CONTENTS Articles Daniel Schwemer – The Storm-Gods of the Ancient Near East: Summary, Synthesis, Recent Studies: Part II ...... O
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Book Review Grimm, Alfred and Hermann A. Schlogl Das thebanische Grab Nr. TT 136 und der Beginn der Amarnazeit. ................ 131
THE STORM-GODS OF THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST: SUMMARY, SYNTHESIS, RECENT STUDIES PART II DANIEL SCHWEMER Abstract In many regions of the ancient Near East, not least in Upper Mesopotamia, Syria and Anatolia where agriculture relied mainly on rainfall, storm-gods ranked among the most prominent gods in the local panthea or were even regarded as divine kings, ruling over the gods and bestowing kingship on the human ruler. While the Babylonian and Assyrian storm-god never held the highest position among the gods, he too belongs to the group of ‘great gods’ through most periods of Mesopotamian history. Given the many cultural contacts and the longevity of traditions in the ancient Near East only a study that takes into account all relevant periods, regions and text-groups can further our understanding of the different ancient Near Eastern storm-gods. The study Wettergottgestalten Mesopotamiens und Nordsyriens by the present author (2001) tried to tackle the problems involved, basing itself primarily on the textual record and excluding the genuinely Anatolian storm-gods from the study. Given the lack of handbooks, concordances and thesauri in our field, the book is necessarily heavily burdened with materials collected for the first time. Despite comprehensive indices, the long lists and footnotes as well as the lack of an overall synthesis make the study not easily accessible, especially outside the German-speaking community. In 2003 Alberto Green published a comprehensive monograph entitled The Storm-God in the Ancient Near East whose aims are more ambitious than those of Wettergottgestalten: All regions of the ancient Near East—including a chapter on Yahwe as a storm-god—are taken into account, and both textual and iconographic sources are given equal space. Unfortunately this book, which was apparently finished and submitted to the publisher before Wettergottgestalten came to its author’s attention, suffers from some serious flaws with regard to methodology, philology and the interpretation of texts and images. In presenting the following succinct overview I take the opportunity to make up for the missing synthesis in Wettergottgestalten and to provide some additions and corrections where necessary. It is hoped that this synthesis can also serve as a response to the history of ancient Near Eastern storm-gods as outlined by A. Green. Part 1. 2. 3.
I (see JANER 7/2) ‘Storm-God’: Scope and Limits of a Modern and Ancient Concept Natural Phenomenon and Divine Manifestation Sumerian Iskur
© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2008 Also available online – www.brill.nl
JANER 8.1
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daniel schwemer 3.1 Name and Early History 3.2 Development of the Cult in the Third Millennium 3.3 Deities Associated with Iskur 3.4 Modus Operandi in Religious Literature 4. Semitic Hadda 4.1 Name and Early History 4.2 Assyro-Babylonian Adad (Addu) 4.2.1 Third and Early Second Millennium 4.2.2 The First Half of the Second Millennium 4.2.3 The Second Half of the Second Millennium and the First Millennium 4.2.4 Adad in the God-Lists, the Circle of Deities Associated with Adad 4.2.5 The Goddess Sàla 4.2.6 Adad as God of Divination 4.2.7 Modus Operandi in Literary Texts 4.3 The Syrian and Upper-Mesopotamian Hadda (Haddu, Hadad) 4.3.1 Hadda: The Third Millennium 4.3.2 Haddu: The First Half of the Second Millennium 4.3.3 Haddu, Tessub and Baalu: The Second Half of the Second Millennium 4.3.4 Aramaean Hadad, Assyrian Adad and Luwian Tar¢unza: The First Millennium 4.4 The Storm-God of Aleppo
Part II ( JANER 8/1) 5. Tessub, the Hurrian King of the Gods 5.1 Name and Early History 5.2 Spread of the Cult 5.3 Tessub as Head of the Imperial Pantheon of Mittani 5.4 Modus Operandi and Circle of Deities Associated with Tessub 6. Baalu: The Storm-God as Lord of the Gods 6.1 The Epithet baalu “Lord” as a Divine Name 6.2 Baalu of Ugarit 6.2.1 Position in the City Pantheon 6.2.2 The Mythological Texts 6.3 Baalu (Addu) at Emar 6.4 Baaal and Baaalsamêm in the First Millennium 7. The Anatolian Storm-Gods Taru and Tar¢un(t) 7.1 Names and Strands of Tradition 7.2 Position in the Pantheon 7.3 Modus Operandi in Mythology and Ritual 8. The Victory of the Storm-God over the Sea 9. Further Gods with Storm-God Characteristics 9.1 The North-Babylonian and Assyrian Storm-God Wèr 9.2 The Babylonian God of the Western Lands Mardu-Amurru 9.3 The Anatolian Vegetation- and Storm-God Telipinu 10. A Few Remarks on Iconography Appendix: Selected Additions and Corrections to Schwemer, Wettergottgestalten
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5. Tessub, the Hurrian King of the Gods 5.1
Name and Early History
The name of the Hurrian storm-god, Tessub, which should strictly be written Tessob according to the orthography of the Mittani letter (the variant form Tessoba occurs in the onomasticon), is without etymology, but may well be genuinely Hurrian. Tessub is attested first in Hurrian personal names of the Ur III and Old Babylonian periods. The first attestation for the storm-god himself occurs in the Hurrian inscription of Tis-Atal of Urkes (Ur III period), where the name of the god is already written logographically (dISKUR). Nothing is known about the history of the god before Hurrian dynasties established themselves in the Upper Mesopotamian area. Tessub certainly belongs to the old Hurrian pantheon and shares his roots with the Urartian storm-god Teiseba, who is only attested in the 1st mill. Tessub was presumably at the head of the Hurrian pantheon from time immemorial as divine king. The assumption that his position of divine king accrued to him only via syncretism with Upper Mesopotamian Haddu, remains without convincing proof. The fact that Teiseba only has the second rung in the Urartian pantheon after ›aldi results from secondary developments (Wettergottgestalten, 444-446). 5.2
Diffusion of the Cult
The main cult centre of Tessub was Kumme, which presumably lies in the valley of the Eastern ›abur. The name Kumme may perhaps be interpreted as originally Hurrian (in Akkadian then Kummu(m), in Hittite Kummiya), which would speak for an originally Hurrian character of the sanctuary. The sanctuary can be attested in the sources from the Old Babylonian to the Neo-Assyrian period and enjoyed a transregional significance similar to that of the temple of the storm-god of Aleppo.1 The storm-god sanctuary of East Tigridian Arrap¢e (Arrap¢um) is attested from the Old Babylonian period, too, and probably also had a Hurrian character even before the 15th cent.2 With the increased establishment of 1 See Wettergottgestalten, 456ff.; on the city of Kumme cf. now also W. Mayer, “Die Stadt Kumme als überregionales religiöses Zentrum”, in: Ex Mesopotamia et Syria Lux. Fs. M. Dietrich, AOAT 281, Münster 2002, 329-358. 2 For the Tessub temple in 15th and 14th cent. Arrap¢e see Wettergottgestalten, 463-464.
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Hurrian dynasties and finally the rise of the Empire of Mittani in the Upper Mesopotamian-North Syrian area, the cult of Tessub also spread and connected with traditions associated of old with the Semitic storm-god, Addu. Due to the lack of sources, however, it is not yet even possible to trace the developments via local case studies in any detail. The most important temples of Tessub within the realm of the Mittani empire were those of the cities Ka¢at, Wassukkanni, U¢us(u)màn(i) and Irride.3 A few traces of the short-lived Hurro-Mittanian rule over Assyria are still visible in the traditions associated with Adad in the NeoAssyrian period,4 but more importantly Hurrian cultural influence extended as far as southern Anatolia and reached—mainly via Kizzuwatna—the Hittite royal family, so that significant elements, motifs and texts of Syro-Hurrian origin are identifiable in the Hittite cult from the Middle Hittite period on. The Hittite storm-god was identified with Tessub in the process; relevant religious texts (myths, hymns, prayers) were adopted and partially translated into Hittite, the name of Tessub being replaced by that of the Hittite stormgod in these cases. The Syro-Hurrian pantheon with Tessub and ›èbat at its top formed an important element of the cult.5 Almost all texts providing information on the ideas associated with Tessub have been transmitted to us by Hittite scribes, be it in Hittite or Hurrian. All these texts were already the result of a comprehensive fusion of originally Syrian and Hurrian traditions, each of which was in early contact with the Assyro-Babylonian world too. 5.3
Tessub as Head of the Imperial Pantheon of Mittani
According to the few sources at our disposal (mainly the Mittani dossier in the Amarna correspondence) Tessub was at the top of the official pantheon of the Mittani Empire. Nearest in rank to him was the goddess (Istar-)Sawuska. What relationship these two divinities had to each other, is not quite clear. In the Hurrian myths and rituals known to us from ›attusa the North-Syrian ›èbat is always 3 These are the local forms of Tessub mentioned in the god list of the Sattiwaza treaty, see Wettergottgestalten, 461f.; a few more storm-god sanctuaries in what must have been cities belonging to Mittani are attested in Middle Assyrian sources (Sura, Isana, see Wettergottgestalten, 577f.). 4 See Wettergottgestalten, 482 on Sèri(s) and ›urri in Assyrian sources. 5 Cf. Wettergottgestalten, 498-501, and see now I. Wegner, Hurritische Opferlisten aus hethitischen Festbeschreibungen II, ChS I/3-2, Roma 2002.
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the wife, Sawuska on the other hand the sister of the storm-god. This Syro-Hurrian tradition can, however, hardly be an originally Hurrian concept. Conspicuously, forms of Sawuska were often worshipped at the side of Tessub in the area east of the Tigris which lay under Hurrian influence, and even in Old Babylonian Upper Mesopotamia, forms of Istar appear to have been worshipped at the side of the storm-god, albeit without Istar-Sawuska being explicitly labelled the consort of Tessub. How the relationship between Tessub and Sawuska was conceptualised in the imperial pantheon of Mittani is not discernable from the available sources. The goddess ݏbat was surely not unknown, as Mittanian princesses have her in their names. Thus one cannot exclude that the Syro-Hurrian tradition also prevailed in the imperial pantheon of Mittani (see Wettergottgestalten, 460-462). 5.4
Modus Operandi and Circle of Deities Associated with Tessub
The best known group of myths that feature Tessub as their protagonist is the so-called ‘Kumarbi-cycle’. Only fragmentarily preserved myths from this cycle are known, exclusively on manuscripts from ›attusa, most of them Hittite translations which also translate the individual divine names into Hittite. Beside this there are also a few fragments of Hurrian versions. The whole mythic complex treats essentially one theme: the conflict between the younger divine king Tessub and his deposed father, Kumarbi, who tries by various tricks to regain the kingship over the gods. The divine kingdom is set in heaven and presided over first by the primeval god, Alalu. He is then driven out by his son, the sky-god, Anu, who himself is deposed by Kumarbi, a god of the same generation as Anu. In the struggle Kumarbi bites Anu’s genitals off and thus carries the seed of powerful gods, including Tessub, within him. These are then ‘born’ from him and defeat him, and so Tessub becomes the new king of the gods. Tessub’s earthly home is also the town of Kumme6 in the myth, and his cosmic sphere of activities are heaven and the land. Particularly the underworld and the sea are foreign and hostile regions to him. In alliance primarily with the deities and monsters of the sea and the underworld—including a stone giant with the programmatic name Ullikummi “Destroy Kumme”— Kumarbi, who was himself ascribed chthonic characteristics as a god 6
For Tessub as lord of Kumme see Wettergottgestalten, 456-458.
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of cereals and as the disposessed, old king of the gods, attempts to win back the divine kingship in heaven. The narrative cycle receives suspense from the fact that Kumarbi’s plans are in the short term almost successful, until Tessub finally manages to narrowly defeat his various opponents. The cycle perhaps ended with a struggle between Tessub and the sea-god, who may have been allied to Kumarbi, from which Tessub definitively emerges as the victorious king of the gods (for the motif of the storm-god’s victory over the sea, cf. also 8.).7 The group of deities associated with Tessub according to the Kumarbi-cycle corresponds broadly to that known from other religious texts of Hurrian provenance: He was a son of Anu and Kumarbi; a Hurrian invocation labels Kumarbi as Tessub’s “mother” in harmony with the ‘Song of Kingship in Heaven’ from the Kumarbi-cycle. In KUB 33, 89+: 6' Tessub is apparently called a son of the moon-god, but this attestation is still isolated and its significance remains unclear for the time being. Brother and sister of Tessub were Sawuska and Tasmisu (Hittite Suwaliyatt); the latter is is also called Tessub’s vizier—a position which is occupied by the god Tènu in the ritual texts, perhaps following an Aleppine traditon.8 The chariot of Tessub was pulled by two divine bulls, as frequently attested in Hittite and North-Syrian art. In the Song of Ullikummi these bulls are called Sèrisu and Tilla. But most frequently it is ›urri (older ›urra), also a divine bull, who stands beside Sèri(s), not Tilla, who is attested as an important independent god in the region of Nuzi in the 15th cent. While Sèri(s) partly appears as an 7 See Wettergottgestalten, 446-454. In the meantime more fragments have been identified as (possibly) belonging to the Kumarbi-cycle, see D. Groddek, “„[Diese Angelegenheit] höre die Istar von Ninive nicht!“”, WdO 31 (2000-2001) 23-30 and A. Archi, “Ea and the Beast. A Song Related to the Kumarpi Cycle”, in: Silva Anatolica. Studies M. Popko, ed. P. Taracha, Warsaw 2002, 1-10. For Hurrian fragments see M. Giorgieri, “Die hurritische Fassung des Ullikummi-Liedes und ihre hethitische Parallele”, in: Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für Hethitologie Würzburg, 4.-8. Oktober 1999, StBoT 45, Wiesbaden 2001, 134-155 (Ullikummi, cf. Wettergottgestalten, 457 fn. 3778), M. Dijkstra, “The Myth of apsi “the (Sea)dragon” in the Hurrian Tradition”, UF 37 (2005) 315-328 (›edammu) and, generally, ChS 1/6. For the first song of the cycle see now C. Corti, “The So-called “Theogony” or “Kingship in Heaven”. The Name of the Song”, SMEA 49 (2007) 109-121. 8 For Tessub’s filiation see Wettergottgestalten, 454f., 451 fn. 3736, for Tasmisu and Tènu see ibid., 448 fn. 3719 and 500f. Note that a “divine priest named d Tenu” (thus CHD S I 185a) does not exist. KUB 34, 102 obv. II 14' has lúsukkal, not lúsanga, as all other parallel texts (also syllabically su-uk-kal-li). For Sawuska and ›èbat see Wettergottgestalten, 460-461.
