Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Lauren Ristvet
University of Pennsylvania
Contents
i
Death, Ancestors, and Power ................................................................................................ 94
Conclusion: Urban Spaces, Pilgrimage Networks and the Rise of Political Complexity......... 96
III. Memory ........................................................................................................................... 100
An Event that Presents: The Feast of Ištar and the Kispum Ritual......................................... 100
Memory, Mourning, and Legitimacy ...................................................................................... 103
Political Instability .................................................................................................................. 108
Tribal Politics ...................................................................................................................... 110
The Dynamics of Resettlement ............................................................................................... 114
History and the Politics of Emplacement............................................................................ 118
Middle Bronze Age Economics .......................................................................................... 121
Collective Representations: The Past in the Past .................................................................... 123
Literature, History, and the Ancestors ................................................................................ 123
Divine Will and Divination................................................................................................. 129
Materialized Symbols: Death, Ritual and the Authority of the Past in Daily Life ................. 133
The Archaeology of Death and Ritual ................................................................................ 133
Ancestors, Monuments and Politics.................................................................................... 141
The Past, Heirlooms and Legitimacy .................................................................................. 149
Actors, Audience, and Mise-en-scène: Ancestors, Tribes and Politics .................................. 157
Kings and the Politics of Commemoration ......................................................................... 158
Tribes, Towns, Councils, and Ancestors ............................................................................ 162
Conclusion: Mourning and Memory....................................................................................... 167
IV. Tradition.......................................................................................................................... 170
An Event that Re-presents: The Akītu Festival ...................................................................... 170
Invented Traditions ................................................................................................................. 172
Hellenistic Babylonia .............................................................................................................. 175
The City and Countryside ....................................................................................................... 177
Settlement, Irrigation, and Trade ........................................................................................ 178
Seleucid Urbanism .............................................................................................................. 180
Domestic Practices .................................................................................................................. 183
Consuming Empire? Pottery and Foodways ...................................................................... 184
Figurines and Domestic Life ............................................................................................... 190
Coins, Debt, and Payment ................................................................................................... 194
Collective Representations: Scholarly Texts, History, and the Transmission of Knowledge 198
Preserving Scholarly Knowledge ........................................................................................ 199
ii
Astrology, Astronomy, and History .................................................................................... 202
Materialized Symbols: Temples and Tradition ....................................................................... 213
Rebuilding the Temple ........................................................................................................ 214
The Temple, the Assembly, and Civil Authority ................................................................ 219
Archives, Administration, and Community ........................................................................ 221
Actors, Audience, and Mise-en-scène: Kings, Priests, and Festivals ..................................... 224
Conclusion: Performing Tradition .......................................................................................... 228
V. Community ......................................................................................................................... 230
Performance and Public Events in the Ancient Near East ...................................................... 230
Performing Community .......................................................................................................... 233
States and Instability ............................................................................................................... 238
Political Strategies .................................................................................................................. 246
Continuity ............................................................................................................................... 250
Works Cited ................................................................................................................................ 269
iii
List of Figures
Fig. 1 Actors portraying Achaemenid soldiers with a wheeled tower in the Persepolis parade,
October, 1971
Fig. 2 The execution of Louis XVI, January 21, 1793
Fig. 3 Brahu temple, Trowoulan, Majapahit period
Fig. 4 Volunteers portraying Don Juan De Vargas and Conquistadors during the Santa Fe Fiesta
Fig. 5 Map of K’axob
Fig. 6 K'axob, Operation 1: Phase 9
Fig. 7 K'axob, Burials 1-1 and 1-2
Fig. 8 Panel 1, La Corona
Fig. 9 Map of Northern Mesopotamia 2600-2300 BC
Fig. 10 Tell Leilan (ancient Šehna)
Fig. 11 “Main Street” in Beydar (ancient Nabada)
Fig. 12 The Palace in Area F, “The Official Block,” of Tell Beydar. A) Phase 1, B) Phase 2, C)
Phase 3a, D) Phase 3b
Fig. 13 Spatial graph of Beydar, Area F, Palace. A) Phase 1, B) Phase 2
Fig. 14 Chuera (ancient Abarsal?) citadel plan with the main ceremonial street marked
Fig. 15 Axonometric reconstruction of the plaza and palace G
Fig. 16 Ritual journeys in the Kingdom of Ebla, ca. 2350 BC
Fig. 17 Wagon sealings from Northern Mesopotamia: a) Beydar seal 4, b) Išqi-Mari royal seal 1,
and c) Išqi-Mari royal seal 2
Fig. 18 Tombs and offering chambers at Gre Virike, Period IIa
Fig. 19 Ritual buildings at Hazna
Fig. 20 a) Statue from Jebelet al-Beda and b) stela from Jebelet al-Beda
Fig. 21 Plan of Bazi/Banat (ancient Armanum?)
Fig. 22 Possible pilgrimage networks on the Upper Euphrates
Fig. 23 Intervisibility and viewshed analysis at Gre Virike BC
Fig. 24 Mesopotamia from 1900-1500 BC
Fig. 25 Survey areas in the Habur plain, Syria. Areas of decreasing population are in dark gray,
and areas of increasing population are in white.
Fig. 26 Tell Leilan/Šubat-Enlil, 1900-1700 BC
Fig. 27 AO19833, Obverse and Reverse, Historical liver omen from Mari that mentions Sargon
Fig. 28 Kahat, Stratum 31 B
Fig. 29 A) MBA ceramic figurine from Tepe Gawra and B) Stone figurine from Billa
Fig. 30 Wadi Hedaja 1: General View of BC-10
Fig. 31 Umm el-Marra, Monument 1, from North
Fig. 32 Area A, 'Usiyeh
Fig. 33 Ninevite 5 Ware from the Leilan Acropolis Temple, Room 19
Fig. 34 Tell Leilan Acropolis Northeast Temple, isometric plan
Fig. 35 Seleucid Babylonia and Syria
Fig. 36 Seleucid-Parthian period sites from the Heartland of Cities Survey
Fig. 37 Seleucid-Parthian Sites from the Diyala Survey
Fig. 38 Seleucia-on-the-Tigris
Fig. 39 Uruk during the Seleucid-Parthian period
iv
Fig. 40 Babylon City Plan
Fig. 41 Serving wares from Seleucid-Parthian Uruk (“Greek-inspired” shapes on left;
“Babylonian” shapes on right)
Fig. 42 “Hellenistic” Cooking ware from Seleucid-Parthian Uruk (left) and Athens (right)
Fig. 43 Seleucid terracotta figurine
Fig. 44 U-V 17-19, Level II, Ekur-Zakir Family House
Fig. 45 The Nabû Temple, Borsippa
Fig. 46 Antiochus Cylinder, BM 36277
Fig. 47 Bit Rēš Temple
Fig. 48 Ešgal Temple
Fig. 49 Brick stamped with Adad-Nadin-Aḫḫe's name in Greek, palace of Girsu
Fig. 50 Archives Building, Seleucid, Isometric Drawing
Fig. 51 Akītu Temple, Uruk
Fig. 52 Reconstructed Territory of Apum and Kahat, ca. 1730 BC
v
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my gratitude to everyone who helped me during the years that this
book was in preparation. I hope that those of you whose names I fail to mention will forgive me.
This book had its genesis in discussions about ritual and politics in Mesopotamia that took place
during the summer of 2008 under the grape arbor at the Tell Leilan dig house in Qahtaniya,
Syria. Without the generosity of Harvey Weiss, who invited me to participate in the Tell Leilan
project when I was still an undergraduate at Yale, I never would have become an archaeologist
(although Harvey is clearly not responsible for my postmodern turn!) I also owe a great deal to
the other members of the Leilan project from 1999-2008, especially Zainab Bahrani, Francesca
DeLillis, Ulla Kasten, Andrew McCarthy, Richard Meadow, Lucia Mori, Cristian Putzolu,
Philippe Quenet, and Eric Vandenbrink. My largest debt, however, is to the people in Syria who
made this work possible, including the Directorate of Antiquities, our redoubtable Syrian
workers, and many friends from Qahtaniya, Tell Leilan, Tell Barham, and Qamishli. My
thoughts are with them during this troubled time and I hope that it will be possible someday to
Many thanks to all of those who agreed (sometimes under duress) to read and commente
on chapters of the manuscript, particularly Andrew Drabkin, Brian Hughes, Kevin Reilly, and
Jill Weber. Joanne Baron, Paul Kosmin, and Glenn Schwartz were kind enough to share their
manuscripts with me and Irene Winter and Piotr Michalowski helped me think through some of
the complexities of Seleucid Babylonia when I presented some of this in Copenhagen in 2012. I
am also grateful to Lev Feigin, who helped me to reconceptualize ritual and religion as I revised
this manuscript. Let me also express gratitude to Robert McC. Adams, Joanne Baron,
Dominique Beyer, Joachim Bretschneider, Robert H. Dyson, Jr., Sumio Fuji, Robert Hanelt,
vi
Antonio Invernizzi, Marc Lebeau, Paolo Matthiae, Patricia McAnanay, Jan-Waalke Meyer, Rauf
Munchaev, Hiromichi Oguchi, Tuba Ökse, Ann Porter, Julian Reade, Glenn Schwartz, Harvey
Weiss, Stefano Valentini, Tian Yake for allowing me to use their photographs, plans and other
illustrations. The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, the British Academy, the
British Museum, the Centro Scavi Torino, the Deutsche Archäologische Institut, the Louvre, the
Max Freiherr von Oppenheim Stiftung, and the Penn Museum were similarly generous.
Additionally, I would like to thank Kelsey Cloonan, Monica Fenton, and Lara Fabian for their
help preparing the images—particularly Lara, who devoted two very hot days to this task during
Ramadan in Erbil. I also owe a considerable debt to Susannah Fishman for help with the copy-
editing and the index and the anonymous reviewers for their constructive criticism. Working
with Beatrice Rehl, Asya Graf, and Isabella Viti at Cambridge University Press was lovely—and
made producing this book nearly pain free. Some of the ideas presented in this book have been
American Schools of Oriental Research [vol. 361 (2011) 1-31], I thank them for allowing me to
My colleagues at Penn have all been extraordinarily encouraging, particularly Asif Agha,
Salam al Kuntar, Harold Dibble, Clark Erickson, Grant Frame, Phillip Jones, Jamie Novotny,
Holly Pittman, Ann Kuttner, Yoko Nishimura, Bob Preucel, Bob Schuyler, Tad Schurr, Julian
Siggers, Deborah Thomas, and Steve Tinney. The students in my courses on the Achaemenid
Empire and Its Hellenistic Aftermath; Performance; Ritual, Space and Politics; and the
Archaeology of Syria were instrumental in shaping many of the ideas expressed here. And my
friends in Philadelphia reminded me that there was more to life than Mesopotamian archaeology.
vii
I would also like to thank the many people who put up with me while I was devoting
most of my attention to this manuscript. Hilary Gopnik, Emily Hammer, Veli Bakhshaliyev,
Safar Ashurov and all of the members of the Naxcivan Archaeological Project rarely
complained, even when the writing of this book made fieldwork at Oğlanqala difficult. My
family—especially Bethany Ayers, Matthew Ristvet, Mary Ann Duco, and Linda and Byron
Ristvet—were supportive and bore my many absences with good cheer. I owe my parents in
particular an enormous amount for their unstinting encouragement, even when I chose to do
seemingly crazy things, like excavating in Syria, Azerbaijan, and Iraq. I dedicate this book to
them.
viii
I. Performing Politics
Beginning around 3500 BC, cities, writing, and monumental architecture emerged almost
attracted scholarly attention for nearly a century. The primacy of Mesopotamia—its cities are
the earliest known in the world, its scribes developed writing centuries before it emerged
elsewhere—has led historians and archaeologists world-wide to use it as the paradigmatic case of
state formation.F 1F Until the 1980s, Near Eastern archaeologists interested in the rise of
political complexity investigated the growth of cities and changing settlement systems in the 3rd
and 4th millennia BC in the irrigated river valleys of Southern Iraq and Iran, recognizing, as the
title of a popular account has it, that History Begins at Sumer (Kramer 1981).F 2F Over the last
30 years, the focus of research has shifted north and west as archaeologists have analyzed how
Sumer’s neighbors formed their own polities in response to this “urban revolution” (Weiss 1986;
Ur et al. 2007; Ur 2010a; Porter 2012). The time-frame under consideration has also broadened,
with some scholars now focusing on later second millennium polities as well (Yoffee 2005;
Schwartz and Nichols 2006; Laneri et al. 2012). Researchers have analyzed social complexity—
usually defined as economic and political differentiation and stratification (Renfrew and Bahn
2005)—by examining changes in site size, settlement patterns, long-distance trade, household
organization, craft production, and the establishment of administrative hierarchies. But for the
most part, the literature has glossed over the cultural and ideological changes that accompanied
and political scientists have recognized, however, “state formation is itself a cultural revolution”
(Corrigan and Sayer 1985: 3; Krohn-Hansen and Nustad 2005; Joseph and Nugent 1994).
1
I will argue that the inhabitants of Mesopotamian polities— including villages, city-
states, kingdoms, and empires—created a sense of political belonging through ritual and daily
practice. Most historians and anthropologists agree with Benedict Anderson that “all
communities… are imagined,” since most of their members will never meet face-to-face, but
nonetheless share a strong sense of belonging (Anderson 2006: 1). But there has been little
attention to the processes that gave rise to this imagining in ancient contexts in general and in the
Near East in particular. How did the inhabitants of different Near Eastern village and urban
communities with distinctive identities, histories, and expectations come to share a new idea of
the polity and their places within it? How did these polities operate and how, after the death of
In the Ancient Near East, ritual performance was not set apart from the real practice of
politics; it was politics. Ritual provided a space and means for sovereignty to be both created
and debated. Priests, kings, and ordinary citizens used festivals to negotiate, establish, and
contest political power. Indeed, ritual was one of the main techniques that individuals used to
create political communities and establish a framework for belonging. The performance of
rituals allowed both elites and non-elites to negotiate the long-standing tensions that allowed for
and simultaneously threatened early polities. Daily practices—walking through the city, making
pottery, composing administrative texts—cemented the political and social realities of these
societies.
three specific case studies from different periods and places: Northern Mesopotamia in the mid-
third millennium BC; the Middle Euphrates in the early second millennium BC; and Seleucid
Babylonia in the late first millennium BC. Each case study analyzes how specific rituals
2
engaged with abstractions—movement, memory and tradition—that were essential to the
construction of authority and grounded multiple political approaches. These analyses are not
wholly distinct; each considers Mesopotamian polities during a period of crisis and
the emergence of the first states, as part of resettlement following a period of collapse, and as a
response to conquest and the loss of cultural autonomy—lies at the heart of each chapter.
Similarly, each study draws upon landscape archaeology and excavated remains, including
We do not often reflect on how political life is performed. Ritual tends to be dismissed as
arcane and exotic, at best a colorful mask for the real process of politics. Most political analysis
ignores the symbolic and the ritual as something entirely apart from the more respectable
analytical spheres of economy and society. Nonetheless even in contemporary politics, rituals—
political conventions, protest marches, stump speeches, and the pledge of allegiance—create a
powerful political reality, a process which a growing number of political scientists and cultural
sociologists now investigate (Kertzer 1988; Alexander 2011; Alexander et al. 2006; Wedeen
specific values that can both create and affirm a community. Rituals can function as a
mechanism for resolving conflicts, and reaffirm communality in contrast to the competition
inherent in social life. By employing the creative power of liminality, these events can integrate
opposing cultural or social systems, and can facilitate transitions between separate social orders. 4
At the same time, ritual may provide a vocabulary for dissent and even revolt (Kertzer 1988;
Ozouf 1976). In short, performance is an essential aspect of both ancient and modern politics.
3
As Ronald Reagan once replied, when asked how an actor could become president, “how can a
president not be an actor?”5 Analyzing how politicians stage political acts—paying attention to
the choice of setting, costume, and props—can provide insight into how political decisions are
made.
Even if historians are willing to concede the importance of ritual and religion, most
archaeologists ignore them due to a pervasive belief that these processes have no material
signature and hence are not susceptible to archaeological investigation. But ritual and politics
are realized through the physical world, making an analysis of material culture necessary to
understanding their operation. As Clifford Geertz notes, “ideas are not, and have not been for
some time, unobservable mental stuff,” rather they are “envehicled meanings,” that may include
“melodies, formulas, maps, pictures... rituals, palaces, technologies and social formations”
(Geertz 1980: 135). Social and political life is constituted by the daily decisions and actions of
people, and these actions take place within a world of things. 6 People build houses, pave streets,
sew clothes, and fashion saucepans. But once they are created, these objects both allow for and
limit later activities. Society is not produced only through our interactions with other people, but
rather both within and through “mutually created relationships between humans and things”
(Pauketat and Alt 2005: 214). This is obviously true of relationships characterized by persistent
negotiation, and persuasion—they would be very transient indeed. Indeed, the very physicality
of our world is precisely what lends social interactions their “steely” quality (Latour 2005: 67).
It is this materiality, the connections between people and things, which Ian Hodder terms
4
But it can be difficult to understand how we might engage in an archaeology of
performance by talking about it in the abstract. Before turning to Mesopotamia, let us consider
five vignettes about the performance of politics in other times and places. These stories illustrate
different ways that ritual performance can either establish or destabilize specific political orders,
and how rituals intersect with the practice of daily life. The stories illuminate how the three
abstractions that I will consider later—movement, memory, and tradition—have been important
in the negotiation of political identity. Although only two of these narratives are archaeological
sensu stricto, they all indicate the importance of materiality. They illustrate that despite their
seeming evanescence, political performances are only effective when expressed through things.
These tales will set the stage, so to speak, for a more in depth exploration of performance and
politics in Mesopotamia.
The imposing ruins of Persepolis, once the capital of the Achaemenid Persian Empire,
have been a contested space in modern Iran for more than forty years. This complex of palaces
and tombs was the setting of “the greatest show the world had ever seen,” Mohammed Reza
Shah Pahlavi's celebration of 2500 years of Persian civilization in October 1971 (Mohammed
Reza Shah quoted in Grigor 2005: 23). Every head of state was invited to the ceremony, which
was celebrated at the archaeological sites of Pasargadae and Persepolis near Shiraz. In
preparation for the event, engineers worked overtime to renovate the Shiraz airport and pave the
road to Persepolis, while the Hessarek Institute launched a campaign to kill all the snakes and
scorpions found within 30 km of the ruins so that the eminent guests would be in no danger. The
visitors stayed in a sumptuous “tent city,” actually prefabricated luxury apartments covered in
canvas and designed by a noted Parisian interior decorator. 7 The festival opened at dawn on
5
October 12, 1971, when Mohammed Reza Shah went to the tomb of Cyrus at Pasargadae to
address the first Persian king, using terminology adapted from inscriptions found in excavation:
To you Cyrus, Great King, King of Kings, from Myself, Shahanshah of Iran, and
from my people, Hail! We are here at the moment when Iran renews its pledge to
Hero of History, founder of world's oldest empire, great liberator of all time,
worthy son of mankind. Cyrus [,]... Sleep in peace forever, for we are awake and
we remain to watch over your glorious heritage” (quoted in Abdi 2001: 69).
Events over the next three days portrayed Iran as a progressive, modern nation with an illustrious
past. A performance of Iannis Xenakis' electronic music piece “Persepolis” with a special sound
and light show demonstrated the Shah’s appreciation of the avant-garde. On successive nights,
guests enjoyed both the finest French cuisine (Maxim’s of Paris catered the event and prepared
such dishes as foie gras-stuffed peacocks and quail’s eggs with caviar) and an Oriental feast
served on low cushions and divans. But the central importance of the Pre-Islamic past was never
forgotten. In addition to the setting amidst the ruins, actors recreated the rituals of the
Achaemenid court for the edification of foreign dignitaries. On the final day of the celebrations
more than 6000 people took part in a grand parade of Persian history, with soldiers dressed to
resemble their historical counterparts (fig. 1; Grigor 2005: 26-7). Like much of the celebration,
The festivities officially celebrated the antiquity of the Persian monarchy, the shah's
enlightened reign, and Iranian modernity before an audience of foreign dignitaries. Many
Iranians, however, contested the Shah’s portrayal of both Iran’s past and present. Clerics,
revolutionaries, and many ordinary citizens viewed the spectacle at Persepolis—and indeed the
6
Shah's interest in the pre-modern past—as a sign of his corruption, obsession with the West, and
distance from both the poverty of most of the nation and its Islamic values. The Ayatollah
Khomeini issued a statement from exile decrying the ceremony for its excesses and absurdity,
asking, “are the people of Iran to have a festival for those whose behavior has been a scandal
throughout history and who are a cause of crime and oppression, of abomination and corruption,
in the present age?” (quoted in Abdi 2001). Indeed, the celebrations became a potent symbol for
the opposition, leading the Ayatollah to assert later that “to participate [in the festival] is to
participate in the murder of the oppressed people in Iran” (quoted in Holliday 2011: 68). Clearly
Khomeini interpreted history rather differently than the Shah. This did not mean that he
eschewed the past categorically; rather he rejected Iran's pre-Islamic, monarchical past and chose
instead to ground his vision of politics in an understanding of the history of Islam in Iran
(Hoveyda 2003: 29). Within this alternative political vision, an Islamic past provided an ideal
setting for rituals of resistance. Khomeini and other clerics equated modern revolutionaries’
struggle against the Shah with the battle of Karbala, one of the foundational events of Shi’a
Islam, commemorated each year on Ashura (Holliday 2011: 67). During the revolution, various
parties recalled the excesses of the Persepolis celebrations as signs of the Shah's decadence,
while in the early 1980s, state television occasionally broadcast reruns of the festivities, “to
remind the people of the despotism they had overthrown” (quoted in Abdi 2001: 69). In the
early 2000s, these ruins again became a contested space when Marjane Satrapi published the first
volume of her autobiography, aptly titled Persepolis (Satrapi 2003). Satrapi's graphic novel is
critical of both the Shah and the revolution, adding yet another twist to modern Iranian
7
The conflict over the Persepolis celebration, however, did not just play out in public
rituals of political speeches and broadcast commentary, nor even in the space of resistance and
criticism that art opens up. People debated the meaning of the past in several areas of life,
perhaps most fiercely in education. At the height of Mohammed Reza Shah’s reign, the history
curriculum emphasized the same nationalist narrative encapsulated in the Persepolis festival,
tracing the nation of Iran back to Aryan migrations at the turn of the first millennium BC.
Textbooks dated the origins of the Persian monarchy to the Median period (678-550 BC), but
represented Cyrus the Great, the founder of the Persian empire, as its true ancestor. They
described how Iran took “gigantic steps in the way of culture and civilization, attaining towering
levels of progress” under the Achaemenid kings in the 6th century BC (Ta‘rikh-e Lebas 1974
quoted in Ram 2000:72). This narrative of both the nation kingship continued also framed the
history of the Islamic period, which stressed the unique contributions that Iranians had made to
Islam. In the immediate aftermath of the revolution, the republican government quickly
commissioned new books so that schools could transform children into model citizens of the
Islamic republic.
Unsurprisingly, in light of Khomeini’s own vision of the past, schools at first simply
ignored pre-Islamic history. In the early 1980s, textbooks were purged of references to Iran’s
dynastic antiquity and the new, state-mandated curriculum portrayed the centuries before
Mohammed’s birth as a time of darkness and barbarism (Ram 2000). Hostility to Iran’s pre-
Islamic past was also responsible for the closure of the department of archaeology at Tehran
University from 1979-1982 and the cessation of the Institute of Archaeology’s activities at the
same university until 1990. Although the archaeological service remained active, no scholarly
field research was undertaken during the 1980s. Many in the government viewed archaeology as
8
“nothing more than a pseudoscience,” one that the royal court had used “to glorify despotism and
justify royal oppression of the masses,” and were consequently loath to support it (Abdi 2001:
70).
Despite such beliefs, during the last twenty years the Achaemenids have crept back into
Iranian national life. They once again occupy a prominent place in schoolbooks, children’s
imaginations, and the activities of the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization (ICHO),
responsible for archaeology in Iran since 1988. A recent study of middle school history
education in Iran found that not only were both the Aryan migration and the Achaemenid empire
included in the curriculum, but most pupils saw the latter period as “the pinnacle of Iranian
history” (Soltan Zadeh 2012: 147). Similarly, from 1999-2005 there were excavations at 26 Iron
Age and Achaemenid period sites (Azarnoush and Helwing 2005: 215-231).
The various interpretations of history in Iran, and the ways that the state has mobilized
these narratives, are complicated. The return of the Achaemenids to classrooms and
archaeological research agenda has been part of a transformation of Iranian political and national
identity that developed in the Islamic Republic subsequent to the rejection of these themes in the
1980s. How individuals understand and manipulate history is never monolithic and it is possible
to infuse ancient history with a number of separate and incompatible meanings, as the case of
French Revolution
Like Khomeini’s followers in the early 1980s, revolutionaries in France also sought to
remake the world according to a new logic through the invention of symbols, myths, and rituals.
Insisting on a complete break with the past, they rejected the centuries of political and religious
symbolism that underlay the ancien régime. For many, a new French nation required the
9
creation of a new citizen with appropriate loyalties, beliefs, and customs (Hunt 1984: 56). In the
initial absence of political parties, slogans, or even a coherent movement, competing factions
established innovative rituals (and anti-rituals) and changed even the most routine experiences of
daily life.
The execution of Louis XVI, a grand and unrepeatable act that was central to expressions
of French politics and identity for at least a century, is perhaps the starkest example of this (fig.
2). In January 1793, King Louis XVI was paraded through the streets of Paris, alongside
drummers, soldiers, and prison guards. As he reached the guillotine in the Place de la
Revolution, he protested his innocence and forgave his executioners, consciously echoing the
actions of Christ at Calvary (Kertzer 1988: 159). Before a silent crowd of perhaps 100,000, he
was decapitated, his severed head was displayed to the populace, and his body was summarily
removed. The only state funeral held that day was not for Louis, but for Louis-Michel Le
Peletier, a national deputy, who had cast the deciding vote for the king’s execution. Le Peletier
had been assassinated the night before by a former member of the king’s Garde du Corps.
The public nature of this beheading, its formal setting, and especially its massive
audience made it a very particular type of ceremony, one that was foundational for the new
republic (Dunn 1994: 2). Louis XVI was not the only victim that January day. Rather the
architects of the ceremony aimed to destroy the institution of kingship, to revoke the dynastic
principle. The beheading of the king was an anti-ritual, one that attempted to undo publicly and
definitively the coronation. By putting Louis XVI to death in front of vast numbers of Parisians,
his executioners sought to sever his “two bodies,” and slay both the man and the king (Connerton
1989: 8-9; Kantorowicz 1957; Walzer 1992: 18). The first anniversary of this event witnessed
spontaneous acts of commemoration and two years later it became a public holiday (Ozouf
10
1975). The execution reverberated beyond Paris and was revisited continuously during the 19th
century by people from across the political spectrum (Dunn 1994: 67). Moreover, the conditions
for this sort of event became routine; in 1793 and 1794, 2,639 heads rolled in Paris and perhaps
40,000 people died throughout France. Clearly, the very public and ritualized nature of the
executions had a different effect than executions in the privacy of a jail cell. Beheadings became
a way for the Jacobins to define their enemies and themselves (Kertzer 1988: 159).
Public execution was not the only new ritual developed as part of this effort to remake the
world in a new political image. The state sponsored a variety of different festivities and
competing political groups staged public rites in towns and villages throughout France that
sought to establish new loyalties and understandings of the body politic. Events like the first
anniversary of Bastille Day, the federation festival of 1790, the liberty festival of 1792, or the
festival of Simmonneau of 1792 were not meaningless celebrations, but employed potent
symbols that helped to constitute a new class of political citizen and create different, competing
institutions, the organization of time, and the presentation of self. The critical changes in a
variety of legal institutions are well known, but changes in the understanding of time and
personal appearance were just as consequential. 8 In October 1793, a new calendar was adopted
with a retroactive start date of September 1792 to commemorate the founding of the first
republic (Shaw 2011). Twelve months were divided into three ten-day weeks, called decades;
the tenth day, décadi, replaced Sunday as a new day of rest and celebration. The months and
days received new names and were associated with animals, tools, plants, or minerals, rather than
with saints or Christian holidays. Five extra days were added to the end of the year as national
11
holidays—celebrations of virtue, talent, labor, convictions, honor, and during leap years,
revolution. Each day was divided into ten hours and each hour into 100 decimal minutes, which
were in turn divided into decimal seconds. Although decimal time proved to be the element of
the calendar system that was suspended earliest, officially ending by April 1795, this was a
fundamental shift that affected the ordering of every part of daily life in order to reinforce the
Changes in self-presentation were also critical to the instantiation of the new society
following the French revolution. Certain costumes came to represent political positions and “a
color, the wearing of a certain length of trousers, certain shoe styles, or the wrong hat might
touch off a quarrel, a fistfight, or a general street brawl” (Hunt 1984: 53). Revolutionary
fashions represented a break with the previously established order. The adoption of new
fashions during the revolution was part of an attempt to change acceptable social and bodily
practices (Connerton 1989: 10). The attention to dress was not haphazard, since before the
revolution, different orders and professions were identified by costume. For the revolutionaries,
dress “was not so much the measure as the maker of man” (Hunt 1984: 83). As a result, the
uniform became the ideal garment for many Parisians, and simplicity in hair and dress became a
virtue, a way to emphasize, and indeed, create, equality between citizens. By wearing red togas,
for example, legislators sought to appropriate the virtues of the Roman Republic.
Although togas did not long survive Napoleon (the long trousers of the sans culottes did,
however, remain popular) and the French revolutionary clock proved short-lived, other
revolutionary schemes to systematize daily life or to introduce new political symbols endured,
including the metric system, the revolutionary flag, the Marseillaise, the division of the political
spectrum into left and right, and of course, a particular understanding of citizenship. The
12
experiences of the French Revolution illustrate the importance of both public events and
practical actions in times of change and their significance to the establishment of hegemony.
But public events can be as important for long-lived regimes undergoing slow change as
for societies caught up in revolution. 14th century Majapahit, one of the great, pre-modern
kingdoms of Island Southeast Asia, has been famously portrayed as a theatre-state, where “the
motor… was state ceremony” (Geertz 1980: 129; see also Geertz 1983; Wolters 1999). Clifford
Geertz claimed that the Majapahit state or “Negara” was enacted through a series of rituals in
temples throughout Eastern Java (Geertz 1985), including month-long courtly processions, and
gifts of “pigs, sheep, buffaloes, cattle, fowls, dogs, crowded with cloths” (Pigeaud and Prapantja
1960: Canto 28, stanza 2). This analysis has been criticized for portraying 19th century Bali as a
closed system, one in which the meaning of symbols was already configured. Such an account
may be “blind to the processes by which ongoing practices and systems of meaning change, are
sites of political struggle, and generate multiple significations within social groups” (Wedeen
2002: 716; see also Wedeen 1999: 13-4; Roseberry 1982; Hobart 1983). Using recent
archaeological work, I want to analyze Majapahit not as an ideal type, where the process of
signification is frozen, but as a polity where specific ideas were established and contested
The Negara-Kertagama, the great 14th century poem whose title may be translated
“manual for the cosmic ordering of the state,” encapsulates this understanding of politics as
procession (Geertz 1983). The poem describes three discrete, but interconnected, ideas and
practices of statecraft: 1) the cosmic ordering of the royal family and the kingdom (mapping
people onto places), 2) the royal progress, and 3) court ceremonial. As at once a blueprint for
13
and a description of a certain type of polity, the normative descriptions in the Negara-Kertagama
helped to constitute the theater-state. The poem begins by describing the king, his family, his
palace, his capital, and his client-states. This last category includes not just actual districts that
may have accepted Hayam Wuruk’s suzerainty, but most of the world, concluding with the
passage: “then surely, the other lands, anywhere… are executing any orders of the honoured
Prince” (Pigeaud and Prapantja 1960: Canto 16, stanza 5: 1-2) The territory that Hayam Wuruk
effectively controlled was smaller than the grandiose realm described in the poem, although
larger and more urbanized than any earlier polity in Island Southeast Asia. In much of this area,
surviving inscriptions indicate that local elites had considerable autonomy, although they often
Descriptions of royal progresses in 1359, 1360, 1361, and 1363 follow and make up the
bulk of the poem. During these four years, the king and his entire court spent months touring the
kingdom, visiting hundreds of villages, towns, and temples. The royal highway was “crammed
with carts,” swarming with men on foot, elephants, horses, and camels, “the whole lurching
along like some archaic traffic jam a mile or two an hour over the narrow and rutted roads lined
with crowds of astonished peasants” (Geertz 1983: 132). At each location, Hayam Wuruk
Buddhist and Sivaite temples and sacred spaces and received people—princes, mandarins,
priests, anchorites, but also “all (the men of) those (dependencies)” (Pigeaud and Prapantja 1960:
As the poem indicates, Majapahit sovereignty was predicated on economic and ritual ties,
rather than military supremacy. Recent archaeological research in Java illustrates the magnitude
of Majapahit’s economic dominance, clearly indicating that this was more than empty
14
symbolism. Indeed, it seems likely that the poem focuses attention on goods precisely because
changes in the global economy had just begun to transform daily life. In the 14th century,
prospects for trade and revenue generation in Southeast Asia increased exponentially. Long-
distance trade, particularly with China, as well as local trade in subsistence commodities such as
rice became increasingly important. Indeed, Majapahit began to employ Chinese coins as
currency. Historical and archaeological research indicates that rice production also intensified
and Java’s coastal ports grew in population and influence during this period (Hall 2011: 278).
Recent mapping work around Trowoulan, long thought to be Majapahit’s capital, has indicated
that the capital district was much larger than previously believed, with dense occupation spread
over 100km2, with evidence of “intensive long distance trade” and “specialized manufacturing”
over much of this area (fig. 3; Miksic 2000: 115). Majapahit was both a ceremonial center—
with the king’s palace lying at the center of this megapolis and occupying an area of half a
The spread of rice cultivation and monetization have both been tied elsewhere to
increasing economic inequality and social stress (Morrison 1997, 2001). It seems that amid this
restructuring of Java’s economy and society, the Majapahit kings turned to ritual to unite a multi-
ethnic and multi-confessional populace. During his progress, Hayam Wuruk honored deified
ancestors, mountain gods, and other indigenous forces. He created a unified kingdom by
actively participating in rites from different traditions throughout the territory. This ritual
network was materialized in inscriptions, iconography, and temple construction. The widespread
distribution of a particular vessel, the “sacred water beaker,” indexes this strategy. These
beakers, which have been found across Eastern Java, formed part of the court ceremonial that
15
was celebrated across the island during Majapahit progresses. Their integration into local
practice entails “the recognition of the court as the source of ritual validation among the
disparate populations of its hinterland” (Hall 1996: 112). But despite the syncretistic nature of
this devotion, these rituals could also be exclusive. They validated the power of priests and the
In Majapahit Java, the royal progress performed a particular, static view of the universe,
depicting a perfect ritual center that imitated the cosmos. But Majapahit’s kings, priests, and
populace enacted these unifying, ahistoric, and syncretistic rituals precisely because this stasis
was absent in the emerging commercial cities. The sense of unity conceals, no doubt, other
tensions, subverting and muting the influence of shamans in the countryside and further
Rather than accepting the timeless nature of the Negara, new archaeological and historical work
allows us to understand the contingency of this strategy, and how ritual may work in a time of
Like the Majapahit progress, the Fiesta de Santa Fe performs an alternative image of
political and social reality. On the first Friday of every September, a small group of people
dressed in 17th century costumes gathers to celebrate mass at sunrise at the Loretto chapel on the
northern outskirts of Santa Fe, New Mexico. La Conquistadora, a wooden statue of the Virgin
Mary, initially brought to New Mexico in 1625, presides over the service. As the mass ends, a
young man dressed as Don Diego de Vargas kneels before the statue and prays for peace. Hours
later, still in costume, these Santa Feans will march through the plaza in a public performance
and commemoration of De Vargas’ 1692 “bloodless” reconquest of New Mexico (fig. 4).
16
Members of the procession bear aloft La Conquistadora, commemorating her rescue from a
burning church during the Pueblo Revolt of 1680 and her return to New Mexico twelve years
later. The high point of this procession, the Entrada, is the recreation of a meeting between De
Vargas and the Tesuque chief Domingo Naranjo, in which they negotiated the return of the
Spanish to New Mexico. This performance portrys Christianity as unifying the Pueblo Indians
and the Spaniards, as exemplified by its final event, when a Spanish friar baptizes a small child
dressed as a Pueblo Indian. As drums beat in the background, the ceremony ends with De
Vargas claiming possession of the city for the Spanish crown and the Catholic church. Unlike
the intimate ceremony in the chapel at dawn, the Entrada unfolds in the crowded plaza, before
Like many ceremonies, the Fiesta de Santa Fe is a complex service that has grown over
the years to include several different events (Grimes 1976). The inaugural event of the Fiesta is
itself contested. For the Hispanic families who serve as the Fiesta organizers and stress the
Catholic content of the festival and the roles that their families played in the resettlement, the
festival begins with Don Diego de Vargas's vigil at the Loretto chapel. But for many Anglos and
tourists, the fiesta starts the night before, with the burning of Zozobra, a wooden puppet that
stands 51 feet tall and whose name means “anxiety” in Spanish. Stuffed inside the puppet are
police reports, divorce papers, and other documents that people have sent to the city’s main
newspaper, the Santa Fe New Mexican. When Zozobra goes up in flames, so do the troubles and
worries of Santa Fe. Despite Zozobra's Spanish appellation, this event has no link to either
Spanish or Pueblo traditions. Instead, the artist Will Shuster invented the ceremony in 1924
(Shuster 1964). For many of the old Hispanic families, who have been displaced by
17
gentrification, Zozobra represents an unwelcome, “neo-pagan” sensibility, disrupting the
As a central event in the civic calendar, the Fiesta de Santa Fe has become a space for
Santa Feans to enact different ethnic and political identities. Like many festivals, it is to a large
extent an invented tradition. Although a 1712 proclamation ordered that the 1692 reconquest of
New Mexico be celebrated with “vespers, mass, sermon, and a procession through the main
plaza,” and there have been nearly annual religious observances since then, the fiesta itself was
launched in 1919 by the Museum of New Mexico (Horton 2010: 40). The first fiestas included a
parade in honor of Stephen Kearny, the American general who received the territory from
Mexico following the Mexican-American war, in addition to the festivities celebrating the 1692
resettlement. The first burning of Zozobra was the art community’s attempt to challenge the
patriotic and militaristic message of these festivals, which promoted economic development in
this new state (Horton 2010: 41). In the 1950s, the Hispanic community took charge of the
Fiesta and added the De Vargas mass to emphasize Catholicism as part of Hispanic cultural
preservation. In a sense, the Fiesta has been an event that has staged different Santa Fes,
including the quaint, but American city, open to Anglo immigration of the 1910s, the “city
different” of the art colony, and the Catholic city of the leading Hispanic families.
The Fiesta has also been a site of protest and resistance, particularly for the Pueblo
Indians whose story it also dramatizes. The script of the Hispanic-controlled Entrada and De
Vargas mass celebrates the 1692 conquest “not as a feat of conquistador bravado but as a historic
moment of reconciliation,” and indeed as the beginning of the state's unique tricultural legacy—
its Native American, Spanish, and Anglo history (Horton 2010: 159). Of course, despite the
rhetoric, the resettlement was not peaceful, but resulted in the deaths of 70 pueblo men and the
18
enslavement of about 400 women and children (Horton 2010: 3). The Fiesta does not just
celebrate, but also reenacts that moment, and organizers try, whenever possible, to recruit Pueblo
Indians to play the roles of their ancestors. For the last 35 years, however, the All Indian Pueblo
Council have boycotted the festival, following demands from the festival organizers that Pueblo
vendors vacate the plaza during the festival. Along with the boycott, some Pueblo officials have
responded to the festival with their own commemorative ceremonies, celebrating the Pueblo
Symbolic tensions have flared between these two groups in other commemorative
practices as well, particularly during the celebration in 1998 of the 400th anniversary of the
Spanish foundation of the colony of New Mexico. The founding of this colony was partially
realized through the Acoma massacre, when in retaliation for the deaths of 12 Spanish soldiers,
Don Juan de Oñate led a punitive expedition against Acoma that resulted in the killing of
approximately 800 people. Once Oñate had captured the pueblo, he ordered the amputation of
the right foot of every man above the age of 25 as well as their ensalvement for twenty years
(Knaut 1995). In 1998, Native Americans severed the right foot of a statue of Oñate in symbolic
retaliation for the men he maimed, as a protest to the 400-year celebrations, (Brooke 1998). In
response to these tensions, festival organizers over the last 20 years have sought to include the
Pueblo and to change the symbolism of the festivities. De Vargas now carries a crucifix rather
than a sword during the Entrada, while La Conquistadora has received a new name, “Nuestra
The staging of New Mexican history in the Fiesta de Santa Fe is tied up with the
expression of ethnic identity within the city and state as a whole. Unlike many Latin American
countries, which celebrate their shared Mestizo identity, people in New Mexico generally
19
identify themselves as belonging to one of three separate groups: Native American, Spanish, or
Anglo (Horton 2010). The notion of three discrete ethnic identities is codified in New Mexican
Middle School history textbooks (Roberts and Roberts 2010), and in how individuals identity
themselves in other context, despite the reality of intermarriage between all three communities.
At the same time, the Fiesta allows people to expound a counterhegemonic narrative. The birth
of the festival as a celebration of Hispanic heritage came at a time when the Hispanic community
in Santa Fe was being displaced by increasing house prices and was experiencing significant
outmigration from the state. The festival’s more recent transformation, particularly its attempt to
include Native Americans in a less demeaning fashion, has occurred during a period when all
three communities have been redefining themselves in light of changes in the ethnic composition
of the United States as a whole, the growing importance of Hispanics as a voting bloc, and the
As the Santa Fe Fiesta demonstrates, rituals and their significance can change over time
in response to political and economic conditions. Two Mayan settlement in the forests of Central
America preserve similar archaeological evidence for how ritual practice is implicated in
political change. At K’axob, Belize, the creation and veneration of ancestors helped to
underwrite lineage-based rights to land and other resources. Participation in funerary and
commemoration rituals was thus essential to economic and political concerns. This ancestor
ideology dominated both ritual and political practice from the Middle Formative (900-400 BC)
until the beginning of the Early Classic (250-400 AD). In contrast, at La Corona, Guatemala,
this older practice of ancestor veneration was supplanted by patron deity worship as part of a
dynastic struggle. Mayan Kingship during the Classic Period must be seen against this backdrop,
20
as kings sought to employ, negotiate, contest, supplant, and resist earlier understandings of
authority.
Maya cities and buildings have long lives. This is true of both monumental temples and
palaces and of smaller residences, which may be rebuilt multiple times. These renovations are as
second largest pyramid plaza document continuous use of this area from the first settlement of
this village at ca. 800 BC to the construction of a pyramid (structure 18) in the Early Classic,
coincident with the establishment of royal political power in the Maya lowlands (fig. 5). It is
thus possible to trace how people lived with their ancestors and how an emerging political elite
The constant use and remodeling of this space emphasizes the importance of continuity
and tradition, as well as how specific practices were rethought over time. Each rebuilding
respected earlier practices, but also transformed the meaning of the space as a whole. Under the
first house at K’axob, a simple hut, a middle-aged woman was buried with a single shell bead,
while a high status young man in a beaded robe, adorned with bracelets and armbands, was
interred nearby (Storey 2004: 112). This general pattern of a house surrounded with graves
persisted until the creation of the Early Classic pyramid. The family members buried beneath the
newly completed house may have provided residents with a tangible connection to the family as
In the Late Formative period (400 BC-250 AD), the number of burials increased, while
mortuary rituals, which were geared towards the creation of a specific class of ancestors, became
more elaborate. Indeed the position of burials, the frequency of secondary interments, and the
21
types of objects that accompanied the dead all changed. These changes index transformations in
the role of death among the living and document how ancestor veneration could ameliorate
conflicts over access to land and political influence (McAnany et al. 1999: 129-30). By the end
of the Formative period, some burials were marked, becoming more elaborate than others.
Certain individuals were buried in a seated position; a posture later associated with nobility.
Their heads were covered by a shallow bowl with a cross motif, which probably signified the
universe and attests to their relationship to the sacred (Headrick 2004: 371).
The final burials of people and ritual objects prior to the construction of the pyramid
exemplify these transformations and underline an emerging system of status and sacrifice. By
this period, this plaza had probably ceased to be a typical domestic area (fig. 6; McAnany 2004a:
56). Here, a deep oblong grave (B1-2) was cut into the floor of the plaza, ending only at the soft
limestone bedrock (fig. 7). The trench was the site of funerary and commemorative rituals over a
period of time; it was clearly opened and resealed several times. The first burial belonged to a
middle-aged man buried in a seated posture. A layer of clay separated him from the later burials,
all of which were bundles of disarticulated bones belonging to adults and one child. Offerings
accompanied some of the burials, while other burials were sprinkled with hematite. Near the
center of the pit, another bundle of bones was buried underneath a bowl marked with two
crosses. Two other special purpose vessels were placed nearby. Shells and beads were found
scattered throughout the pit; they were probably deposited during the ceremony when the
ancestral bundles were laid to rest, or as part of later commemorative practices. After the tomb
was sealed for the final time, a low platform was built to cover it, creating “the first formalized
ancestor shrine at K’axob” (McAnany 1995: 57). Partly cut into the fill of this burial was
another tomb, a circular pit in which seven other people were buried. A young or middle-aged
22
man, again buried sitting-up, with a cross-motif bowl covering his head, was the central figure
here. Ribs and vertebrae belonging to a young woman and an adolescent were strewn over and
around this man. Patricia McAnany, the excavator, speculates that these scattered bones
represent individuals sacrificed when the seated man was interred (McAnany 2000; Storey 2004:
At the end of this period, this shrine complex was covered over and a “triadic” cache of
three pots ringed by limestone spheres was buried, perhaps as part of a ceremony to
decommission this space. The lowest pot contained figurines, beads, disks, and unworked shell
categorized according to color and the number three. A hole piercing the chest of the central
figurine may have been an allusion to sacrifice. The bottom course of stones of pyramid 18 was
laid immediately above where the ancestor shrine had once been (McAnany 2000).
The construction of a pyramid sealed this area. In many Classic Maya centers, temple
pyramids are also royal mortuary shrines. Here, previously domestic rituals were reconfigured
as civic ceremonies that differed in terms of potential audience. The placement of pyramid 18 on
the western side of plaza B emphasizes the open area of the plaza. Unlike the smaller family
rituals that marked the interment of ancestors and the dedication of new houses, this vast space
allowed somewhere between 900 and 7,000 people to attend a royal funeral, probably a
substantial percentage of the population of this city. 9 Although Maya ceremonies emphasized
difference, clearly marking commoners and royalty as separate categories, these rituals may only
have been meaningful according to the degree to which they cited understandings of death,
ancestors, and personhood that were more widely shared (Gillespie 2001). The burials at K’axob
document an ongoing process of ancestor creation. Burial was not a one-time process; instead,
23
tombs were opened repeatedly and human remains were treated, saved, and later reburied. All of
these events were no doubt deeply meaningful for families, households, and even city-states.
Such ceremonies could symbolically unite a polity or single out specific royal ancestors
for commemoration. But they were not the only ways that the Maya used ritual performance to
construct political authority. At the Classic Maya site of La Corona, members of two rival
(Baron N.D., 2013). Excavations at four patron deity temples reveal their initial use as funerary
shrines. Here the material and textual remains combine to tell a complicated story of how two
families struggled for legitimacy over more than three centuries through both political and ritual
means. Temples that incorporated burials were probably dedicated to royal ancestors, rather like
more elaborate versions of the late formative example at K’axob. These burials belonged to high
status members of the community, probably early kings of the city, and can be dated to the city’s
foundation in the fourth century AD (Baron 2013: 325-6, 350). When a probable descendant of
these kings, K’uk’ Ajaw, died “at the edge of a stone” in AD 658, the new ruler, Chakaw Nahb
Chan, a member of a rival dynasty, sought to shore up his legitimacy by laying claim to these
sacred places. The first recorded act of his reign, which took place just 35 days after his
accession, was to dedicate three patron deity temples, the same temples that housed the remains
of these early kings (Baron 2013: 346). In so doing, Chakaw Nahb Chan transformed the
ancestor shrines of his political rivals into temples that belonged to the entire community.
This was only the first step in a program that led to important changes in understandings
of religion, politics, and community at La Corona. Almost 20 years later, Chakaw Nahb Chan’s
son, K’inich [?] Yook, rededicated one of these temples to the “Six Nothing Place God.” The
inscription he commissioned to commemorate the event acknowledges how Tahn K’inich Lajua,
24
a member of the rival dynasty, came to the city in the fourth century AD (fig. 8). Yet the
inscription does not grant this early king the status of city father. Instead it describes how the
true founder came to La Corona from “Six Nothing Place” four thousand years earlier, in 3805
BC. By rededicating this funerary shrine to the “Six Nothing Place God,” K’inich Yook sought
to rewrite the city’s history and appropriate the authority of antiquity for his dynasty.
Ancestor veneration and patron deity worship are not identical; the former is exclusive,
glorifying a particular lineage, while the latter is inclusive. Patron deities belong to and protect
the entire community. Hence, constructing a patron deity temple could have unified La Corona
during a period of political transition and perhaps chaos. At the same time, by establishing his
family’s ancient connection to La Corona through the mythical founder from Six Nothing Place,
K’inich [?] Yook clearly demonstrated his own special relationship with this deity. Middens
found near the patron deity shrines indicate that both La Corona’s elite and the larger community
took part in feasts at the temple and in the nearby plaza (Baron 2013: 356-9). The plaza here i
large enough to have accommodated between 1200 and 10,000 people during such ceremonies. 10
Feasting in honor of patron saints remains a common practice in Maya communities to this day.
Moreover, the middens and evidence for the careful refurbishing of these temples indicate that
they continued in use as patron deity temples until the city was abandoned. Although K’inich [?]
Yook’s descendants ceded control of the city to a rival dynasty (perhaps Tahn K’inich Lajua’s
descendants), the city’s rulers continued to patronize these shrines (Baron 2013: 360). Hence,
excavations and monumental texts indicate the complex ways that politics, performance, and
community came together in this Maya center. Along with K’axob, La Corona demonstrates
25
Ritual, Religion, and Practice
These vignettes depict the intersection of ritual, politics, and religion on two levels. First,
they consider specific performances of the type often termed “public events”— large-scale
rituals, ceremonies, pilgrimages, festivals, and celebrations, that work to fuse a specific ethos and
world view (Handelman 1990). Second, they place those rituals within the daily practices of
different people—including rice cultivation, dress, education, and house building, in order to see
how the world actualized in ritual impinges on the world of common sense. The five case-
studies illuminate a number of different aspects of this relationship. Taken together, they
provide a model for investigating performance through archaeology. There is more detail
available for the three modern narratives—the Persepolis celebration, the French Revolution, and
the Fiesta de Santa Fe—but the inclusion of two archaeological case-studies—Majapahit and the
Maya—illustrate that many of the same factors were true in other times and places and can be
investigated through archaeological and epigraphic remains. We cannot know the same details
of the varied reactions to festivals in Mesopotamia that we can in contemporary Iran or New
Mexico, but these examples remind us that there would have been a plurality of competing
interpretations.
Let us begin by focusing on public events. Public events or spectacles are “large-scale
Persepolis celebration, the federation festival, the royal progress of 1359, the Fiesta de Santa Fe,
and funerals at K’axob (Inomata 2006: 807). Such festivals do not arise randomly. In general,
rituals conform to rules and have specific formal qualities that give them meaning within their
cultural context. These qualities—which can include the use of formality, invariance, and
repetition in ways which are meaningful for the participants—separate rituals from ordinary
26
activities (Bell 1992: 106-17; Bell 1997: 138-70). Such events unfold in a time apart; their
actions do not exist within everyday life, but rather alongside it (Eliade 1961). These ceremonies
invest objects and places with a meaning and value that is greater than what they would have
apart from these events, as we can see if we consider the uproar over the Persepolis festival and
subsequent rejection of the pre-Islamic past in revolutionary Iran or the significance of severing
Public events tend to take one of three forms; each of which was represented in the
narratives and will be explored in the later chapters. 11 First, public events can actually effect
change themselves; they can model a new reality. These performances—which Don Handelman
terms “events that model”—are causative by nature, such as the death of Louis XVI that finally
and definitively executed both the king and the monarchy or K’inich [?] Yook’s rededication of
an ancestral temple to a patron deity. Second, events can be mimetic and display one vision of
the political order, like the Negara-Kertagama and the royal progress it describes, where the
king’s court represented the cosmos to the populace. These mimetic performances—“events that
present”—stand apart from daily life. They are “a means of performing the way things ought to
be in conscious tension to the way things are” (Smith 1987: 109). Finally, public events can
provide occasions to critique and even to transform the status quo; these spectacles are
sometimes called “events that re-present” (Bell 1992: 81). Such rituals may allow for the
dissolution and recreation of social order, its inversion and subsequent re-establishment. This is
one way of to interpret the Fiesta of Santa Fe, in which the city’s Hispanic families assert their
traditional Catholic religious authority against the secular, artistic power that prevails in this
increasingly Anglo city. At the same time, the Fiesta de Santa Fe may contribute to the very
discourse of power that it attempts to resist, by further reifying the myth of the city different.
27
But what is the role of religion in these rituals? Although nearly everyone would agree
that some of these case studies—like the patron deity temples at La Corona, the royal
processions at Majapahit, and the De Vargas mass in the Fiesta are religious, others, particularly
the ceremonies of the French Revolution or the Persepolis festival might seem divorced from
what we would call religion in the contemporary world. But this depends entirely on how one
defines religion. Certainly, Émile Durkheim, in one of the most influential accounts of religion
in the 20th century, noted that there is no “essential difference… between an assembly of
Christians commemorating the principal moments of the life of Christ, or Jews celebrating either
the exodus from Egypt or the giving of the ten commandments, and a meeting of citizens
commemorating the instruction of a new moral charter or some great event in national life”
(Durkheim 2001 [1912]: 322). For Durkheim, religion was not, at heart, about ways to explain
unexplainable natural phenomena, or the worship of gods or spiritual beings, but about the
categorization of life into the sacred and the profane as a way to create a moral community. In
this book, I will follow Durkheim in conceiving of religion as a social and cultural system. As a
result, although, I will, of course, ocassionally refer to various gods, myths, and specific
practices, the book does not set out to provide a comprehensive catalogue of “Ancient Near
Eastern” religious systems. Instead, I am interested in the way systems of meaning work and
how they are implicated in these early complex societies. As a result, I will adopt Geertz’s
definition of religion as a system of symbols used to formulate conceptions that appear to access
a deeper reality, producing certain “moods and motivations,” which appear uniquely real (Geertz
1973: 90). This system of symbols works both as a model of and as a model for reality; it
provides both an interpretation of and a blueprint for life (Geertz 1973: 93-4).
28
Religion may be realized through ritual, but it tends only to be meaningful to the extent
of a ceremony, ritual, or other spectacle both draw upon and shape other social and/or economic
particularly structuration (Giddens 1984; Bourdieu 1977, 1990). As Anthony Giddens has
emphasized, the actions of individuals drawing upon rules and resources produce and reproduce
those same rules and hence social systems. Structures do not exist apart from agents, but are
instead “instantiated in social practice” (Giddens 1984: 25). In the examples just presented, none
of the ceremonies would have mattered without these larger connections. The deputies’ scarlet
togas, for example, cited both a historical precedent well-known to educated French citizens and
drew upon a widely-shared understanding that costume signaled class and occupation. Ancestor
rituals performed in Plaza B at K’axob existed within a framework that included proper building
practices, ideas about kinship, and specific conceptions of status. In fact, in situations where a
public event is at odds with these vernacular understandings, that event will fail to have the
desired effect. Performances succeed, are “felicitous,” when they are understood to be authentic,
when actors and audiences are fused, when the performance “[creates] the conditions for
projecting cultural meaning from performance to audience’ (Alexander 2011: 53). This provides
a rubric to interpret the catastrophic consequences of the Persepolis celebration for the Shah’s
regime. Although the festival planners had hoped that the ceremony would be mimetic,
celebrating a particular image of Iran’s past and present, its distance from the daily life of Iranian
citizens made it fail, turning it into an opportunity to critique the existing social order.
