land of the Erin-Trees”, Iraq 38 (1976) 29 refers to this tree as Juniperus excelsa, the so-called Greek juniper, a tree so closely related to Juniperus polycarpos that some botanists consider the two identical (Zohary, Geobotanical


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This same tree, Juniperus polycarpos, has been identified by Klein and Abraham as the referent of the Zagros-growing gišeren in Gilgameš and Huwawa.31 Indeed, in addition to the designation kur hašur, the mountain of sunrise is also, although less frequently, referred to as kur (šim) gišeren(-na) “mountain of (fragrant) erentrees,” e.g., dUtu kur šim gišeren-na-ta è-a-ni “as Utu rises from the mountain of fragrant eren-trees.”32 But, as has long been recognized, cedars, the generally accepted identification of gišeren, do not grow on the southern stretch of the Zagros, a problem that arises most frequently in the context of reconciling Gilgameš’s eastward journey to the eren-mountains in Gilgameš and Huwawa with his less problematic travels to the Lebanese erēnu-forest in the later Akkadian epic.33 A number of solutions have been proposed for this problem of historical geography, including Bottéro’s understanding of eren as, in origin, a generic term for any resinous or coniferous tree.34 If this is the case, there may have been no rigorous distinction, at least in early texts, between the broad designation eren and the narrower term hašur, a term that, presumably, referred particularly to those conifers that grow on the slopes of the southern Zagros, i.e., Juniperos polycarpos. With Mesopotamian classifications often being based on vague semantic associations without unique correspondences between object and label, it is quite conceivable that the two terms were used interchangeably to refer to the same tree.35 Having invoked Gilgameš, we cannot overlook that most famous of encounters to take place at the ends of the earth: upon approaching Foundations 351); M. B. Rowton, “The Woodlands of Ancient Western Asia”, JNES 26 (1967) 268 identified the hašur-tree with the Mediterranean cypress, Cupressus sempervirens horizontalis, and Mt. Hašur with the Eastern Taurus. See also the comments of J. Klein and K. Abraham, “Problems of Geography in the Gilgameš Epics: The Journey to the ‘Cedar Forest’ ”, Landscapes: Territories, Frontiers and Horizons in the Ancient Near East, Part III: Landscape in Ideology, Religion, Literature and Art (HANE Monographs III/3, CRAI 44; Padova 2000) 66. 31 Klein and Abraham, CRAI 44, 66. 32 Inana E 27. For further attestations, see Heimpel, JCS 38, 144; Polonsky, “The Rise of the Sun God” 306-327. 33 Klein and Abraham, CRAI 44, 65-66, with previous literature. 34 J. Bottéro, L’épopée de Gilgameš (Paris 1992) 28 n. 2. 35 Note, in this connection, the tradition preserved in the Incantation to Utu where the opposition implies that kur eren refers to the mountain of sunset, and kur hašur to the mountain of sunrise: dUtu a-ab-ba igi-nim za-a-kam dUtu a-abba igi-sig za-a-kam dUtu kur eren-na kur ha-šu-ra za-a-kam “Utu, the upper sea is yours, Utu, the lower sea is yours, Utu, Mt. Eren (and) Mt. Hašur are yours” (Alster, ASJ 13, 43: 33-35); cf. Hymn to Utu B 10, cited above in n. 29.

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the gates of sunrise on Mt. Māšu—the “Twin Mountain,” recalling the dual mountain peaks of the glyptic—Gilgameš finds the way barred by a scorpion-man and scorpion-woman, who together “guard the sun at sunrise and sunset” (IX 45).36 But the scorpion’s association with the Sun-god is not limited to the epic. In the glyptic scorpion-men are often attested manipulating, or otherwise in association with, the winged solar disk (figs. 13-20).37 Nor is this an innovation of the first millennium. It is an old pairing, having roots that go at least as deep as the third millennium: in fig. 21 the ray-bedecked god is likely Utu-Šamaš, who is assisted by a scorpion-man in combat, and in fig. 22 a scorpion appears in the so-called ‘Sun-god in his boat’ motif. Corroboration is to be found in fig. 23, where the image is bordered by a scorpion that, with pincers raised towards heaven, supports the Sun-god wielding his šaššaru-saw; in fig. 24 an identically portrayed scorpion appears beneath a star, the image serving as a border motif for a scene of the Sun-god rising. Finally, in fig. 25, an OB seal in which text comes together with image, a scorpion appears below a legend bearing the inscription dUTU dA-a. Surely there is some underlying significance to the association of the Sun-god, the horizon, and the scorpion as there is with the bison, the wild goat, and the juniper tree. As with Janus-faced Aker, who looks to both day and night, the explanation lies in a polarity that both the horizon and the scorpion embrace. The horizon is the line separating life from death, and is, therefore, defined by both. On the far side are night, the Netherworld, and so death; on the near side are day, the reborn sun, and the promise of life.38 The scorpion is an obvious symbol of death and night. A stealthy and 36 A curious parallel presents itself in the Alexander tradition, where scorpions are similarly associated with the distant east. In the so-called Letter to Aristotle, Alexander writes of swarms of scorpions overcoming the Macedonian army while bivouacking in India, one of several unfortunate incidents during the Night of Terrors (Romm, Edges of the Earth 114). 37 The relationship between the Sun-god and the Scorpion-man in the first millennium is discussed by Huxley, Iraq 62, 120-123. 38 The duality of the horizon, embracing both night and day, explains the ostensibly contradictory lexical tradition which equates ganzir, the gate of the Netherworld (and so necessarily lying on the horizon) not only with kukkû ‘darkness’, but also with nablum ‘flame’ (see CAD K sub kukkû lex.; N/1 sub nablu lex.); cf. R. Borger, AOAT 1, 11; idem, WO 5 (1969-1970) 172-173; and W. R. Sladek, “Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld” (The Johns Hopkins University, Ph.D. 1974) 59-61. As discussed further below, the equation with nablum is likely based on the understanding that the sun bursts into flame at daybreak.


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deadly predator, the scorpion is a nocturnal creature that lives in the crevices of the earth. Indeed, it was likely this Netherworldly, chthonic quality,39 along with the scorpion’s long-standing relationship with the Sun-god, that earned the goddess Iš ara—symbolized first by the serpent (bašmu) and then the scorpion, and represented by the constellation Scorpio—the epithets wāšibat kummim “one who dwells in the (Netherworld) residence (of the Sun-god)” and, in connection with the Sun-god’s Netherworld activities, bēlet dīnim u bīrim “lady of judgment and divination.”40 But, paradoxically, the scorpion is, like the eastern horizon, also a symbol of life and rebirth. As a snake sheds its skin—an act heavy with symbolism—the scorpion regularly undergoes ecdysis or molting, casting off its exoskeleton and emerging substantially larger than before. Thus, as in other cultures, it is the natural biology of the scorpion that makes it a symbol of birth and rejuvenation in Mesopotamia. Indeed, it is this rejuvenative aspect that sheds light upon Iš ara’s role as a goddess of sex, for when Gilgameš exercises his prerogative of ius primae noctis he does so on “the bed that was laid out for Iš ara”41—a statement from the epic that is corroborated in text by the goddess’s epithet bēlet râme “lady of love”42 39 This association is already hinted at in Ur III offering texts in which Iš ara is connected with Allatum among other chthonic deities, e.g., AUCT 2, 97 iii 43f.; see D. Prechel, Die Göttin Iš ara. Ein Beitrag zur altorientalischen Religionsgeschichte (ASPM 11; Münster 1996) 26-31, 188. 40 YOS 11, 23 i 14 and BBR 87 i 6 respectively. In An = Anum III 281-282 Iš ara is counted among the entourage of Šamaš and Adad, while in I 201 and IV 277 she bears the title bēlet bīri “lady of divination.” On these epithets, as well as the relationship between divination and the Netherworld more broadly, see now Steinkeller, Biblica et Orientalia 48, 11-47. A close association with Šamaš is suggested already for the OB period by the fact that the šaššarum of Šamaš and the bašmum of Iš ara were together employed in oaths, e.g., ŠU.NIR ša dUTU ša-ša-rum ša dUTU ba-aš-mu-um ša Eš- ar-ra a-na ga-gi-im i-ru-bu-ma “the emblem of Šamaš, the saw of Šamaš, the snake of Iš ara came into the gagûm” (CT 2, 47: 18—rev. 1; see Prechel, Die Göttin Iš ara 39). 41 a-na dIš- a-ra ma-a-a-lum na-⌈di⌉-i-ma (Gilg. P v 196-197; George, Gilgamesh 178-179). 42 LKA 102: 12; ed. Biggs Šaziga 6. Note the early association of the scorpion as a symbol of the sex act in the Barton Cylinder ii 11-12; ed. B. Alster and A. Westenholz, “The Barton Cylinder,” ASJ 16 [1994] 15-46. The scorpion, as representative of both life and death is captured in the Nugal Hymn, where the gate of the Nungal’s prison—which, as discussed below, is paradoxically symbolic of both the Netherworld and the womb—is described as decorated with, or having the form of, a scorpion, i.e., a-sal-bar-bi gíri sahar-ta ím-ma ka ša-an-ša5-ša5-dam ‘its architrave? is a scorpion that quickly dashes from the dust, overpowering (all)’ (Nungal Hymn 16).

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and in image by the inclusion of scorpions in scenes that depict the nuptial bed (figs. 26-27). A possible derivation of the goddess’s name from the root š r ‘dawn’43 would show a regenerative solar aspect to be fundamental to her character, while an association with the horizon itself is made plain by her name dÍb-Du6-kug-ga ‘Fury of the Dukug’;44 as will be discussed below, Dukug, the bond of the Upper- and Netherworld, is the location par excellence of the eastern horizon. Furthermore, it is the scorpion’s connection with reproduction that accounts for the presence of a pair of scorpionpeople—of opposite sex—on Mt. Māšu, a conception that is also embedded in a Neo-Assyrian ritual that prescribes the fashioning of a large number of pairs of prophylactic figurines; however, only for the girtablullû does it call for the manufacture of one male and one female.45 Finally, we should not overlook one aspect of the natural biology of scorpions that speaks tellingly to this symbolic duality, namely, their cannibalistic mating practices of which the ancients may well have been aware—after a complicated mating ritual, coitus very often ends46 with the female killing the male, so uniting death with the reproductive act itself. The Babylonian oikoumenē ‘Known World’, Immortality, and the Path of the Sun A horizon dominated to the east and west by the mountains of sunrise and sunset is the most common conception of the edges of the earth in Mesopotamian sources. But it is not the only one. Gilgameš IX-X describes regions beyond Mt. Māšu: the Path of the Sun ( arrān Šamši ), where, in fact, the sun does not shine, the gemstone garden, the cosmic sea (tâmtu) and the waters of death (mê mûti ), and, across these waters, the realm of Ūta-napišti at pî nārāti “the mouth of the rivers.” These far reaches, as Šiduri admonishes Gilgameš, are the exclusive domain of the Sun-god: “Never, Gilgameš, has there ever been a crossing, and anyone who has come since the dawn of time has not been able to cross the sea. The crosser of the sea is See W. G. Lambert, “Iš ara”, RlA 5 [1976-1980] 176. An = Anum I 199. 45 Wiggermann Protective Spirits 14-15: 186-187, 52 (comm.). 46 Specifically, in nearly 40% of all cases by some estimates—see G. A. Polis and W. D. Sissom, “Life History”, in: G. A. Polis, The Biology of Scorpions (Stanford 1990) 161-172. 43 44


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valiant Šamaš, other than Šamaš, who can cross?”47 This same sea, bearing the designation ídMarratu, is portrayed on the Babylonian Map of the World as beyond the mountains of sunrise and sunset, a cosmic river encircling the earth.48 What is at issue here is not, necessarily, an inherent contradiction in our sources, or evidence for an evolving tradition, as suggested elsewhere,49 but the mental map as conceived from different perspectives. For the Greeks the world consisted of two parts. There was the oikoumenē, the “known or familiar world”—“our world”—which, according to Romm, “constitutes the space within which empirical investigation . . . can take place, since all of its regions fall within the compass either of travel or of informed report.”50 And there are the unfamiliar regions beyond the oikoumenē, lands of which little or nothing was commonly known and which, therefore, lent themselves to myth and fantasy. Much like the Greek notion of the oikoumenē, the mountains of sunrise and sunset define the limit of the Mesopotamian known world. Cosmography is shaped by topography, with the Zagros, in particular, providing not only a considerable physical barrier, but bounding Mesopotamian culture as well, defining, in essence, the eastern horizon of the Mesopotamian “our world.” Like the Greek conception and maps of old that detail empirical geography, but assign the distant regions beyond exploration to the realm of fantasy—hic sunt dracones “Here be dragons”—the Mesopotamian world consists of the known and 47 Gilg. X 79-82. This admonition is not unlike the legendary council given to Alexander when the conqueror dares to speak of crossing unfathomable Ocean: “This is not the Euphrates nor Indus, but whether it is the endpoint of the land, or the boundary of nature, or the most ancient of elements, or the origin of the gods, its water is too holy to be crossed by ships” (A Greek epigram collected by Seneca the Elder in his Suasoriae; following Romm, Edges of the Earth 25-26). 48 For the Babylonian Map of the World, see Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 20-42; although not specifically labeled as the mountains of sunrise and sunset, this identification is suggested by the fact the limits of the continental earth were conceived as bordered by mountains (see Horowitz, Cosmic Geography, 331-332). 49 See Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 330. George, Gilgamesh 496-497, attributes this apparent discrepancy to a historical development in which an older cosmography that viewed the Zagros as the eastern horizon was replaced by a later view, based on empirical investigation, that knew of lands beyond the mountains. This solution, however, runs afoul of the fact that those who expressed the “older” tradition (e.g., the scenes of the Sun-god rising of Sargonic glyptic and OB references to the Sun-god emerging from Mt. Hašur) were well aware of regions beyond the Zagros, such as Elam and Melu a—indeed, they had greater contacts with the peoples beyond the Zagros than did their later counterparts. 50 Romm, Edges of the Earth 37.