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independently acting god, but mainly as the mediator between humans and his lord Tessub, ›urri is only mentioned at the side of Sèri(s) and had—as far as we know—no distinct profile.9 Two further side-kicks of Tessub were the mountain-gods ›azzi (Cassius) and Nanni (Anti-Cassius?); they play no role in the Kumarbi-cycle, but are often named in the offering lists directly after Sèri(s) and ›urri.10 Otherwise, the South-Anatolian bull- and mountain-god Sarrumma, who occupied an important position in the Hittite pantheon of the 13th cent., was known as the son of Tessub and ›èbat. Unclear remains the relationship of the divine bulls Tilla, Sèri(s), ›urri and Sarrumma to the divine bull-calf Bùru, who is subordinate to Adad primarily in the Aramaean milieu of the Neo-Assyrian and Late Babylonian periods; whether this bull-god Bùru was somehow related to the god Apladad, the Adad-son of 1st mill. Aramaean religion (cf. 4.2.3), is unknown too.11 The narratives of the multi-tablet series “Release”, which have been preserved in a bilingual, Hurrian-Hittite version, are fraught with numerous difficulties of interpretation due to their overall very fragmentary state of preservation.12 Here, too, Tessub appears as lord of the gods. The beginning of the proemium refers directly to Tessub as lord of Kumme. In one episode Tessub demands the release of prisoners from Megi, the ruler of Ebla, and threatens otherwise the destruction of the city. The city-elders respond to this approach in the form of ironic questions, saying that it is quite improbable that the powerful Tessub would have solidarity with the prisoners.13 In another episode Tessub is a guest in the underworld, where the goddess of the underworld receives him with a celebration. Whether this episode ends in an imprisonment of Tessub in the underworld and how such an imprisonment of Tessub in the underworld is connected to the argument with the demand for the release of the prisoners in Ebla must remain open questions for the moment. It is even less sure whether some temporary 9
For the divine bulls associated with Tessub see Wettergottgestalten, 477-487. For ›azzi and Nanni see Wettergottgestalten, 228f., 233, 480, 514f. with fn. 4185 and 516 with fn. 4194 with further literature. 11 For Bùru see Wettergottgestalten, 487-489 and K. Radner, Die neuassyrischen Texte aus Tall Sè¢ Óamad, Berlin 2002, 16. 12 See most recently G. Wilhelm, “Das hurritisch-hethitische ‘Lied der Freilassung’ ”, in: TUAT. Ergänzungslieferung, ed. O. Kaiser, Gütersloh 2001, 82-91. 13 For this interpretation see Wilhelm, loc. cit., and idem, “Die Könige von Ebla nach der hurritisch-hethitischen Serie ‘Freilassung’”, AoF 24 (1997) 277-293. 10
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imprisonment of Tessub in the underworld should be put in the context of the conflict between Kumarbi and Tessub known from the Kumarbi-cycle, or, for that matter, in the context of Baalu’s dying and rising in the Ugaritic Baalu-cycle. At any rate it emerges clearly from the bilingual, too, that the underworld did not belong to the proper domain of Tessub. He dines there according to the Allani-episode beside the primordial gods who he himself had once banished to the underworld.14 6. Baa lu: The Storm-God as Lord of the Gods 6.1
The Epithet baa lu, “lord”, as Divine Name
The use of the epithet bèlu, baalu “lord” as the proper name of a particular god is attested for different gods in various epochs of the ancient Near East. Either these are abbreviations of the frequently occurring type of epithet, connected with all sorts of gods, “lord of (place-name)”, or it is the labelling of particular gods as lord (of the gods) par excellence (like Bèl for Marduk). Even the endingless form Baaal is already attested in the Early Dynastic period (god-list from Tell Abù Íalàbì¢). In the pre-Sargonic calendars of Ebla and Tell Beydar there is a month-name named after a god only referred to as Baalu or Bèlu (dbe-lí). In Tell Beydar this god also occurs in the name of a gate.15 Which god is hidden behind these epithets is not easy to decide. In view of the fact that the ‘New Calendar’ from Ebla had a month of Hadda beside the month of Baalu and that otherwise no recognisable connections between Hadda and the appellation Baalu (Baaal ) from this period exist, a simple equation of this “Lord” with the Late Bronze Age storm-god Baalu is out of the question. The element baalu in Ebla onomastics and similarly in later Amorite onomastics should be understood as an epithet and address form that can stand for different deities, not as an actual name of a single god. It appears therefore unlikely that Baalu as found in the Early Dynastic texts from Ebla, Tell Beydar and Tell Abù Íalàbì¢ represents the immediate precursor of the stormgod Baalu of late 2nd and 1st mill. Syria. The overall evidence rather points to Baalu developing in the course of the late 16th and 14
See Wettergottgestalten, 455-456 with fn. 3761-63. See W. Sallaberger, “Calendar and Pantheon”, in: W. Sallaberger e. a., Administrative Documents from Tell Beydar, Subartu 2, Turnhout, 85-87. 15
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15th centuries on the Syro-Palestinian coastal strip from an epithet of the storm-god Haddu to his primary name, independently from the gods called Baalu or Baaal about a thousand years earlier. Conversely Haddu serves as an epithet of Baalu in Ugaritic mythology. Particularly telling in this regard are not only the cuneiform sources from Syro-Palestine itself (mainly the Amarna-Correspondence and texts from Tell Taaanakh),16 but also the rendering of the name of the Syrian storm-god in contemporary Egyptian sources. The theological background for this development may well have been the prominent position of the god Haddu in the panthea of SyroPalestine, which had him as the lord (of gods) per se.17 The use of the name Baalu then spread in the 14th and 13th centuries as far as Emar on the Middle Euphrates without ever fully replacing Adad (Addu) as the storm-god’s name (infra, 6.3). Further East the usage of the name Baalu was never adopted. 6.2
Baa lu of Ugarit
Thanks to the texts found in the city of Ugarit we are by far best informed about the storm-god Baalu (Haddu) worshipped in the city of Ugarit. But the abundance of information available for Baalu of Ugarit and Baalu of Mt. Íapuna (›azzi, Zaphon, Cassius, modern ]ebel al-Aqraa) should not distract from the fact that the texts from Ugarit represent the tradition of only one of the most important city-centres of Late Bronze Age Syro-Palestine. We know almost nothing of the myths and cults of the later Phoenician cities of Byblos, Sidon and Tyre or of the land of Amurru. On the other hand one has to take into account that especially the cult of Baalu Íapuna had trans-regional significance.
16 For the texts found at Tell Taanakh see now W. Horowitz—T. Oshima, Cuneiform in Canaan. Cuneiform Sources from the Land of Israel in Ancient Times, Jerusalem 2006, 127-151. 17 For this overall interpretation of the evidence see Wettergottgestalten, 502-511; for a different view see G. Pettinato, “Pre-Ugaritic Documentation of Baaal”, in: The Bible World. Studies C.H. Gordon, ed. G. Rendsburg e.a., New York 1980, 203209, and W. Herrmann, Art. “Baal”, Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible, ed. K. van der Toorn e.a., Leiden e.a. 21999, 132-139. For the problem of the identification of the god(s) behind the epithet Baalu (d etc.) cf. also Feliu, Dagan, 7-41. For the semantics of the divine name Baaal in North-West Semitic languages cf. now H.-P. Müller, “Der Gottesname Bal und seine Phraseologien im Hebräischen und im Phönizisch-Punischen”, JSS 50 (2005) 281-296.
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6.2.1 Position in the Pantheon of the City Baalu embodies the type of young king of the gods who attains the worthiness of kingship among the gods by struggle, but who remains at the same time in principle subordinated to his father hIlu, the inactive father of the gods who is dependent on the deeds of his son (cf. e.g. the relationship between Ninurta and Enlil in Nippur). Both gods stood with their different functions together at the top of the local pantheon and were addressed by the kings as the main gods of the city (cf. CAT 1.14 obv. II 22ff.). The special role of the young king of the gods, Baalu, is that of representing the interests of the earthly king before the divine father (cf. CAT 1.15 obv. II 11ff.). The close relationship between the human king and his divine counterpart is also illustrated by the fact that the mythological episodes dealing with the burial of Baalu resemble rites performed at the burial of Ugaritic kings.18 Baalu’s position at the top of the city’s pantheon is clearly reflected by the numerous personal names formed with his name.19 The two temples on the acropolis of Ugarit surely are the sanctuaries of hIlu and Baalu. It was probably aAmmu-ràpi of Ugarit who renovated the temple of Baalu and sent a message to Egypt requiring craftsmen for his work on the building and a votive statue of the Egyptian king.20 Baalu consequently usually occupies the first rank among the younger gods in the offering lists of Ugaritic rituals, while the older gods hIluhibi, hIlu and Dagàn precede him. The cult distinguishes between Baalu of the city of Ugarit and Baalu of Mt. Íapuna. It is unsure whether both possessed a sanctuary. Probably the main temple of Baalu on the acropolis could also be called the temple of Baalu Íapuna, as the mythical home of Baalu (of Ugarit) was definitely 18 See Wettergottgestalten, 532f. For the last point see D.M. Clemens’ important article “KTU 1.45 and 1.6 I 8-18, 1.161, 1.101”, UF 33 (2001, publ. 2002) 65116, and cf. also M.S. Smith, “The Death of ‘Dying and Rising Gods’ in the Biblical World. An Update with Special Reference to Baal in the Baal Cycle”, SJOT 12 (1998) 289-309 and the critique of this article by T.N.D. Mettinger, The Riddle of Resurrection. “Dying and Rising Gods” in the Ancient Near East, Stockholm 2001, 64-66. 19 See Wettergottgestalten, 525-532; note that the name dISKUR-ia compared to 8 Addaya (526 with fn. 4264) must be read Baaluya (brother and predecessor of Aziru of Amurru). 20 See Wettergottgestalten, 512f.; the important letter of the Egyptian king has now been published by S. Lackenbacher in Études ougaritiques I. Travaux 1985-1995, ed. M. Yon—D. Arnaud, RSOu 14, Paris 2001, 239-248, for a recent German translation see Schwemer, TUAT.NF 3, ed. B. Janowski—G. Wilhelm, Gütersloh 2006, 256-258 (with further literature).