29
The fact that rituals can fail, that there is often a gap between the religious world and the
common-sense world (Hüsken 2007; Grimes 1990; Bell 1992), is a problem that is
underanalyzed in much of Durkheim and Geertz’s work on religion. 12 By assuming that such
representations are always collective (society writ large) and that religion always work as models
of and models for, both theorists ignore the role of reception and construct artificially static and
unified societies (Wedeen 1999). It can be extremely hard to investigate the discrepancies that
will argue that one way to do so is to adopt a performance perspective—one that bridges both the
formal world of ritual and the informal one of daily life, and pays particular attention to
The verb “to perform” has at least three distinct meanings in common use in English: to
play or give a performance, “to carry out an action,” and “to cause, to bring about” (OED
"Perform, V." 2005). In other words, performance has three aspects—theatricality, the practice
of everyday life and performativity, all of which have been investigated as part of the
“performance turn” in the humanities and social sciences (Schechner 2003: 7). Much of this
analysis has investigated performance as a category that vacillates between theater and ritual,
between entertainment and a need to make things happen. Anthropological work on ritual and
drama and its intersection with social life during the 1960s has been particularly influential. 13
Other studies use a performance paradigm to study the presentation of self in everyday life (as
Goffman put it) considering how individuals learn to play specific social and political roles. This
can illuminate how people self-consciously employ a range of symbols in their enactment of a
wider reality (Goffman 1959). A final important strand in performance studies is performativity,
namely that the act of performing a role is what renders it real. In this sense, few identities are
30
given; instead they are actualized through practice (Butler 1990, 1993). Performativity provides
us with a way to understand how performance actually does things, how it can cause change.
Like performatives—statements that do not just express reality but bring it into being (Austin
Each of these levels of performance was clearly visible in the vignettes: from the
theatricality of the Persepolis pageant, to the economic practices of the Majapahit royal progress,
to the performative nature of K’axob funerary practices that converted the dead into powerful
ancestors. I will consider the first two aspects of performance throughout this book, using the
framework of public events and daily practice that has already been established. This will allow
me to investigate (for example) the queen of Ebla’s role in the coronation ritual, or how members
of Uruk’s citizenry served the Seleucid crown, in order to analyze how the performance of rituals
and the practice of daily life were political. At the same time, I will be sensitive to the third
sense of creative performance; how such activities helped to bring a polity into being, how they
were performative (Austin 1975). Adopting this broad understanding of performance provides a
focus on how a range of individual acts, imprinted in both texts and material culture, constituted
different polities.
collective representations (scripts and the cultural understandings that inform them), materialized
symbols (sets, props, and costumes), actor(s), mise-en-scène, social power, and audiences
(Alexander 2011; Alexander et al. 2006). These aspects of performance may manifest
differently, depending on the situation. The first category, for instance, is conceptual, but it
contains both the formal scripts that sometime structure events (as in the Fiesta de Santa Fe, or
indeed, most Mesopotamian rituals), as well as the broader system of symbols that
31
improvisational ceremonies employ. Actors bring life to these scripts and participate in these
public events. In Mesopotamia, for the rituals we will examine, they usually include priests and
kings, but can also include other people, like officials, artisans, and relatives of the dead. Of
course, actors do not bring a script to life through words alone, instead they rely upon places and
things—materialized symbols—to do much of the work for them, making performance spaces
and props essential (Inomata 2006; Inomata and Coben 2006). Similarly, a performance must be
directed; the words of the script, gestures of the actor, and various objects combine to create
something new. Social power profoundly affects the process of performance and indeed the
choice of director and actor (Mann 1986). Only certain people will have the social, political, and
economic capital to stage a particular act. Moreover, power shapes the composition of an
audience and the interpretive process. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, a performance
has an audience, which is not, in Richard Schechner’s words, “an either/or stagnant lump”
(Schechner 2003: 219). Instead, how an audience receives a performance, whether its members
As we have already seen, we cannot assume that merely because a ritual was staged with all due
pomp and circumstance that it was received as unquestioning truth by all participants and
observers. Certainly in some cases, audiences do identify with a certain message and accept the
dominant or hegemonic reading. But in many other cases, viewers might agree with certain
aspects of a performance, but still not be willing to act in ways that conform to it. And of course,
in still other cases, viewers may understand a specific message, but reject it totally, reading it in
But what do ritual or religion have to do with the domain of politics? Politics resembles
performance in that it is both polysemous and expressed through the physical world. It may be
32
understood both broadly and narrowly—in the specific sense of state power and in the more
general sense of any relationship of command and obedience (Geuss 2001; Weber 1980;
Osiander 2007). Hence, politics encompasses more than the apparatus of government, and
political actors are not just politicians. In the modern state, politics includes elections and
congressional speeches, but also directives about when children should learn to read, where
roads may be built, and how much employers must pay their workers (Smith 2003: 88). In our
five vignettes, politics consisted of negotiations over the curriculum in Iran and New Mexico and
calendrical systems in revolutionary France. In the Ancient Near East, individual and
institutional political actors comprised kings and administrators, priests and generals, tribal
officials and city councils (Postgate 1994a), but also cloistered women who guarded their family
wealth (Harris 1975), and pastoral groups who moved with their flocks between different
kingdoms and maintained shifting relationships with a range of authorities (Durand 2004).
These different actors were responsible for organizing the harvest, regulating time, setting prices,
standardizing measurements, and managing the sale of real estate. The administration—and
often the king himself—strove to monitor many of these activities. Although there are no known
Akkadian or Sumerian terms equivalent to our term politics, given the wide-range of activities
reported in official correspondence, it is hardly a stretch to assert that these activities were
Recent work in political science indicates some of the ways we can examine the
connections between symbolic systems, performance, and politics. In two ethnographies of the
Arab world, Lisa Wedeen considers how spectacle and (performative) daily practice are political.
In her examination of the cult of Hafez Assad, she studies how spectacles glorifying the Syrian
president and his family provided a specific sort of public discourse, one that established a
33
framework for the operation of politics (including opposition to the regime), despite the cynicism
of the citizen audience (Wedeen 1999). Alternatively, when considering how a Yemeni national
consciousness was produced despite the lack of effective state institutions and a history of unity,
Wedeen examines how feelings of national identification arose in response to the widely
publicized trial of a serial killer during preparations for the 10-year anniversary of Yemen’s
unification (Wedeen 2008: 88-98). In both cases, Wedeen emphasizes the necessity of spectacle
and performativity to the operation of politics, and the creation of viable polities. Public events
do not necessarily generate agreement from their audience, but they establish a specific symbolic
discourse that is essential to the practice of politics. Similarly, people construct their political
citizenship. For Wedeen, both politics and ideology are thus essentially material, that is
constituted through practices, not ideas or beliefs. 14 Importantly, Wedeen allows for cynicism,
the possibility of negotiated or oppositional readings of spectacles. In this, she draws post-war
work on ideology that has emphasized, contra Marx (1970 [1932]), that ideology is not always a
lie experienced as truth, but can be a lie experienced as a lie (Adorno 1972; Žižek 1989, 1994;
Modern Syria and Yemen are of course temporally distinct from the case studies I will
consider here, but Wedeen’s use of spectacle and performativity strikes a chord with how politics
are described within the cuneiform record. An examination of Mesopotamian political texts—of
treaties, royal inscriptions, royal correspondence, and chronicles—reveals a paucity of terms that
correspond to state or polity. The indigenous term for country or land is mātum and can be
The term ālum (Akk., Sum. uru) refers to another important political reality, the city (sometimes
34
including its surrounding countryside). Other territorial terms include those sometimes
translated as village (kaprum, dimtum, dunnum), many of these words are used only for short
bureaucracy, despite the large numbers of extant administrative texts. When it comes to ideas of
rulership, dominion, and the practice thereof, however, we are on firmer ground. The most
common Akkadian phrases are šarrūtam epēšum, bēlūtam epēšum, and bêlum, literally, to do (or
perform) kingship, to do (or perform) rulership, and to rule. 16 The active sense which is
and reinvigorating what has been an often static, typological discussion of state formation (Smith
2003). Zainab Bahrani has eloquently argued that in the Ancient Near East ideology worked first
understanding of the performativity of words, images, and practices (Bahrani 2008: 51-2; 2003:
200). Hence, the basic notion that material objects and performative practices helped to
underwrite reality had a long intellectual history in the ancient Near East.
Given our interest in active performance (politics) rather than in static form (the state),
our fundamental concern is how politics was actually practiced in the Ancient Near East. How
and why did people create and maintain polities? How were individuals constituted as subjects?
How and why did certain people, and more importantly institutions gain and maintain authority
Performative Traces
These questions lie at the heart of any study of ancient or modern politics and are
notoriously difficult for archaeologists to investigate using the sources at our disposal.
35
Recognizing the essentially material nature of ritual and politics however, does provide us with a
means of addressing them. Authority, defined as the power to “command not just the attention
but the confidence, respect, and trust of [an audience]” is not constructed through words alone,
but employs the “whole theatrical array of gestures, demeanors, costumes, props and stage
devices through which one may impress or bamboozle an audience” (Lincoln 1994: 4, 7). Our
vignettes have similarly illustrated that power only exists so far as people have the ability to
realize material change, to construct a palace at Trowoulan, or to impose the metric system by
designing new thermometers, rulers, and scales. All of the rituals that we have considered have
worked through things—such as ancestral bundles at K’axob, conquistador costumes in Santa Fe,
or the television broadcasts of the Persepolis festival. The complex relationship between people,
things, and institutions that these vignettes highlight hints at how we may use material remains to
Archaeologists and ancient historians have interrogated ritual performance in four basic
ways. First, Assyriologists have considered ritual texts and the actual performance of ritual as
documented in administrative texts.18 Second, art historians have focused on monumental art,
particularly sculptures or stelae depicting performances or ritual acts. 19 Third, some landscape
archaeologists have investigated the spatial processes of performance, including how landscapes,
cities, plazas, monumental gateways or other places have shaped specific ceremonies. 20 Finally,
other archaeologists have analyzed the detritus of performance, archaeological depositions that
This study will employ a heuristic that crosscuts all of these approaches and elides the
distinctions that are often drawn between textual, iconographic, architectural, and archaeological
records. In what follows, I will analyze traces, depositional events that occur at specific
36
moments of time (although these discrete events may be repeated). This is a broad category that
represents the marks that people have made in the past, the vestiges left by the passage of time
(Ricœur 1990: 119-122). Traces include events like wall plastering, floor construction, pit
filling, discarding rubbish, sealing tags or doors, writing (and destroying) texts, among other
practices. Some traces persist and can continue to shape and be shaped by later events. Such
enduring traces include the built environment, monuments, landscapes, and the Mesopotamian
stratigraphy (McAnany and Hodder 2009) and depositions (Thomas 1999; Berggren and Stutz
2010; Joyce 2008; Pollard 2008; Garrow 2012), as well as through the study of objects and their
associations. In the vignettes above, traces included clothing from the 1790s, stone and shell
scattered in graves at K’axob, the gifts exchanged during Hayam Wuruk’s progress, and the
statue of La Conquistadora. Many other things could be included in this category as well,
including the Negara-Kertagama, French revolutionary clocks, and the tent city built next to the
ruins at Persepolis. These materials were critical to the performance of these ceremonies and to
their effectiveness.
Given the mediating roles they play in human action, traces may have additional,
unintended consequences. Regular monthly and annual cycles of wall plaster at Neolithic
Çatalhöyük, Turkey, along with occasional periods of brick making led to the creation of deep
clay pits and the proliferation of phragmites, an aggressive reed that provided new materials for
roofing, but which also depleted the water table (Hodder 2012: 64-8). Similarly, in Cahokia,
Illinois, during the 10th and 11th centuries AD, people regularly deposited layers of sediment;
activities that over decades created imposing mounds. Once shaped, the mounds acquired
37
cultural significance. This punctuated construction history, in which the mounds were not built at
one time, emphasizes that we have to understand these monuments as processes—and not begin
with a teleological view of their presence in the landscape (Alt and Pauketat 2003: 164-6).
These examples illustrate some of the ways that traces may endure. It is necessary to
interpret the Cahokia mounds, for example, both as constructions made by different people with
contrasting ideas of what they might mean, but also in their final form, as monuments that
continued to affect human action long after their builders had died (Alt and Pauketat 2003). In
Mesopotamia, we see this most profoundly in the long-lived urban spaces, where the placement
of streets, the construction of temples, and the delineation of urban lots constrained the physical
layout of a neighborhood and affected house construction for centuries (Stone 1987).
Additionally, although the Negara-Kertagama may have initially been written as part of an
argument about 14th century Majapahit kingship, its survival and widespread citation means that
it continues to shape notions of Indonesian identity today. 19th century Javanese war leaders
invoked Majapahit’s imperial past as an alternative to the Dutch-governed East Indies, and 20th
2010). Within the Ancient Near East, several different tales or textual traditions operated
similarly, especially the legends of the kings of Akkad, which were rewritten for political
audiences down the ages and integrated into different understandings of the past and present (see
The chapters that follow consider ritual, performance, and politics by devoting careful
attention to their traces, as props that actors deployed and as the physical settings in which
ceremonies were staged (and which constrained and enabled different performances and catered
to various audiences). Given the multiplicity of actors, the ambivalence of the performative
38
space, and the limited details we have on the scripts they followed, it can be difficult to analyze
these processes. Simply emphasizing the materiality of life does not magically make this an
easy task, but the concept of the trace does give us a means to interrogate the processes of the
past.
Chapters 2-4 examine how politics were negotiated through public events and daily
practice in the Ancient Near East. Each chapter begins with a particular ritual and then analyzes
these performances with regards to social and political transformation. These rituals provide a
conceptual space in which to consider how the three different types of public events—events that
model, events that present, and events that re-present—to use Handelman’s typology, were
political in the Ancient Near East. Each chapter focuses on a place and time for which a wide
range of archaeological sources are available, including settlement data from regional surveys,
the results of excavations of towns and sanctuaries, cuneiform texts, mortuary studies, and art
historical analyses. In general, the chapter seeks to provide a thick description of a certain ritual,
exploring networks of signification that extend far beyond the domain of religion, and hence
inform a particular society (Geertz 1973: 27-28). Given the contrasting temporal dimensions of
much of the archaeological and historical material, each case study operates on a timescale of
centuries.
The processes highlighted in each chapter are important more generally, as the three
understandings of space, time, and society. In order to understand how these concepts operated
as part of religious systems, I will employ the notion of hegemonic articulation, the idea that a
fixed meaning does not inhere in ideological elements as such. Rather meaning is partially fixed
39
by the operation of certain “nodal points” or “privileged signifiers,” concepts that in and of
themselves are meaningless but give meaning to a chain of discursive elements, the way that the
last word in a sentence suddenly makes the rest of the articulation sensible (Laclau and Mouffe
2001: 112-3). In the three case studies, movement, memory, and tradition serve as nodal points
for different Mesopotamian hegemonic articulations; these are materialized notions and
associated practices that helped to make sense of and for specific polities. 22
the relationship between movement and political authority in early complex societies in Northern
Mesopotamia in Chapter 2: Movement. The appearance of urban centers and kingdoms that
sought, however ineffectively, to maintain control over a specific territory, transformed how
people understood and experienced space. Although cuneiform maps existed in Mesopotamia
from the late third millennium BC, mapping was not the dominant way that people understood
sovereignty through travel, an experience that was ritualized at Ebla. That kingdom’s complex
between pilgrimage, territorial definition, and political power. In order to ascend Ebla’s throne,
the king, queen, and their divine counterparts undertook a pilgrimage around the kingdom,
ending with a long ceremony at the royal mausoleum, in which they were remade in the image of
their ancestors. The creation of this ritual landscape accompanied and legitimated a new
Beyond this royal journey, political elites transformed sacred and political space both within the
nascent city—by erecting tombs, palaces, temples, and cultic platforms—and beyond the city—
by laying claim to funerary and religious monuments that served as pilgrimage centers. These
40
archaeologically attested rituals provide insight into the different identities and political
processes of various kingdoms. Pilgrimage routes often coincided with networks of economic
exchange that also helped to define early states. Journeys through the landscape of newly
constituted polities—in order to visit summer or winter pastures, deliver taxes in kind, or
Chapter 3: Memory moves away from this focus on space and territory to consider the
relationship that different political communities had with time, particularly how commemorative
practices were embedded in the re-establishment of political authority. The chapter opens with a
discussion of the “Feast of the Land,” a yearly religious event that united all of the constituent
members of the Mari kingdom and culminated in the celebration of a kispum ceremony, a ritual
that honored royal and tribal ancestors, and an example of an event that presents. The notion of
the past as the domain of the ancestors was critical to the establishment of a number of small
kingdoms. In the 19th century BC, following two to three centuries of abandonment, many
villages were founded across the fertile plains of Northern Mesopotamia and complex political
communities began to coalesce around them. Survey data show that increasingly mobile
pastoralism and shifting cultivation transformed settlement systems, while analysis of treaties
and other diplomatic texts from Mari and Tell Leilan demonstrate that these kingdoms defined
pastoralists—rather than through their territorial possessions. In the wake of this experience of
dislocation, people used the past to cement a sense of place. Official rituals created a divine past
through historical narratives, fictive genealogies, and divination practices. At the same time,
individuals called upon and constructed the past as an authoritative sphere by burying heirlooms
in foundation deposits; emulating third millennium pottery, seals, and statuary; and founding
41
new villages on top of prehistoric mounds. The most salient way that both states and individuals
negotiated their own pasts was in the elaboration of burial traditions and commemorative rituals.
Tombs and other monuments to the ancestors were places of ritual and diplomatic practice where
collective entities like tribes and city councils reaffirmed their commitment to a certain political
While Chapter 3 is concerned with memory, particularly the way political actors
employed events, ideas, people, and objects linked to specific historical moments, Chapter 4:
Tradition examines the related, but distinct, realm of tradition—repetitive practices that are
linked to a more general sense of “what has always been.” The chapter begins by investigating
how the New Year’s or Akītu festival was celebrated in the last centuries before the Common
during the Seleucid period, the Akītu provides an opportunity to consider how rituals can critique
established political practice and how different actors may use performance to establish
alternative political visions. As either an innovative act of resistance by the Babylonian elite or
the appropriation of an ancient rite by the Seleucid kings, this rituall highlights the different ways
in which employment of Mesopotamian traditions in this period must be considered within the
historical context of colonialism. Although many historians and archaeologist working with both
Greek and cuneiform sources have assumed that the "survival" of cuneiform culture is part of a
wider cultural continuity and hence unproblematic, this chapter reviews evidence for Babylonian
customs and traditions and shows that this is not the case. Settlement patterns, household
practices, and economic structures all changed greatly during the second half of the first
millennium BC, suggesting that daily life was the locus of marked transformation. In contrast,
42
government, and scholarship. The association between Babylonian traditions, antiquity,
knowledge, and the divine meant that both the elite citizenry and priesthood of Babylonian cities
and the Seleucid court sought to align themselves with these domains within the complex
about the longue durée of Mesopotamian history and politics more generally. It begins with a
final discussion of performance and discusses what this framework reveals about the nature of
politics in the Ancient Near East. Then it addresses the archaeology of communities and
considers how Mesopotamian cities and kingdoms fit into this broader literature. The sense of
distinctiveness and belonging that Mesopotamian polities created was quite different from that
affiliations were often as powerful, or more powerful than ties to a particular polity. The
strategies that political actors employed in their negotiation of political community similarly
differed from the disciplinary and security-based approaches of modern states. As the earlier
chapters argue, bodily practices, commemorative ceremonies, and the transmission of tradition
were some of the key tactics used to create a unified culture and to generate dissent. The relative
weakness of these strategies helped contribute to pervasive political instability, particularly in the
third and second millennia. The book concludes by considering continuity and cultural
transmission during the three millennia of cuneiform culture and more recently, in the ways that
myth.
Scholars have traditionally used Mesopotamia, as a model for all archaic polities. A
number of recent works have discredited this practice, however, and archaeologists working in
43
Mesopotamia as well as outside it have made an effort to rethink social evolution and engage
critically with the idea of the state (Porter 2012; Smith 2003; Yoffee 2005). This analysis of how
ritual performance and daily practice created Mesopotamian states further broadens this debate
integrating data from excavation, surveys, and a wide range of texts, and asking broad questions
about the intersection of ritual and politics, this study speaks not just to the archaeology of
Mesopotamia, but also to the wider anthropological debate about the multilinear development of
social complexity.
44
II. Movement
The day before her wedding to her cousin, Iš’ar-Damu, Tabur-Damu, the queen-elect,
spent the night camping outside of Ebla’s fortifications (Biga 1998: 83-4). Early the following
morning, she dressed according to precise instructions and donated a sheep for sacrifice to the
sun-goddess. With these preparations out of the way, a priest ceremonially anointed Tabur-
Damu’s head with oil. This was one of the fundamental ritual acts at Ebla, performed at
weddings, funerals, and other ceremonies. It was performative, enacting a change of state
(Viganò 2000). Here it was probably the first step of the transformation of Tabur-Damu into the
maliktum or queen, the title that she will bear instead of her personal name in later Ebla texts.
Following this act, she took part in another purification ritual, the ni-gu ceremony, before
entering one of the city’s many gates. Once in Ebla’s lower town, she proceeded to the ma-ra-
sum where she was clothed in new, royal garments (Fronzaroli 1993: 23) and then entered the
Kura temple, where she dedicated sheep for sacrifice to several of the gods of Ebla. In addition,
she gave Kura and Barama, the gods of royalty, delicate jewelry to adorn their statues, and rare
boxwood and silver vases to ornament their temples. The royal wedding was a lavish occasion,
celebrated by the entire Eblaite court. Scribes recorded the vast quantities of precious metals
and luxurious fabrics that were taken from the treasury for the affair and given to members of
The bride’s literal passage into Ebla echoes the rite de passage at the heart of this text,
her transformation from a young girl, chosen on the basis of a favorable omen (Biga 1999: 104,
TM.75.G.2417 rev. VIII: 6-18), into Ebla’s rightful queen. The extensive ruins from the early
45
second millennium BC at Ebla have prevented the recovery of much of the city’s third
millennium ground-plan, except in a few limited areas (Matthiae 2008: Fig. 2.5). Nonetheless, it
is possible roughly to reconstruct the queen’s journey from the city wall to Kura’s temple. It is
likely that she entered the city through the southeastern gate, perhaps the Gate of Kura
mentioned in the ritual (Matthiae 2008: 35, 2007, 2009). Her next stop may have been an open
space around the “Temple of the Rock,” perhaps the ma-ra-sum of the ritual (Matthiae 2006b:
490-2; 2007: 522; 2009). Alternatively, the temple of Kura where the ritual ends may have been
located in the city’s public district, the SA.ZAki, Palace G on the Acropolis (Porter 2012: 206;
Matthiae 2006b: 489-90). 25 In this case, the bride would have crossed the Lower Town in order
to reach the porticoed entrance of the SA.ZAki, and would then have climbed the monumental
stairs to the audience hall, traversing the ritual space of the plaza.
The royal bride’s procession through the city provided the populace with a chance to see
their new queen. Traveling this highly controlled path and performing rituals in the city’s plaza
imparted valuable lessons about the nature of political power as expressed through architecture.
Moreover, this journey from the city-walls to the palace via the plaza reverses the ritual
procession she will perform later as queen; when she will leave the palace for the plaza in order
to supervise rituals like the feeding of the gods (Porter 2012: 203-6; see below).
Following the wedding, Išar-Damu, Tabur-Damu, several high officials, and the statues
of the city’s chief gods, Kura and Barama, left Ebla for the cult center of Binaš. 26 Servants
oversaw the preparations, outfitting the wagons that carried the gods, packing the offerings and
other supplies necessary for the journey, and arranging the elaborate garments of the king and
the queen. They traveled for four days, stopping at six towns where they offered sacrifices to
different gods and many of the dead kings of Ebla. 27 When the travelers reached Binaš, the king,
46
queen, and the divine statues entered the é ma-dim, the house of the dead or the royal
mausoleum. The two full ritual tests, ARET XI 1 and 2, provide nearly identical accounts of
The king and the queen enter the house of the dead...
The divine couple, Kura and Barama, comes to the house of the dead and enters the
chamber.
After the king and the queen arrive, Amazu offers one ancestor bull, two sheep, and one
silver bird, to the deified Ibbini-Li’m, two sheep, one silver bird to the deified Šagiš; two
When those of the cloth arise, the king and the queen depart and sit on the thrones of
their fathers.
When the sun (god) rises, the invocation priests invoke and the lamentation priests intone
And the birth goddess Nintu illuminates the new Kura, the new Barama, the new king,
This sojourn in the é ma-dim transformed both the human royal couple and the divine royal
couple. The texts describe three, seven-day ritual periods following this initial rite, during which
the king and queen held vigil in the mausoleum at night, and returned to their thrones during the
47
day to perform sacrifices and offer libations to the gods and the dead kings. Only after this
month, when they were ritually remade in the image of their ancestors, could Iš’ar-Damu and
Tabur-Damu truly ascend to power (Fronzaroli 1992: 184). On their return to Ebla, they
entered the temple of Kura in the palace district and enjoyed a royal banquet, consuming gifts of
food and drink that had been provided for their first celebration of one of the major rituals of the
Ebla court (ARET XI, 2 V XVIII 15-21). They had thus officially become the rulers, the En and
Maliktum.
encompassed changing relationships between power and place on many scales, from the rise of
palaces and temples, to the development of cities and the creation of a new political landscape in
the countryside (fig. 9). Each of these changes had social consequences, including the institution
of a hierarchical administrative system based on writing that sought to oversee agricultural labor
and the production of goods, the transformation of social interaction as populations grew and
cities ceased to be face-to-face communities, and the emergence of new economic opportunities.
The cultural consequences of these changes were profound and included the appearance of a new
symbolic system expressed in ritual, art, architecture, and the landscape itself. Here we will
examine that transformation through the lens of space, focusing particularly on how movement
controlling movement was one method used to display power and unite the countryside. In this
schema, the journey served as a ritual act, political metaphor, and everyday experience.
Movement through newly created political landscapes was thus critical to the development of a
48
cognitive schema that made sense of these polities, and indeed helped to constitute them from
All social processes have an important spatial component. People create particular
spaces by acting and moving in them, thinking about them, and connecting them to symbols and
their daily lives. The unique space of each society is produced through a combination of daily
routine, concepts held by officials, and religious or cosmological understandings (Lefebvre 1991:
191). For geographers and historians, movement or control thereof is critical to the creation of
spatial regimes. Henri Lefebvre writes that the production of space begins with action; Yi-Fu
Tuan suggests that human understandings of space develop out of movement (Tuan 1977: 35);
Michel de Certeau describes walking as one of the everyday practices that creates the lived space
of the city (Certeau 1984: 98). Similarly, philosophers have celebrated walking—Thoreau
strolling through the Massachusetts countryside; Heidegger rambling down a country path near
Messkirch; Benjamin and Baudelaire playing the flaneur in the Parisian arcades—as a process
that provides unique insights (Macauley 2000). This interest has emerged as a response to a
modernity in which walking is no longer the default means of locomotion. In third millennium
Mesopotamia, despite the recent domestication of draft animals including donkeys, horses and
even donkey-onager hybrids (the famous kunga, Weber 2008), walking remained the way most
people experienced space, how they apprehended their surroundings, and understood their place
in the world.
Walking in a city involves different constraints than travel in the open countryside or in
an unplanned village. This would have been particularly noticeable in the Early Bronze Age in a
world where cities, monumental architecture, and narrow streets were all rare. For those who
ruled early cities, channeling or limiting movement was a clear way to demonstrate, and indeed
49
create, political authority (Dovey 2008; Dovey and Dovey 2010). The construction of walls,
gates, streets, and monumental buildings not only expressed a regime’s political power, but as
architecture became part of the urban fabric it continued to affect each citizen, “in an
unconscious, habitual, corporeal way” (Hastorf 2009: 53), naturalizing a particular form of
political authority. Movement beyond the city can also be connected to delineating territory.
Cross-culturally, travel and the acquisition of exotic knowledge are often politically valuable
(Helms 1988) and have been linked to the rise of political complexity (Mann 1986). The
embodied nature of ritual and practical travel makes this method of establishing authority
investigated archaeologically. Indeed, archaeology with its emphasis on small scale excavation
and extensive survey may be the discipline best suited to engage with such questions (Smith
2003: 21-2). As Matthew Johnson has recently noted, sensory issues, including movement, are
far more readily accessible to archaeologists than processes like social stratification (Johnson
scale has been most often addressed through the lens of landscape archaeology. Since Robert
Adams’ pioneering surveys beginning in the early 1960s (Adams 1966; Adams and Nissen 1972;
Adams 1981), scholars have explored the rise of political complexity by analyzing regional
dynamics, especially connections between settlements in probable state systems (Wilkinson et al.
2007; Ur 2010b). These studies have grown more numerous as new information such as satellite
imagery allows the reconstruction of ancient landscapes even in areas off-limits to most
archaeologists, like Southern Iraq (Hritz 2010; Hritz and Wilkinson 2006; Pournelle 2007).
50
the layout of urban centers, and more recently roads (Raccidi 2012; Ur 2009; Ur 2003; Ur
2010b). In general, there has been much less attention to questions of perception or ideology in
McCorriston 2011). 30
Here, I will develop a methodology that will supplement mainstream ecological and
economic approaches to ancient landscape by considering the perception of built and natural
landscapes and its connection to political change. Symbolic studies of ancient landscapes have
dwelling (Heidegger 1971: 150-1). These analyses usually focus on the bodily experience of a
particular space and how that process generates a certain set of meanings. As Christopher Tilley
explains, “at their simplest and most abstract conceptualization, human, and humanized,
landscapes consist of two elements; place and their properties and paths or routes of movement
between these places and their properties… The concern is with both stasis and movement”
(Tilley 2012: 27). Phenomenological approaches to landscape have examined the relationship
between different places and these places and the natural landscape, by looking at intervisibility,
location, and access (Bender et al. 2007; Tilley 1994, 2010; Tilley and Bennett 2008; Llobera
2007).
ambiguity and lack of repeatability, problematic elision between modern and ancient experiences
and understandings (Barrett and Ko 2009: 279), and lack of attention to power relations and
social domains besides the symbolic (Fleming 2006: 278). The main problem with
51
perceptions of landscape and understanding their connection to power relations, particularly in
the absence of texts, iconography, and indeed (for the most part) settlements
the mid-third millennium, however, provides a specific context in which to study the symbolic
aspect of a range of landscapes and analyze how they intersected with power dynamics.
Archives from Ebla and Beydar dating to the 24th century BC contain somewhere between 2,000
and 7,000 documents. 31 The majority of the texts are administrative records, especially accounts
of textiles and metals, although there are also literary, pedagogic, diplomatic, and ritual texts
(Pettinato and Alberti 1979; Ismail et al. 1996). Contemporary with these documents is a rich
iconographic tradition, particularly expressed in varied glyptic styles attested across Northern
Mesopotamia, from Nineveh to the Mediterranean (Marchetti 1998; Matthews 1997; McCarthy
2011), as well as in elite statuary and clay figurines (Pruss 2011; Marchesi et al. 2011). Finally,
thirty years of intense archaeological investigation in and around a number of third millennium
sites in Syria has produced extensive information on these settlements and the changes they
experienced coincident with urbanism. This material will allow me to develop a hermeneutic
approach to investigate the traces of movement writ broadly (Ricœur 1987, 1990, 2004); rather
than relying on the ahistoric, phenomenological approach that has characterized so much work
on landscape. By this, I mean that I will consider movement in Northern Mesopotamia not
simply from the perspective of the body, but as part of a broader cultural system of meaning, a
The first section of this chapter outlines evidence for the rise of political complexity in
the mid-third millennium BC, as seen in urbanization, economic specialization, and the
appearance of administrative hierarchies. The second section focuses specifically on how the
52
transformation of space within the city and countryside was both part of and underlay many of
these other processes. It considers how building programs in Northern Mesopotamia created
specific political spaces that both expressed and established domination and alternatively
allowed for the exercise of authority by many actors. This section also addresses how urbanism
created new economic and administrative ties between communities that were actualized through
the movement of people and goods. The third section moves away from everyday movement in
the city and countryside to investigate the collective representations of ritual and travel that the
Ebla coronation drew upon. The next section analyzes specific performances, investigating how
actors manipulated materialized symbols and how audiences may have responded, through the
anlaysis of material from several cultic sites. The final section reconsiders the rise of complexity
Hamoukar, and Nineveh—and the abandonment of the Southern Mesopotamian Uruk colonies
regionalization and ruralization, out of which developed a new urban society. 32 From ca. 2700-
2300 BC, cities and kingdoms were established across the region. These early complex
societies had a number of structural properties that have been correlated with the emergence of
economic and political hierarchies and differentiation. First, several cities between 40 and 100
53
na), Farfara, Brak (ancient Nagar), Mozan (ancient Urkiš), Chuera (ancient Abarsal?), Banat-
Bazi, Kazane, Titriş, and Ebla—appeared across the North Mesopotamian plains (Meyer 2011).
Unlike the smaller centers that they replaced, these cities were characterized by official
as well as neighborhoods of houses and workshops (Pfälzner 2011). Although smaller than
large settlements had never previously existed in this area. 33 These cities were located within a
landscape that had previously been dominated by smaller centers, about 15-20 ha. Their rise
entailed the transformation of a settlement system that had been divided into villages and towns
and now contained a number of settlements distinguished by size and possibly function
(Akkermans and Schwartz 2003; cf. Stone 1991). Hence, changes in urban and rural landscapes
somewhere between 6000 and 25,000 people. 34 Most Northern Mesopotamian cities consisted of
a single high mound, surrounded by a lower town that was separated from the surrounding
countryside by a city wall with multiple gates. Although some cities, like Mari and Rawda were
new foundations, many others, like Leilan, Hamoukar, Titriş, Kazane, and Mozan, grew to urban
size when a lower town was built around an older high mound (Meyer 2011). These cities
usually had administrative quarters located on their central mounds, with neighborhoods, open
spaces, and sometimes, special purpose buildings within their lower towns.
These formal quarters housed monumental buildings, especially palaces and sometimes
associated temples. Small soundings under the later third millennium palaces at Ebla and Leilan
have revealed administrative buildings dating to between 2600 and 2500 BC. At Ebla,
54
excavations beneath Palace G have exposed its mid-third millennium predecessor, Building G2,
a storage facility (Dolce 2010: 246-7), perhaps linked to Temple D (Porter 2012: 206). At Tell
Leilan, excavations on the Acropolis Northwest have revealed a series of storage rooms,
covering at least 300m2, which are associated with a 150m2 platform dating to 2600 BC
(Calderone and Weiss 2003; Ristvet and Weiss 2012: 230). These two activity areas probably
comprised the southwestern quarter of an early palace-temple complex, an antecedent of the later
Akkadian administrative building (Weiss et al. 2012). In both of these cities, the first palaces
have an essentially ritual component. This pattern accords nicely with the nature of public
architecture during the first quarter of the third millennium BC, when the only public buildings
were probably temples and possibly storehouses (Matthews 2002; Ristvet 2005; Porter 2012:
178-188). These earlier towns, however, did not possess extensive administrative quarters,
By 2500-2300 BC, there is evidence for palaces that combined several elements found in
Jans 1997). Palaces at Beydar, Chuera, Bi’a, Mozan, Leilan, Ebla, and Mari included
storerooms, reception suites, and cultic areas (Pfälzner 2011: 170-176). At both Mozan and
Leilan, for example, palaces abut platforms containing burnt altars, with associated mortuary
structures and water installations. At Mozan, a stone platform was constructed along with a
keyhole-shaped structure that enclosed a deep shaft where offerings had been deposited. Marilyn
mudbrick platform (Weiss 1997b). The Palais Présargonique at Mari also includes cultic
installations south of the palace (Margueron 2004: 197-204). Freestanding temples of this period
55
have also been excavated at Mari, Beydar, Brak, Chuera, and Mozan. They are usually located
on the high mound alongside the palaces and may have comprised one public district (Pfälzner
2011). The relationship between temples and palaces in the mid-third millennium in Northern
Mesopotamia thus differs from that in Southern Mesopotamia, where they were spatially
Beyond these administrative quarters, third millennium cities had dense neighborhoods of
houses and manufacturing areas. Urban housing from 2600-2400 BC was generally constructed
on regular plots, with the frontages of most houses falling into standard dimensions, based on the
Sumerian nindan measurement (equivalent to about 5 m or 16.4 feet). Houses with frontages of
1, 1.25, 2 and 3 nindan have been identified at Chuera, Bderi, Abu Hafur, Melebiya, and Leilan
(Pfälzner 2001b, 1997: 249, Abb. 8). At Titriş, houses were also built on regular-sized plots,
incorporation of innovative building techniques like arches and platforms may attest to the
(Kolinski 1996). By contrast, houses from 3000-2600 BC tended to have only one or two rooms
and were usually arranged haphazardly, with few clear signs of planned roads, as excavation has
shown at Mohammed Arab and Kutan (Pfälzner 2011: 145-152; Roaf 2003: 318-320).
production, while houses and administrative buildings have yielded grain and animal bones
perhaps resulting from expanding production to meet growing demand (Senior 1998). Analysis
of the production process shows that despite their uniform appearance, many ceramics were
56
made in different workshops at Tell Leilan and at surrounding sites (Blackman et al. 1993).
Metals, lithics, and cylinder seals also show evidence for specialized production. 35 Excavations
at Ebla and Brak have yielded finely carved statuary, often decorated with gold and semi-
precious stones, the products of elite workshops (Matthiae 2009; Matthiae and Marchetti 2013).
Some workshops specializing in luxury goods were attached to third millennium palaces. The
discovery of more than 40 kg of lapis lazuli in the administrative quarter of Palace G at Ebla
demonstrates the presence of stone-working here (Pinnock 1986; Matthiae 2008), while the
evidence for metal production in the palace in Field P at Beydar also indicates administrative
control over artisans (Pruss 2012: 125-7). Other manufactories, like building P4 at Ebla, were
located in these city’s lower towns. This building included a goldsmith’s workshop, but was
otherwise devoted to storing food, grinding grain, butchering meat, and preserving produce
(Marchetti and Nigro 1995: 19-20). Moreover, administrative dockets from Ebla and Beydar list
rations for a wide variety of professionals, including cartwrights, fullers, millers, shepherds,
basket weavers, domestics, scribes, messengers, and overseers, testifying to growing economic
The evidence for increasing craft specialization mirrors the traces left in the faunal and
land into subsistence strategies. Archaeobotanical analysis indicates that cities extended their
fields into the previously unexploited steppe as a method of increasing production. At Leilan
and Brak, a dramatic fall in the ratio of moist to dry indicator weeds occurred as people moved
into the more arid parts of the plain (Wetterstrom 2003: 391-2; Colledge 2003: 411). Agriculture
during this period focused increasingly on barley cultivation, much of which may have served as
57
animal fodder. Barley is also more drought tolerant and could have been grown in areas not
Urbanization implies ruralization, and the appearance of cities and settlement hierarchies
changed the nature of smaller settlements as much as it did larger ones (Schwartz and Falconer
1994). Unlike in Southern Mesopotamia during the fourth millennium, the urbanization of cities
did not mean the decimation of the countryside. Instead, population increased overall. From
2650-2300 BC, between 58% and 68% of people in the Leilan survey area lived in towns or
cities larger than 10 ha (Ristvet 2005: fig.6.9). A well-developed network of cities, towns, and
villages probably reduced transport costs and streamlined the administration of agricultural
production. Other surveys in the East Jezirah indicate similar trajectories of population growth
and the centralization of the population in towns and cities. To the south, west of the Middle
Habur, settlement expanded into the steppe (Hole and Kouchoukos 1994). Along the Middle
Euphrates, the foundation of several settlements and cemeteries in the steppe accompanied the
urbanization of Mari. Finally, in Western Syria and along the Upper Euphrates, there are similar
patterns of escalating site numbers and increasingly larger sites throughout the third millennium,
although the timing of these events differed across the region (Cooper 2006).
These changes would have had important implications for pastoralism as well. An
analysis of available forage in the 12 km around ancient Nabada indicates that expanding fields
would have limited the amount of locally available pasture. The area’s residents would not have
been able to rely on local grasses alone for their herd animals. Instead, it is likely that villages
and towns turned increasingly to mobility, by either taking village herds to distant pastures or
relying on nomadic pastoralists to supply them with sheep and goats and these animals’ products
58
(Lau 2010). People probably kept very few animals within the village, perhaps only five or six
Other archaeological data also document changes in pastoralist practices. In drier areas,
faunal analysis shows a new emphasis on the exploitation of domestic animals and the evolution
of specialized sheep and goat pastoralism (Zeder 1994, 1995, 1998). Percentages of wild
animals dropped precipitously in faunal assemblages across Northern Mesopotamia, while ratios
of sheep and goat increased. The increasing importance of mobile pastoralism is nicely
demonstrated by the fact that the capitals of five kingdoms of the mid to late third millennium in
Northern Mesopotamia in the Ebla texts—Ebla, Mari (Hariri), Nagar (Brak), Chuera (Abarsal),
Hadda (Tell Malhat ed-Deru, Archi and Biga 2003: 14, fn. 44))—were all gateway cities, located
in areas marginal for agriculture, where pastoral resources were critical. Moreover, there is
increasing differential access to animal species within cities. In neighborhoods at Brak and
Leilan, people kept pig sties in their courtyards, slaughtering the pigs when young to maximize
meat production (Weiss et al. 1993: fn. 30). People consuming meat at official quarters in these
cities, however, eschewed pork and ate mutton and goat instead, suggesting that these animals
were associated with special occasions or limited to the elite (Ristvet 2012a: 253).
necessarily entail the emergence of tribes as political actors, nor does it necessarily mean that all
pastoralists were as mobile as later groups. It is important to recognize that nomadic pastoralism
does not comprise an ahistorical category or an ideal form that exists apart, and is unaffected by,
social and political transformations. 36 The excavation of small village communities along the
Middle Habur and urban settlements (Kranzhügeln) in the steppe indicate a different relationship
between pastoralism and settlement in the Early Bronze Age in this region than in later periods.
59
In the earlier case, the remains of substantial mudbrick architecture indicate that these pastoral
communities were probably less nomadic than later communities who left no evidence of
architecture (Ristvet 2012b: 33; Kouchoukos 1998). Administrative texts from Beydar indicate
that some shepherds were subservient to urban authorities (Sallaberger and Ur 2004)—peasant
pastoralists (Salzman 2004)—rather than independent tribesmen. And of course urban and
sedentary populations were also involved in herd management (Archi 2006). The archaeological
evidence indicates that pastoralists were increasingly important across Northern Mesopotamia,
but we have no evidence for their social organization and no reason to believe that pastoralists
comprised politically powerful tribes similar to those known in later periods. 37 Within Ebla
itself, the political correspondence and treaties provide little evidence of a specific tribal identity;
nor is there any clear sign of the sort of tribal confederacies that will later span Greater
Mesopotamia (Ristvet 2012b: 43-4; below chapter 3). In the Ebla and Beydar archives, tribes
simply do not seem to have the same function that they do in later periods, despite the fact that
pastoral production (and the resulting textile industry) are important economic activities in both
I have suggested elsewhere that the transformation of egalitarian early third millennium
societies into increasingly urbanized, hierarchical, and specialized societies may have occurred
as part of the development of competitive feasting economies (Ristvet N.D.-a). In this scenario,
kings or groups of “elders” may have initially harnessed labor and wealth by mobilizing
resources for feasting associated with funerals and religious institutions. The gathering of
foodstuffs and the mobilization of personnel for feasts in the early to mid-third millennium
probably was later transformed into institutionalized staple collection and redistribution. As we
have already seen, these feasting economies emerged during a period when pastoral mobility was
60
increasing and both the pastoral and agricultural segments of the population were becoming
district in early cities may have been one way of ritually uniting these groups, which had to
The growing wealth of the region probably encouraged greater competition and external
aggression. Three inscriptions of Eannatum (ca. 2450-2425) mention the armies of Lagash
battling those of Mari and Subartu, an area located somewhere in northern or northeastern
Mesopotamia. 39 We know that Mari campaigned across Northern Mesopotamia in the 24th
century; it seems likely that this city was also active earlier. Glyptic designs, sculpture, and city
planning also provide indirect evidence of increased conflict. Combat scenes and other warlike
imagery are popular in the early seals from Brak, Chuera, Mari, and Leilan, perhaps because of
the increasing importance of warfare to these new polities (Matthews 1997; Ristvet 2007). At
Ebla, the “Victory Standard” probably dates to around 2500 BC and illustrates triumphant
soldiers humiliating defeated or dead enemies and presenting spoils of war to the king (Matthiae
2010).
For about 40 years, during the 24th century BC, the Ebla archives provide information
about the political geography of Northern Mesopotamia. Nagar, Ebla, Mari, Abarsal, and Kish
constituted an international sphere, marked by warfare, diplomatic alliances, and a shared written
language. Cities from Adab to Ebla (a distance of more than 900 km) worshipped many of the
same gods, and shared a writing system, calendar, and measurements (Gelb 1992). Ebla’s
political influence extended east to the Upper Euphrates and west to the Orontes Valley,
although the limits of this kingdom shifted constantly. At various periods, this city also
controlled villages and farmland located further east, between the Euphrates and the Balikh.
61
Mari ruled over much of the Middle and perhaps Upper Euphrates; Abarsal probably dominated
the Balikh and western Jezirah; Nagar held sway over much of the Habur plains; and Hadda
controlled the steppe between the Middle Habur and the Euphrates. 40
Initially, Mari was the most powerful kingdom in Northern Mesopotamia. A famous
letter from a king of Mari, Enna-Dagan, to an unknown king at Ebla lists Mari’s conquests,
describing conquered cities as heaps of corpses. During Enna-Dagan’s reign, Ebla paid huge
quantities of tribute in gold and silver (more than 500 kg of silver and more than 40 kg of gold)
to Mari, but later, Ebla became Mari’s equal and no longer contributed to its coffers. The two
city-states continued to compete, however, particularly for access to the Upper Euphrates and
areas further north and east. Although Ebla won an important victory over Mari, the tables
turned dramatically just three years later. Sometime shortly before 2300 BC, the imposing
Palace G on Ebla’s citadel was burned, preserving the city’s archives, and much of the Acropolis
was abandoned. The attackers probably came from Mari, and this catastrophe, which destroyed
Ebla’s pre-eminence in Northern Syria, was simply the final stage in a longer military contest
between the two cities (Archi and Biga 2003). A few years later, Sargon of Akkad arrived in
Mari and began the slow process of conquering this territory and incorporating it into his empire
(Ristvet 2012a).
provides one context for the anxiety over the control of movement that emerges from the
historical and archaeological record. Increasing mobility among pastoralists may have provided
for several polities. Treaties from Ebla indicate that authorities were eager to limit passage
62
through their territory and sought to regulate the activities of merchants, messengers, and other
visitors. Similarly, archaeological evidence for ancient roads emphasizes that there was no free
movement through the countryside. Instead, passage was constrained by the presence of a dense
social network. Within newly founded cities, multiple fortification walls channeled people
through gates and checkpoints, limiting access to political spaces like palaces and underscoring
their authority. At the same time, certain urban plans emphasized free access to open spaces,
such as town squares that may have been meeting places for assemblies. These different spatial
strategies of control probably both reflected and allowed for political negotiation between city
Limiting Access
A nearly complete treaty found at Ebla, ARET XIII 5, contracted between that kingdom
and Abarsal, documents Ebla’s interest in controlling its borders. 41 There are explicit rules about
how caravans, messengers, cattle herders, and other travelers should conduct themselves outside
of their home territory, and discussions of extradition, legal domain over foreign citizens, and
property rights. Indeed, only one statute in the entire treaty is not concerned with travel and its
consequences. Section 37 succinctly expresses the treaty’s main theme: “without my permission,
no one can travel through my country, if you travel, you will not fulfill your oath, only when I
say so, may they travel,” (ARET XIII, 5, section 37). The Ebla and Abarsal treaty is not alone in
its focus on borders and movement; a fragmentary treaty between Ebla and Burman is also
concerned with regulating caravans (ARET XIII 5: III, 1’-3’). The diplomatic insistence on
strong borders probably did not correspond to reality. Most pre-modern states had permeable
frontiers; outside the confines of the city and a small hinterland, political control may have meant
little (Scott 2009: 7). Polities like Ebla have always had to contend with unwelcome visitors and
63
loss of population, with the ease that people could enter and leave a territory, like the later habīru
and ḫabbātū, “brigands,” who refused to accept urban authority. 42 Moreover, pre-modern
polities, unlike their modern counterparts, were often non-contiguous, and rarely overlapped
completely with a given territory (Ristvet 2008). But the insistence in Ebla’s treaty on
maintaining absolute control over territory, despite its practical impossibilities, highlights an
important emic political understanding. The Abarsal treaty equates sovereignty—the exercise of
effective political power—with territorial control over a kingdom and its subjects. 43
Data from excavations within third millennium cities have revealed a similar emphasis on
obstruction and highly controlled access to certain political spaces within the city. Evidence for
this can be seen in the construction of walled cities, perhaps the defining archaeological site-type
of this period (fig. 10). The Kranzhügeln in the arid southern Jezirah are even named after their
distinctive double walls. During the course of the third millennium BC, fortifications were
constructed—often coincident with urbanism—at nearly every site in the region, including Mari
(Margueron 2004: 85-88), Beydar (Bluard et al. 1997), Mozan (Buccellati and Kelly-Buccellati
1988), Arbid (Bielínski 1997), Leilan (Ristvet 2007), Hamoukar (Reichel, personal
communication), Nineveh (Stronach 1994: 93), Taya (Reade 1973), Chuera (Novak 1995), Bderi
(Pfälzner 1988), Titriş (Matney and Algaze 1995: 42-43), Kazane (Gates 1996: 292), Banat/Bazi
(Otto 2006: 11-3), Sweyhat (Zettler 1997: 48-50), and Ebla (Matthiae 1998). 44 These
fortification systems were complex and could include an outer city wall, often with a moat, and a
separate inner city wall. Both outer and inner city walls were built of mudbrick, sometimes
above stone foundations. Many of these walls were connected to earthen ramparts or glacis and
could also be fortified with towers (Cooper 2006: 70). At several sites, including Mari, Leilan,
and Beydar, the inner and outer fortification walls date to the same period and may have been
64
built at the same time, perhaps attesting to a holistic plan to limit movement within the city. At
others, like Chuera, the two sets of fortifications were not used contemporaneously (Meyer 2007:
137). The elaboration of excavated city gates at Bazi and Beydar, and the associated seal
impressions at Leilan, indicate the importance of controlling movement into the city and between
the inner and outer cities (Ristvet 2007:203). Within the city, the inner wall enclosed the citadel,
usually comprising the palace and associated public areas. Often the height of the tell itself was
incorporated into these fortifications. In some cases, like Building 2 at Bazi, a monumental gate
complex, and the Leilan Akkadian Administrative Building, these fortifications were the
administrative space (Otto 2006: 11; Weiss et al. 2012). Even if the upper city was not fortified,
the only ingress was via narrow staircases, further limiting access to these public quarters. 45 At
Taya, where the foundations of mid-third millennium structures are visible on the surface, survey
has revealed non-contiguous walls that blocked the roads in the suburban area outside the
fortification walls, indicating that even beyond the city proper control of access was of concern
City walls mark the separation between city and countryside. In Mesopotamia as
elsewhere they were part of the very definition of a city (Parker Pearson and Richards 1994: 24;
Van de Mieroop 1999: 73). These walls served to keep citizens in as much as they kept invaders
out (Burke 2008; Ristvet 2007; Weiss et al. 1993). Moreover, gates not only controlled access to
the city and the countryside, they also defined the populace in other ways. In the Ebla and
Beydar texts some citizens were divided into work teams depending on their KÁ, a Sumerian
term that literally meant city gate, although it also designated the neighborhood under that gate’s
surveillance (Ismail et al. 1996: texts 28-9). Thus the significance of the city wall and gate
65
Magnetometry survey, traditional survey, and limited excavations at Mozan, Chuera,
Taya, Kazane, and Leilan have illustrated that the main urban roads radiated from the citadel to
the city gates and were probably planned before the lower towns in these cities were built
(Creekmore 2008; Meyer 2007; Pfälzner and Wissing 2004; Weiss 1990b). At Leilan, Kazane,
Titriş, and Chuera large sections of these roads were separated from urban quarters by blank
walls (Nishimura 2008: 143). Access to most domestic structures was from narrow alleyways,
although entrances could also be directly from the road (Reade 1973: 160; Matney 2000: 25). In
general, the streets channeled traffic to the citadel, connecting the two administrative spaces of
The extensive excavations at Beydar provide an example of how the gates and straight
radial streets created a specific sort of passage into the city and the palace, one that emphasized
political control (fig. 11). 46 Such a journey could have begun at the circular city’s southern gate,
one of seven such gates. A traveler would have followed the straight course of “Main Street,”
which probably traversed the outer city, and then passed through another elaborate gate in the
interior city wall, before coming to the south gate of the upper city. Beydar’s upper city was set
on a series of stepped platforms, creating a discontinuous monumental stairway that led to the
palace. Temples lined this processional space, channeling visitors into the political heart of the
city. As a visitor traveled across the upper city from the south gate to the main palace entrance,
s/he had to cross four checkpoints, corresponding to each terrace and the palace itself. At one of
these checkpoints, located just east of Main Street and north of Temple D, a massive square
tower was excavated. The tower clearly controlled access to the official block—the city’s
palace—and contained a small upper room, perhaps for a guard. The road narrowed before
approaching each checkpoint, only widening slightly just before the visitor reached the palace.
66
An analysis of the ground plan of the Beydar palace in Area F provides evidence of a
growing concern to regulate access to spaces within the palace (fig. 12). Spatial syntax analysis
provides one way to investigate these processes by evaluating changes in the distribution and
symmetry of this space. Distribution is a measure of how many paths lead to a specific space,
while symmetry measures depth, how many spaces one must traverse to reach a certain room. 47
The more distributed and asymmetric a building is, the easier it is to limit access to certain areas
and control movement through the building. Analysis of the Beydar palace indicates that it
became more asymmetric and more distributed over time. In phase 1, the palace was quite
integrated, with multiple entryways linking most rooms in a distributed pattern (fig. 13a). Only
two spaces were clearly separate and inaccessible, rooms 6762 and 6775, resulting in low
asymmetry. In the following phase, both of these characteristics changed (fig. 13b). Doorways
in the main part of the palace were blocked, limiting access between different room blocks, and
three new sets of rooms were constructed, all separated from the main building and with
entrances that could be easily controlled. These may have been living quarters or other offices
(Pfälzner 2011). Comparing the real relative asymmetry of these two phases, a value that
compares the actual depth of the building to its possible depth, illustrates this point clearly. The
value nearly doubled from .627 in phase 1 to 1.126 in phase 2, as an integrated space gives way
to a more controlled one. 48 In phases 3 and 4, a renovation did not change the overall
arrangement of space in this building, which remained distributed and asymmetrical (fig. 13c and
d). This emphasis on limiting access was probably typical of administrative buildings in
Northern Mesopotamia. Indeed, the contemporary Palace F at Tell Chuera has a real relative
asymmetry that is twice that of the Beydar palace, attesting to complicated circulation patterns
67
Beydar’s narrow streets, the high walls of its temples and palaces, and its numerous
checkpoints may have been designed to produce a sense of claustrophobia and powerlessness in
visitors. The architecture emphasized the authority of those who monitored these spaces, the
king or council. This urban plan projected messages of domination, messages that were
naturalized by the enduring nature of the architecture. The limited visibility in most areas, where
houses were hidden behind blank walls, contrasted with the high visibility of the administrative
area on top of the Acropolis, which towered over the city. Its highly noticeable and yet
inaccessible nature may have reinforced its message of power (Dovey 2008: 10). The palace was
a difficult place to enter and to escape, both literally and metaphorically. As a Sumerian proverb
preserved in several copies from the early second millennium BC has it, “the palace is a slippery
place, where one slips. Watch your step when you decide to go home!” (Alster 1997: ETCSL 6,
The emphasis on controlling access within the urban plan and built environment echoes
attempts to establish control in other domains, such as administration. The proliferation of door
sealings and the complex circulation patterns within palaces mirror similar concerns with
regulating the admission of people to particular spaces. In the Beydar Palace, a limited number
of cylinder seals were used to secure doors, indicating that these rooms were under the control of
specific administrators (Jans and Bretschneider 2011: 151 and pl. 200). The administrative
system in Ebla, which sought to record the entry and disbursement of a wide-range of goods,
represents another attempt by these emergent kingdoms to demonstrate control over people and
things (Archi 2003: 21). The elaboration of this system attests to an increasing concern with
regulation. This is particularly true of the documentation of annual accounts of metals and
monthly accounts of textiles that Eblaite officials probably developed after the adoption of
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writing (Archi 2003, 2006; Biga 2003). There is little evidence that these documents were ever
consulted after they were written; simply drawing them up may have been an end in itself (Archi
2003: 32, fn 17). This provides a neat parallel to the emphasis on monitoring borders in the Ebla
treaty, despite the impossibility of this endeavor. Even if such control was rarely established in
practice, its performance, documented in these dockets with their attention to minutiae, was
Inclusive Spaces
Yet curtailing admittance to palaces, cities, and states is only part of the story. These
barriers existed alongside a focus on free entry to large communal spaces, often located near the
palace. Such open spaces, particularly when linked to city gates or temples may have been loci
for civic institutions. Recently both historians and archaeologists have emphasized the
heterarchical nature of Mesopotamian political power, with actors including elders, witnesses,
“the city,” tribal leaders, and individual citizens. 50 Texts from Beydar and Ebla attest to the
operation of collective authority during this period. At Beydar, for instance, a council of elders
(UKKEN EN EN) probably governed the town, under the aegis of the king of Nagar (Ismail et al.