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the unknown. Akkadian scenes of the Sun-god rising and references to the Sun-god rising from Mt. Hašur, all seeming to imply a world with a mountainous perimeter, focus upon the more mundane limits of the familiar world, the eastern horizon as viewed from the perspective of the Babylonian oikoumenē. The conception of the edges of the world captured in Gilgameš and the Babylonian Map of the World is broader and more ambitious, incorporating the mythical terra incognita that lay beyond the mountains of sunrise and sunset, the cosmic counterpart of the lesser-known and foreign lands beyond the Zagros. More than a contradiction, it is an expansion of the former notion. It is in this light that we must revisit the much-discussed cosmography of the Path of the Sun and the regions beyond described in Gilgameš IX-X. Most commentators have emended IX 39 so that Gilgameš’s interview with the scorpion-people takes place on the western horizon, at the mountain of sunset, rather than the mountain of sunrise; Gilgameš’s journey to Ūta-napišti would then proceed from west to east via what many assume to be a tunnel though the Netherworld.51 But there is no compelling reason for the emendation, no explicit mention of a tunnel, and no reference to the Netherworld in the extant text.52 Nor is it necessary to subject the claim that the scorpion-people, from Mt. Māšu, ana a ê Šamši u ereb Šamši ina arū Šamšīma ‘guard the sun at sunrise and sunset’ (IX 45), to an interpretation beyond what the text explicitly states.53 What is often missed—and what is the source of much confusion regarding this and the following passages—is that this mythical region, for which Mt. Māšu serves as gateway, represents a purposeful paradox, a place defined by diametrical opposition. It is a region where trees of precious stone bear fruit of jewels (IX 171-194), where sailors of stone navigate the Waters of Death, where a mortal man lives in immortality, where an alewife, contrary to the expectations of her profession, dons the veil (X 1-4), where the guardians consist of a male-female pair, half human half animal (IX 37-51), the latter represented by the scorpion, which, as previously discussed, is symbolic of both life and death. And it is a region, where, at See George, Gilgamesh 492-497, for a review of the previous literature discussing this and other interpretations of the Path of the Sun. 52 On this point, see also George, Gilgamesh 494. 53 Cf. George, Gilgamesh 492-493; Huxley, Iraq 62, 124-125; eadem, “The Shape of the Cosmos According to Cuneiform Sources”, JRAS ns 7 (1997) 193. 51


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Mt. Māšu (again, “Twin Mountain,” the name itself expressing the notion of duality) the sun both rises and sets (IX 45). At issue is the phenomenon of coincidentia oppositorum, a cross-culturally observed mythological theme in which the paradox of divine and mythical reality is conceptualized as a union, and thereby transcendence, of contraries.54 The horizon—itself a paradox, a liminal space, a point of convergence between diametrical opposites—naturally lends itself to such a conception.55 Parallels are encountered in Classical sources. There are the Homeric Aithiopes, for instance, who are split in two, some residing at sunrise and some at sunset (Odyssey i 23-24), and, of particular interest in light of the description of Mt. Māšu, is the Hesiodic Tartaros, where it is claimed that the sun both rises and sets (Theogony 746-751).56 The passage detailing Gilgameš’s journey is unfortunately broken, and so any interpretation is necessarily speculative. However, as pointed out by George, it clearly concerns a race against the sun, taking place, apparently, over 12 double-hours, that is, a whole day.57 I contend that Gilgameš’s journey begins in the east, at Mt. Māšu, 54 See, in particular, M. Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion. Trans. Rosemary Sheed (Lincoln, NE/London 1996; originally published 1958 by Sheed & Ward, Inc. New York) 419-424. 55 The duality and coincidence of opposites that is implicit to the horizon makes, naturally, for a symbolic topos in literarature. For instance, Lugalbanda’s liminal state between life and death is described in terms of the rising and setting of the sun, e.g., ud šeš-me dUtu [giš]-⌈nú⌉-a-gim mu-zi-zi-ia . . . ⌈ù⌉ tukum-bi dUtu šeš-me ki kug ki kal-kal-la-aš gù im-ma-an-dé ‘If our brother rises like Utu from bed . . . but if Utu summons our brother to the holy place’ (Lugalbanda and the Mountain Cave 123-129). Similarly, when Gilgameš is rendered unconscious by Huwawa’s auras, his near-death state (sleep being the lesser counterpart of death) is described metaphorically in terms of sunset (kur ba-an-sùh-sùh gissu ba-an-lá an-usan še-erše-er-bi im-ma-gen ‘the mountains have become indistinct, shadows are cast across them; the evening twilight has come forth’ [Gilgameš and Huwawa A 78-79]), but the imagery also, and ultimately, draws upon the notion of the Netherworld as a place of rejuvenation and rebirth: dUtu úr ama-ni dNin-gal-šè sag íl-la mu-un-gen ‘proudly, Utu has gone to the bosom of Ningal, his mother’ (80). 56 See G. Nagy, Greek Mythology and Poetics (Ithaca, NY/London 1990) 237; idem, The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry (Baltimore/ London 1999) 196; D. Nakassis, “Gemination at the Horizons: East and West in the Mythical Geography of Archaic Greek Epic,” Transactions of the American Philological Association 134 (2004) 215-233. 57 George, Gilgamesh 495. And so Gilgameš’s travel through this mythical space in a single day mirrors a trip across the expanse of the world, thus underscoring the theme of coincidentia oppositorum (compare the travels of Odysseus, in which the extreme west is equated with the extreme east, the island of Aiaie being paradoxically located in both the far west and the far east [see Nagy, Greek Mythology and Poetics, 237], as well as the travels of Lugalbanda [see n. 68]).

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and takes him farther east to the mythical lands beyond. Gilgameš arrives at Mt. Māšu at night, a fact underscored by his dream and prayers to Sîn (IX 8-29). The sun has not yet risen over the mountain of sunrise and a new day has not yet begun. The Path of the Sun, in this scenario, runs through the fantastic lands lying to the east, between Mt. Māšu and the shore of the cosmic ocean—it is so designated because these unchartered regions are traversed only by the Sun-god. Gilgameš crosses this expanse before Šamaš returns and rises once again over Mt. Māšu, that is, before the dawn of the following day. Gilgameš and the sun travel in opposite directions, starting out on their respective ways, likely just as day breaks on Mt. Māšu. They cross paths at some point late in the race, but with Gilgameš exiting the eastern end of the Path of the sun, at the gemstone garden on the shores of the cosmic ocean, before the sun returns to the western end on Mt. Māšu—[. . . it-t]a- i la-am dŠamši “[. . . he] came out before the Sun” (IX 170). One may object that the utter darkness that characterizes the Path of the Sun is inconsistent with Gilgameš and the sun crossing paths. But, as pointed out by Heimpel, the sun, as it emerges over the eastern mountains, is described as “flaring up,” i.e., Šamaš ippu —napā u being a verb commonly used to describe the fanning of an ember into flame. Conversely, when the sun dips beneath the mountain of sunset, the verb used is šú ‘to cover’, as in smothering a flame.58 Thus, during its journey from the mountain of sunset to the mountain of sunrise the sun was conceived as a smoldering ember, an understanding that explains why the Netherworld is dark despite the Sun-god’s nightly travel through it. This rationale also accounts for the mention of the north wind (IX 163) after nine double-hours59—the presence of the north wind, which at day break would re-kindle the sun, being a harbinger of dawn itself—as well as for Gilgameš repeatedly glancing behind,60 but seeing only darkness61—affirmation that Gilgameš was winning the race, for the sun had not yet reached Mt. Māšu and erupted into flame.

Heimpel, JCS 38, 142. Heimpel, JCS 38, 142. 60 ana palāsa arkassa (Gilg. IX 141f.); on the reading palāsa, rather than pānassa, see George, Gilgamesh 495 n. 176. 61 šá-pak ek-le-tùm-ma i-ba-áš-ši nu-ru “the darkness was dense, and light was there none” (Gilg. IX 140f.). 58 59


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A region of darkness beyond the Babylonian oikoumenē is also known from the Babylonian Map of the World, where a triangular region, nagû, to the northeast is labeled “Great Wall: 6 leagues in between where the Sun is not seen.”62 The designation is written only within this one nagû, but may equally apply to all the nagûs that radiate from the cosmic sea. A parallel is once again provided by the Alexander Romance, for, as previously mentioned, the Macedonian army finds itself in a region of impenetrable darkness in the uncharted regions of India. This is a motif in which enlightenment and achievement are symbolized by the dawn of a new day, and ignorance and travail by the preceding darkness of night—a motif that is captured in a historical omen of Sargon that reads “. . . the omen of Sargon, who went through the darkness and a light came out for him.”63 It belongs to the broader symbolism of the fundamental opposition between night and day, black and white. That it is an old literary device is shown already by Gudea, whose revelations come like daylight from the horizon (Cyl. A iv 22; v 19), whose night-time oracular vision (maš-gi6-ka [i 17])—a play upon ‘black kid’—is obscure, but whose subsequent inspection of a white kid (máš bar6-bar6-ra), at day break, brings clarity and a favorable omen (xii 16-17). More than a mere race to the ends of the earth, Gilgameš’s contest with the sun has a deeper cosmological significance. And it is largely a function of two characteristics of the eastern horizon, which will be discussed further below, namely, that it is here that time stands still and that fates are determined at dawn, ki dUtu è ki nam-tar-re-da “the place where the Sun-god rises, the place where fates are determined.”64 In short, the horizon lies beyond the Babylonian oikoumenē and, therefore, beyond the laws of nature that govern the known world. Gilgameš’s quest to circumvent the ultimate fate of mankind—death—requires him, as a prerequisite, to traverse the Path of the Sun before his fate is fixed at the dawn of a new day—a theme that is underscored in the following episode

62 BÀD.GU.LA ⌈6⌉ bēru ina birit ašar Šamaš lā innammaru (Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 22: 18; see also ibid., 32-33, where it is noted that ‘Great Wall’ may refer to mountains). 63 . . . a-mu-ut ⌈Šar-ru⌉-ki-in ša ek-le-tam il5-li-ku-ma nu-ru-um ú- i-aš-šu-um (V. Scheil, RA 27 [1930] 149: text B 16-17—see J. J. Glassner, RA 79 [1985] 124; Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 33). 64 Steible NBW 2, 343: 7-8; 344: 7-8.

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in which Gilgameš must cross the Waters of Death in order to reach the domain of the immortal Ūta-napišti. By winning the race, Gilgameš has succeeded in breaking free of the bonds of the Babylonian oikoumenē; he has bested the sun whose circuit orders space and regulates time. To transcend the limits of the known world, delimited by the eastern mountains, is to transcend the very boundaries of the human condition. It is the prerogative only of the gods and of mythical figures like Ūta-napišti, immortal, and Gilgameš, two-thirds divine. The idea that immortality and rejuvenation are to be sought in the remote east is, as mentioned at the outset, a theme central to the Alexander Romance. The east is also where, according to Ctesias, the mythical dog-headed Kunokephaloi dwell, the longest-lived of men.65 And it is a conception that is well attested in Mesopotamia as well, assuming various forms in the literary tradition. The eastern horizon is the place where the sun is renewed, where the new day is born, and so—as with the immortal and perpetually young Ushas, ‘Dawn’, in the Rig Veda—it is naturally here that rejuvenation and longevity are to be found. It is here in the remote, mythical east, ina rūqi ina pî nārāti “far away, at the Mouth of the Rivers” (XI 205-206) that the immortal Ūta-napišti is settled and it is here, within Ūta-napišti’s realm, that Gilgameš must dig a channel to pluck the plant of rejuvenation, šammu nikitti ‘Plant of Heartbeat’66 (XI 295), which grows deep in the Apsû. Like pî nārāti ‘Mouth of the Rivers’—the place where the two branches of the primeval river rise from the Apsû and mingle with the cosmic ocean—the Apsû itself lies to the east, being physically and, as will become clear in the following pages, functionally allied to the horizon. 67 Further, it Romm, Edges of the Earth 80, 82-120. Following the interpretation of George, Gilgamesh 895-896. Additionally, note that the black kiškanû-tree of the Apsû, its color a possible signifier of its Netherworld location, is claimed to have healing, or rejuvenative powers (kiškanû-incantation—see M. J. Geller, “A Middle Assyrian Tablet of Uttukkū Lemnūtu, Tablet 12”, Iraq 42 [1980] 23-51, idem, Evil Demons 169-171: 95-121; M. W. Green, “Eridu in Sumerian Literature,” [University of Chicago, Ph.D. 1975] 186-190). 67 In the kiškanû-incantation, Šamaš and Dumuzi are within the Apsû “between the mouths of the two rivers”—dal-ba-na íd-da ka 2-kám-ma : ina bi-rit ÍD.MEŠ ki-lal-la-an (M. J. Geller, Iraq 42 [1980] 28: 16', 18'; idem, Evil Demons 170: 102); see also n. 84 below. As for the easterly location of the Apsû, note that the term for Utu’s cella, agrun (kummu), is nearly identical with the Abzu and that it is in the Abzu that Utu meets Enki: èš Abzu ki-zu ki-gal-zu ki dUtu-ra gù-dé-za “the shrine Abzu is your [i.e., Enki’s] place, your Netherworld; it is the place where you greet Utu (Temple Hymns 17: 15-16). Steinkeller has connected this passage 65 66


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is here, at the eastern limit of his journey, that Gilgameš is cleansed and refreshed, where Ūta-napišti gives him a robe for his return journey that promises to be perpetually new, a taunting symbol of the immortality of the eastern horizon that has eluded him. These aspects of the east are well known in Sumerian literature as well, for it cannot be coincidental that it is in the distant, eastern mountains that an exhausted Lugalbanda, near death, finds renewed strength—indeed, he attains super-human speed, a veritable rebirth.68 And a frustrated Gilgameš, realizing the inevitability of death and resolving to establish his everlasting renown in lieu of immortality, endeavors to do so in the east, searching for Huwawa in lands under the sway of Utu, journeying to kur-lú-tìl-la—“mountain where one lives”69—a reference either to Ziusudra,70 specifically, or, more likely and more profoundly, to the belief that immortality is to be found on the eastern horizon, so introducing the mortality theme that pervades the story and dominates the following speech to Utu (ll. 21-33) in particular. Finally, agreeing in the essentials with the later Akkadian epic, there is this account in the Sumerian Flood Story: An and Enlil, having decreed immortality for Ziusudra, with two Sargonic seals (Boehmer, Entwicklung Abb. 488 and 489), which depict Utu before Enki, who is portrayed within his watery shrine (Steinkeller, Quaderni di Semitistica 18, 258 n. 39). This conception is confirmed for the late periods by a NB ritual that identifies Šamaš as mud-an-na-[x] bí-[h]a-za-e-eš GIŠ.NÁ-an-na bí-tab : mu-kil [up]-⌈pi⌉ Ap-si-i ta-me-e nam-za-qí šá dA-ni7 “(Šamaš) who holds the lock of the Apsû, who keeps the key of Anu” (UVB 15, 36: 12; following CAD N/1 sub namzaqu lex.). As discussed below, further support is to be found in the notion that stars originated in the Apsû—see R. Caplice, “É.NUN in Mesopotamian Literature”, Or 42 (1973) 299-305. 68 Lugalbanda’s gift of super-human speed, bestowed by Anzu on Mt Hašur, allows him run as fast as the sun and the celestial sphere (ud-gim du dInana-gim ud 7-e ud dIškur-ra-gim izi-gim ga-íl nim-gim ga-gír ‘Travelling like the sun, like Inana, like the seven storms of Iškur, may I leap like a flame, may I blaze like lightining!’ [Lugalbanda 171-173; cf. 188-190]), and so he is able to cross seven mountain ranges and return to Uruk from Anšan in a single day, “by midnight, before the offering table of holy Inana was brought out” (gi6 sa9-a gišbanšur kug d Inana-ke4 nu-um-ma-tèg-a-aš [Lugalbanda 345]); cf. Gilgameš’s race against the sun and the travels of Odysseus (see n. 57). Similarly, in Lugalbanda and the Mountain Cave, the hero’s rejuvenation is realized once he consumes the Plant of Life (ú nam-tìl-la-ka; cf. šammu nikitti ‘Plant of Heartbeat’ [Gilg. XI 295]) and Water of Life (a nam-tìl-la-ka), which are found on Mt. Hašur, enabling him to race over the hills like a wild ass, from nightfall until the coming of the following evening (ll. 264-277). 69 Gilgameš and Huwawa A 1. For a differing opinion with previous literature on this passage, see G. Steiner, “ uwawa und sein ‘Bergland’ in der sumerischen Tradition”, ASJ 18 (1996) 187-215. 70 For this interpretation, see George, Gilgamesh 97-98, with previous literature.