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meant to be Mt. Íapuna. If both Baalu manifestations were named beside each other, Baalu Íapuna had rank over Baalu of the city Ugarit.21 Baalu of ›alab too was worshipped at Ugarit. He is the highest-ranking storm-god to receive sacrifices during the ¢iyaru-ritual at Ugarit, named before Baalu of Mt. Íapuna. Both storm-gods receive a bull and a sheep on this occasion, an honour they share with only one other god in the list: the god Sarrassiya (ΔrΔy, dsarra-si-ia)22 named directly after the two storm-gods. This god is so far not attested otherwise, but there can be little doubt that he is a personification of Hurrian sarrasse- “kingship”, a term that is frequently used—in the Hurrian essive case—as ‘offering term’ in Hurro-Hittite rituals: sarrassiya “for kingship”.23 It is apparently this ‘offering term’ in its typical form that was personified and turned into a deity of its own. The sacrifices to this deity directly after the two storm-gods seem to suggest that the ¢iyaru-festival at Ugarit was especially performed with regard to (the Aleppine) Baalu’s kingship over the gods. 6.2.2 The Mythological Texts A group of fragmentary mythological texts in the Ugaritic language, the so-called ‘Baalu-cycle’, is concerned with the struggles of Baalu for kingship among the gods. His rivals in this struggle all come from the younger generation of gods, while the father of the gods, 21 For the evidence from the ritual texts, offering lists and related school texts see Wettergottgestalten, 514-525. For the texts themselves see now the comprehensive treatments by D. Pardee. Les textes rituels, RSOu 12, Paris 2000 (came too late to be taken into account for Wettergottgestalten) and idem, Ritual and Cult at Ugarit, Writings from the Ancient World 10, Atlanta 2002. For the storm-god of Mt. Zaphon in the Hellenistic and Roman times (Zeus Kasios) see now K. Ehling— D. Pohl—M.H. Sayar, Kulturbegegnungen in einem Brückenland. Gottheiten und Kulte als Indikatoren von Akkulturationsprozessen im Ebenen Kilikien, Asia Minor Studien 53, Bonn 2004, 174ff. 22 For the text and its interpretation see Wettergottgestalten, 521f. The reading of the name ΔrΔy (CAT 1.148 rev. 28) has now become clear. The syllabic parallel text RS 92.2004 has dsar-ra-si-ia (see D. Arnaud, “Textes administratifs”, in: Études Ougaritiques I. Travaux 1985-1995, ed. M. Yon—D. Arnaud, RSOu 14, Paris 2001, 323-326 fn. 23 [RS 92.2004 // 92.2009], cf. also D. Pardee, JNES 61 [2002] 119-120 and idem, Ritual and Cult, 12-19). The logographic (?) writing of the same name, dim?.tur in RS 26.142 obv. 8, is unclear to me (despite D. Arnaud’s remarks, loc. cit., 325). 23 For the attestations see CHD S 245. Note that there is no “storm-god of sarrassiya” as implied by D. Arnaud, loc. cit., 325. Whether Sarrassiya himself had attributes of a storm-god we do not know; he certainly his a personification of one of the basic motifs of the Syro-Hurrian storm-god’s mythology.
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hIlu, essentially watches the struggles among the younger generation, without his own position being put in question by this. The fact alone, however, that Baalu has to fight against other rivals for the kingship, which office is finally approved by hIlu, suggests a certain tension between the father of the gods and the storm-god, which reminds one slightly of the configuration of the conflict between Kumarbi and Tessub. In the Ugaritic myth, too, the seagod (Yammu) is a main enemy of the storm-god. hIlu installs Yammu as king for unknown reasons and subordinates Baalu to him. Baalu defeats Yammu in battle and thus secures the kingship for himself (cf. infra, 8.). Here begins the second large part of the Baalu-cycle, which is devoted to the building of a palace and the associated definitive confirmation of Baalu’s kingship by hIlu. The third large narrative of the Baalu-cycle describes the defeat of the storm-god at the hands of the god of death, Môtu. Baalu is buried and must descend into the underworld powerless. He dies and takes the storms and rains with him. The scene of Baalu’s burial is only briefly referred to in the Baalu-cycle itself, but other excerpts from mythological texts seem to indicate that fuller descriptions of the treatment of the deceased Baalu existed.24 Only after Baalu’s sister aAnatu has destroyed Môtu, does Baalu re-emerge from the underworld with his abundance. The cyclical plot of the story suggests a seasonal interpretation. During the winter rain-period Baalu is among people and in heaven, the summer dry-season is brought about by his sojourn in the world of the dead. Parts of the text indicate that the myth concerns disastrous droughts occurring at long intervals, but of course even such disasters basically move within the basic seasonal framework. In contrast to the myth about Baalu and Yammu, the story about Baalu and Môtu cannot be connected with earlier material associated with Haddu, Tessub or Iskur-Adad (but cf. supra, 3.4 and 5.4). Rather this part of the Baalu-cycle shows a relationship with myths about other dying and returning vegetation gods (esp. Dumuzi-Tammuz and Adonis).25 But similar stories about 24 See D.M. Clemens, UF 33 (2001, publ. 2002) 65-116 (cf. 6.2.1). For the description of Baalu in the difficult text CAT 1.101 cf. also infra, 10. 25 For the storm-god’s role in the Ugaritic (and Canaanite) mythological texts see Wettergottgestalten, 532-542; for the myth of Baalu’s dying and rising and the motif of dying and rising gods generally see now T.N.D. Mettingers comprehensive study The Riddle of Resurrection. “Dying and Rising Gods” in the Ancient Near East, Stockholm 2001, which unfortunately appeared only after Wettergottgestalten had gone to press.
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the storm-god’s defeat and imprisonment in the underworld formed part of other contemporary Canaanite myths too, as the ‘Elkunirsamyth’ shows. The last passage of this myth that is only preserved in Hittite translation relates how an injured Baalu is treated, “recreated” (appa samnai-) by the birth goddesses and exorcised by a number of exorcists. It seems that the storm-god had been forced to the underworld too, but on the whole the text is much too fragmentary to allow far-reaching interpretations.26 It should be noted, however, that the motif of disappearing gods in genuinely Anatolian mythology (Telipinu myth etc.) is in various aspects significantly different from the Ugaritic Baalu-myth; it seems unlikely, also with regard to the general lack of Hittite influences in Syro-Mesopotamian mythology, that these Anatolian myths and rituals served as a model of the story about Baalu’s death and return.27 Not explicitly attested in the texts is the worship of Baalu as protective deity of sea-faring. The great significance of sea-trade for the city of Ugarit, the role of Baalu as victor over Yammu and the monsters of the sea, the discovery of stone anchors as votive gifts in the area of the Baalu temple (as in other sanctuaries on the SyroPalestinian coast too),28 as well as the probable function of the Baalu temple which rises high above the city as an orientation point (and light-house?) for sailors make it plausible, however, that Baalu was ascribed this function too.29 As a young god, Baalu did not have a consort in a real sense. The mythological texts, however, appear to describe sexual encounters both with aAΔtartu and with Baalu’s sister aAnatu. In the HellenisticRoman period Astarte and Atargatis, presumably a syncretism of aAΔtartu and aAnatu, were worshipped as consorts of the Syrian storm-gods. Neither aAnatu nor aAΔtartu, however, are named as mothers of Baalu’s three daughters, Pidray, Arßay and ˇallay. Pidray 26 For the Elkunirsa-myth cf. H.A. Hoffner Jr., Hittite Myths, Writings from the Ancient World 2, Atlanta 21998, 90-92, G. Beckman, “Elkunirsa and Asertu”, in: Context of Scripture I, ed. W.W. Hallo, Leiden 1997, 149, and now also V. Haas, Die hethitische Literatur. Texte Stilistik, Motive, Berlin—New York 2006, 213-216. 27 See Wettergottgestalten, 538 with fn. 4326, and cf. now also Mettinger, The Riddle of Resurrection, 76-80. 28 For a comprehensive study of the stone anchors see H. Frost, “Anchors Sacred and Profan. Ugarit-Ras Shamra, 1986; the stone anchors revised and compared”, in: Arts et industries de la pierre, ed. M. Yon, RSOu 6, Paris 1991, 355-408. 29 Perhaps the famous seal from Tell Dabaa can be interpreted this way, too; thus among others I. Cornelius—H. Niehr,Götter und Kulte in Ugarit, Mainz 2004, 47, 72.
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herself is equated with ›èbat, the North-Syrian consort of Tessub— this too being an indication that the Ugaritic Baalu did not have a wife in any real sense.30 hIlu is named as the father of Baalu throughout. Only in two frozen epithets Baalu is also called “Son of Dagàn”, following an older Syro-Hurrian tradition.31 On the level of myth, Dagàn does not play a role and appears to have been completely absorbed by Ugaritic hIlu. 6.3
Baa lu (Addu) at Emar and Other Cities on the Middle Euphrates
In the 14th and 13th centuries the use of the name Baalu spread as far as Emar on the Middle Euphrates (and places in its vicinity), where the names Addu, Baalu and Tessub were used beside each other depending on the linguistic context—a situation that is also reflected in the contemporary glyptic.32 Unfortunately almost nothing is known about the mythology of the storm-god at Late Bronze Age Emar, and we get only little insight into how the different traditions connected with Addu, Tessub and Baalu coexisted or were blended in this area. Traditionally Baalu (Addu), “the lord of Imar”, seems to have been the most important god of the city ranking only after the more senior Dagàn, while the citygod ninurta33 receives the position after the storm-god in the offering lists. Probably ›èbat was worshipped as consort of the storm-god, and while Astartu had a high rank in the local pantheon as well, claims that she was worshipped as Baalu’s consort are based on little evidence. Possibly her relationship can be compared to that between Addu (Tessub) and Istar (Sawuska) in the Old Babylonian period and in the 16th and 15th cent.34 The installation ritual for Baalu’s high priestess is preserved in three versions, and other texts
30
For the goddesses associated with Baalu see Wettergottgestalten, 542-546. Cf. Tessub as son of Kumarbi, who is equated with Dagàn, see supra, 4.3.2. 32 See Wettergottgestalten, 548-552; for the depiction of the storm-god on the Emar seals and the various traditions apparent in the different styles that can be observed see D. Beyer, Emar IV: Les sceaux, OBO SA 20, Fribourg—Göttingen 2001, 299306. 33 For ninurta cf. J.G. Westenholz, “Emar—the City and its God”, in: Languages and Cultures in Contact. Proceedings of the 42th RAI (OLA 96), ed. K. van Lerberghe— G. Voet, Leuven 1999, 145-67. 34 In principle one cannot exclude that ›èbat was regarded as Baalu’s regular consort and Astartu as his mistress (cf. the relationship between Nabû, Tasmètu and Nanaya in 1st mill. Borsippa), but we have not enough evidence for any conclusions of this kind. 31
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inform us about the cult calendar of the city and its storm-god temple, but reveal little about Baalu himself.35 6.4
Baaal and Baaalsamêm in the First Millennium
The use of the original epithet Baalu as personal name of the Semitic storm-god, Haddu, as primarily attested in texts from Ugarit for the Late Bronze Age, continued without interruption in the Iron Age cultures of Syro-Palestine and South Anatolia. The storm-god is always called Baaal in Phoenician texts; the ‘Canaanite’ stormgod is also called Baaal in the Old Testament.36 By contrast the inherited Semitic name of the storm-god lived on in the form Hadad (Hadda) in the Aramaean dominated interior of Syria and in Upper Mesopotamia (see 4.3.4). Of course the name Baaal did not always stand for a storm-god, for, as in earlier periods, particularly in connection with a place-name it could serve as an independent epithet of a local leading deity of any kind. In those regions which were in contact with Babylonia, Bèl(-Marduk) was then appropriated and fused with the Syrian Baaal (cf. the god Bel [< Bol] in Palmyra).37 The storm-god was always and everywhere considered as one of the sky-gods per se. The most important manifestation of the Hittite Tar¢un(t) was regularly called “storm-god of heaven” (from the Old Hittite period; similarly to be assumed for Hattic Taru). Already from the Old Babylonian period the same epithet “of heaven” can be attested on the Middle Euphrates and in the Upper MesopotamianAssyrian area for Haddu or Adad (similarly for other sky-gods: Sîn, Samas, Istar, later Anu).38 The epithet always refers to the main manifestation of the individual deity (residing in heaven) by contrast to the diverse local manifestations, which were associated with particular earthly places. It is no accident that the lists of oath-gods in treaties, which were supposed to bind people from different regions, like to name exactly those comprehensive “heavenly 35 See Wettergottgestalten, 553-573; D. Fleming’s important study Time at Emar: The Cultic Calendar and the Rituals form the Diviner’s Archive, MC 11, Winona Lake 2000, appeared too late to be fully appreciated in Wettergottgestalten. The texts from Tell Munbaqa are now availabe in a comprehensive edition: W. Mayer, Tall Munbaqa—Ekalte II: Die Texte, WVDOG 102, Saarbrücken 2001. 36 See e.g. M.S. Smith, The Early History of God. Yahwe and the Other Deities of Ancient Israel, Grand Rapids—Cambridge 22002 with further literature. 37 Cf. Wettergottgestalten, 503 fn. 4110 with literature. 38 See Wettergottgestalten, 284, 714b, cf. now also P.-A. Beaulieu, The Pantheon of Uruk during the Neo-Babylonian Period, CM 23, Leiden—Boston 2003, 346f.).
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manifestations” at the very beginning of the lists, before the respective local manifestations. In the Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions of the first half of the 1st mill. the storm-god Tar¢unza is very often supplied with the epithet “of heaven” (tipasasis Tar¢unzas), without a divine manifestation different from the simple Tar¢unza being meant by it (cf. for example the alternating use of tipasasis Tar¢unzas and simple Tar¢unzas in the inscriptions of Katuwa from Karkamis). Apparently in the Phoenician-speaking area the phrase balsmm “Baaal of Heaven”, which also serves to translate tipasasis Tar¢unzas in the PhoenicianLuwian bilingual of Karatepe, developed into an independent manifestation of the storm-god that occupied a prominent position especially in the Syro-Palestinian religions of the Hellenistic and Roman periods. How far the emancipation of Baaalsamêm into an independent deity is due to Anatolian-Luwian traditions is still unclear. At any rate the assumption of a simple identity of Tar¢unza with the epithet tipasasis on the one hand and the independent Baaalsamêm on the other is problematic, despite the Karatepe bilingual. It seems more plausible to view Luwian tipasasis Tar¢unzas as one of the points of departure for the later independent development of the deity Baaalsamêm within Phoenician religion. The cult of the god is, however, not restricted to Phoenician-speaking territory. The name is adapted in Aramaic as Baaalsamìn as well. Considering the chronological distribution of the attestations for Hadad and Baaalsamìn in the area of Aramaean cultural influence, we get the impression that the name Baaalsamìn takes over from the name Hadad regionally in the course of the Persian period at least on the level of official religion, which is not too surprising in view of the common roots and similar profile of the two gods. In the first half of the 1st mill. there are no attestations for the combination of the two gods; however, the state of the sources is on the whole very fragmentary. The god Baaalsamìn appears to have been unknown in this period beyond those areas of Syria and Upper Mesopotamia immediately juxtaposed to the Phoenician-speaking territory. The Aramaic papyrus pAmherst 63 (about 3rd cent. B.C., Upper Egypt) names in col. xv and xvi Hadad (or Hadda) in synonymous parallelism with Baaalsamìn and thus gives us a secure terminus post quem for the identification of the two gods.39 39 On Baaalsamêm see now the comprehensive review of H. Niehr (Baaalsamem. Studien zu Herkunft, Geschichte und Rezeptionsgeschichte eines phönizischen Gottes, OLA 123, Leuven 2003) with a slightly different view of the early history of the god.