1996: Beydar 86, 106). At Ebla, the first entries in the palace ration lists alternate between
provisions for the king and for the king and the elders (ABXÁŠ), perhaps indicating the collective
nature of kingship in this city (Milano 1987: 522; Porter 2012). These texts also testify to the
presence of other political institutions in Northern Mesopotamia. A group of elders ruled the
kingdom of Lu’atum, situated somewhere along the Upper Euphrates, before it was incorporated
into Ebla (Milano and Rova 2000: 722-3). Badalum-officials governed another group of city-
states located in the Balikh valley and the foothills of the Taurus (Milano & Rova 2000: 731;
Archi 2011: 6), while a plurality of kings presided over the important cities of Armi, Azu, Ibal,
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and Manuwat (Archi 1987: 42). Below the level of the executive in these and other cities, there
were probably councils, elders, and other civic authorities who regulated much of daily life.
Except for a few references to city gates and perhaps squares, Mesopotamian texts
provide few topographical references to places where communal or civil authority—as opposed
to religious and royal—was enacted. The city gate and attached squares were probably the
primary site of exchange and the meeting place for citizen councils, rather like the Greek agora
(Stone 2007: 227). Such a town square in front of a city gate has been identified through
magnetometry survey and excavation at Titriş (Nishimura 2008: 151), while the excavations at
the City Gate at Leilan have possibly uncovered a similar space (Ristvet 2007). Temple
courtyards may have also served as gathering places, providing a place for courts to assemble to
judge cases brought by ordinary citizens (Postgate 1994: 277, fn 79), and possible archaeological
examples of these may exist at Leilan and Chuera. Finally, although the evidence is mixed,
rebītū, “town squares” or “wide streets,” may have been other loci for trade and civic affairs.
Such public spaces are so intertwined with civic identity that in the Old Babylonian Gilgamesh
epic, “rebītum” serves as an epithet for the city as a whole (George 1999). 51 What all of these
spaces have in common is their inclusiveness. Unlike the temple or the palace, many—perhaps
most—citizens could enter and participate in affairs at the gate, temple courtyard, or town
square.
revealed the ground plan of much of this ancient city, large open expanses are present in several
places (fig. 14). 52 As at Beydar, the main access road from ca. 2500-2300 BC would have begun
at a gate in the outer city wall and led straight to the upper city. Once it crossed into the upper
city, it passed along the temenos wall of a large temple district. Monumental gates controlled
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entry into this space. The road then led into the Anton-Moortgat-Platz, the central square where
all the streets of the city met. A temple was located on the eastern side of the square, enclosed
by another temenos wall. To the west of the central place, the road continued to the northeast,
leading to another open square in front of the palace (Meyer 2007: 137-139).
Although there are still walls and checkpoints at Chuera, they are much less frequent than
at Beydar. Additionally, the physical separation of the public buildings and the many large open
plazas bordering each district create a very different public space than at Beydar. Most cities
probably possessed town squares, large open areas located at the center of the site.
Magnetometry indicates as much at Mozan, while excavation shows the same pattern at Leilan
(Dohmann-Pfälzner and Pfälzner 1999; Weiss 1997a). The relationship between the temple and
the open space at Mozan suggests that this plaza was a focal point for the settlement, despite (or
rather, because of) its lack of architecture (Dohmann-Pfälzner and Pfälzner 1999: 39).
Perhaps the most famous of these open spaces is the city square immediately in front of
Palace G at Ebla (fig. 15). This area, originally called the “Court of Audience,” is at least 60 m
long and 42 m wide (Matthiae and Marchetti 2013: 51). The monumental façade of palace G
formed the north and west limits of this plaza, while houses in the lower city lay to its south and
east. Palace G itself was built on a series of terraces on the flanks of the Acropolis (Matthiae
2008: 34-5). Hence, the plaza is situated at a meeting place between the town and the palace, a
critical liminal zone for political performance. Anne Porter has proposed that the plaza was the
location of the regular ritual of providing food to the gods. The water features in the plaza may
have been used for ceremonial lustration, while the kitchen quarters of the palace are situated
conveniently nearby and could have supplied sacramental meals (Porter 2012: 204-6). The
recovery of a stone headdress that originally belonged to a cultic statue may indicate that a statue
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of an Eblaite god stood on a dais here, while large limestone eyes found scattered in the ruins of
the plaza suggest that other cultic statues may have lined the eastern portico (Porter 2012: 212).
Alternatively, Paolo Matthiae, Ebla’s excavator, has proposed that the dais may have held a
throne (Matthiae 1981: 69). In either scenario, the plaza was a critical ceremonial space for both
the palace and the city as a whole. Performances on the plaza may have united the palace and
city, perhaps by honoring gods who were “intimately connected not only to the en’s incumbency
These town squares could have accommodated large numbers of people. The Anton-
Moortgat Platz at Chuera occupied an area of at least 5000m2, a figure that has been estimated
based on the site’s topography and evidence from a machine-dug trench through this central
place (Hempelmann 2010: 36). The plaza at Ebla is smaller, but comprises at least 2520 m2.
Both open spaces could have held large numbers of people—more than 5000 people could have
stood in the Court of Audiences and 12,000 people could have gathered in the Anton-Moortgat
Platz. In both cases, this probably represented a substantial percentage of the population of both
cities. Somewhere between 3360 and 20,000 people probably lived within the city walls at Ebla,
while Chuera may have had a slightly larger population, corresponding to its larger size. 53 In
any case, these plazas represented spaces that were clearly distinct from the tightly controlled
Of course, it is too simplistic to associate all highly regulated spaces with exclusive
political authorities like kings and all inclusive spaces with civic forms of government. Not all
plazas are agorai. In Mayan archaeology, plazas are almost never interpreted in this way, but are
instead seen as stages for ceremonies that reinforced elite dominance (Inomata and Coben 2006).
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middens at Leilan and Brak could indicate that feasting took place here (Ristvet N.D.-a). Such
ceremonies can be used to emphasize or to erase differences between participants (Dietler and
Hayden 2001). The same caveats hold for exclusive space. A one room structure uncovered at
Tell es-Sweyhat, with wide, buttressed walls decorated with paintings, has been identified by the
excavators as a possible meeting place for the city’s elders (Danti and Zettler 2007: 179-80).
At Beydar, the complicated relationship between architecture and political change shows
how one space could house both inclusive and exclusive political authorities. Although this city
was governed by a king and then probably by a council of elders, the changes made to palace
architecture over these two centuries was minimal. When the palace was constructed, a podium
was built in a central room, perhaps making this space into a throne-room. When this area was
rebuilt, however, no new podium was erected. The lack of a proper “throne-room” in the final
phase at Beydar is the only archaeological attestation that this building now served a council
rather than a king (Sallaberger 2004: 66). Recent excavations at Beydar have uncovered another
palace in the city’s lower town (the “palais oriental” in Field P) with a similar reception suite,
and probably throne room (Pruss 2012; Pruss 2007). Material within this palace suggests that it
was occupied simultaneously with the acropolis palace, providing further evidence for divided
authority (Pruss 2012: 119-20). The co-existence of these administrative spaces may result from
Nabada’s incorporation into the kingdom of Nagar, or it may represent a type of heterarchy,
Suleiman 2011). Such examples should remind us that architecture and urban plans are long-
lived and their significance can change over time. What is important at Beydar is the
coexistence of inclusive and exclusive forms of authority and space throughout this period and
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Beyond the City
Beyond the city wall, cultivated fields surrounded ancient cities, constraining movement.
The hollow ways that radiate from many third millennium sites have been interpreted as the
remains of Early Bronze Age routes formed by animals leaving settlements (Wilkinson 1993),
although the identification of these features as roads and their date is contested (McClellan et al.
2000; Weiss 1997a; Casana 2013). 54 More than 6000 km of hollow ways have been mapped
from Corona satellite imagery in Northern Mesopotamia. They range in length from a few
hundred meters to more than five kilometers (Ur 2009: 192). Unlike the streets in cities, which
were intentionally constructed, they were formed through decades or centuries of use and
represent the paths trodden by messengers, merchants, farmers, pastoralists, and livestock,
traveling to other cities, fields, and pasture (Ur 2012). Although most traffic would have been on
foot, the increasing number of cart models in settlements, the popularity of carts and equids in
iconography, the appearance of elaborate equid graves, and the presence of cartwrights in the
Ebla and Beydar texts indicate the growing importance of wheeled transport (Ur 2009: 193;
Raccidi 2012; Weber 2012). Even if hollow ways do not represent ancient roads, it is clear that
patterns of land tenure would have constrained movement through the immediate countryside
(Wilkinson 1994). Indeed patterns of land use and settlement longevity would have combined to
restrict movement more intensively than during earlier or later periods when there is less
settlement continuity and more evidence for shifting cultivation. The large average size of
settlements and the high degree of centralization both suggest that most farmers had non-
contiguous fields. Settlement continuity would also have encouraged the formation of a strong
corporate identity. Administrative records from Ebla that document land tenure show that the
holdings of large property owners were fragmented and could be distributed across the kingdom
74
(Archi 1986b; Lafont 1998; Milano 1996; Renger 1987). The texts suggest that land holdings
were probably also discontinuous within villages, with some land belonging to palace or
absentee owners and the rest divided among villagers (Milano 1996: 142; cf. Porter 2012: 234).
The dense landscape of villages, towns, and cities in most third millennium polities would also
have acted to control movement, as the Ebla-Abarsal treaty indicates (Wattenmaker 2009: 118-
22). Beyond this zone, the intensification of pastoralism, and perhaps of mobility, may have led
to clear demarcations of pasture associated with different herding units, cities, or kingdoms.
Social and political landscapes were thus sources of friction. Well beyond the built environment
of the city, the political and social relationships that made up these polities limited free
movement.
The construction of new urban spaces and concomitant changes in the economic and
political landscape did not just transform quotidian journeys. The rise of political complexity
coincided with the creation of an intricate religious landscape, where multiple pilgrimage routes
arose that probably corresponded to and sometimes crosscut the territories of specific polities.
At Ebla, we have textual evidence that indicates that elites participated in these pilgrimages and
used them to gain and maintain influence. Seal impressions from official contexts across
Northern Mesopotamia suggest that this was a widespread elite practice. Archaeological
evidence from several sites that were probably part of such pilgrimage networks may document
non-elite participation in these ceremonies as well. As a result, pilgrimages and the sacred
landscape they enacted would have provided a powerful symbolic space in which to affirm or to
question the larger polity. These practices also provide a new context for the Ebla coronation
ritual.
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Pilgrimages and Sacred Journeys at Ebla
Combining the textual and archaeological evidence from Ebla allows us to reconstruct a
series of pilgrimage routes and analyze how they intersected with political and economic circuits.
As we have seen, the Ebla Coronation Ritual included ceremonies performed within the city of
Ebla and a pilgrimage to cult centers in the countryside upon the occasion of the king’s marriage.
This pilgrimage was one means to unite the palace district (SA.ZAki), the city of Ebla, and the area
beyond the city (uru.bar) through ritual. This pilgrimage may have cemented the identity of
Ebla’s kingdom as a whole, in the same way that the daily ceremonies in Ebla’s plaza sought to
Ritual journey are potent reminders of the power of a ruler (McCorriston 2011: 22;
Geertz 1985; Morinis 1992; Kertzer 1988). Cross-culturally, kings have resorted to such royal
late Medieval and early Modern France, the rite of royal entry was often part of the coronation
ceremony in the capital and replaced it in provincial cities. These performances were a chance
for the monarch to display his/her power and for various groups within the city—particularly
guilds to illustrate (and gain) influence (Giesey 1985: 53-5). Similarly, in Majapahit Java, royal
entry was a major ceremony that symbolized the power and stability of the realm (above,
introduction). In 18th and 19th century Morocco, where kingship was based on baraka—god-
given power to rule—the processions of warrior monarchs through their fragile kingdoms could
last half the year, “demonstrating sovereignty to skeptics” (Geertz 1985: 25). Similarly, at Ebla,
the royal procession to cult centers in the countryside was part of the construction of a new form
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The Ebla coronation ceremony was a once in a lifetime event, but other ritual journeys
occurred more often. Ebla’s kings made regular offerings to their ancestors in different cities of
the kingdom, including Darib and Ebla itself (Archi 1986a, 1988: ARET VII 150, ARET III
178). A woman from Binaš took part in one of these ceremonies—linking these regular
offerings to the ritual texts ARET XI (Fronzaroli, 1988). Other offerings to these deceased
monarchs were probably made in most of the small towns and villages near Ebla. Recent
analysis suggests that the Eblaite phrase AN.EN.KI, usually interpreted as the god Enki (Archi
2010), probably designates ancestor veneration practices instead (Biga 2012: 12-14; Pasquali
2009). Like the coronation ceremony, offerings to the divinities of the dead kings would have
Religious celebrations in honor of the god ‘Adabal also took the form of a pilgrimage
through the Ebla countryside. ‘Adabal was a storm god who was widely venerated in the
countryside around Ebla, especially in the Orontes valley (Archi 2005: 98). In this, he differs
from Kura and Barama, the gods who are celebrated in the coronation ritual, but rarely attested
outside of Ebla. Unlike those deities, ‘Adabal’s main cult center was not Ebla, but the three
cities of Arugadu, Amadu, and Luban. Two itineraries document an annual cultic journey in his
honor that visited sacred places throughout Ebla’s kingdom. 55 Each year, between five and
fourteen members of a religious confraternity, the šeš-Il-ib, which was centered on the Ebla
palace and often included the king, began their pilgrimage at Luban and visited Ebla and 35
other towns. In some years, other members of this confraternity also participated in a pilgrimage
to ‘Adabal’s secondary center of Arugadu (Archi 2002: 29). Like the coronation ceremony,
these yearly pilgrimages served to knit the land together, underscoring the shared religious
experience of diverse places. The major political figures of the kingdom including the king,
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queen, and chief minister celebrated another ceremony, ‘Adabal’s opening festival,
simultaneously in Arugadu and at the palace. Like the regular pilgrimage, the synchronous
enactment of these ceremonies across western Syria also connected Ebla with its larger
countryside, underscoring the important relationship between the palace, the city of Ebla, and the
millennium sites, reconstructing the historical geography of the kingdom of Ebla is difficult. A
new archaeological survey, the Ebla Chora Project, has assembled information from several
preliminary surveys and remote sensing data, but has been unable to ground truth most of these
sites. 56 Nevertheless, it is possible to compare the coronation journey with ‘Adabal’s cultic
circuit and to consider how these pilgrimages may have intersected with Eblaite politics (fig. 16).
First, there is no overlap in the destinations of the two pilgrimages; only Darib and Ebla are
associated with both the rituals of kingship and ‘Adabal’s cult. Second, the two circuits cover
different total territories. The destination of the coronation journey, Binash has been identified
with the modern village of Binish, ca. 20 km northwest of Ebla (Bonechi 1993: 78; Archi et al.
1993: 179). If this identification is correct, then it is likely that the other places mentioned in the
coronation ritual also lie between Binish and Ebla. 57 Other places associated with the cult of the
dead kings are also located nearby, like Darib, which has been identified with modern Atarib,
about 30 km to the north, or places where offerings are made for the AN.EN.KI like Harzanu and
Amisadu, probably small villages close to Ebla (Biga 2012: 13; Biga 2013). This suggests that
the rituals of kingship took place in Ebla’s immediate vicinity. In contrast, the pilgrimage in
honor of ‘Adabal visited a number of cities that were located along the Orontes, perhaps as far
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south as Hama, ancient ‘Amadu, one of ‘Adabal’s main cult centers, and as far north as the plain
of Antioch where Arugadu was probably located. The Orontes is 40 km from Ebla, the Plain of
Antioch is 60 km, and Hama is 75 km, indicating that this journey covered a wider territory, well
The two journeys worked to construct political authority in the kingdom of Ebla
differently. The rituals of kingship—the coronation ceremony and the offerings to the dead
kings—clearly demonstrated the power of the king and the dynasty to the city and the
countryside immediately around it. ‘Adabal’s cultic journey, on the other hand, allowed Ebla’s
political elites to introduce themselves into a pre-existing ritual, to legitimize the city’s control
over this more distant area. The differences between these rituals reflect a critical aspect of third
millennium kingdoms, the difficulty of establishing and maintaining direct control in areas
beyond a few days’ journey from a city. Within a radius of one or two days travel—
corresponding to the area defined by the coronation journey and the cult of the dead kings—
frequent royal visits and state ceremonial reinforced a sense of belonging. This probably
coincided with real economic and other ties between these settlements and Ebla, since this is also
the area in which it is profitable to deliver agricultural products using animal transport
(Wilkinson 1994: 502; Chisholm 1962: 80-3). Beyond this radius, links to Ebla were more
tenuous, reflected in the higher degree of independence and different ritual systems, one in which
The Ebla texts provide unique insight into political ritual in Western Syria. Although no other
religious texts are known from Northern Mesopotamia, iconography and archaeological remains
attest to a more extensive political use of ritual journeys. A cylinder seal motif, referred to as
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“the Syrian ritual,” appears to illustrate cultic processions and link them in multiple ways to the
construction of political authority. This scene portrays a religious procession, depicting devotees
lifting one or both arms in praise of a deity. This god faces front, unlike the other figures who
are rendered in profile (Amiet 1980: 167-8; Matthews 1997: 113-4). Most impressions identified
as Syrian ritual scenes bring together supplicants, towers (presumably temples), and wagons,
perhaps emphasizing the importance of travel to the ritual. Although we have many fewer
examples of the Syrian ritual scene than of banquet or contest scenes, which are the most
common imagery from this period, their proveniences and patterns of use attest to their
At Tell Beydar, for example, the best attested sealing is a variation on this theme. The
Beydar Master Seal is in two registers, although the scenes are not easy to separate and tend to
overlap. At the center of the lower register stands a high tower, made of two almost man-sized
rectangles, each bearing a quadripartite motif. Three figures with one or both arms raised
emerge from this structure. One individual kneels before the left side of this tower with his arm
raised in greeting. Other people, also depicted with raised arms, approach the tower from both
sides. Some of them walk, while others ride in two different types of carts. The upper register
depicts a man driving an equid drawn cart into battle. The people before him include foot
soldiers wielding weapons or shields, and a fallen man. A robed figure walks behind his cart.
Each of the three carts is distinct and rendered with attention to detail, unlike the individual
figures, all of whom seem to be wearing the same, possibly flounced, skirts (fig. 17, a). 58 This
tower may resemble both the actual sanctuaries on high terraces known from excavations at
Hazna from the first half of the third millennium and perhaps Gre Virike (see below), and a
model, three-storey tower found at Brak that was decorated with goat heads and small birds
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(Emberling 2003: Fig. 52-3). Approximately 50 impressions of this scene have been recovered
from Beydar. They all come from the large public complex in the center of Beydar’s Acropolis
(Rova and Devecchi 2008: 64). Several of these impressions are door sealings, indicating that
this seal was wielded by a high official at Nabada who had authority over goods within this
monumental building. It seems likely that the iconography of the scene was also important to
this official’s exercise of authority. At least one other scene from Beydar (Rova and Devecchi
2008: type 2, 65-6) illustrates a similar ritual; it depicts a two-story wheeled tower, wagon and
driver, and possible worshippers. Two door sealings bearing this scene were recovered from the
courtyard in front of Temple B. Once again, the fact that the seal’s owner was responsible for
goods stored in Temple B indicates that he was an official associated with Beydar’s Official
Block. 59
Outside of Beydar, other imagery connected to the Syrian ritual scene come from Mari,
while related iconography is known from seals or sealings found at Ebla, Brak, and in
unprovenanced collections. 60 Two recently published Mari royal sealings are the most elaborate
known renditions of this scene (fig. 17, b and c). The owner of these seals is identified as Išqi-
Mari, king of Mari, in inscriptions (Beyer 2007: fig. 17-8, 249; Beyer and Lecompte 2014).
Both of these scenes combine Syrian and Southern Mesopotamian motifs, including the master
of animals, a presentation scene, and a battle scene. The scenes have two registers, which like in
the Beydar seal, tend to overlap. The top register shows the master of animals in full face, like
the Syrian god. He stands behind the king, who is seated in a chair, holding a mace. In front of
the king are two animals, perhaps a deer and a lion. The bottom register illustrates a battle scene
of soldiers stabbing enemies with knives and spears. Equid-drawn chariots, which resemble
those depicted on the standard of Ur, trample fallen bodies. In scene B, vultures peck at the
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heads of two of the corpses. The fact that these wagon scenes are royal seals emphasizes the
In a recent analysis of the Beydar and Mari scenes, Joachim Bretschneider and colleagues
have drawn attention to the juxtaposition of the battle and ritual scenes on each seal. The Mari
seal features a banquet scene, perhaps depicting ritual offerings following victory. The Beydar
seal, in contrast, portrays a ritual procession, possibly another scene of thanksgiving. The figure
in the wagon could be a king or important political figure, or it may represent the statue of a god
or goddess on a journey like the one described in the Ebla rituals (Bretschneider et al. 2009: 12).
Other seals at Beydar depict boats, probably illustrating yet another ritual journey, well-known
from this period in Southern Mesopotamia, often referred to as the boat god motif (Jans and
Bretschneider 2011: 42-6). The imagery on the seals exemplifies the two sources of political
power and sovereignty in Northern Mesopotamia: military conquest and religious rituals. Their
combination on these royal seals shows the importance of both sources of authority in these early
kingdoms. These large seals depict, in an abbreviated form, the ideological underpinnings of
these polities.
Ritual texts and the iconography of the Syrian ritual scene provide a new context for
unusual third millennium cultic/funerary monuments. Certain sites with a religious function may
be understood as pilgrimage centers, the equivalent of places like Binash that would have served
the larger community of the polity. Archaeological data from four of these sites—Gre Virike,
Hazna, Jebelet al-Beda, and Banat—allow us to reconstruct how different polities may have used
religious journeys to construct different political identities in the middle of the third millennium
BC.
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Gre Virike
10 km north of the major center of Carchemish lies Gre Virike, a religious and mortuary
center on the banks of the Euphrates. Sometime near the beginning of the third millennium BC,
a 50 X 35 m mudbrick platform was built on top of a natural pebble hill here (fig. 18). The first
structures constructed on this platform (phase I, early third millennium) were ritual installations,
including stone-lined pits, plaster-lined pools, a small clay platform, and a basalt stairway
leading to an underground spring (Ökse 2006b: 1-5). During the following phase (IIa, mid third
millennium), a series of limestone chamber tombs were placed on the summit of the mound
along with offering chambers (Okse 2005: 21-7). Satellite graves from this phase and the
following one (IIb, late third millennium) were dug into the platform, clustered around the initial
During each phase, there is archaeological evidence for offerings of agricultural goods
and figurines. Offering pits and chambers contained barley with a few grains of bread/macaroni
wheat (Dönmez 2006), animal bones, unbaked clay animal figurines, and the remains of vessels.
Initially, the association of these materials with the underground spring implies that they were
donated to deities associated with water, fertility, or the underworld, while later offerings may
have been part of funerary and post-funerary feasts or sacrifices (Okse 2004; Ökse 2007). In
addition to these pits, kitchen installations were present on the site during the phases associated
with the graves, perhaps for the preparation of food offerings. The ritual and mortuary
installations of Gre Virike are associated with no domestic architecture on the site itself.
Throughout the third millennium, architecture only occupied about 1/3 of the 1800m2 platform
(Peltenbug 2007-2008: 221-2). The remainder of the space could have accommodated an
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Hazna
In the Habur triangle, another small site, Hazna, located 14 km west of modern Tell Brak,
ancient Nagar, may have served as a place of pilgrimage in the very early days of this kingdom,
although there is evidence that, like Gre Virike, it was a cultic place long before we have texts
documenting politics at Nagar. 62 Hazna provides intriguing evidence for control of access to
ritual space and for popular participation at a possible pilgrimage site from ca. 3000-2500 BC. 63
The excavators suggest that during the mid third millennium BC, Hazna was a temple complex
that included multilevel platforms, towers, and attached rooms (fig. 19; Munchaev et al. 2004:
477). These rooms were arrayed on three or possibly four terraces, each of which was connected
to an enclosure wall. In the center of this settlement was an 8 m high tower with its own
fortification. Although it is possible to interpret Tell Hazna as a densely occupied village site,
and its cultic towers as storage facilities (Pfälzner 2002, 2011), the unusual nature of the deposits
here, the buttressing on these towers, and the site’s later use as a cemetery supports the
excavators’ interpretation. The circular construction of this site may resemble temple ovals
discovered at Tell Ubaid and Khafaje in Iraq (Delougaz 1940; Hall and Woolley 1927).
Excavations in room 37 within the main tower have unearthed striated ash layers
containing grain, animal bones, and clay animal figurines, which the excavators have interpreted
as offerings (Amirov 2006) (Munchaev et al. 2004: 25-6). Moreover, seventeen unused sickle-
blades were placed in a niche in the tower along with a stamp seal (Merpert and Munchaev 1999:
121). Another cultic tower (room 110) was located on a different level of the site. In a room
(149) adjoining this tower, the excavators found a cache of beads made of crystal, carnelian, jet,
turquoise, bone, and shell, as well as silver pendants (Munchaev et al. 2004: 23). Some of the
rooms in the complex connected to this tower were filled with large quantities of animal bones,
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while two small chambers contained a cache of more than 40 clay animal figurines (Munchaev
and Merpert 1994: fig. 31). Other cultic chambers, another tower, and industrial installations
occupied Hazna’s other terraces. As at Gre Virike, following its use as a temple, Hazna was
converted into a necropolis, with 25 individual graves placed in different rooms of the compound
Jebelet al-Beda
Southwest of Hazna, in the Syrian desert, at the western edge of the Jebel Abd-’al-Aziz
mountain range lies another unusual, cultic site. The site consist of a 20 X 15 m platform of
limestone blocks at the highest point of a hill called Ras et-Tell (Moortgat-Correns 1972: 54). In
the western half of this platform, eight square trenches were cut into the bedrock in a cruciform
pattern. Four of these trenches were widened to create graves, although skeletons were only
found in the two graves in the middle of the platform. Very little material was recorded from the
graves, trenches, or platform, with the exception of rough, handmade pottery sherds and basalt
fragments. Lying on the slopes of the hill were the remains of at least three basalt sculptures
(Moortgat-Correns 1972: 53-4), which the excavator hypothesized were originally erected on the
The best-preserved sculptures are a stela and a statue in the round. The statue, which
may have originally been 2.5-3 m high, depicts a bearded man wearing a flounced skirt and
holding a mace (fig. 20a). The double-sided stela has the same image on both sides and may
portray the same bearded man (fig. 20b). On the stela, he stands atop a litter borne by two
smaller men, who appear to be running, a motif also found on the Ur-Nanše plaque from Telloh
(Moortgat-Correns 1972: 15). The statue can be linked stylistically to the figure of Išqi-Mari,
depicted in the Mari royal sealings and by a statuette found at Mari (Parrot 1953: 8-9). This
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probably indicates that the figure depicted was a Northern Mesopotamian monarch. Joachim
Bretschneider and colleagues suggest that the tableau formed by the man with the mace facing
the stela is related to the scene on the lower register of the Beydar master sealing (Bretschneider
et al. 2009: 17). The seal and the sculpture may both depict aspects of the Syrian ritual.
Memorializing this ceremony through monumental architecture transformed this desolate hill
into an everlasting reminder of this ceremony. Additionally, the use of this imagery on seals
incorporated this ritual into quotidian administration. Hence, this ritual worked both as spectacle
South and west of Ras et-Tell lie two other hills where Oppenheim excavated EBA cist
graves, including one with an enclosure wall (Oppenheim 1933: 229-230; Moortgat-Correns
1972: 55). In total, Ursula Moortgat-Correns estimates twenty graves can be found in the hills
near Ras et-Tell (Moortgat-Correns 1972: 56). Although these burials are difficult to date, they
may be related to the tableau of the statue and the stelae. Certainly, they would have provided
Tell Banat
Unlike the other cultic sites considered this far, which are small and isolated, the site of
Tell Banat, together with neighboring Tell Bazi, may have constituted the city of Armi/
Armanum (fig. 21; Otto 2006; cf. Porter 2012: 237, fn 73), although it is possible that this city
lay further north, at Samsat (Archi 2011). Myriad different monuments are attested at Banat and
may have been the settings for ceremonies like the Ebla coronation ritual. The 20 m high White
Monument at Banat (Tell Banat North), located 200 m north of the main settlement, was a
complex burial mound used for at least half a millennium (from ca. 2800-2300 BC). Anne Porter
and Thomas McClellan, Banat’s excavators, believe that the White Monument was a giant
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ossuary, the final resting place for certain ancestral remains, interred there following their
defleshing (Porter 2002: 21; McClellan 1998). Although excavations never penetrated to the
heart of this mound, they did reveal three construction stages for the monument. The first
version of the structure (White Monument C, ca. 2600 BC) was a white pyramid built of gravel
that incorporated human bone and fragments of pottery, including the possible ritual deposition
of a deliberately broken vessel (Porter 2002: 14). Stone tumuli and earthen cairns containing a
few disarticulated human bones and whole vessels were cut into this mound. Skeletal material
and pots had also been scattered around the tumuli (Porter 2002: 15). During the second
construction phase (2550-2400 BC), a single large mound, White Monument B, was built to
incorporate these disparate mounds. In the final construction phase (2400-2300 BC), this mound
was enlarged to create White Monument A. Unlike the previous mortuary monuments, White
Monument A was built at one time, as a single construction event. It was made in even
horizontal layers, each of which contained discrete deposits of the disarticulated remains of two
or more individuals, equid bones, ceramics, and small offerings like beads and clay balls (Porter
2002: 16). The excavators emphasize the careful patterning of this mound; human bones were
not placed randomly, and the gravel and white gypsum used in the construction were deliberately
The White Monument is not the only locus for mortuary rituals at Banat. Indeed, the
oldest structure at the site—Mortuary Mound II—is also a conical mound built of layers of
gravel and white pisé that may have enclosed a stone cairn (Porter 2002: 16). A 2 m tall gravel
platform overlay this burial mound. The monumental Building 7, probably either a palace or
temple and a contemporary to White Monument B, was built atop this platform. Another
monumental building, Building 6, replaced it and stood when White Monument A was built.
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The buildings may have been placed in this area to erase the previous mortuary monument or to
Just south of Building 7 lay a series of burials, including Tomb 7, a five-chambered tomb
made of carefully dressed stone and used during the life-spans of the public buildings 6 and 7.
The tomb’s stone architecture and baked brick and bitumen floor parallel the architecture of the
public buildings. When the buildings were in use, the stone roof of this tomb would have been
visible and accessible, located in a courtyard connected to them. Tomb 7 contained a wealthy
primary burial; an articulated skeleton was found in the remains of a wooden coffin, with nearly
1000 gold beads, alabaster vessels, and objects with lapis lazuli inlay. The impressions of
objects that had been removed from the tomb in antiquity could still be seen in its bitumen-
coated floor. Clearly, this tomb was entered multiple times, probably as part of complex
mortuary and post-mortuary rituals. Two other articulated skeletons lay above Tomb 7, while a
third articulated skeleton was found near its entrance shaft, directly on top of the tomb’s stone
roof (Porter 2002: 18-21). Three other burials—tombs 4-6—were also located in this courtyard
and contained the fragmentary remains of multiple individuals. They are probably equivalent to
the ancillary burials found within the White Monument (Porter 2002: 17-8).
Architectural analysis of Gre Virike, Hazna, Jebelet al-Beda, and Tell Banat provides
information on the setting for rituals, while depositions from these sites illustrate the nature of
these activities. These locales also provide an opportunity for us to reflect upon the actors,
audiences, and mise-en-scène of these particular ceremonies, as well as the different ways they
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Despite the unique nature of each of these places, these four ritual locales share many
similarities. Each monument uses height and monumentality, often incorporating a mound or a
hill into its construction. Gre Virike, Hazna, and Jebelet al-Beda also used platforms to
segregate cultic installations, in the process perhaps creating stages for the performance of
special rites. The presence of funerary monuments is also common to all of these sites. None of
them seems to have been inhabited; even Banat has no clear evidence for a domestic population.
But they did not exist in a vacuum. In order to understand the various roles they could have
played, it is necessary to look beyond the individual places and consider their wider landscape.
The Ebla tablets indicate that in the 24th century BC Northern Mesopotamia was divided into a
large numbers of small kingdoms or city-states—at least twenty such polities are known. The
cultic sites probably belonged to three or four different polities. Gre Virike may have been
located in the kingdom of Carchemish, Hazna was probably part of Nagar, Jebelet al-Beda may
have been part of Hadda or Abaarsal, and Banat was probably the capital of Armi/Armanum.
Constructing Kingdoms
Gre Virike belongs to the badalum-cities region, an area along the Upper Euphrates and
Balikh where the main political authorities were badalum-officials, not kings. The lack of
domestic settlement here suggests that the site was a place of pilgrimage that was incorporated
into a larger cultural landscape along the Euphrates (fig. 22). Survey evidence from the area
within a day’s walk of Gre Virike indicates that other sites along the river, with the possible
exception of Carchemish, were small villages, with a population of perhaps 4000 during the
lifespan of this cultic center (Ökse 2007). 64 Rather fittingly, 4000 is also the upper limit for the
number of people who could attend ceremonies at this center, based on analysis of the open
space surrounding the funerary installations here. 65 Since other cultic sites are located 15-30 km
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apart on the Euphrates, Gre Virike was probably only used by people living within this radius,
perhaps including the local elites at Carchemish. This would have made the Gre Virike
pilgrimage circuit similar in size to the Ebla kingship ritual circuit. Unlike some of the other
cultic sites, Gre Virike was not placed behind a wall, nor was it located on a particularly high
terrace, perhaps emphasizing its connection to its wider community. Yet Gre Virike’s position
along the river means that its visibility is limited. The site can be seen from very few of the
contemporary third millennium settlements that have been identified from survey in this region
(fig. 23). 66 This hidden aspect of Gre Virike may have contributed to a sense of exclusivity; this
cultic place could be used only by those in the know. The kitchens and other installations around
its burial chambers attest to repeated ceremonies, perhaps ancestor rituals performed for an
audience in the lower viewing area (Peltenburg 2007-2008: 222-3). Gre Virike’s lack of
monumentality and the dearth of high status objects in these chamber graves may correspond to
the political situation of Carchemish, where there are no attested kings during this period.
Perhaps political power in the Carchemish region was founded on inclusive policies or ritual
The situation at Nagar is quite different. As we have seen, this kingdom with its
eponymous capital at Brak was equal in status to Ebla, Mari, and Kish during the 24th century
BC. We know that Nagar’s king traveled between the centers under his control in a royal
progress that may have contribute to his authority. 67 Although we have no record for a
specifically ritual journey like the Ebla coronation ceremony, the evidence from the Beydar seals
and the tower model from Brak provide indirect evidence for such activities. The early-mid third
millennium tower temples excavated at Hazna, located 15 km from Brak and 20 km from
Beydar, resemble the ritual structures depicted on the later Beydar seals, despite the
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approximately 150 year gap between the two. Architectural elements at Hazna call to mind
exclusive political strategies, limiting access to this sacred district to all but a chosen few. This
emphasis on multiple fortification walls controlling access to the cultic spaces at Hazna
distinguishes it from Gre Virike. Such evidence parallels the presence of extensive fortification
walls and control points at the city of Beydar, indicating the importance of controlling territory
for Nagar’s king. Similarly, the presence of separate locations for elite and non elite offerings at
Hazna may have constituted a part of Nagar’s different hegemonic strategy. At Hazna, everyday
animal figurines, were segregated from unusual, high-status donations such as the semi-precious
beads in room 149. Moreover, there is no obvious space for an audience to watch the ritual
performances, indicating that the relationship between actor and audience was different here. It
is likely that all visitors to the complex were understood as participants, perhaps stressing the
egalitarian nature of many of these rites. However, although most of the evidence at the site
results from similar ritual offerings, perhaps made by a wide spectrum of the populace, the use of
at least part of the site may have been co-opted by an elite that emphasized exclusion, not
inclusion. Once again, its position with respect to Nagar may indicate that most of its pilgrims
Jebelet al-Beda also attests to the ritual establishment of a political strategy. These
unusual ruins have been interpreted as a site of worship, a victory monument, or a place of
ancestor veneration (Oppenheim 1933; Meyer 1997; Moortgat-Correns 1972; Pfälzner 2001a).
It seems most likely that this site was built and used by the inhabitants of the Kranzhügeln, the
majority of which lie between the Jebel ‘abd-al-Aziz and the Habur river. The 33 ha site of Tell
Mabtuh lies only about 10 km northeast of this monument and is the closest third millennium
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settlement. Jebelet al-Beda may have belonged to a pilgrimage network belonging to the
important center that bordered Mari on the west and whose capital has been identified as Tell
Malhat ed-Deru, ca. 55 km southeast. 68 The monument at Jebelet al-Beda seems to have more
in common with Gre Virike than Hazna. Unlike the latter site, the use of circumvallation is
limited to one of the “Grave Hills.” Moreover, the simple cist graves set on a platform, built on a
natural hill, recalls the emplacement of platforms along the Euphrates. But the stelae and statues
of Jebelet al-Beda appear more overtly political than the other monuments discussed so far. And
although the platform provides a space for ritual; it is much smaller than the one at Gre Virike
and could have accommodated at most perhaps 500 people, perhaps limiting attendance to a
certain segment of society. 69 Although it is possible that the stela and the both statue depict a
god, it is more likely that this figure was a man, perhaps a king (Moortgat-Correns 1972: 21-2).
The “king’s” power may have been grounded in the relationship of this image to the dead, its
connection to the bodies of his followers, enemies, and/or ancestors who were interred in the
surrounding graves, and his power over the living who witnessed this monumentalized
ceremony. The construction of the monument in the barren hills also expressed royal power,
demonstrating this nameless king’s ability to monopolize skilled and unskilled labor.
Finally, evidence from Banat, possibly Armi/Armanum, indicates another set of political
strategies. Unlike the other places discussed, Banat was a major center, at 40 ha, this complex
may have been the largest city on the Upper Euphrates, perhaps larger than Carchemish. In the
2003: Texts 16 and 17; Otto 2006: 18). The importance of both an exclusive leader and a
corporate entity here, as at Ebla, corresponds nicely to the complex ritual installations. For
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centuries Tomb 7 and the White Monument stood together, representing two political strategies,
usually understood to be in conflict, but here coexisting. White Monuments A and B were
probably both built and used at the same time as Tomb 7 and the associated public building in
Area C, but the different monuments may have represented different forms of political authority.
Located outside of the settlement complex at Banat, across the modern wadi from the
main site, the White Monument may be approached from any direction. Excavation and
geophysical survey revealed no enclosure walls, nor are any visible in the topographic plan.
Instead, there seems to have been entirely open access to this place. The inclusive nature of this
access parallels the inclusive nature of the monument itself. Even if there is an undiscovered
elite burial within the heart of this mound, the many other discrete deposits of human bone,
animal bone, and other ritual materials (like beads and clay balls) from each stage of its
construction emphasize its communal nature. Prior to the emergence of craft-production areas
and public buildings at Bazi-Banat, the site was probably characterized by a field of such
tumuli—as resistivity survey has located other likely burial mounds in the area. Most scholars
have assumed that these mounds were the burial places of a probably generally mobile
population (Peltenburg 2007-2008; Porter 2002). The White Monument may have served as a
testament to these nameless dead, maintaining a vital link between farmers, pastoralists, city
dwellers, and their ancestors. Its size and setting meant that it was visible for a long way,
particularly for travelers coming from the north and west, broadcasting a powerful argument
about political authority to the other populations that comprised this polity (Porter 2007: 203). 70
Unlike the White Monument, the later tomb 7 was built in a large public area. Although
initially access to this area was unrestricted, the construction of a thick perimeter wall that
enclosed Building 6 transformed its relationship with the community, isolating it from the rest of
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the site (Porter 2002: 27). The tomb itself, of course, is a semi-subterranean structure that is
largely hidden from view, while its small size limits the number of people who could participate
in rituals (Porter 2007: 208). The courtyard surrounding the buried Tomb 7, however, could
have held more spectators. 71 The luxurious contents of the tomb and the small numbers of
people buried here and in surrounding graves emphasize another type of exclusivity. Tomb 7
may well have been the actual location for the celebration of exclusive rituals like the Ebla
coronation ceremony (Porter 2007: 205-7). The arcane nature of such ceremonies would also
have been powerful, both for their immediate participants and for others in the community. In
the final analysis, both monuments and their associated rituals emphasize the construction of a
shared community. Like the performances in the Mesoamerican cities of K’axob and La Corona
that brought into being ancestors and patron deities, these rituals were performative, creating an
Beyond these four “pilgrimage sites,” the mid-third millennium witnessed the emergence
of complex ritual and mortuary practices inscribed on the landscape, cities, and palaces,
providing another context for these four centers. 72 The visibility of above-ground tombs at Gre
Virike, the stelae and statues at Jebelet al-Beda, and the White Monument at Banat finds
parallels in the construction of other hypogea in cities at Umm el-Marra in the Jabbul Plain, Bi’a,
where the Balikh meets the Euphrates, and Jerablus Tahtani, just south of Carchemish.
An elaborate mortuary complex, dating to between 2550 and 2200 BC, crowns the
acropolis of the site of Umm el-Marra, perhaps ancient Dub/Tuba. This complex consists of ten
elite human tombs, and ten installations devoted to equid burials that were at least partially
above-ground, and hence visible to residents and visitors to the city (Schwartz 2014; Schwartz et
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al. 2012; Schwartz 2012, 2007a; Schwartz et al. 2003; Schwartz et al. 2000b; Schwartz et al.
2006). The tombs were built with a limestone substructure and a brick superstructure and
usually had one or two rooms. Within these chambers, human bodies lay in coffins,
accompanied by jewelry, weaponry, pottery, and cuts of meat. Each tomb yielded between one
and eight individuals, including men, women, children, and infants. A line of subterranean
“installations” containing the articulated skeletons of more than 30 equids bisected the center of
the complex. Jill Weber, the project zooarchaeologist, argues on the basis of morphological
considerations that these skeletons represent the remains of the kunga, an onager-donkey hybrid
that was associated with royalty in the Ebla texts (Weber 2012; Weber 2008). Only adult-male
kunga were found, animals that could have been harnessed to “cultic and war vehicles that
conveyed kings and gods” (Weber 2012: 169). Some of the kunga died naturally, while others
were sacrificed, perhaps to display the power of the city’s rulers over life and death. Moreover,
these animal also received offerings; human infants, puppies, and pottery were placed alongside
them in these installations. At Umm el-Marra, the association between processional animals,
royal tombs, and spatially-constructed authority provides additional insights into the Syrian
ritual.
Other above-ground mortuary complexes that have been excavated at Bi’a (ancient
Tuttul) and Jerablus Tahtani illustrate similar relationships. Six tripartite structures containing
several interments were built near the center of Tuttul in the mid-third millennium. These
structures were much larger than the Umm el-Marra tombs and were entirely above-ground
(Strommenger and Kohlmeyer 2000; Strommenger and Kohlmeyer 1998). Their placement,
communal character, and wealth testifies to a similar focus on visibility and the construction of
status. Moreover, like Mortuary Monument II at Banat, which was incorporated into the
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possibly palatial Building 7, the late third millennium Palace B lies atop this complex, perhaps
burial mound was placed adjacent to the road between the city gate and the fort on the upper
terrace. The tomb contained between 20 and 30 people and was accessible through a doorway
from the road, integrating it “into a passage suitable for processions,” again attesting to the
ideological importance of such rituals within third millennium cities (Peltenburg 2007-2008:
230).
Conclusion: Urban Spaces, Pilgrimage Networks and the Rise of Political Complexity
How should we understand the appearance of cities and territorial kingdoms throughout
Northern Mesopotamia, circa 2600 BC? I have argued that the rise of political complexity in
Northern Mesopotamia entailed the refashioning of a familiar landscape. Not only did the
growth of cities and the emergence of administrative elites who sought to establish oversight
over a larger populace transform the economic relationship between agriculturalists, pastoralists,
and artisans, it also transformed how they understood the world and their place within it. This
latter step was crucial to the success of these early polities. If Northern Mesopotamian
pilgrimage routes were intimately connected with other networks—like tribute or gift circulation,
as seems likely given the archaeological and epigraphic data—they would have provided
Analysis of the textual, iconographic, and settlement evidence from around Ebla suggests
that at least two pilgrimage networks operated here. The first, documented in the coronation
rituals and the texts of offerings to dead kings appears to have been confined to Ebla’s immediate
hinterland, an area within a few days travel of the capital. Most likely the places that made up
such routes were located up to 40 km from the city. The rituals that took place within this circuit
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emphasized the power and legitimacy of the kings of Ebla. The “natural links” between Ebla’s
kings and its hinterland would have been strengthened by the presence of royal funerary
monuments outside of the city, at places like Darib, Binash, and the other centers where AN.EN.KI
offerings were made. This network probably coincided with an area that had intensive economic
contact with Ebla, where many of the fields belonging to its dependents were located, which
supplied much of the city’s grain (Matthiae and Marchetti 2013). 73 In contrast, the second
network embraced a larger geographical area including much of the Orontes valley. The rituals
that were performed here, in honor of ‘Adabal, the region’s god, probably sought to insert Ebla
and its elite into a pre-existing ritual system. The different nature of these ceremonies—where
royal power was underplayed rather than overstated—might well correspond to the different
nature of political and economic contacts in this larger region. Although Ebla texts document the
exchange of livestock, textiles, and metal objects, this is probably part of a less-intensive prestige
goods system. In this scenario, the pilgrimage circuits at Ebla used different strategies to
integrate various regions into the kingdom with respect to their divergent political statuses.
Archaeological and iconographic evidence from other sites in Syria indicate that Ebla was not
alone in employing such strategies. Gre Virike may have been part of a local pilgrimage
network—within a day’s journey from Carchemish, while Hazna may have played a similar role
for Nagar. Banat and Jebelet al-Beda probably maintained local significance, resisting
incorporation into more expansive networks, like Ebla’s ‘Adabal pilgrimage route.
The Ebla texts also help us connect urban topography with these ritual journeys. The
royal bride’s slow procession to the palace is central to her ritual transformation into Ebla’s
queen, as the royal couple’s pilgrimage is to political transition within the kingdom as a whole.
The coronation ritual is an event that models and as such serves as a metaphor for the
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transformation of political systems across Northern Mesopotamia. Similarly, the highly-
controlled passages to and in Northern Mesopotamian cities may have instructed the populace in
proper urban behavior and attitudes towards authority, creating a new type of citizen. Ritual and
habitual movement through these newly created landscapes—from multi-day pilgrimage routes
to the construction of walls and urban grids—was thus critical to the literal incorporation of these
traditions.
Social transformation often works through ritual and changing bodily practices, which
have the power to naturalize a certain way of being (Connerton 1989; Bourdieu 1977, 1990).
These two processes are rarely separate. Rituals do not exist as words alone. It is the bodies that
perform them that give them their meaning and power. Posture, dress, and repetitive action
literally incorporate social norms; they take advantage of habitual memory and construct new
identities. As we saw in the example of the French Revolution, moments of rupture or social
practices, initiating new styles of dress, calendars, and festivals to instantiate this change. 74 The
establishment of new ritual circuits that coincided with other changes in landscapes of
movement, including the construction of city walls and urban grids, inaugurated new ways of
being in Northern Mesopotamia. A similar process may have taken place several hundred years
later on Crete, when a ritual landscape marked by peak sanctuaries (resembling sites like Gre
The reconstruction of these North Mesopotamian ritual systems has relied heavily upon
analysis of the Ebla ritual texts and sealings produced and used only in elite contexts, clearly
skewing our understanding of ritual life and political negotiation among all members of the
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archaeological finds at Hazna, Gre Virike and Banat’s White Monument suggest that these
religious landscapes were not entirely under elite control. Ethnographers and historians have
long recognized the ambiguous quality of rituals, which can serve the interests of both authority
and resistance (Kertzer 1988; Mather 2003). This can be particularly true of pilgrimage
(McCorriston 2011: 27-8; cf. Turner 1979). The celebration of official rituals in newly built,
asymmetric palaces or temples may have enacted one particular vision of the way things should
be, while the more popular rituals that were performed at Banat’s White Monument or the
meager offerings left at Gre Virike may have enacted another. In the end, each polity was the
site of constant political struggle between a range of actors. Political authority was not set in
stone at the moment that the city was built, but was instead continuously negotiated, through
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III. Memory
An Event that Presents: The Feast of Ištar and the Kispum Ritual
Once a year, the statue of the goddess Ištar traveled to the city of Mari on the Middle
Euphrates as part of a grand religious occasion. Officiates brought sheep, goats, flour, and
bread for Ištar's sacred meal to commemorate ritual events including her departure from her
temple at Dêr, her journey to Mari, and her installation in that city’s temple. Unlike other
religious celebrations, which usually involved small numbers of participants, this festival
brought together the entire political community of the kingdom, a role that one of its alternate
names, “the Feast of the Land,” explicitly recognized. 76 It did so not only by honoring Ištar, a
goddess linked to victory, kingship, and various tribal confederacies, but also through a series of
rituals that created blood obligations and established a larger community of the living and the
dead. Indeed, the ancestor ceremonies, particularly the kispum that were attached to this
celebration were central to politics, ritual, and community identity at Mari. People from
neighboring kingdoms held similar ceremonies. To the east, in the Ida-Maraş, Apum, and south
of the Sinjar mountains, the elunnum rite played a similar role, while to the northwest in Aleppo,
the hi’ârum festival—named after the sacrifice of a donkey—served the same purpose. Like the
Mari celebration, these other festivals connected the ascent of Ištar, ancestor commemoration,
animal sacrifice, and diplomacy (Durand and Guichard 1997: 38-9; Eidem 2011: texts 5 and
79).
The ritual cycle of the Feast of Ištar included sacrifices outside of Mari, the major
ceremony when the goddess entered the city, the feast of the rāmum (a burial cairn), the
pagra’um offering of animal corpses to Dagan, and of course, the kispum ritual for the ancestors
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(Jacquet 2012: 21-4 and 52-5). 77 The feast of the rāmum was celebrated at a stone tomb,
probably located in the countryside, although such tombs could also be erected in cities. The
kispum ritual included sacrifices within the palace in the “Room of Thrones,” where offerings
were made to the lamassatu-statues of the Akkadian kings Sargon and Naram-Sin. Other kispum
offerings took place in the city’s temples, and in the countryside, at the kisikkum, probably a
cairn that marked burials. Finally, on the day of the full moon, priests laid out circular tent
foundations to create a ritual place for the sacrifice of a donkey. Like the kisikkum, tent footings
are generally stone circles, similar to the cairns and tumuli in Middle Bronze Age cemeteries.
Here, the ritual explicitly connected these simple nomad dwellings and the domain of the dead.
The sacrifice of a donkey emphasizes the dual political and religious nature of this ritual.
In the diplomatic correspondence, this sacrifice was performative and enacted a treaty between
two polities (Charpin 1990, 1992; Tadmor 1985). Along with the ritual gesture of “touching
one’s throat,” a donkey sacrifice consecrated the solemn oath that the treaty represented
(Durand 2008: 578; Munn-Rankin 1956: 89-91). The donkey’s blood was a metaphor for the
blood of the rulers, and by spilling and mixing it, they became blood brothers. Indeed, a later
king of the city of Eluhut described an alliance as “the sharing of blood” (Eidem 2011: 89, p.
315). 78 The presence of this sacrificial rite does not just call attention to the treaty ritual; it
actually is the setting for this staging of brotherhood. Letters describe treaty conventions that
took place at rāmū, stone cairns, as in these ceremonies (ARM 23 319: 7). After the sacrifice
established their brotherhood, these new “brothers” or “sons’ were required to participate in
the kispum ritual for the kingdom, to honor the dead of their new family. 79 Indeed, one of the
most famous letters from Mari, which describes the relative power of the great kings during
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Concerning the message that my lord sent to the kings, which said, ‘Come to the
follows, saying 'There is no king who on his own is the strongest. Ten or fifteen
kings follow Hammurabi of Babylon, the same number follow Rim-Sin of Larsa,
the same number follow Ibal-pî-El of Ešnunna, the same number follow Amût-pî-
A.482: 22-27)
A king’s subordinates, or “sons,” and his allies, or “brothers,” were required to attend this
ritual cycle every year in order to establish, renew, and strengthen their connection to the
kingdom’s present and past. This was the occasion when the king designated officials and
acknowledged client kings, when accounts were settled and taxes paid.
Participants in the kispum ceremony were not just dignitaries like the royal family,
ambassadors, and priests. Other celebrants included the muškēnū (Akk. sg. muškēnum), the
citizens of Mari who were separate from the palace establishment (Durand 1991: 21, n. 18;
Charpin 1988: 19; Schloen 2001: 285-7). Indeed, the celebration of this kispum as a state ritual
cited a ceremony that took place in private houses and cemeteries, as part of regular obligations
to the ancestors. In the palace, administrative dockets record fortnightly offerings of bread and
grain for the kispum ceremonies, according to the phases of the moon (Jacquet 2002; Jacquet
2011: 43-6). Families and households held similar rites in houses or at family tombs, leaving
bread, meat, and beer to feed the dead (Bayliss 1973: 115-22; Tsukimoto 1985; Toorn 1995). As
a family ritual writ large, the Feast of Ištar created new ties, establishing a new type of
community. The ceremony thus united all of the constituencies of the kingdom, through a
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Memory, Mourning, and Legitimacy
The Feast of Ištar affirmed the ancestor as a potent symbol in the early second
millennium BC, and honoring the dead as a powerful political and religious practice. Unlike the
Ebla Coronation Ritual, this ritual does not seek to transform a political situation but to perform
an image of an ideal polity. As an event that presents, this ritual holds up a sort of funhouse
mirror to existing political relationships, one that makes them look both natural and durable. In
this chapter, we will examine how this ritual works and particularly how the past gains authority.
Why is memory such a salient concept at this time and place? The answer may be found
in the particular political and social context of this period. Cross-culturally, the commemoration
of the past occurs most often during periods of rapid transformation when previous social
patterns are disrupted (Connerton 2011; Ricœur 2004; Hobsbawm 1983). As Karl Marx
famously described the establishment of the Second Republic and the subsequent ascent of
Napoleon III:
The tradition of all the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brain of
the living. And just when they seem engaged in revolutionizing themselves and
things, in creating something that has never yet existed, precisely in such periods
of revolutionary crisis they anxiously conjure up the spirits of the past to their
service, and borrow from them names, battle-cries, and costumes in order to
present the new scene of world history in this time-honored disguise and this
Rather like the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in France, the early 2nd millennium BC
was a period of instability and social change, which witnessed the creation of myriad polities
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following nearly three centuries of settlement abandonment (fig. 24). The political landscape of
this “recovery” was highly fragmented and competition between small kingdoms from Iran to the
Northern Levant was omnipresent. But a unitary cultural landscape emerged that transcended
the region’s linguistic and ethnic diversity, despite the enduring political divisions and the
transience of individual kingdoms. The performance of elite rituals and daily practices that
A growing recognition of the use, appropriation, and “invention” of the past has been a
potent theoretical force in the humanities and social sciences. 80 This fascination with cultural
memory, heritage, and the relationship between modernity and forgetting has only become more
pertinent in the last decades as communication technologies have increased life’s tempo. There
is a growing tension between the desire to memorialize recent events—perhaps most pointedly
September 11, 2001—and the way that information overload and consumer culture both conspire
to reduce the temporality of lived memory and to consign even significant moments to oblivion
During the last decade, archaeologists have explored how memory and the past are
implicated in landscapes, rock art, and scholarly practices in places as diverse as Neolithic
Britain, the American Southwest, and Ancient Greece. 81 This interest in memory has coincided
with a time when archaeologists have become more aware of the political consequences of how
they retrieve, curate, and interpret the past. Since the 1980s, archaeological heritage has become
increasingly politicized in many countries and the number of stakeholders and interested parties
has grown exponentially (Vitelli and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2006). The enactment of NAGPRA
legislation in the United States and the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Heritage Act in
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Australia have initiated new discussions about heritage that explicitly include indigenous and
descent groups and have changed normative practices of archaeology (Phillips et al. 2010).