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“settle him in an overseas country, in the land of Tilmun, where the sun rises.”71 Much has been made of Tilmun in the Sumerian Flood Story, particularly in light of the island’s role in Enki and Ninhursag. But I suggest that Tilmun’s mythological status—with regard to Ziusudra and immortality at least—has less to do with the inherent qualities of the island, or with any notion of a Sumerian paradise, than with the simple fact that Bahrain lies in the remote east. At the likely time of the Flood Story’s composition, the Ur III or OB period, Tilmun was, by virtue of its trade, a location of considerable prominence on the Mesopotamian mental map and thereby served as a magnet, attracting to itself the mythological notions of the east. Much like the vague and mystical notions that surrounded Aratta, another place identified with the far east, Tilmun was a convenient toponym that gave shape to the vague notions of cosmography, the peg of reality on which the abstract was hung.72 It is an interpretation that is again suggested by the version of the Flood presented in Gilgameš—a tale concerned more with cosmic geography and written in an age when Tilmun’s importance had waned—in which there is no mention of Tilmun, and Ūta-napišti, the “Far-Away,” resides at the mythical pî nārāti “Mouth of the Rivers.” No doubt the unexpected fresh water springs of Tilmun contributed to its resemblance to the cosmic pî nārāti, evoking, as George has discussed, the late understanding of classical and Arabic sources that the Tigris and Euphrates resurfaced on the island.73 But, again, the mythologization of Tilmun in this regard—its association with immortality—likely grew out of the broader mythology of the east, Tilmun becoming a real world incarnation of the vague and indefinite. As we shall see, rivers were integral to the cosmic geography of the east, appearing in contexts having nothing to do with the destination of the Tigris and Euprates, nor with pî nārāti.74 71 kur-bal kur-dilmun-na ki-dUtu-è-šè mu-un-tìl-eš (The Flood Story, Segment E 11). 72 Arguing on different grounds, P. Michalowski reaches a similar conclusion: “Dilmun, which in certain contexts undoubtedly has a real referent, has to be considered as a mental construct in literary texts, a name without any necessary connection with the topography of a particular place” (“Mental Maps and Ideology: Reflections on Subartu”, in: H. Weiss, The Origins of Cities in Dry-Farming Syria and Mesopotamia in the Thrid Millennium B.C. [Guilford, CT 1986] 134-135). 73 George, Gilgamesh 520. 74 Further, in the tradition that is preserved, the Tigris and Euphrates were conceived as flowing to the mythical Mt. Hašur, and not Tilmun: A.MEŠ ídHAL.


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Creation and the Space-Time Metaphor No feature of the horizon better reflects the mythology of the east than the cosmic Du6-kug, the Sacred Mound, source of all things. Like Mt. Māšu, which extends from the Upperworld to the Underworld, from šupuk šamê ‘the firmament’ to arallû ‘the Netherworld’, Dukug bonds heaven with earth.75 Indeed, Dukug, specified as the place where fates are determined, is synonymous with the mountain of sunrise in some contexts: “Šamaš, when you emerge from the great mountain, when you emerge from the great mountain, the mountain of springs, when you emerge from the Sacred Mound, where destinies are decreed . . .”76 This is a cosmological notion for which there is a cultic counterpart, for the temple, conceived as a microcosm of the cosmos—the universe in miniature—contained a Dukug as a cultic installation, a raised platform on which fates were fixed. Thus, of the Eninnu it is said: sig4 Du6-kug-ta nam-tar-re-da “brickwork, on (its) Sacred Mound destiny is determined,”77 while in Babylon the Dukug was known as parak šīmti “Dais of Destinies”—“the Sacred Mound, where destinies are decreed.”78 As expressed by an epithet of Eunir, Enki’s temple in Eridu, Dukug is further recognized for its ambrosia-like sustenance: Du6-kug ú sikil-la rig7-ga “Sacred Mound where pure food is consumed,”79 a notion that draws from a broader conception of the eastern horizon as a place of abundance and plenty beyond the ordinary. In the Death of Ur-Namma, Inana cries that failure to observe the divine ordinances (giš-hur) will result in “no HAL A.MEŠ ídPu-rat-ti KUG.MEŠ šá iš-tu kup-pi a-na kur a-šur a- u-ni “Pure waters of the Tigris and the Euphrates, which come forth from (their) springs to Mt. Hašur” (KAR 34: 14-15)—see W. F. Albright, “The Mouth of the Rivers”, AJSL 35 (1919) 176-77; George, Gilgamesh 864. 75 Gilgameš IX 40-41; cf. hur-sag an-ki-bi-da-ke4 ‘upon the hill (lit. mountain range) of heaven and earth’ (Lahar and Ašnan 1). Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 98, notes that Mt. Simirriya in Sargon’s 8th campaign (TCL 3 i 18-19) is described in similar terms. That mountains were envisioned as reaching down to the Netherworld likely contributed to kur as a designation for the latter. 76 R. Borger, JCS 21 (1967) 2-3: 1-3 (bīt rimki ). 77 Temple Hymns 31: 245. 78 [D]u6-k[ug] ki nam-tar-tar-re-⌈e⌉-[dè] : [MIN dLugal-dìm-me-er-an-ki-a šá ub-šu-ukkin-na . . .] “Du-kug Ki-namtartarede (“Pure Mound, where destinies are decreed”) [the seat of Lugaldimmerankia in Ubšu-ukinna . . .]” (George, Topographical Texts 52-53: TINTIR II: 17'; see the comm. on pp. 286-287, 290291, with further evidence for Dukug as a cultic installation in various cities). 79 Temple Hymns 17: 4.

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abundance at the gods’ place of sunrise,”80 and in Gilgameš and the Bull of Heaven, An informs Inana that the Bull of Heaven, Utu’s alterego, “can only graze at the place where the sun rises.”81 Like the gold and pearls that pave the paths of the Land of Darkness in the Greek Alexander Romance (II.40-41), this is a notion that in Gilgameš takes the form of the mythical garden of gemstones at the eastern end of the Path of the Sun, on the shores of the cosmic sea.82 More than a place of supernatural abundance, however, Dukug, in Lahar and Ašnan, is the primeval location of the Creation: this is the place where An spawned the Anuna gods, where the gods dwell, the place where sheep and grain, the basis of civilization, were first created.83 Dukug as kur idim/šad nagbi “mountain of springs,” and so perhaps to be identified with pî nārāti “Mouth of the Rivers,” is also the place from where the headwaters of the cosmic river rise from the Apsû—this is Íd-mah ‘Great River’, the primeval river, which in other contexts carries the epithet bānât kalama “creatrix of everything.”84 giš-hur kalam-ma hé-me-a-gub-ba sag ba-⌈ra-ba-an⌉-ús-sa ki ud è dingir-ree-ne-šè nam-hé-gál?-⌈bi⌉ nu-gál “if there are divine ordinances imposed on the land, but they are not observed, there will be no abundance at the gods’s place of sunrise” (Death of Ur-Namma 210-211). 81 lú-tur-mu gud an-na ú-gu7-bi in-nu an-úr-ra ú gu7-bi-im ki-sikil dInana gud an-na ki dUtu è-a-šè ú im-da-gu7-e za-e gud an-na nu-mu-e-da-ab-zé-èg-en “My child, the Bull of Heaven would not have any pasture, as its pasture is on the horizon. Maiden Inana, the Bull of Heaven can only graze where the sun rises. So I cannot give the Bull of Heaven to you!” (Gilgameš and the Bull of Heaven, Segment B 47-49). 82 Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 102 already points out the parallel with the Alexander Romance, and further parallels are discussed by George, Gilgamesh 497-498 and nn. 185-186. 83 Lahar and Ašnan 2, 26-27. 84 Íd-mah is here considered to be a manifestation of dÍd (also Woods, ZA 95 [2005] 7-45); that this river flows on the eastern horizon is shown by Ibbi-Sîn B, Segment A 23-24, discussed below (see n. 154). For the epithet bānât kalāma/u “creatrix of everything,” see the Incantation to the River (R. Caplice, Or 36 [1967] 4: 6; STC 1, 200: 1, 201: 1; ed. pp. 128-129). The notion that kur idim/šad nagbi “the mountain of springs,” i.e., Dukug, is to be identified with the mountain of sunrise—and, moreover, that the waters springing forth ultimately derive from the Apsû—is made explicit in the following: a i-di-im sikil-la-ta Eriduki-ta mú-a : A.MEŠ nag-be KUG.MEŠ šá ina E-ri-du ib-ba-nu-ú, kur i-di-im sikil-la-ta kur erenna-ta im-ta-è : ina KUR-e nag-be el-li KUR e-re-ni ú- u-ni “pure water of the spring, which originated in Eridu (i.e., the Apsû), and has flowed forth from the mountain of the pure spring, the mountain of cedars” (STT 197 rev. 57-60; ed. J. S. Cooper, ZA 62 [1972] 74: 28-29; šad erēni, as noted above, is one of the epithets of the mountain of sunrise). Further evidence for spring(s), nagbu, issuing forth from the Apsû appears in the bilingual excerpt: idim-Abzu-ta agrun-ta è-a-meš : ina na-gab 80


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The eastern horizon as the setting of creation is a conception that finds an intriguing counterpart in Enki and Ninhursag, a creation myth set in distant Tilmun. What this myth describes at the outset (11-28)—and what is also described in the incantation recited in Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta (136f.) and, apparently, reiterated in a fragmentary literary text from Ur (UET 6, 61)—is a period of pristine primitivism at the Beginning, a period without the benefits of civilization, but also without the negative implications apparently associated with it: free of disease, death, predation, or fear, a time, as related in Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta (146), before the confusion of tongues.85 This is a period of stasis with time at a virtual standstill: “No old woman said: ‘I am an old woman’. No old man said: ‘I am an old man’.”86 From this point of timelessness, time begins to unfold, as gauged by mortal longevity, but at an imperceptibly slow pace, gradually quickening during the mythical past until it reaches its familiar stride. It is a notion that is also found in the Sumerian King List, where the antediluvian rulers reigned for tens of thousands of years, their postdiluvian counterparts thousands and hundreds of years, with the length of reigns gradually diminishing to mortal levels. And it holds true for the Early Rulers of Lagaš, according to which a postdiluvian childhood lasted one hundred years and adulthood another one hundred years, while the Ap-si-i ina ku-um-me ir-bu-u-šú-nu “they grew up in the spring(s) of the Apsû, in the cella” (CT 16, 15 v 34-36; cf. ibid. 30f.; CT 17, 13: 14; 4R 2 v 32-33—see CAD N/1 sub nagbu A lex.), while the bond between Dukug and Apsû is demonstrated by the fact that Dukug may serve as a byname for the latter (Du6-kug : Ap-su-u [Malku I 290]; cf. [du-ú] : DU6 = šá Du6-kug Abzu [Idu II 33]; cf. Temple Hymns 17: 3-4). Collectively, the evidence suggests an identification, or at least a close association, of pî nārāti with Dukug. 85 On this point see already Alster, BBVO 2, 56-58; T. Jacobsen, “The Eridu Genesis”, JBL 100 (1981) 516, with the relevant lines of UET 6, 61 (identified by Jacobsen as a version of the Flood Story) given in 516-517 n. 7. P. Attinger (“Enki et Nn ursa‘ga”, ZA 74 [1984] 33-34) and most recently D. Katz (“Enki and Ninhursa‘ga, Part One: The Story of Dilmun”, BiOr 64 [2007] 578), among others, maintain a very different interpretation of this passage; I will discuss these issues further in a forthcoming study of the grammar and context of Enki and Ninhursag 1-3. 86 um-ma-bi um-ma-me-en nu-mu-ni-bé ab-ba-bi ab-ba-me-en nu-mu-ni-bé (Enki and Ninhursag 22-23). Of course, the notion that antediluvian man enjoyed life without limit is central to Atrahasis; the theme is also found in the description of primordial times in Lugalbanda and the Mountain Cave, i.e., [ud ul an ki-ta bad-rá-a-ba] . . . sag gi6 zid sù-ud-⌈ba⌉ mi-ni-ib-dùg-ge-eš-ba ‘When in ancient days heaven was separated from earth . . . when the black headed (people) enjoyed long life’ (1, 15).

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reigns of the earliest rulers lasted thousands of years beyond that, but during that time the essential technologies of civilization—the hoe, the plow, irrigation—did not yet exist. As described in Lahar and Ašnan, this was a period of complete primitive simplicity in which “the people of those days did not know about eating bread. They did not know about wearing clothes; they went about the land with naked limbs. Like sheep they ate grass with their mouths and drank water from ditches.”87 What is described here is a stark-primitive ideal that is associated with a purity, a longevity, and, as will be described in the following pages, a wisdom, that is beyond contemporary mortal bounds. As raw and vulgar as Lahar and Ašnan portrays this inchoate state, the evidence taken as a whole describes a Golden Age of sorts, granted one having nothing to do with a Sumerian paradise, but a Golden Age nonetheless from which man has steadily declined, civilization coming at the cost of purity88—a motif for which crosscultural parallels can be drawn from Hesiod’s vanished ages, to the Taoist age of sage-kings, to the notions of the Noble Savage during the Enlightenment. However, it is the Tilmun setting of Enki and Ninhursag that is of particular interest to this discussion. Clearly, the myth is in part an etiology for Bahrain’s defining characteristics, explaining its unexpected fresh-water springs, its Enki cult, and its prosperous trade. Yet, like Ziusudra’s connection with the island, it is the broader mythology of the east that allows Tilmun as the setting of the inchoate world to be conceptually feasible. Essentially, what is at issue is a coupling of the iconic structures of space and time, a metaphorical relationship in which distance in space is equated with distance in time, creating an opposition here, now vs. there, then. By this same rationale, longevity and rejuvenation are placed in the contexts of both the distant past and the remote east—just as the immortal Ziusudra and his Babylonian counterpart Ūta-napišti dwell on the eastern margin of the map, and as Lugalbanda finds rejuvenation in the eastern mountains, so mankind in ages past lived lives of Methuselian lengths. And this same relation holds 87 ninda gu7-ù-bi nu-mu-un-zu-uš-àm túg-ga mu4-mu4-bi nu-mu-un-zu-uš-àm kalam giš-ge-na su-bi mu-un-gen udu-gim ka-ba ú mu-ni-ib-gu7 a mú-sar-ra-ka i-im-na8-na8-ne (Lahar and Ašnan 21-25). 88 Cf. Alster, BBVO 2, 55-58, who in his efforts to debunk the myth of a Sumerian paradise—and he is no doubt correct on that point—goes further; seeing only the negative aspects of this primeval state, Alster describes it as “pure barbarism” (ibid., 57).