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7. The Anatolian Storm-Gods Taru and Tar¢un(t) 7.1
Names and Strands of Tradition
The world of religious ideas that we encounter in texts of the Hittite period is characterised by multiple layers of tradition, though it is not always possible to isolate the different individual traditions and to create a coherent complete picture of each of the specific strands of tradition in its ‘original’ form. This is particularly true of the relationship between Old Anatolian-Hattic religious traditions and such ideas that already belonged to the speakers of the Anatolian branch of Indo-European prior to their migration into Anatolia. The influence of Hattic traditions on what became Hittite culture is especially marked in the field of religious ideas and not least the world of the gods, so that a separate investigation of the Hattic storm-god on the one hand and the Hittite-Luwian(-Palaic) stormgod on the other would be impossible. There is no adequate comprehensive study of the Anatolian storm-gods, one of the more urgent desiderata of Hittitology. Thus the following observations can only be provisional.40
40 The relevant chapter in Green, Storm-God (pp. 89-152) relies uncritically— and apparently without much first-hand knowledge of the sources themselves—on the problematic study of H.J. Deighton (The ‘Weather-God’ in Hittite Anatolia. An Examination of the Archaeological and Textual Sources, BAR International Series 143, Oxford 1982); it is thus largely flawed and outdated; note that important critical reviews of Deighton’s study are missing from the bibliography (V. Haas, OLZ 80 [1985] 461-463, O. Gurney, JRAS 1983/2, 281-282), while G. Beckman, “The Anatolian Myth of Illuyanka”, JANES 14 (1982) 11-25 was used, but the critical remark on p. 23 fn. 80 apparently went unnoticed. The recent overview-works on Hittite religion (esp. V. Haas, Geschichte der hethitischen Religion, HdO I/15, Leiden 1994, M. Popko, Religions of Asia Minor, Warsaw 1995, both missing from Green’s bibliography, and, more recently, M. Hutter, “Aspects of Luwian Religion”, in: The Luwians, ed. H.C. Melchert, HdO 1/68, Leiden—Boston 2003, 211-280, esp. 220-224) do offer important information but naturally are kept general and sometimes their claims are hard for the user to verify. Instructive shorter studies are particularly Ph.H.J. Houwink ten Cate, “The Hittite Storm God: His Role and His Rule According to Hittite Cuneiform Sources”, in: Natural Phenomena. Their Meaning, Depiction and Description in the Ancient Near East, ed. D.J.W. Meijer, Amsterdam e.a. 1992, 83-148 and J. Klinger, Untersuchungen zur Rekonstruktion der hattischen Kultschicht, StBoT 37, Wiesbaden 1996, 147-152 (both missing from Green’s bibliography, too) as well as a number of studies on local manifestations of the Hittite storm-god: J. Glocker, Das Ritual für den Wettergott von Kuliwisna. Textzeugnisse eines lokalen Kultfestes im Anatolien der Hethiterzeit, Eothen 6, Firenze 1997, M. Popko, Zippalanda. Ein Kultzentrum im hethitischen Kleinasien, THeth 21, Heidelberg 1994, R. Lebrun, “Lawazantiya, foyer religieux kizzuwatnien”, in: Florilegium anatolicum. Mélanges E. Laroche, ed. E. Masson, Paris 1979, 197-206, idem, Samuha, foyer religieux
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The Hattic storm-god was called Taru; his name is written syllabically and with the usual Sumerograms (dISKUR, d10). It is unclear whether the Hattic name of the god, who is also represented theriomorphically as a bull, is to be connected with the bull-word as attested in Semitic and Indo-European languages.41 The name of the Hittite-Luwian storm-god is attested in various forms, all of which ultimately go back to the Indo-European base *tro h2-, which is continued in Hittite as tar¢- “be powerful”, “overcome”.42 The most important form of the name in Cuneiform Luwian is Tar¢unt(< *tar¢uwant-), a participial form which has a Vedic cognate with the meaning “storming along”. In Hieroglyphic Luwian the nominative form Tar¢unz (Tar¢unt-s) is secondarily thematised in -a, whereby the stem as used in the nominative and accusative are produced (Tar¢unza-). Beside the participial form the shorter form Tar¢u- occurs, which especially in Hittite is then extended to the (secondarily thematised) n-stem Tar¢unn(a)-, though Hittite texts also use frequently the Luwian form Tar¢unta- with a-thematisation. Syllabic writings are extremely rare, and as a rule logograms (with phonetic complements) are used: dISKUR, d10, Hieroglyphic DEUStonitrus (with special logograms for Tessub: DEUSl.318, DEUSfortis).43 The god Tatta is not a storm god, but a mountain-god, and Tatta is not a reading for dISKUR or d10.44 The name of the Palaic stormgod cannot be read for certain. M. Popko proposes Ziparwa, who is prominent in the Palaic pantheon, as the reading of the logographically written dISKUR (resp. d10) in the relevant contexts, but
de l’empire hittite, PIOL 11, Louvain-la-Neuve 1976, V. Haas, Der Kult von Nerik. Ein Beitrag zur hethitischen Religionsgeschichte, StP 4, Roma 1970 (only the last item of this list is referred to by Green). 41 Cf. Wettergottgestalten, 126 fn. 871. 42 See F. Starke, Untersuchung zur Stammbildung des keilschrift-luwischen Nomens, StBoT 31, Wiesbaden1990, 136-145, J.D. Hawkins, in: S. Herbordt, Die Prinzen- und Beamtensiegel der hethitischen Großreichszeit auf Tonbullen aus dem Ni{antepe-Archiv in Hattusa, Mainz 2005, 295. 43 The interpretation of the writing of the name of a god, iconographically identified as a storm-god, in the Aleppo temple with a mace symbol is still unclear and without parallel. G. Bunnens proposes tentatively that the god in question might be a personified weapon of the storm-god depicted in the fashion of the storm-god (see “The Storm-God in Northern Syria and Southern Anatolia from Hadad of Aleppo to Jupiter Dolichenus”, in: Offizielle Religion, lokale Kulte und individuelle Religiosität, ed. M. Hutter—S. Hutter-Braunsar, AOAT 318, Münster 2004, 63-64). 44 Contra Green, Storm-God, 128, who without any explanation still refers to “Datta” as one of the names of the “Luwian Storm-gods”.
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this remains without certain proof.45 It is conspicuous that the name of the Hittite-Luwian storm-god is an appellative without parallel in the other Indo-European panthea and, at the same time, sounds similar to Hattic Taru. Thus it is conceivable that the name was a new formation under the influence of Hattic Taru.46 Hittite-Luwian Tar¢un(t) would then be nothing more than the Old-AnatolianHattic storm- and bull-god as adapted by the Luwians and Hittites. One of the important gods worshipped in the city of Kanes (Hittite Nesa) during the Old Assyrian period was the god Nipas (Ni-pá-as), a deity so far not attested after the Kültepe II period (neither in Old Assyrian Ib texts nor in Hittite texts). G. Kryszat recently pointed out that while a number of priests of the local Anatolian storm-god (always written dISKUR) are mentioned in documents of the later phase of Old Assyrian trade at Kanes (Ib),47 no certain attestations for the local Anatolian storm-god written d ISKUR are known so far from texts of the Kültepe II period. He concludes that the Anatolian storm-god of Kanes was no other than the god Nipas, whose name he tentatively connects with the HittiteLuwian word for “sky, heaven” nepis- resp. tappas- (tipas-). The local storm-god of Kanes-Nesa, one of the most important early Hittite settlements in Anatolia, would have been the deified sky, just as the storm-god is frequently called “storm-god of heaven” from the Old Hittite period onwards. He would have been superseded by Tar¢un(t) after the level II period.48 Though this hypothesis may look attractive at first sight, there are a number of important objections to be raised. First of all, there are attestations for the local storm-god written dISKUR in Kültepe II texts. There can be little doubt that the fragmentary passage TC 3, 191 obv. 11f. is to be restored PN [gudu4] sa dISKUR, and the name of the priest is most likely Anatolian, certainly not Assyrian;49 two more attestations for 45 See M. Popko, Religions of Asia Minor, Warsaw 1995, 73, for a different opinion see O. Carruba, Beiträge zum Palaischen, PIHANS 31, Leiden 1972, 9. 46 Thus N. Oettinger, “Hethitisch -ima- oder: Wie ein Suffix affektiv werden kann”, in: Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für Hethitologie, ed. G. Wilhelm, StBoT 45, Wiesbaden 2001, 474. 47 See the list in Wettergottgestalten, 243 to which now two references in kt 99/k 138A can be added (cf. G. Kryszat, “Herrscher, Herrschaft und Kulttradition in Anatolien nach den Quellen aus den altassyrischen Handelskolonien—Teil 2: Götter, Priester und Feste Altanatoliens”, AoF 33 [2006] 107). 48 See Kryszat, AoF 33 (2006) 106f., 113f., 121. 49 Cf. Wettergottgestalten, 243. Kryszat, AoF 33 (2006) 106 mentions the text but deems the restoration to be too uncertain for any conclusions; in my view there
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priests of the storm-god are known from level II texts, but in both cases it seems likely that they were serving at the Adad temple in Assur.50 More importantly, the temple of the storm-god (é dISKUR) is mentioned in VS 26, 146 as the place where the ‘Head of the Storehouses’, an official of the Anatolian palace hierarchy, received a garment; it appears very unlikely that this sanctuary should be sought in Assur or that a—so far otherwise not attested—Assyrian Adad shrine within the kàrum is meant.51 Furthermore, Hittite nepisis a neuter noun; it would be surprising to find a neuter noun without any additional morphemes as name of one of the principal gods of Kanes. If Nipas was a Hittite word and the name of one of the most important Hittite gods at the same time, it would also be unexpected that the name does not survive at all after the Old Assyrian period. Finally, the hypothesis has to assume that in the divine Name Nipas the suffix -os/-es- developed as in Luwian (tappas-), while the root itself preserved initial n- as in Hittite (nepis-).52 7.2
Position in the Pantheon
Through all periods of Hittite history the storm-god, whose main manifestation is also called “storm-god of heaven”, stands at the top of the imperial pantheon as well as numerous local panthea together with the sun-goddess, his wife. The highest divine couple, storm-god (Taru, Tar¢un[t]) and sun-goddess (Estan, Istanu), presumably also embodied the cosmic pair heaven and earth, as the sun-goddess can be called “mother of the earth” ( perhaps also “mother earth”).53 Presumably it is only from the Old Hittite period that this is connected with the idea of a night manifestation of the sun-goddess, as opposed to the male sun-god of heaven. The actual consort of the storm-god was particularly considered from the Old can be little doubt that gudu4 (or possibly another priestly title) has to be restored. Kryszat reads the name in question Wa-ar-ga-tí-e[l], and this may be better than the Wa-ar-kà-l[i] (comparable to Hittite warkant- “fat”) proposed in Wettergottgestalten. Nevertheless, the name is certainly not Assyrian, but most likely Anatolian (cf. already E. Laroche, Les noms des Hittites, Études linguistiques 4, Paris 1966, 204). 50 For the attestations see supra, fn. 46. 51 See Wettergottgestalten, 242f., cf. also K.R. Veenhof, “Old Assyrian ißurtum, Akkadian eßèrum and Hittite GIS.›UR”, in: Studio historiae ardens. Studies Ph.H.J. Houwink ten Cate, ed. Th.P.J. van den Hout—J. de Roos, PIHANS 74, Leiden, 324. 52 For the etymology and stem formation of nepis- see E. Rieken, Untersuchungen zur nominalen Stammbildung des Hethitischen, StBoT 44, Wiesbaden 1999, 187-188. 53 See Klinger, StBoT 37, 145-147.