Several national and ethnic groups have employed archaeology to buttress their claims to
specific territories, in processes as disparate as the Martu’s successful legal case to gain native
title to a 130,000 km2 tract in Western Australia based partially on the presence of rock art in the
region to the employment of archaeological data in the argument for a Greater Israel (Codding
2012; Abu El-Haj 2001). Although this process has roots in the 19th century, it has become
increasingly pertinent in the last few decades, particularly in places undergoing state formation
such as the former Soviet Union (Kohl et al. 2007; Kohl and Tsetskhladze 1995; Shnirel'man
2001, 1996). At the same time, several nation-states, especially areas that were formally
colonized, have laid claim to material excavated from their territories and held in museums in the
US and Europe (Edgeworth 2006; Mashberg 2013). The resulting debates over the status of
these objects have helped crystallize competing understandings of who owns the past (Meskell
2007).
In the Middle East, the conflicts and revolutions of the last two decades have resulted in
widespread looting of museums and the destruction of archaeological sites, focusing attention
upon the role of the past in the present. In 2000, global organizations widely decried the
dynamiting of the Bamiyan Buddhas in the name of Islam by the Taliban in Afghanistan
(Meskell 2002). Two years later, the international community similarly censured the US
government for not preventing the looting of the Iraq Museum in Baghdad in the chaos that
followed the American invasion (Pollock 2003b; Rothfield 2009). The disappearance of iconic
objects like the Warka vase—televised to worldwide audiences—raised questions about who is
responsible for the past (Pollock and Bernbeck 2005). Reports of looting in Syria and Egypt
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during 2010-2013 have ignited similar discussions about heritage, its political association, and its
particularly, much of this debate has raised issues that resonate with many of the positions that
emerged during the conflict over the Persepolis festival (above, introduction).
But these concerns are hardly new. In most places and periods, the present has been
“among, other things, a battleground about the interpretation of the events and meaning of the
past” (Yoffee 2007: 1). The past, memory, and history, all controversial now, were no less
contested in the past. Earlier states also harnessed history to justify territorial gains. Aššur-Dan
(935-912 BC), king of Assyria, for example, describes his conquest of the Jezirah as “[bringing]
back the exhausted [people] of Assyria [who] had abandoned [their cities (and) houses in the
face of] want, hunger, (and) famine (and) [had gone up] to other lands” (Grayson 1991: RIMA II
A.0.98.1, 60-7). The people Aššur-Dan “brought back” had probably not lived in this territory
for at least a century, probably more. Similarly, modern looting, the transfer of particularly
culturally significant items from the defeated to the conquerors, recalls ancient practices of
appropriating the past. The Code of Hammurabi and the Victory Stela of Naram-Sin were both
found in Susa, not Babylon or Akkad where they were initially erected. Elamite soldiers looted
these objects, already antiques, from Babylonia in the late second millennium BC (Bahrani 2008:
51: 51, 114, note 20). The antiquarian interests of political leaders like Saddam Hussein echoes
similar interests of Mesopotamian kings and officials, including Nabonidus, who sent workers
armed with picks and baskets to excavate Akkad (Winter 2000), and the scribe Nabû-zuqup-
kēnu, who copied archaic texts from Babylon for the royal Assyrian library (Garrison 2012: 30-
1; Frahm 1999).
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As the ancient evidence for looting and excavation in the Near East makes clear,
heirlooms, ruins, and history were particularly salient categories in Mesopotamia. People could
appropriate history in different ways, sometimes to establish a shared past, but also to deny one
to others. In this chapter, I will investigate “memory work” in a way that acknowledges both the
contingent way in which every present constructs its past and the multiplicity of pasts produced
within this framework (Mills and Walker 2008). Memory work invokes a specific, appropriate
past through citation, references to past words, things, or practices that give an object or
I will begin by outlining the complicated political history of the early second millennium
BC. Second, I will consider the archaeological and textual evidence for collapse and the rupture
of settlement systems, economic strategies, and social practices from ca. 2150-1800 BC as this
provides a necessary background for the renegotiation of political authority in the 18th century
BC. Finally, I will turn my attention to how and why people drew upon ancestors and the past in
their performance of specific social and political identities. After considering the part the past
played in collective representations during the Old Babylonian period, I will analyze mortuary
landscapes, monuments, and the use of antiques and archaizing objects by kings, priests, artisans,
pastoralists, and villagers as settings and props for rituals. Memory, the past, and the ancestors
that could unite the disparate groups of the early second millennium BC. The flexibility of these
categories, realized in ritual, allowed for the construction and legitimation of households, tribes,
and polities. But the past, mourning, and ancestor veneration could also challenge political
authority. Indeed, the political instability of the period cautions us against assuming that a
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Political Instability
The last few centuries of the third millennium BC saw the disappearance of the urban
system that was sketched in the last chapter. The incursion of the Akkadian kings into Northern
Mesopotamia and the subsequent collapse of that empire in the wake of a brutal drought led to a
political and social reorientation (Ristvet 2012; Sallaberger 2007; Weiss 2012). Following the
withdrawal of the Akkadian empire from the north, probably during the reign of Šar-kali-šarri
(2175-2150 BC 82), this area was reorganized into a series of small kingdoms or city states. At
Mari, the descendants of Akkadian governors formed a dynasty that retained the old title
Šakkanakku, but became independent rulers for 350 years (Durand 1985). Urkiš moved to fill
the population and political vacuum in the Habur Plains, establishing “The Kingdom of Urkiš
and Nawar,” probably centered in an area along the modern Turkish/Syrian border, between
Urkiš and Nabula (perhaps ancient Nawar), or along the Jaghjagh between Urkiš and Nagar
(Weiss 2012a). Similarly, both Aššur and Nineveh were probably political and religious centers
Given our limited archaeological and textual information for the period 2150-1900 BC, it
is difficult to delineate the forms that these polities took or the strategies that they employed. We
know the most about Mari, the Kingdom of Urkiš and Nawar, and Aššur, but in this case, “the
most” means a handful of inscriptions (three in the case of Urkiš), occasional references in Ur III
administrative texts about deliveries of animals from these cities to Puzriš-Dagan, and the
excavation of singular buildings on a few sites—including Mari, Nagar, Urkiš, Kaḫat (Tell
Barri), and Arbid (Weiss 2012b; Sallaberger 2011; Sallaberger 2007). Unfortunately, while Mari
and Aššur do appear occasionally in Ur III documentation, and Aššur may have been either a
province, or more likely, an independent kingdom whose kings recognized the rulers of Ur as
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their overlords (Michalowski 2009), there is very little information about any political centers in
the Jezirah. We know nothing about the geographical extent of these polities, nor how that
changed over time. There are similar gaps in our knowledge of the political organization of
Just after 1900 BC, the political situation and the nature of our documentation change
dramatically. Instead of an unpopulated backwater, the Jezirah, the mātum elītum, became a
prized territory, contested by every major power in the area for over a century (Lafont 2001).
This area’s potential agricultural wealth, lush pasture, and position astride the Aššur-Anatolia
trade routes combined to make it appealing to neighboring kingdoms. The kings of Ešnunna,
Mari, Ekallātum, Susa, Babylon, and Aleppo jockeyed to establish control. 83 The frontiers of
individual kingdoms fluctuated due to the machinations of the great powers, warfare with
neighboring polities, and the constant threat of raids from a variety of urban and non-urban
actors.
During the late 19th century, Naram-Sin of Ešnunna, Yahdun-Lim of Mari, and Samsi-
Addu of Ekallātum all established a fleeting supremacy over part of the territory. 84 Kinglets in
the western Jezirah from the Balikh to the Jaghjagh accepted Yahdun-Lim’s hegemony in this
region (Charpin & Ziegler 2003: 38). Across the Jaghjagh, the land controlled by Samsi-Addu,
the kingdom of Apum, began. After several years of warfare between Mari and Ekallātum,
Samsi-Addu conquered all of Mari’s former clients in Northern Mesopotamia and Mari itself
During the final ten years of his reign, Samsi-Addu organized his conquests, creating a
tripartite administration for his kingdom. He placed his eldest son, Išme-Dagan, on the throne of
Ekallātum, the principle eastern city (Charpin 1997a: 371-2), and his younger son, Yasmah-
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Addu, on the throne of Mari, the principle western city. Samsi-Addu created a new capital for
himself at Šubat-Enlil/Šeḫna, in the center of his kingdom. In the eleventh or twelfth month of
1776 BC, according to the Middle Chronology, after a short illness, Samsi-Addu died (Charpin
& Ziegler 2003: 137). 85 His kingdom did not long survive him (Charpin and Ziegler 2003: 162-
8; Whiting 1990). Išme-Dagan managed to hold onto Ekallātum and the districts along the
Tigris, but at Mari, Yasmah-Addu’s realm collapsed almost immediately. A coalition of local
powers—including Sim’alite nomads and petty kings deprived of their thrones—rebelled against
Yasmah-Addu and secured Mari and the Banks-of-the-Euphrates for Zimri-Lim, who promptly
established hegemony over the petty rulers of the Ida-maraş (Charpin and Durand 1985; Charpin
and Ziegler 2003: 144). Zimri-Lim ruled Northern Mesopotamia for just 12 years, until
Hammurabi of Babylon defeated him and destroyed Mari. For the rest of the 18th century,
This whirlwind survey of the political history of Northern Mesopotamia in the early
second millennium BC emphasizes the political instability of the period. Clearly dynastic
succession did not operate to ensure continuity or stable transitions. The nearly continuous
warfare, constantly shifting alliances, and incessant jockeying for hegemony of an ever changing
group of major players suggest that the international system, such as it was, provided little
Tribal Politics
This historical survey probably over-emphasizes the importance of urban politics in the
period, identifying kings only with their capital city. The voluminous Mari correspondence
indicates that tribal allegiance was just as important. I use the term tribe to designate a political
group defined by an accepted mechanism for resolving conflicts, which often bases membership
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on constructed kinship (Tapper 1990: 51; Khoury and Kostiner 1990). Such groups might divide
into subsections at different levels and coalesce to form tribal confederacies that can include tens
or hundreds of thousands of members across ethnic and linguistic divisions (Tapper 1997). I am
not using tribe to denote an evolutionary stage, a social group, nor as shorthand for “pastoral
nomads.” Rather, their political role is central to this definition of the tribe. As a result, tribes
are not always easy to separate from other polities and often share a complex relationship with
them. 86
These complexities are one of the most distinctive aspects of the textual record of this
period. In a letter found at Mari, Hammurabi of Babylon called Zimri-Lim, “the king of the
Sim’alites,” emphasizing his tribal affiliation, rather than his urban identity (ARMT XXVI 385:
6'; Fleming 2004a: 160). Hammurabi’s choice of phrase indicates the importance of this
connection to the personal authority of this monarch. Similarly, the titles of several kings in
treaties and on official seals call attention to their position as rulers over both sedentary and
semi-sedentary peoples. In the best preserved treaty from Šeḫna, LT-3, concluded between Til-
Abnû of Apum and Yamşi-Hatnû of Kaḫat, for example, Til-Abnû and his kingdom are
described as “[the] son of Dari-Epuh, king of Apum, his servants, his elders, their sons and the
whole of the land of the Hana” (Eidem 2011: LT3). The phrase “king of the land of Hana”
parallels the legal description of Zimri-Lim in the treaty between Mari and Babylon, where he is
called “son of Yahdun-Lim, king of Mari and the land of the Hana” (Durand 1986:
M.6435+M.8987: 25-6; Fleming 2004a: 148-50). In both of these cases, Hana probably
The four major tribal confederacies during this period in Northern Mesopotamia were the
Sim’alites, Yaminites, Numhâ, and Yamutbal, each of which consisted of several smaller tribes
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(Fleming 2004a, 2004b). We know the most about Zimri-Lim’s tribe, the Sim’alites, who were
at home in the Ida-Maraş, and are often just called “Hana” or nomads in the Mari documentation,
and almost as much about the Yaminites, the main confederacy along the Euphrates and to the
west, to which most of the villages near Mari belonged (Durand 2004). Ben-Sim’alite, the name
for a member of the confederacy, means son of the right, and Ben-Yaminite, son of the left. The
designations indicate that members of the two confederacies considered themselves related,
while the terms have been usually interpreted as geographic, either referring to north and south
(Heimpel 2003: 15-17; Charpin, 1986 #600: 155), or perhaps to the right and left banks of the
Euphrates. The Numhâ, the third confederacy, may have been Til-abnû of Apum’s tribe. Towns
and cities with this affiliation are generally found in the hilly arc of Northern Mesopotamia, in
the piedmont and around the Jebel Sinjar, probably along the Tigris (Heimpel 2003: 17-8), and
possibly in the kingdom of Apum and the Eastern Jezirah (Ristvet 2012b). The Yamutbal lived
just south of the Numhâ, in the area between the hilly belt and the desert. They also lived along
the Tigris from Maškan-Šapir to Larsa in Southern Mesopotamia. These territories, however, are
only approximate. The Mari letters provide intricate detail about the different status of villages,
while members of different confederacies grazed their sheep on pastures in widely distant areas
of Northern Mesopotamia. Indeed, assuming that it is possible to easily map tribal status onto
the landscape misunderstands the fluid nature of both settlement and identity politics during this
period.
Tribal affiliation structured land ownership, rights to pasture, and military organization.
A letter written to Zimri-Lim about a dispute between the rulers of two small kingdoms in the
Ida-Maraş, Šuna, and Kiduh, provides useful insight into the authoritative nature of tribal
affiliation. The rulers of both cities, who claim the same village, agree to abide by the judgment
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of the local river god. Two men and two women from each kingdom must take a handful of
earth and plunge into the river, as they shout, "I swear that this town is my town." The people
from Šuna will claim it as the share of the Yabasum, while those from Kiduh (in the land of
Apum) will assert that it was given to the Hana of old. 87 The phrase “of old” is clearly important
in this context as it cites the past as a source of authority at a time when political upheaval and
There is a certain sleight of hand performed by the reiteration of these tribal names and
their claims to authority, one rather similar to our attempts to draw distinct borders around tribal
territories. Within the documentation, citations of tribal status work as appeals to tradition,
making these identities immutable facts on the ground and giving them an authoritative history,
as the land dispute between Šunâ and Kiduh demonstrates (ARM 28 95). 88 Perhaps as a result,
several scholars have assumed that such tribal structures were the normal organizing principles
from a very early period in Mesopotamia. 89 But the deep history that we grant to these
individual tribes or practices was manufactured. There is no clear textual evidence for these
tribes as political actors before the third dynasty of Ur. Indeed, the importance of tribes in the
early second millennium BC was historically contingent, a response to the politics of the Ur III
dynasty and the changing environmental and social milieu in Northern Mesopotamia
(Michalowski 2011; Porter 2012; Ristvet 2012b; Ristvet and Weiss 2014).
Tribal affiliation was neither immutable nor necessarily assigned at birth. Instead, it
could be actively constructed, like ethnic identity (Barth 1969; Metcalf 2009). A letter found in
the Mari archives documents a situation in which one group sought to change their affiliation
from the Yaminite to the Sim'alite confederation. Although native to the Yahruru, since they
possessed no hibrum or kadum, Yaminite terms that probably referred to a transhumant group
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and an anointed chief respectively, Uranum and the elders of the town of Dabiš asked to enter the
Sim’alites as part of the Nihadum tribe (A. 981; Wossink 2009: 133; Fleming 2004a; Durand
1992; Sasson 1998; Fleming 2004b). In order to do this, it was necessary to “slay the treaty
donkey,” tying tribal affiliation into the ritual system of alliance, ancestor veneration, and
political belonging. Clearly, shared tribal identities could reflect political contingency, rather
than long-lived tradition. It is difficult for us to disentangle what the common “tribal”
designation that both Larsa (Emutbal) and Andarig (Yamutbal) use might mean, but it is not
necessary to assume either the migration of tribes south to Larsa or north to Andarig as has been
done previously (Michalowski 2011; Porter 2012). Instead, we must explicitly recognize the
flexibility of this tribal system, the ways that different actors may modify it in response to new
opportunities and challenges. Tribes in Northern Mesopotamia were a political system, one that
More than sixty paleoclimate proxies from the Mediterranean, Western Asia, and
adjacent areas indicate that from ca. 2200-1900 BC much of Mesopotamia experienced a
decrease in overall precipitation and an increase in climatic instability. 90 This was part of a
China, and parts of Africa, South America, and Antarctica—that divides the middle from the late
Holocene in one schema (Walker et al. 2012). People living in large permanent river valleys like
the Euphrates, Tigris, and their major tributaries and in paludal and karst-spring fed areas were
able to weather these changes (Roberts et al. 2011; Weiss 2013) and some of these areas were
either unaffected or saw a population increase (Kuzucuoğlu 2007; Schwartz 2007b). But settled
agriculturalists in the plains of Northern Mesopotamia were hard hit by the drop in rainfall,
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which decimated crop yields, and made earlier agricultural systems untenable (Weiss 2012a;
Ristvet and Weiss 2014). Recent excavations and archaeological surveys in Northern
Mesopotamia provide a precise chronology for this transformation of settlement and economic
systems in the light of sustained drought and political collapse ca. 2200 BC, complementing the
historical and paleolcimatic records. They reveal a general pattern of abandonment, followed by
a resettlement that employed new agricultural and pastoral strategies and established new trading
From 2200-2100 BC, sparse permanent settlement characterized much of the plain. This
pattern is particularly well documented in the Habur triangle. In the Tell Leilan region, for
example, 18 sites show evidence of occupation during this century, but more than half of these
may have been temporary or small-scale settlements (Arrivabeni 2012: 268). This is a dramatic
decrease from the 55 sites during the previous century, all of which showed evidence of long-
term settlement (Ristvet 2012a: 249). Surveys around Tell Brak show an even more pronounced
pattern of disruption, with just three settlements dating to this century (Colantoni 2012: 48).
This general trend is confirmed in the more extensive survey of the entire Eastern Habur basin
where Meijer noted a drop in the number of EB IV sites (Meijer 1986). In the marginal areas of
the Jebel ‘Abd-el-Aziz, the Western Habur Plains, and the Middle Habur, sedentary settlement
northwestern Syria and along the big bend of the Euphrates, where the evidence reflects an urban
decline, although fewer sites were abandoned (Cooper 1997, 2006). Cities like Hadidi, Sweyhat,
Titriş, Kurban Höyük, and Banat contracted in size and lost urban institutions, becoming small,
undifferentiated village communities (Cooper 1999: 323; Meyer 1996: 138; Peltenberg 2000:
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184). To the west, much of the Jabbul plain was abandoned at the end of the third millennium
BC, with clear evidence of occupation present at four villages (Schwartz et al. 2000a: 451). A
survey of the arid high-plateau east of Sweyhat found no evidence for settlement (Danti 1997).
The only areas where life went on as usual, or where new settlements were founded, were along
the largest, permanent rivers, including the Middle Euphrates, Turkish Euphrates, and Upper
Tigris (Algaze 1989; Algaze et al. 2012). Even in these river valleys there were changes in
political organization, with the disappearance of cities and increasing numbers of small, rural
abandonment of much of this area. Akkadian style seals may have continued in use in some
places, but no new seals were manufactured for more than a century, nor do any tablets date to
this period (McCarthy 2011, 2012). Although Urkiš and Nagar were probably occupied
continuously (Weiss 2012a), at Urkiš, the palace was abandoned around 2100 BC (Pfälzner
2012; Dohmann-Pfälzner and Pfälzner 2001, 2002). Similar continuity may be seen at Kaḫat,
and perhaps at Arbid, but these show little evidence for complexity (Orsi 2012; Kolinski 2012).
In general, however, there are few data for settlement during the EJZ5 (2100-2000 BC) and
OJZ1 (2000-1850 BC) periods (Kolinski 2007). Indeed, the only material from the OJZ 1 period
that has so far been published comes from one building at Tell Leilan and a few houses at
Mozan, providing evidence of the beginning of a change in the area’s fortunes (Weiss et al.
Between 1900 and 1850 BC, settlement in much of northern Mesopotamia rebounded. In
the eastern Habur Plains, the Tell Leilan survey documents this shift best. In this area, probably
coinciding with the kingdom of Apum, the number of settlements around Leilan rose twenty-fold
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from the post-Akkadian period, corresponding to a population boom, while the nature of
settlement changed dramatically (Ristvet 2012b). Unlike the large, long-lived settlements of the
Early and Late Bronze Age, these Middle Bronze Age settlements tended to be small and short-
lived. Urban centers, which probably had few residents outside of administrative complexes,
usually had a large number of satellite villages, highlighting a different relationship between
rural and urban centers during this period (Ristvet and Weiss 2014). Leilan, Hawa, Rimah, and
Mari exemplify this pattern of “hollow cities”. Other surveys undertaken in the Syrian and North
Iraqi Jezirah reveal a similar pattern. The area surrounding Hamoukar, for instance, had eight
small to medium sites for this period (Ur 2010b). In Iraq, the North Jezirah survey also shows
the proliferation of small sites around Tell al-Hawa, now reduced in size from its third
millennium extent (Wilkinson and Tucker 1995: 53-4). In the Brak survey area, the early second
millennium BC sees a settlement recovery, and an increase in site numbers from 3 to 113
(Colantoni 2012). Additionally in some cases, new ecological zones were colonized, probably
by pastoralists. At Leilan, the early second millennium sees the first extensive settlement—
much of it temporary—around the wadi ar-Radd marsh—while in the North Jezirah the dry,
southwestern region was first occupied by small, perhaps transient, villages (Wilkinson and
In the western half of the Habur triangle, roughly corresponding to the Ida-Maraş,
settlements show robust nucleation in the MBA, without the settlement rebound seen further to
the east. Populations were concentrated in towns like Chagar Bazar, Arbid, and Mozan, while
their hinterlands tended to be dominated by pastoralists, not farmers. The scant Habur ware
recovered from the large tells in the West Habur may be pastoral campsite residue (Lyonnet
1996, 1997, 1998, 2009). In the 12 km around Beydar, only two sites had major early second
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millennium BC occupations and two additional sites had possible occupations (Wilkinson 2000).
The area south of the Habur triangle, along the Lower and Middle Habur and in the western
steppe was almost entirely uninhabited during the early second millennium BC (Wilkinson 2002;
Hole et al. 1993). Taban may have been the only settlement along the Middle Habur, a region
which was dominated by pastoralists according to both evidence from survey and texts (Durand
Finally, settlement numbers continued to increase or remain constant along the Middle
and Upper Euphrates and Upper Tigris, in the same areas that had experienced settlement
continuity or population growth previously. Along the Middle Euphrates, at least 27 sites
belonged to the Middle Bronze Age, more than double the number recorded during the late third
millennium (Geyer 2001b: 113). Further north, along the Syrian Upper Euphrates there are 36
sites for this period, the second largest peak in settlement for the region (Conteson 1985: 111-
112). The resettlement of the dry-farming plains near the Euphrates followed the same pattern.
Northeast of Sweyhat, Berthold Einwag noted that MBA sites are numerous, while in the better
watered western half of the Jabbul Plain survey area, settlement rebounded (Einwag 1993: 37;
We can see both the significance of this rupture and the importance of the past to people
caught up in the resettlement, by examining where new settlements were founded. When
establishing new villages, creating political capitals, and constructing cemeteries, people
connected these new places to earlier settlements, despite the absence of settlement continuity.
The vast majority of villages were founded on prehistoric mounds; in fact, only 13 out of 157
(8%) of early second millennium BC sites in the Leilan survey do not have evidence for earlier
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periods of occupation. Ten of these sites were probably short-lived pastoralist occupations,
meaning that only three settlement sites were founded ex novo. A similar trend can be observed
in the North Jezirah survey, where only 5 of 43 sites (9%) are new foundations (Wilkinson and
Tucker 1995). Around Tell Brak, the initial survey by Eidem and Warburton found previous
settlement at all early second millennium BC sites (Eidem and Warburton 1996), although it is
not clear if this pattern holds for the Brak Sustaining Area Survey which located many more
sites, but has not yet been fully published. This general trend may also be observed in Western
Syria. North of the Jabbul Lake, 22 MBA settlements were established on top of earlier tells
(Schwartz et al. 2000: 451). Similarly, isolated graves and cemeteries could be placed on
abandoned mounds, as at Tell Ghanem al-Ali, indicating the continued importance of these
Important third millennium cities had a particular resonance within this resettlement.
When Samsi-Addu needed a capital, he chose Šeḫna, a major third millennium city, which had
been resettled perhaps a century earlier (fig. 26). Before Samsi-Addu made this city his capital,
occupation here was likely limited to a small group of houses near the city wall and a single
building on the Acropolis (Weiss 1990a; Monchambert 1984; Weiss et al. 2012). The imposing
ruins of the mound, however, and its towering third millennium city walls created a focal place
in the landscape. Šeḫna is not the only city with evidence for earliest settlement; indeed all
major second millennium BC sites had been previously important, depite evidence for settlement
discontinuity.
This preference for founding towns on archaeological sites is not normative. In the first
quarter of the third millennium BC (2800-2600 BC), in the Leilan survey, 9 out of 32 sites (28%)
were new establishments. Similarly, the later second millennium BC saw people move off tells
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and onto the plains, setting up several settlements in previously uninhabited locations. And in
the early first millennium BC, during a similar period of settlement recovery, few villages were
founded on archaeological sites (Wilkinson and Barbanes 2000; Wilkinson 2003; Wilkinson et
al. 2004). 92
There are probably many factors that accounted for the decision to build on ancient tells.
The mounds may have provided a focus in this flat landscape, or their height may have been
useful for defensive purposes. But these sites may also have been landmarks in a mythological
or ancestral landscape. Their ancient remains could have been part of a matrix of meaning that
resonated beyond the elite circle of the texts (Steadman 2005). Settlement choices are important
precisely because they indicate a general interest in or respect for the past, and not one that is
While the foundation of settlements on ancient mounds was one strategy of creating ties
between individual villages and cities and local history, people also commemorated earlier
religious and royal histories when affirming larger political territories, such as kingdoms and
regional confederacies. Contemporary texts emphasize that people conceived of the landscape as
both historical and mythical. A treaty between Šeḫna and Kaḫat describes Kaḫat’s territory, west
of Šeḫna as “from Nawar to Nawar,” a phrase that probably cites both the journey of the goddess
Nawar to mark boundaries and this region’s illustrious past (Eidem 2011; Guichard 1997; Eidem
1991c, 1991b). An annual cultic journey undertaken by Dagan between Terqa, Tuttul, and Mari
probably played a similar role in the constitution of that kingdom (Pappi 2012). Here, the texts
emphasize the long history and the religious significance of these ancient cities, which were
important in the third millennium BC, explicitly linking this past glory to contemporary political
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Middle Bronze Age Economics
The significant shifts in the number and nature of settlements probably index changes in
agricultural and pastoral production strategies, land tenure, and trade relationships. Several areas
that had seen agricultural exploitation and permanent settlement during the mid third millennium
BC became pastureland by the end of that millennium and remained so during the Middle
Bronze Age, including the Middle and Lower Habur, the Western Jezirah, and the Jebel ‘Abd-el-
Aziz. All of these regions corresponded to important areas of pasture in the Mari letters for
seasonal herding groups belonging to several different tribes (Yamada and Ziegler 2011; Durand
2004; Ziegler 2011). Seeds found in animal manure indicate that all settlements increasingly
relied on pasturing rather than foddering animals (Colledge 2003). At Brak and Leilan, there is
evidence for more crop diversity and greater dependence on sheep and goat pastoralism
(Colledge 2003; Smith 2012; Meadows, personal communication; Weber 2001). In Western
Syria, the early second millennium BC saw the introduction of a different pattern, with a new
focus on hunting onagers in the steppe surrounding the site (Weber 2000: 435; Nichols and
Weber 2006). Similarly, archaeobotanical evidence indicates that there was a general
diversification of cropping, unlike the barley monoculture seen in the mid to late third
conceptions of ownership. The Mari documentation suggests that land-ownership was organized
by tribal affiliation for both sedentary and semi-sedentary units (Charpin 2010c), as the dispute
between Šuna and Kiduh already demonstrated. Administrative texts from Mari regularly list
villages within the provinces of Terqa, Saggaratum, and Mari according to tribal affiliation. 93
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record populations of between 35 and 700 people in each settlement (Villard 2001; Kupper 1950;
Kellenberger 2000). It is likely that these settlements included temporary camps as well as
villages, since we have many more toponyms than archaeological sites. A flexible land tenure
system may have enabled villagers to relocate when water or soil became exhausted and is well-
The shift of settlement during the late third millennium to the Turkish Tigris and
Euphrates heralded a change in trading networks across this area (Ristvet N.D.-a). This probably
began during the third dynasty of Ur, in the 21st century BC, when we have evidence for the
presence of a rich merchant named Puššam at Urkiš. Puššam’s house was equivalent in size to
some Mesopotamian palaces and contained more than 250 sealings attesting to commerce. His
name is Hurrian, like many of the names at Urkiš, but the house’s style and its contents both
resemble material from the Diyala. This building has been described as a trading depot, as well
2001). By around 1900 BC, evidence from Kaneš indicates that a complicated network of local
and long-distance traders had grown up in Northern Mesopotamia and Southern Anatolia
(Barjamovic 2011). Several cities in Northern Mesopotamia served as stages in the journey from
Aššur to Kaneš, including Šeḫna, where the discovery of an Old Assyrian treaty provides
evidence for the operation of a trading colony (Veenhof et al. 2008; Eidem 1991a). Shifts in
land tenure and the institution of new networks of merchants were thus implicated in the
settlement transformation during this period and created unique challenges to the negotiation of
political power.
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Collective Representations: The Past in the Past
this resettlement. These polities established themselves as the heirs of both the few surviving
cities of the third millennium BC and of the pastoralist groups who achieved new prominence
during the same period. Ancestry and continuity with a certain past probably sanctioned an
ideology of inheritance, cloaking new political and economic forms in the reassuring mantle of
antiquity. But why was the past authoritative during this period? How did people in Northern
Mesopotamia conceive of history? How did the kispum ceremony become an event that
symbolized the composition of different polities? Before I discuss the archaeological evidence
for death, ancestor rituals, and the material engagement with the past—the materialized symbols
that gave the kispum its force—it is necessary to consider the role of the past and to delve into
In the Old Babylonian period, history and literature did not exist as stand-alone
categories; rather what we call historical and literary texts were part of the ritual apparatus of
ancestor traditions. Scholars rarely highlight the connections between history, literature, and
ritual during this period. Few discussions specifically distinguish between the textual records of
North and South Mesopotamia, particularly since they both employ the same dialect. As a result,
it is often assumed that literature played the same role in the north as it did in the much better
attested south, where it has been interpreted as the source of an invented tradition that created an
esprit de corps among the scribal elite (Veldhuis 2011, 2004). 94 But the limited numbers of
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historiographic and literary texts found in Northern Mesopotamia, as well as their distinctive
differences between the two areas. The approximately 50,000 cuneiform tablets from the late
19th and early 18th centuries found at Mari, Leilan, Rimah, Chagar Bazar, and Kültepe consist
almost entirely of administrative documents and letters. Only a handful of literary texts (fewer
than 20), and a smaller number with “historical” information, have been found at Mari, Leilan,
and Kültepe, in contrast to the well-known scribal schools in the Babylonian cities of Nippur, Ur,
and Sippar which contained hundreds or thousands of copies of such works (Delnero 2012).
Moreover, tablets in the north, particularly non-administrative texts, come from different
contexts than in the south, testifying to different rates of literacy and a distinct milieu for scribal
production.
In general, tablets are found in many more contexts in southern than in northern cities,
suggesting that writing was more widespread. The majority of excavated houses in Nippur and
Isin, for instance, contained tablets (Charpin 2004; Wilcke 2000; Veldhuis 2011), while in
Northern Mesopotamia, the only private archives that have been found come from two houses at
Mari and the archives of Assyrian traders at Kaneš (Charpin 2011; Cavigneaux 2009). 95 Outside
of Kaneš, there are very few contracts or other private documents in the north. This has
important implications for literary texts in particular. At Nippur and Ur, the two Old Babylonian
sites with the largest number of literary tablets, most of these were found in private houses, often
interpreted as scribal schools (Delnero 2012; Tinney 1999; Veldhuis 2004), unlike in Northern
sites. The Northern Mesopotamian school texts that we have actually reflect a different
approach to education, with little evidence for learning the royal praise songs, hymns, myths,
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epics, and debates that are so prominent in the south (Hecker 1993; Cavigneaux 2009). Instead,
texts— ritual texts, incantations, historiographic compositions, omen compendia, and epics—to a
ritual one.
The historiographic texts from the north include two from the Mari palace archives—the
Mari Eponym Chronicles and the Revolt Against Naram Sin—and two texts from a recently
excavated schoolhouse, called Chantier K—Šulgi B and the Epic of Lugalbanda (Cavigneaux
2009: 52; Weiss et al. 2012). Outside of Mari, the archives of the Eastern Lower Town Palace at
Leilan contained a copy of the Sumerian King List (Vincente 1995), and houses of Assyrian
traders at Kaneš yielded five eponym lists, a Sargon legend, and copies of inscriptions of the
The findspots of historical texts in Northern Mesopotamia underline their ritual context.
Room 108 in the palace of Zimri Lim of Mari, located to the west of the “Court of the Palms”
(room 106), yielded most of the non-administrative texts found at the site, including the legends,
ritual texts, incantations, and Hurrian language compositions (Kupper 1978; Salvini 2000: fig. 5).
This room thus housed a ritual archive of texts related to religious ceremonies that were
conducted in the adjacent ceremonial spaces. This reception suite, which included the court of
the palms, decorated with the painting of the “Investiture of Zimri-Lim” and the entrance halls
64 and 65, served as the location for the king’s meal and the fortnightly kispum meals, the main
political rituals within the court. 96 At Šeḫna, the Sumerian King List was found in room 22, as
part of a dossier related to treaty negotiations, an enterprise that was as ritual as it was political,
and which was connected to the elunnum, a rite that paralleled the “Feast of Ištar.” 97 Finally, the
historiographic texts from Kaneš provide an interesting counterpoint to the royal archives of
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Šeḫna and Mari. Unlike material found at those cities, the Kaneš texts were written in a different
dialect, Assyrian, and by a very different group—private merchants who conducted trade in wool
and tin between Aššur and Anatolia (Veenhof et al. 2008; Ristvet and Weiss 2011). The
resemblance of these texts to other historical texts from the north, however, suggests that they
The contents of these texts explicitly link them to the kispum ritual. The Mari kispum
text lists the Akkadian kings Sargon (2334 to 2279 BC) and Naram-Sin (2254-2218 BC) and the
Yaradum and Numhâ, tribal names, as recipients of kispum offerings (Durand and Guichard
1997). In its citation of these names, the kispum ritual echoes contemporary king lists—namely
the Sumerian King List (SKL), the Assyrian King List (AKL), and the Genealogy of the
The GHD, a text that was probably composed at Sippar, represents an understanding of
contemporary history and geography that grows out of and informs ancestor veneration practices.
Lines 11-28 of the composition record the names of the direct ancestors of King Ammişaduqa of
Babylon. This provides a key to understanding the first ten lines, which contain names of tribes
belonging to the great confederacies of Mesopotamia, who were probably also imagined as
eponymous ancestors, as was probably the case for the tribal names mentioned in the Mari
kispum text. Since tribal designations also crystallized a primary sense of political identification
for villages, towns, and pastoralists, their invocation here also has geographic implications.
The GHD ends with an invitation to named and unnamed ancestors to come and partake
in the feast of the dead. It does so in a way that emphasizes this inclusive geography:
The palû of the Amorites, the palû of the Haneans, the palû of Gutium, the palû
not recorded on this tablet, and the soldier(s) who fell while on perilous
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campaigns for their (lit: 'his') lord, princes, princesses, (36-38) all persons from
East to West who have no one to tend or care for them, come ye, eat this, drink
this, (and) bless Ammişaduqa, the son of Ammiditana, the king of Babylon (lines
29-43). 99
Here, commemoration becomes a way of creating a shared polity, one that ties together kings,
tribes, and soldiers, both living and dead. The list of the four palû, usually translated as dynasty,
in lines 29-32, may be understood in terms of both time and space. The three named dynasties
could describe the entities who exercised political authority from the fall of the Akkadian empire
to the rise of Babylon, with the final palû, “the one not recorded on this tablet,” designating
primordial events (Finkelstein 1966: 97-9). At the same time, these palû correspond to major
geographical divisions, the territories of Syria to the west (the Amorite palû), the Jezirah to the
north (the Hanean palû), and the Zagros to the east (the Gutian palû) (Jacquet 2002: 59-60). The
genealogical lists of previous kings, tribal names, and palû construct a specific Babylonian
ancestors. They ascribe an antiquity to contemporary territorial and political divisions, while
claiming this entire territory as Ammişaduqa’s inheritance. The GHD and the Mari kispum ritual
both record religious events in which citations of history and genealogy work to produce a
unified political order, one which transcends the social fragmentation of a world divided between
These texts provide a very specific framework for understanding the other scattered
literary works from this period, which tend either to contain “genealogical” information or to
refer to the glorious deeds of past kings. The AKL, although redacted much later, includes a list
of 27 kings reputed to be Samsi-Addu’s ancestors, divided into the 17 kings “who lived in tents”
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and the 10 kings “whose ancestors are known.” 100 11 of the names in the GHD and AKL are
variants of the same tribal designations (Finkelstein 1966). Moreover, the period between the
historically documented Akkadian dynasty and the reigns of Samsi-Addu and Hammurabi in
know precisely when the Samsi-Addu section of the AKL was first composed, but given the
similarities with the GHD, it is likely that this section of the list was originally another kispum
text (Finkelstein 1966; Yamada 1994: fn. 22). We should probably understand the sole redaction
of the SKL known from Northern Mesopotamia, the Leilan recension, as another document
linked to the kispum in the north (Durand 2008: 333-4), although probably not in the south
(Michalowski 1983; Marchesi 2010; von Dassow 2012). The list of bala (the Sumerian term for
palû) may have provided additional, symbolic ancestors for Samsi-Addu and the later kings of
Šeḫna. Samsi-Addu probably used the SKL to assert his position in the long political history of
probably explains the presence in palace archives of the other historical texts from this period:
legends, chronicles, and inscriptions of past kings. Jean-Marie Durand, has argued that the
“Revolt Against Naram-Sin” may also have formed part of the kispum ceremony; its recitation
would have honored this king who was so significant to Samsi-Addu (Durand 2008: 333-4).
Similarly, the Mari Eponym Chronicle, a list of momentous events from Samsi-Addu’s reign,
may have been compiled for the funeral and commemoration rites for Samsi-Addu at Šubat-Enlil
(Durand 2008: 334). 101 Writing down Samsi-Addu’s accomplishments was one way to transform
him into a glorious king, to make him into an ancestor like those he celebrated in the kispum.
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Similarly, the Epic of Zimri-Lim may also have been written to commemorate this king in
preparation for his eventual death (Durand and Guichard 1997: 42). The historiographic texts
from Kaneš probably played a similar role, despite the city’s cultural differences. A previously
unknown legend of Sargon of Akkad found in an Assyrian merchant’s house has been variously
(Foster 2005: 71; Van de Mieroop 2000), and an improvisational tale based on historical sources
(Cavigneaux 2005). The most likely interpretation, however, argues that this tablet, with its
repeated praise of Adad and Ištar, was part of a series of ancestor rituals (Dercksen 2005: 121-3;
Alster and Oshima 2007: 5). Although the kispum is not attested at Kaneš, evidence of ancestor
rituals comes from references to the eṭēmmu or “ancestral spirit” in Old Assyrian letters and a
month name, ab šarrāni (father of the kings), that may refer to an official cult for royal ancestors
(Dercksen 2005: 122). The inscription of Erišum at the site, and perhaps even the eponym lists,
may have been used in similar rituals, although the latter were probably also kept for practical
reasons (Veenhof 2003). The presence of these texts in private houses may indicate broader
In historical texts from Northern Mesopotamia, the past emerges not only as the domain
of the ancestors, but also as a reflection of the gods’ plans for humanity. In the SKL, the concept
of bala or palû, which as we have already seen refers to a division of time, often a dynasty, or the
length of a reign, is understood as divinely ordained. In this schema, kingship descends from
heaven and the gods grant each city a short time of supremacy, before kingship devolves to
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another place (Michalowski 1983; von Dassow 2012: 118-20). This view clearly informs the
GHD, and helps explains why Ammişaduqa situates himself as the heir of all of these palû.
This view of history as a manifestation of divine will permeates Old Babylonian sources,
probably indicating that it was widely held in scholarly and perhaps other circles. A letter from
Mari is perhaps the best example of this belief. Speaking through his priest, the god Addu
explains the salient events of the 19th and 18th century to Zimri-Lim in the following terms:
I have given the entire land to Yahdun-Lim, and thanks to my weapons, he had no
rival. He abandoned me and that which I had given to him; I gave to Samsi-
Addu... I have given to you the throne of your father, I have given to you the
weapons that I used to fight the Sea… I have anointed you with the oil of my
invincibility, so that no one can face you. Listen to my only command. When
someone has a lawsuit and calls to you saying, “someone has wronged me,” give
him justice. Respond to him correctly. That is what I desire from you. When
you embark on a campaign, do not embark upon it without taking oracles. When
do not answer favorably, then do not leave. (Durand 2002: 39 [A. 1968])
This is an extraordinary passage, in which Addu, city god of Aleppo, but a deity important
across Northern Mesopotamia, asserts responsibility for the operation of history. Rather than
portraying recent history from the viewpoint of Aleppo, or even of Mari, Addu claims universal
authority and grants Zimri-Lim supremacy as long as he acts virtuously. Moreover, this is not a
unique document. Rather, references in letters from Zimri-Lim, Yasmah-Addu and Yarim-Lim
of Aleppo indicate that this theological understanding of history was widely shared (Charpin
1998: 84-7).
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Outside of the letters, this notion of theological time is most visible in divination, a
practice that is hardly attested in the third millennium but is increasingly prominent in the early
second millennium (Richardson 2010). The first lines of this letter explain that the document
itself is an interpretation of an omen, while the closing lines emphasize the importance of
divination for the operation of kingship. Like history, divination was a domain in which the
actions of humans, gods, and ancestors in the past, present, and future were intertwined (Bahrani
2008: 65). Divination comprises a semiotic system in which various signs in the natural world
were understood to reflect the will of the gods and presage future outcomes (Annus 2010;
Bahrani 2008: 60-5). These signs could be mutable; indeed they emerged from a dialogue
between the diviner and the god and could be averted through ritual action.
understanding of past, present, and future as a reflection of the will of the gods. At the same
time, this notion of time allowed diviners to look to history to avert future tragedy. The authority
that diviners thus granted to the past is exemplified by the 32 annotated liver omens found
alongside the ritual texts in Room 108 at Mari (Rutten 1938). These unusual texts are among the
first examples of divination literature known from Mesopotamia. They were written in the
šakkanakku script, with some deliberately archaic signs, unlike most of the other texts in the
palace (Richardson 2010; Gelb 1956). Moreover, several of the liver omens referred to historical
figures, including kings of Akkad, the third dynasty of Ur, Isin, and perhaps an earlier governor
The Mari liver omens are part of a system of divination that understood past political
history as a reflection of a complicated relationship between kings and gods. But these objects
are recursive, relying upon their own supposed antiquity to construct the authority of antiquity.
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Although some Assyriologists believe that these omen texts comprise observed divination
practices in the late third millennium (Goetze 1947: 264-5; Starr 1991, 1983), their sign forms
make it far more probable that they were written in the early second millennium and made to
look antique (Gelb 1956: 7; Richardson 2010: 240-1). Rather than ancient historical documents,
the liver omens were imitations that drew upon a broader, ritual interest in a political past, one
exemplified by the kispum text that formed part of the same archive (Richardson 2010: 234-5).
Indeed, divination as a whole was not entirely divorced from the larger conception of the past as
the domain of the ancestors. As the kispum text tells us, divination was an essential part of this
ritual and many other political and religious activities (Durand and Guichard 1997: text 4: i: 13-
5). The presence of the liver omens in Zimri-Lim and Yasmah-Addu’s palace was performative,
demonstrating both their divine right to rule and constructing historical continuity between these
reigning kings and earlier dynasties at both Mari and in Mesopotamia generally.
Seth Richardson has recently argued that the political role of divination was transformed
during the nearly half a millennium of the Old Babylonian period (Richardson 2010). The
political instability that is such a striking feature of this period, the complex dynamics of
resettlement, and the appearance of new social forms all required the adaptation of new political
strategies, like divination, and new ways of understanding a world that was both divided and
united in novel ways. The liver omens with their archaizing script and historical information
underwrote the novel ambitions of both kings and diviners. While these omens connected
contemporary kings to a series of far-flung ancestors, this innovative technique also provided
divination priests with access to enormous influence, an authority that “paralleled the military
power of generals and the political power of viziers” (Richardson 2010: 255). Rather like the
ritual system that comprised the Feast of Ištar and the kispum ceremony that allowed for such
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novel flexibility in creating “families” and constructing powerful ancestors, divination used
antiquity to underwrite a political system that gave new actors access to power.
Materialized Symbols: Death, Ritual and the Authority of the Past in Daily Life
The conception of history as a domain that belonged to the ancestors and reflected
providence provides a framework for understanding how the past became meaningful as part of
resettlement and political transformation. Perhaps the most significant way that both states and
individuals negotiated their own pasts was through the elaboration of burial traditions and
commemorative rituals. Tombs and houses were the site of commemorative practices that
helped to create new ideas of kinship and belonging. Stone circles and ancient graves became
places of official ritual, like the Feast of Ištar, where collective entities like tribes and city
councils reaffirmed their commitment to a certain political order through a discourse of family
and history. These monuments and practices gained importance through their resonance with
domestic practices. Beyond the domain of the dead, individuals constructed the past as an
authoritative sphere by burying heirlooms in foundation deposits in temples and emulating third
In order to evaluate the political significance of memory, we need to investigate not just
the intellectual apparatus of ancestor ceremonies or divination practices, but also the traces left
by actual rituals. Although the period sees a range of tomb types and burial locations—in
houses, intramural cemeteries, and necropoles in the steppe—funerary rituals and understandings
of death were probably similar across most of Mesopotamia, regardless of whether the graves
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The materials that accompanied the dead tended to be uniform, regardless of the form of
the grave (which ranged from a simple pit to an elaborate vaulted tomb) and included jewelry
and other items of personal adornment, beer drinking sets, and occasionally cuts of meat (Galli
and Valentini 2006: 60). The contents of a grave rarely indicated the wealth or the importance of
the deceased, as funerary rituals do not seem to have been an occasion when people reflected
upon social status, unlike in the preceding millennium. The placement of people within a burial
plot probably had more significance; burials in houses and cemeteries clustered in discrete
groups, presumably related to households, families, or clans. 103 Usually, each tomb group had a
central grave, which was a mound, stone circle, or vaulted mudbrick structure visible above the
ground. Commemoration ceremonies or other post-mortuary rituals were most often performed
There are two Akkadian words for tomb that were in use at Mari, qubūrum (Akk. pl.
qubūrū) and Kimaḫḫum (Akk. pl. Kimaḫḫū), and it is unclear precisely how they differ. Steven
Lundström has argued, on the basis of the grave inscription of the tomb of Yaba, the wife of
Tiglath-Pileser III (745-727 BC), that Kimaḫḫum designates a built tomb, usually a vaulted
mudbrick structure that can be entered after death (Lundström 2000: 9-12). Although this
reference comes from more than a millennium later, Kimaḫḫum also seems to designate a built
space where offerings could be made in the Mari texts (Jacquet 2012b: 124-5). Since this
description corresponds nicely with the archaeological evidence for central tombs, I will refer to
them as Kimaḫḫū.
Some of these tombs contained more than one interment, including people who were
clearly buried at different times. 104 Within houses, kimahḫhū could be placed either within
courtyards or beneath the floors of special rooms. Their construction was undertaken at the same
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time that the house was built and was an essential part of it, emphasizing their importance to the
household as a whole (Valentini 2002; McMahon et al. 2009: 122-3; Valentini 2003). Kimaḫḫū
have been found in towns across Greater Mesopotamia, including Arbid, Aššur, Kaḫat, Chagar
Bazar, Mohammed Diyab, and Urkiš in the north, and Isin, Uruk, Larsa, Sippar, Ur, and Susa in
the south and east (Galli and Valentini 2006: 58; Wygnanska 2011 (2008)). Some of the
excavated examples were either empty (tomb 18, Chagar Bazar), or contained few human
remains (graves 593 and 840, Kaḫat; also Aššur and Susa). In certain cases, this was probably
because the tomb was never used (McMahon et al. 2009: 122) or its contents were later removed.
If the inhabitants of a tomb were honored ancestors, who had to be fed and cared for, then it is
possible that when it came time to abandon the family house the residents brought the bones of
their ancestors to their new abode (Bottéro 1980: 28; Valentini 2003: fn. 50). 105
Kimaḫḫū were at the center of ancestor devotion in many households and settlements,
and several excavated examples show evidence of continued care long after death. The best
evidence for this comes from Ur, where 20 houses yielded evidence of vaulted tombs built of
baked bricks. In general, these family tombs were placed under the floor of the back room and
were often associated with an altar and sometimes a hearth in a “domestic chapel” (Galli and
Valentini 2006; Brusasco 1999-2000). In Northern Mesopotamia, there is also evidence of later
ritual practice. At Kaḫat, vessels were found in the shaft leading to vaulted tombs (Valentini
2003: 284). They were probably offerings made either immediately after the tomb was sealed or
as part of later commemorative ceremonies. Kispum texts from Mari document donations of
various types of oil and bread, and occasionally honey, sesame, gruel, or alappānum-sauce as
part of a fortnightly ceremony, although these practices usually took place in the palace and not
at the royal graves (Jacquet 2012b: 129-30). 106 Vessels found at different levels within the
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entrance shafts at Arbid, for instance, are probably the remains of multiple oblations of bread and
oil made over several years or decades (Wygnanska 2011 (2008): 610; Bielinski 2005: 486).
Other material found on house floors, above the openings of tombs, has also been interpreted as
the remains of commemoration rituals. On the floor of room 583, above tomb 570 at Kaḫat, a
large quantity of smashed bowls, cups, colanders, and pots was found, possibly the remains of a
funeral feast. Similarly, animal figurines found discarded on the floors of houses above vaulted
tombs at Kaḫat may represent animals presented to the dead (Valentini 2003: 285; fig. 28).
There is also evidence of animal sacrifice at some Kimaḫḫū. A puppy and a complete,
but unarticulated, equid skeleton, probably belonging to an onager, were buried in the entrance to
a Kimaḫḫum at Arbid. They may represent the remains of animals that were killed as part of a
commemoration ritual. An equid skull was found on top of another vaulted tomb at the site,
while another puppy was buried in front of a third tomb (Wygnanska 2011 (2008): 610).
Similarly, at Mozan, a donkey was interred in front of the chamber of tomb 37 (Dohmann-
Pfälzner and Pfälzner 2001: 129-33). The presence of these equid burials calls to mind the
donkey sacrifice during the kispum ritual that takes place as part of the Feast of Ištar. Several
letters from Ibal-Addu, the king of Ašlakkâ, a kingdom located in the Ida-maraş, probably not far
from Tell Arbid, describe a treaty alliance between the cities of this region and the Sim’alites
(ARM II 37; Finet 1993: A.1056, A.2226; Malamat 1995: 226-7). In these letters, the Mari
representative insists that a donkey foal be sacrificed for the treaty ritual, rather than the puppy,
kid, or calf that the Sim’alites offer. Clearly, however, other young animals could take the place
of the sacrificial ass in this sacrifice and ceremony, particularly from the standpoint of the
Sim’alites.
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Another set of objects that may be connected to ancestor practices are rough basalt
figures, sometimes called “stone spirits” (fig. 29). These sculptures, which range in size from
just 9 cm high to 1.45 m have been found across Northern Mesopotamia during the entire bronze
age. 107 Unlike many Mesopotamian statues, they tend to be only vaguely anthropomorphic, with
the head, nose, waist, and arms usually only roughly marked (Carter 1970). In many cases, the
sculptor used the uneven exterior of the stone to suggest a human figure emerging from its
surface. At Kaḫat, a stone figure was excavated from the same stratum as the Kimaḫḫum, tomb
570, while another figure was found incorporated into a Neo-Assyrian level. Contemporary
Sumerian ritual texts from Southern Mesopotamia indicate that figurines, like the lamassatu in
the Mari kispum texts, could represent the dead in ancestor rituals (Katz 1999: 109). The Kaḫat
participated in ancestor rituals within these private houses (Valentini 2003: 284-5).
Another stone spirit—a male figure carved from white limestone—stood in the Old
Babylonian (level 8) shrine at Tell Brak, surrounded by bowls and grain measures (Oates et al.
1997: 33-5, fig. 229: 95). This vaulted shrine closely resembles a Kimaḫḫum in construction
method and may have been linked to a cult of the dead. It is possible that these stone figures
were related to the sikkanātum (Akk. sg. sikkanum) or bethels documented in the Mari texts.
Sikkanātum were standing stones connected to certain deities, particularly Ištar of Dêr, who was
honored in the Feast of the Land during Zimri-Lim’s reign, and played a role in the cult of the
Outside of settlements, there were vast cemeteries of burial mounds located in the steppe,
crowning hills, and lining the Euphrates escarpment, which were probably constructed by semi-
pastoralists. MBA cemeteries have been excavated along the Middle Euphrates at Baghouz,
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‘Usiyeh, and Shuweimiyeh and in the Jebel Bishri. These burial mounds are unusual in a
Mesopotamian context—indeed ‘Usiyeh and Shuweimiyeh are the only two such cemeteries that
have been recovered in Iraq—although they are reminiscent of tombs found in Arabia and the
Southern Levant. Recent survey of the Middle Euphrates has located seven other possible
cemeteries near Mari (Geyer et al. 2003: fig. 10). Around Dura Europos, for example, there are
at least 1000 tumuli that range in date from the Early Bronze Age to the first centuries AD
(Kepinski 2008: 166). Burial mounds are also attested in the Tabqa dam area and in the desert
The materials used to make these large graves varied. At ‘Usiyeh and Shuweimiyeh, for
instance, tombs were built of vaulted mudbricks and covered with mounds, and were probably
Kimaḫḫū like those found within settlements of the same period (Kepinski 2007, 2008). At
Baghouz, these central tombs were cist graves built of stone, sometimes covered by a mound,
although erosion had removed this structure in many cases (Du Mesnil du Buisson 1948). The
gravel mounds that covered tombs may have imitated tells, explaining why graves were
sometimes placed on abandoned mounds (Abdul-Amir 1988: 309; Killick and Black 1985).
The tombs themselves were often square, but they were surrounded by circular enclosure
walls. Other features could be built alongside the grave, including platforms or stone benches
(Abdul-Amir 1988: 186 and 309; Killick and Black 1985: 226). Additionally, some circular
enclosures contained more than one grave or no grave. This suggests the symbolic importance of
these architectural elements, which resemble the tent footings that were laid as part of the kispum
ceremony. As is the case with house tombs, graves in these cemeteries usually have a single
interment, although some of the larger graves at ‘Usiyeh were collective (Numoto and Okada
1987).
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In many ways, the cemeteries at Baghouz, ‘Usiyeh, and Shuweimiyeh mirror the
arrangement of burials in urban sites, like Kaḫat and Arbid. Once again, there is great variation
in the grave form, which may include jar burials, simple pits, and built tombs, and much less
variation in grave goods, attesting to standardized ritual practices. Indeed, the grave goods
accompanying the dead here are usually identical to the items found in graves within settlements.
Generally, a few personal items such as jewelry, or occasionally weapons, were placed alongside
the deceased, who were sometime laid to rest on beds (Du Mesnil du Buisson 1948; Kepinski
2008). Otherwise, the only grave goods tend to be dishes for the funerary feast, sometimes set
out on tables and including large jars, smaller jars or cups, and smaller bowls. Beer drinking was
probably the most important part of this feast since large jars and often strainers are found in
almost every grave while smaller bowls were not always part of the assemblage (Du Mesnil du
Buisson 1948: 36-51). 108 Several of the graves contained pottery that was either imported or
imitated traditions found outside of the Middle Euphrates valley, including Isin-Larsa jars from
Southern Mesopotamia, Habur ware from the Jezirah, and pottery from Western Syria and the
Upper Euphrates (Kepinski 2007: 127; Abdul-Amir 1988: 185; Oguchi 2006).