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with respect to simplicity and primitivism and the far east, for the eastward travels of Gilgameš and Lugalbanda through the wilderness amount to a return to primordial times, when man was like the beasts and civilization did not yet exist.89 It is the identity of distance in space and distance in time that accounts for the Mesopotamian belief that fates were determined both at the Beginning and, in mimicry of the event, each day at ki d Utu è-a “the place where the sun rises.” As the cosmos began in the primordial past, each day begins in the remote east, ‘distance’ being the coordinate common to both. And such is the rationale for the primeval past and the eastern horizon sharing a set of literary images. In Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta, the idyllic Golden Age, devoid of fear and predation, is first described as ud-ba muš nu-gál-àm gíri nu-gál-àm “a time without snakes and without scorpions” (136) and this description is apparently repeated verbatim in UET 6, 61, which may be related to the Flood Story.90 Remarkably, this same imagery describes Mt. Hašur, the mountain of sunrise, in Lugalbanda: da-da-ba ha-šu-úr nu-zu kur-ra-ka muš nu-un-sul-sul gíri nu-sa-sa . . . “Nearby, upon Mt. Hašur, the unknowable mountain, where no snake slithers, no scorpion scurries . . .” (36-37). The loss of immortality, the great longevity of antediluvian man, and his decline with successive generations, naturally evokes Genesis,91 but it is Hesiod who provides the more compelling parallel, capturing not only the temporal, but also the spatial dimensions of the Golden Age, for the survivors of the fourth generation of man live apart from other men, dwelling “at the ends of earth. And they live untouched by sorrow in the islands of the blessed along the shore of deep-swirling Ocean.”92 Like most cultures, the Greeks had an ethnocentric view of the world, one in which Greece was Lugalbanda is reduced to foraging like a wild animal (zag-še-gá ki um-mani-ús a kušummud-gim ù-mu-nag ur-bar-ra-gim gúm-ga-àm mi-ni-za ú-sal ì-kú-en tu-gur4mušen-gim ki im-de5-de5-ge-en i-li-a-nu-um kur-ra ì-kú-[en] ‘Lying on my side, I drank water as from a water-skin; I howled like a wolf, I grazed the meadows; I pecked the ground like a pigeon; I ate the mountain acorns’ [Lugalbanda 241243]), and must re-learn and re-create essential elements of civilization, such as making fire from flint and baking bread (Lugalbanda and the Mountain Cave 287-293). Gilgamesh, in his wanderings east towards the realm of Ūta-napišti, slaughters lions for food, clads himself in their skins, and digs wells that did not exist previously (Gilg. OB VA+BM i 1'-3'). 90 Jacobsen, JBL 100, 517 n. 7: 11'; also Alster, BBVO 2, 56-58. 91 Also discussed in this context by Jacobsen, JBL 100, 519-521. 92 Works and Days 167f.; also cited by Alster, BBVO 2, 59-60. 89

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not only the here, but also the now. Similar to the Mesopotamian correlation of space and time, distance from the Greek origin was inversely proportional to time and, notably, to social development. As Romm explains, “just as the Greeks tended to correlate historic time with geographic space . . . thereby locating the earliest stratum of cosmic evolution beyond the edges of the earth, so they also envisioned rings of progressively more primitive social development surrounding a Mediterranean hearth; in the furthest ring, at the banks of Ocean, social primitivism becomes absolute.”93 Thus, those tribes residing on the edge of the world—the Hyperboreans, experiencing “neither sickness, nor baneful old age,” the “blameless” Ethiopians, and the primitive but spiritually pure, half-man half-human Kunokephaloi, the ‘Dog-heads’94—enjoy not only super-human longevity, but also lives of a pristine simplicity that harkens back to the Golden Age. Indeed, there is some indication that this dimension of social evolution belongs to the Mesopotamian conception as well. In Gilgameš and Huwawa, Gilgameš succeeds in duping Huwawa—who is portrayed as something of a provincial bumpkin—of his innate, mystical auras, ní-te, by trading for them with concubines,95 flour, a waterskin, shoes, and semiprecious stones. These are the trappings and products of civilization that were apparently unknown in Huwawa’s primitive domain in the remote east. The Future and the Bourne of the Unknown The primary term for the eastern horizon in Sumero-Akkadian sources, as discussed, is ki dUtu è(-a) = ašar īt dŠamši, literally, “the place of the coming out of the Sun-god.” In its most basic and literal sense, the expression refers to the sun’s daily emergence from the Netherworld, which in the Mesopotamian cosmology is identical to the nocturnal sky: ud gi6-ta è-a “as the day comes out of the darkness.”96 Of night and day, night is the older, preceding Romm, Edges of the Earth 47. Romm, Edges of the Earth 50, 60, 78. 95 Gilgameš’s sisters in the myth, Enmebaragesi and Peštur, naturally recall the role of Šam at in the Akkadian epic, who, similarly, representing the civilization, strips Enkidu of his untouched innocence and purity. 96 Barton Cylinder vi 7, 10; ed. B. Alster and A. Westenholz, ASJ 16 [1994] 15-46; similarly, in a description of primordial times, there is the statement: ud-ba ud 93 94


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and engendering day. This is something of a universal idea as the Greek, Vedic, and Norse cosmologies, among others, bear witness. The identity of the night sky with the Netherworld stems from an understanding that the celestial sphere steadily rotated from east to west, bringing the stars and other heavenly bodies from the Netherworld into the Upperworld.97 It accounts for why, in the tripartite division of the cosmos described in a cosmological text, it is the nether heavens that belong to the stars;98 why stars were thought to originate in the Apsû;99 why, on the theological plane, Utu was born in the agrun, another designation for the Apsû;100 and, finally, why in Gilgameš’s ominous dream, Enkidu’s forthcoming appearance is foreshadowed by a meteorite, a fragment of the nether heavens, a splinter of the future. As Steinkeller has recently discussed, the coming day—the future—is conceived and gestates in the Netherworld at night.101 It is a conception that is coded in en-na-àm gi6 barag-ga-àm dUtu lugal-àm ‘at that time, the day was lord, the night was prince (lit. sovereign), and Utu was king’ (Enmerkar and Ensuhgirana 14). 97 On this point see Huxley, Iraq 62, 112, 125; eadem, JRAS ns 7, 189-198. There was apparently a competing tradition that understood the stars to be fixed and only the sun to move—[melamm]ūka Girra nap u katmū kakkabānū šamê gimir ūmi “(Šamaš,) your aura is a blazing fire, the stars of the sky are covered all the day” (Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 174 n. 34; also Huxley, Iraq 62, 124). The conception that the Netherworld is identical to the night sky is also found in Vedic mythology— see F. B. J. Kuiper, “The Ancient Aryan Verbal Contest”, Indo-Iranian Journal 4 (1960) 225-226; cited and discussed by B. Alster, “On the Earliest Sumerian Literary Traditon”, JCS 28 (1976) 118 n. 28. 98 ⌈šamû⌉ šaplûtu ašpû ša kakkabānī “the Lower Heavens are jasper; they belong to the stars” (AfO 19 [1959-1960] pl. 33 rev. iv 22; ed. Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 3-6). 99 See Caplice, Or 42 (1973) 299-305; also Alster, JCS 28, 118 n. 28; and n. 67 above. Note the prophetic role played by stars in Gudea’s dreams, e.g., ki-sikil . . . gi-dub-ba kug-NE šu bí-du8-a dub mul dùg-ga bí-gál-la-a ad im-dagi4-a nin9-mu dNisaba ga-nam-me-àm é-a dù-ba mul kug-ba gù ma-ra-a-dé ‘the young woman . . ., who held a stylus of NE-metal and placed it against a tablet of propitious stars, which she was consulting—that was in fact my sister, Nisaba. She announced to you in the bright stars the building of the temple’ (Gudea Cyl. A v 21-vi 2); ma-dù-na ma-dù-na énsi é-mu ma-dù-na Gù-dé-a é-mu dùda giškim-bi ga-ra-ab-sum garza-gá mul an kug-ba gù ga-mu-ra-a-dé ‘for what you are to build for me, for what you are to build for me, ruler, for the temple you are to build for me, Gudea, for my house you are to build, I will now give you an ominous sign—I will announce to you my cultic task in the bright heavenly stars’ (Gudea Cyl. A ix 7-10). 100 d Utu uru-da agrun an-na dumu dNin-gal-e tud-da “Utu, born with the city to Ningal in the heavenly agrun” (Hymn to Utu B 9). 101 Steinkeller, Biblica et Orientalia 48, 34-37. Steinkeller, following Oppenheim (Dream-book 235-236), points out that dreams, as representative of the future, were considered to originate in the Netherworld (as in the Greco-Roman conception) and were therefore under the charge of the Sun-god, who also takes the name

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the Akkadian expression warkiāt ūmī, literally, “the days that are behind,” which, in fact, is a reference to the future. The past is before us, we have experienced it, we know it, we can, in a sense, see it; on the other hand, the future is unknown and unseeable, and so, in spatial terms, is behind us. In contrast to the understanding of time commonly embedded in Western languages, in which the future is conceived as before us and the past, behind, the model of time encoded in the opposition pānû ‘front’, ‘earlier, previous’ vs. warkû ‘rear’, ‘later, future’—as counterintuitive as it is—is of time moving with respect to the observer in a way that corresponds to the circuit of the sun, with a future that is below the horizon and therefore unknown. This understanding of time is attested elsewhere, for instance, Malagasy and the Indian languages Aymara and Toba, but it is nonetheless typologically rare.102 This spatial model of time lends itself to the notion that the horizon is the bourne of the unknown, that the boundary of the known world, where the future is made manifest, is, quite literally, beyond the compass of mortal comprehension.103 In Lugalbanda, the hero lies dying and awaits Anzu on Ha-šu-úr nu-zu kur-ra-ka “(Mt.) Hašur, the unknowable mountain,” a descriptive epithet that Anzaqar, the god of dreams. Also note, in this connection, the symbolism associated with the auspicious appearance of the chthonic/Netherworld deity Ningišzida in Gudea’s dream: ud ki-šár-ra ma-ra-ta-è-a dingir-zu dNin-giš-zid-da ud-gim ki-šara ma-ra-da-ra-ta-è ‘the daylight that came out for you from the horizon—that was Ningišzida. He was able to come out for you from the horizon like daylight’ (Gudea Cyl. A v 19-20). 102 See L. Boroditsky, “Metaphoric structuring: understanding time through spatial metaphors”, Cognition 75 (2000) 1-28; Ø. Dahl, “When the future comes from behind: Malagasy and other time concepts and some consequences for communication”, International Journal of Intercultural Relations 19 (1995) 197-209; H. E. M. Klein, “The future precedes the past: time in Toba”, Word 38 (1987) 173-185; A. W. Miracle, Jr. and J. de Dios Yapita Moya, “Time and Space in Aymara”, in: M. J. Hardman, The Aymara Language and Its Social and Cultural Context (University of Florida monographs. Social Sciences 67; Gainesville, FL 1981) 33-56; G. Radden, “The Metaphor TIME AS SPACE across Languages”, Zeitschrift für Interkulturellen Fremdsprachenunterricht (http://zif.spz.tu-darmstadt.de) 8 (2003) 226-239. 103 On this point, see also the discussion of Polonsky, “The Rise of the Sun God” 313-318, 329-332, who cites much of this evidence, but, who, evidently, sees no connection with the Netherworld. In fact, it is the role of the Netherworld in all things concerned with the horizon—from divine wisdom, to the future, to fate determination and divine judgment, to birth—that is the critical point on which Polonsky and I diverge. In my opinion, the Netherworld is the place of origin and the horizon the place of manifestation; for Polonsky, the horizon is simultaneously the place of creation and realization (e.g., note Polonsky’s comments in ibid., pp. 249, 278-79, 331-32, 608f.).


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appears three times in the epic.104 Elsewhere, Lugalbanda pleads with Inana to spare him lest he perish in á-úr kur ha-šu-úr-ra-ke4 “the secret place of Mt. Hašur,”105 while Gilgameš repeatedly expresses a desire to learn the secrets of Huwawa’s unfathomable dwelling in the remote eren-mountains of the east: kur-ra tuš-a-zu ba-ra-zu kur-ra tuš-a-zu hé-zu-àm “your residence in the mountains cannot be known—yet one yearns to learn of your residence in the mountains!”106 Further, Nungal’s cosmic prison—replica of the Netherworld—is described as Urugal kur dUtu è-a šag4-bi lú nu-zu “Netherworld, mountain where Utu rises, no one can learn its interior/essence,”107 where there is little doubt that šag4-bi is intended as a double entendre. This inaccessible place, shrouded in mythic darkness, is not to be approached by the lone, intrepid traveler, for Lugalbanda, returning to his troops from Hašur mountain, “like one stepping from heaven to earth,”108 is put the question: “How did you traverse the great mountains, to which no one should travel alone, from which no man returns to his fellow man?”109 These same words take the form of an admonishment when the hero proposes to set out alone for Uruk, once again endeavoring to cross the mountains that define the boundary of the known world. And it is a warning that is echoed in Šuruppag’s advice to Ziusudra, “My son, you should not travel eastwards alone.”110 104 Lugalbanda 36, 62, 129 (lit. ‘in Hašur, the unknown (peak) of the mountains’); the translation “in the mountains where no cypresses (i.e., hašur trees) grow” (ETCSL; cf. “(Teil) des Gebriges, der keine ašur-Zypressen kennt” Wilcke Lugalbandaepos [see 145-146 ad 36]), is difficult given that the eastern mountains are virtually defined by their hašur trees; it is also contradicted by the Akkadian rendering of this passage: ana MIN( a-šur) šad lā lamādi “on (Mt.) Hašur, the unknowable mountain (lit. mountain of not knowing)” (l. 62). Moreover, the understanding of Mt. Hašur as “the unknowable mountain,” meshes well with the description elsewhere of the mythological mountains of the east as inaccessible or impenetrable, e.g., hur-sag Arattaki šu nu-te-ge26 ‘Aratta, the inaccessible mountain range’ (Inanna and Ebih 48, 107); [a-bi a-na šá-a]d la a-ri li- iš man-nu ‘father, who could rush off to the inaccessible mountain (Mt. Šaršar)?’ (SB Anzu I 89). 105 Lugalbanda and the Mountain Cave 196; the interpretation of this line follows the PSD A/2 sub a2-ur2 mng. 2.3—cf. Polonsky, “The Rise of the Sun God” 314. 106 Gilgameš and Huwawa A 138, 142, 148 (C, N, Y, II, SS). 107 Nungal Hymn 9. 108 lú an-ta ki-a gub-ba-gim (Lugalbanda 222). 109 hur-sag gal lú dili nu-du-ù-da lú-bi lú-ra nu-gi4-gi4-da a-gim im-da-du-dè-en (Lugalbanda 231-232; cf. 335-336). 110 dumu-mu ki dUtu è-a-aš dili-zu-ne kaskal na-an-ni-du-un (Instructions of Šuruppag 165-166).