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Hittite period to be the sun-goddess as worshipped in Arinna (Istanu of Arinna, Arinittiya, Ariniddu),54 who is certainly typologically close to the sun-goddess of the earth in terms of the dichotomy sun-god of heaven—sun-goddess of the earth, without actually being a goddess of the underworld. In contrast to Sàla beside Adad or ›èbat beside Tessub, the consort of the storm-god was not an unimportant deity, whose typical functions were exhausted with that of a consort; rather she was equal in rank to her partner and was the most important goddess of the pantheon with her own circle of deities and court. Storm-god and sun-goddess together hand over the country to the Hittite king to administer; he calls them mother and father within the framework of this concept.55 The Hittite king himself was considered to be sun-god of the country at the same time and wore the garb of the sun-god of heaven, with whom he shared various functions. The sun-god of heaven himself was considered the son of the storm-god (later he received a different filiation due to Hurrian and Babylonian influence), but occupied in particular contexts a similarly high or even higher rank to the storm-god, particularly in lists of oath-gods.56 The cult of the storm-god was wide-spread, some 150 cult places are attested in the written sources. The local manifestations of the storm-god were mostly considered to be sons of the storm-god of heaven; the two most important local manifestations, the storm-god of Nerik and the storm-god of Ziplanda, were identified with each other in the Empire Period. The same embedding in the pantheon as son-gods was also then applied to some of the many aspectually differentiated manifestations of the storm-god; typical examples of such aspectually differentiated manifestations of the storm-god include the storm-god “of thunder”, “of the meadow”, “of the (the king’s) person”, “of the market”, “of the army”, “of the oath” etc.
54 For the name of the sun-goddess of Arinna cf. Klinger, StBoT 37, 144, J.D. Hawkins,The Hieroglyphic Inscription of the Sacred Pool Complex at Hattusa (Südburg), StBoT Beiheft 3, Wiesbaden 1995, 32. 55 As attested in the well-known texts KUB 29, 1-3 and IBoT 1, 30 //, see most recently Klinger, StBoT 37, 136f. with further literature. 56 Cf. Schwemer, “Das hethitische Reichspantheon. Überlegungen zu Struktur und Genese”, in: Götterbilder—Gottesbilder—Weltbilder. Polytheismus und Monotheismus in der Welt der Antike. vol. I: Ägypten, Mesopotamien, Kleinasien, Syrien, Palästina, ed. R.G. Kratz—H. Spieckermann, FAT 2/17, Tübingen 2006, 241-265, esp. 243-253 with further literature.
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Some of the storm-god’s epithets were established as gods in their own right.57 The best known actual son of the storm-god was Telipinu, who himself had characteristics of a storm-god but was seen as an independent deity and was never written with the logograms for the storm-god (see 9.3). The figure of Telipinu, nevertheless, served presumably as the model for the categorisation of the other stormgods as son-gods. The daughter of the storm-god was considered to be the Hattic goddess Inar, who plays an important role in the Illuyanka myth. The likewise Hattic goddess Zintu¢i was regarded as the grand-daughter of the sun-goddess and the storm-god. The father and grand-father of the storm-god are attested in the myth of the lost storm-god. Within a single context, however, we find no more than three generations at the same time. From the Middle Hittite period Syro-Hurrian influences had increasing influence upon the religion practised by the Hittite royal family. Tar¢un(t) was identified with the Hurrian storm-god and king of the gods, Tessub, Hurrian Tessub myths, particularly the Kumarbi-cycle, were transferred to Tarhun(t) as part of the process of translation into Hittite. Particularly Tessub of ›alab occupied an important position in the cult of ›attusa (see supra, 4.4, 5.4). The divine circle of Tessub with ›azzi and Nanni and Sèri and ›urri was integrated permanently into the Hittite imperial pantheon. The sun-goddess of Arinna was identified with ›èbat, consort of Tessub, in some contexts, though in lists of oath-deities and other texts not belonging to the Hurro-Hittite stratum ›èbat never takes the place of the sun-goddess of Arinna, but is listed separately, often with the other Syro-Hurrian gods of Tessub’s circle or with the storm-god of ›alab. 7.3
Modus Operandi in Mythology and Ritual
The storm-god had power over storms, tempests and rain, as the highest god of the pantheon he was also in a special way lord and protector of the land. He was seen as a god of heaven and was frequently called “storm-god of heaven” from the Old Hittite period on. The god was also often represented theriomorphically as a bull down to the late period, even if an anthropomorphic conception was naturally assumed for religious literature; in anthropomorphic 57
E.g. Pi¢aimmi and Pi¢ammi, see CHD P 253.
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representation the bull still remained his symbolic animal. Thus, it was presumably not only under the influence of the divine circle of Hurrian Tessub that a pair of bulls pulled the chariot of the storm-god; there was also a competing (Luwian) tradition in which horses pulled the chariot of the storm-god.58 The violence of the thunderstorm meant danger for humans, animals and crops. In particular thunder during a storm was seen as an expression of the god’s wrath (as in Mesopotamia), which could then be appeased in special tempest rituals, including the ritual during which the myth of “The Moon-God that Fell from Heaven” in fear during a thunderstorm was recited.59 Mursili’s ‘aphasia’ was interpreted as a consequence of the fear brought upon Mursili II by the storm-god through thunder, the illness of U¢¢aziti of Arzawa was caused by the sighting of the storm-god’s kalmisana-, his thunderbolt or possibly an even more violent manifestation of the god’s might (a meteor?).60 As god of rain, the storm-god was at the same time responsible for the maintenance and welfare of the country. Thus within the great an.da›.SUM-festival in the spring, a rain-ritual was celebrated for the storm-god in Ankuwa.61 The Anatolian myths of the vanished god type, which were primarily, but not exclusively, connected with Telipinu and storm-gods, describe the consequences of the absence of the angry storm-god as drought, famine and the end of all fertility. The return and appeasement of the vanished god brings back abundance, and the storm-god (or Telipinu) reassumes his function as patron of the king.62 58 See M. Hutter, “Aspects of Luwian Religion”, in: The Luwians, ed. H.C. Melchert, HdO 1/68, Leiden—Boston 2003, 222 with the relevant attestations. 59 For this text see H.A. Hoffner Jr., Hittite Myths, WAW 2, Atlanta 21998, 3436 text 12; cf. also E. Neu, Ein althethitisches Gewitterritual, StBoT 12, Wiesbaden 1970 and G. Wilhelm, “Zur Ritual- und Redaktionsgeschichte des althethitischen Gewitterrituals CTH 631.1”, in: Atti del II congresso internazionale di Hittitologia, ed. O. Carruba e.a., StudMed 9, Pavia 1995, 381-388 with references to other rituals of the same type (p. 388). 60 See N. Oettinger, “Hethitisch -ima- oder: Wie ein Suffix affektiv werden kann”, in: Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für Hethitologie, ed. G. Wilhelm, StBoT 45, Wiesbaden 2001, 473f. with the relevant references. 61 For the AN.DA›.SUM-festival see V. Haas, Geschichte der hethitischen Religion, HdO I/15, Leiden 1994, 772-826, cf. also Schwemer, “Von Ta¢urpa nach ›attusa: Überlegungen zu den ersten Tagen des AN.DA›.SUM-Festes”, in: Offizielle Religion, lokale Kulte und individuelle Religiosität, ed. M. Hutter—S. Hutter-Braunsar, AOAT 318, Münster 2004, 395-412. 62 For the myths of disappearing gods see H.A. Hoffner Jr., Hittite Myths, WAW 2, Atlanta 21998, 14-34, 37f.; cf. also M. Mazoyer, Télipinu, le dieu au marécage, Paris 2003.
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The Illuyanka-myth, which was embedded in the purulli springfestival, interpreted the flourishing of vegetation through the early year’s rainfalls as the liberation of the storm-god from a temporary imprisonment (or physical powerlessness in a second version of the myth): The storm-god is defeated by the snake-dragon Illuyanka in battle and imprisoned (or robbed of his heart and eyes). His daughter, Inar, succeeds in liberating her father, but only with the help of a human, a man called ›upasiya; the liberated storm-god then kills Illuyanka (first version). Also in the second version it is only with the help of humans that the storm-god gets back his heart and eyes. He sires a son with the daughter of a poor man; that son is then married off to a daughter of Illuyanka. Being the son of a poor woman, the son enters the house of his wife and asks for the heart and eyes of his father as a compensation to be given to his father’s house. Thus the storm-god regains his old power and kills Illuyanka with its family including his son. The involvement of humans in both versions of the myth probably refers to the king’s role as the storm-god’s administrator and helper on earth. Unfortunately, the passages of the text referring to the king himself are fragmentary and still not well understood. Anyhow, by performing the ritual associated with the myth the land flourished under the patronage of the storm-god.63 8. The Victory of the Storm-God over the Sea From a short passage in a letter of the correspondence between Mari and Aleppo from the Old Babylonian period it is apparent that a myth was associated with Haddu of ›alab according to which this god achieved the kingship among the gods by means of a victory over the sea-goddess, Têmtum.64 This myth of divine kingship was obviously an essential element of the Aleppine royal ideology; the weapons of Haddu played an important role in the installation of a new king (cf. supra, 4.3.2, 4.4).
63 For an edition and discussion of the myth see G. Beckman, “The Anatolian Myth of Illuyanka”, JANES 14 (1982) 11-25, cf. also idem, “The Storm-God and the Serpent”, in: Context of Scripture I, ed. W.W. Hallo, Leiden 1997, 150-151 and H.A. Hoffner, “A Brief Commentary on the Hittite Illuyanka Myth (CTH 321)”, Studies R.D. Biggs, Chicago 2007, 119-40. 64 See Wettergottgestalten, 226-227, 228-237 on A. 1968 and related texts with further bibliography.
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The mythologeme of the victory of the king of the gods and storm-god over the sea was then associated with various storm-gods in Syria, Upper Mesopotamia and beyond: Baalu of Ugarit defeats the sea-god and temporary king of the gods, Yammu, in his struggle for the kingship among the gods. In Ugarit, too, the myths about the kingship among the gods had great significance for the royal ideology of the ruling class (cf. supra, 6.2.2).65 Various Hittite mythological and ritual fragments which belong to the Syro-Hurrian strand of tradition (mainly KUB 33, 89+, KUB 33, 108, CTH 785) show that a similar myth was told of Hurrian Tessub, which was then transferred, at least superficially, to Hittite Tar¢un(t).66 The motif of the enmity between the sea and the stormgod was also not alien to the myths of the Kumarbi-cycle. The monster ›edammu lives in the sea,67 and the stone giant Ullikummi stands in the sea too. If KBo 26, 105 actually was the last song of the cycle and can be restored in line with the Seth myth attested in the Egyptian ‘Astarte Papyrus’, the conflict between Kumarbi and the storm-god culminated in a fight between the latter and the sea-god, in which the storm-god finally secured the honour of kingship for himself (cf. supra, 5.4). The Astarte papyrus, as well as certain other relevant texts, shows that the material of the myths was adapted in Egypt, too, and associated with Seth, who stood for the Near Eastern storm-god.68 In the second version of the ancient Anatolian Illuyanka-myth (see 7.3) the battle between the storm-god and the snake-dragon 65 See Wettergottgestalten, 229ff., 534-541, esp. 534f., cf. also Green, Storm-God, 178-190. 66 See Wettergottgestalten, 232-234, 451f. with fn. 3736; the storm-god’s victory over the sea is mentioned explicitly in KUB 33, 108 obv. II 17' and KUB 44, 7 obv. I 11'f. // KBo 42, 2 obv. I 15f. (CTH 785), perhaps also in KUB 33, 89+ R ): Thoughts on (cf. now also I. Rutherford, “The Song of the Sea (SA A.AB.BA SÌR KUB 45.63”, in: Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für Hethitologie Würzburg, 4.-8. Oktober 1999, StBoT 45, Wiesbaden 2001, 598-609). 67 Note within this context that B. André-Salvin—M. Salvini, “Un nouveau vocabulaire trilingue sumérien-akkadien-hourrite de Ras Shamra”, SCCNH 9 (1998) 9f. and M. Dijkstra, “The Myth of apsi “the (Sea)dragon” in the Hurrian Tradition”, UF 37 (2005) 315-328 show convincingly that Hurrian apsi, which is equated with Akkadian ßèru “snake, serpent” and Ugaritic tunnanu “serpent, sea monster”, is used as a designation of ›edammu in Hurrian context. Tunnanu is one of the sea monsters defeated by Ugaritic Baalu (see Wettergottgestalten, 232 fn. 1605-06 with literature). 68 See Wettergottgestalten, 446-454; for more Egyptian parallels see now Th. Schneider, “Texte über den syrischen Wettergott aus Ägypten”, UF 35 (2003) 605-627.