Further to the west, along the Jebel Bishri, survey and excavation have revealed part of a
vast MBA cemetery complex on the western and northern flanks of these mountains. Survey in
the north documented at least 25 cairn fields and 398 individual cairns, while another survey
found an additional 50 cairns in the west, although most of the area remains unexplored. 109 This
mountain has long been associated with pastoral nomads, both because of its climatic
marginality—it lies between the 100 and 200 mm isohyets, and is too arid for rainfed agriculture,
but has rich pastoral resources—and because of references in inscriptions beginning in the third
millennium BC. 110 Bishri has provided some of the earliest evidence for the development of
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burial practices in this period, which saw a move from graves within or near settlements to the
creation of cemeteries in areas of pasture, perhaps part of a larger shift in the construction of
identity. 111
The cairn fields on the Jebel Bishri tend to follow the general topography of the hills and
are located either on the edge of mesas or on ridgelines, but not on fluvial plains. Clearly, this
emphasizes their visibility, while the ridges provided limestone for construction materials. Most
cairns are located about 100 m apart, forming rows that average 1-2 km in length, but may span
8 km. Evidence from both survey and excavation suggests that they were constructed over a
short period of time (Fujii and Adachi 2010). Radiocarbon dates from the Tor-Rahum 1 cairns
all date to between ca. 1900 and 1600 BC (Nakamura 2010: table 2). Excavations at eight cairn
fields have revealed similar grave goods, probably indicating that they are all contemporary.
Generally, the largest cairns were first built in the north, and smaller cairns were then placed to
the south. Although many cairns were looted, grave goods and skeletal remains were located in
each field (Fuji and Adachi 2010: 66). The bioarchaeologists interpret the disarticulated skeletal
remains in this grave as secondary burials, rather than the result of disturbance (Nakano and
Ishida 2010: 105; Nakano 2009). These cairns may have been family tombs, as they contain
skeletal remains from individuals of different ages, who were probably interred at different times
(fig. 30). The excavators suggest that they are primarily the graves of semi-nomadic people,
These stone cairns connected the domains of death, memory, and territory. The
excavated remains from the Jebel Bishri reveal some of the ways that these tombs were
incorporated into social practices. The cairns were not built and then forgotten; rather they
remained memorial places, clearly visible on the larger landscape. The secondary burials within
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the cairns show that they were implicated within a long chain of death, burial practices, and
commemoration ceremonies. The numerous stone features associated with many of these cairns
probably date to different periods, and also attest to the long life histories of these monuments
These cairns did not serve simply to commemorate an individual. Instead, the multiple
burials within each grave group probably represented households, pastoral groups, or lineages.
Hence, their placement mirrors the topography of cemeteries within settlements (Kepinski 2007:
127, 2008: 169, 2006: 111). The arrangement of these graves participates in the same process of
ancestor creation as the donkey sacrifice, creating alliances and affirming power relations.
Moreover, the cairns in the steppe and graves in settlements indicate that this ritual was not
limited to urban rulers, but could be performed by pastoralists, villagers, and city-dwellers, who
Stone and earthen cairns were designated by at least two terms in the Mari texts:
humūsum (Akk. pl. humūsū), a pile of stones, and rāmum (Akk. pl. rāmū), a burial cairn (Durand
2005). The role of cairns as commemorative monuments within the landscape, which often, but
not always mark burials, may help to explain why only some cairns on Mount Bishri and in the
cemeteries along the Euphrates are associated with human remains (Nakano and Ishida 2010;
Nakano 2010). These emic categories also provide a way to think about other enigmatic
monuments from this period. In the Mari texts, humūsū can be made for several reasons: to
commemorate a particular victory; to create a place for a treaty negotiation; or to mark the death
of a specific person (Durand 2008: 352; 2005: FM VIII 33: 18-25). Both humūsū and ramū are
powerful places for religious and political ceremonies. They are not only important at the
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moment of interment, but remain focal points long afterwards. The humūsum constructed to
mark the treaty alliance with Šuda, for example, was supposed to last forever, and be the site of
repeated offerings (Jacquet 2011: 75; Durand 2005: 33: 24-5, ARM 23 319: 7). Similarly, a
Mari letter shows that people associated a given cairn with an individual or event and honored it
long after the funeral had ended. Indeed, destroying a humūsum may provide an excuse for war
(Charpin 2010a: 245; Durand 2008: 326; 2005: no. 30, p. 97). Continuous veneration practices
provide a new way to interpret the scattered animal bones found associated with several cairns at
Bishri, which could be the result of repetitive ritual activity (Nakano 2010; Nakano and Ishida
2010). The Mari texts also remind us that commemorative ceremonies did not only take place at
the graves, but also in other places where burials were not present.
The role of the humūsum in commemorative practices provides a context for unusual
ritual constructions in the city of Umm el-Marra, probably ancient Tuba, Ebla, and at the ‘Usiyeh
cemetery. Although in the Mari documentation, humūsū are usually located in the countryside,
like the ‘Usiyeh example, there is at least one reference to a monument of this kind inside a city
(ARM 26/1 218: 7; Durand 2005). The different settings for these ritual installations—on a hill
overlooking the Euphrates far from contemporary settlement and within settlements—may reveal
with a diameter of 37 m was built above a series of elite third millennium graves (see above,
chapter 2; fig. 31). 112 Fill within the platform incorporated late third millennium pottery sherds,
perhaps another way to connect this new construction to the past (Schwartz 2014). This platform
resembles the cairns and mounds found in the pastoralist cemeteries at ‘Usiyeh, Shuweimiyeh,
and Bishri. Moreover, the position of the monument draws attention to the earlier graves. Umm
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el-Marra experienced at least a century of abandonment prior to the construction of this feature.
Monument 1 could have provided a way for the site’s new rulers to appropriate its past, and
perhaps to claim its dead as their own ancestors. Alternatively, the monument may have denied
access to that past, performing a type of compulsory amnesia (Schwartz et al. 2012: 53).
The best evidence we have for the rituals that may have occurred here comes from a
series of installations excavated nearby. On the north side of this feature, the excavators
identified six pits, containing fragments of pottery, animal bones, terracotta animal figurines, and
one human figurine made of bitumen. An unusual, deep shaft, with a diameter of about 1 m and
a depth of more than 6 m pierced this monument, cutting through the tell and into the bedrock
below. Near the bottom of the shaft lay 13 people who had been killed with a blow to their head
(Schwartz 2012; Schwartz N.D.). They had been interred alongside a dog, while small birds had
been placed in niches around them. The shaft contained ten levels of animal skeletal material
that had been deposited on top of these human remains. Each level was separated from the next
by layers of homogeneous clay soil and included the remains of donkeys, other equids, sheep,
dogs, and birds. Layers 2 and 8 included only the rear half of equids. Several complete fetal
animals were buried here and fetal bones of most of these species were found in nearly every
level. The careful interment of the animals and the diversity of species indicate that this was a
ritual installation, rather than a trash pit (Schwartz et al. 2012: 178).
Similar ritual pits have been found in sacred contexts at MBA Ebla, where they are
associated with a square platform, Monument P3, which was dedicated to Ištar. 113 Despite its
different shape, it provides a close parallel to Umm el-Marra’s Monument 1. Within this square,
a series of different ritual installations were excavated. These include smaller pits (about 1 m
deep), termed bothroi, that contained a variety of materials, including carinated bowls with food
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offerings, two dog and bird burials, a sheep burial, and a human and sheep skull, together with
other animal bones and a small pottery assemblage (Nigro 1998). In addition, two 11 m deep
cisterns, termed favissae, contained hundreds of pots with food offerings, figurines, metal cultic
objects, and large quantities of sheep bones (Marchetti and Nigro 2000, 1997). The most
common type of carinated pot held the bones of goats and doves mixed with charcoal.
Depositions within this pit were separated by layers of clean clay or limestone, reflecting the
ritual nature of their deposition (Marchetti and Nigro 1997: 4-7). 114
The two different features at Umm el-Marra and Ebla, the pits versus the deep shaft, may
contain the remains of the major types of offerings that were made in political and ritual contexts
at Mari, the naptanum, a sacred meal, and the niqûm, usually an animal sacrifice (Jacquet 2011:
20). At Umm el-Marra, the trash pits probably contained the remains of sacred meals, which
could have accompanied the niqûm sacrifice, while the deep shaft probably contained years of
niqûm-offerings. The situation may have been reversed at Ebla, where the favissae contained the
remains of sacred meals, while evidence of the niqûm is preserved in the bothroi. We know that
these offerings could be made for humūsum monuments from the Mari administrative texts,
which document the sacrifice of a sheep to this monument (Jacquet 2011: 75, ARM XXIII 319:
7). Moreover, we know that some of the rituals associated with the Feast of Ištar were
performed at stone circles like humūsū and rāmū, including the ceremony named “the feast of the
rāmum (Jacquet 2012a: 21-4). I suspect that Monument 1 and Monument P3 were both humūsū,
stone monuments where rituals were performed on a monumental stage before the populace.
Many of the animals found in cultic contexts at Umm el-Marra and at Ebla represent
species that are illustrated on the Stela of Ištar, found in a contemporary shrine on Ebla’s
Acropolis. One side of the stela depicts a priest with a hare, dove, and ram, while elsewhere a
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priestess prepares to sacrifice a goat (Marchetti and Nigro 1997: 32; Matthiae 1987). The equid
remains found in the Umm el-Marra deep shaft, however, could also result from rituals of
alliance. In the famous letters from Ibal-Addu of Ašlakkâ, discussed above, what unites the
different animals—calves, donkey foals, kids, and puppies—that the Sim’alites bring for
sacrifice as part of the treaty festival is their youth, nicely echoing the presence of infant and
fetal remains in the shaft (Malamat 1995: 229). In West Semitic sources, other young animals
are sacrificed in covenant ceremonies; a lamb is offered as part of the treaty enacted at Sefireh in
the first millennium BC (Lemaire and Durand 1984). Similarly, for the covenant between
Abraham and Yahweh, Yahweh ordered Abraham to bring a young heifer, nanny goat, ram,
turtle dove, and pigeon, “all of which he cut in half and laid against each other, except for the
birds” (Gen. 15:9-10). This biblical emphasis on cutting animals in half, or otherwise
manipulating their remains, mirrors the deposition of some of the animals in the shaft, such as
the rear halves of the two equids. 115 This evidence for animal sacrifice recalls the connection
between humūsū and diplomatic practices in the Mari documentation. Monument 1 thus may
have been a locus connected to the ancient royal ancestors of the city, where alliances could be
concluded and the political unity of a potentially fractious region could be performed.
Alternatively, in light of the human sacrifices found at the bottom of the well, it may be better
At ‘Usiyeh, salvage excavations in Area A, which comprises a 100 X 100 m mound with
a thin scattering of deposits, revealed an unusual set of ritual features that share some similarities
with Monument 1 or Monument P3 (fig. 32). The heart of this complex is an unusual,
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gypsum-plastered floor (F2). To the east, stone steps led down to another gypsum surface
associated with stone walls and drains (F3). Two stone lined pits were built on either side of this
lower surface. Although this later platform had been greatly disturbed by erosion, it was
probably originally a stone circle, like Monument 1, but on a much smaller scale. Scattered
within these constructions were other stones, associated with concentrations of artifacts. A 3m
wide cobble wall, shaped like a horse-shoe, surrounded the entire area, enclosing 25 X 34 m.
Fragments of at least four life-sized terracotta lions found near the gypsum floor and
stairway (F2) might have been apotropaic sculptures that protected the entrance to this shrine.
Otherwise the main finds included anthropomorphic terracotta figurines, two masks, four stamp
seals, thirteen cylinder seals, thousands of beads, Isin-Larsa pottery sherds, and large quantities
of burnt animal bones (Oguchi and Oguchi 2005; Fujii and Matsumoto 1987). Some of these
objects were heirlooms, including all of the stamp seals, while others, such as the cylinder seals
CS1, CS2, and CS3 were decorated with older Akkadian or Ur III motifs (Oguchi 2002: 29-34).
Although all of the materials from Area A were deposited during the early second
millennium BC, the underground structure here is almost identical to a construction at the same
site, dated to the mid-third millennium, and called the “ED III Grave,” although it contained no
human remains. That structure had a shaft leading to two rooms that were filled with ED III
pottery and animal bones, while an adjoining corridor was empty. In the open part of the shaft,
skeletons of at least three equids were found, along with a copper rein ring decorated with a bird
(Abdul-Amir 1988: 181; Roaf and Postgate 1981: 198). Given that these two structures are
nearly identical in plan, construction technique, and size, they either date to the same period or
the builders in Area A consciously imitated the earlier tomb. The gypsum platform built above
the Area A tomb is presumably another example of a humūsum, one that incorporated an earlier
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mid-third millennium burial into a MBA ritual platform. The lion statues may also indicate a
connection to Ištar, as is the case at Ebla, and possibly at Umm el-Marra. Unfortunately, few
details of the excavation of the “ED III Grave” at ‘Usiyeh have been published, and we do not
know if this structure was also reused later. Certainly, the shaft leading into the heart of the
monument, with successive equid burials is reminiscent of the material from Umm el-Marra. It
also recalls the connection between humūsum, rāmum and donkey sacrifice in the Mari texts,
although equid burials are quite common in third millennium mortuary contexts as well (Weber
‘Usiyeh’s Area A, Ebla’s Monument P3, and Umm el-Marra’s Monument 1 provided
stages for open air performances like the Feast of Ištar, alliance rituals, or the kispum
ceremonies. The difference in their locations indicate that such rituals occurred at different
scales and in diverse places, among farmers and herders, and people belonging to several tribal
exclusivity. Most people at Ebla, Umm el-Marra, or the countryside around ‘Usiyeh may have
been able to see rituals performed on these high, open platforms from afar, but enclosure walls
surrounding each monument indicate that attendance was limited to a smaller group.
As Glenn Schwartz, the excavator of Umm el-Marra, has argued, the circularity and size
of Monument 1 means that there are “no bad seats, so to speak, implying a communal
the same time, the Umm el-Marra Acropolis wall enclosed Monument 1, and its narrow gate
meant that entrance to this space was highly regulated Excavations indicate the presence of
open space to the north of the monument, between the northern gate, where an audience for these
rites may once have stood. It is difficult to estimate the size of this space, given the limited
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exposure here, but if the entire area between the wall and the monument was free, the space
could have held as many as 2500 people, corresponding rather nicely with estimates for the
population of the town. 117 If the open space was this large, then the Acropolis Wall may have
separated outsiders from insiders, the residents of the town from those in the surrounding
countryside. Alternatively, if it were smaller, then only a segment of that population, perhaps the
elite, could have attended the commemorative ceremonies that unfolded within these walls. At
Area P, in Ebla, the vast size of the space enclosed within the temenos walls would have allowed
the entire population of this town, and perhaps even people from surrounding villages to
participate in rituals here. 118 Similarly, rituals performed at Area A at ‘Usiyeh would have been
visible from a distance, given its location on a mound atop a prominent plateau, but the enclosure
wall meant that actual attendance would have been limited, creating an intimate space.
This may have allowed for the dissemination of different ideologies to the elite and the
populace as a whole. Elizabeth Brumfiel has analyzed a parallel case at the Aztec city of
Human sacrifice performed on top of the Templo Mayor, the main temple in the city, was
announced by “the beat of drums and the blare of trumpets,” making it visible and audible to
anyone in the city, and impressing them with the power and violence of the Aztec rulers
(Brumfiel 1998: 6-7). But the temple itself lay inside a walled precinct that was accessible to an
elite few. As a result, only the elite could see the imagery on its façade which connected the
temple to the birth of the chief god Huitzilopochtli, and provided a justification for the Aztec
At Umm el-Marra, ‘Usiyeh, and Ebla, the ideological messages were probably different.
At Umm el-Marra and ‘Usiyeh, rituals within these spaces may have connected the elite to
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specific ancestors through practices including human and animal sacrifice, regular offerings, and
the reuse of earlier monuments. The placement of Monument 1 in the center of Umm el-Marra,
and its construction as part of the resettlement of this town, makes a powerful case for the past as
a source of legitimacy. Similarly, area A, built on the remains of a third millennium monument,
may have linked intimate ceremonies at this temple to the region’s past, while providing a ritual
space for the hundreds of graves that encircled it, and which were probably built by pastoralists.
Celebrations of the Feast of Ištar probably made a similar distinction between the ceremony
celebrated by the king and his allies, which united the land, and the private kispum offerings
The Mari liver omens, Monument 1 at Umm el-Marra, and Area A at ‘Usiyeh are just a
few of the archaic (or archaizing) objects and ancient places that were central to political identity
in the early second millennium BC. Within settlements that were themselves often chosen for
reasons of antiquity, there was also an effort to forge connections with the past by manipulating
ancient objects or their imitations. Heirlooms and archaizing objects from this period were
Early second millennium temples have yielded large numbers of heirlooms and
deposits that contained objects from the third millennium BC. In other Northern Mesopotamian
temples at Rimah and Leilan, heirlooms were also preserved, perhaps as a way to anchor temples
that were new constructions in past religious practices. 120 Such practice were meaningful
because in many cities in Mesopotamia, temples were built in the same location over
generations, sometimes even millennia. This was true in Southern Mesopotamia at cities like Ur
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and Uruk in the early second millennium BC, as well as in some cities in the North, like Aššur,
Mari, and possibly Nineveh (von Dassow 2012; Ziegler 2004). But settlement abandonment and
political transformation meant that in Northern Mesopotamia, many second millennium temples
were built anew. Given this dislocation, heirlooms and archaizing objects may have linked new
At Aššur, in the cult room of the temple of that city’s eponymous god, a copper hoard of
objects from the third millennium, dating from both the Akkadian empire (2334-2193 BC) and
the third dynasty of Ur (2110-2004 BC), was buried under the floor. These pieces were probably
placed in a ceramic container during Samsi-Addu’s reign and deposited as part of his renovation
of the temple (Westenholz 2004: 12; Harper 1995: 37-8). Other archaic objects found in
contemporary levels within the sacred precinct at Aššur include three diorite or basalt statue
fragments that resemble the statuary of the Akkadian king Maništušu (Andrae 1938: 88). They
may either be antiques from the third millennium or imitations of earlier sculptures. The latter
seems more likely, since unlike Akkadian statues, incision rather than relief is used to render the
details of the dress, while the depiction of the hair style and details of the fringes also suggest
that they are second millennium copies. The statues may have functioned as lamassatu and
received offerings during the kispum festival (Eppihimer 2009: 240). 121 In this case, like the
copper hoard, the statues would have participated in rituals that explicitly connected a royal
Similar objects were found near the Ištar temple at Nineveh, although the spotty
excavation history of this site makes retrieving their actual context difficult (Reade 2005a). In a
provocative analysis of the archaeological data from the late third millennium BC, Joan
Westenholz argued that all of the “Akkadian” artifacts found at Nineveh, including the famous
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head of Sargon, were either brought from Aššur or were 2nd millennium copies of objects known
from elsewhere (Westenholz 2004). The head of an Akkadian ruler and an Akkadian spearhead
were placed in the foundations of the phase 7 construction of the Ištar temple, forming a neat
parallel to the copper hoard in the Aššur temple. The objects were found alongside a large
fragment of Samsi-Addu’s inscribed cylinder, detailing his building activities in Nineveh, and
may have comprised a foundation deposit (Reade 2005b: 361). These relics, and Samsi-Addu’s
claims that he reconstructed the Emenue temple of Ištar of Ninet, first built by the Akkadian king
Maništušu, served to legitimize his conquest of Nineveh (Westenholz 2004: 11-6). Samsi-
Addu’s cylinder both described the discovery of Maništušu’s earlier inscriptions and may have
imitated certain features of this older foundation deposit (Reade 2000). Other objects from this
religious district include a stone pedestal with relief decoration that was probably carved in the
Old Babylonian period. Its style and imagery, however, which depicts ten scenes of either a
bull-man or a hero defeating a lion, follow Akkadian conventions (Gut et al. 2001: 90-2). This
object could have been made for the Ištar temple, perhaps as a material reinforcement of Samsi-
Addu’s act of homage to Maništušu (Reade 2005: 362). In addition to these elite objects, more
quotidian antiques were also curated and probably used in temple practices. These include third
millennium pots, which were found in a room of the temple alongside Old Babylonian tablets
The presence of ancient pots in the Old Babylonian Ištar temple at Nineveh echoes a
similar practice at the Leilan Acropolis temple (Weiss 1990a; Ristvet and Weiss 2012; Weiss
1985). Here, 160 Ninevite V incised sherds, dating to the mid-third millennium BC, were found
on the building level II floors of the temple, representing nearly 5% of all pottery. 122 Although it
is possible that some of these sherds came from eroded bricks, many of them are large and finely
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decorated, unlike the scrappy fragments usually recovered from building materials (fig. 33).
Moreover, Ninevite 5 sherds cluster in certain rooms, and were not found spread out across the
building. Instead, the majority of the examples come from the western half of the palace,
particularly rooms 12 and 19. This suggests that at least some of these sherds were
systematically collected and stored within the temple, perhaps as a way to link religious activity
How precisely these heirlooms were integrated into temple practice remains unclear, but
evidence from artisanal production may provide some insight. The type pottery for this period in
Northern Mesopotamia is painted Habur ware. Although the MBA sees the appearance of
painted wares across the Near East, Habur ware was probably not derived from a neighboring
tradition (Stein 1984). Rather, the continuity of production processes implies a local origin. As
E.A. Speiser first argued in the 1930s, on the basis of the pottery from Billa, Habur ware shares
basic motifs with Ninevite V painted and incised pottery (Stein 1984; Speiser 1933; Oguchi
2001). Potters may have collected the Ninevite V sherds from the surface of the tell and used
them for inspiration when painting designs on Habur ware. Antique pottery was also collected
and stored in the second millennium temple at Rimah, along with a third millennium cylinder
seal (Oates 1970: 18; Oates 1968: 119), while the slightly later HH temple at Brak has an
example of a third millennium pot stand, and a mid-second millennium reworking of it (Oates
1987: 196; Oguchi 2001: 84). People used pots painted with these ancient motifs in houses,
temples, and other contexts, perhaps integrating a particular view of the past into the
Samsi-Addu was not the only Old Babylonian king who incorporated past objects into
contemporary religious practice. As part of the renovation of the temple of Šamaš at Mari
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commissioned by Yahdun-Lim, 15 foundation deposits were placed in the inner cella
(Margueron 2004). Nine of these were baked bricks inscribed with a 157-line text outlining
Yahdun-Lim’s pilgrimage to the Mediterranean, his success in crushing the rebellions of both
pastoralists and urban kings, and his construction of this magnificent abode for the sun god, to
whom Yahdun-Lim gave credit for his successful reign. The other six deposits, however, were
all anepigraphic and consisted of heirlooms, presumably ancient foundation deposits encountered
during the renovation of this temple and reburied along with Yahdun-Lim’s inscriptions. Four of
these deposits contained a copper nail piercing the center of a square plate and may be dated to
the Ur III period. The other two deposits were Pre-Sargonic and consisted of, respectively, a nail
thrust through a copper ring and a copper sheet, terracotta brick, and gold and carnelian beads
(Parrot 1954: 161-2; Ellis 1968: 69-70). Yahdun-Lim’s reuse of these ancient foundation
deposits is arresting in light of the design of the temple and the form of his own building
inscriptions, which are conspicuously innovative, employing strategies never before seen at
Mari. The temple—which included a massive brick platform within the temenos walls—
resembles no earlier, local religious architecture, but may instead be a nod to Southern
Mesopotamian traditions (Margueron 2002, 2004). Perhaps in light of this innovation, also seen
in Yahdun-Lim’s radical substitution of the Southern Mesopotamian Old Babylonian script for
1985a: 170-2), this king, like Samsi-Addu in Aššur, found it necessary to display his close
Evidence of seal production and use indicates that antique motifs were popular with
artisans and seal owners and that the engagement with antiquity displayed in temples echoed a
more widespread reverence for the past in Northern Mesopotamia. In Taya level II, a room
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adjoining a seal workshop yielded a black stone cylinder seal that depicted two scenes: one of a
hero struggling against a lion and another of two people holding vases. Although the subject
matter is Akkadian, certain details including the rendering of the lion’s mane, the hero’s cap, and
the hair on the figures with the vase are Old Babylonian. This, and the seal’s presence in an
early second millennium workshop make it likely that it was an Old Babylonian copy (Reade
1973: 171-2).
Some merchants chose to use heirloom seals in daily business, displaying a reverence for
the past in situations divorced from the temple. A late Old Assyrian economic tablet and its case
were impressed by an Akkadian seal that names Naram-Sin of Akkad in its inscription (Gelb and
Sollberger 1957: 175). Another Akkadian heirloom seal belonged to an Assyrian named
Abšalim at Kültepe-Kaneš (Leinwand 1992: 149), while Ur III seals were even more common at
the site (Epihimer 2013: fn 36; Waetzoldt 1990). One seal used at Kaneš had belonged to an
official serving the Ur III king Ibbi-Sin. Although its Old Assyrian owner had it recut, the new
seal design preserved part of the inscription with the names and titles of Ibbi-Sin, suggesting that
the prestige of these kings was deliberately retained (Epihimer 2013: fn 60). Akkadian-inspired
contest seals have also been found at Aššur (Moortgat 1988: no. 467 and p. 42), while at
Nineveh, a series of seals portrayed a third millennium combat scene, depicted in an archaizing
style.
Similarly, Old Assyrian royal seals mimic Ur III presentation scenes. These are
translated into an Assyrian context, transforming the seated figure from the king of Ur into the
god Aššur and thus materializing Assyrian ideology, while continuing to draw upon archaic
tradition (Eppihimer 2009: 180-3). The specific use of the presentation scene is probably related
to Aššur’s particular relationship with the Ur III empire, as a client, not a province. There is
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little evidence for the use of Ur III seals during the height of this empire at Aššur, making the
later adaptation of this iconography particularly interesting (Epihimer 2013). Other high level
seals from this period also gesture to the past. Many seals at Ešnunna, also incorporate both Ur
III and Akkadian seal iconography, despite their employment of elements of Old Babylonian
style (Reichel 2001; Eppihimer 2009). Elsewhere, high-ranking officials over more than 70
years at Tell Leilan commissioned seals featuring the man with a mace, a figure that referenced
Akkadian art (and who also appears in the Samsi-Addu stela, see below) (Weiss 1990a; Parayre
and Weiss 1991; Parayre 2004-2005). Outside of Tell Leilan, this image appears on royal seals
in Mari, Yamhad, and Qatna and probably created “a visual lingua franca in the administrative
seals of the kingdoms of Syria,” one which employed an archaic image of kingship (Eppihimer
2009: 235).
The clearest connection between death, ancestor creation, and antiquities can be found in
heirlooms deposited in specific graves at Arbid, Rimah, and Aššur. Most of the antiques found
in graves are personal items that may have protected the individual and linked him or her to the
ancestors, perhaps indicating a vernacular understanding of the past and its qualities. At Tell
Arbid, an infant jar burial found near some eroded walls, perhaps belonging to modest houses,
contained two small pottery vessels, some beads, and a lapis pendant depicting a human-faced
bull in repose, one of the classic motifs of the late third millennium BC. This amulet is clearly
(Bielínski 2000: 320, fig. 4). At Rimah, two burials were found associated with phase II of the
vaulted building, which given the early Habur, Isin-Larsa, and Ur III pottery found here probably
date to the very beginning of the second millennium BC. A complete Ninevite 5 vessel was
found near the mouth of one of these skeletons (Oates 1970: 17-18). Although the excavator
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thought the pot was too unprepossessing to be a family heirloom, its deposition mirrors the
curation of third millennium pots and sherds elsewhere, suggesting that its presence indicated a
The most elaborate example of heirlooms as grave goods comes from the excavation of
Grave 20 at Aššur, which contained a rich assortment of jewelry and weapons (Calmeyer 1977;
Harper 1995; Hockmann 2010). This tomb was excavated in September 1912 and although the
excavator, Walter Andrae, kept exemplary records, it is difficult to reconstruct certain aspects of
the grave, since the human remains and the pottery vessels found here were discarded in the
field. Andrae indicates that the remains of four individuals were found in this pit (Andrae 1938:
79), a finding that has been disputed based on the modest skeletal remains in the sketch (Harper
1995: note 2), but which is possible given our knowledge of contemporary burial practices. Four
gold diadems were found near the skull, examples of funerary headbands found in Mesopotamia
beginning in the Akkadian period. The largest diadem in Grave 20 imitates earlier examples in
shape, although the circle pattern probably dates it to the second millennium BC (Harper 1995:
48-9). The numerous beads found in the burial include some made of gold and lapis lazuli,
probably from the mid to late third millennium BC in southern Mesopotamia (Harper 1995: 55-
7), and carnelian beads probably manufactured in the Indus Valley in the late third millennium
BC (Harper 1995: 31). The three lapis lazuli seals found in the grave show a similarly complex
engagement with the past in both their materiality and iconography. The seals include one that
dates to the Ur III period, one that was made in the Ur III period, but was re-cut in the early
second millennium BC, and one that was carved during the Old Assyrian period, but was
modeled after an Ur III presentation scene (Harper 1995: 60-2). Metal vessels in the grave were
also probably either heirlooms or copies of older objects. The wealth and sheer quantity of
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heirlooms in grave 20 set it apart from other funerary contexts, but their presence is part of a
Across Northern Mesopotamia, imitating the past in seal carving, statuary, and pottery
was part of broader practices of historical commemoration that recalled the Early Dynastic
period, the Akkadian empire, and the third dynasty of Ur. The presence of antique objects in
graves, archaic decoration on pottery, and heirloom seals owned by private individuals indicates
respect for the material remains of the past beyond the domain of ritual. It is within this larger
ambitious kings needed to develop new paradigms for conceptualizing their kingdoms and their
constructed a specific vision of a shared past—one that laid claim to specific ancestors through
funerary and commemorative rites. This domain of the ancestors was fluid and could be
employed in many ways, depending on the concerns of the individuals involved. The rich
textual record of the period allows us to discern different strategies employed by individual
kings. Understanding the practices of non-royal actors within the sources is more difficult,
however, the rich archaeological and textual evidence provides some insight. Here, I will
members of the Sim’alite and Yaminite confederacies in ‘Usiyeh, Umm el-Marra, and ‘Arbid—
negotiated the domain of the ancestors during this period of political recovery.
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Kings and the Politics of Commemoration
Samsi-Addu, who briefly united Northern Mesopotamia from ca. 1808-1776 BC, linked
his reign to the local histories of individual city-states as well as to the third millennium
Akkadian empire. At Aššur, Samsi-Addu styled himself as the prefect of the city god, following
in the footsteps of earlier Assyrian kings (Kupper 1985). Similarly, at Mari he claimed that the
city-god Itûr-Mêr granted him power, like his predecessors from the Lim dynasty. Finally, at
Tuttul, he thanked the local god Dagan for awarding him the city, imitating Naram-Sin’s actions
in his inscriptions. At the same time, Samsi-Addu titled himself “king of Akkad” in a votive
dedication to Ištar at Mari (Kupper 1985: 148), and called himself šar kiššātim, king of the
universe, in emulation of those third millennium kings (Villard 2001: 13). But Samsi-Addu’s
devotion to this earlier dynasty went beyond titulary. As we have seen, he boasted that he
restored a temple first constructed by the Akkadian king Maništušu at Nineveh (Grayson 1987:
RIMA 1 A.0.39.2), and was probably responsible for burying copper objects from the Akkadian
period in the foundations of temples at Nineveh and Aššur. Moreover, Samsi-Addu and his son,
Yasmah-Addu, both traveled to Akkad, the ancient Akkadian capital which may have belonged
to the kingdom of Ešnunna (ARM 24 165; ARM 1 36). Akkad, a locale that was significant both
for Samsi-Addu and for the kings of Ešnunna, may have been the setting for diplomatic rituals
between these great powers (Charpin and Ziegler 2003 90-1). He also portrayed these
connections visually. In the Samsi-Addu stela, the costume of the main figure, who may be
Samsi-Addu, or a divine entity, echoes that of Naram-Sin on his Sippar stela (Eppihimer 2009:
228). This figure, a personification of kingship, is also depicted on the seals of high officials in
the period (see above). The manufacture of the stela, and of other Old Babylonian sculpture like
the stela of Daduša of Ešnunna, may be understood as a ritual practice that grew out of a
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Mesopotamian understanding of inscription as performative rather than mimetic, the idea that
writing or drawing could actually bring a certain reality into being (Bahrani 2008: 57, 146-7,
2003: 133-8) . Some of these statues and stelae may also have participated directly in
In short, Samsi-Addu drew upon a heterogeneous past, referring both to specific urban
histories, as well as pan-Mesopotamian traditions. This syncretistic strategy can be seen also in
the celebration of the Feast of Ištar at Mari under Samsi-Addu’s son, Yasmah-Addu. The Ištar
honored in this ceremony may have been Dêritum (Jacquet 2012b), a goddess from a city
upstream, but it could equally well have been Ištar of Irradân, a goddess from the area of
Ekallātum, particularly since a ritual text related to this goddess was found at Mari and may be
part of the Feast of Ištar cycle (Durand 1985a: 161; Durand and Guichard 1997: 23; Durand
2008: 333-341). Ištar of Irradân’s sojourn at Mari could have dramatized the union of the Tigris
and the Euphrates, acting to suture the geographic division of the kingdom. The naming in the
kispum ritual of the two tribal groups, the Yaradum, perhaps the people of the Middle Euphrates,
and the Numhâ, Samsi-Addu’s tribe, whose basic territory was south of the Sinjar and along the
Tigris, may have accomplished something similar (Durand and Guichard 1997: text 4: 20-1).123
Finally, offerings to Sargon and Naram-Sin could have provided a geographically neutral
It is possible, of course, that Samsi-Addu considered these kings his direct ancestors, and
that he was actually from Akkad, however, this seems unlikely, given the general interest in the
Akkadian kings during this period. 124 The little that we know of the political history of Northern
Mesopotamia from the fall of the Akkadian empire to the rise of Samsi-Addu suggests that the
cities that continued to function during this period based their sovereignty at least partially on an
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earlier relationship with Akkad. This is true for the Šakkanakku dynasty at Mari, probably also
in Aššur, and perhaps in Urkiš and Nawar as well (Sallaberger 2007). As a result, it seems likely
that the Akkadian empire, and associated Southern Mesopotamian iconography, served as a
potent unifying symbol precisely because it did not belong to any particular tribe.
Samsi-Addu was far from the only king who employed historical references as a
legitimizing strategy during this period. Indeed, each Old Assyrian ruler in the 19th century bears
the name of an earlier ruler, either an Akkadian king like Sargon and Naram-Sin, or an earlier
Assyrian king, like Puzur-Aššur II and Erišum II (Eppihimer 2009: 191). At Ešnunna, Ipiq-Adad
II and Naram-Sin drew upon a variety of sources in constructing their expanded titulary,
including local practices and Akkadian and Ur III precedents. Like Samsi-Addu, Ipiq-Adad II
adopted the Akkadian title “king of the world,” which he had inscribed on a stone cylinder
dedicated to the god of Dur-Rimuš, a city named after the Akkadian king (Saporetti 1999),
illustrating the complex ways that kings could reference the past textually and materially.
Similarly, Naram-Sin of Ešnunna, whose name obviously echoes a historical figure, employed
the same title in some of his year names (Eppihimer 2009: 195-6). It is also possible that the
Ešnunnean kings, Ipiq-Adad II, Naram-Sin, and Daduša, adopted divine kingship in imitation of
the Akkadian and Ur III kings. We have already seen how these kings displayed their links to
The king we know the most about in this context, however, is Zimri-Lim, the last king of
Mari. Zimri-Lim’s memory practices were designed to emphasize his connections to Mari’s
earlier rulers and to his Sim’alite ancestors, not to a more inclusive past (Charpin 1998: 99-101).
Upon his ascension to the throne, for example Zimri-Lim performed a sihirtum, a ritual circuit
around Mari. This traditional act was also documented in texts from the late šakkanakku period
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(Durand 2008: 199-254; Dossin 1967; Durand 1980). This devotional journey, in which Zimri-
Lim toured the city of Mari, donating sheep to the temples of the major deities of the city and
kingdom, may have linked his reign to that of earlier kings of the “Lim dynasty” and rejected the
The celebration of this event was probably commemorated in the wall paintings that
adorned the Mari palace. Both the "Investiture of Zimri-Lim" in courtyard 106 and the
"Sacrifice of Water" in Room 132 probably depict ritual activities which took place in temples
around the city of Mari during Zimri-Lim's accession (Barrelet 1950: 33-35). It is possible to
interpret the Mari Wall Paintings as a visual representation of both a specific historical moment,
the investiture of a king and the ritual obligations he performed, and a timeless statement of the
king's relationship to the gods, their temples, the city, and the kingdom. 126
Zimri-Lim’s coronation, which probably took place during another sihirtum in Terqa,
soon after he came to power, took advantage of the particular resonance of this place, where
earlier kings of Mari including Yahdun-Lim may have been buried and where special kispum
rituals were celebrated (Pappi 2012: 584; Charpin and Ziegler 2003: 178-9). By including the
arms of Addu, the ceremony also connected Zimri-Lim’s exploits to the god’s mythical battle
against the sea, placing his actions in the framework of history as divine will. Like Yahdun-Lim,
whom he designated as his “father” in an act of constructed kinship, Zimri-Lim traveled to the
Mediterranean in his 9th year to wash his weapons in the sea, a journey that also alluded to
Addu’s victory. Zimri-Lim’s royal progress had important political and diplomatic implications
for the kingdom of Mari as well. The journey affirmed the close relationship between Mari and
Yamhad, while performing rituals in both Sim’alite and Yaminite villages symbolically united
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Zimri-Lim’s celebration of the Feast of Ištar exemplified many of these same strategies,
by linking him to Yahdun-Lim, Yaggid-Lim, and a specifically Sim’alite past. The goddess who
was honored in this festival was probably Ištar of Dêr (Dêritum, Jacquet 2012: 21-4). Durand
interprets the place name Dêr as “nomadic camp” and has suggested that this city was
represented in the festival because of its location at the boundary of the Jezirah and the Middle
Euphrates. These were the two main territories under Zimri-Lim’s control, identified with the
Sim’alites and Yaminites respectively (Durand and Guichard 1997: 39-40). 127 When Dêritum,
goddess of the steppe, entered the capital of Mari, this served as a metaphor for the rule of the
Sim’alite Lim dynasty, uniting the sedentary and nomadic elements of the kingdom. Ceremonial
acts undertaken as part of the sacrifice of Ištar also stressed unity, particularly the mixing of
different types of flour, and of course, the exchange of blood in the donkey sacrifice (Durand
2008). At the same time, the incorporation of commemorative rites honored the ancestors of the
dynasty, the different tribal groups that made up the kingdom, and sometimes even neighboring
kingdoms.
Samsi-Addu and Zimri-Lim’s celebration of the “Feast of the Land” expressed particular,
political strategies that strengthened their kingship, however, this festival and the related
celebrations elsewhere in Northern Mesopotamia and Syria also entailed broad political
participation and may have articulated collective ideas of government (Fleming 2004a: 179).
Other political actors—including town councils and pastoralist groups—could also manipulate
the flexible and inclusive ancestor ideology of the festival and associated ritual practice.
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As the most powerful center in the Habur Plains during the first part of the Ur III dynasty,
Urkiš had a long political history. By the 18th century BC, however, the town’s influence and
population were on the wane and it was dependent upon the neighboring city of Ašnakkum
(Durand 1997: 50). This ancient town provides important evidence for an alternative political
strategy, one that takes into account the city’s historical legacy. Although Zimri-Lim did appoint
a man called Terru to rule Urkiš, this king held little political authority. Terru’s correspondence
with Zimri-Lim makes it clear that the elders of Urkiš were the real political force in the town.
Indeed, in the alliance between the Ida-Maraş and the Sim’alites the elders and heads of Urkiš
were the signatories, not the king (Fleming 2004a: 198). At Urkiš, as in at least two other
ancient cities that survived the political instability of the late third millennium, Tuttul and Imar, a
council of elders represented the town either in addition to, or instead of, a king. Hence, in all
three cities, authority was based on age and position within a family or household.
Excavations at Urkiš demonstrate how burial rituals and household practices helped to
articulate ideas of legitimacy based on kinship as an alternative to kingship. In the early second
millennium BC, there is no evidence for a palace atop the third millennium abode of the Hurrian
Kings, nor is the House of Puššam, which is palatial in size, rebuilt. Instead, a neighborhood of
simple houses grew up on top of the tell, in the ruins of the House of Puššam, some of which
contained Kimaḫḫū, with evidence of offerings. House 5, a small courtyard house, for example,
contained two vaulted tombs in its courtyard, one of which was empty but may have served as a
ritual space (Dohmann-Pfälzner and Pfälzner 2001: 29-31, Abb. 23-4). A donkey was sacrificed
in the entrance chamber of the other grave, while in the main chamber a person lay surrounded
by containers of food (Dohmann-Pfälzner and Pfälzner 2001: Abb. 25). The sacrifice of this
animal in a family tomb recalls those performed during the kispum ceremony of the “Feast of the
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Land,” the animals killed to form or renew alliances, and other donkey burials from Arbid,
‘Usiyeh, and Umm el-Marra. Here at Urkiš, houses replaced palaces as kingship yielded to
corporate power, a power that was grounded in an ideology of kinship and alliance. But despite
the differences in scale, the same complex of symbols and rituals was used to construct authority.
In the Mari documentation, councils of elders were important in towns like Urkiš, but
also among groups in the steppe, attesting again to shared “urban” and “nomadic” social
institutions. The consent of tribal elders among the Nûmha, Yaminites, and Sim’alites was
necessary to negotiate alliances (Fleming 2004a: 199-200). Remains from rituals at the cemetery
of ‘Usiyeh, probably the burial place of Sim’alite semi-pastoralists who lived in the region of
Suhûm, provide evidence for some of these strategies. Letters from Mari underline the
differently from other regions of the kingdom of Mari. The person responsible for managing the
province, Meptûm, bore the title of mer’ûm, or chief of pasture, and used local juridical and
administrative institutions to resolve disputes (Lacambre 2006: 139). A tablet outlining a legal
case found at Mari provides good evidence for the importance of communal leadership in
Suhûm. The 37 heads of Yumhammu represented the town of Sapiratum in a dispute between
the king of Mari and a local landowner, both of whom claimed ownership of a plot of land
The juridical importance of tribal ties at Sapiratum, probably only about 10 km from the
cemetery of ‘Usiyeh, provides a context in which to interpret the graves and monuments located
here (Charpin 1997b). Area B at ‘Usiyeh contains a mix of grave types, arranged in groups that
constitute burial mounds, each of which may represent a societal unit, like that headed by the
Yumhammu elders. Excavations in Mound 1 revealed six graves. A central stone-built chamber
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grave that had been robbed in antiquity was surrounded by pit graves containing infants and
adults and two mudbrick chamber graves, one of which contained multiple interments. A
similar, stone built Kimaḫḫum was found at the center of Mound 2. In both cases, the
arrangement of the graves probably both reflected and helped constitute an understanding of a
household or lineage (Oguchi and Oguchi 2005: 167-8). The occupant of the Kimaḫḫum may
have corresponded to one of the heads of household, of the type that were called upon in the land
dispute at Sapiratum. The ritual complex uncovered in Area A (see above), in contrast, may
have corresponded to an inclusive ritual space, one that served a community that comprised
many households. Here, the construction of a circular monument to cover the underground
structure that either was, or closely resembles, an Early Dynastic tomb, illustrates how a mostly
mobile community rooted this notion of collectivity in the materiality of the past.
If Urkiš indicates how ancestor rituals helped construct corporate leadership in a city that
survived from the third millennium BC, and ‘Usiyeh highlights the importance of the past for
collective authority among semi-pastoralists, Umm el-Marra illustrates how people could
manipulate the past in the face of abandonment and political transformation. The construction of
Monument 1 atop the free-standing graves that crowned the site in the mid to late third
millennium BC created a new place of commemoration. No palace has been found at Umm el-
Marra, nor is one attested in the texts. Instead, this city appears in the Mari documentation as the
cult center of a manifestation of Ištar, a goddess to whom Zimri-Lim’s Yamhadian queen Šibtu
was particularly devoted (Catagnoti 1992). It is possible that as in Urkiš or Sapiratum, collective
governance was the main source of authority in Tuba. As a possible humūsum, Monument 1
dramatizes the creation of that collectivity. Moreover, excavation of the shaft in Monument 1
documents the long duration of these practices. At the bottom of this installation, the deposition
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of human remains beneath the layers of sacrificed animals may date to the founding of the MBA
occupation here (Schwartz 2012). Like much of Northern Mesopotamia, Umm el-Marra
radiocarbon dates (Schwartz et al. 2012: 174-5, Table 1). The foundational act for the
reoccupation of the site appears to have been the construction of Monument 1, and the sacrifice
of several people in the ruins of the monumental tombs of the third millennium BC (Schwartz
2014). The later animal oblations may recall the initial sacrifice in a treaty ceremony that
employed the symbolism of blood, ancestors, and kinship to create new political realities. 128 The
burials of these sacrificed animals resonated with other ritual practices within the town. Equid
bones were buried in house foundations, while a complete skeleton was interred in a doorway
(Schwartz et al. 2003: 345-6). These offerings within individual houses may have helped to
construct families or households, while the sacrifices at Monument 1 could have created a new
understanding politics apart from kingship. The evidence from Urkiš, ‘Usiyeh, and Umm el-
Marra illustrates how collectivities could employ some of the same ritual paraphernalia as the
great kings. In each of these cases, the past, kinship, and ancestors were important in different
ways. The particular historical role of Urkiš probably made it a ritual center for Ašnakkum,
while donkey sacrifice at a family tomb indicates that the principles of alliance operated on the
level of the family as well as the polity. At ‘Usiyeh and Umm el-Marra, where there is not
continuity between the third and second millennium BC, people reused ancient tombs,
transforming them into new centers for commemoration. The rituals that were enacted in these
two spaces were probably very different, given the evidence for bloody sacrifice at Umm el-
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Marra, versus feasting and perhaps the donation of valuable objects at ‘Usiyeh. But at both sites
heads of households, elders, and other political actors used an ideology of ancestors and a
In the early second millennium BC, people used the past to make sense of the present
during a period of social and political change and instability. This engagement with the past
emerges from death and commemorative rituals, like kispum ceremonies, and from monumental
construction, settlement choices, administration, and craft production. This wider engagement
transcended individual kingdoms and created a symbolic vocabulary for religion, rulership, and
diplomacy. This was materialized in pervasive architectural styles like the columned
“Babylonian” temples, found across the Greater Near East (fig. 34), in the adoption of the Old
Babylonian dialect, and in the widespread employment of the man with the mace for political
legitimation. The active engagement with history was not limited to Northern Mesopotamia.
Indeed, the Akkadian kings had served as model rulers for Southern Mesopotamian kings
beginning in the Ur III period and history was an abiding concern of kings and scholars in both
the late third and early second millennium BC (Michalowski 2003b; Veldhuis 2004). But this
articulation of the past was important precisely because of the clear break between the Early and
Middle Bronze Ages, the emergence of a new political geography. 129 An engagement with
ancestors and history established political legitimacy in individual cities, created a shared
Amorite koine, and grounded the practices of daily life in newly settled cities and villages. 130
certain acts by definition occludes others (Ricœur 2004). We have seen this already at La
Corona, where Chakaw Nahb Chan and K’inich [?] Yook’s celebration of a new series of patron
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deities promoted a particular history by appropriating the ancestral shrines of their rivals and
erasing their authoritative claims in both the present and the past. And of course, both the Fiesta
de Santa Fe and the execution of Louis XVI espouse particular visions of history, while denying
other interpretations. If all political communities are born from foundational acts of violence—
the people murdered and then thrown into the Umm el-Marra Monument 1 shaft, or the wars
prosecuted by Yahdun-Lim and Samsi-Addu—then there are two sides to the legitimization of
this state of affairs. Commemoration always emerges at moments when possible alternative
claims may be made, although the paradox of this process is that commemoration itself denies
those alternatives. What is remembered and what is forgotten are both crucial to the politics of
Yet the essence of a nation is that all individuals have many things in common
and also that they have all forgotten many things. No French citizen knows if he
forgotten the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, and the massacres that took place
being. In Renan’s list of historical atrocities, he elides the victims and aggressors until they
become merely an undifferentiated mass of French citizens, perhaps even ancestors. As Homi
Bhabha writes, “to be obliged to forget—in the construction of the national present—is not a
question of historical memory; it is the construction of a discourse on society that performs the
problem of totalizing the people and performing the national will” (Bhabha 1994: 230). The
communities that arose in the 18th and 19th century BC were far from nations in a modern sense,
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but their citation of a unified past, one in which forgetting plays as much a part as remembering,
But this political order was not stable. The Feast of Ištar sought to hold a mirror up to the
unstable, contingent political system, and to root contemporary politics in the distant past. But
audiences do not always accept such idealized performances and may respond with cynicism.
This is clearly the case for other “events that present,” like the Persepolis celebration. Indeed
these events always leave open the possibility of inversion, that the audience will overturn the
dominant reading and obliterate these pretensions to authority. Understanding reception in the
Ancient Near East nearly always relies upon a heavy dose of speculation, but the Mari letters
hint that Zimri-Lim and Samsi-Addu’s clients did not ascribe the same importance to the Feast of
Ištar that their overlords did. Although we have letters inviting allies to the Feast of Ištar (ARM
2 78; ARM 26/1 25; FM II 122; FM 8 12), these invitations were often ignored (ARM 26/2 352).
A letter from Yaqqim-Addu, the governor of Saggaratum, complains that he was unable to
convince two out of three of his clients to travel to Mari for the Feast of Ištar, even though they
offered no excuse (ARM IV 66). Such a situation hints at Zimri-Lim’s inability to compel
his allies and subordinates. Unlike Renan’s example, these polities never succeeded in creating a
stable and enduring political order, despite the attempts of political leaders to dramatize
alliances, to ground political communities in a distant past, and to forget more recent political
discontinuities.
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IV. Tradition
Twice a year, Babylonian and Assyrian cities celebrated the Akītu festival to mark the
spring and fall equinox. The festivities lasted several days during which gods (or their statues),
priests, kings, and even a baker took part in purification rites, processions, and public
recitations. Perhaps the best-known example of the festival was the spring celebration in
Babylon, which coincided with the beginning of the year. 132 The šešgallu-priest opened the
public part of the Akītu on the equinox by reciting the Babylonian creation epic, Enūma eliš, to
the statue of Marduk, the city god of Babylon. This event and the contents of this tale framed the
rest of the ritual actions. Enūma eliš narrates the story of the birth of the gods, the creation of
the world, and Marduk’s elevation to the head of the pantheon. The poem celebrates Marduk’s
exploits in the heavens (particularly his role as the god who determines the fate of the world)
and Babylon’s preeminence on earth. This festival served to remake and affirm a specific series
of relationships between the king, the priests, the citizens, and the gods of Babylon.
In many ways the gods, particularly Marduk and his son Nabû, the god of wisdom, were
the true protagonists of the ritual. Nabû traveled from his cult center of Borsippa to Babylon to
participate in the festivities, while Marduk decreed the fates of the city and the country, affirming
their destiny for the coming year. The god then left the temple in Babylon and traveled to the
Akītu temple, located outside the city walls. Babylonians lined the processional way and the
canals in order to see the gods’ voyage to the Akītu Temple, also called the house of offerings,
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and their return to Babylon. This event marked the only time when the populace was in the
The king had another critical role to play in order to maintain his divinely granted
authority. On the day after the equinox, following the purification and exorcism of Marduk and
Nabû’s temples in Babylon, the king went to the canal to greet Nabû. Afterwards, the priests
escorted him to the Esagila, but before the king entered Marduk’s cella, the high priest stripped
him of his royal insignia, slapped him, and dragged him into the sanctuary by his ears. Once
they reached Marduk’s statue, the priest then forced the king to prostrate himself and swear the
following:
I have not sinned, Lord of all Lands! I have not neglected your divinity!
I have not ruined Babylon! I have not ordered its dissolution!
I have not made Esagila tremble, I have not forgotten its rituals!
I have not struck the cheek of those under my protection!
I have not humiliated them!
I honored Babylon and I have not destroyed its walls!” 133
Upon hearing the king’s protests, the high priest returned the scepter, loop, mace and crown,
and then struck his cheek for a second time. If the king wept, it meant that Marduk would favor
him and the city for another year. This ritual humiliation thus affirmed the relationship between
the king and his god, as well as between the king, his city, and its citizens.
The people of Babylon also participated in this ceremony in two ways. First, they
provided an audience for this celebration of Marduk’s power and Babylon’s pre-eminent status,
which was illustrated by the arrival of gods from across Babylonia. Second, the citizens also
took part in a symbolic ritual humiliation. The day before the equinox, artisans including
metalworkers and carpenters worked together to fashion two figurines from cedar wood (Black
1981). These small statues, seven fingers high, were dressed in red and had their right hands
raised in prayer to the god Nabû. They held a snake and a scorpion respectively in their left
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hands. Initially, these human effigies stayed in the temple of the minor god Madānu, a building
called the Erabiriri, or “the house of the shackle which holds in check,” a virtual prison. 134
Later in the festival, two days after the equinox, a priest slapped the figures and threw them into
the fire to be purified, perhaps echoing the king’s ritual humiliation. This act probably purified
Finally, the Babylonian priests acted in and directed the ritual. Indeed they supplied the
script, were responsible for the mise-en-scène, and provided the authoritative interpretation.
Within the ritual, the priests were responsible for the re-establishment of order, for Bel’s yearly
triumph over chaos (Sommer 2000; Pongratz-Leisten 1994). As a result, they assumed an
authority that rivaled and sometimes outranked the king’s. Hence, this festival served to both
Invented Traditions
The Akītu festival first appears in Early Dynastic calendars (Cohen 1993: 30;
Sallaberger 1993), but the celebrations in Babylon, and particularly the reconstruction above,
comes from a text dated to the Seleucid period, just a few centuries before the cuneiform
tradition died out completely. 135 Analyses of the festival have been fundamental to
Mircea Eliade’s classic interpretation of this festival as an annual recreation of the world and a
restoration of kingship relies upon the recitation of Enūma eliš and emphasizes the timeless
nature of this annual ritual (Eliade 1959). In another influential study, Jonathan Z. Smith has
drawn attention to the king’s ritual humiliation, a part of the ritual that makes the best sense if
the king making the confession was not a native Babylonian, but a foreigner, a reading that takes
into account the text’s Seleucid date. Indeed, Smith sees the Seleucid Akītu as a reinterpretation
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of a more archaic ritual, one which employs traditional religious practice and doctrine to try to
influence events, to rectify the problem of the loss of native kingship (Smith 1982). Both
interpretations of the festival highlight the importance of tradition in first millennium Babylonia,
treatments of Babylonia in the later first millennium BC, particularly in the Seleucid era (fig. 35).
Over the last century, scholars have variously depicted Seleucid Babylonia as a case study of
impermeable society that rejected Hellenization (Walbank 1993; Oelsner 2002), and as a society
where innovative Greek and “traditional” Babylonian material culture could both be found
(Langin-Hooper 2007, 2011; Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993; Kuhrt and Sherwin-White 1987;
Petrie 2002; Hannestad 2012). These interpretations are contradictory, and depict very different
societies, but they share an unlikely similarity, an uncritical use of the concept of “tradition.”
While notions of foreign, Greek culture are often problematized, Mesopotamian elements are
simply accepted as “local,” “traditional,” and hence normative (Yoffee 2005; Rempel and Yoffee
1999). But what does it mean to say that a certain practice, element of material culture or text is
“traditionally” Babylonian in the Hellenistic period, 250-500 years after the death of the last
“native Babylonian” king? The idea of tradition in the Seleucid period is clearly itself
problematic.