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But the notion assumes its most profound form in Gilgameš, where, playing upon the space-time metaphor, the unknown east is correlated with secret, antediluvian knowledge. Gilgameš’s journey to Ūta-napišti is not only a quest for immortality, but, tightly bound up with it, a quest to recover the heavenly wisdom that was lost with the Flood, a wisdom that can now only be found on the eastern edge of the world and in the kindred Apsû. In this respect, Gilgameš has succeeded in his quest, for he is lyricized in the prologue for having “brought back a message from before the Flood,”111 and for having reestablished the ancient cultic rites that the Flood swept away.112 Ūta-napišti, protégé of Ea, discloses to Gilgameš a “secret matter,” a “mystery of the gods”113—ancient truths that are beyond the ken of contemporary mankind.114 These were the sage teachings of the antediluvian age that were passed to the Flood hero from his father, Šuruppag, in time immemorial.115 Indeed, the very incipit of the epic, ša naqba īmuru “He who saw the Deep,”116 refers to the secret knowledge of Ea and the Apsû that has been revealed to Gilgameš, secret knowledge that makes itself manifest—bubbling to the surface like the waters of ina pî nārāti, rising like the unknown future—on the eastern horizon. This last image, of course, recalls the well, būru, that Gilgameš digs in order to conjure a propitious dream—just as Odysseus does to summon prophetic ghosts—literally, tapping into the Netherworld to extract the future gestating therein.117 Like the epithet of Dukug, kur idim/šad nagbi, the play upon nagbu extends to its meanings ‘source’, ‘everything’. Thus, Ūta-napišti’s residence on edge of the world is tied not only to his exemption from mortal doom, but also to the fact that he is the sole possessor of the knowledge from before the Flood, a [u]bla ēma ša lām abūb[i ] (Gilg. I 8). mutēr mā āzi ana ašrīšunu ša u alliqu abūbu ⌈mukīn⌉ par ī ana nišī apâti “who restored the cult-centers that the Flood destroyed and established the proper rites for the human race” (Gilg. I 43-44). 113 amāt ni irti u pirišti ša ilī (Gilg. XI 9-10, 281-282). 114 See George, Gilgamesh 508-509. In this connection, also observe Ninsun’s prediction that Gilgamesh will become wise with Ea of the Apsû (Gilg. III 104). 115 Instructions of Šuruppag 1-6. 116 Again, following the translation of George, Gilgamesh, 539: 1, which captures nicely the subtleties of the term; see his discussion on pp. 444-445. Also note in this connection the above quoted description of Dukug as the kur idim/šad nagbi “mountain of springs/sources” (Borger, JCS 21, 3: 2). 117 Gilgameš IV 5; Odyssey XI: 23f.; see Oppenheim Dream-book 236. Also to be included here is the “channel” (rā u) that Gilgameš must dig in order to obtain the plant of rejuvenation (XI 288). 111

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prerogative that is embodied in the moniker Atra- asīs ‘Extra-Wise’. That this knowledge belongs to the very fabric of the eastern horizon, and exists not merely on account of the Flood hero’s presence, is demonstrated by the character of Šiduri, the ale-wife dwelling by the cosmic sea dispensing sage council, who in Šurpu is counted as a goddess of wisdom.118 The Cutting of Fates and Judgments on the Horizon As I touched upon in previous pages, the eastern horizon is the place where judgments are decided and where destinies are fixed, attributes that now find an explanation in the wake of the foregoing discussion of the horizon as the point of manifestation of a future that gestates in the Netherworld. The cutting of judgments at the place of sunrise is made plain in the Sippar Temple Hymn—di kud-ru ki ud è “(Šamaš) pronounces judgment at the place where the sun rises”119—and elsewhere Utu is referred to as the judge “who searches out the verdicts of the gods” at the place where the sun rises.120 It is an idea that takes on metaphorical dimensions as well, for in Lagaš “days of justice had risen for (Gudea), and he set (his) foot on the neck of evil and complaint; for his city he had risen from the horizon like Utu.”121 As for the fixing of fates at daybreak, there appears also in Gudea Cyl. B (v 16) the succinct statement, Utu è-àm nam tar-ra-àm “the sun is rising, destiny is

118 d Šiduri lip ur dIštar nēmeqi “may Šiduri release, goddess of wisdom” (Šurpu II 173); see George, Gilgamesh 149 and n. 52. Šiduri’s resemblance to Ūta-napišti in this regard is underscored by the fact that her counsel in the Old Babylonian epic was reshaped and attributed to the latter in the SB version (see George, Gilgamesh 32). 119 Temple Hymns 46: 489. 120 ur-sag gud ha-šu-úr-ta è-a gù huš dé-dé-e šul dUtu gud silim-ma gub-ba ù-na silig gar-ra ad-da uru gal ki ud è-a nimgir [gal] an kug-ga di-kud ka-aš bar ⌈kíg⌉ dingir-re-e-ne su6 na4za-gìn lá An kug-ga an-úr-ta è-a dUtu dumu dNin-gal-e tud-da d En-ki-ke4 an ki nígin-na-ba zag-ba nam-mi-in-gub “(Enki placed in charge of the whole of heaven and earth) the hero, the bull who emerges from the hašur forest bellowing truculently, the youth Utu, the bull standing triumphantly, audaciously, majestically, the father of the ‘Great City’, at the place where the sun rises (he is) the great herald of holy An, the judge who searches out verdicts for the gods, with a lapis-lazuli beard, rising from the horizon into the holy heavens—Utu, the son born by Ningal” (Enki and the World Order 374-380). 121 ud níg-si-[sá] mu-na-⌈ta-è⌉ níg-érim ì-dUtu gú-bi gìri bí-ús uru-e dUtu-gim ki-ša-ra im-ma-ta-a-è (Gudea Cyl. B xviii 10-13).

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determined.” Naturally, this too was conceived as taking place on the eastern horizon—ki dUtu è ki nam-tar-re-da “the place where the Sun-god rises, the place where fates are determined.”122 In Lugalbanda and the Mountain Cave, it is Utu who wields the power to fix destinies, “as the bright bull rose from the horizon, bull of Mt. Hašur, who determines fates . . .”123 But as discussed by Polonksy, most often the ultimate authority to determine fates rests with the chief deities of the pantheon, An and Enlil, while the Sun-god, “the great herald of holy An,”124 regulates the process by virtue of his daily circuit: “(Without Šamaš) An and Enlil would convoke no assembly in heaven. They would not take counsel concerning the land.”125 Thus Enlil, along with his spouse Ninlil, determines fates on the throne of Ekur, the worldly counterpart of the cosmic horizon—“You decide the fates together at the place where Utu rises.”126 Otherwise, this function is relegated to other major deities who perform this task under the auspices of An and Enlil: “With An, the king, on An’s dais, I (Enki) oversee justice. With Enlil, looking out over the lands, I decree good destinies. He has placed in my hands the decreeing of fates in the place where the Sun(-god) rises.”127 And so Anzu’s power to determine fates in his abode in the distant eastern mountains is also granted by Enlil: “I am the prince who decides the destiny of rolling rivers. I keep on the straight and narrow path the righteous who follow Enlil’s counsel. My father Enlil brought me here. He let me bar the entrance to the mountains as if with a great door. If I fix a fate, who shall alter it? If I but say the word, who shall change it? Whoever has done this to my nest, if you are a god, I will speak 122 Steible NBW 2, 343: 7-8 and 344: 7-8. For further evidence of the horizon as the place where judgments and fates are cut, see Temple Hymns 89-90 ad 192; T. Frymer-Kensky, “The Judicial Ordeal in the Ancient Near East” (Yale diss. 1977) 611: 27; Polonsky, “The Rise of the Sun God” passim. 123 gud babbar an-úr-ta è-a gud ha-šu-úr-ra nam-e-a ak-e (Lugalbanda and the Mountain Cave 228-229); the interpretation of nam—ak follows PSD A/3 s.v. ak mng. 8.138 (= šīmta nabû)—cf. Polonsky, “The Rise of the Sun God” 76 n. 204; additional evidence for Utu-Šamaš determing fates is provided in ibid., 239-241. 124 Enki and the World Order 376 (see n. 120). 125 Anu u Enlil ina šamê pu ra ul upa arū milik mātim ul imallikū (E. Ebeling, Or 23 [1953] 213: 3-4). 126 nam tar-re ki dUtu è-a nam ši-mu-da-ab-tar-re (Enlil in the Ekur 164). 127 An lugal-da barag An-na-ka di si sá-e-me-en dEn-líl-da kur-ra igi gál-la-ka nam dug3 tar-ra-me-en nam tar-ra ki ud è-a-ke4 šu-gá mu-un-gál (Enki and the World Order 74-76).


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with you, indeed I will befriend you. If you are a man, I will fix your fate . . .”128 Both properties of the horizon, the cutting of judgments and fates, are intimately bound up with the Netherworld and the role of the Sun-god at night. Steinkeller has argued convincingly that Šamaš’s role as the principal deity of divination and extispicy—that is, his ability to predict the future—is based ultimately on the fact that the future is conceived and gestates in the Netherworld, a realm over which the Sun-god holds sway. On the divine plane, Steinkeller contends, extispicy was envisioned as a trial that took place at night in the Netherworld; Šamaš, as the highest authority in the Netherworld, presided over this divine tribunal whose verdict was inscribed in the exta of the sacrificial lamb only to be revealed, significantly, at daybreak, when the real-world extispicy was itself performed.129 Casting this net wider, we come upon the cognate rationale for the eastern horizon as the place where judgments are decided and destinies are fixed. Understood as a type of trial, the purpose of extispicy was to obtain a judgment, to ascertain a truth that was unknown and bound to the future and, therefore, considered to lie on the far side of the horizon, in the Netherworld, only to be made manifest at daybreak. Similarly, the determination of fate or destiny, nam-tar, is often paired—and in many cases interchangeable—with judging, di-kud, or decision making, ka-aš—bar.130 The fixing of fate is, in fact, a judgment, a decision or determination with respect to the future. The semantic overlap between the two is captured by the lexicon itself, as both di-kud and nam-tar denote cutting, a separation: literally one cuts a decision and one cuts a fate—kud and tar being synonymous verbs assigned to the same graph. The very act of determining a destiny or rendering a judgment represents the crossing of the boundary between the darkness of what is in flux and 128 íd hal-hal-la nun nam tar-re-bi-me-en zid-du šag4 kúš-ù dEn-líl-lá-ka gišigitab-bi-me-en a-a-mu dEn-líl-le mu-un-de6-en kur-ra gišig gal-gim igi-ba bí-in-tab-en nam ù-mu-tar a-ba-a šu mi-ni-ib-bal-e inim ù-bí-dug4 a-ba-a íb-ta-bal-e lú gùd-gá ne-en ba-e-a-ak-a dingir hé-me-en inim ga-mu-ra-ab-dug4 gu5-li-gá nam-ba-e-niku4-re-en lú-ùlu hé-me-en nam ga-mu-ri-ib-tar . . . (Lugalbanda 99-108). 129 Steinkeller, Biblica et Orientalia 48, 38-42. Note that the cosmological identity of the night sky with the Netherworld, i.e., the night sky is the nether sky rotated from below, explains why the advocates of the person for whom the extispicy is performed are the stars, i.e., the gods of the night, while the extispicy trial itself takes place in the Netherworld. 130 See Polonsky’s discussion in “Rise of the Sun God” 79-82.

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undecided and the daylight of what is fixed and established. And so there is a natural association with the horizon, which is itself a separation, a determination. But more than the English lexeme, its Greek progenitor, ὁρίζω (horizo) ‘to mark boundaries, separate, delimit’, captures the intimacy of this semantic relationship, for it carries the figurative meanings ‘to appoint’, ‘to decree’, and more to the point, ‘to ordain’, ‘to determine’.131 It is a conception that extends to cosmogony, ‘separation’ being intimately bound up with the creation: Chaos, literally, ‘the opening up’, is the first entity created in the Hesiodic cosmogony and the one that allows all others to emerge. This Greek notion has, of course, a Mesopotamian parallel, if not ancestor132—An-šár and Ki-šár, ‘the entirety of heaven’ and ‘the entirety of earth’, that is, the celestial and terrestrial horizons respectively, are primary entities in Enūma Eliš, while the cosmos that Marduk fashions is created by i pīšī-ma kīma nūn maš ê ana šinīšu “splitting her (Tiāmat) in two like a fish (split for) drying” (IV 137). Moreover, in the earlier tradition preserved in the Hymn to the Hoe, Enlil creates the universe by separating heaven from earth and earth from heaven.133 Fates and omens are but two facets of the same phenomenon of prognostication. Both were conceived as originating in the Netherworld—products of the night that were revealed with the coming day. And the fixing of fate, like its more mundane counterpart, the extispicy verdict, is achieved by a divine assembly that arrives at a ‘decision’; in both cases the celestial deities, the Anunaki, with their close links to the Netherworld, play a critical role. In the legal phraseology in which extispicy and fate determination is so often cast, the night or Netherworldly aspect represents the deliberations upon which the decision is based, the darkness of uncertainty that precedes the divine verdict at daybreak. Tacit corroboration for fates originating in the Netherworld is found in the fact that the god Namtar—lú nam tar-tar-ra-ra “who

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1251.

H. G. Liddell and R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon (Oxford 1940) 1250-

132 See M. L. West, The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth (Oxford 1997) 276-283. 133 an ki-ta bad-re6-dè sag na-an-ga-ma-an-sum ki an-ta bad-re6-dè sag naan-ga-ma-an-sum . . . “not only did he hasten to separate heaven from earth, and hasten to separate earth from heaven . . .” (The Hymn to the Hoe 4-5; note also Gilgameš, Enkidu, and the Netherworld 8-9).