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Illuyanka took place by or in the sea. This may be a case of a motif borrowed from North-Syrian traditions, but this is not necessarily true; one should bear in mind that the sea-god also appears in the myth of ‘Telipinu and the Daughter of the Sea’ as a hostile power to the gods of heaven, and this myth is entirely free of NorthSyrian influences.69 Also the sovereignty of Old Testament Yahwe was associated with a victory over the forces of chaos residing in the sea, and, at the latest, in the stories of the conflict between Zeus and Typhon motifs from the second version of the Anatolian Illuyanka-myth occur together with North-Syrian traditions.70 The mythologeme of the victory of the storm-god over the sea is certainly old; whether it is actually attested in incantations from pre-Sargonic Ebla remains questionable.71 The motif is attested early in connection with different gods of Babylonia. It was already associated with the god Tispak in the Akkad period in the Diyala area and tied there to the chaos-fighting motif of Ninurta-mythology (cf. the later Labbu myth). In the great Ninurta myths, however, the sea does not play a role as the opponent of the gods. But also Ninurta receives epithets that praise him as victor over monsters living in the sea like the kusarikku. For Nergal, who shares characteristics with Ninurta as a war-god, we have a myth about his struggle against a sea-monster from the Neo-Assyrian period.72 The motif of the struggle against the powers of chaos in the mythology of Ninurta then formed an essential part of Marduk theology. While only later attested explicitly, it already was taking shape in the Old Babylonian period as a way of justifying the 69
See Wettergottgestalten, 234-236. See Wettergottgestalten, 236f.; for Yahwe’s being described in the terms of a storm-god cf. now also H.-P. Müller, “Zur Grammatik und zum religionsgeschichtlichen Hintergrund von Ps 68,5”, ZAW 117 (2005) 206-216. 71 Thus Wettergottgestalten, 116-119, 228; for a different view see P. Fronzaroli’s contributions on the Ebla incantations, most recently “The Hail Incantation (ARET 5, 4)”, in: Fs. B. Kienast, ed. G. Selz, AOAT 274, Münster 2003, 89-107. 72 See Wettergottgestalten, 229-232, 174, 183-188; for the Labbu myth and related texts cf. also P.-A. Beaulieu, “The Babylonian Man in the Moon”, JCS 51 (1999) 91-99; for the motif of the young king of the gods as victor over the forces of chaos in Babylonian theology and royal ideology, see also S.M. Maul, “Der Sieg über die Mächte des Bösen. Götterkampf, Triumphrituale und Torarchitektur in Assyrien”, in: Gegenwelten zu den Kulturen Griechenlands und Roms in der Antike, ed. T. Hölscher, Leipzig 2000, 19-46, and, especially with respect to Ninurta, A. Annus, The God Ninurta in the Mythology and Royal Ideology of Ancient Mesopotamia, SAAS 14, Helsinki 2002, 109ff., 171ff. 70
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elevation of Marduk, a local god of Babylon, to the king of the gods. In Enùma elis the opponent of Marduk in the battle that guarantees him kingship over the gods is not one of the traditional opponents of Ninurta, but Tiàmat, the primeval ocean. This is obviously the same or a very similar narrative motif as attested for Old Babylonian Haddu of Aleppo in his victory over Têmtum (a variant form of Tiàmat). It is therefore not unlikely that the Aleppine storm-god theology and royal ideology had some influence on the Marduk-theology that had recently been formed in Babylon; close relations between the two royal houses are well attested. The fact that similar motifs had already been associated with other gods in Babylonia should have made the reception easier. The mythologeme of the victory of the new king of the gods over the chaotic sea probably originated in the eastern Mediterranean; but it spread so early that the individual lines of the tradition’s history can no longer be traced. Consequently the concrete myths in which the basic motif occurs offer quite a heterogeneous picture. It should finally be noted that the association of the Tiàmat-myth even in Roman times with Palmyrene Bèl is not due to the survival of old Syrian and Upper Mesopotamian traditions, but is owed to Babylonian influence (Marduk-Bèl theology).73 9. Further Gods with Storm-God Characteristics 9.1
The North-Babylonian and Assyrian Storm-God Wèr
The god Wèr (variant form: Mèr), whose name was mostly written Bèr from the Middle Assyrian period, was a storm-god worshipped primarily in North Babylonia, on the Middle Euphrates and in Assyria.74 The divine name, which is always written syllabically and 73 See L. Dirven, “The Exaltation of Nabû. A Revision of the Relief Depicting a Battle against Tiamat from the Temple of Bel in Palmyra”, WdO 28 (1997) 96116, Annus, The God Ninurta, 194. 74 For W/Mèr, W/Mèrtum and Iluwèr see Wettergottgestalten, 200-210, 32-33. Note that in Wettergottgestalten, 36 fn. 180 (contra S. Zawadski, Garments of the Gods, OBO 218, Fribourg—Göttingen 2006, 182f.) I did not argue for an original identity between Wèr and Immeriya nor do I think that Immeriya was a goddess identical with Immertu, and nowhere did I argue that there is any relation between Immertu and Adad. I do, however, still think that Immertu is likely to be a goddess because of the formation of the name and Immeriya might be the corresponding masculine form. The character of the god Immeriya is unknown, and before more evidence becomes available one cannot tell how significant the variant
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never with the Sumerogram dISKUR, can be securely attested from the Akkad period, though references outside personal names are so far only available from the Old Babylonian period onwards. It remains highly questionable whether a theophoric element attested in the Early Dynastic onomasticon as Meru (thus?) represents the later god W/Mèr. Linguistic affiliation and etymology have not yet been estabished with certainty. There is no evidence apart from sound that the name would go back to Akkadian *Wàhiru (thus J.-M. Durand), and one would expect the uncontracted form to be preserved in Babylonia and Assyria if not on the Middle Euphrates. A connection with the place-name Mari (and Akkadian amurru, thus M. Bonechi) can be firmly excluded, and an original identity with the geographical name Uri-Warûm, which appears attractive in view of the important position Wèr held in that area, is not proveable either; the fact that the name of Wèr’s wife was W/Mèrtum (not *Wèrìtum or similar) also militates against this hypothesis. A Sumerian etymology (cf. im-mer “north wind”, mer and me-er-me-er “storm”, Emesal me-er “wind”, thus H. Schlobies and, more recently, A.R.W. Green) appears unlikely with regard to the origins and background of Wèr who is never equated by the Babylonian scholars with deified Mermer(i), an epithet attributed to Iskur-Adad, Ninurta, Mercury and Nabû.75 In the Old Babylonian period sources for the cult of Wèr come primarily from northern Babylonia and the Diyala region, but a few relevant personal names occur also in texts from the Babylonian south. From the Middle Babylonian period we have no further information on Wèr from Babylonia, but his cult thrived in Assyria, and was also known in Syria. Wèr is equated with IskurAdad in the god-lists, and from the Old Babylonian period the connection between Wèr and Adad is well attested outside the god-lists, too. Beside Wèr, the god-lists also equate Iluwèr with Adad, clearly a late extended form of the name meaning “the god Wèr” that follows a well-known pattern of formation for Babylonian divine names. This late form of the name is also attested in Aramaic inscriptions from Syrian Tell Afis. It remains unclear whether the writings dbeer in the Neo-Assyrian period should partly be read ìl-be-er. The god Itùrmèr worshipped at Mari was a dynastic and ancestral god (Itùrd we-er // dim-me-ri-ia in Surpu II 181 really is (for Surpu II 181 see now R. Borger, “SurpuII, III, IV und VIII in „Partitur“”, in: Wisdom, Gods and Literature. Studies W.G. Lambert, ed. A.R. George—I.L. Finkel, Winona Lake 2000, 34). 75 For Mermer(i) see Wettergottgestalten, 58-59, cf. also 29-30.
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Mèr originally being a theophoric personal name “Mèr has turned [to me]”) and has nothing to do with W/Mèr.76 9.2
The Babylonian God of the Western People, Mardu-Amurru
The god Amurru(m), Sumerian Mardu, was a Babylonian god who embodied the Western Lands (Akkadian amurrum “west”) in the pantheon and particularly the nomads of the Western Lands, the Amorites, from a Babylonian perspective (amurrum also used as collective noun for “Western people”, “Amorites”).77 In the Amorite cultural area itself his cult played no major role.78 Amurru, whose name also occurs in the extended form Ilamurrum in the Old Babylonian period,79 had among other features those of a storm-god: 76 Contra Green, Storm-God, 61-63, 87-88, who without any further explanation treats the names Ilumèr and Itùrmèr as simple (i.e. phonetic?) variants. 77 For Mardu-Amurru(m)’s character and his relationship to Adad see Wettergottgestalten, 198-200 with further literature (to which add: W.W. Hallo, “Two Letter-Prayers to Amurru”, in: Boundaries of the Ancient Near Eastern World. Studies C.H. Gordon, ed. M. Lubetski e.a., JSOT Suppl. 273, Sheffield 1998, 397-410); cf. now also P.-A. Beaulieu, “The God Amurru as Emblem of Ethnic and Cultural Identity?”, in: Ethnicity in Ancient Mesopotamia (CRRAI 48), ed. W. van Soldt e.a., PIHANS 102, Leiden 2005, 31-46. 78 For A. 975 obv. 19, quoted in Wettergottgestalten, 198 fn. 1353, see now FM 8, text 38. 79 Cf. Wettergottgestalten, 32f. with fn. 160 on Ilamurrum and the similarly structured divine names Il(u)wèr, Ilmìsaru, Iltammes, Ilte¢er, Ilulàya, Ilaba, Il(u)nergal (?) (cf. also W. Farber, “(W)ardat-lilî(m)”, ZA 79 [1969] 17f. on possible IlumErra). Th. Richter, “Die Lesung des Götternamens AN.AN.MAR.TU”, SCCNH 9 (1998) 135-137 argues that the logogram dDINGIR.MAR.DÚ should be interpreted rather as a genitive compound (“God of Amurru”) than a juxtapposition, because the Hurrian translation of the logogram in the 13th cent. Hurro-Babylonian god-list from Emar apparently interprets the logogram as a genitive construction: de-ni-a-mur-r[i-we] (l. 175 according to Laroche, GLH, 82, who first proposed this restoration and indicates that traces of the r[i are preserved). The directly preceding entry interprets dMAR.DÚ as da-mur-ru-[¢e] (restoration Laroche, followed by Richter), i.e. “Amorite” (Amurr(i)=o=¢¢e). This suggests that the author of the Emar god-list interpreted the Akkadian name of the god Amurru as Amurrû and probably associated it rather with the geographical name Amurru contemporary to him than with Mardu-Amurru as the deified “West(ern People)”. Despite Richter’s remarks on the general reliability of the Hurrian interpretations and translations of the list (p. 137), it seems therefore likely that also the following line 175 offers an anachronistic interpretation of dDINGIR.MAR.DÚ as “god of the land of Amurru”. Note that comparison with CAT 1.125 (Ugaritica 5, 504f. text 2), a Hurrian ritual text in alphabetic script from Ugarit, if relevant at all supports this interpretation. The text has i[n]amrw in obv. 6, which, according to Richter (and following him, P.-A., Beaulieu, CRRAI 48, 31 fn. 4), is to be understood not as “god of (the land) Amurru” (thus Laroche in Ugaritica 5), but as a divine name of its own, namely the same “Ilamurrim” that would be represented by dDINGIR.MAR.DÚ in Old
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He bore the epithet Rammànu(m) “Thunderer”, which then became a god’s name in its own right, without actually being separated from Amurru. In literary texts, Mardu-Amurru is described as a lightning-flashing, warlike tempest-god; in the Middle Assyrian godlist KAV 64 the lightning-god Nimgir is ascribed to his divine circle. In depictions on seals from the Old Babylonian period he is often found together with Adad. The lightning symbol stands for him as well as Adad, but Amurru’s special symbol is the nomad’s crook, which is never associated with Adad. Amurru is never written with the logogram diSKUR and also never equated with IskurAdad in the god-lists known so far. At least Hadad of Damascus in the 1st mill. had the same epithet Rammàn(u), and this might have been the case for other Hadad-manifestations, as Rammàn is fairly widespread in the Aramaic onomasticon; particularly in Babylonia the god Amurru was probably understood by it, however, also during the 1st mill. Anyhow, a direct connection between Rammànu as an epithet of Amurru and as an epithet of Aramaean Hadad cannot be established on the basis of the current state of the sources: the god Rammànu (logographically dkur, which is perhaps also used for Amurru himself) is never written with the logogram diSKUR or associated with Adad in the Assyro-Babylonian god-lists.80 One can only speculate on the question of whether the circumstance that Mardu-Amurru had the characteristics of a stormgod was originally connected with the fact that the storm-god Haddu was the most prominent god of the Amorite cultural area beside the moon-god. But it cannot be ruled out that the most important Amorite god served in some respect as model for the conceptualisation of a god embodying the Amorites in the Babylonian pantheon. But
Babylonian sources. But the immediate context in the ritual text militates against this interpretation: i[n]amrw is referred to within the sequence in al≈y© i[n]amrw in ugrtw, and neither a “God of Alasiya” nor a “God of Ugarit” are known from other sources. Clearly, all three genitives have to be interpreted as actual geographical names and in is therefore probably plural (enna): “the gods of the land of Alasiya, the gods of the land of Amurru, the gods of the land of Ugarit” (cf. for this interpretation also M. Dietrich—O. Loretz, “Ein hurritisches Totenritual für aAmmistamru III. (KTU 1.125)”, in: Ana sadî Labnàni lù allik. Fs. W. Röllig, ed. B. Pongratz-Leisten e.a., AOAT 247, Münster 1997, 79-89). It goes without saying that the Amurru referred to here has nothing to do with the Amorites or the god Amurrum of the Old Babylonian period, but refers to the land of Amurru to the south of Ugarit. 80 For Rammànu see the references JANER 7/2, 160 fn. 113.