Scholars of Hellenistic Babylonia are hardly alone in their refusal to query the category
of tradition; there have been few attempts to theorize tradition in history or the social sciences
(Connerton 2011; Shils 1981; Boyer 1990). One reason for this may be a lingering orientalism,
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societies (Said 1978; Wolf 1997: 13), coupled with an enlightenment (and post-enlightenment)
mindset that contrasts tradition and modernity to the discredit of the former (Giddens 2000; Beck
et al. 1994). The great interest in categorizing and understanding modernity in the last two
centuries has led scholars to see tradition merely as a “foil, a residual category…. a comparative
I will follow Eric Hosbawm in distinguishing between tradition and custom, defining
tradition as “a set of practices… of a ritual or symbolic nature, which seek to inculcate certain
values and norms of behavior by repetition, which automatically implies continuity with the
past” (Hobsbawm 1983: 1). Hence, tradition refers to events or practices that are repeated, that
are understood to be inherited from an earlier period, and that are particularly significant to their
participants (Boyer 1990: 1-3). Traditions may be invented at particular moments for particular
reasons—like the British coronation ceremony—and are almost always manipulated and
redefined by a range of interested actors (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983; Giddens 2000). This
process is not necessarily cynical; the dynamics of transmission involve innovation, what Paul
Connerton terms “creative recovery,” since the “very act of restituting a presence to what was
past produces something new” (Connerton 2011: 122). 136 Custom, in contrast, refers to any
activity, significant or not, that is subject to precedence (Hobsbawm 1983: 2-3). Custom is often
conservative, but rarely invariant. In this sense, custom regulates much of daily life, including
agriculture, family life, and domestic practices, while tradition presides over special occasions or
This chapter will investigate how both custom and tradition were employed in Hellenistic
Mesopotamia by a range of different actors. First, I will outline a brief political history of the
later first millennium BC. Second, I will analyze archaeological evidence of settlement patterns,
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urban planning, domestic practices, and household production in order to examine whether and
how customary practices may have changed during the Hellenistic period. Third, I will consider
the collective representation of tradition, how Babylonian scholars articulated this notion, and
why it became so important to politics. Fourth, I will analyze the materialized symbols through
which these ideas were expressed, particularly the temples that provided the setting for political
performances by the priesthood, citizenry, and Seleucid kings. Finally, I will discuss specific
enactments of the Akītu festival and how they were implicated in various political strategies. 137
In many ways, the Akītu festival nicely dramatizes the gap between invented traditions
and customs in a colonial setting. The necessity of cultural translation in the Seleucid empire no
doubt ensured that the “meaning and symbols of culture [had] no primordial unity or fixity; that
even the same signs [could] be appropriated, translated, rehistoricized, and read anew” (Bhabha
1994: 55). As an event that re-presents, that overturns a political and religious order in order to
reaffirm it, the Akītu festival opened up a different space for contestation than the other rites that
we have considered up to this point. Events that re-present are notoriously unstable. As we saw
in the Fiesta de Santa Fe, such rites can be recast by different publics to present very different
arguments, including ones that are critical of the status quo. The manipulation of traditions in
this ritual thus helped to establish a new system of meaning and practice for the diverse
Hellenistic Babylonia
One of the biggest political changes leading up to and during the Hellenistic period (330-
100 BC) was the loss of Babylonian sovereignty to conquerors, who unlike their Amorite,
Kassite, Chaldean, and even Achaemenid predecessors, did not adopt Akkadian as a primary
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539 BC, the last Neo-Babylonian king, Nabonidus, surrendered to Cyrus. What had been an
empire in its own right for almost a century became a province of Achaemenid Persia
(Dusinberre 2013). The city of Babylon maintained its status as an imperial capital, although it
was just one among many of the places where the peripatetic Achaemenid court could convene.
200 years later, in 331 BC, Alexander the Great defeated the last Achaemenid king, Darius III, at
Gaugamela, near Arbela. He spent the next seven years marching east, completing his conquest
of the Achaemenid Empire by campaigning in Iran, the Caucasus, Central Asia, and the Indus.
By 324 BC, Alexander had returned to Babylon, a city that he planned to make the capital of his
vast empire. He died there a year later, in a palace first built almost three centuries before during
the height of the Neo-Babylonian Empire. Over the next quarter century, nearly continuous
warfare and diplomatic negotiations led to the fragmentation of Alexander’s conquests into
smaller kingdoms. With the exception of a seven-year period (316-309 BC) when Antigonus
laid claim to Babylonia and the east, the general Seleucus established an empire in Mesopotamia,
Iran, and much of the central and eastern districts of the Persian Empire. Seleucus’ wife, Apame,
was the daughter of the Persian satrap of Bactria and their descendants ruled Syria, Babylonia,
Iran, and parts of Central Asia for more than 150 years. Around 300 BC, Seleucus established a
new capital, 60 km north of Babylon on the Tigris river, which he named Seleucia. Its
foundation echoed the establishment of similar eponymous cities by Alexander and the other
successors in the old Persian Empire. Soon afterwards, the Seleucid kings founded the Syrian
Tetrapolis in the fertile Orontes valley near the Syrian coast; these included the other capital,
Antioch, as well as the royal cities, Apamea, Laodicea, and Seleucia Pieria (Sherwin-White and
Kuhrt 1993; Grajetzki 2011). Babylon remained an important regional city, but seems to have
gradually lost population and influence over the next few centuries.
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When the period in question ended is more difficult to determine. In the mid-third
century, the Seleucid kings began to lose control of their eastern and northern satrapies,
including Parthia and Bactria as well as cities and districts in Anatolia. Yet, they continued to
rule most of Syria, Mesopotamia, and Western Iran until 141 BC, when the Parthian king
Mithridates invaded Babylonia. Over the next decade, the Seleucid kings campaigned to re-
establish their jurisdiction over this territory, but by 129 BC, they were forced to give up such
pretentions. The Seleucid kings continued to govern Syria from Antioch until the Romans
defeated them in 63 BC (Green 1990). Despite the loss of Seleucid sovereignty, the Parthian
kings appear to have made few changes in Babylonia before the later part of the reign of
Mithridates II (124-88 BC). As a result, I will follow many scholars and consider the entire
These two centuries witnessed changes in the rural and urban landscapes of Babylonia
that correspond to economic and social shifts that transformed the nature of settlement in
Mesopotamia in the later first millennium BC. For Southern Mesopotamia, our best source of
evidence remains Robert McCormick Adams’ extensive surveys from the 1950s to 1970s
(Adams 1965, 1981; Adams and Nissen 1972). Although they covered much of the southern
alluvium, producing general maps of a large region, their survey methodology meant that they
under-reported small sites (Adams 2008: 6). More recently, the availability of high quality
satellite imagery has allowed for further analysis of urban layout (Stone 2009; Witsell 2009), as
well as new work on canal systems and geoarchaeology (Hritz 2010; Hritz and Wilkinson 2006;
Hritz 2005). Both lines of evidence indicate growth in the number of sites, with new
interconnections and changes in the use of space in these cities and villages during this period.
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Settlement, Irrigation, and Trade
After more than a millennium of decreasing population and urbanism in Babylonia, the
late first millennium experienced a massive population increase. In the area between Uruk and
Nippur, settled area and settlement numbers nearly doubled from the Neo-Babylonian-
Achaemenid period to the Seleucid-Parthian period, while the percentage of settled area
occupied by urban centers increased from 36% to 55% in the Seleucid-Parthian period (fig. 36;
Adams 1981: fig. 40). A majority of these cities were newly founded (28 out of 55), perhaps an
indicator that “we are dealing with fairly abrupt, probably state-directed” settlement policies and
urbanization (Adams 1981: 178). An even more extreme trend appears in the Diyala survey,
where there was an increase from 81 Neo-Babylonian-Achaemenid sites, all rural, to 205
Seleucid-Parthian sites occupying 1857 hectares, 69% of which is urban (fig. 37). The striking
urbanization of this area coincided with the construction of the great Seleucid and Parthian
capitals, Seleucia and Ctesiphon, which converted this from a border district to the heartland of
two empires (Adams 1965: Adams 1965: 62-65; Adams 1981: 178-179, table 19). Similar
changes occurred around Kish, where site numbers again nearly doubled from the Neo-
Babylonian to the Achaemenid/Seleucid period, from 29 to 50, reaching a new peak (Gibson
1972: Table 3, fig. 13). Much of this population increase was probably also a result of Seleucia’s
foundation (Gibson 1972: 51), and is partially due to factors including the resettlement of
Aramean and Chaldean populations and immigration from Greece and other areas of the
The irrigation systems that served these sites were also transformed. During the second
and early first millennium BC, most settlements were arrayed along widely-spaced, linear canals.
Beginning in the mid and accelerating in the late first millennium, canal construction created a
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lattice-work pattern that divided the alluvium into uniform polygons and allowed for the
extension of agriculture (Adams 1981: 188). These irrigation canals brought new land into
population growth. This new network had important implications for daily agricultural practices
and lines of communication across Mesopotamia. Official irrigation projects targeted the Tigris
beginning in the Neo-Babylonian period, a trend that continued with the foundation of Seleucia.
This accompanied a larger shift in long-distance trade networks, since ocean-going boats could
navigate the Tigris as opposed to the shallower Euphrates. Navigable canals connecting the
Tigris and the Euphrates near the north edge of the alluvium tied this network into caravan trade
routes across the Syrian desert (Adams 1981: 182). This realignment of trade also had
The two sites in Failaka (ancient Ikaros) and Bahrain (ancient Tylos) provide evidence
for Seleucid interest in Indian Ocean and Arabian trading networks. Ikaros (modern Failaka)
was a fortress, a Seleucid military installation, which gradually became home to a larger
community that remained “dependant on Seleucid influence” (Mouton 2009: 201; Potts 1990:
155-196). Its location, close to Babylonia, helps to explain its very similar material culture.
Qalat al-Bahrain, in contrast, was a local settlement that was closely tied to other settlements on
the island and to east Arabian communities, although it also was part of a larger Hellenistic
political sphere (Mouton 2009: 188-9). Elsewhere on the Arabian coast, imported material
indicates trade connections between settlements from the interior of Arabia and the Seleucid
empire. These are no doubt at least partially connected to the incense trade well-known from
sources during this period (Salles 1987: 100; Potts 1984: Map 4).
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Seleucid Urbanism
new cities and towns and the expansion of settlement in already existing cities. Excavations at
to Pliny, at its height, Seleucia rivaled Rome and Alexandria and was home to more than
600,000 people (Pliny HN 6.122). This 550 ha city was built on an orthogonal plan with blocks
of 72 X 145 m, the largest in the Hellenistic world (Invernizzi 1993: 235; Gullini 1967; fig. 38).
Limited excavation indicates that the majority of these blocks contained large courtyard-style
houses and shops facing the streets (Hopkins 1972). Although remains of a fortification wall
have not been located through excavation, historical sources indicate that such a wall did exist
(Invernizzi 1993).
Seleucia was divided into two unequal halves by a canal off of the Tigris. The area north
of the canal seems to have represented the official quarter of the city, where the main theater,
agora, archives building, palace, and temples were probably located. Tell ‘Umar, a 13 m high
artificial mound measuring 94 X 79 m at its base is situated at the northern limits of the city, and
provides a focal point for this public area. This enigmatic construction, which was built entirely
Invernizzi and his colleagues suggest that it was initially conceived as a theater, and that the
massive mudbrick walls or platforms made up the substructure of the cavea, the circular seating
space (Invernizzi 1993; Messina 2010). But this artificial mound has also been interpreted as a
ziggurat, or part of a religious complex (Hopkins 1972; Downey 1988). Although it seems
unlikely that ‘Umar was a ziggurat, its final appearance, unusual for a theater, may have
referenced this local religious form (Ristvet N.D.-b). South of Tell ‘Umar was an open square,
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probably the city’s agora, whose dimensions were equal to one city block. The archives
building, a public facility for storing private documents or copies thereof, stood along its western
side. On the agora's eastern side was a stoa, with a plan similar to the archives building,
adjacent to private houses (Valtz 1986, 1988, 1990). A similar arrangement probably existed on
the square’s south side where more houses and a figurine workshop were excavated. 138
As Seleucus' royal city, Seleucia was, of course, unusual among urban centers. But
despite much of the Greek character of this city, whose urban layout, particularly the relationship
between its agora and theater, is typical for Hellenistic cities in the Mediterranean and the east,
elements of its spatial organizations cite the urban plans of earlier Babylonian and Assyrian
capital cities. Invernizzi has argued that the off-center location of Seleucia's public quarters,
particularly the relationship of Tell 'Umar to the northern city wall, echoes the position of the
palace and official quarters at Babylon, Nineveh, and Nimrud, rather than the placement of
Beyond Seleucia, many of the newly-founded villages and towns in the later first
millennium are organized differently than older settlements. These settlements tend to be larger
and have an average size of 7.71 ha. They are also less nucleated; evidence for settlement is
often dispersed over scattered mounds (Adams 1981: 229). Moreover, preliminary analysis of
Quickbird imagery of these unexcavated sites indicate that houses and other buildings were
generally larger, with more open space between them (E. Stone, personal communication, 2011).
These changes in settlement organization have obvious implications for population density and
hence population estimates for the region. Although there are important continuities with the
past, these dispersed settlements may reflect (and participate in) changes in property relations,
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This period also saw the extension of urban settlement within older cities like Uruk and
Nippur (Gibson 1992: Fig. 11; Finkbeiner 1991b; fig. 39). In Babylon, a series of texts known as
(George 1993a; Veldhuis 1998; George 1992). Contemporary texts list the names of five city
quarters known from Tintir during this period, probably indicating that much of the city
remained populated (Boiy 2004: 80-1). The two royal residences also remained in use, although
they were remodeled with Mediterranean-style tiled roofs. Merkes, Babylon’s elite
neighborhood, was also occupied during the Hellenistic period, after, perhaps a series of
destructions in the fifth century BC (Baker 2007, 2011; Koldewey 1914; Miglus 1999).
Nonetheless, its street grid is unchanged from the Neo-Babylonian period and the layouts of
most of these houses are the same as well, although a peristyle was added to at least one house
(fig. 40; Boiy 2004: 11). Yet Babylon was also the site of a Greek polis, known from
inscriptions found in both Greek and Akkadian (Van der Spek 1993a). Several new buildings
related to this community and the city's new political status were erected during the third and
second centuries, including a Greek theater in the part of the city called Homera. The theatre
was probably known as the bīt tamarti in Akkadian texts and was the regular meeting place for
Uruk also maintained the same basic urban grid of a central religious quarter and
surrounding neighborhoods from the earlier first millennium BC, although the layout of many
individual urban districts was transformed. We do not have as clear a picture of Uruk's
But excavations in U-V 18 make it clear that the groundplans of the houses did not change
substantially from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic period (Kose 1998: 337-73; Hoh 1979).
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Otherwise, we have archaeological and textual evidence for continued settlement at Babylon,
Borsippa, Larsa, Kish, Marad, and Kutha (Van der Spek 1987: 74). Many of these cities
probably retained the same general urban plan that they had in earlier periods, conditioned as
they were by the existing urban infrastructure, but there were also important new constructions,
These changes in settlement patterns, irrigation systems, and urban organization indicate
that the later first millennium BC was not a time of stagnation or little change. Rather from the
Achaemenid to the Parthian period many of the basic patterns of agricultural and settled life in
Babylonia were transformed. The major changes were not simply the result of Seleucid
government policies, although such initiatives probably did contribute to certain processes,
including canal construction, the foundation of cities, and increased settlement in Seleucia’s
hinterland. Nor were they associated with a simplistic model of “Hellenization.” The language
and aesthetic choices of the inhabitants of Babylonia had little to do with how they chose to
farm. But it is essential to recognize how different rural and urban life had become in the later
first millennium, despite important continuities in house plans and street grids.
Domestic Practices
Within houses, the distribution of artifacts including pottery, figurines, sealings, and
coins indicate that many domestic practices had also altered during the Hellenistic period.
Pottery and terracotta figurines are the two most common classes of artifacts found in
excavations of this period, while sealings and coins are found in both domestic and
administrative areas. Variations in the quantities, forms, and deposition of these common goods
religious practices, and perhaps identity construction. Innovations in seal form, their ownership
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and the types of materials sealed indicate similar transformations in economic and administrative
practice. Similarly, although full monetization of the Babylonian economy did not occur until
later, the increasing presence of coins and their growing use for various forms of payment was
forms that began in the early years of the Seleucid period (Strommenger 1967: 33). Although
most Seleucid pottery continued to be made from local plain and glazed ware and potters never
adopted Greek-style decoration, many of the most common forms from the Hellenistic period
have no equivalencies in earlier levels at Uruk. The new forms that occur most frequently in
Uruk are associated with serving and preparing food (Petrie 2002). These include the
introduction of new table wares and cooking pots (Petrie 2002: table 3), which existed alongside
many shapes derived from earlier forms. The adoption of new dish forms may be related to
serving new types of food, a pattern well documented in Rome, the Inka empire, and
Achaemenid Sardis (D'Altroy et al. 1998; Dusinberre 2003). The emergence of new types of
cooking utensils demonstrates changes in food preparation techniques. Seleucid cooking pots
had different physical characteristics from earlier ones, which would have affected the types of
food they could be used to prepare. The most common cookwares are probably adaptations of
stewpots used to cook meat and fish found across much of the Hellenistic world. Although this
pattern is far clearer in the Seleucid period, Achaemenid rule also affected the distribution of
certain vessel types and probably foodways (Dusinberre 1999; Dusinberre 2013). Analysis of
Seleucid pottery from a range of sites allows us to quantify what changed and investigate how
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It is clear that this shift is not due solely to imported pottery or the adoption of Greek
ceramic manufacturing processes. There are vessels imported from the West, found at Uruk
(Strommenger 1967: 32), Seleucia (Valtz 1993: 169-170, fig. 1: 1-5), Babylon (Hannestad 1990),
and Failaka (Hannestad 1983: 53), but the quantity of imports is small (Hannestad 1990: 182).
Instead, the majority of vessels were made from local clays, using manufacturing techniques
already well-known in earlier periods. At Uruk, a potter’s quarter consisting of many kilns with
associated wasters and overfired vessels was located north of the main occupied area during the
site survey, testifying to an extensive Seleucid ceramic industry (Finkbeiner 1991b). Analyses of
wasters and sherds indicate that potters continued to use the fast wheel for all but the largest
vessels, which were probably partly hand-made. Very few examples of mould-made pottery
have been found in Seleucid Babylonia, although this technique was popular elsewhere in the
Hellenistic world (Rotroff 1982), and present in Northern Mesopotamia and Syria (Hannestad
“Greek” pots often appear in common and glazed wares and do not show the same surface
treatment and ornamentation found elsewhere in the Hellenistic world. The types that appear in
Babylonia are found across the Seleucid empire, from Syria to Ai Khanoum, Afghanistan, and in
Greece itself (Hannestad 1990; Bernard 1973). Petrie’s study of Hellenistic pottery at Uruk
identified 34 “Babylonian” shapes and 13 “Greek” shapes. The Greek forms that occur most
frequently at Uruk include table wares such as fish plates, plates with thickened interior rims,
bowls with incurving rims, and bowls with angled profiles; four types of cooking pots, the lopas,
chytra, and two types of pots with rolled handles; and storage amphorae (Fig. 41, Petrie 2002:
table 3). The most common of these are the plates. Indeed the plate with the thickened rim is the
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single most common form found in excavations and survey at Uruk. The plates and bowls
probably formed a class of table wares that also included several shapes with Neo-Babylonian
parallels and was found in temple quarters and private houses at Uruk.
Innovations in cooking ware are even more pronounced. In the Uruk survey, none of the
cooking pots from the Seleucid period have direct antecedents in earlier Neo-Babylonian levels
(fig. 42). 139 On the survey, these common forms were found over much of the site, while in
excavation cooking pots have been published from houses in U/V 18 and J/K 17/18, but are not
reported from the sanctuaries (Finkbeiner 1991a, 1991b). A few examples do occur, however,
elsewhere: at the Ebabbar temple in Larsa (Lecomte 1993: fig. 16, p.20), the fortress at Failaka
(Hannestad 1983: 63-4), and in houses at Seleucia (Valtz 1991: 54, fig. 3: 26-9). Of these types,
the chytra and the lopas, well-known from Classical and Hellenistic Athens, are also found at
Uruk, Seleucia, and Failaka (Hannestad 1990). The chytra is a deep stew pot with one or two
handles that was used to cook meat and vegetables in soups, porridges, and stews (Rotroff 2006:
186-7). The lopas, by contrast, is a specialized pan used for cooking fish, which was fried, or
“perhaps first braised, then stewed in its juice or a sauce” (Rotroff 2006: 178-9). At Athens, the
lopas was slightly more common than the chytra during the Hellenistic period (Rotroff 2006:
179). In Uruk, this trend is reversed, and we find more examples of chytrai (Finkbeiner 1991a,
1992). Moreover, the other two “Greek-derived” cooking pots are also deep stew pots with
handles. Elsewhere, in a Hellenistic context, they would probably also be termed chytrai.
Unfortunately, it is extremely difficult to tell how different these cooking pots were from
their antecedents in the early first millennium BC, as few cooking pots from Neo-Babylonian
contexts have been published. Cooking pots are generally recognized by their distinctive fabric.
These pots are usually tempered with materials like grog, mica, shell, calcite, or other minerals
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that increase their resistance to stress brought on by rapid heating (Rice 1987: 229). They tend to
have coarse, porous textures and often show evidence of soot and other marks of use wear.
Unless reports describe fabric in detail it can be difficult to discern whether or not a vessel was
used for food preparation. A handful of cooking pots have been published from Neo-Babylonian
levels at Isin (Hrouda 1981: Taf. 32: 29), Nippur (McMahon 2006: 177: 12; Gibson 1978: fig.
68: 29-31), and Uruk (Cancik 1991: Taf. 166: 12). These earlier pots are characterized by
thicker walls, taller profiles, more restricted mouths, and flat bases. The Seleucid examples, in
contrast, tend to have rounded bases, interior glazing, and variable wall thickness (Finkbeiner
1991a: 107). These characteristics would have changed the way these pots could be used for
cooking. The rounded base, for instance, meant that the pot could not be set down, but must
have been suspended over a heat source (perhaps by use of a pot stand). The glaze would have
made the vessel less permeable, allowing for faster, more even cooking, with less evaporation.
Changes in these pots may have been related to the introduction or development of new styles of
food preparation—since cookware is often adopted specifically in order to make special foods. 140
Given the close association of cooking pots and cuisine, cookware tends to be resistant to
change, even in other colonial examples where hybrid pottery types are common (Dietler 2010;
Antonaccio 2004).
Although the Seleucid period in Babylonia probably saw the development of certain
hybrid foodways, the same is not true for drinking practices. Drinking vessels in Seleucid
assemblages, which include two types of handled jars, Mesopotamian amphorae, and eggshell
ware bowls and cups, show little change from the Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid period.
Greek-inspired drinking vessels occur at Failaka and Uruk, but in very small quantities
(Hannestad 1983: 20-3). In fact, we find some forms, like the lagynos for wine decantation, only
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at Seleucia (Valtz 1993: 172; fig. 2) and specialized wine vessels only at the colony at Failaka
(Westh-Hansen 2011: 111-2), indicating that Greek drinking practices, and perhaps wine
consumption more generally did not become widespread in Babylonia. Instead, people probably
continued to drink beer, employing the same cups and jugs that they had for centuries.
incurved rim bowls, Greek amphorae, or the cooking pots that we label chytrai and lopades as
“Greek.” Unlike archaeologists, most producers and consumers of such vessels were probably
not used to producing typologies that clearly distinguished local and “foreign” features.
Babylonian fish plates did not have the painted fish that make these dishes so distinctive in 4th
century Italy and Greece (Rotroff 1997). The indentation in the center of these dishes may have
been designed to hold sauce, although it seems likely that this sauce (date syrup?) was quite
different from what might be found on a Mediterranean plate, while the fish, if the plate ever
held such a delicacy, presumably came from the Tigris or the Gulf. Indeed, the very different
local ware-types used for these forms and their lack of decoration clearly distinguish these bowls
from their Mediterranean counterparts. Edward Keall argues, apropos Parthian pottery at
Nippur, that the most common forms show clear continuity with millennia-long traditions, even
during the period when Greek influence was assumed to be at its height (Keall and Ciuk
1991). 141
The lack of specificity of most of the supposedly Greek forms in Babylonia, many of
which were probably chosen because they fit within familiar food consumption patterns, may be
critical to understanding this pattern. The adoption of new shapes of stewpots, while a
distinctive shift, still meant that cooks in Babylonia were preparing stews or meat and fish
cooked in sauces as people had before, albeit perhaps favoring a thicker consistency, as the
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popularity of plates rather than bowls suggests. This may also explain why certain practices
never caught on. People did not begin drinking wine outside of a few self-consciously Greek
places, like Seleucia or the colony atIkaros, perhaps both due to the difficulties of grape
cultivation in Babylonia and a lack of interest in a drinking culture that differed so dramatically
from earlier practices. Michael Dietler applies a similar analytical framework to Mediterranean
France from the late seventh to the late first centuries BC and argues that the complex
interactions between locals at the port of Lattes, Greek colonists at Massalia, and the Roman
wine trade led to certain practices like wine drinking being adapted to a pre-existing tradition of
feasting, not the wholesale importation of symposia (Dietler 2010). Although Greek colonies in
Southern France existed within an entirely different political context, one that is not
characterized by the same relationship of domination, this pattern of selective importation and
accommodation seems to hold true generally in cases of cultural contact (Dietler 2007: 234;
Stockhammer 2012).
The analysis of Seleucid pottery—like that of much of Seleucid material culture and
history—has often emphasized a dichotomy between Greek and Babylonian practices. Although
there has been an increasing interest in hybridity in the archaeology of colonialism (Langin-
Hooper 2007; Stockhammer 2012; van Dommelen 1997), understanding the complexity of these
processes in practice has proved difficult. Often, scholars characterize pots as either Greek or
Babylonian and depict hybridity as an awkward grafting of the features of one culture onto that
of another (Langin-Hooper 2007). In postcolonial theory, however, hybridity does not designate
the sterile mixing of two hermetic cultures, but a process of cultural production that creates
something entirely new, as well as a space of iteration that to some extent reflects and reveals
power dynamics (Bhabha 1994). 142 In the colonial context of Seleucid Babylonia, technological
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production, foodways, and dinner wares participated in this process. A Babylonian “lopas,”
made from a particular clay found near Uruk, according to local shaping techniques, missing
handles that are in other places characteristic, is not a knock-off of a well-known Greek form, but
a product and tool for a diverse group of people, who enjoyed a distinctive cuisine. The same is
true for a glazed fish plate used in the Rēš temple at Uruk, or for a “Babylonian-style” amphora
If Seleucid Babylonian table-wares and cooking pots may imply the development of a
new fusion cuisine, figurines provide further evidence of changes in household production and
consumption patterns. First, the sheer quantity of figurines from Hellenistic Babylonia hints at
the commodification of these objects. After pottery, figurines are the largest corpus of material
known from Seleucid Babylonia (Langin-Hooper 2011). Although scholars writing about
figurines tend to note this in passing, they rarely put it in diachronic context. Instead, as is the
case for ceramics, most studies of figurines focus on categorizing these objects as either “Greek”
or “Babylonian,” with the assumption that Babylonian forms are clear representations of a
continuous tradition, and Greek forms represent innovation (Karvonen-Kannas 1995; Klengel-
Brandt and Cholidis 2006). What these studies miss is the simple fact that the archaeological
contexts and quantity of all the figurines in the last third of the first millennium BC is very
These differences are clear from finds of figurines in surveys and excavations. The Uruk
surface survey, for example, recovered 771 terracotta figurines that could be dated to period.
505 of these (65%), are from the Seleucid-Parthian period (Wrede 1990: 218; 1991). The
excavated data from Babylon show an even more pronounced trend. Although large numbers of
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excavated figurines remain unpublished, the diachronic distribution of figurines from the
collection at the Vorderasiatisches Museum illustrates this pattern more generally. Of the 4239
anthropomorphic figurines published to date, 3539 of them or 83.5% come from the “Late”
period (Achaemenid-Parthian), while only 538 or 12.5% come from the first half of the first
millennium BC, despite the large expanses of houses of both periods that have been excavated
(Klengel-Brandt and Cholidis 2006). This increase in the quantity of figurines probably implies
Indeed, the increasingly large number of figurines suggest that their production,
consumption, and disposal patterns were transformed during the second half of the millennium.
development of a range of figurines that combined local and imported elements in novel ways,
testify to a strong workshop, as well as a large market. The introduction of different mold types
had profound consequences for the way these objects were made and handled. The widespread
adoption of these methods indicates substantial and probably on-going exchange between
artisans familiar with both manufacturing traditions (Langin-Hooper 2007: 156). Stephanie
Langin-Hooper has persuasively argued that Hellenistic terracotta figurines are representative of
a multi-cultural society that no longer made a clear distinction between Greek and Babylonian
iconography and manufacturing practices, and that the “foreign or traditional” aspects of the
figurines were not their most salient characteristics (2007: 163; fig. 43).
Excavations at Seleucia in 1972, 1975, and 1989 revealed a workshop that specialized in
the production of terracotta figurines in the early Parthian period and found evidence that similar
workshops occupied this area in earlier and later periods. The workshop comprised several
rooms and a courtyard with a kiln, which was the locus for much of the production of these
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objects (Valtz 1990; Invernizzi 1977: 9). A shop that sold figurines was located next door,
opening onto the square. According to the preliminary reports, the workshop, located on the
south side of the Archives square, specialized in the manufacture of female figurines, although
the shop carried a wide range of terracotta items, including column capitals, column bases, and
plaques (Invernizzi 1973-74: fig. 10; 1977: figs. 1-2). These objects were not, however,
“uniform in either style or quality, but like the assemblage of Hellenistic figurines as a whole
combined Hellenistic and Babylonian motifs and manufacturing techniques” (Invernizzi 1977:
9). Figurines from the shop could be finished differently, with some kept plain and others
painted, presumably to appeal to the different tastes, desires, and resources of customers
(Invernizzi 1977: 10). 143 Another Parthian terracotta workshop was excavated on the western
side of the archives square at Seleucia, in the ruins of the archive building. Here, a small kiln
was uncovered in a courtyard, while hundreds of fragments of terracotta figurines lay nearby
(Invernizzi 1972: 15). Once again, this workshop seems to have produced a range of human and
animal figurines of different styles and qualities, as well as masks, and pinakes depicting erotic
Unraveling precisely how these figurines were used and why they occur in such numbers
is difficult, since few of these objects have been found in primary contexts. Different figurine
types were no doubt purchased for a variety of reasons. Their physical characteristics indicate
some of the different ways people may have interacted with these figurines. Types made using a
single mold would have been presented differently from figures in the round made with the
double-mold technique. Some figurines, like the naked, wreath-wearing children with their
splayed limbs, or female figurines with movable arms, were probably made to be held and
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handled (Langin-Hooper 2011: 103-5). Others, like plaques, or the “woman and child” figurines,
which often have plinths, were made to be displayed (Langin-Hooper 2011: 124).
Figurines in the Seleucid period occur in a wider range of contexts than in earlier periods,
probably indicating that the roles that these objects played had also changed. Although they are
generally found in houses, as they had been for millennia, they began to appear in temples and as
grave goods. At Uruk, for example, the majority of excavated Hellenistic figurines were found
in trash deposits in the Rēš, Ešgal, and (Parthian period) Gareus temple, although they also
appear in large quantities in the only excavated houses from this period. 144 Similarly, at
Babylon, the majority of figurines come from trash deposits associated with private houses in
Merkes, but a few figurines were found at Homera, near the theater, possibly in debris taken
from the Etemenanki, perhaps suggesting that some of these terracottas were used in temples or
theaters as well (Koldewey 1914). These temple contexts indicate a clear change from the
beginning of the first millennium BC. Of the published terracotta figurines from Uruk, there are
only ten figurines that may date to the first half of the first millennium BC that were found in the
Eanna, the major Neo-Babylonian temple, and some of these might actually date to the Seleucid
period. Given the lack of recorded provenience for many examples, it is difficult to delineate
any meaningful variation in the types found in different contexts. In general, however, similar
types of figurines are found in both the temples and the houses. This is not surprising,
particularly when we consider that the same is true for pottery assemblages during this and other
periods (Lecomte 1987, 1993). Figurine use in the divine household probably imitated similar
patterns in ordinary households. In both religious and domestic quarters, figurines were
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In contrast, in Greece, figurines were long-used as votive deposits. The life-like Tanagra
figurines known from the Hellenistic Mediterranean are most often found in graves and temples
(Jeammet and Matthieux 2010). In Seleucid Babylonia, although these figurines could be used
in the temple, they were nonetheless integrated into ritual life differently. There is little
indication that these objects were ever treated as votive deposits. This is true not only at Uruk
and Babylon, where many archaeologists would expect the figurines to continue to be integrated
into local practices, but at Seleucia and Failaka as well, despite their larger “Greek”
communities. 145
In some sites, figurines also began to appear in graves during the Seleucid period,
alongside more traditional funerary goods like pottery. Only certain figurine types, particularly
those of reclining women and terracotta masks, are found in graves at Babylon (Koldewey 1914:
285; Westh-Hansen 2011: 109). Masks also appear as grave goods in Nippur (Legrain 1930:
11). The reclining woman figurine, however, is absent; its place might be taken by the terracotta
appliqués of women on many slipper coffins (Langin-Hooper 2011). In contrast, there seem to
be very few figurines in the graves of Uruk and Seleucia, and masks and reclining women are
found in a variety of contexts in both cities (Van Ingen 1939: 31; Ziegler 1962). Like the temple
hybridization in a syncretistic, Hellenistic world. The differences that emerge between the sites
are intriguing, as they may indicate that figurines were incorporated differently into local
economic relations of private individuals with each other, the temples, and the Seleucid
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government. Silver and bronze coins appear on sites beginning in the late fourth century and
increase in quantity thereafter. Although very few Achaemenid coins have been found in
Southern Mesopotamia, the majority of these may also date to after the fall of the empire. Coins
are a much smaller class of find than pottery sherds or figurines, but they occur in both
excavation and survey collections from sites including Babylon, Uruk, Seleucia, and Susa.
There are 134 Seleucid period coins from Uruk and more than 539 Parthian period coins
(including several hoards, Leisten 1986: table 4). Most of the Seleucid coins are stray finds, and
many of them come from surface survey, since so few Hellenistic houses have been excavated in
this city. At the same time, references to payment in silver in texts begin to mention particular
denominations. Indeed, it seems possible that for certain accounts rendered to the crown, coins
had become the preferred method of payment by the end of the fourth century. A citation in an
astronomical journal from Babylon notes that the Babylonians refused to accept the new-fangled
bronze currency, indicating that this new reliance on coinage, rather than shekels of silver or
liters of barley, could be controversial (Sachs and Hunger 1988: 334-347; Joannès 2006: 110).
Nonetheless, the vast majority of coins that we have from Seleucid Babylonia are bronze, since
the more valuable silver was both rarer and more likely to be recycled. Clearly, despite
There were probably many reasons that silver coins became popular in this period. The
purity of the silver made them attractive to nearly everyone, while their use may have quickly
become de rigueur for merchants engaged in transactions with other areas of the Hellenistic
world. Like the fish plates, lopades, or double-molded figurines, coins were probably adopted
and integrated into Babylonian exchange for a number of reasons, not least because they made
sense within a pre-existing cultural framework and were required in certain contexts by the state.
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Payment in silver had been standard for millennia by the Seleucid period, and beginning in the
Neo-Babylonian period more taxes had to be paid in silver rather than in kind (Jursa 2010: 657-
60), setting the stage for the increasing use of coinage (UET 4 43, Joannès 2006: 109).
At least some parts of the economy, however, remained seemingly unaffected. There is
no evidence for forced conversion to a monetary system everywhere, nor do coins become the
dominant form of payment in all transactions. At least this is the case for sales recorded in
contracts and other cuneiform texts, documents that admittedly relate to only a small segment of
the economy. Indeed, our cuneiform contracts probably emerge from only that part of the
economy that is not subject to Seleucid taxation or control (Doty 1977). The types of
transactions outside of Seleucid regulation changed over time, as the disappearance of cuneiform
slave sales in Uruk demonstrates (Oelsner 2003). A survey of the sealed documents indicates at
least some of the domains that remain unregulated for most of this period—including sales and
leases of real estate, prebends, and other immovables, as well as letter-orders, pledges, receipts
the longue durée from the Neo-Babylonian to the Parthian periods (Jursa 2005a; Van der Spek
2011; Joannès 2006). A series of archives belonging to families connected to temples (the Egibi,
Murašu, Muranu, and Rahīm-esu dossiers) shows increasing use of tax farming, marketing, and
privatization over this half-millennium, until by the Parthian period, in the Rahīm-esu archive, all
rations are paid in silver, not in kind (Van der Spek 1998, 2011). By the Seleucid period, the
Muranu archives indicate that a private individual had taken control of the temple’s ration
system, “a core area of the temple economy and administration which had remained unaffected
by the tendency to “farm out” numerous other branches and parts of the temples’ economic and
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administrative activities in earlier centuries” (Jursa 2006: 177). Muranu and his son, Ea-
Tabtanâ-bullit, collected tithes in kind for the Esagila in Babylon, controlling large quantities of
barley, dates, and other agricultural products. They also both collected and invested taxes owed
in silver to an institution called the Bīt abistāti (Jursa 2006: 150-1), probably named after a
specific tax paid in specie. Although the activities of this family are similar to those of earlier
entrepreneurs, they are much more extensive. The increasing use of both tax farming and money
imply widespread changes that would have affected most of the population.
Seleucid economy. Unlike the Achaemenid kings, the Seleucid kings had primarily monetary
expenses, and for this, they needed to find ways to extract as much silver from their subjects as
possible (Van der Spek 2011; Aperghis 2004). Estimates of Seleucid taxation in Babylonia show
that taxes on land were high, valued at perhaps 40% of agricultural production as a whole
(Aperghis 2004: 258). Much of this was paid in kind, but probably not all of it. Taxes on trade
in salt, slaves, and a general sales tax are well documented at Uruk and Seleucia, and were paid
in silver (Aperghis 2004: 176-7). As the government demanded more payment in silver, large
numbers of people would have been drawn into a market economy. Settlement patterns and
particularly the extension of the canal network would also have increased opportunities for
marketing and made transportation from farms to urban markets faster. Such a situation would
have presented opportunities for enrichment for families like the Muranu, whose activities
probably included the development of deposit banking (Jursa 2006: 173). At the same time, of
course, the requirement to pay taxes in silver could have led to the impoverishment of many
small farmers, who were victims of this new entrepreneurial class and were now directly subject
to price fluctuations in urban markets, rather like rice farmers in Majapahit Java.
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Collective Representations: Scholarly Texts, History, and the Transmission of Knowledge
Up to this point, I have emphasized the many ways in which Babylonia during the Seleucid
period was quite different from earlier periods, focusing particularly on changes in rural, urban,
and household practices. These changes do not result from a simple Hellenization of this
society. Rather they emerge from and relate to widespread economic changes. I have
expounded these transformations in order to emphasize that daily life in Seleucid Babylonia was
not a continuation of timeless urban and rural lifeways. On the contrary, many customary
practices were in a state of flux. These shifts in daily practice created new types of citizens, with
different opportunities and constraints. But despite these profound social shifts, which
wide range of actors including temple officials, wealthy families, and the Seleucid kings.
Indeed, tradition could be a domain of competition, where different people sought to establish
This is particularly true for the domains of Babylonian and Hellenistic scholarship.
Babylonian priests, scholars, and citizens, three categories that often overlapped in practice,
sought to establish tradition as a potent source of authority, drawing upon both Babylonian and
Hellenistic ideas. They did so not only by copying old texts in new ways, and evincing a
continued respect for older tradition, but also by composing new texts and even inventing new
genres. Similarly, authors writing in the Seleucid empire emphasized the importance of history,
antiquity, and religious tradition in order to root the Seleucid kings in this foreign territory, after
the loss of their Macedonian homeland (Kosmin 2014). Historical accounts that highlighted
Babylon’s antiquity also helped to establish its superiority, particularly vis-à-vis Egypt, as the
Seleucids competed with their Ptolemaic counterparts (De Breucker 2011: 650; Beaulieu 2006;
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Tuplin 2013). As a result, scholarship became a space of hybridity, a middle ground, where
intellectuals could create works that were startlingly innovative, ironically transforming
knowledge in the service of tradition. It is this intellectual ferment that framed political and
religious performances in the temples and administration and made the Akītu festival a potent
political force.
the study and preservation of ancient texts. The available textual and archaeological sources
indicate that such textual transmission occurred in two often interconnected settings: temples and
private houses belonging to priests. It is possible that the Esagila temple in Babylon
“approached in scope and size” Ashurbanipal’s library at Nineveh and served to archive
cuneiform scholarship from the ages (Beaulieu 2005: 119; Clancier 2009). Unfortunately, the
complicated history of illicit digging and poorly recorded early excavations at Babylon means
that although many of the scholarly texts we have from that city probably came from the temple,
it can be difficult to reconstruct this ancient library (Robson 2008: 221-226). We do know that
the Esagila sponsored the work of hundreds of scholars, including scribes, diviners, and
astronomers among others, many of who were engaged in copying and collating traditional
knowledge. Late Babylonian scholars, like their predecessors in the early first millennium BC,
were interested in copying a wide range of texts with long traditions. In addition to series like
Enūma Anu Enlil, these included chronicles, king lists, epics, and fictitious royal letters (De
Breucker 2011: 641). Scholarly texts found in Uruk indicate that the two temples there served a
similar role.
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But private houses belonging to priests also served as schools and loci for preserving
traditional knowledge, as they had done since at least the early second millennium BC. One of
the best attested examples of this comes from a private house in Uruk, belonging to a family of
ašipu-priests or exorcists (fig. 44). From 1969-1972, Manfred Hoh and his colleagues excavated
two houses at Uruk in U/V 18 that date to the Seleucid and Achaemenid periods (Hoh 1979).
One of these houses yielded two separate archives of scholarly and literary texts, with a few
contracts mixed in for good measure, belonging to different families of ašipu-priests. In the
earliest level, IV, there were 180 tablets and fragments belonging to the family of Šangi-Ninurta
who lived in the house in the 420s BC. Similarly, in the later level, II, there were about 240
tablets belonging to the Ekur-Zakir family, who lived in the house approximately a century later.
These tablets are an interesting mix of ancient texts and entirely new compositions.
Eleanor Robson has recently studied the colophons of these tablets, which provide information
on how the texts were written, to investigate the production of knowledge in Mesopotamia
during the late periods. She has found that an unusually high percentage of the tablets, 27%,
have surviving colophons, almost half of which explicitly state that they are copies of earlier
manuscripts on tablets or writing boards. In several cases, the colophons describe the originals,
which came from the Eanna temple at Uruk, as well as other Babylonian cities including Kutha,
Meslam, Dêr, and Babylon (Robson 2011: 565-6). The colophons work performatively,
demonstrating that these scribes portrayed themselves as part of a long tradition of Babylonian
scholars. Paradoxically, of course, the unusual nature of this activity makes these scribes unlike
many of their predecessors; since colophons are generally rare. 146 Members of the two families
of ašipu-priests were not the only people who wrote the texts found in this house; others were
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written by student-scribes from elsewhere, coming from as far away as Der, indicating that this
The emphasis on copying these texts visible in the colophons is also reflected in an
innovation in the materiality of the tablets. All of the tablets from the Ekur-Zakir archive were
baked in antiquity, which is extremely unsual. 147 A large and finely built oven found in the
courtyard of this house may have been used as a tablet kiln. Near the oven lay four poorly
formed and three carefully modeled, uninscribed, and unbaked clay tablets, providing support for
this hypothesis (Hoh 1979: 29-30). The majority of the tablets were found in a niche in nearby
room 1, while other tablets were found scattered in rooms 3 and 7 (Robson 2008: 238). Firing
inscribed tablets would have added a new stage to tablet manufacture and indeed the scribal
curriculum. It also markedly changed the physical characteristics of the inscribed objects. One
reason for this innovation was probably an interest in preserving scholarly texts in a durable
form, less susceptible to degradation. The insistence of the colophons that many of these tablets
were copies of old and perhaps decrepit writing boards lends support to this (Robson 2011,
2008). As a result, this is an important example of the paradox of tradition during the Seleucid
period, by seeking to preserve old, traditional texts, the ašipu-priests in fact are innovators,
last tablets ever written. 16 texts written in a combination of Akkadian, Sumerian, and Greek
were found in Babylon in the 1870s, along with literary tablets and other school texts. 148 Like
the compositions found in the ašipu’s house, the Greco-Babyloniaca tablets were the detritus of
scribal education, written by some of the last scribes educated under the old Mesopotamian
curriculum. They probably date to some time between 50 BC and 50 AD, at least a century after
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the Seleucid kings had abandoned Babylon. The texts they learned to write and pronounce, with
the help of Greek transcription, included prayers to the god Nabû, word lists, incantations, and
even traditional works of Akkadian literature, like Tintir = Babylon (Westenholz 2007: 280).
The strikingly novelty of writing Akkadian and Sumerian in an alphabetic script allowed priests
to transmit not only two dead languages, but also the literary and scholarly heritage of Babylon.
They did so, no doubt, because Babylonian religion still mattered. Even in this late period, the
temple remained part of a larger social framework, one that continued to uphold and transmit a
An examination of scholarly tablets that are not copies allows us to see another aspect of
the Seleucid construction of tradition. Here, I want to consider the scholarship of priests in
temples and schools in the interrelated domains of astrology, astronomy, and history. Many of
the texts that make up these genres were entirely new, first written during the latter half of the
first millennium BC, but were cast as part of a priestly heritage. Rather like the archaizing liver
omens we considered in chapter 3, each of these genres both recursively constructed and relied
upon notions of antiquity and tradition, despite their radically innovative form. Such tablets
were found in the same two contexts as copied texts: the major temples of the period, especially
in Babylon and Uruk, and in the private houses of people connected to the cult. Despite the
many copies of well-known texts found in the Ekur-zākir family house, for example, there are at
least seven original compositions, including one in which the scribe seeks to contextualize the
relatively new idea of the zodiac within an older tradition of extispicy, by equating the zodiac
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It seems likely that the Esagila in Babylon was the center of historical, astrological, and
astronomical diaries come from this city, although astronomical and astrological texts are a large
part of the scholarly corpus elsewhere as well (Ossendrijver 2011: 220-1, fn. 32). 149 The ṭupšar
Enūma Anu Enlil, the “astronomer-priests,” played a prominent role in this temple, charged with
producing astronomical and astrological documents including the tersētu tablets (probably the
ephemerides, tables that forecast the position of heavenly bodies at a given time), the diaries, and
the almanacs (McEwan 1981). The council of the Esagila, and quite possibly royal officials,
confirmed the appointment of each new ṭupšar Enūma Anu Enlil, underlining their significance
within this milieu, where they seem to be form the preeminent class of temple officials and
scholars. The Esagila may have been the institution to which Berossus, who composed a history
of Babylon in Greek, also belonged. Seneca is one of the many ancient writers who recorded
that Berossus, whose Akkadian name was probably Bel-re'ušu, served as a priest of Marduk in
Historians have used the seemingly dispassionate historical information within the
chronicles and astronomical diaries to confirm and supplement material from the Greek
historiographic tradition, but have not always considered the relationship of these texts to
scholarship more generally. The diaries record daily observations of astronomical and weather
phenomena. At the end of each month, they sometimes provide information about the market
price of five commodities, the level of the Euphrates, and political events, which are usually
military or cultic (Rochberg 2011: 629-30). Some of the chronicles may be excerpted from the
astronomical diaries, but the exact relationship between the genres is unclear. 150 Berossus’
composition is also connected to these other genres, although it was a narrative history of
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Babylonia, beginning with the creation of the world and ending (presumably) with the reign of
Antiochus I, to whom the book was dedicated (Kuhrt and Sherwin-White 1987; Verbrugghe and
Wickersham 1996; Verbrugghe 2011). In composing his history, Berossus presumably drew
upon Babylonian records like the chronicles and astronomical diaries. But he reshaped this
source material and wrote a book that combined Greek and Babylonian historical methods and
One way to understand the cultural context of the diaries and chronicles, and of much of
the source material for Berossus, is to consider them as part of the scholarly apparatus of
divination, which relied upon such empirical observation (Rochberg 2004, 2011).
“unprovoked” omens. The former were understood as messages that the gods conveyed in
response to certain questions (such as via the liver of a sacrificed sheep), while the latter were
those that priests or other individuals observed in nature. Celestial omens fell into the second
category, and their importance probably increased during the course of the first millennium BC.
Certainly, the number of these astronomical, astrological, and celestial divination texts grew vis-
à-vis other types of omen texts (Rochberg 2004, 2011). The regular observations of
astronomical phenomenon at Babylon, which began in the 8th century BC, may have supplied
raw material for divinatory science. In this case, political observations could be linked to other
observed phenomena in terms of the “if p, then q" formulae used for divination (Rochberg
2010a). Work on Mesopotamian astronomy has made it clear that priests drew upon the
astronomical information contained in the diaries when composing ephemerides and developing
techniques for prediction (Steele 2011). Perhaps historical information was noted for the same
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reason, in order to provide the source material for later divination, although there is no definite
As we have already seen, for much of Mesopotamian history, divination was an overtly
political activity (see above, chapter 2), and the “heavenly writing” that diviners sought to
interpret was believed to contain messages about the activities of kings and kingdoms (Koch
2011: 461; Van der Spek 2003: 295). In the late second and early first millennium BC, the
palace employed diviners directly and there was a general obligation for the populace to report
any possible omens to the king. The 7th century BC correspondence between diviners and the
Assyrian kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal nicely demonstrates the political context of the
activities of these priests, who combined the function of astronomers, astrologers, and diviners
(Parpola 1993). However, with the fall of the last Neo-Babylonian king, the exclusively royal
context of divination ended (Rochberg 1993). The historical information recorded in the
astronomical diaries and the chronicles makes it clear that the priests of the Esagila continued to
concern themselves with the destinies of kings. But they no longer worked for the palace
directly. Instead, the temple gradually supplanted the palace as the center of divination, during a
period when it was also renegotiating its relationship vis-à-vis foreign kings and the larger
community. The development of astrology, predictive astronomy, and a new non-royal calendar
were part of this larger shift. Although these developments did not result from any particular
Achaemenid or Seleucid policy, the general political context remains important to understanding
this process. Many of these astronomical techniques were startlingly innovative when compared
to the longue durée of Mesopotamian celestial observation and divination, but were nonetheless
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Late Babylonian horoscopes illustrate how the scope of traditional divination practices
broadened, from an exclusive focus on the ruler to include ordinary citizens (Rochberg 2004:
62). These texts first appeared in the fifth century BC, in the early Achaemenid period, but most
of our examples come from the Hellenistic period, and include some of the last texts ever written
in cuneiform. We only know the names of the subjects of horoscopes in a few cases; the
majority of these documents simply use the phrase “a child is born.” Of the 28 extant texts, three
contain personal names; two of these are Greek, Aristokrates and Nikanor, and one is
Babylonian, Anu-Bēlšunu (Rochberg 2004: 103-4). We do not know anything more about
Aristokrates and Nikanor, who may have been Greek or merely had Greek names, but Anu-
Bēlšunu is probably a member of the Uruk citizenry, a ṭupšar Enūma Anu Enlil or astronomer-
priest and a lamentation priest employed by the Bīt Rēš, who wrote many of the astronomical
and astrological texts from Uruk (Beaulieu and Rochberg 1996: 93-4). Although most
horoscopes only contain planetary information, some of them, including Anu-Bēlšunu’s, include
predictions based on this information. These predictions, which are similar to those found in
nativity omens, demonstrate the development of horoscopes with reference to traditions of astral
divination. Clearly if the position of the planets had significance for the king and kingdom in
earlier periods; in third century Uruk, this could also influence the lives of the priesthood, a
group who were in the process of assuming many of the traditional responsibilities of Babylonian
kings.
The late Achaemenid period also saw the emergence of mathematical astronomy. Rather
than merely observing the heavens, priests developed computational models that enabled them to
predict astronomical phenomena, including the rising and setting of different heavenly bodies.
This allowed them to compile ephemerides, tables that forecast the position of the moon and
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planets at any given time (Rochberg 2011: 629-30). Together, of course, astrology and
computational astronomy had the longest afterlife of any form of Mesopotamian scholarship,
contributing to Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Indian, Persian, and Arabic astronomy, astrology, and
mathematics (Rochberg 1999-200: 238-9; 2010b; Brown 2010b). The ability to predict the
position of astral bodies in both the future and the past allowed for the casting of horoscopes as
well as ritual preparation. Although the calculation of ephemerides is a precondition for the
practice of horoscopy, it is unlikely that mathematical astronomy was developed in order to draw
up horoscopes for the Babylonian elite, or at least it is difficult to demonstrate this based on the
information preserved in the two types of texts. 151 Instead, the emergence of both computational
astronomy and horoscopy was part of the same larger social and political shift, in which the
temple and the citizenry assumed prerogatives that had been previously reserved for the king and
court alone.
scholarship and practical life that had previously fallen under royal purview. As late as the Neo-
Babylonian period, the king could set the calendar, designating when to add an intercalary
month, according to the advice of his scholars. A letter from Nabonidus, the last Neo-
Babylonian king, for example, informs the priest Kurbanni-Marduk that he has decided to add a
month to the calendar (YOS 3 115; Parpola 1983: 504). With the loss of Babylonian
sovereignty, however, this changed. Already in the early Achaemenid empire, the priests of the
Esagila appear to have been responsible for issuing such decrees, and by the reign of Xerxes, a
regular system of intercalation was instituted. This system, based on astronomical calculations
and predictions, was no longer subject to palace oversight (Steele 2011: 475-8). This shift from
royal control of the calendar to a regular astronomically-derived system mirrored the move from
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natal omens with implications for the king alone to individual horoscopes. These changes in
astrology, computational astronomy, and the reckoning of time were all part of a general shift in
thought developed for the benefit of the temples and urban elites.
Increasingly accurate predictions also had practical implications within cultic settings,
particularly for ritual performance. Rituals for the sky god Anu, for example, the deity honored
in the Bīt Rēš, usually occurred at “celestially significant moments,” like equinoxes, or other
periods when astral bodies were in specific conjunctions (Robson 2008: 260). Proper execution
of these rituals relied upon astronomical calculation, based both on observance and mathematical
models. Priests also needed to be able to predict other inauspicious events, like eclipses, so that
their ominous consequences could be averted. An eclipse ritual from the Bīt Rēš, probably
composed during the Hellenistic period but part of a more extensive tradition of averting the evil
of such an event, lists certain activities and prayers that must occur at the beginning, midpoint,
and end of the eclipse. In this case, correct performance of this ritual required predictions about
the exact timing of an astral event (Linssen 2004: 109-116; Rochberg 2004: 243). The
emergence of new genres of astronomical and astrological texts thus enabled the continuation of
traditional Babylonian religion and strengthened the position of the Babylonian and Uruk
Berossus’s Babyloniaca provides a final example of a novel textual genre in the service
of tradition. As I have already hinted, like these new generes of astronomical and astrological
texts, in the late Babylonian period, historiography probably emerged from divination science.
Hellenistic scholars experimented with historiography and nearly half of all of the known
chronicles (21 of 54) date to this period (Van der Spek and Finkel 2004). Historical information
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in the Hellenistic period astronomical diaries also tends to be more detailed than in the earlier
examples. Like these other texts, the Babyloniaca is both a conservative work that aims to
disseminate Babylonian history and historiography and a radical rethinking of this genre.
Berossus’ attempt to translate Babylonian scholarship into Greek history echoes the strategies of
other members of the Uruk and Babylonian citizenry to harness Babylonian traditions in order to
Analyzing Berossus’ work and its larger context is difficult given its complicated
transmission history and the few fragments that we have at our disposal. Everything that we
know about this book comes from 22 quotations and paraphrases of the Babyloniaca that appear
in the works of classical and late antique authors, and 11 statements that various authors made
regarding this text. 152 Most of the quotations are from authors who wrote centuries after
Berossus, and many of them refer not to the original work, but to an epitome written by
Alexander Polyhistor. Moreover, the transmission histories of these manuscripts are often
complicated as well. Only fragments of Eusebius, for example, one of our best sources for
Berossus, are available in Greek, and historians rely instead on an early Armenian translation
(Kuhrt 1987a: 35). Nonetheless, the general framework of the Babyloniaca can be reconstructed,
even if historians disagree about precisely where all of the fragments fit.