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decrees all fates”134—is a chthonic deity, the vizier of Ereškigal. It is often assumed that Namtar’s association with the Netherworld stems from death being the ultimate fate,135 but it is clear, in light of the foregoing arguments, that this association has a more profound cosmological basis and so the god’s demonic aspect was likely derivative. Just as Night engenders the Destinies in Hesiod’s Theogony (215f.), nam-tar is conceived and gestates in the Netherworld in the Mesopotamian view. This claim goes some way to explaining why destinies may be fixed in the Apsû rather than on the horizon proper;136 why, when Anzu loses the tablet of destinies, it returns to the Apsû;137 and why Lu’utu, ensi of Umma, builds a temple for Ereškigal, the queen of the Netherworld, nin ki ud šu4 “lady of the place where the sun sets,” which faces east, ki dUtu è ki namtar-re-da “the place where the Sun-god rises, the place where fates are determined.”138 Furthermore, it explains why Nungal, having been allotted her divine powers by Ereškigal and having set up her dais in the Netherworld, the mountain where Utu rises, “knows favorable words when determining fates;”139 and, finally, why of the lord of the Netherworld, Nergal, it is said “so that fates will be determined, you, Nergal, determine fates (with An) . . . you rise up over the mountain where the sun rises.”140 The Saw of Šamaš As a corollary to the foregoing arguments, an explanation for Šamaš’s šaššaru-saw, the most distinctive and regular attribute of the

The Death of Ur-Namma 108. E.g., J. Klein, “Namtar,” RlA 9 (1998) 143: §1. 136 E.g., Abzu ki sikil ki nam tar-ra “Abzu, pure place, place where the fates are determined” (Enki’s Journey to Nippur 44). 137 dub nam-tar-ra-⌈bi⌉ Abzu-šè ba-an-gi4 (Ninurta and the Turtle, Segment B 4). 138 Steible NBW 2, 343: 2, 7-8; 344: 2, 7-8—šu4 is syllabic for šú. The juxtaposition of the places of sun-rise and sun-set in this inscription represents another instance of the paradoxical phenomenon of coincidentia oppositorum, which, as discussed above (nn. 54-57), is associated with the Netherworld and the horizon, as representatives of both life and death. D. Katz offers a different interpretation of this text in The Image of the Nether World in the Sumerian Sources (Bethesda, MD 2003) 352-353. 139 Nungal Hymn 72, cited below n. 179. 140 nam tar-re nam mu-un-di-ni-ib-tar-re dNergal-ka-me-en . . . kur ud è zìg-game-en (Hymn to Nergal 39, 46). 134 135

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Sun-god, presents itself—returning briefly to the iconography of the horizon. Lambert has recently suggested that this is a weapon, used by the Sun-god to behead criminals.141 Yet others have explained it as the means by which Šamaš cuts his way through the mountains in his daily ascent.142 But this saw with its modest, curved serrated blade, elsewhere attested as a common agricultural implement, is hardly suitable as a weapon, let alone as a tool for cutting through mountains, which, at any rate, were scaled via a staircase. Clearly, in light of the preceding discussion—and it must be remembered that in the glyptic Šamaš brandishes his saw as he rises over the eastern mountains at day break—the šaššaru-saw is symbolic of the cutting of judgments, di-kud, that Šamaš executes, and the cutting of fates, nam-tar, that Šamaš facilitates, on the eastern horizon. And here we must not overlook that the Akkadian verb parāsum, like its Sumerian counterpart kud, denotes both the physical act of separating or dividing as well as the cutting of judgments—a fact that takes on special significance when we take into account the probable Semitic influence if not origins of this seal motif. Further, the association of the cutting of judgments and destinies with the east that gives meaning to the šaššaru-saw of Šamaš may likewise explain the name of the mythical birthplace of Anzu, kurŠáršár—‘Mt. Saw’, a veritable Sierra—perhaps, another designation for the mountain of sunrise.143 In the tradition preserved in the Lipšur-litanies and HAR.ra = ubullu this mountain is equated with Mt. Bašar, i.e., Jebel Bišri, and therefore considered to lie to the northwest.144 But this may be a case of a late toponymic transfer, from east to west, akin to the eren-forest of the Gilgameš tradition. 141 W. G. Lambert, “Sumerian Gods: Combining the Evidence in Texts and Art”, in: I. L. Finkel and M. J. Geller, Sumerian gods and their representations (CM 7; Groningen 1997) 5. 142 E.g., D. Collon, First Impressions: Cylinder Seals in the Ancient Near East (Chicago 1987) 35; J. van Dijk, “Sumerische Religion”, in: J. P. Asmussen—J. Læssøe, Handbuch der Religionsgeschichte 1 (Göttingen 1971) 475-476. 143 SB Anzu I 25-28 (Šár-šár KUR-i ). The reading Šár-šár is demonstrated by a gloss (see n. 144); note also the discussion of W. G. Lambert, “Notes on a Work of the Most Ancient Semitic Literature”, JCS 41 (1989) 17-18. Further, in Anzu there is a likely play on Mt. Saw and Anzu’s beak: šá-áš-šá-ru [a]p-p[a-šú . . .] (SB Anzu I 28; ed. W. W. Hallo and W. L. Moran, JCS 31 [1979] 78-79). I thank P. Steinkeller for reminding me that the toponym Sierra (Sp.), captures the natural likening of a mountain range to a saw. 144 KUR Šár-šár = KUR A-mur-ri-i, KUR Ba-šár = KUR A-mur-ri-i (Reiner Lipšur Litanies 134: 38-39); KUR HIšá-ar-šá-arHI = MIN (šá-ad ) A-mur-ri-i, KUR Bi-sar = MIN (šá-ad ) MIN (A-mur-ri-i ) (von Weiher Uruk 114 i 37-38 [Hh.]).


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In Erra, despite contemporaneous historical references that may point to the NW, the presence of hašur-trees on Mt. Šaršar suggests the influence of a competing, older tradition, in which Mt. Šaršar is identified with the mountain of sunrise.145 Of course, in Lugalbanda, it is in the eastern mountains where Anzu resides and determines fates. And a location on the eastern horizon is also suggested by the likely mention of Mt. Saw, again in connection with Anzu, in the early Semitic literary text ARET 5, 6//IAS 326+342, a major theme of which is the Sun-god’s rise from the Netherworld.146 The Cosmography of Birth A particularly striking metaphor involving the horizon is the couching of the birth event in terms of sunrise,147 an analogy that ties together many of the themes described in this paper and so serves as a fitting conclusion. Šamaš, along with Sîn and Asallu i-Marduk, was understood to assist in childbirth, and it was not uncommon for the Sun-god to be invoked, or otherwise mentioned, in birth incantations.148 In one such incantation, in the Cow of Sîn tradition, a woman, in the guise of a cow, gives birth “within the pen of the Sun-god, in the fold of Šakan,”149 son of Šamaš, and, in 145 ša-da-a Šár-šár im-ta-nu qaq-qar-šu ša qiš-ti giš a-šur uk-tap-pi-ra gu-up-ni-ša “Mt. Šaršar he razed to the ground; in the hašur-forest, he rooted out trunks” (Cagni Erra IV 143-144). 146 . . . DUGUD AN.ZU HUR.SAG sa-sa-ru12 i-ra-ad “. . . venerable(?) Anzu, Mt. Šaršar is quaking” (after Krebernik, Quaderni di Semitistica 18, 75: C6.2-6.3// A4.6-4.7; for the identification of sa-sa-ru12 with Mt. Šaršar, see Lambert, JCS 41, 17-18). The Netherworld/easterly setting of much of the myth is suggested by the repeated references to Ea, the Apsû, and the Anuna gods, as well as the congregation of the River-god (see below), Šamaš, and Ištaran, the god of justice who resides in Dēr on the eastern frontier of Mesopotamia, the worldy counterpart of the cosmic horizon where judgments are rendered. With regard to this last point, it may be Gilgameš’s legendary travels east, in addition to his role as judge of the Netherworld, that accounts for his relationship with Dēr as evidenced by a garden in his name within the city (von Weiher Uruk 185 rev. 7'; cf. George, Gilgamesh 112, 125). 147 On this methaphor, cf. Polonsky, “Rise of the Sun God” 608-622. 148 M. Stol, Birth in Babylonia and the Bible: Its Mediterranean Setting (CM 14; Groningen 2000) 133-134. This association with childbirth may explain the cooccurrence of the Sun-god and an infant or child in several seals, e.g., Boehmer, Die Entwicklung der Glyptik Abb. 483, 560. 149 i-na ta-ar-ba- í-im ša dUTU sú-pu-ú-úr dSumuqan! ( J. van Dijk, Or 41 [1972] 343-344: 2-3; see B. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature, 2 vols. [Bethesda, MD 1993] 135).

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another context, the infant, emerging from the darkness of the womb, is exhorted to “come forth quickly and see the light of the sun!”150 But other incantations take this notion further and sunrise, the sun’s daily rebirth, becomes a metaphor or simile for the birth event itself—“Let the baby rise for you like the Sun-god!”151 A salient aspect to this imagery is the likening of the unborn infant with umbilical cord to a moored boat, and of the infant emerging from the cervix to the boat unmoored, slipping through opened gates.152 The cosmic setting is made plain in an incantation that states: “(from) the horizon, the woman who is about to give birth, leads the boat through water.”153 The cosmographical basis of this image comes into better focus when it is recalled that the primeval river, “creatrix of everything,” was believed to originate on the eastern horizon, its headwaters springing forth from the mythical Dukug, kur idim/šad nagbi “mountain of springs.” These waters, by virtue of their location, are imbued with the property of fate determination—“your (Lugalerra’s) river is a mighty river, the river which determines fates, the Great River at the place where the sun rises, no one can look at it.”154 According to this same hymn, this river possesed that other characteristic of the horizon, judging, for it is also known by the name Idlurugu, river of the ordeal, the river that returns the verdicts of the Apsû.155 150 ár-hiš lit-ta- a-am-ma li-mu-ra ZALAG dUTU-ši (BAM 248//KAR 196 iv 1 [Assur Compendium]; see Stol, Birth in Babylonia 64-66; N. Veldhuis, A Cow of Sîn [LOT 2; Groningen 1991] 15; idem, ASJ 11 [1989] 250); similarly, Farber Baby-Beschwörungen 34 Vorl. 1: 2. 151 [. . .] dUtu-kam hé-⌈em⌉-ma-ra-⌈è⌉ : [. . .]-⌈x⌉-tim li-it-ta-a -< i> (M. E. Cohen, RA 70 [1976] 138: 59-60). 152 See Stol, Birth in Babylonia 65 (BAM 248 ii 47-69), 69 (BAM 248 iii 54-iv 1); cf. the Assyrian elegy discussed in E. Reiner, Your Thwarts in Pieces, Your Mooring Rope Cut: Poetry from Babylonia and Assyria (Ann Arbor, MI 1985) 85-93. 153 Cohen, RA 70 (1976) 136: 10-11, cited below n. 162; note also: an-[úr-ra? munus-ù]-tud-a-ni gišmá-gi a [bí-ir-ri] “from the horizon, the woman who is about to give birth, leads the boat through water” ( J. van Dijk, Or 44 [1975] 66: 4). 154 íd-zu íd kalag-ga-àm íd nam-tar-ra-àm Íd-mah ki ud è igi nu-bar-re-dam (Ibbi-Sîn B, Segment A 23-24). 155 2-na-ne-ne lugal íd-da-me-eš dÍd-lú-ru-gú lú zid dadag-ga-[àm] “they (Meslamtaea and Lugalerra) are both the lords of the river, the River of the Ordeal, which clears the true man” (Ibbi-Sîn B, Segment B 2-3). As for the Apsû as the source of its verdicts, note: é-dNanše-ka Íd-lú-ru-gú lú mu-un-zalag-zalag eš-bar-kin šìr-kug ka Abzu-ta um-ta-è-a-ra . . . “the river of the ordeal in the house of Nanše cleanses a person. When the decision, the holy song, has come out of the mouth of the Abzu . . .” (Nanše Hymn 130-131; following W. Heimpel, JCS 33 [1981] 91). Cosmology is once again reflected in real-world practice, for the river


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Flowing under the auspices of the Netherworld pair Meslamtaea and Lugalerra, the cosmic river is the conduit between the Upperworld and the Apsû, the river upon whose waves Lugalerra descends to the abyss.156 These are the primordial waters of the eastern edge of the world, waters that assume a variety of mythical manifestations that draw upon either their connection with the Netherworld or the Sun-god’s mastery over this domain: mê mūti “Waters of Death” in Gilgameš, Íd-kur-ra íd-lú-gu7-gu7 “River of the Netherworld, ManEating-River” in Enlil and Ninlil,157 the Hubur, pî nārāti “Mouthof-the-Rivers” associated with Utu and Dumuzi in the Kiškanû legend,158 as well as Utu’s seven-mouthed river in Lugalbanda.159 In yet another instance of cultic reality mirroring cosmography, it was likely these mythical waters that inspired Lu’utu, the ensi of Umma, to “establish a water(course) in front (of the temple)” when he built the temple for Ereškigal, which “(faced) the place where the sun rises, where fates are determined.”160 Birth metaphors draw upon this cosmography, describing the amniotic fluid in language that evokes the impenetrable waters of Apsû, in one case comparing the amniotic fluid to the cosmic ocean—“In the ocean waters, fearsome, raging, in the far-off waters of the sea: where the little one is—his arms are bound! Inside which the eye of the sun does not bring light. Asallu i, the son of Enki, saw him.”161 Developing this image further, the unborn infant is ordeal was conducted “at dawn, when it was light” (i-na še-rim i-na na-ma-ri [CT 46, 45 iii 26; ed. W. G. Lambert, Iraq 27 (1965) 6]). 156 má-gur8 mah a ku-kur-ra u5-a gú dirig nam-lú-ùlu-ka en dLugal-er9-ra gìri-zu um-mi-gub nun kur-ra-ke4-ne ša-mu-e-ši-gam-e-dè-eš bùr-ra ud zalag ša-mu-unne-ri-ib-è “great barge riding on the flood waters, Lord Lugalerra: when you set foot in the place where all mankind is gathered, the princes of the Netherworld bow down before you; in the abyss you emit a bright light for them” (Ibbi-Sîn B, Segment A 25-29). Further, note the suggestion of Å. W. Sjöberg, OrSuec 1920 (1970-71) 160 ad 2, that the name dLugal-íd-da applies to Nergal as well as Enki-Ea. 157 Enlil and Ninlil 98-99 (cf. 113). 158 See n. 67. 159 See Woods, ZA 95 (2005) 7-45, for further discussion of dÍd and its various manifestations. 160 ki dUtu è ki nam-tar-re-da . . . gaba-ba a bí-in-gi-in (Steible NBW 2, 343: 78, 10-11 and 344: 7-8, 10). Similarly, it was the bison’s mythical and real-world association with the east that led Gudea to “set up the standard of Utu, the Bisonhead, facing sunrise where fates are determined” (igi ud è ki nam tar-re-ba šu-nir d Utu sag-alim-ma im-ma-da-si-ge [Gudea Cyl. A xxvi 3-5]). 161 i-na me-e A.AB.BA ša-am-ru-tim pa-al- u-ú-tim i-na me-e ti-a-am-tim ru-qú-ú-tim