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Mardu-Amurru’s profile comprises many other features which are alien to the storm-god Haddu or Adad, in particular that of the non-urban nomad. 9.3
The Anatolian Vegetation- and Storm-God Telipinu
The Hattic-Hittite god Telipinu was the son of the storm-god TaruTar¢un(t) (see 7.2, 7.3 with further references). His name is never written with the logograms for the storm-god, nor is he ever identified with any of the numerous manifestations of the storm-god considered to be sons of the storm-god (of heaven). He only occupied a secondary position in the Hittite imperial pantheon, as opposed to the storm-god and didn’t play any particular role in the Hittite royal ideology according to the Annals and those texts which are particularly concerned with the relationship of the Hittite king to the storm-god and the sun-goddess. But it is especially with Telipinu, too, that the myth-type of the vanished god was associated. In these myths Telipinu has the typical characteristics of a storm-god: his disappearance brings drought and suffocates all life; he flashes with lightning and thunders in his anger; his appeasement and return brings the land of ›atti back into a state of order, balance and abundance. Within the myth it is Telipinu who appears as the special protector of the king. The purulli-festival in the spring was also celebrated locally for Telipinu, and the Telipinu myth may have served as the festival’s myth in these places. In the myth of “Telipinu and the Daughter of the Sea”, Telipinu appears as the son of the storm-god who marries the daughter of the sea-god to thereby release the sun-god from the power of the sea-god. Telipinu’s original connection to the family of the storm-god as an independent deity with the characteristics of a storm-god in the wake of his father, but primarily representing a son-deity, prevented the identification of Telipinu himself with other manifestations of the storm-god. Nevertheless, the systematisation of local manifestations of the storm-god as sons of the storm-god of heaven will certainly have followed the pattern set by the figure of Telipinu. 10. A Few Remarks on Iconography There is no comprehensive study of the iconography of the various storm-gods with reliable illustrations and up-to-date information; the following remarks can therefore only have a provisional
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character.81 The earliest pictorial representations of the Babylonian storm-god, in all likelyhood Iskur-Adad,82 are to be found in the glyptics of the Old Akkadian period. As a rule the god stands on a chariot with two axles that is pulled by a water(?)-spitting liondragon. He also swings the whip symbolising both thunder and lightning, the flick and crack of the whip. The winged lion-dragon is to be identified with the storm-monsters who, according to the 81 For various remarks on the storm-god’s iconography which cover most of the following comments see Wettergottgestalten, 124ff., 174 with fn. 1231, 196, 199, 227, 228f., 425 with fn. 3521, 480f. with fn. 3923, 484 with fn. 3960, 615 as well as fn. 3035, 3418, 4097, 5011, 5081 with further references. Green, Storm-God, 13-34, 103-127, 154-165 tries to give a more systematic summary without taking into account, however, more recent studies on the subject; the figures in the book often do not meet the standards of the field, and, as with the texts, reading and interpretation of the evidence heavily relies on secondary literature. Important contributions to the iconography of the storm-gods include: A. Vanel, L’iconographie du dieu de l’orage dans le Proche-Orient ancien jusqu’au VIIe siècle avant J.-C., Cahiers de la Revue Biblique 3, Paris 1964; A. Abou-Assaf, “Die Ikonographie des altbabylonischen Wettergottes”, BaM 14 (1983) 43-66; Natural Phenomena. Their Meaning, Depiction and Description in the Ancient Near East, ed. D.J.W. Meijer, Amsterdam e.a. 1992 (various articles); E.A. Braun-Holzinger, “Altbabylonische Götter und ihre Symbole. Benennung mit Hilfe der Siegellegenden”, BaM 27 (1996) 235-359; E. Klengel-Brandt, “Eine ungewöhnliche Wettergottdarstellung”, AoF 29 (2002) 288295; D. Beyer, Emar IV: Les sceaux, OBO SA 20, Fribourg—Göttingen 2001, 299306; K. Jakubiak, “New Aspects of God Teisheba’s Iconography, AoF 31 (2004) 87-100; G. Bunnens in: G. Bunnens—J. D. Hawkins—I. Leirens, Tell Ahmar II. A New Luwian Stele and the Cult of the Storm-God at Til Barsib-Masuwari, Leuven 2006, 33135; idem, “The Storm-God in Northern Syria and Southern Anatolia from Hadad of Aleppo to Jupiter Dolichenus”, in: Offizielle Religion, lokale Kulte und individuelle Religiosität, ed. M. Hutter—S. Hutter-Braunsar, AOAT 318, Münster 2004, 57-81. 82 Unlike in later periods the representations of gods on Akkadian seals are not identified by name in accompanying seal inscriptions. Following H. Frankfort, R.M. Boehmer identified a number of iconographical types on Akkadian seals as storm-gods (“Wettergottheiten”, “Donnergott”, see Die Entwicklung der Glyptik während der Akkad-Zeit, UAVA 4, Berlin 1965, 62ff.) without committing himself to a specific name. Taking into account the evidence from the texts and the later development of the iconographical motifs associated with Iskur-Adad it appears most likely that the storm-god on the Akkadian seals is no other than Iskur-Adad. It is true that a specific type of lion-dragon is associated with Ninurta too, and that Ninurta exhibits traits of a storm-god within the context of his role as warlike victor over the powers of chaos. In the Neo-Assyrian period Ninurta can be depicted chasing the Anzû-bird with lightning (‘thunderbolts’), and these scenes are sometimes misinterpreted as representations of Adad (cf. Wettergottgestalten, 174 fn. 1231 with references, cf. now also, especially for the attestations of the motif on seals D. Collon, “The Iconography of Ninurta”, in: The Iconography of Cylinder Seals, ed. P. Taylor, Warburg Institute Colloquia 9, London—Turin 2006, 101, 105f.). Nevertheless, it appears unlikely that the storm-god depicted on Akkadian (or later on Mittani-period) cylinder seals is meant to represent Ningirsu-Ninurta (differently D. Collon, art. cit., 101f., 107f.).
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texts, pull the chariot of Iskur-Adad, when the god storms and rumbles over the sky. The storm-god can be accompanied by a sometimes naked, sometimes clothed goddess who is surrounded by rain or holding rain-water (sometimes also lightning?) in her hands; both the storm-god and the goddess are also shown standing on liondragons. The naked rain-goddess, who also appears in the glyptic of the 2nd mill., should probably be identified with Medimsa-Sàla. The same iconographic motif is also attested in the Syrian and Upper Mesopotamian area, but here the female escort of the stormgod cannot be simply identified with Sàla. One should always bear in mind that iconographic motifs can be borrowed and reinterpreted without necessarily adopting the concept that was associated with them originally. The goddess sometimes stands in a (winged) ‘door’-arch, which perhaps represents the same motif as the ‘winged temple on a bull’ in Old Akkadian glyptic and presumably symbolises the rainbow, which as so many phenomena and creatures of the sky is depicted in Mesopotamian art as winged.83 Seals of the Akkad-period showing the storm-god, or a god associated with him, as a bull-killer attest to the existence of a myth unknown from the texts. Otherwise in Babylonia the bull does not appear as an animal accompanying the storm-god before the Ur III period (but cf. the following paragraph for a rare exception). From the second half of the Ur III-period it can be observed that the bull supersedes the previously pre-dominant lion-dragon in the figurative inventory of glyptic art as the symbolic creature of the storm-god, admittedly without replacing him completely; until the late period representations with bull and lion-dragon at the same time are to be found. Usually the god stands on the bull, or is about to mount it, holding the lightning symbol and often the bull’s reins as well. A frequent variant shows the god beside the bull, which carries the lightning symbol on its back. The motif of the storm-god riding on a chariot drawn by a mythic animal symbolising (aspects of) the storm is not attested anymore in the Ur III and Old Babylonian periods. However, even in depictions of the Old Akkadian period, the chariot of the storm-god is not exclusively pulled
83 See Wettergottgestalten, 125 with reference to M. van Loon’s important articles “The Naked Rain Goddess”, in: Resurrecting the Past. Studies A. Bounni, ed. P. Matthiae e.a., Leiden 1990, 363-378, and “The Rainbow in Ancient West Asian Iconography”, in: Natural Phenomena. Their Meaning, Depiction and Description in the Ancient Near East, ed. D.J.W. Meijer, Amsterdam e.a. 1992, 149-168.
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by the lion-dragon, but in at least one case also by a bull, so that one can assume that the bull (or bulls) took over also this role in 2nd mill. Mesopotamian art; the motif is of course well-attested for 2nd and 1st mill. Syria and Anatolia both textually and iconographically. Likewise, in the first half of the 2nd mill., the motif of the storm-god leading a bull or a yoke of bulls by a bridle became established in Old Syrian glyptical art. Finally the Kültepeseals also show two types of storm-gods with reins, who, however, stand on the bull or are mounting it. At the same time this group of seals exhibits representations of the storm-god standing on the lion-dragon in traditional Babylonian fashion and of a completely theriomorphically depicted bull-god. The latter occurs nowhere else, is of Anatolian origin and must be identified with TaruTar¢un(t), who could still be represented in bull form in the Hittite period. The use of the wild bull as symbolic animal of the god of storm and tempest thus does not originate in the Sumerian tradition, and while it appears now and then in the Sargonic period in Babylonia, it becomes predominant only in the era of the Amorite dynasties of the Old Babylonian period. The fact that we know of no older instances of this motif from North Syria and Upper Mesopotamia too is probably due to two factors: on the one hand the thematic inventory of older Syrian glyptic art, from which depictions of gods, as known from the seals of the Old Akkadian period, are completely absent; on the other hand our still very incomplete knowledge of the iconography of 3rd mill. Syrian art on the whole. The central Anatolian bull- and storm-god should be kept separate, at least in the historical periods, from this North-Syrian bull symbolism, which was probably associated with Hadda. A combination of these two concepts can only be observed in the pictorial programme of the Kültepe-seals. Prehistoric depictions and figurines of bulls, of anthropomorphic figures on bulls, bucrania and bull-horn installations from the Anatolian, Syrian and Mesopotamian area should not be associated too quickly with the storm-god iconography of the historical periods.84 They 84 See Wettergottgestalten, 124-127. The statement that the figurine of a bullriding man from 6th mill. Çatal Hüyük may be the earliest anthropomorphous representation of the storm-god does not become any more meaningful by its regular repetition (cf. most recently M. Herles, Götterdarstellungen Mesopotamiens in der 2. Hälfte des 2. Jahrtausends v. Chr., AOAT 329, Münster 2006, 263). In a number of
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need interpretation firstly within their own iconographic context. Also one should bear in mind that the wild bull is not exclusively the symbol of the storm-god in the historical periods, either: all deities are characterised by bull-horns in ancient Near Eastern iconography; additionally, the wild bull is, like the lion, a symbolic animal of kingship and associated with different deities within this context.85 Bull and various lightning symbols remain through all historical periods the characteristic attributes of the storm-god. It is not certain that the bucranion is a symbol of the storm-god, the tonitrus sign of the Hieroglyphic Luwian script could, however, represent a stylised pair of bull-horns.86 The anthropomorphic depictions of the storm-god vary considerably from region to region and from period to period, and would need individual presentation far beyond the scope of the present summary. Different manners of depiction can be be ascribed to particular storm-gods, as long as the iconographic conventions follow the same linguistic-cultural borders as the texts. As G. Bunnens has shown for the representations of the storm-god of Aleppo in late 2nd and early 1st mill. art, certain iconographic conventions can be specific for local manifestations of the god, in the case of the storm-god of Aleppo even across linguistic borders.87 A general rule of thumb could be that in those contributions J. Cauvin has drawn attention to the fact that from the 8th mill., and especially with the beginning of rainfall agriculture in Syria and Anatolia, bull and woman (usually in form of figurines) emerge as prominent religious symbols (see e.g. The Birth of the Gods and the Origins of Agriculture, Cambridge 2000, 123-125). While the wild bull may have been associated—among other things—with rain and thunderstorm already in the Neolithic period and the fact that storm-gods in Anatolia, Syria and Upper Mesopotamia during the historical periods are associated primarily with the bull may stand in some sort of continuity to the prehistoric religious symbols, the overall assemblage of religious symbols from the Neolithic periods is so different from the iconographic conventions of the later ancient Near Eastern cultures that an isolated identification of a specific (type of) god with an iconographic motif attested at least two millennia earlier contributes little to a better understanding of both phenomena. 85 On the latter point see Ch. Watanabe, Animal Symbolism in Mesopotamia. A Contextual Approach, WOO 1, Wien 2002. 86 See U. Calmeyer-Seidl, “W”, in: Studien zur Altertumskunde Kleinasiens. Fs. K. Bittel, ed. R.M. Boehmer—H. Hauptmann, Mainz 1983, 151-154, and J.D. Hawkins, “What Does the Hittite Storm-God Hold?”, in: Natural Phenomena. Their Meaning, Depiction and Description in the Ancient Near East, ed. D.J.W. Meijer, Amsterdam e.a. 1992, 53-82. 87 See G. Bunnens, Tell Ahmar II. A New Luwian Stele and the Cult of the StormGod at Til Barsib-Masuwari, Leuven 2006, 78-83 and idem, AOAT 318, 58-65. Cf. already the brief remarks in Wettergottgestalten, 620f. with fn. 5011.