Berossus’ work was probably divided into three books. The first book began with a
description of the geography and natural history of Babylonia and then provided an account of
the creation of the world and of the first sage, Oannes, who gave civilization to humankind. The
second book narrates the history of Babylonia from the first king, Aloros, to the reign of
Nabonassar, while the third book recounts the period from Nabonassar to Alexander the Great, a
period for which the chronicles and astronomical diaries provide fuller records. In organizing
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and recounting this history, Berossus followed both Mesopotamian and Greek conventions in
order to develop a case for the antiquity of Babylonian culture and hence its importance (De
In composing his Babyloniaca, Berossus drew upon a wide variety of sources that
probably included the chronicles, astronomical diaries, mythological accounts, and other
traditions that may have been transmitted orally or through other media. Robert Drews has
shown that there are great similarities between the description of Sennacherib’s attack on
Babylon in the Babylonian chronicle ABC 1 and in fragment 7, 29 of Berossus (Drews 1975:
54). Similarly, the basic structure of Berossus’s book 2 appears to mirror that of the chronicles
and king lists. According to Eusebius, Berossus merely listed the names of the kings and
recounted a few events from their reigns. For Book 3, however, for which Berossus had detailed
comparison of his version of the reign of Nabopolassar to the chronicles shows (De Breucker
2011; Glassner 2004; FGRH 680 F8a). Similarly, Berossus’s description of the origins of the
world clearly draws on the Babylonian creation myth, Enūma Eliš, and Sumerian flood stories
(his hero is named Xisuthros, echoing the Sumerian Ziusudra, rather than the Akkadian Uta-
napištim), as well as other sources that have not survived (Kuhrt 1987: 46).
interest in the role of sages echoes the attention to the relationship between scholars and the court
in the unusual composition, “The Uruk List of Kings and Sages” (Beaulieu 2006: 143). This
document, written by Anu-Bēlšunu of Uruk, the subject of our best-known horoscope, lists
famous kings and their ummānu or advisors. The last entry in the text is probably Nikarchos, a
well-known governor of Uruk (Lenzi 2008). Beyond Berossus and the Uruk list, two dozen
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examples of seals from Uruk featuring apkallu, half-human, half-fish figures like Oannes, testify
to contemporary interest in these scholars. Most of these seals belonged to members of the
Kidin-Anu family, who were exorcists, astrologers, and high officials at the Anu temple
(Wallenfels 1996: 120-1; 1993). It is likely that Berossus highlighted the importance of these
sages, particularly the fish-man Oannes, for the same reason that the Urukean citizenry did, as
part of an argument for the critical role of Babylonian priests and scholars in the Seleucid
empire.
In order to make his case more persuasive, Berossus also adopted Greek literary
conventions and perhaps most importantly, composed his history in Greek (Tuplin 2013). The
book was clearly organized as a Hellenistic ethnography, and hence follows earlier works by
Hecataeus, Herodotus, and perhaps even Megasthenes (Kuhrt 1987: 47; De Breucker 2011:
647). It seems likely that Berossus was well-versed in earlier Greek scholarship on Babylonia,
as he criticized Greek accounts for their inaccuracies regarding Semiramis. This criticism,
however, was itself a Greek historiographic trope (Kuhrt 1987). In addition to this
organizational framework, Berossus also incorporated certain Greek rhetorical devices. His
description of the origins of the world from water, for example, was an allegorical account that
Berossus introduced himself and his sources in the preface to his book. This strategy of
centering the author and justifying his authority was a Greek, but not Mesopotamian, practice
Given the sources at our disposal, it is impossible to evaluate the impact of the
however, that this work did not become the standard account of Babylonian history for a Greek-
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reading audience and that Herodotus and Ctesias remained far more influential. Indeed, little
would survive of the Babyloniaca at all, except that some of Berossus's tales became important
to Jewish and Christian authors when they sought to affirm the truth of their religious tradition in
Apart from this religiously motivated accounts, later Classical tradition did not remember
Berossus as a historian, but instead as a priest of Bēl and an authority on astrology. In addition
to the historical quotations from the Babyloniaca, scholars in the classical world attribute several
fragments about astronomical and astrological matters to Berossus. Since the early twentieth
century, however, historians of science have assigned the authorship of these astronomical and
ancient history and Assyriology. As Amelie Kuhrt has demonstrated, there are no clear
Babylonian sources for the two longest statements regarding the moon and the end of the world
in these astronomical fragments (Kuhrt 1987a: 39-44; Lambert 1976a), although these sources
may be drawn from mythological traditions like Enūma Eliš or not be extant (Burstein 1978: 15).
But as we have seen, history, divination, astronomy, and astrology were categories that were
difficult to separate in Seleucid Babylonia, particularly within the Esagila temple, the scholarly
context in which Berossus presumably composed his Babyloniaca (De Breucker 2013). Given
this, it would be rather surprising if Berossus had not been trained in both astronomy and
I suspect that the categorical denial of Berossus the astronomer has much to do with
shifting fashions within scholarship, and particularly the view that Babylonian astronomy was a
“closed chapter” in the history of sciences, with little effect on classical scholarship, which was
prevalent until the last decade or so (D. Brown 2010). Perhaps now that most scholars have
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accepted the influential position of Babylonian astronomy and astrology in the Hellenistic world,
Berossus in this light, as a scholar, Babylonian priest, and member of the Babylonian citizenry,
than we can interpret his work as part of a sophisticated argument for the importance of a
Babylonian scholarship that included recent advances in astronomy and astrology. Like his
contemporaries in Babylon and Uruk, Berossus grounded his authority in the hoary antiquity of
the scholarly tradition that he exemplified, while also drawing on up-to-date scholarly
information from Greek and Babylonian sources and packaging his entire book in a novel form.
Temples served as critical loci for scholarship, religion, and local community engagement. They
provided the settings for the public events and daily practices that affirmed the power of tradition
in Seleucid Babylonia. When Seleucid kings and governors undertook temple renovations, they
were following in the footsteps of scores of rulers before them. The same is true of temple
officials at Babylon and Uruk, who ensured that the temples remained important economic
centers and continued to practice rituals, reciting prayers in Sumerian, a language that had been
dead for nearly two millennia. At the same time, priests both drew upon and affirmed traditions
in scholarship. Promoting tradition in Babylonia was far from a politically neutral act or a
natural outgrowth of millennia of royal, religious, and scholarly activity. Instead, the Seleucid
kings, temple officials, and citizenry all sought to reinterpret traditional Babylonian culture as
part of a larger political argument directed towards the multiethnic communities of Babylonia.
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Rebuilding the Temple
Some of the best evidence of engagement with Mesopotamian tradition during the
Seleucid period comes from archaeological and epigraphic material resulting from temple
Uruk, Babylon, and Larsa and textual references that indicate additional construction in Ur (Boiy
2010). These temples comprise some of the oldest and most important in Mesopotamia,
including the Esagila in Babylon, the Ezida in Borsippa, the Ebabbar in Larsa, and the Eanna in
Uruk, along with new temples, like the Rēš and Ešgal in Uruk. The sponsors of these
construction projects, Seleucid kings and high officials, furnished many of these religious
establishments with building inscriptions. Together with the architectural evidence, these
inscriptions allow us to see how different actors negotiated Mesopotamian religion and Seleucid
politics.
The Ezida, Nabû’s temple in Borsippa, was excavated in 1879-1880 by Rassam for the
British Museum, who was also running simultaneous excavations at Babylon (fig. 45). Neither
Rassam nor Daud Thoma, his chief foreman, was often present at Borsippa, and as a result,
although we have a composite plan of the temple, we do not have a clear idea of its stratigraphy
and so cannot evaluate the effects of the Seleucid renovation. In light of this, it is rather
surprising that we do have a context for a cylinder building inscription, which was “encased in
some kiln-burnt bricks covered over with bitumen,” in the wall between room A1 and court 1
(Reade 1986: 109). The cylinder, which records the repairs that Antiochus I made to the Ezida,
is the last known cuneiform royal building inscription (fig. 46). Much about the cylinder is
strikingly traditional, including its general appearance, script, language, organization, and ritual
descriptions. The first audience for this text was presumably the Ezida priesthood and perhaps
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other Babylonian scholars, who no doubt were also involved in its composition (Sherwin-White
1991).
A recent article proposes that Antiochus used the cylinder to provide a traditional
Babylonian framework for a Seleucid imperial program. Paul Kosmin contends that the text
establishes an equivalence between Nabû and Apollo, at least partly through homonymy, by
referring to Nabû repeatedly as aplu, Akkadian for heir. Moreover, he argues that the cylinder
may have been modeled on Nebuchednezzar’s building inscription, given its shape, use of
archaizing sign forms, and in its unusual incorporation of a prayer for the extension of the
reimagining of this greatest of Neo-Babylonian kings in the early Hellenistic period,” when the
Seleucid court developed the figure of Nebuchadnezzar into a heroic fore-runner of the Seleucid
extended his empire all the way to Spain (Kosmin 2013; Kosmin 2014).
The Antiochus cylinder also records that monarch’s plans to rebuild the Esagila in
Babylon. Similarly, Strabo and Arrian both note that Alexander intended to rebuild the ziggurat
in Babylon, the Etemenanki, although his early death prevented the completion of this task.
Entries in the astronomical diaries also mention “clearing the dust” from the Esagila on several
occasions, presumably as part of renovation campaigns (Van der Spek 2006: 266-75). There is
some evidence at the Esagila and Etemenanki of Seleucid period work, although the nature of the
excavations here, where extensive tunneling was used, destroyed much of the evidence (Wetzel
et al. 1957: 29-33). The hill of Homera, the site of the Greek colony in Babylon, was composed
of debris from the Neo-Babylonian period, which served as foundations for the city’s theater
(Schmid 1995: 92-5; Koldewey 1914). Within this debris are fragments of bricks and a building
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inscription of Nebuchadnezzar that belong to an earlier construction phase of the Etemenanki,
perhaps indicating that this material came from temple renovations. Greek literary sources make
it clear that Alexander’s attention to the main temple in Babylon was part of a larger political
strategy of respect for Babylonian religious tradition. The same sources, as well as Babylonian
inscriptions, indicate that the Esagila continued to be important even after Babylon lost its status
There is also evidence of temple construction at Uruk, although the individuals who
commissioned these projects were not kings. Three of the excavated temples at Uruk were built
during the Seleucid period, the Rēš and Ešgal 153 sanctuaries in the center of the city, and the
Akītu temple outside its walls (Kose 1998). The Eanna precinct and the Ziggurat of Anu, the sky
god, were also repaired during this period, although major cult activity had moved into the Rēš
temple (Kose 1998: 257-276). Although all of these buildings are recognizably traditional
Babylonian temples, “they do not represent merely a restoration of earlier temples; rather, they
are either new creations or radical redesigning of the earlier structures” (Downey 1988: 16). The
Rēš temple, dedicated to Anu, is built on a badly destroyed Assyrian temple, but Ešgal, dedicated
to Nanaya, is built on a site where there is no evidence of an earlier building. Both temples are
unusually large. The Bit Rēš is 201 X 162 m (fig. 47) and the Ešgal is 198 X 205 m (fig. 48),
while the Neo-Babylonian Esagila in Babylon was 79 X 86 m. But in terms of plan they are
similar to earlier cultic buildings, with large fortification walls and several courts with attendant
chapels.
laid bricks throughout, unlike in the Achaemenid period, where monumental buildings had a pisé
core with brick facing. Builders decorated the temple with glazed baked bricks with relief
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decoration, some portraying animal bodies and other designs like stars and palmettes, perhaps in
imitation of earlier decorative motifs like the Ištar Gate at Babylon (Downey 1988: 22). A
fragmentary Greek inscription was found on some of these bricks, and a frieze probably ran
immediately below the roof of the Rēš temple, as in Achaemenid or Greek temples (Oelsner
2002: 187; Kose 1998: 75). Access to the Anu-Antu temple at the Bīt Rēš was complicated, but
it differs from most of the temples of Babylon by increasing the visibility of the cult image,
which could be seen from the main entrance, unlike in earlier temples (Downey 1988: 42).
The Ešgal temple also followed a Babylonian court plan. The baked brick temple in the
southeast corner of the precinct enclosed an area of 104 X 87 m. Glazed bricks in blue and
white, as well as some with designs in relief ornamented its walls. One of the most interesting
features of this temple is its building inscription, in Aramaic, which ran across the lowest row of
glazed bricks in the cult niche. This short inscription does no more than name the builder, “Anu-
Uballiṭ, whose other name is Kephalon” (Boiy 2010: 217; Falkenstein 1941: 31; Bowman 1939),
but its choice of language is unusual for a temple building inscription. Anu-Uballiṭ-Kephalon
also rebuilt the cella of Anu and Antum in the Rēš Temple, where he left bricks inscribed in
Akkadian (Dijk and Mayer 1980; Jordan and Preusser 1928: 47; Boiy 2010: 216). In his work
there he was following in the footsteps of an earlier Anu-Uballiṭ, also called Nikarchos, who
deposited an Akkadian cylindrical building inscription in the Rēš temple’s foundations during his
renovations (YOS 1 52; Doty 1988; Clay 1915). This Nikarchos is probably the last ruler to
The varied building inscriptions of the two Anu-Uballiṭs provide an intriguing glimpse
into the position and political strategies of two powerful officials in Uruk. Although there are
other non-royal building inscriptions, these are quite rare in earlier periods. 154 The range of
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media used in the inscriptions—a cuneiform cylinder, a cuneiform brick inscription, Aramaic
and perhaps Greek inscriptions decorating the cella—highlights the interest of the two Anu-
Uballiṭs to finding innovative ways to establish and express their authority. Like the architects
whose use of tradition was innovative in the two major Hellenistic temple complexes, Kephalon
and Nikarchos used the polysemous idiom of building inscriptions to establish their power in
Uruk.
Kephalon and Nikarchos were not alone in their efforts. Their use of Aramaic and Greek
building, a palace that Adad-nadin-Aḫḫe built in the ruins of Girsu’s main temple, the Eninnu.
The construction of this palace used ancient bricks, from the third millennium king Gudea’s
and Greek (Downey 1988: 48; Sass and Marzahn 2010: 11, 214-5; fig. 49). The palace itself was
divided into a public area and private residential zones. The great court stood at the heart of the
public area and was decorated with statues of Gudea, gathered from various sanctuaries, with
most of them probably coming from the ruins of the Eninnu itself (Parrot 1948: 16, 155). Here
again, we see an urban official constructing a new building in a long-abandoned city and
Temple construction and the deposition of building inscriptions were essential ritual acts
in Mesopotamia generally and Seleucid Babylonia particularly (Ambos 2004; Linssen 2004).
These particular inscriptions and their associated ceremonies probably reached a larger audience
than earlier Mesopotamian building rituals had. The Greek and Aramaic building inscriptions
were not buried in the foundations of the Rēš and Ešgal temples, but displayed on their walls,
accessible to the priests, but also to the citizenry who gathered in the courtyard in order to take
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part in the assembly (see below). The same is true in Adad-nadin-Aḫḫe’s palace. Far from
Urukeans, helping to bring into being both a religious and a civic community.
Construction techniques, decoration, and building rituals are just the beginning of the
ways that different constituencies employed tradition as part of a political dialogue. During this
period, the temples came to exercise important political and civil functions vis-à-vis the Seleucid
court. The activities of the two Anu-Uballiṭs demonstrate this clearly. Anu-Uballiṭ Nikarchos
was initially a member of the temple clergy, before going on to hold the political position of
šaknu or governor (Clancier 2011: 759). Anu-Uballiṭ-Kephalon’s own title seems to have been
rab ša rēš āli ša bīt ilāni ša Uruk (Van der Spek 1994: 601; Doty 1988: 98), or chief of the Uruk
clergy, but he was also probably responsible for urban administration. The Rēš temple thus had
a judicial role that included oversight of both temple and civic affairs (Clancier 2007: 31-2).
In this, Uruk was not unusual, as during the Hellenistic period, chief priests and temple
assemblies in other cities, including Babylon, Larsa, Nippur, and Kutha also probably held both
temple and civic offices (McEwan 1981: 157; Clancier 2011: 759). The title ša rēš āli is also
attested at Nippur, perhaps indicating that the head of the temple also served as the head of the
community of citizens in this city (Joannès 1988). In Babylon, the chief-priet of the Esagila
retained the title of šatammu, but had both administrative and cultic responsibilities, like the rab
ša rēš āli of the other cities. He usually appears in texts with the kiništu, the temple assembly
(Van der Spek 2009, 2006). Indeed, the Esagila’s dual administrative body was important
beyond Babylon, as it also managed affairs in Borsippa, Dilbat, and Kutha. At Babylon, the
members of this assembly were the only people in the city officially known as “Babylonians,”
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mārē Bābili, probably a term that designated citizenship (Clancier 2007: 28). It is possible that
“Urukean” had the same connotation in that city (Clancier 2011: 757). Even if it did not, it is
clear from the names and patronymics in the documentation that a small number of “great”
This role for the temple, and for the attached citizenry, is not new. During the Neo-
Assyrian period the chief administrator of the Esagila temple in Babylon held a similar position,
as can be seen in the letters between the šatammu and Esarhaddon (Nielsen 2011). This may
also have been true during the Achaemenid period, but there is no direct documentation of this
relationship. 155 And asssemblies, of course, had long been characteristic of Mesopotamian cities
(Van de Mieroop 1999; Seri 2005). Seleucid assemblies in Babylon met in the “House of
Deliberation” in the Juniper Garden of the Esagila, and it is likely that other assemblies also met
in temples (Sachs and Hunger 1996: 431, no. 93 A, rev 25; Boiy 2004: 84). In a Hellenistic
context, the Seleucid administration probably interpreted them as a Mesopotamian form of boulē
or civic assembly. Indeed, Greek and Mesopotamian understandings of citizenship and civil
government appear to have established a “middle ground” in the operation of the temple
assembly (White 1991). No doubt both the Uruk and Babylonian elite and the Seleucid
administration benefited from the increased political power of the temples. The great families
who controlled the priesthood had a vested interest in exercising economic and political power
within the city, while the Seleucid kings needed an institution to work through. It is easy enough
to see this resulting from the actions of both the citizenry who could position themselves as
interlocutors and the Seleucid court. The urban citizenry, or the Chaldeans, to use the Hellenistic
term for this group, was well-suited to this role (Clancier 2011: 758-62). The Seleucids were not
along in employing this strategy; temples had a similar function in Ptolemaic Egypt. The
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Ptolemies encouraged the temple’s traditional economic, cultic, and political position, in order to
further their own administrative and economic goals. At the same time, Egyptian priests
and perhaps gain power and political maneuverability (Manning 2010: 82-3, 96).
Temples sought to justify their role as the center of the Babylonian communities not only
through scholarship or religious means, but also by emphasizing the importance of other
traditional practices. The persistence of non-scholarly texts written in Akkadian during this
period requires explanation, in light of the fact that most practical texts were written on other
media, and probably in other languages so that they could be used in both royal courts and in the
temple. We know of several cases where both a leather scroll and tablet recording the same
transaction were drawn up from references in the tablets. In at least one case, it is clear that the
leather text was drawn up a month before the cuneiform copy was made, indicating that it was
the primary document (Clancier 2005: 89). There are at least 23 cases where the same witnesses
appear on tablets and bullae from Uruk, documenting parallel recording practices on leather and
in cuneiform (Wallenfels 2000: 340). So why did people in Babylon and Uruk, and perhaps a
handful of other centers, continue to write contracts and some administrative texts in cuneiform,
particularly when they already had a copy of them on leather in Greek or Aramaic?
I suggest that to a large extent the composition of these texts was an exhibition of
Babylonian identity and part of a wider argument for the importance of this community within
the Seleucid empire (Clancier 2011: 766). Most Hellenistic contracts were well made and
beautifully written in a clear cuneiform script, with carefully applied seal impressions marking
the tablet’s edges (Clancier 2011: 762). At Uruk, contracts generally used a landscape format
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and had thick edges, to allow space for seal impressions, a practice that began in the late
common. 156 These documents were probably created as part of scribal training, as a way to
preserve and transmit knowledge of disappearing genres. The elegant, clear script used on these
tablets would have demonstrated a scribe’s mastery of this ancient form. The use of cuneiform
contracts in temple courts may have helped to set apart the citizenry who employed this archaic
medium from the rest of the population of Uruk and Hellenistic Babylonia (Clancier 2011). In
this case, the act of pressing a seal into a cuneiform tablet may have marked someone as a
member of a group, a performative activity that established a specific identity. Such legal
activities, although perhaps not religious, are best understood as performances of tradition,
demonstrations of the citizenry’s ancient prerogatives to the community itself and to the Seleucid
court.
highlighting the cultural importance of these activities beyond the realm of scholarship. As we
have already seen in the Abu-Uballiṭs’ building inscriptions, however, many of these
considering sealing practices. On one hand, this period sees an almost total adoption of signet
rings. Although rings were occasionally used earlier, particularly in the late Achaemenid period,
their ubiquity is a Seleucid phenomenon (Wallenfels 1994: 1, 1996). Only four impressions
from cylinder seals and ten impressions from Achaemenid stamp seals occur in the Hellenistic
Uruk corpus, which contains 1523 seals used by 1100 different people (Wallenfels 1994: 143-4).
On the other hand, like the pottery and the figurines, most seal imagery combines Babylonian,
Greek, and Persian motifs in ways that were also common during the previous Achaemenid and
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even Neo-Babylonian periods. The only exceptions to this trend are the rare gemstones, which
feature a different array of designs, many of which seem to have been introduced from Greece,
although the majority of these rings were owned by people with Babylonian names (Wallenfels
1994: 145). The practice of identifying seal owners on tablets shows just how many people
continued to use cuneiform contracts. In addition to the 1100 different seal users, over 3000
people were named in the texts, demonstrating the popularity of this system.
The changing role of temple archives in the larger community also illustrates both
continued interest in using traditional cuneiform on the part of the populace and how non-
traditional these practices were when compared to the earlier first millennium BC. 157 Cuneiform
tablets, along with bullae or napkin rings that once held leather scrolls, have been found in both
the Rēš and Ešgal temples and represent traces of Seleucid practices that differ from those of
earlier administrations. The composition of these archives is distinct from those of early Neo-
Babylonian/Achaemenid ones, like that from the nearby temple complex of Eanna in Uruk, or
the Ebabbar in Sippar, the two best-documented archives from the long 6th century (Kümmel
1979; Jursa 2005b; Bongenaar 1997). Although private contracts and some literary texts were
kept together with institutional documents in both temples, in these and other Neo-
Babylonian/Achaemenid temple archives, unwitnessed administrative texts are the largest single
category of texts (Gesche 2001; Jursa 2005b: 45; Pedersén 1998: 206). 158 This is not the case for
Hellenistic period temples, which contained very few administrative documents. Instead,
contracts, including large numbers from private contexts, and literary tablets dominate the
excavated collections from the Uruk temples. As a result, they resemble private rather than
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In fact the large number of sealed contracts and literary texts held in temple archives
probably indicate that their archival function had changed. The storage of private documents in
temple archives nicely reflects the situation in the Archive Building at Seleucia on the Tigris,
where 25,000 perishable documents, known only from their sealings, were stored (Invernizzi
2003). Antonio Invernizzi, Seleucia’s excavator, describes the building as a city archive,
accessible to members of the community who needed to preserve legal documents or copies
thereof (Invernizzi 1996, 1994) (fig. 50). 159 The Rēš temple probably served a similar function
for members of Uruk’s citizenry. Documents stored here would have been easily available for
legal proceedings that probably took place when the council assembled in the courtyard of this
temple. Temples in other cities may have also served the same role, although the evidence is
communities, for meetings of the assembly, legal affairs, and other overtly political activities.
They also provided the setting for the Akītu ritual, an event that re-presents, breaking down the
established order only to resurrect it. This was a celebration in which Seleucid kings and priests
in Uruk and Babylon invoked tradition as part of political negotiation, as a method to strengthen
hegemony. But events that re-present always contain the possibility of anarchy, by providing
spaces in which to debate the current political order and sometimes contribute to its overthrow. I
will explore three performances of festivals in Seleucid Babylonia, each of which participated in
politics differently.
On April 6, 205 BC, Antiochus III, the Seleucid king, visited Marduk’s temple in
Babylon in order to take part in the rituals on the eighth day of the spring Akītu Festival. What
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precisely happened in the Esagila is unclear, although the astronomical diaries record that
sacrifices were offered for Ištar of Babylon and the life of the king (the latter was understood as a
Greek, not Babylonian, practice) (Sachs and Hunger 1988: no. 204, C, rev. 14-8; Sherwin-White
and Kuhrt 1993: 130-1; Van der Spek 1993a). It is probable that when Antiochus entered the
temple, he participated in the ceremony whereby Marduk determined the destiny of the king and
his land for the upcoming year. Afterwards, Antiochus “took the hand of Bel,” probably a
gesture in which he reaffirmed his kingship, and led the god into the city. Then, as the populace
of the city lined the processional way, the king and the statues of the gods paraded through
Babylon, before traveling by boat to the Akītu temple (Black 1981; Bidmead 2002; Cohen 1993).
Marduk would stay outside of the city for three days before returning to the Esagila, causing
order to triumph over primal chaos for another year (Sommer 2000: 89-90).
Antiochus III’s celebration of the Akītu festival was critical both to the legitimacy of
Seleucid kingship and to the way the Babylonian citizenry constituted itself as a body politic.
His visit to Babylon for this festival followed five years of hard campaigning in the northern and
eastern provinces of the empire, during which he re-established Seleucid dominion over much of
the Caucasus and Iran and even reaffirmed an alliance with Sophagasenus, who ruled the lands
beyond the Indus (Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993: 198-9). In recognition of these military and
diplomatic successes, Antiochus’ Greek contemporaries referred to him as basileus megas, great
king, a translation of an originally Akkadian title, inherited from the Seleucid’s Persian
predecessors. Antiochus’ participation in the Akītu festival can be seen against this backdrop, as
a way for him to reassert his authority in the heartland of his empire, by affirming his position as
a traditional Mesopotamian king. Moreover, Antiochus’s performance of the rites at the apex of
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the festival, when the fate of the land was cast, underscored both his past successes and set the
Eighteen years later, after his disastrous defeat at the hands of the Romans at
Thermopylae, and the treaty of Apamea in which he ceded all Seleucid territory in Asia Minor,
Antiochus returned to the Esagila of Babylon once more, perhaps seeking both gold to repay his
debts and confirmation of a legitimacy that may have seemed increasingly shaky. He spent at
least ten days in Babylon and its environs, offering sacrifices to the gods and for the lives of his
wife and sons at the Esagila, the Ezida, and the Akītu temple. As part of this affair, the šatammu
and the assembly of Babylonians gave him a gold crown weighing 1,000 shekels, a gesture that
was meaningful in both Babylonian and Hellenistic contexts. Later, another gold crown, gold
box, and a purple garment that had once belonged to King Nabonidus were removed from the
temple’s treasury, although whether they were used as props or costumes for various ritual
activities, given to Antiochus, or merely shown to him, is not clear (Boiy 2004: 156-7; Sherwin-
White and Kuhrt 1993: 216; Sachs and Hunger 1988: no. 187: rev. 4’-18’). Nabonidus’ garment
may have been particularly important, given the Seleucid kings’ treatment of their Neo-
Babylonian predecessors as symbolic ancestors (Kosmin 2014). Antiochus’ last visit to Babylon
did not coincide with the Akītu festival, but many of his activities during this month recalled that
ritual, particularly his sacrifices at the three temples. This visit may have sought to demonstrate
and re-establish this king’s charismatic position, as the chosen of Marduk, prior to a second set
The participation of Antiochus III in the festival and other rituals at the Esagila can be
interpreted in various ways. From the perspective of the Seleucid administration, this act may
have been meant to coney respect for a hoary religious tradition or have been an example of
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Hellenistic syncretism From the viewpoint of the temple, however, the festival may have
provided a way for the Babylonian priesthood to register a silent protest against Greek rule (Scott
1990, 2012). Certainly, the šatammu may have used the ritual humiliation of the king to
demonstrate that his jurisdiction was greater (Smith 1982). Even if this part of the ritual was an
older survival, as seems likely (Michalowski 1990), each performance of it was probably made
appropriate to that year’s political events. The Babylonian priesthood were the keepers of
traditional religion, but they were also knowledgeable actors who used their religious knowledge
as a way of asserting authority in other domains as well. As a consequence of this position, they
emerge as the guardians of Babylon’s wealth and arbiters of the king’s legitimacy. Their
importance is highlighted by the fact that Antiochus’ participation in the Akītu festival was
unusual enough to feature in the astronomical diaries, suggesting that the king rarely took part.
Usually the priests alone directed the festival, the same way they took charge of governing the
Babylonian community, the reckoning of time, and all the other previously royal domains that
they had quietly usurped during the Achaemenid and Seleucid periods.
The autumn Akītu festival, as celebrated at Uruk, in the vast Akītu temple complex
excavated in 1954-1956 north of the city walls (fig. 51), afforded the priests and officials of this
city another opportunity to reimagine tradition and politics (Kose 1998: 277-289). Like the
spring Akītu festival in Babylon, the Uruk celebration lasted for 11 days and included several
similar rites. As in Babylon, on the eighth day of the festival the city god, in this case Anu, the
sky god, led a parade of gods on their journey to the Akītu temple. The procession left the Rēš
temple via the grand gate where the high priests, exorcists, “temple enterers” and brewers of the
temple greeted him, and traveled, partly by water, to the Akītu temple (Falkenstein 1941;
Pongratz-Leisten 1994; Linssen 2004). On the ninth day they returned and Anu was seated on
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both the dais of destinies and the dais of kingship, probably re-establishing his position as king
of Uruk and his responsibility for the fate of the land. One of the most interesting features of the
long festival is the minor role of the king, who is portrayed as just another participant (Linssen
2004: 76). Indeed, unlike the priests who took part in all stages of the rite, the king only appears
on day 8 when he is sprinkled with water along with the other Urukeans. As a result, in direct
contrast to the king’s starring role in the Babylon festival, the Uruk ceremony celebrated and
affirmed the dominant role of the Uruk citizenry. Unlike their counterparts in Babylon, the
priests of the Reš temple in Uruk did not need to humiliate the king as part of the ceremony.
Instead, they wrote him out of the festival, performing a political vision that ignored the
During the Seleucid period, the house and the countryside were not sites of
connected to religion and the temple. Indeed, Mesopotamian temples, archives, and scholarship
served as “protected enclaves” or, to use the French historian Pierre Nora’s term, lieux de
mémoires, separate and protected from the vicissitudes of ordinary life. As Nora writes:
Lieux de mémoires arise out of a sense that there is no such thing as spontaneous
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The priests and citizenry of Uruk invested in Mesopotamian scholarship and religion in order to
construct their authority based on tradition and a pragmatic openness to Hellenistic practice. For
their part, Alexander and especially the Seleucid kings also used Mesopotamian forms, including
cuneiform, as part of their political program of establishing belonging far from Macedon. The
very real transformation of so many elements of quotidian existence during the later centuries
BC made the continued citation of tradition particularly important. Like Nora’s lieux de
mémoires, these practices seem fragile, apt to disappear at any moment. As in Majapahit,
The Akītu festival was also a lieu de mémoires, one that despite its seemingly static and
traditional nature, could be manipulated differently by an elite that was far from united. The
festivals we have examined are all examples of performances in which actors employed ancient
rituals to make different, strikingly non-traditional cases about political roles and responsibilities
spectacles of authority. Given the important adjudicatory role of the audience in Greek drama
(Roselli 2011), perhaps including those plays staged at the theater in Babylon, it seems unlikely
that they were silent, naïve, or unquestioning, even when viewing a “traditional” Babylonian
ritual, like the Akītu festival. The people who lined the processional ways of Babylon and Uruk
probably formed sophisticated, and perhaps critical, audiences. They may have taken advantage
of these festivals to imagine an alternative to the empire, a world in which the king was
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V. Community
From Hayam Wuruk’s royal progress to the Akītu Festival, rituals provide an opportunity
to celebrate, establish, and negotiate political identities and practices. But understanding the
performance of politics—the significance of and roles played by the Persepolis festival in the
Iranian revolution or the Ebla coronation ceremony in the rise of this city-state—requires
attention to broader symbolic systems and the ways they are materialized through daily practice
in a world of things. This makes it essential to consider performance in all of its aspects,
The preceding chapters considered the intersection of ritual, performance, and politics
through a close reading of three different rituals taken from different times and places in the
ancient Near East, which represented three different types of public events. Each chapter
analyzed how the rituals drew upon a system of collective representations in order to establish
their “scripts” and how they were deployed through a range of materialized symbols—settings
and props that gave them a certain narrative force that endured long after the performance ended.
The chapters also considered the mise-en-scène of individual performance events, the different
ways that political actors enacted their visions, and how the responses of the audience informed
execution of Louis XVI, or the transformation of individuals into ancestors at K’axob, work to
effect certain political transitions. This process served to transform Tabur-Damu and Iš’ar-Damu
into the king and queen of Ebla to such an extent that the documentation never addresses them
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by name again. Alternatively, events that present—rituals that mirror an idealized reality—like
the Majapahit processions, Persepolis festival, or the kispum ritual at Mari—may be used by
political elites to develop specific arguments. Unlike the first type of ritual, these performances
do little more than establish a specific rhetorical framework, indeed, by presenting an image of
authority that is at odds with reality, they may backfire, and rarely create a stable political order.
Similarly, events that represent—rituals that allow for the dissolution and recreation of a stable
order—like the Fiesta de Santa Fe or the Akītu festival—provide a locus for dissent and political
The specific concepts that each chapter explored—movement, memory, and tradition—
are also critical to the establishment of these broader symbolic systems, as they are foundational
for any community. They may be understood and negotiated differently, but together their
interpretation is part of a larger practical system, one that provides a common-sense framework
for daily life (Roseberyy 1994). Although the particular meaning assigned to them within a
political configuration could be and were contested, the elaboration of such abstractions
structured the arena in which politics were performed. Movement, memory, and tradition lay at
the heart of complex symbolic systems that were articulated in grand rituals like the Ebla
coronation journey, the Feast of the Land, and the Akītu festival. These rituals mattered,
however, only in the sense that they were related to processes and understandings that were more
widely applicable. The power of tradition emerged not just from Antiochus’s celebration of the
Akītu festival, but instead from how that celebration cited, affirmed, and helped to create a
The ambiguous and arbitrary nature of these concepts is crucial to their role as “nodal
points” that helped to partially fix meaning, in a way which is by definition contingent (Laclau
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and Mouffe 2001: xi). Within any political domain, hegemony is the struggle over symbolic
systems. It is a contest over how certain concepts are defined with respect to others and over
which ideas will become the source of ultimate meaning (Žižek 1989: 87). Indeed, to a large
extent, this is the form that politics takes. Hence, politics is a contest over the negotiation of
meaning, practiced in the design of road networks, funerals, the construction of temples, or the
writing of history. In archaic states, with limited effective power over their inhabitants, such
ritual performances are how “the group… teaches itself and masks from itself its own
truth…tacitly defining the limits of the thinkable and the unthinkable and so contributing to the
maintenance of the social order from which it derives its power” (Bourdieu 1990: 108).
Each of the chapters has highlighted a different abstraction, but all three were contested
in each period, as they are in all political communities. As a nodal point, a particular concept
may become meaningful (or overdetermined) for a wide web of social relations, but no polity is
ever organized around just one central idea (Laclau and Mouffe 2001: 139). The case studies
highlight the multiplicity of strategies that different individuals chose to employ in three
different situations: the rise of the first city-states in the third millennium BC, the re-
establishment of political authority in the early second millennium BC, and the Seleucid
the specific ways that the control of movement, the commemoration of ancestors, or scholarly
traditions brought specific polities into being. Here I would like to adopt instead a comparative
and synthetic approach and reflect on the case studies, and what they may tell us about the
longue durée of Mesopotamian history. I will consider several concepts that are implicit in all of
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the chapters—community, instability, and political strategies—and which are essential to the
investigation of Ancient Near Eastern polities, before concluding with a brief meditation on
continuity.
Performing Community
I have argued that in Early Bronze Age Ebla, Old Babylonian Mari, and Seleucid Babylonia,
people created political communities through performance, both in rituals and through everyday
enactments of particular identities that drew upon the same system of collective representations.
communities were not necessarily unitary, and the sense of belonging generated within ritual or
daily practice was often weak, however, the emergence of a collective identity was an essential
part of politics. Given this, it is necessary to reflect on the nature of communities in general, and
political communities in particular, in order to unpack some of the implications of this process.
sociology, where it was almost always contrasted with society (Gesellschaft). In this sense,
community represented the natural human social unit, a close-knit group of people living in
small, rural villages, united through kinship, geographical proximity, economic interest, place,
and history. In contrast, society meant industrialized urbanism, where organic solidarity
produced by the faceless mechanisms of the economy and the state was opposed to the
mechanical solidarity based on kinship and proximity that prevailed in a community (Tönnies
1988; Durkheim 1984 [1893]). In this and subsequent work, communities are characterized by
cohesiveness and solidarity, a sense of unity created from daily interactions and exchanges
commonalities and also distinguish themselves from non-members, creating a sense of “us” and
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“them.” Although the notion of community expanded greatly during the course of the twentieth
workplaces, schools, churches, bowling alleys, or bars (Putnam 2000), most work on community
in the twentieth century continued to portray communities as natural (Mac Sweeney 2011: 12-4).
In the past thirty years, however, there has been an increasing recognition of the fact that simply
living or working in the same space does not automatically give rise to a community, in terms of
a collective sense of “us,” a shared identity. In this sense, community is a mental construct, an
imagined solidarity that is symbolically constructed, emerging from cultural practices rather than
social institutions (Cohen 1985). This imagining, however, must be materialized through social
communities are imagined and are constructed through social interaction, than they are neither
primordial nor universal. Community identity may only be salient in certain situations and at
There are two relevant points for the performance of politics in the Ancient Near East
that can be taken from more than a century of community studies. First, one of the
commonalities at Ebla, Mari, and Seleucid Babylonia is the tension between small-scale
communities and larger political formations. Second, it is clear that although stable political
shared civilization that transcends political divisions. In the Ancient Near East, small-scale
communities were not always rural communities, as they were for Tönnies or Durkheim, rather
they included herding groups, neighborhoods, tribes, and cities. During each period, some of the
meaningful social divisions are different, although others remain important loci for community
and corporate identity throughout this longue durée. Each of the public events that we
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considered mediates between these tensions in order to bring a larger political community into
being, through pilgrimage in the Ebla coronation rite, the commemorative rituals in the Feast of
Similarly, the more extensive political communities that we may see in Northern
Mesopotamia, the Middle Euphrates, or Babylonia are not nations. Their commonality is not
constructed in terms of shared language or ethnicity. Indeed, it is hard for us to even evaluate
ethnicity as a category. Although certain ethnic terms survive in texts, their referent and context
of use are unclear; and they do not appear to be particularly significant in social life. Even the
categories that are salient in the Ancient Near East, such as citizenship or tribal affiliation, do not
often correspond with larger political realities. There is no pan-ethnic identity or language
community that can give rise to a cohesive collective identity like nationalism. Given this, do
In certain cases we do see the appearance of larger political communities that consist of
fields of practice and sometimes administrative units. Nonetheless, these political formations are
rarely stable, do not have defined borders, and tend to cohere only in situations in which ritual
systems coincide with economic, administrative, and political networks. In other words,
establishing a community requires all aspect of performance—from public events to daily life—
to be performative.
In the Ebla region, for instance, the small area defined by the Ebla Coronation journey,
regular deliveries of agricultural produce, and administrative intervention, probably did conceive
of itself as a community, but not one that necessarily coincided with the various political or
material culture divisions that historians or archaeologists draw. Indeed, this territory, located
within one or two day’s travel from the city of Ebla, represented neither the territory that Ebla
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claimed to rule nor the territory defined by caliciform pottery, both of which were more
expansive (Milano and Rova 2000; Matthiae and Marchetti 2013). But it was an important
economic and ritual unit all the same, one brought into being through both practice and public
events. More extensive networks, such as the one formed by Ebla’s allied towns and client
kings, were necessarily weaker, tied together by symbolic deliveries of metals and textiles, the
raison d’être of the administration, and the participation of Ebla’s elite in a series of religious
performances like ‘Adabal’s ritual circuit, elite funerals, and royal weddings (Biga 2010).
The same is probably true of many of the mātu during the early second millennium BC,
like the Land of Apum or even Mari, whose constituent territories on the Banks-of-the-Euphrates
were administered as a unit for at least a century. Here, the ritual invocation of a specific past,
through the kispum and other ritual journeys like the sihirtum, were linked to individual polities.
Rituals on the level of the polity only worked, however, when they drew upon widely shared
ideas of history and cited practices like ancestor veneration and the curation of heirlooms that
also occurred in settlements as a whole. Unlike their third millennium predecessors, the
emerging polities, however, were conceived less as territories and more as various peoples. The
continued survival of the smaller kingdoms during this period relied upon negotiations between a
range of sedentary and semi-sedentary actors. Perhaps as a result, although lands were
important, other community identities were more significant for many people, especially ties to a
During the Seleucid period, in contrast, the increase in trade, more stable administrative
divisions, and improvements in the transportation and communication networks may have led to
larger territories with shared identities. Certainly, the role of the šatammu-priest at the Esagila,
who controlled not only the affairs of the temple, or even of Babylon’s citizenry, but were also
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responsible for people living throughout Northern Babylonia, may have helped create a
community. This new regional organization may have promoted a pan-Babylonian identity that
undercut older, city-based political affiliations, although cities remained essential to political
establishment of a Pan-Hellenic identity during the Roman Empire under similar constraints
(Alcock 1993; Alcock 2002). The number of students from across Babylonia learning how to
read and write Akkadian and Sumerian in an early Hellenistic schoolroom in Uruk is another
aspect of this process. This community may have been partly constituted in opposition to the
dominant Greek culture (Van der Spek 2009), and although it never coincided with an
independent political unit, remaining at all times subject to Seleucid hegemony, it comes closest
The second important point, the creation of a broader, shared civilization, is particularly
apparent in the first two case studies. In the mid-third millennium BC, this probably
corresponded to the “Kish civilization,” and included the diplomatic partners of the Ebla court
from Kish in the south to Nagar in the East and perhaps beyond. 161 The use of the term Kish
civilization is not meant to describe the Middle Euphrates and Northern Mesopotamia as a proto-
empire, subordinate to this central Mesopotamian city, instead it merely indicates a wide
diplomatic network, whose participants exchanged high status gifts and brides, and supported
each other in negotiations and in military affairs. By the early second millennium BC, the area
from Haşor in the southwest, to Ekallātum in the East, and Larsa in the south formed a cultural
koine, based on a common diplomatic language, shared religious symbols, and a flexible tribal
system. Apart from this broad, pan-Mesopotamian network, certain cities probably had closer
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relations, particularly Ešnunna, Babylon, Mari, Halab, and Ekallātum. In the Seleucid empire,
there may have been a similar koine defined in “Hellenistic,” not Babylonian, terms.
While it seems clear that Mesopotamian political communities were not nations, an
assertion that would strike few scholars as debatable, there is growing evidence that they were
not really “states” either. At least, they were not states in the classic sense that this term has
been used in anthropology and political philosophy. I am not the first person to argue this, and
this is not a place for an extended discussion of the intellectual history of the state or its use in
anthropological archaeology. 162 Instead, I am interested in the specific ways that these polities
differ from later ones, and the social and political implications of these differences. As Lisa
Wedeen has noted in the case of contemporary Yemen, a performance perspective may be
particularly useful for political analysis in situations in which state institutions are lacking.
Indeed, an exploration of the “performative dimensions of political life” can “[account] for the
fragility and contingency of solidarities in a way that many explanations do not” (Wedeen 2008:
213). One of the most significant consequences of the absence of such institutions in both
Yemen and the Ancient Near East was pervasive political instability, a process that framed much
The most influential definition of the state in twentieth century political theory is Max
Weber’s formulation in “Politik als Beruf” that the state is the single entity within a given
territory that exercises an exclusive monopoly on the legitimate use of violence (Weber et al.
2004: 33). Weber’s definition implies a process in which the state expropriates the resources for
effective decision-making from individuals and other groups and concentrates “all the material
resources of organization in the hands of its leaders” (Weber et al. 2004: 37-8). In modern
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political theory, the state has come to be described as a political entity that controls a definite
territory, where it has a monopoly on violence, and which it governs using an enduring system of
administration, one which will outlive any particular politician. Although each element of this
definition might be necessary to describe modern states adequately (a point about which there is
considerable debate), taken as a whole this definition really only applies to Europe after the
sixteenth, or even eighteenth, century. But as Weber recognized when he formulated this
argument, it coincides well with vernacular understandings of the modern state (Osiander 2007;
Abrams 1988; Ferguson and Mannsbach 1988). Certainly, the three polities that I have
investigated here cannot be easily characterized in these terms, but given the normative force of
Weber’s definition, it is instructive to consider just how the actual practice of politics in these
There are three points that are particularly important in this regard. First, the space of
these polities was often discontinuous, defined by porous borders and consisting of non-
contiguous territories. Second, the enforcement of official policies throughout this territory was
similarly variable, with any individual king able to exercise effective power only in certain urban
spaces and over certain activities. This meant that although most polities did claim a monopoly
over violence, both in the persecution of warfare and the enforcement of justice, this claim was
rarely realized in practice. And third, the clearest difference between a Weberian state and these
Mesopotamian polities lay in their inability to establish an even more fundamental monopoly,
one over political power. In each of the case studies, multiple actors had authority over domains
of life—including violence—that in other times and places are the domain of the state—of the
king and his central administration. These other actors could include tribes, city councils, temple
establishments, and kinship networks. Even when the central administration had great effective
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power—such as in the Akkadian Empire or the third dynasty of Ur—their most critical concern
remained extractive rather than managerial, the administration operated under patrimonial rather
than bureaucratic principles, and they always had limited effective control. 163 Although not all
of these characteristics apply to all of these polities, they are often important factors in what
Mesopotamian kingdoms were rarely, if ever, firmly bounded entities. Instead, like other
pre-modern polities, they are better understood in terms of their shifting frontiers, as an
archipelago of cities and villages scatted across a territory that was contested by other political
actors (Scott 2009; Smith 2005). Two examples from the early second millennium BC illustrate
this point. In the late 18th century, Šeḫna controlled towns both east and west of the Jaghjagh,
entirely separated by Kaḫat, the kingdom centered on this river. Shepherds from Šeḫna,
however, had the right to pasture their sheep along the Jagjagh, Middle Habur, and in the Sinjar,
three territories that were independent of Šeḫna and under the nominal authority of other
kingdoms (fig. 52). Sheep from various sovereign kingdoms could also graze in Šeḫna’s
territory (Ristvet 2008). Similarly, during the 19th century BC, Larsa recorded five victories over
a city called Pī-Nārātim, probably a small town located only 34 miles away, and not in a
contested border region. The fact that this minor settlement, located so close to Larsa, “required
territory and the scope for independent actions by individuals outside of the administration
(Richardson 2012: 19). The discontinuous nature of Larsa’s territory is particularly intriguing
given the very different social and environmental conditions that prevailed in Southern
Mesopotamia, resulting at least partly from frictionless water transport, which encouraged the
formation of extractive polities that more closely resembled Weberian states in the late third
240
millennium BC. Clearly, such intermittent control was the normative situation in the early
second millennium BC and must be understood in cultural and political terms, and not only
Mesopotamia in the 24th century BC, where the territory that Ebla controlled was rarely stable,
but instead contracted and expanded as a result of yearly raids and skirmishes. The government
of Seleucid Babylonia appears to have managed to impose a more even presence across a
developed and populous territory, but even here Arab raids highlight the discontinuous nature of
The second major difference has to do with the almost intractable problem of effective
governance. Pre-modern states always faced the problem of scattered peoples, of individuals
who could escape taxation and official oversight through mobility. This is again most visible in
the early second millennium BC, given the largely mobile population of pastoralists and shifting
village cultivators who could easily evade the jurisdiction of small states. The preserved sections
from three of the five Leilan treaties include stipulations about people who have fled the control
of a polity, indicating the difficulties that states had in retaining people who could easily vote
with their feet (Eidem 2011). In some cases, the people concerned were slaves or captive, but
others may have been ordinary citizens, although the Akkadian terms are not always clear
(Eidem 2011: 341-4). The royal correspondence describes two other groups of people who lived
outside of the effective jurisdiction of any polity: the ḫabirū and the ḫabbātu. Although these
terms may be “virtually synonymous,” in the Mari and Leilan letters, the ḫabirū were emigrants,
who “often acted as rebels against the authority they had escaped.” The ḫabbātu, on the other
hand, were mercenaries outside the control of any one power, who alternately served or
threatened various polities (Eidem 2011). 164 No fewer than 16 letters from Tell Leilan mention
241
this group, who appear in large numbers (Hazip-Teššup, the king of Razamā hired 10,000
ḫabbātum troops) and who pose a clear danger when not employed. When the ḫabbātu raided
the country of Numhâ, Ewri an official stationed east of Apum, wrote letters to the king, warning
him of the dangers coming his way. He described the ḫabbātu as “eating the Land of Numhûm
clean,” adding that they did not leave so much as “a nail in a wall” (Eidem 2011: letter 172, line
8-11). Eidem hypothesizes that their importance in the second half of the 18th century BC
resulted from the “elimination” of kingdoms including Ešnunna, Larsa, and Mari from the
international stage. This created a world divided between just Babylon and Yamhad, neither of
which could establish lasting hegemony over Greater Mesopotamia, nor consistently employ
these surplus soldiers, who refused to live as simple farmers or pastoralists (Eidem 2011: 20).
The difficulty of enforcing policies and compelling obedience from their subjects helps
explain a puzzling fact that emerges from the cuneiform record. In these texts, Mesopotamian
polities seem to often suffer from a shortage of labor, not land. Archaeologists tend to assume
the opposite and often posit persistent land shortage as a driving force in history. But land is
never at a premium in sale documents, making this assumption untenable (Van Driel 1998: 34-
5). Indeed, the prices paid for land, much of which is itself underutilized, in land sales from the
early second millennium BC and the early first millennium BC tends to be the equivalent of the
value of only two to four annual harvests (Van Driel 1998: 39-48). Similar conditions held in the
Seleucid period (Aperghis 2004; Van der Spek 1993b). The low price suggests that there was
always enough land; the main limiting economic factor tended to be people. This also makes
sense of the nature of most Mesopotamian administrative texts, particularly in the third and early
second millennium BC. At Ebla and Beydar there are few texts about agriculture and land,
instead most texts record ration distributions to personnel or track scarce commodities
242
(Sallaberger 1996). The great tebibtum or census undertaken during Samsi-Addu's reign was
about ensuring the loyalty of both settled and nomadic subjects, and recruiting soldiers (Talon
and Hammade 1997; Kellenberger 2000; Michel 1990; Castillo 2005: 133-4). Like many of the
purification and the lists that we have documenting its operation record the presence of religious
The final major difference is partly derived from the problems of effective governance
and has to do with the inability of Mesopotamian polities to consistenly maintain their positions
as authorities of last resort. The activities of the habīru and ḫabbātu in Apum or the Arab tribes
in Seleucid Babylonia testify to the fact that polities did not exercise a monopoly on either
legitimate violence or political authority within their territory. During the early second
millennium and the first millennium BC, tribes, especially, were key political actors, not just
among semi-nomadic pastoralists, but in farming villages along the Middle Euphrates and in
cities like Mari and Šeḫna. As we have seen, pastoralists, villagers, and city-dwellers could all
have a tribal affiliation during the early second millennium BC. Recognizing that tribes, even in
ancient Mesopotamia, were not timeless, sui generis entities, but instead historically contingent,
is essential to understanding their political role during this period. My point here is not that
states and tribes were diametrically opposed entities, always in conflict, as that is quite obviously
not the case in the Mari documentation (Ristvet 2012b; Fleming 2004a; Durand 2004; Porter
2012). Tribes and cities could remain autonomous entities, but often had overlapping spheres of
authority. In some cases, for example, during the reign of Zimri-Lim, as we have seen, urban
kings could define themselves in terms of their tribal identities and employed tribal
organizational principles in the military and administration (Fleming 2004a; above chapter 3).
243
Both tribes and states were part of the same spectrum of politics, and could “diverge and merge
in a myriad of combinations over time” (Porter 2012: 13). What is important is precisely this
ambiguity. Neither polity was a distinct entity, nor did urban authority supplant tribal authority
following a long period of sedentarization. In other words, kings, urban centers, or states did not
have a monopoly on political power, rather tribes exercised political authority as well. They
could engage in conflicts, enact alliances, and decide land disputes, in concert with, or in
opposition to, urban polities. In the late first millennium BC, tribes also appear as essential
political entities, although their relationship to communities in Babylonia is different (Boiy 2004:
But tribes organized as competing and sometimes complementary polities were not the
only political actors. We have no information, for example, that they existed in this form during
the 24th century BC, although there were obviously pastoralists outside of the control of any
kingdom. Instead three other political institutions that could compete with the royal
administration are also relevant in these case studies—kinship networks, councils of elders, and
temples. In all periods, family connections were no doubt important, but it is hard to trace the
authority that individual families or other lineage-based organizations wielded and how that
changed over time. Families exist on the edges of our documentation and understanding the
dynamics of kinship is not possible from material culture alone. During the early second
millennium BC, family connections are particularly important for land tenure, which seems to
have been managed communally either by tribes or kin groups (Van Koppen 2001; Charpin
2010c). A similar situation of communal landownership is much better documented during the
Akkadian period in the stela of Maništušu (Gelb et al. 1991). It is difficult to tell if this was also
the norm at Ebla, although David Schloen suggests as much by translating the term NA.SE11,
244
which describes landholders and ration recipients, as heads of households (Schloen 2001: 281-2).
Kinship networks are also the institutions that resolved most disputes in Mesopotamian cities,
making them the usual locus of legal authority. Such communal organizations probably had
jurisdiction over cases in which the disputants were not employed by the palace (Yoffee 1988:
105). Indeed, the palace intervened rarely and certainly had no monopoly over “justice,” despite
the rhetoric of royal inscriptions and law codes (Bottéro 1992: 160-1; Wells 2005; Roth 1995).
It is quite possible that law was the domain of community institutions because only they had the
power to enforce their decisions. Royal law codes seem to be “barely interested in policing” and
rarely specify just who will incarcerate lawbreakers, or mete out punishment to the condemned
As this example illustrates, in all three periods, councils held real power. In the case of
second millennium BC Urkiš, the town council clearly provided an alternative to the king. This
institution was not subordinated to his authority, nor was it merely another part of an essentially
unitary political system; rather the council and the hapless Terru, Zimri-Lim’s appointee to the
throne of Urkiš, were bitter rivals who both sought to have the final word in diplomacy, warfare,
and other official matters (chapter 3, above). A similar situation may have unfolded in a town
like Lu'atum in Ebla's sphere of authority, which was ruled alternately by a council and the king
of Ebla, although we do not have the same detailed documentation (chapter 2, above).
There are other, archaeological attestations of power sharing in individual cities. Both
third millennium Nabada and second millennium Šeḫna had two palaces in different parts of the
city that were occupied simultaneously. At Šeḫna, we know that one of the palaces belonged to
the kings of Leilan from Samsi-Addu to the fall of the city, while the other palace was built by
Qarni-Lim, king of Andarig, and probably occupied by this king and his successor Himdiya, who
245
acted as senior partners in the kingship at Apum in the last years of Zimri-Lim's reign (Ristvet
and Weiss 2011; Van de Mieroop 1994; Pulhan 2000). We do not have the same epigraphic
information regarding the two palaces in Nabada, but it is possible that they attest to a similar
In Seleucid Babylonia, the heads of major temples and the temple's assembly were
responsible for judging and administering the Babylonian community. Temples had
considerable economic clout, including being the authority of last resort for most land
assignments. Although the interests of the temples and communities of prominent Babylonians
often coincided with those of the central administration, this was not always the case. As a
result, we can clearly see friction and negotiation between the Seleucid crown and the
Babylonian temples. Neither party always has a monopoly over either political or economic
Political Strategies
Officials of the three Mesopotamian polities that we have considered—Ebla, Mari, and
Seleucid Babylon—all sought to control the practices of their inhabitants by negotiating with,
accommodating, and usurping the authority of other political actors. Michel Foucault has
analyzed the different ways in which modern states employ the legal code, disciplinary
mechanisms, and the apparatus of security as part of the establishment of sovereignty. These are
different techniques of power that emphasize respectively law and punishment; surveillance and
correction; and organization and regulation. These strategies co-exist within modern societies
(and perhaps all societies), although the apparatus of security, with its emphasis on statistics and
its laissez-faire approach to “natural” processes, has been dominant since the 18th century. 165
The polities under consideration could not employ such a system, but depended instead on a
246
mixture of “legal” and disciplinary strategies, as well as on technologies of spectacle. In a world
where mechanisms for enforcement hardly existed, polities employed charisma, tradition, and
pervaded many aspects of government, was one way that polities established their power.