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often likened to a boat laden with the precious cargo of eren wood, carnelian and lapis lazuli: “(From) the horizon the woman who is about to give birth is leading the boat through the water. Upon a boat for perfume, she has loaded perfumes. Upon a boat for erenwood, she has loaded eren-wood. Upon a boat for eren-fragrance, she has loaded eren-fragrance. (Upon) a boat of carnelian and lapis lazuli, she has loaded carnelian and lapis lazuli.”162 As we have seen, hašur and eren trees are synonymous with the Zagros, being both visual and literary symbols of the eastern horizon, while these precious stones likewise have close real-world and derived mythical163 associations with the east. But there is more to this metaphor. Central to this imagery is the description of the womb as “the quay of death”164 or as bīt ikleti “house of darkness” 165—a phrase that in other contexts serves as a poetic designation for the Netherworld: ana bīt ikleti šubat Irkalla ana

a-šar e-e -ru-um ku-us-sà-a i-da-a-šu qí-ir-bi-is-sú la-a uš-na-wa-ru i-in ša-am-ši-im imu-ur-šu-ú-ma dAsal-lú-hi ma-ri dEn-ki ( J. van Dijk, Or 42 [1973] 503: 5-11; in l. 26 the fetus, e rum, is likened to a fish, dadum; translation following Stol, Birth in Babylonia 11, which in turn is based on Foster, Before the Muses 136). 162 [x an-ú]r du-da-a-ni ma-gi4 a mi-ni-ri : [i-ši ]-id ša-me-e ù er- e-tim i-na ata-lu-ki-ša ki-ma e-le-pí i-te-i-il, ⌈ma še⌉-ma-ta še-em im-mi-in-si : ki-ma e-le-ep ri-qí ri-qí ma-li-a-at, ma e-re-na-ta e-re-en im-mi-in-[si] : ki-ma e-le-ep e-re-ni e-re-na-am ma-li-[a-at], ma še-em e-re-na-ta še-em e-re-na im-mi-[in-si], ki-ma e-le-ep ri-qí ere-ni ri-qí e-re-n[a-am ma-li-a-at], ma gu-ug za-gi-na gu-ug za-gi-na im-mi-i[n-si] : ki-ma e-le-ep sa-am-tim ù uq-ni-im sa-am-t[a-am ù uq-na-am ma-li-a-at] (Cohen, RA 70, 136: 10-19; translation following the Sum. version—du-da-a-ni is for ù-tud-a-ni [ibid. 140 ad 2-9]); for further texts describing the fetus as an eren-laden boat, see Polonsky, “Rise of the Sun God” 614-15 n. 1802. Note the association of the birth boat with lapis lazuli given in a medical commentary (11N-T3): én munus ù-tu-ud-da-a-ni : e-lip-pi šá uq-na-a za-na-at “incantation for a woman giving birth: the ship laden with lapis lazuli” (M. Civil, JNES 33 [1974] 331: 1); see also the discussion of Frymer-Kensky, “Judicial Ordeal” 600-602. 163 In particular, the garden of gemstones in Gilgameš; see E.C.L. During Caspers, “In the Footsteps of Gilgamesh: In Search of the Prickley Rose”, Persica 12 (1987) 63. 164 ina KAR mu-ti ka-lat GIŠ.MÁ “at the quay of death, the boat is held back” (BAM 248//KAR 196 iii 58); see the comments of J. van Dijk, “Une incantation accompagnant la naissance de l’homme”, Or 42 (1973) 505. 165 e rum wāšib bīt ek[letim] lū tatta âm tātamar n[ūr Šamšim] “little one, who dwelt in the house of darkness—well, you are outside now, have seen the light of the sun” (W. Farber, ZA 71 [1981] 63 rev. 1-2; also Farber Baby-Beschwörungen 34; following W. Farber, “Magic at the Cradle: Babylonian and Assyrian Lullabies”, Anthropos 85 [1990] 140. Note also the expressions: āšib ekleti lā namrūti “the one who dwelt in darkness, where it is not light,” āšib ekleti binût amīlūti “inhabitant of darkness, newborn human being,” among others discussed by Farber in BabyBeschwörungen 149-151).


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bīti ša ēribūšu lā a û “to the house of darkness, the seat of Irkalla, to the house which those who enter cannot leave.”166 Although failure of the infant to successfully emerge from the womb is a de facto death sentence for both mother and child, the description, under regular conditions, nonetheless, contains a paradox, the uterus being quite literally the quay of life. This apparent contradiction, however, is resolved once the cosmographical basis of this metaphor and the paradoxical nature of both the Netherworld and the horizon, as instantiations of the phenomenon of coincidentia oppositorum, are taken into account. By what the ancients could only have taken to be a mystical process, the infant appears in the womb, gestating in complete darkness, an unknown entity of undetermined sex, existing without the benefit of the breath of life. Only upon exiting the birth canal and entering the world of the living—that is, becoming manifest after crossing the horizon—is she a living, breathing person, a known entity—Tūta-napšum “She-has-found-life” to mention a personal name that epitomizes the notion. Simply put, the womb is the Netherworld, and the infant, as the reborn sun, gestates there like the future.167 Such is the rationale that explains the figurative description of the sun at daybreak as emerging from šag4 an-na or utul šamê, phrases commonly translated, somewhat awkwardly, as “innermost heaven/heaven’s interior” and “lap of heaven” respectively,168 but are better captured by the more literal “womb of heaven,” for Utu was born in the agrun, and so, in the Netherworld.169 The womb conceived as the Netherworld accounts 166 Gilgameš VII 184-185; see George, Gilgamesh 481- 482, for discussion of the parallels in Ištar’s Descent to the Netherworld and Nergal and Ereškigal. This negative portrayal of the womb, playing upon darkness and confinement (note Or 42, 503: 8, cited above, where the baby’s arms are described as “bound”) is also captured by the Nungal hymn where the womb is likened to a jail—see M. Civil, “On Mesopotamian Jails and Their Lady Warden”, Studies Hallo 78. 167 For a similar Biblical conception, note “I was not hidden from You when I was made in secret, wrought in the nether-regions of the earth” (Psalm 139: 15). The parallel was noted by van Dijk, who added the epigraph “Quando texebar in profundis terrae” to his article in Or 42 (Frymer-Kensky “Judicial Ordeal” 612-13 ad 40); note, in particular, Frymer-Kensky’s comments in “Judicial Ordeal” 603. 168 See Heimpel, JCS 38, 130-132; for an-šag4 as the Netherworld sky, see most recently Steinkeller, Biblica et Orientalia 48, 19 n. 19 (cf. Horowitz, Cosmic Geography 247-249). 169 Hymn to Utu B 9, cited above in n. 100. Similarly note: kur ba-an-sùh-sùh gissu ba-an-lá an-usan še-er-še-er-bi im-ma-DU dUtu úr ama-ni dNin-gal-šè sag íl-la mu-un-du “the mountains are becoming indistinct as the shadows fall across

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for the name of the birth goddess, dLàl-har-gal-zu “expert of the Lalhar;” làl-har/gar is a poetic designation of the Apsû, the bīt nēmeqi, which evokes the mysteries and secret knowledge thought to be contained therein—ni irti/pirišti lalgar “secrets of the Lalgar.”170 Moreover, drawing again upon the scorpion’s special relationship with the horizon, it also accounts for chthonic Iš ara’s role as a mother goddess: Ištar is Iš ara during times of childbirth, while the temple to the scorpion-goddess bears the telling name, É-šag4-sur-ra “House of the Womb.”171 The Apsû is the dark, impenetrable place—the é-ku10-ku10172— where the god of creation, Enki, dwells and, most notably, from whose clay man himself is created. The comparison of the womb to the Netherworld draws upon the utter darkness, the mystical knowledge, and the promise of the future that defines the latter. And like the night, the womb is marked by a deathly, preconscious stillness. Described by one birth incantation, edil bītu uddul bābu nadû argullū ekleta imlû sūqū “the house is locked, the door is shut, the bolt is set; the streets are filled with darkness”—language that is nearly identical to that of the prayers to the Gods of the Night, so bringing us once again to divination, and the night sky’s identity with the Netherworld.173 them; the evening twilight lies over them. Proud Utu is already on his way to the bosom of his mother Ningal” (Gilgameš and Huwawa A 78-80). 170 Apsû lip ur bīt nēmeqi (4R 52 iii 34); ni irti lalgar (OIP 2, 94: 65 and 103: 32); pirišti lalgar (KAR 44 rev. 8); further, note the equation làl-gar = ap-su-u (Malku I 291). See Stol’s discussion of the goddess dLàl-har-gal-zu in Birth in Babylonia 125; for làl-gar = làl-har, see M. Civil, RA 60 (1966) 92; W. G. Lambert, AfO 17 (1954-56) 319. 171 Lambert-Millard Atra-hasīs I 304 and George Temples 144: 1024 respectively. A birth aspect is also suggested by MEE 4, 290-291: 808-809, where d AMA-ra is immediately followed by GÁxSIG7-ra = Iš- a-ra/la—see M. Krebernik, “Muttergöttin. A. I”, RlA 8 (1997) 515: § 7.7. Also possibly finding an explanation here, at least in part, is Kūbu, “a premature or stillborn child” (CAD K sub kūbu)—i.e., a fetus that has not reached full term in the womb—as a Netherworld demon under the charge of Šamaš: šap-la-a-ti m[a-a]l-ki dKù-bu dA-nun-na-ki ta-paqqid “below, in the Netherworld, you (Šamaš) assign (tasks to) the malku-demons, the Kūbu-demon (and) the Anunnaki” (Lambert BWL 126: 31, following CAD K sub kūbu mng. 2a). 172 VAS 17, 10: 9-11, 118-122. 173 Cf. bu-ul-lu-lu ru-bu-ú sí-ik-ka-t[um] še-re-tum ta-ab-ka-[a?] [ a-ab-ra-tum ni-šu-ú ša-qú-um-ma-a] pi-tu-tum ud-du-lu ba-a-[bu] “The great ones are deep in sleep. The bolts are fallen; the fastenings are placed. The crowds and people are quiet. The open gates are (now) closed” (G. Dossin, “Prières aux ‘Dieux de la Nuit’ ”, RA 32 [1935] 180, 182: 1-4; translation following Pritchard ANET 390-391 and L. Oppenheim, “A New Prayer to the ‘Gods of the Night’ ”, AnBi 12 [1959]


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The birth event naturally reaches its conclusion with the infant emerging from the birth canal and the umbilical cord being cut. And so, too, concludes its cosmic counterpart. Just as fates are cut each day as the sun emerges from the Netherworld, the infant’s fate is fixed with the cutting of the umbilical cord.174 But like the fates that are determined at daybreak, the infant’s fate is merely made manifest at birth—it has long gestated in the womb: ištu sassūrīšu šīmtum ābtum šīmassu “ever since he was (in) his (mother’s) womb a favorable destiny was determined for him,” as a letter to Nabû claims.175 Of course, there is no essential difference between the cosmic and in utero aspects of fate determination, as shown by the mother goddess, who, among her various guises, is “lady who determines destiny in heaven and earth, Nintud, mother of the gods,”176 who bears the names dNin-nam-tar-tar-re, dNin-ka-aš-bar-ra, and d Nin-ka-aš-bar-an-ki,177 and who, as Mami, is an Underworld deity, the creatrix of man in the bīt šīmti “House of Destiny”178—Mother Earth. Indeed, this elaborate tapestry, interwoven as it is with the notions of the Netherworld, sunrise, birth, and fate, is nicely illustrated by the Nungal hymn in lines that read: “My own mother, the pure one, Ereškigal, has allotted to me her divine powers. I have set up my august dais in the Netherworld, the mountain where Utu rises . . . I assist Nintud at the place of child-delivery; I know how to cut the umbilical cord and I know the favorable words when determining fates.”179

295-296). See already Farber Baby-Beschwörungen 150: §3 and Anthropos 85, 144, where a comparison is made between the language of this incanation and that of the prayers to the gods of the night. 174 E.g., dGu-la agrig zi [šu] dim4-ma-ke4 gi-dur kud-rá-a-ni nam hé-em-miíb-tar-re “let Gula, the faithful stewardess with capable hands, determine its (the baby’s) fate when cutting the umbilical cord” (van Dijk, Or 44, 57: 49-50). 175 F. R. Kraus, JAOS 103 (1983) 205: 9-10; also note: šag4 ama-mu dNinsun-ka-ta nam tar-ra sa6-ga ma-ta-è “from the womb of my mother, Ninsun, a favorable fate arose for me” (Ur-Namma C 48-49). 176 nin an ki-a nam tar-re-dè dNin-tud ama dingir-re-ne-ke4 (Gudea St. A iii 4-6). 177 An = Anum II 8-10. 178 Lambert-Millard Atra-hasīs I 249; note Krebernik, RlA 8, 516: § 7.12. See Polonsky, “Rise of the Sun God” 121-127, for further evidence concerning the mother goddess’ role in fate determination. 179 ama ugu-mu kug dEreš-ki-gal-la-ke4 me-ni ma-ra-an-ba Urugal kur dUtu è-a barag mah-mu mi-ni-ri . . . dNin-tud-e ki nam-dumu-zid-ka mu-da-an-gub-bé gi-dur kud-da nam tar-re-da inim sa6-ge-bi mu-zu (Hymn to Nungal 67-68, 71-72).

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R. M. Boehmer, Die Entwicklung der Glyptik während der AkkadZeit (UAVA 4; Berlin 1965), pl. 33 Abb. 397. Idem, “Früheste Altorientalische Darstellungen des Wisents,” Bagh. Mitt. 9 (1978) 20 Abb. 1. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 31 Abb. 376. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 36 Abb. 427. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 36 Abb. 429. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 35 Abb. 414. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 35 Abb. 418. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 36 Abb. 426. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 36 Abb. 431b. D. Collon, Catalogue of Western Asiatic Seals in the British Museum: Cylinder Seals II, Akkadian—Post Akkadian—Ur III Periods (London 1982), pl. 25 no. 176. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 36 Abb. 432. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 37 Abb. 447. P. Amiet, La glyptique mésopotamienne archaïque (Paris 21980), pl. 95 no. 1246C. B. Buchanan, Catalogue of Ancient Near Eastern Seals in the Ashmolean Museum, Vol. 1: Cylinder Seals (Oxford 1966) pl. 43 no. 667a. Buchanan, Catalogue of Ancient Near Eastern Seals, pl. 43 no. 668. Delaporte Catalogue Louvre 2, pl. 90 no. 10. H. Frankfort, Cylinder Seals (London 1939), pl. 33b. Frankfort, Cylinder Seals, pl. 33e. D. M. Matthews, Principles of Composition in Near Eastern Glyptic of the Later Second Millennium B.C. (OBO Series Archaeologica 8; Freiburg/Göttingen 1990) no. 468 (= HSS 14, pl. 111 no. 270). Ward Seals 248 no. 752. E. Porada, Ancient Art in Seals (Princeton, NJ 1980) fig. II-20. Frankfort, Cylinder Seals, pl. 15j. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 2 Abb. 14. Boehmer, Entwicklung der Glyptik, pl. 34 Abb. 406. L. al-Gailani Werr, Studies in the Chronology and Regional Style of Old Babylonian Cylinder Seals (BiMes 23; Malibu 1988), pl. 21 no. 9. Amiet, La glyptique mésopotamienne archaïque, pl. 91 no. 1203. al-Gailani Werr, BiMes 23, pl. 19 no. 3.


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REVIEW Billie Jean Collins, The Hittites and Their World. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007. xvi + 254 pages With The Hittites and Their World, Billie Jean Collins has created a unique biblically-oriented overview of Hittite history and culture, suitable for the layperson but with enough references to be useful to the scholar. It is clearly centered around religion, with a substantial chapter on Hittite religious practice, in addition to the book’s general focus on Hittites in a biblical context. The work will lend itself particularly to the biblical scholar who is unfamiliar with Hittitology, or to the Hittitologist without a background in biblical studies. It is a short and accessible book, but contains extensive notes; given its introductory nature, however, a collected bibliography, for ease of checking references, is a desideratum. Particularly convenient is the first section, a chronological account of the origins of Hittitology, which is a nicely concise summary of events that many other works refer to individually, or describe in part. A clear, complete, detailed English-language description of the field from Charles Texier to the present day is certainly a useful tool for students or laypeople wishing to quickly acquaint themselves with the history of Hittite studies. The separation of this historiographical section from the main body of the work is soundly logical, but the organization of the rest of the book is somewhat counterintuitive. The three middle chapters are “A Political History of the Hittites,” “Society,” and “Religion.” The first of these is a quick, straightforward summary of the history of the Hittite empire, once again very useful for someone desiring an introduction to the subject, with footnotes to direct the more serious student toward further references and illuminate different sides of debated topics. The second is a fair overview of several aspects of Hittite culture, with sections on Governance, Law and Society, Arts, and Letters. The third is extensive and detailed; it provides an excellent overview of Hittite religion and its many facets. Collins makes good use of the religious textual evidence, quoting rituals, festivals, oracles, and so on, providing Hittite terminology © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 JANER 9.2 Also available online – brill.nl/jane DOI: 10.1163/156921109X12520501747967

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without becoming too technical for a layperson to understand. She draws lightly on visual evidence as well, providing a brief and nicely non-speculative analysis of the Hittites’ artistic representation of deities, Hittite cosmology as depicted at Eflatun Pınar, organization of Hittite temples, etc. The “Religion” chapter’s subsections cover the priesthood, temples, festivals, the sacrificial cult, divination, prayer, deities and demons, sin and pollution (where one might wish, however, for a less biblically-derived term than “sin,” especially given the comparative nature of the work), ritual power, sorcery (again, a loaded term), cosmology, and death and the afterlife. There are occasional references to Bible verses or works on biblical scholarship relevant to the topic under discussion, but other than the aforementioned section headings, biblical references are clearly stated and barely interfere with the descriptive nature of the chapter. The book’s organizational confusion, however, appears to be related to its religious focus. First, the final two subsections of the “Society” chapter, Mythology and Prayers, would seem to be more at home in the “Religion” chapter—and in fact, she does include a subsection on prayer in that chapter. Unfortunately, the two subsections (not identical; the first discusses prayers as textual tradition, and the second prayer as an active practice) do not refer to one another. There is no corresponding Mythology subsection in the “Religion” chapter. In terms of the greater layout of the book, the separation of “Society” from “Religion” at all is problematic; Collins herself opens the latter section with, “Religion animated every facet of life in Hatti” (157). The two are not separate-but-equal categories; “Religion” does not stand up to “Society” and certainly not to the political history; it would more properly be a subheading of a single “Society” chapter, which would balance the entire work more successfully. One further organizational point involves the three excursuses scattered through the book (two in the “Society” chapter, one in “Religion”) whose purpose is difficult to define. The first, “What do Hittite treaties have to do with the Sinai covenant?” (109-11) would have slotted neatly into her final chapter, “The Hittites in the Bible,” during the discussion of Hittite impact on Levantine society during the Bronze Age, and perhaps strengthened her argument there. The second, “Yazılıkaya, a Royal Sanctuary” (139-41) hardly requires the title of excursus; it is only a lengthy description of one of the more extensive works of Hittite art, already in the

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Art subsection of the Society chapter. The third, “Did the Hittites practice necromancy?” (169-71) deserves the excursus label, but the reasons for its inclusion are hardly clear. The final chapter, “Hittites in the Bible,” provides a good overview of several current issues concerning the identity of the biblical “Hittites,” again with enough references for the dedicated reader to explore further. Collins does not subscribe to theories of major migrations or contact in the Iron Age, for which there is little evidence, but suggests that first of all, the “Hittite” ethnic name might have been purely a literary device taken from the NeoAssyrian view of the Neo-Hittite states (as, obviously, there is ample evidence for contact between the Assyrians and the Israelites and the Assyrians and the Hittites) (213). Evidence of cultural transmission from Anatolia to Palestine can also be explained without migration theories: the entire Levant could have been steeped with Hittite tradition long before the Hebrew Bible was written down, when there was significant Hittite-Egyptian contact in the thirteenth century (216-218). Her theories are plausible without being didactic; she considers other points (with references) and merely makes the case for her own ideas being the most persuasive. She concludes with an afterword detailing Hittite cultural influence on biblical traditions. Regarding specific points and passages within the book, there are a few instances where her statements would benefit from some revising: She refers to the grain silos on Büyükkaya as dating to the thirteenth century (73, 114), which requires updating: carbon-dating has since placed them in the Old Hittite period.1 Rather than a desperate attempt on the part of a failing empire to stockpile foreign grain, they were part of an extended network of food and water storage that the Hittites, subsisting in an environment that did not create or sustain surplus as easily as other great states’ river valleys, developed in order to allow for their population density, which was greater than has been sustained in the Anatolian plateau before or since. On page 141, she states, “The Hittites adopted an Old Babylonian form of the cuneiform script for the writing of texts in the Hittite language possibly as early as the Assyrian colony period” contra the 1 Seeher, J., 2006. “Der althethitische Getreidesilokomplex” in Seeher, BoğazköyBerichte 8. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, p. 46.

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generally-accepted view that the Hittites’ script was acquired during Hattusili I’s campaigning in Syria in the seventeenth century. Several times in the final chapter (198, 200, 202) she draws parallels between personal or place names in the Bible and those from the Hittite period. Particularly of note is page 202, where she mentions a king of Jerusalem was named Abdu-Hepa, “suggesting that the Jebusite ruling class, if not the entire Jebusite population, was Hurrian.” Only in a footnote to a different point altogether (210, n. 61) does she acknowledge the difficulty of making ethnic judgments based on personal names, and nowhere does she mention the fact that most of the Hittite Great Kings did not have Hittite names. There are several instances where she makes sweeping generalized statements which are not entirely defensible; while the introductory nature of the work allows for a slight glossing of details, it should not go so far as to be misleading. For example, “The Upper City . . . served primarily as a temple district” (33-35), “There were no restraints . . . on the king’s power to determine his successor” (102) (contradicted almost immediately as she discusses the Telipinu Proclamation), “Polytheism by definition precludes religious dogma and orthodoxy” (158), and “Every town and village of any size within the Hittite domain had at least one temple staffed with cult personnel” (160-61) (Kuaklı/Sarissa as an example, but no acknowledgement of the lack of further systematic excavations of Hittite “towns and villages”). Most of these statements could easily be clarified with half a sentence extra or a brief footnote. In addition, there are a few passages that are somewhat unclear. This book is clearly designed for someone unfamiliar with Hittite studies; however, there are several occasions where her narrative would be very opaque to someone outside of the field: On pages 24-25, in describing the varying theories of IndoEuropean migration, she does not attempt to refute Renfrew’s theory that the Indo-Europeans were native to Anatolia; in fact, she allows for its plausibility. However, in concluding the section, she refers to the “native populations that preceded” the IndoEuropeans (25), and continues to follow this assumption throughout the book. There is of course nothing wrong with her subscribing to the theory of migration into Anatolia, but the failure to outline her own position before making statements like the above can be nothing but confusing to the layperson. In addition, she concludes this section by allowing that we may never know “who was buried

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in the Alaca tombs, Hattians or Hittites” (25). However, she does not define the term “Hattian” as an ethnic group until page 31, having only referred to the Hattians as “native populations” before this. Especially considering the similarity in the names, and that she has previously mentioned that the modern name “Hittite” derives originally from the land called “Hatti” (4), clarification is required. There are two other similar confusions, first on page 50, where she has described the rebellious ruler of the Seha River Land; however, she has not yet mentioned his name when she says, “Mursili II gave . . . the Seha River Land and Appawiya to a rehabilitated Manapa-Tarhunda.” The uninitiated reader has no way of knowing that this is one and the same man. Secondly, she mentions Suppiluliuma’s wife, “the Babylonian princess called Tawananna” on page 51; on page 57 she says, “Since Mursili III’s queen on his official seals was also Danuhepa, one of his first acts must have been to reinstate her as Tawananna.” However, there is no explanation of the name and/or title until pages 98-101, in the “Society” chapter. Overall, the book would have benefited from a more careful editing process; there are occasional typographical errors and an unfortunate inconsistency in the representation of some foreign languages. Turkish place names, while often rendered correctly, are sometimes missing special characters: for example, “Kizlarkaya” rather than “Kızlarkaya” (35) and “Taçi” rather than “Taçı” (alongside correct Akpınar, Yazılıkaya) (128), etc. This inconsistency extends occasionally to Akkadian, where, for example, on page 26, n. 13, she correctly pluralizes kārum to kārū, but leaves wabartum in the singular where it, too, should be plural (“The wabartum were . . .” rather than “The wabarātum were . . .”). In its essentials, however, this book provides a solid introduction to the problem of the Hittites and the Bible. As Collins says in the preface, it is “directed at anyone interested in viewing the cumulative work on [the contributions of Hittite studies to biblical interpretation] as well as those seeking a succinct introduction to the history, society, and religion of the Hittites” (x). The first group especially should be satisfied. The biblical scholarship does flavor the entire book; there are occasional references to the Bible throughout (not at all surprising, considering the publisher). Readers looking only for “a succinct introduction to the history, society, and religion of the Hittites” should therefore be aware that the title is somewhat

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misleading: those interested solely in “the Hittites and their world,” without any biblical angle, might wish to turn instead to Bryce’s Life and Society in the Hittite World or The Kingdom of the Hittites. However, while those volumes present a lengthy, detailed political history (Kingdom) and an in-depth description of Hittite culture (Life and Society), the layperson may find the relevant chapters in Collins an easier read, concise and accessible. Hannah MARCUSON University of Chicago

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Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions (Volume 9, Number 2, 2009)

Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions (Volume 9, Number 1, 2009)

Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions (Volume 8, Number 1, 2008)

Journal of Semitic Studies, Volume 54, Number 2, Autumn 2009

The Perl Journal (Volume 9, Number 2, February 2005)

A Dictionary of Ancient Near Eastern Mythology

A Dictionary of Ancient Near Eastern Mythology

Journal of Semitic Studies, Volume 54, Number 1, Spring 2009

The Journal of Management Development, Volume 23, Number 9, 2004

Changing Views on Ancient Near Eastern Mathematics

British Food Journal (Volume 105 Number 9 2003) Food retailing

Journal of Semitic Studies, Volume 55, Number 2, Autumn 2010

Journal of Workplace Learning, Volume 17 Number 1 2 2005

Journal of Intellectual Capital, Volume 5, Number 2, 2004

Religions of Ancient China

Ancient Religions

Gods in the Desert: Religions of the Ancient Near East

Journal of Chiropractic Medicine- Volume 9(2); June 2010

American Theological Inquiry, Volume 2, Number 1 2009: Biannual Journal of Theology, Culture & History

Textual Practice, Volume 6, Number 2 (Textual Practice Journal)

Textual Practice: Journal, Volume 8, Number 2 (Textual Practice)

Asian Music - Journal Volume 41, Number 2, Summer - Fall 2010

Religions of Rome: Volume 2: A Sourcebook

New Testament Studies, Volume 55, Number 2 (April 2009)

2009 № 9

A Handbook of Ancient Religions

Religions of Rome: Volume 2: A Sourcebook

JWSR Volume XV, Number 1, 2009

A Handbook of Ancient Religions

Prophecy in its ancient Near Eastern context: Mesopotamian, biblical, and

Exchange Relationships at Ugarit (Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement Series)

Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions (Volume 9, Number 2, 2009)

Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions (Volume 9, Number 1, 2009)

Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions (Volume 8, Number 1, 2008)

Journal of Semitic Studies, Volume 54, Number 2, Autumn 2009

The Perl Journal (Volume 9, Number 2, February 2005)

A Dictionary of Ancient Near Eastern Mythology

A Dictionary of Ancient Near Eastern Mythology

Journal of Semitic Studies, Volume 54, Number 1, Spring 2009

The Journal of Management Development, Volume 23, Number 9, 2004

Changing Views on Ancient Near Eastern Mathematics

British Food Journal (Volume 105 Number 9 2003) Food retailing

Journal of Semitic Studies, Volume 55, Number 2, Autumn 2010

Journal of Workplace Learning, Volume 17 Number 1 2 2005

Journal of Intellectual Capital, Volume 5, Number 2, 2004

Religions of Ancient China

Ancient Religions

Gods in the Desert: Religions of the Ancient Near East

Journal of Chiropractic Medicine- Volume 9(2); June 2010

American Theological Inquiry, Volume 2, Number 1 2009: Biannual Journal of Theology, Culture & History

Textual Practice, Volume 6, Number 2 (Textual Practice Journal)

Textual Practice: Journal, Volume 8, Number 2 (Textual Practice)

Asian Music - Journal Volume 41, Number 2, Summer - Fall 2010

Religions of Rome: Volume 2: A Sourcebook

New Testament Studies, Volume 55, Number 2 (April 2009)

2009 № 9

A Handbook of Ancient Religions

Religions of Rome: Volume 2: A Sourcebook

JWSR Volume XV, Number 1, 2009

A Handbook of Ancient Religions

Prophecy in its ancient Near Eastern context: Mesopotamian, biblical, and

Exchange Relationships at Ugarit (Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement Series)

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