Throughout these millennia, politics remained personal, and rulers relied upon charisma
in the Weberian sense of exceptional, god-given ability (Launderville 2003; Weber 1968). In
royal inscriptions, which provide perhaps the clearest statements of this charismatic principle,
gods can choose, appoint, name, or determine the fate of individual kings. They can bestow
divine radiance, love, might, and kingship. Gods may even, to cite a popular metaphor, entrust
the king, as shepherd, with the lead-rope of the people, his flock. The word that comes closest to
charisma in Akkadian is melammu (Sum. mé-lam), which can be understood as a divine sheen,
an awe-inspiring aura, and a terrible radiance (Winter 1994; Oppenheim 1943; Cassin 1968).
Melammu is a divine attribute and an “almost independent magical object,” that symbolizes the
awesome quality of divine power and its destructive and protective aspects (Ataç 2007: 296).
This concept is absent from early descriptions of kingship, but it surfaces as a royal attribute by
the end of the third millennium BC. Šulgi, Hammurabi, and Samsuiluna are all described as
possessing melammu. 166 Although this terminology is not used in the north, the letter from Nur-
Sin to Zimri-Lim states that Addu gave Zimri-Lim kingship and “anointed him with the oil of
his radiance” (Durand 2002: FM 7 38: 4'), illustrating a similar concept. On a more general
level, kings in all three periods proclaim that they are chosen by the gods in some way, a notion
that clearly emerges in both Samsi-Addu’s titulary and the Antiochus cylinder.
the gods. The importance of this principle may account for literary texts that describe the
247
exploits of kings like the Epic of Zimri-Lim or legends of earlier kings. But a reliance on the
personal rather than the institutional qualities of kingship may also explain why kings rarely
delegate their authority. A letter from the governor of Qaṭṭunan to Zimri-Lim is about the
slaughter of one bull, and the suet that is rendered from its carcass. In his report on this matter,
the governor notes that this is just one in a series of letters concerning the fate of this animal:
When my lord stayed in Hušlan, a bull who was part of the annual tax, choked. I
wrote to my lord about it and my lord answered as follows, “Kill that bull! Its
meat and its suet must be preserved!” This my lord wrote me. When my lord
returned to Hušlan, I reminded my lord about that bull and my lord told me the
following, “it must be properly dealt with.” And after I withdrew, nobody
reminded my lord about the meat of that bull. Now I arrived and the meat of that
bull and its suet have been properly dealt with. The meat did not spoil. My lord
must write to me and they will carry that meat to Mari. Otherwise my lord must
write to me, and tell me to do this or not (Heimpel 2003: ARM 27 129, p. 454).
The expectation of the king's personal attention to matters that might seem mundane also
emerges at Ebla. Only a handful of letters and diplomatic texts were preserved in these archives,
but they report on activities like merchants trading small numbers of animals (30 sheep) and
It is also possible to interpret the personal interest of the king in household details in
patrimonial terms. The king may be simply acting as the head of a household and hence properly
attending to every detail of his estate. The importance of kinship terminology and household
concerns appears in both administrative vocabulary and practices. David Schloen has argued
that this metaphor served as the essential model of politics in the bronze age, but clearly
248
elements of it may have persisted longer (Schloen 2001). The importance of kinship, ancestors,
and inheritance emerges most clearly from the various attempts of people during the early second
millennium BC to use the “authority of the ‘eternal past’” to sanction the present (Weber et al.
2004: 34). But of course something similar is present at Ebla, when kingship may only be
transferred at the royal mausoleum, placing political authority quite literally in the hands of the
practice. This has its own logic, particularly in areas of life not governed by writing or
scholarship. Many spheres of knowledge may only be transmitted to the next generation by
inscribing them on the body, through daily performance; the practical effect of habitual learning
that one has, like knowledge that can be brandished, but something that one is” (Bourdieu 1990:
73). Going on a pilgrimage, burying one’s relatives, or impressing a ring into a tablet were all
activities that inculcated knowledge, that naturalized politics, that performed citizenship, and in
As a result of all of these tendencies, kings in the polities that we have considered (and
leaving them and their polities vulnerable and making their states weak, despite their claims of
autocracy. This may partly explain why so few states in Mesopotamia lasted for much more than
a century. Kassite Babylonia and the Neo-Assyrian empire remain the major exceptions to this
trend, yet even the latter only maintained its full supremacy for little more than a hundred years.
249
Continuity
But despite this seeming fragility, a self-consciously Mesopotamian civilization survived for
three millennia. This survival obviously must be problematized, particularly in light of the
obvious fact that traditions, and indeed the past were constructed in particular ways at particular
periods, according to a logic that is often obscure to us and has little to do with our own
traditions of historiography (Michalowski 1999). True continuity was rarely the norm, as it
hardly ever is (cf. McCorriston 2011). A continued emphasis on continuity is probably due to
the power that antiquity and the past exercised in different periods of Mesopotamian history, the
power of history in history (above, chapter 2). It is certainly possible to draw a line from the
intersection of genealogies, funerary practices, and the creation of political power at Mari (and
even earlier at Ebla) and the king list that lies at the heart of Berossus' history. It is essential to
realize, however, that each of these functioned as political arguments in very different contexts.
The understanding of certain concepts like divination, ancestors, or ritual were transformed over
time, even when the same, unchanged, texts were transmitted. But this constructed argument for
continuity was still powerful. This, after all, is why the ancient Near East still resonates in the
21st century—because the study of this civilization, although lost immeasurably to us, has been
used to create a new prehistory for both “Western” and “Islamic” civilizations—and as a result,
250
Figures
Fig. 1 Actors portraying Achaemenid soldiers with a wheeled tower in the Persepolis parade,
October, 1971 (Photograph courtesy Bob Dyson)
251
Fig. 2 The execution of Louis XVI, January 21, 1793 (Courtesy of the British Library)
252
Fig. 3 Brahu temple, Trowoulan, Majapahit period (Photograph courtesy Tian Yake)
253
Fig. 4 Volunteers portraying Don Juan De Vargas and Conquistadors during the Santa Fe Fiesta
(Photograph courtesy Robert Hanelt)
254
Fig. 5 Map of K’axob (After McAnany et al. 2004, fig. 2.1)
255
Fig. 6 K'axob, Operation 1: Phase 9 (After McAnany et al. 2004, fig. 2.10)
256
Fig. 7 K'axob, Burials 1-1 and 1-2 (After McAnany et al. 2004, fig. 6.8 and 6.9)
257
Fig. 8 Panel 1, La Corona, Dedication of Patron Deity Temple (Photograph courtesy Joanne
Baron)
258
Fig. 9 Map of Northern Mesopotamia 2600-2300 BC (Base map by author, using ESRI
Topographic Data [Creative Commons]: World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water, and World
Countries)
259
Fig. 10 Tell Leilan (ancient Šehna), the modern road runs through the ruins of the northern city
gate in the outer city wall; the walled Acropolis is visible in the background (photo by author)
260
Fig. 11 Main Street,” the main entryway to the palace at Beydar (ancient Nabada) is visible on
the south-east side of the citadel. Each checkpoint where access can be controlled is marked
(After Lebeau and Suleiman 2006, courtesy Marc Lebau)
261
Fig. 12 The Palace in Area F, “The Official Block,” of Tell Beydar. A) Phase 1, B) Phase 2, C)
Phase 3a, D) Phase 3b (After Bretschneider 2003: Plan 1, courtesy Marc Lebeau)
262
Fig. 13 Spatial graph of Beydar, Area F, Palace. A) Phase 1, B) Phase 2
263
Fig. 14 Chuera (ancient Abarsal?) citadel plan with the main ceremonial street marked (after
Meyer 2007: fig. 2 and fig. 9)
264
Fig. 15 Axonometric reconstruction of the plaza and palace G, (After Matthiae 1981, Fig. 12)
265
Fig. 17 Wagon sealings from Northern Mesopotamia: a) Beydar seal 4 (Scene 60; Jans and
Bretschneider 2011: 76-82); a), b) Išqi-Mari royal seal 1 (after Beyer and Lecompte 2014: fig.
3b), c) Išqi-Mari royal seal 2 (after Beyer 2007: fig. 18)
266
Fig. 18 Tombs and offering chambers at Gre Virike, Period IIa (after Ökse 2005: Fig. 3)
267
Fig. 19 Ritual buildings at Hazna (after Munchaev, Merpert and Amirov 2004: tabl. 3)
268
Fig. 20 a) Statue from Jebelet al-Beda (Oppenheim 1933, pl. 62a) and b) stela from Jebelet al-
Beda (Oppenheim 1933, pl. 63a, Both photographs courtesy Hausarchiv Sal. Oppenheim,
Cologne, Max Freiherr von Oppenheim-Stiftung)
269
Fig. 21 Plan of Bazi/Banat (ancient Armanum?) with the location of the fortified gate building on
Jebel Bazi and the lower citadel wall (after Porter 2002: Fig. 2, courtesy of A. Porter)
270
Fig. 22 Possible pilgrimage networks on the Upper Euphrates
271
Fig. 23 Intervisibility and viewshed analysis at Gre Virike
272
Fig. 24 Mesopotamia from 1900-1500 BC (Base map by author, using ESRI Topographic Data
[Creative Commons]: World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water, and World Countries)
273
Fig. 25 Survey areas in the Habur plain, Syria. Areas of decreasing population are in dark gray,
and areas of increasing population are in white (Base map by author, using ESRI Topographic
Data [Creative Commons]: World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water, and World Countries)
274
Fig. 26 Tell Leilan/Šubat-Enlil, 1900-1700 BC
275
Fig. 27 AO19833, Obverse and Reverse, Historical liver omen from Mari that mentions Sargon
(© RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY).
276
Fig. 28 Kahat, Stratum 31 B (After Valentini 2003, Fig. 3)
277
Fig. 29 A) MBA ceramic figurine from Tepe Gawra (32-21-544) and B) Stone figurine from
Billa (92-4-1), (Courtesy of Penn Museum, photo by author)
Fig. 30 Wadi Hedaja 1: General View of BC-10 (Fuji and Adachi 2010, Fig. 5, Courtesy of S.
Fuji)
278
Fig. 31 Umm el-Marra, Monument 1, from North (Schwartz et al. 2012: fig. 19, photograph by
James van Rensselaer IV, courtesy of G. Schwartz)
279
Fig. 32 Area A, 'Usiyeh (After Oguchi and Oguchi 2005, Fig. 2 and Fig. 3)
280
Fig. 33 Ninevite 5 Ware from the Leilan Acropolis Temple, Room 19 (photo by author)
281
Fig. 34 Leilan Acropolis Northeast Temple, isometric plan (Weiss 1982: fig. 8, photograph by H.
Weiss, Yale University, courtesy H. Weiss)
282
Fig. 35 Seleucid Babylonia and Syria (Base map by author, using ESRI Topographic Data
[Creative Commons]: World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water, and World Countries)
283
Fig. 36 Seleucid-Parthian period sites and canals from the Heartland of Cities Survey, (After
Adams 1982, fig. 40)
284
Fig. 37 Seleucid-Parthian period sites and canals from the Diyala Survey (After Adams 1982,
fig. 42)
285
Fig. 38 Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, Corona, 1104-2138F (Aug 16, 1968)
286
Fig. 39 Uruk during the Seleucid-Parthian period (after Finkbeiner 1991: Beilage 31, Courtesy of
the DAI)
287
Fig. 40 Babylon city plan, based on the 1974 survey (Courtesy archive Centro Scavi Torino)
288
Fig. 41 Serving wares from Seleucid-Parthian Uruk (“Greek-inspired” shapes on left;
“Babylonian” shapes on right) (After Finkbeiner 1991 a: Tafel 167 and 169, courtesy of the DAI.
Numbers for each sherd are the same as in the original publication)
289
Fig. 42 “Hellenistic” Cooking ware from Seleucid-Parthian Uruk (left) and Athens (right) (After
Finkbeiner 1991a: Tafel 168 and Rotroff 2006, courtesy of the DAI and Agora Excavations,
American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Numbers for each sherd are the same as in the
original publications)
290
Fig. 43 Seleucid terracotta figurine, made in a “Greek” double mould but with “Babylonian
features,” Babylon BM 94344 (Courtesy of the British Museum)
291
Fig. 44 U-V 17-19, Level II, Ekur-Zakir Family House (after Schmidt et al. 1979, plates 68 and
69, courtesy of the DAI)
292
Fig. 45 The Nabû Temple, Borsippa (After Reade, 1986, Fig. 1)
293
Fig. 46 Antiochus Cylinder, BM 36277 (Courtesy of the British Museum)
294
Fig. 47 Bit Rēš Temple (After Downey 1988,fig. 4. Courtesy of the DAI)
295
Fig. 48 Ešgal Temple (After Downey 1988, fig. 6. Courtesy of the DAI)
296
Fig. 49 Brick stamped with Adad-Nadin-Ahhe's name in Greek, palace of Girsu, AO29776 (©
RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY)
297
Fig. 50 Archives Building, Seleucid, Isometric Drawing (After Invernizzi, 2003, courtesy of
Invernizzi)
Fig. 51 Akītu Temple, Uruk Akītu Temple, Uruk (After Downey 1988, fig. 8. Courtesy of the
DAI)
298
Fig. 52 Reconstructed Territory of Apum and Kahat, ca. 1730 BC. Kahat is in light gray and
Apum is in dark gray. Dotted lines represent modern rainfall isohyets. (Base map by author,
using ESRI Topographic Data [Creative Commons]: World Shaded Relief, World Linear Water,
and World Countries)
299
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1
For the origins of civilization see Feinman and Marcus 1998; Yoffee 2005; Wengrow 2010, for early writing
volumes on ideology, performance, ritual, memory, or materiality, see: Mills and Walker 2008; Claessen and Oosten
1996; Inomata and Coben 2006; Kyriakidis 2007; Van Dyke and Alcock 2003; Bernbeck and McGuire 2011. Of
course, several Mesopotamian historians and art historians have adopted perspectives that emphasize political
economy and ideology, most notably Postgate 1994a; Yoffee 1995; Bahrani 2008; Winter 2009.
4
See particularly Schechner 1993; Handelman 1990; Turner 1969; Durkheim and Halls 1984; Durkheim 1995.
5
Similarly, in the early 2000s, Frank Rich, who began his career as a theater critic, became one of George W.
Bush’s most influential critics. For many commentators, Rich’s background made him an ideal person “to explain a
political culture increasingly dominated by simulation and spectacle,” Greenberg 2006. Jeffrey Alexander has
similarly applied performance analysis to Barack Obama’s 2008 campaign and presidency (2011, 2010).
6
This understanding of performance, in terms of practice, performativity and the physical world, closely resembles
elements of “practice theory,” particularly structuration as explicated in Giddens 1984; Bourdieu 1977.
7
Descriptions of the Persepolis festivities are drawn from numerous accounts in the popular press and books,
including: Milani 2012: 322-4; Sciolino 2000: 161-6; Shawcross 1988: 39-44; McWhirter 1971; Life Magazine
1971.
8
There is of course, a huge bibliography on cultural history in revolutionary France. I am particularly indebted in
this account to the following: Hunt 1984, 2008; Ozouf 1975; Shaw 2011; Furet 1992; Sonenscher 2008.
9
These numbers are based on the size of the plaza, calculated from McAnany 2004a: Fig. 2. The estimates for how
many people the plaza can hold assume estimates of .46m2, 1m2, and 3.6m2 per person, as in Inomata 2006. Gilibert
uses a slightly smaller estimate for a crowd, assuming .4m2 per person (Gilibert 2011: 103). The estimate of the
population of K’axob given by the excavators is vague, “in the tens of thousands” McAnany 2004b.
404
10
These estimates are calculated using the same parameters as in 9. The size of the plaza was estimated based on
performed as part of a slametan ceremony increased social tension (Geertz 1973: 142-169). But the problem with
this analysis, as Bell aptly indicates, is that it assumes stasis in the symbolic system thus not allowing for the change
Turner and Schechner 1986), Mary Douglas (2002), Ronald Grimes (1985, 1990), Roy Rapaport (1984; 1999),
Catherine Bell (1992, 2007; Bell and Aslan 2009), and Jonathan Z. Smith (1978, 1982, 1987) among others, drawing
distinction between theatrical performance and daily practice can “expose the multiple ways in which actors can be
“hailed” or “interpellated,” brought into being as a national community—at least some of the time” (Wedeen 2008:
7).
15
The Chicago Assyriological Dictionary provides a discussion of the semantic range of these terms diachronically
(for mātum, CAD M, part 1, 414-421; for ālum, CAD A, 379-388). For a general discussion of settlement terms,
their political connotations, and archaeological profile, see Postgate 1994a: 73-87; Stone 2007; Adams 2008;
McMahon 2013. For the political connotations of alum, see Seri 2005: chapter 5; Van de Mieroop 1999; Fleming
2004a.
16
It should be noted that the phrase šarrutam epēšum occurs in the Mari correspondence and Old Babylonian royal
inscriptions. It is also common during other periods. It is absent, however, from the Ebla texts. For šarrūtam
epēšum and bēlūtam epēšum (see, CAD E, 219-220 and 205, and CAD Š, part 2114-123).
17
Following Slavoj Žižek, I define ideology as the general material process of the social production of ideas, beliefs,
and values, which are functional to relations of power in some non-transparent way (Žižek 1994: 8). This definition
of ideology is similar to William Roseberry’s reworking of the Gramscian notion of hegemony as “a common
material and meaningful framework for living through, talking about, and acting upon social orders characterized by
405
domination” (Roseberry 1994: 361). Defining ideology as a material process thus opens up the possibility of
rituals see Schwemer 2011, with bibliography. For important publications of rituals and their broader context, see
Maul 1994; Ambos 2004. For a more general introduction to religion in the Ancient Near East in general, see Snell
2011, for Mesopotamia, see Bottéro 2004. For the past decade, groundbreaking work on ritual in the ancient world
more generally has emerged out of the Heidelberg project on ritual dynamics, particularly Weinfurter et al. 2005;
Age, as well as some second and third millennium sculpture, see Gilibert 2011; Winter 1992; Bahrani 2008; Denel
2007; Harmanşah 2013; Smith 2006; B. Brown 2010; Mazzoni 1997; for a similar approach in Mesoamerica, see
Guernsey 2006, 2012; Guernsey et al. 2010; in the Classical world, see Kondoleon et al. 1999.
20
See, in general Smith 2003; Inomata and Coben 2006. Once again, in the Ancient Near East, this approach has
usually focused on Iron Age performance spaces, see Pucci 2008; Harmansah 2007; Harmanşah 2013; Gilibert 2011.
For Mesoamerica, see Inomata 2006; Schele and Mathews 1998, for the Andes, see Coben 2006; Moore 1996.
21
In general see the essays in Kyriakidis 2007; Mills and Walker 2008; Berggren and Stutz 2010. For
ideological superstructure separate from the economic conditions of life. Clearly, their post-Marxist understanding
of hegemony and ideology is not the same as Althusser’s (Smith 1998; Torfing 1999). Nonetheless, there is nothing
that prevents applying Laclau and Mouffe’s ideas about signification, culture, and hegemony to the material world
as well; indeed, their own analysis of leftist politics suggests that this is not an oppositional reading (Laclau and
1 and 2 record the coronation/wedding ceremonies of Ebla’s last two kings and queens, Irkab-Damu and his
unnamed bride, and Išar-Damu and Tabur-Damu. The third text, which is quite abbreviated seems to be a general
summary of the ritual procedures necessary for a coronation. The description of the ritual here is an amalgamation
of both 1 and 2, since the texts are broken, but where they coincide are nearly identical. Certain details are also
406
drawn from text 3—such as the rituals in the ma-ra-sum (Biga 2007-2008; Fronzaroli 1992; cf. Viganò 1995, 2000).
these rituals, and contain many parallel passages. Although there are as yet no editions of them, I have relied on
Maria Giovanna Biga’s discussions to provide other details for the ceremony and their preparations (Biga 1998;
Biga 1992; Biga 1996, 2003). Recent analysis of these and other administrative texts has led Biga to conclude that
the festival actually occurred after the marriage, and is a ritual of the renewal of royalty, like the Egyptian Sed
Festival (Biga 2010: 37-9), but she has not yet published all these data, so this narrative is still based on Fronzaroli
and Biga’s earlier interpretation that the ritual is a ceremony performed at the marriage and coronation of each king
(Fronzaroli 1992; Biga 2007-2008). I am grateful to Vanna Biga for discussing these matters with me and
of Tell Mardikh, see Matthiae 2009: 275, fn. 12, contra Porter 2012: 217. Soundings in 1968 underneath the second
millennium Ištar temple revealed part of an earlier temple that may have belonged to Kura here (Matthiae 2008: 34).
26
It is unclear how to read NE, the first sign of this toponym. Archi and Bonechi both read Binaš—and it is under
this form in most toponym lists outside of ARET XI, while Fronzaroli uses the form Nenaš in the official
publication and is followed in this by Biga and Porter. I follow Archi and Bonechi here. Binaš was probably the
site of the tombs of three kings of Ebla, and otherwise of little importance. Although the Ebla texts mention
deliveries of textiles for an assembly (UNKEN-ak NE- na-ášKI, ARET III: 277 II 5) and a lady of Binaš (dam /Ne-
na-ášKI ARET III: 878 r. III: 3), few personal names from this town are known, and most of the references are cultic
(ARET IV: 1; r. XII: 21, where Binaš is associated with Kura, the god of royalty (Archi et al. 1993; Bonechi 1993;
queen sit on the thrones of their ancestors at a place called the waters of Mašad of Nirar (ARET XI 1 21; ARET XI 2
21). The exceptional nature of these activities foreshadows the ritual that occurs in Binaš.
407
28
Ibbini-Li’m, Šagiš, and Išrut-Damu are dead king of Ebla, whose names are written with the divine element, the
dingir sign. On the possible meaning of this sign in this context, please see discussions in Archi 1988; Biga 1998,
2007-2008, 2012; Fronzaroli 1988, 1992, 1993; Porter 2002, 2012; Stieglitz 2002.
29
This English translation follows Fronzaroli’s Italian translation of ARET XI 1 55–65 and ARET XI 2 58–68. It
differs only in the treatment of gu4 ABxÁŠ, which I render as “ancestor bull.” 58. [mu-DU]/ [en]/ [wa]/ ma-li[k]-t[um]/
si-i[n]/ é ma-tim... / 59. ba4-ti/ [dKu]-┌ra┐/ [wa]/dBa-ra-ma/si-┌in┐/┌é┐ [ma-tim]/ [wa]/ mu-DU/ dKu-ra/ wa/ dBa-ra-
ma/ si-in/ 1 é-duru5KI/ 60. wa/ ┌al6┐-┌tuš┐/ 61. wa/ mu-DU/ en/ si-in/ é-duru5KI-sù/ 62. ap/ ma-lik-tum/ si-in/ é-
duru5ki-sù/63. ù-lu/ ba4-ti/ en/ wa/ ma-lik-tum 1 gu4 AB×AŠ 2 udu 1 kù-sal 1 buru4- MUŠEN bar6:kù/ dingir I-bí- NI-Li-
im/ 2 udu 1 kù-sal 1 bu[ru4]- MUŠEN bar6:kù dingir/Sa-gi-su 2 udu 1 kù-sal 1 buru4- muŠEN ┌bar6┐:┌kù┐/dingir Iš11-
ru12-ud-Da-mu/En-na- NI ┌nídba┐/ 64. zi-ga/ ti-TÚG/ en/ wa/ ma-lik-tum/ è-ma/ wa/ al6-tuš/ al6 / GIš-<<ušti(n)>>/ a-
mu a-mu-sù / 65. wa/ en-nun-ak/ u4 è/ dUtu/ 66. dUtu-ma/ è/ KA.DI/ KA.DI/ balag-di [bal]ag-┌di┐/ balag-di/ ša-ti/ dTU/
sur-ak/ 67. wa [du11]-┌ga┐/ [níg-mul!-mul (AN.AN:AN.AN)]/ [níg-mul!]-┌mul!┐ ([AN.AN]:┌AN┐. ┌AN┐)/ 68. wa/ níg-
mul!-mul! (AN.AN: AN.AN)/ dTU/ dKu-ra gibil/ dBa-ra-ma gibil/ en gibil/ ma-lik-tum gibil.
30
There has been more attention to the archaeology of pilgrimage elsewhere (Graham-Campbell 1994; Bradley
figure is difficult because of the degree of fragmentation of many of the texts (Archi 1986b; Milano 1995: 1223). At
Beydar, ca. 250 tablets have been excavated (Ismail 1996; Milano et al. 2004). In addition to these archives, there
are a small number of contemporary (i.e. Early Dynastic) texts from Mari (Charpin 1987), including some from
excavations in the 1990s and 2000s, which have not yet been published (Cavigneaux 2009: 51). There is also on ED
text from Brak (Michalowski 2003a), although most Brak texts come from the following Akkadian period (Eidem et
al. 2001). There are no other tablets before the Akkadian period from Northern Mesopotamia. For recent historical
studies of this period in the north, see Sallaberger 2011, and for the south, see Bauer et al. 1998.
32
Ristvet N.D.-a; Rova and Weiss 2003; Ur 2010a: 401; Porter 2012; cf. Meyer 2011.
33
This area did see a few, large late Chalcolithic settlements, most noticeably Tell Brak, but the overall
concentration and nature of urbanism is entirely different in the mid-third millennium BC (Ur 2010a; Ur et al. 2007).
408
34
Based on a population estimate of between 60-200 people per hectare for cities between 100 and 125 ha. These
estimates come from ethnographic work in contemporary Iranian villages (Kramer 1980; Weiss 1986). For a
1997; Bianchi and Franke 2011: 201-3, for cylinder seal production, Moorey 1999: 103-6; Gorelick and Gwinnett
1995: 1222; Archi 2006; cf. Porter 2012). Fronzaroli, Biga, and Bonechi have argued for some “tribal structures,”
although in Biga’s case this seems to have more to do with the importance of kinship in Ebla than for tribes like
those known from later periods (Biga 2010: 30-2; Bonechi 2002). The best data for tribal social organization, in this
political sense, are references to the “da-mu” which means “kin” and should perhaps be understood as “a social
organization which can detach its personnel at the request of the Eblaic administration” (Fronzaroli 1998: 112). Da-
mu generally surface in an administrative context and are not necessarily pastoralist or tribal although Fronzaroli
does understand them as a tribal group and suggests that some type of diffuse—perhaps tribal—authority
and Hayden 2001. For the Near East, see Helwing 2004; Pollock 2003a.
39
For Eannatum’s campaigns, see Frayne 2008: RIME 1 E1.9.3.1, rev. vi 5, E1.9.3.5, vi 17, E.1.9.3.7a, ii 2. Subartu
is a geographic term which is used both generally for the area to the north of Sumer and Akkad and more narrowly,
to refer to the area of the East Tigris. For discussions of the terms, see Sallaberger 2007, fn. 24; Steinkeller 1993:
Archi 1990, 1992; Bonechi 1993, 1998; for Mari, Biga 2008; for Nagar, Archi 1998, in general, Milano and Rova
2000.
41
This treaty is one of the most famous texts found at Ebla. The most recent translation/commentary is that of
Fronzaroli (2003), but there are several important earlier treatments as well: Sollberger 1980; Edzard 1992; Pettinato
409
42
For habbatu in the early second millennium BC see below, conclusion and Dercksen 2001; Eidem 2011.
43
For other archaeological approaches to sovereignty, see Lindsay and Greene 2013; Smith 2011.
44
The most notable exception to this list of fortified settlements is Brak, ancient Nagar. The lack of identified
fortifications at Brak is puzzling, however two separate surveys have failed to locate it (Emberling et al. 1999: 23;
described in Bretschneider 2003; Lebeau 2003; Lebeau and Suleiman 2007. It is also probably valid for the earlier
phase 2 palace (Debruyne 2003). Additionally, the Italian excavations at Beydar have revealed an elaborate inner
the depth for each space (the number of spaces one must pass through to reach it) and then averaging them. The
equation for relative asymmetry is RA = 2(MD − 1) ⁄ k – 2, where RA is relative asymmetry, MD is mean depth and
k is the number of spaces in a system. Calculating real relative asymmetry then requires dividing relative
asymmetry by a constant based on the number of spaces in a system. A table of such constants can be found in
Hillier and Hanson 1984: 112, table 3. Values less than 1 describe relatively integrating systems, while those over 1
“indicate a non-distributed space, one in which control is potentially strong” (Smith 2003: 244).
49
The (RRA) of Palace F is 2.554, a value that was calculated using Pfälzner 2011: fig. 43.
50
For Mesopotamia, see especially Seri 2005; Fleming 2004a; Peltenburg 2007-2008; Porter 2002; Charpin 2007;
Yoffee 2005. For heterarchy in archaic polities more generally, see Blanton et al. 1996; McIntosh 1999.
51
But see the contradictory interpretation and translation of this term in CAD R: 317-321.
52
For excavations at Chuera, see most recently Meyer 2010b; Moortgat-Correns 2001; Orthmann 1995. For the
earlier excavations, see the preliminary reports published by Moortgat and Orthmann by Harrassowitz and then
Gebr. Mann: Moortgat-Correns 1988; Orthmann et al. 1986; Moortgat and Moortgat-Correns 1978, 1976, 1975;
410
53
The low population estimates for Ebla is based on the assumption of 60 people per hectare; the high estimate
comes from personnel lists, see Archi 1992: 24-5. Ebla is 56 ha and Chuera is 65 ha.
54
Excavations of hollow ways around Tell Brak confirm a third to fourth millennium date for these features,
unsurprising given the date of the main occupations at this mound (Wilkinson et al. 2010). Many of the hollow
ways present in the Jazirah probably date to other periods as well. This is particularly likely for some of the longer
tracts hollow ways associated with tells that were not occupied during the third millennium BC, several examples of
which are present in the Leilan survey area (Ristvet 2005). New work on hollow ways has documented their
association with Iron Age, Roman, and Sassanian period sites (Casana 2013).
55
The texts TM.75.G.2377 and TM.75.G.2379 document this cultic journey and are published in Archi 1979. Other
published and unpublished Ebla texts that refer to this event are published in Archi 2002: 26-29.
56
See Mantellini, Micale, and Peyronel 2013; Ascalone and D’Andrea 2013; Mantellini 2013 with references. For
an earlier survey around Tell Afis, see Ciafordoni 1992 and in the plain of Antioch, see Casana and Wilkinson 2005.
57
Of course, in light of the fact that the coronation journey takes four days from Ebla and Binash, it is certainly
Museum, see Amiet 1980: P. 103, 1351, 1354. At Ebla, although no classic Syrian ritual scenes have been found,
Donald Matthews interprets the court style as one which has fused the Syrian ritual scene with the ED IIIb contest
scene, presumably drawing on the associations of both indigenous religious understandings of kingship and
earliest phases of the administrative building at TC may demonstrate (Emberling et al. 2003).
63
I base this date-range on the published Ninevite 5 pottery from the site, which in its latest phase includes late
excised forms in the final period, as well as metallic ware and probably corresponds to the earliest phase of EJZ 3a
411
64
Recent analyses of Early Bronze Age occupation at Carchemish have reached diametrically opposed views of the
size and importance of the city. Working from the material retrieved in the British excavations before WWI,
Falsone and Sconzo have argued that these excavations identified late third millennium domestic architecture in
Carchemish's lower town and that it is likely that its earth rampart and gates were constructed during this period,
making it a town of some 40 ha (Falsone and Sconzo 2007). In contrast, Guy Bunnens estimates that only
Carchemish's main tell was occupied, making it only four ha in size, much smaller than several other nearby mounds
(Bunnens 2007). If Carchemish was 40 hectares, it would have dominated this region; otherwise the area would
from Aster GDEM missions, which has a 30m resolution, supplemented with information on the height of each site.
67
For the texts, see Ismail et al. 1996: texts 94, 101, 106 and 122, for commentary, see Jans and Bretschneider 1998:
173; Wilkinson 2009: 158; Van Lerberghe 1996: 121; Sallaberger and Ur 2004: 69-70; Bretschneider et al. 2009:17.
68
A new archaeological project that has focused on surveying the area around Khirbet Malhat may provide new
XVIII.
70
This is based on line-of-sight analysis conducted in ArcGIS, which indicated that the White Monument could be
seen from up to 40km to the south and 30km to the west. The parameters are the same as for the analysis around Gre
gather here, given the limited excavation and the published plans.
72
The rich and complex record of third millennium burials in the Middle and Upper Euphrates and in Western Syria
has received a great deal of attention in the last decade or so (Cooper 2006; Carter and Parker 1995; Peltenburg
2007-2008; Laneri and Morris 2007; Akkermans and Schwartz 2003). In addition to the sites that I discuss in this
section, there are also extra-mural cemeteries at Hassek Höyük, Tawi, and Halawa, and a cemetery not associated
with a settlement at the Birecik Dam (Dugay 2005). Moreover, excavations at Titriş Höyük have revealed a
412
fascinating pattern of extramural and intramural tombs (Laneri 2007). Finally, the hypogeum at Tell Ahmar remains
estates seem to be the exception rather than the rule (Milano 1996: 140).
74
But cf. (McCorriston 2011: 198-216). Arguing from evidence from South Arabia, McCorriston contrasts the
punctuated tempo of pilgrimage with daily practices and argues that the former works as a metastructure through
landscape. Broader landscapes are clearly important to the construction of such systems, but at least during this
period in Mesopotamia, we have rich evidence (of the type not available in Arabia until the immediately pre-Islamic
referring to these occasions tend to be terse. There are also significant differences in the celebration of these rituals
during the reigns of Yasmah-Addu and Zimri-Lim (see below). Additionally, two different interpretations of this
cycle have been proposed by Assyriologists. Jean-Marie Durand, working mostly from the ritual texts and the
letters, believes that all of these rituals are part of one, state ritual cycle, and this is the interpretation I have followed
in this reconstruction. Antoine Jacquet, in contrast, arguing from the administrative texts, sees them all as separate
(Jacquet 2012b: 130, fn 49). No matter which interpretation we follow, it is possible to reconstruct the ritual
calendar from contemporary letters, administrative dockets, and ritual instructions. If we see them as one festival,
then Ištar’s journey, and the rituals that made up this feast, including the celebration of the kispum festival, took
more than a month and were celebrated at different times of the year during the reigns of the two kings, from the end
of month 8 to the beginning of month 10 in the time of Yasmah-Addu (ca. 1795-1776 BC) and during month 10 to
of this both as metaphor and actual practice (Eidem 2011: 185; Lafont 2001: 275; Veenhof et al. 2008: 312-3).
79
Jonker 1995; Durand and Guichard 1997: 40; Toorn 1996: 46-65; for an extended discussion of these metaphors
413
80
See particularly Connerton’s work on the subject, with references (2011, 2009, 1989). At the same time,
exploring how memory works and contributes to a particularly human consciousness has emerged as a significant
topic in cognitive science and evolutionary anthropology. For a recent overview of the literature in psychology, see
Baddeley 2012, for its use in evolutionary anthropology and psychology, see the papers in Aiello 2010; Coolidge
Mills and Walker 2008; Yoffee 2007; Jones 2007; Van Dyke and Alcock 2003.
82
Calendar years follow the Middle Chronology.
83
Several texts from Yahdun-Lim’s reign attest to Naram-Sin of Ešnunna’s presence in Upper Mesopotamia
(Charpin 1994). For the campaigns of the later Ibal-pî-El during the reign of Zimri-Lim (Charpin 1992b, 1992a;
Lafont 1992), for the Elamite adventure in the land of Apum, see (Charpin 1986; Durand 1986; Vallat 1996;
Charpin 1990), Babylon’s control over Upper Mesopotamia is, for obvious reasons, not directly attested at Mari,
although dockets hint at their presence (Charpin et al. 2004; Charpin 1995), but is clear from the Rimah tablets
(Dalley et al. 1976), as well as Old Babylonian year names (Hunger 1976-1980). Finally, evidence for the
importance of Aleppo comes from documents dated to the reigns of Yahdun-Lim, Zimri-Lim, and the later Leilan
kings (Mutiya, Till-abnu, and Yakûn-ašar), see Charpin 1992c; Charpin and Durand 1985; Eidem 2011.
84
For further details of the historical reconstruction of this period, see Wu 1994; Charpin et al. 2004; Charpin and
Ziegler 2003.
85
An absolute chronology for the period before the 14th century continues to elude scholars. I follow the Middle
Chronology here, because it seems to best accord with the radiocarbon dates and dendrochronology evidence from
Acemhöyük (Manning et al. 2003, 2001; Kuniholm et al. 1996). For a recent summary of the issue, with
modern states (Fried 1975; Marx 1996; Asad 1978). Obviously, over the last two centuries state administrators have
created tribes and appointed chiefs in several countries (notably Iran) in order to control a diverse agricultural and
pastoral nomadic peasantry. While this view is presentist and based on the contingencies of 18th-20th century
imperialism, the extensive overlap between “tribes” and other polities—which maintained a self-conscious tribal
referent—might suggest that a similar process was at work in the second millennium BC. Certainly administrators
414
in the Mari archives refer to villages and nomads as belonging to different tribal confederations (Koppen 2001),
whether in doing so they are creating an administrative fiction or recording a cultural or political allegiance is
Durand’s reconstruction, which does not seem justified based on the surviving wedges, Kupper 1998: ARM 28 95;
frameworks to earlier and later periods, using them to explain 3rd millennium polities, see Fleming 2004a; Porter
2004, 2002; Lyonnet 2004; Durand 2004, for instance, or assuming that they represent deep structures, see Van
Driel 1997-2000; Rowton 1974; Porter 2012. For a similar critique of this in Jordan, see Routledge 2004.
90
The literature on the 4.2 ka BP climate event and the human response to it has exploded over the last twenty years.
For the initial statement of the problem, see (Weiss et al. 1993). For recent summaries of the paleoclimatology
record with references, see (Roberts et al. 2011; Weiss 2012a; Staubwasser and Weiss 2006). For recent analyses
devoted to the period of collapse see (Rosen 2007; Wossink 2009) and the essays in (Weiss 2012b; Kuzucuoğlu and
Marro 2007), for an analysis of the recovery see the essays in (Schwartz and Nichols 2006) (Laneri et al. 2012).
91
This pattern does not hold for the Middle Euphrates, where there is a large percentage of new foundations in this
period (Geyer et al. 2003: tableau 2). I suspect that the different settlement dynamics on the Middle Euphrates
relates to its lack of abandonment from 2150-1900 BC, which allows people here the freedom to break with the past.
92
Ömür Harmanşah makes a similar point for the founding of new cities in the Iron Age, like Guzana on top of the
Chalcolithic remains of Tell Halaf (Harmanşah 2013: 110-1). This phenomenon seems limited to cities during this
period, however, as analysis of the settlement data from non-urban centers shows less of an emphasis on reuse of old
course, the historical texts of the scribal curriculum, for instance, including those found in Northern Mesopotamia
could be employed and interpreted in several different ways. Piotr Michalowski has proposed that the Sumerian
415
King List served as a historical charter for the ruling dynasty at Isin, who could not base their claims to authority on
neighborhood, as their contents indicate that they came from an institution (Talon and Hammade 1997; Tunca and
Baghdo 2008).
96
Al-Khalesi instead identified the area just south of the palace’s largest courtyard as the bīt kispī or funeral area and
suggests that this complex included royal tombs, dining halls, kitchen and storerooms (Khalesi 1978: 68-72; Al-
Khalesi 1977), but this suggestion has received very little support (Schmidt 1994: 35; Margueron 1982a: 340, n. 79;
text 30; Vincente 1991: texts 57, 62, 109 and 133.
98
Labeling these documents genealogies is misleading, since while they contain certain genealogical elements—
namely the kings of the first dynasty of Babylon and some of Samsi-Addu’s family tree—they are not just dynastic
records (Pongratz-Leisten 1997: 78). The SKL shows that a purely genealogical reckoning is not essential to
political legitimacy in Mesopotamia (Marchesi 2010). In Northern Mesopotamia, descent is one of many strategies
that would-be leaders manipulated in order to claim a throne. Although there seems to be a preference for
inheritance, this is honored as much in the breach as in practice. In Old Babylonian Apum, for example, inheritance
of the throne from male relatives does occur, but there is rarely stable dynastic succession (Veenhof et al. 2008).
Although the AKL later normalized this idea of political inheritance there is little evidence that this principle was
firmly established by this period. Instead, local powers probably saw this as aspirational rather than normative.
99
Translation based upon Finkelstein 1966; Radner 2005.
100
The bibliography for both of these documents is extensive in assyriology and biblical studies. Important
publications include Malamat 1968; Charpin and Durand 1986; Yuhong and Dalley 1990; Kraus 1965; Yamada
416
102
The Kaneš texts, as well as the other Northern Mesopotamia traditions can probably also be connected to a later
Hurro-Hittite ritual that honors the Akkadian kings and uses both divine and human history for royal legitimation,
the northern and eastern ridges (Wygnanska 2011 (2008): 608-9). There are similar groups of tombs in the houses at
Chagar Bazar (McMahon et al. 2009) and in the cemeteries at Bishri (Fuji and Adachi 2010), ‘Usiyeh, and
were buried together. There are also multiple interments in vaulted tombs at Arbid and Chagar Bazar, see Bielinski
assume the responsibility of performing the kispum rituals, clearly showing cases in which the tombs were not
emptied even in the case of sale, see Galli and Valentini 2006: 59; Durand 1989.
106
There is no evidence for royal burials in Zimri-Lim’s palace at Mari, unlike in the earlier palace of the
šakkanakkus as Margueron 2004: 448, fig. 424 indicates. Nonetheless, the recently published ritual dockets from
Mari do indicate that the kispum ceremony was performed here, see Jacquet 2002.
107
Many of the examples date to the later second millennium BC, including the cult statues from level 2 at the
temple at Rimah (Carter 1965), but other examples from Ras Shamra and Gawra seem to be Old Babylonian (Carter
1970: 29-35). Similar stone figurines come from Ebla in the Middle Bronze Age (Paleo-Syrian) and Selenkahiye
and Wreide in the Early Bronze Age (Matthiae 2006a; Orthmann 1991; Van Soldt 2001). Such figurines have been
For the survey in the west, see Lönnqvist et al. 2011; Lönnqvist 2008. The Finnish survey has suggested that many
of the cairns at Tar al-Sbai on the western edge of Jebel Bishri date to the Chalcolithic and Early Bronze Age, based
on similarities between these cairns and those in the Levant (Lönnqvist, Aro-Valjus, and Lönnqvist 2011: 184-5).
Although this is certainly possible, the lack of pottery drawings in the reports make this difficult to evaluate and the
small number of artifacts discovered during survey render any interpretations open to debate. The cairns appear to
417
be of the same type as those excavated by the Japanese where associated radiocarbon dates provide secure evidence
see Frayne 1993: E2.1.4.2, 17-9 and p. 186; Buccellati 1966, but see Porter 2012: 311 and Michalowski 2011. For
links to the Sutu from the Mari archives, see Charpin 2010b.
111
For the 3rd-2nd millennium transition, see Numoto and Kume 2010. The Abu Hamad cemetery may represent a
transitional example as it contains similar tombs to those found later in Bishri, but is located near a settlement
(Meyer 2010a: 156-7). The wide range of material in these tombs suggests connections to both Western Syria and
the Northeast (including the presence of Metallic and Smeared Wash Ware), and is unique among excavated
cemeteries. The arrangement of the graves into complexes may reflect a hierarchical order, perhaps among different
types of kin groups, from families to clans. It seems quite possible that rather than reflecting the sedentarization of
nomads, as the excavators suppose, that the cemetery instead represents the nomadization of previously sedentary
peoples, and the beginning of many of the patterns that become dominant centuries later.
112
For these tombs, see Schwartz N.D.; Schwartz et al. 2012; Schwartz 2007a; Schwartz et al. 2003; Schwartz et al.
to lay claim to older tombs or features. It is likely that there are Early Bronze Age remains here, however, given the
presence of the earlier building P4 underneath the adjacent “Square of the Cisterns.”
115
The remains of the animals in the shaft at Monument 1 could also come from divinatory practices. Although at
Mari, diviners usually perused the liver of a male lamb, other animals, including pigeons (ARM 26 145) could also
be subject to haruspicy (Heimpel 2003: 173). During the Old Babylonian period in the south, malformed animal
fetuses were one object of divinatory inquiry (Leichty and Soden 1970). Indeed, a Mari text referred to as the
protocols of the diviner (ARM 26 1/1) explicitly refers to these fetuses, while we have a letter to Zimri-Lim that
describes the birth of such a prodigy, which will be protected until the king (or perhaps his diviners) can see it
(ARM 26 1/ 241; Durand 1988; Heimpel 2003). Divination was also, as we have seen, a political activity and one
that was intimately connected with many affairs of state. Alternatively, some of the other animals, particularly the
418
puppies, lambs, and birds were appropriate offerings to netherworld deities in Hurrian rituals (Collins 2006: 174-6).
I owe these interpretive suggestions to Jill Weber, who was responsible for excavation of the shaft and the analysis
of its contents. I am grateful for her generosity in discussing this material with me.
116
Equid burials are found with human remains, as deposits in cemeteries, and buried in favissae associated with
temples throughout Syria, Palestine, and even in northern Egypt during the MBA. For a recent discussion of this
5500 people (Marchetti and Nigro 1997: fig. 1). It is possible that much of the rest of the vast area within the
temenos walls was also open space, which would have allowed an even larger audience, although this has not been
confirmed by excavations.
119
See Harmanşah 2013: 56, for a parallel case from an Iron Age context.
120
There is no evidence for third millennium temples beneath the temples at Rimah and Leilan, however, only very
small sounding have been done in both cases, see Oates 1970; Weiss 1985.
121
Other monumental sculptures from the Old Babylonian period also mimic earlier statuary and stelae. This is the
case for the stela of Daduša and the statues at Ešnunna which employ Akkadian, Early Dynastic, and Ur III
conventions. Melissa Eppihimer has also interpreted the Zagros campaign sculptures in this light (Eppihimer 2009).
It is also possible, of course, that the statues at Ešnunna functioned as lamassatu. Recent excavations at Qatna and
Hazor have yielded other statues from Late Bronze Age contexts (some of which were probably made in the Middle
Bronze Age) which have also been interpreted as lamassatu, see Maqdissi et al. 2009; Ornan 2012; Morandi
Bonacossi 2006.
122
3417 sherds were collected from the Building Level 2 floors. A subset of this material was analyzed by Julia
Frane (1996).
123
Porter argues that Yaradum could also be a larger tribal designation, one that embraced both Yaminite and
Sim’alite (Porter 2012: 271). Durand, on the other hand, understands this to designate “Amorites” who have
migrated to the banks of the Euphrates (Durand and Guichard 1997: 64; Durand 2004).
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124
Durand has argued in a number of publications that Samsi-Addu was from Akkad and this explains his
connection to the Akkadian kings (Durand 1998: 108; Durand and Guichard 1997: 28). There is no specific textual
attestation of this fact, the thesis relies instead upon Durand’s interpretation of the kispum ritual. It seems far more
likely that Durand was from Ekallatum, a town that his father ruled (Porter 2012: 34; Charpin et al. 2004: 148;
Ristvet 2012b).
125
See fn. 121.
126
Many others understand the wall paintings in the palace as a whole, which date to different periods, as depicting
historic scenes that unfolded within the spaces they decorate, thus grounding the present in a historical past (Gates
and sovereignty is an important theme in much political and ritual scholarship (Burkert 1983; Girard 1977;
Agamben 1998, 2005), and has recently been addressed in accounts of the archaeology of sovereignty (Smith 2011).
129
In this sense, the citation of the past resembles Hobsbawm’s later “invented traditions,” inventions that occur
most often when “a rapid transformation of society weakens or destroys the social patterns for which ‘old’ traditions
Amorites.
131
“Or l'essence d'une nation est que tous les individus aient beaucoup de choses en commun, et aussi que tous aient
oublié bien des choses. Aucun citoyen français ne sait s'il est burgonde, alain, taïfale, visigoth; tout citoyen français
doit avoir oublié la Saint-Barthélemy, les massacres du Midi au XIIIe siècle” (Renan 1992: 42). My understanding
cite in full. For the Seleucid period ritual texts, see Pallis 1926; Pongratz-Leisten 1994; Cohen 1993; Linssen 2004,
for other studies on the Akītu, in Babylon or elsewhere, see Sommer 2000; Bidmead 2002; Black 1981; Ambos
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134
The role of these figures mirrors that of the king in the fall Akītu when he was imprisoned in a house of reeds,
Ambos 2012.
135
For other reconstructions, see Bidmead 2002; Pongratz-Leisten 1994; Pallis 1926.
136
This is, of course, the main critiscim of Hobsbawm and Ranger’s approach, see Horton 2010: 5 for a discussion
chapter 3), heirlooms, ancient kings, and ancestral remains are not my focus.
138
See the preliminary summaries in Invernizzi 1972, 1973-74, 1977; 1994: 10-11.
139
Petrie 2002 identifies a Babylonian inspired cooking pot, type 17a.b globular pot with outturned rim. This is the
same type used in the Uruk surface survey and found at the Ebabbar sounding at Larsa (Finkbeiner 1991; Lecomte
1993). However, it is clear from the illustrations and descriptions of this form at both Uruk and Larsa that it is a
simple pot, not a cooking vessel. It does not occur in the same ware as the other cooking pots at Larsa, but is rather
a plain ware vessel, while at Uruk it tends to be found in graves, not in domestic contexts. As a result, I have
American became interested in preparing authentic Chinese food (Lovegren 2007: 294). A related case is the
persistence of colono ware in slave settlements in South Carolina. This pottery may have been suitable for cooking
African meals, and its persistence has been interpreted as a type of resistance (Ferguson 1991).
141
The forms that Keall illustrates tend to be very general, however, with great variation across periods.
Nonetheless, potters in Babylonia probably imitated fewer Greek shapes, wares, and decorative elements than their
counterparts in Asia Minor, the Levant, or Northern Mesopotamia (Rotroff et al. 2003).
142
For archaeological approaches to hybridity, please see (Dietler 2010; Mills 2008; Voss 2008; Gosden 2004; van
indicate that the shop carried a wide range of figurines and other terracotta items, including column capitals, column
bases, and plaques (Invernizzi 1973-74: fig. 10; 1977: figs. 1-2).
144
See Ziegler 1962: 214-227. Of the 204 Seleucid-Parthian period figurines that came from the early excavations,
67 are from the Ešgal, 28 from Bīt Rēš, and 17 from the Gareus temple. The rest come from Parthian houses or
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unclear contexts. I have included in this count figurines that Ziegler classifies as “Neo-Babylonian” on stylistic
grounds, but that were found in the Ešgal or Bīt Reš in later contexts, since these contexts suggest that they were
Veldhuis 2012.
147
For the general rarity of this event, see Margueron 1995: 67-8; Taylor 2011: 16. Compiling a full list of tablets
baked in antiquity is complicated by the fact that most tablets were baked either in the field or in museums as part of
conservation, while other tablets were fired in various conflagrations (as seems to have been the case for both
Assurbanipal’s library and Ugarit). A kiln found in the palace at Ešnunna may also have been used for tablet
baking, although other interpretations are also possible (Reichel 2001: 80-2). Colophons only list three definite and
one possible example of baked tablets, all of which are late Babylonian scholarly texts, see Hunger 1968: 427, 440
and 441, possibly 157. Additionally, a Neo-Babylonian text in the Ashmolean refers to tablets placed in a kiln,
indicating at least some use of baking in antiquity, see Baker 2003: 243, citing OECT 12 AB 253. Jonathan Taylor
assures me that all tablets with so-called firing holes were baked in antiquity, even if these marks may not have
actually served this purpose (personal communication, 2012). Finally, many Middle Assyrian literary tablets were
baked in antiquity, including some of those from the so-called “library of Tiglath-Pileser,” (Christian Hess, personal
Westenholz in limiting the number of these texts to 16, rather than 18.
149
Unfortunately, it is difficult to establish an archaeological context for most of the tablets from Babylon that could
help us to understand the role astronomers, astronomical diaries, and chronicles played in this society. The British
Museum acquired all known chronicles and astronomical diaries from Babylon either through purchase or from
Hormuzd Rassam's excavations in the 1870s and 1880s. Rassam and his colleagues kept few records and were
unable to recognize unbaked mudbrick, making much of this excavated data difficult to analyze (Robson 2008: 220-
2). All of the available evidence indicates, however, that these tablets came from the temple district, a mound called
Amran ibn Ali (Reade 1993; George 1993a; Robson 2008: 221).
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150
In the Neo-Babylonian period, for example, Brinkman has demonstrated that the chronicles and the diaries often
contain different information about the same event and that the chronicles do not merely quote the diaries (Brinkman
1990: 96-7).
151
Rochberg, for example, analyzes the existing horoscope texts and their astronomical sources and concludes that
the former drew upon material from non-mathematical astronomical texts, particularly normal star almanacs, and not
by Andrew George (George 1993b: 84-5; Boiy 2010: fn. 29; Linssen 2004).
154
Apart from Anu-Uballit Nikarchos, Ellis lists just four non-royal personages who left foundation deposits
commemorating building projects from the third to the first millennium BC (Ellis 1968: 165. fn. 24).
155
Clancier cites Kuhrt’s discussion of the Cyrus cylinder to argue that the Achaemenids viewed the temple as
important and thus the šatammu may have had a civil leadership position. Certainly this is possible, given the
Assyrian and Seleucid experience, but the cylinder itself does not confirm it, nor do other economic texts (Clancier
continuity with earlier periods, particularly the practices of the late Achaemenid period, like the shape of the tablets
and most of the formulae (Stolper 1994; Doty 1977: 139). Others show a gradual evolution from earlier periods,
like the introduction of new formulae for prebend and house sales at Uruk in the third century (Oelsner 2003, 1996;
Oelsner 1986).
157
Assyriologists often distinguish between archives—collections of non-literary documents—and libraries—
collections of literary documents (Pedersén 1985, 1998; Pedersen 2005). I will not retain this distinction. In the
Hellenistic period, it seems a particularly artificial one, foreign to the actual practice of collecting texts, as literary
and non-literary tablets are found together in both institutional and private contexts wherever we have provenience
information.
158
Additionally, excavations in 1985-1986 by the Iraqi Department of Antiquities unearthed a scholarly library,
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159
Indeed the same seals have been found at Uruk and Seleucia, suggesting that these urban institutions were linked,
these cities came from Rassam’s excavations, and there is no documentation of their findspots, it is impossible to
distinguish between documents from private houses and those stored in the Esagila (Oelsner 1986; Joannès 1982).
Nonetheless, the tablets we do have may indicate a slightly different context for writing and archiving practices here.
One sign of this is the larger number of administrative documents from Babylon than from Uruk. Although
contracts still occur in this institutional context, they no longer represent the predominant form of non-scholarly
texts. The nature of these administrative documents, however, is different from those of earlier periods. For one
thing, large numbers of these documents, including ration lists and receipts for commodities from Babylon were
sealed, unlike the numerous unsealed examples from the Neo-Babylonian archives (Wallenfels 2000: 333). This is a
significant change. Only 2% of the Eanna tablets carry seal impressions, which is typical for the Neo-Babylonian
period as a whole (Ehrenberg 2001: 186), while somewhere between 33% and 50% of the Hellenistic texts from
Babylon and Borsippa are sealed. This may indicate that although administrators at the Esagila continued to use
traditional techniques for recording aspects of the administration, like cuneiform, there was little continuity with
2008. For the extractive nature of the Akkadian empire, see Ristvet 2012a.
164
The habbātu must be understood in social, not ethnic terms. This word does not designate a specific ethnic
group. Rather, names of habbātu include the same mix of Akkadian, Amorite, and Hurrian that we find throughout
Foucault 2011.
166
Samsuiluna, for example, describes how once he built and restored several fortresses “the fearsome splendor and
melammu of my kingship covered the borders of heaven and earth,” (RIME 4 E.4.3.7.5: 64-6).Yet it is not until the
early first millennium BC that the attribution of this divine quality to kings becomes normative. A long royal
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inscription of Tiglath-Pileser I, for example, is one of the earliest texts to describe the king in these terms, as “a
brilliant day whose melammu overwhelms the regions, splendid flame which covers the hostile lands like a storm
and, [who] by the command of the god Enlil…defeats the enemy of the god Assur” (RIMA A.0.87.1). In Neo-
Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian royal inscriptions, however, the semantic range of melammu has shifted, it is no
longer simply a description of legitimacy or authority, instead it has come to mean royal power. Possession of this
powerful aura is correlated to military might and easy victory as Tiglath Pileser’s use of the term illustrates (CAD
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