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regions and periods in which the concrete reading of the logogram for the storm-god in the texts is difficult, the specific naming of pictorial representations of the god is problematic too, even if, as in the glyptic of the Old Assyrian period or of Late Bronze Age Emar, the various iconographic traditions can be clearly differentiated.88 One of the typical manners of depicting the storm-god shows him with a weapon (or the lightning symbol) raised to strike, a gesture which is attested with other warlike gods as well. In 2nd mill. Syria, Anatolia and Upper Mesopotamia the storm-god often stands on mountains (gods) or, especially in the 1st mill., on a bull. A few Old Syrian seals show the storm-god as killer of a snake. These depictions certainly refer to the motif of the storm-god as victor over monsters living in the sea, which is attested within the framework of the myths about the storm-god defeating the sea.89 The Syrian storm-god is depicted on seals—but particularly prominently on the famous Baalu-stele from Ugarit—with a downward-pointing lance, the upper shaft of which ends in plant-like lines. This vegetal shaft-end has been interpreted as a symbol for the vegetationfurthering effect of the storm-god, as a ‘tree-of-life’, as ‘tree-weapon’90 or as stylised lightning symbol (‘lightning-tree’ with reference to aß brq in CAT 1.101 obv. 4). In my view the plant-like shaft-end may rather be a pictorial representation of the rolling thunder, as it is frequently attested in Syrian glyptic art before the mouth of the storm-god, albeit in horizontal orientation.91 88 Cf. E.A. Braun-Holzinger, WdO 33 (2003) 265f. with respect to the stormgod iconography of the Emar seals: “Ob die Siegelbesitzer wirklich diese drei Bildtypen unterschiedlich benannten, ist fraglich; so wie der meist dISKUR geschriebene Namen des Wettergottes unterschiedlich gelesen wurde, konnte auch der Bildtyp des waffenschwingenden Gottes mit Blitz sicher unterschiedlich ‘gelesen’ werden”. 89 See the references given in Wettergottgestalten, 227f. with fn. 1575, and cf. now also W.G. Lambert, “Leviathan in Ancient Art”, in: Shlomo, Studies Sh. Moussaieff, ed. R. Deutsch, Tel Aviv—Jaffa 2003, 147-154, who proposes to identify the snake depicted on the seals with Leviathan of the Ugaritic and Biblical texts. 90 For this interpretation see now also P. Lapinkivi, The Sumerian Sacred Marriage in the Light of Comparative Evidence, SAAS 15, Helsinki 2004, 265-269 without any new supportive evidence for the argument. 91 Thus Wettergottgestalten, 227 fn. 1575; for the interpretation of the plant-like motif in front of the storm-god’s mouth as a symbol for thunder see E. WilliamsForte’s study “Symbols of Rain, Lightning, and Thunder in the Art of Anatolia and Syria”, in: Aspects of Art and Iconography: Anatolia and Its Neighbours. Studies N. Özgüç, ed. M.J. Mellink e.a., Ankara 1993, 185-190. But especially in view of CAT 1.101 obv. 4 where within a description of Baalu the image of the god’s lightning in the sky is likened to a tree bearing multiple branches (aß brq “tree of lightning”) an interpretation as stylised lightning cannot be ruled out either.
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Appendix: Selected Additions and Corrections to Schwemer, Wettergottgestalten Excluded from the following list have been all additions and corrections which form part of the preceding article. The following reviews of Wettergottgestalten have been published so far: M. Dietrich, UF 33 (2001) 657-677, H. Klengel, OLZ 97 (2002) 752-754, G.A. Klingbeil, DavarLogos 1/2 (2002) 189-202, S. Noegel, JHS 4 (200203), D. Fleming, ZA 93 (2003) 282-288, L. Feliu, AuOr 21 (2003) 295-300, M. Köckert, ZAW 115 (2003) 317, E. Cancik-Kirschbaum, WdO 34 (2004) 199-202, R.D. Biggs, JNES 63 (2004) 212-214, J.-G. Heintz, RHR 84 (2004) 208-210, D. Charpin, RA 99 (2005) 185-186. p. 12 with fn. 56: On LAK 376 and 377 see now also M. Krebernik, “Die Texte aus Fàra und Tell Abù Íalàb좔, in: J. Bauer—R.K. Englund—M. Krebernik, Mesopotamien. Späturuk-Zeit und Frühdynastische Zeit, Fribourg 1998, OBO 160/1, 277. p. 16: For Old Babylonian manuscripts of An—Anum (or an Old Babylonian form of An—Anum) see VS 24, 16 and 17; cf. also J. van Dijk, “Inanna raubt den ‘grossen Himmel’: Ein Mythos”, in: tikip santakki mala basmu. . . . Fs. R. Borger, ed. S.M. Maul, CM 10, Groningen 1998, 9-10 with fn. 3 on SLT 121 and UM 29-15-229. p. 17 fn. 88: For Nindagar cf. now also G. Selz, “‘Babilismus’ und die Gottheit dNindagar”, in: Ex Mesopotamia et Syria Lux. Fs. M. Dietrich, AOAT 281, Münster 2002, 647-684, esp. 676 (interpretation of An—Anum I 326 misleading, however). p. 39 with fn. 204 and passim: Following M. Streck (AOAT 271/1, 240ff., 187ff.) spellings like zi-im-ri-e-id-da are interpreted as Zimriyidda (zi-im-ri-jì-id-da) in Wettergottgestalten. It should be noted, however, that names like ia-aq-qú-ub-e-da and ia-ab-lu-u†-e-da (see Wettergottgestalten, 44) suggest that a variant Edda (or Ya/idda?) developed also outside the phonetic context i(h)a resp. iya (> iyi > e/i). The usage of the sign e needs further study. D. Charpin (and others) still prefer to assume a contraction i+a > ê (Zimrêddu etc.), see most recently RA 98 (2004) 156 ad x 9. p. 44: Add possibly the PN Bu-ul-li-†á-di (Labarna letter rev. 25, see M. Salvini, The ›abiru Prism of King Tunip-tessup of Tikunani, DA 3, Roma 1996, pp. 107ff.). p. 56 fn. 299: J. Quack draws my attention to another late attestation of the name Adad overlooked by me at the time: Proclus,
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In Parmenidem VII p. 58.30-60.9: “the demiurgic intellect of the world, which they call ‘Adad, worthy of all praise’” (see Proclus’ Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides, ed. G.R. Morrow—J.M. Dillon, Princeton 1987, 594, cf. also H.D. Saffrey, Recherches sur le néoplatonisme après Plotin, Paris 1990, 77f.). p. 57: Add the following syllabic spelling of Adad (Addu) in Assyrian SB manuscripts: dad-di (unpubl. 81-2-4, 311 l. col. 9'), dad-du (S.M. Maul, MDOG 133 [2001] 19: VAT 10916 obv. 14', now also in: A.R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, Oxford 2003, vol. 2, pl. 31), da-da-a (KAR 237 obv. 20), dad-de-e-a ka-ßir erpèti(dungu.mes) (Ass. Ph. 4198d = Ass. 13956fs = A 2731 obv.? 1, excavation and Istanbul museum number courtesy S.M. Maul). p. 84: dad-gi is attested as (corrupt?) variant of dad-gi4-gi4 in CT 24, 32: 97b (An—Anum III 167). The latter is usually understood as divine counselor and dad-gi4-ma¢ would then be the supreme counsellor (see B. Alster, “Incantation to Utu”, ASJ 13 [1991] 52: 95 and the pertinent note ibid., 84, cf. also PSD A III 18-19). Whether the god Adgi qualified as min (= diSKUR) su-u¢ki is the same Adgi remains questionable. Note that Sum. ad-gi4-gi4 is also translated as rigma apàlu “to resonate” (see OBGT XVII 7, see MSL 4, 127) which might provide a more fitting etymology for a stormgod called Adgi. p. 86: The spelling dba-hu-ú-lu for expected *ba-ah-lu (Baalu) was explained as a ‘phonetic’ rendering of West-Semitic a. W.R. Mayer suggests that the form could be explained as a qattùl-form which is used for affectionate names in Aramaic, Hebrew and Arabic (see F. Praetorius, “Über einige Arten hebräischer Eigennamen”, ZDMG 57 [1903] 773-776 [with further literature], M. Noth, Die israelitischen Personennamen, Stuttgart 1928, 38): “Entsprechend könnte man vorschlagen, baaaùl (ba-hu-ú-lu) für so einen Kosenamen des Gottes Baal zu halten” (letter, 8th May 2007). While this interpretation provides an elegant explanation of the aberrant spelling, it seems unlikely that a list like K 2100 would include a rare by-form of the god’s name rather than its normal form. p. 103: On pa4-sis see now Th. Krispijn, “pa4-ses ‘Ältester’ ”, in: Von Sumer nach Ebla und zurück. Fs. G. Pettinato, ed. H. Waetzoldt, Heidelberg 2004, 105-112. p. 107: On ki:lamx see now also M.G. Biga, “Marginal Considerations on the Hittite KI.LAM-Festival”, in: Anatolia antica. Studi F. Imparati, ed. St. de Martino e.a., Eothen 11, Firenze 2002, vol. I, 101-108. p. 109 fn. 752: S. 105f. (not “150f.”).
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p. 111 fn. 772: 75.2507 (not “75.207”). p. 134: For kt j/k 97 cf. now also K. Hecker, TUAT. Ergänzungslieferung, ed. O. Kaiser, Gütersloh 2001, 58-60 and J.G. Dercksen, JEOL 39 (2006) 107-29. p. 135f.: For the year name mu eres-dingir-diskur mas-e (ba-) pàda see also D.R. Frayne, RIME 3/2, p. 18 (with the additional reference L 39705). He assigns the date to Urnamma and argues that it probably refers to the temple in Karkar (but cf. for an eresdingir of Iskur in Lagas Wettergottgestalten, 140). p. 144 and passim: On the element ur in names like Ur-Iskur see A. Cavigneaux—F.N.H. Al-Rawi, Gilgames et la mort. Textes de Tell Haddad VI, CM 19, Groningen 2000, 48-52. p. 168: For Iskur as Enki’s twin cf. also M.W. Green, Eridu in Sumerian Literature, Diss. Chicago 1975, 91. p. 175 fn. 1236: Add a reference to S.M. Maul, “Eine neubabylonische Kultordnung für den Klagesänger (kalû)”, in: Kulturgeschichten. Fs. V. Haas, ed. Th. Richter e.a., Saarbrücken 2001, 255-265 (gu4ma¢ pa-è-a). p. 176 fn. 1238: Add Å.W. Sjöberg, “Miscellaneous Sumerian Texts, II”, JCS 29 (1977) 20 rev. I 2. p. 176 fn. 1239: Add CTN 4, 107 rev. 6; cf. also A. Cavigneaux, “Fragments littéraires susien”, in: Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien. Fs. C. Wilcke, ed. W. Sallaberger e.a., 61, Sb 12630: 6 (Adad provides an unnamed monster with its thundering roar). In HS 1885 obv. 6'-7' read: 6'[a]-¢saÜ-as-si-ma ki-i diSKUR ú-pa-a a-sakan 7'a-na um-ma-an sa-am-su-di-ta-na ¢u†Ü-†a-a u4-ma “I roar and like Adad I create a cloud darkening the day for Samsuditana’s army” (coll., M. Krebernik had the kindness to give me his transliteration of the whole fragment). p. 181 fn. 1263: ABRT 1, 60: 16-17 reads according to W.R. Mayer’s collation (letter, 29th June 2004): 16i-mur-su-ma dAdad(iSKUR) qú-ra-du ina kip-pat erßeti(ki-ti) ú-sá-õazÕ-na-an-nu im-ma 17e-lam-ma di-isum i-ra-ás †u¢-du es-se-ba mu-des-su bùli(mÁS.ANSE) “As soon as Adad, the hero, has seen it, he makes rain fall upon the entire earth, the spring growth shoots up rejoicing, abundance flourishes, which provides plenty of livestock.” p. 190: Ur-Ninurta’s hymn to Iskur (VS 17, 40, see ETCSL 2.5.5.6, and correct my transliteration in obv. 1 and 8 accordingly) is entered in the Old Babylonian catalogue UET 6/2, 196, see A. Shaffer, “A New Look at Some Old Catalogues”, in: Wisdom, Gods and Literature. Studies W.G. Lambert, ed. A.R. George—I.L. Finkel, Winona Lake 2000, 432f.
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p. 201 fn. 1381: Add MDP 27, 286 II 7: dwe-e[r] (god-list, Wèr after ›uwawa). p. 207 fn. 1437: Delete the “Korrekturnachtrag” (read werru, not Wèr). p. 208: For Bèr cf. also the Neo-Assyrian ‘god-list’ KAV 72 obv. 10' and 11' (deities of Kàr-Tukultì-Ninurta?). For the possibility of Tell Afis = ›atarikka (“Óazrak”) see E. Lipi…ski, The Aramaeans. Their Ancient History Culture, Religion, OLA 100, Leuven 2000, 255-257. p. 212: For A. 1314 obv. 16-18 cf. now M. Krebernik— M. Streck, “summan là qabihàt ana balà†im—Wärest du nicht zum Leben berufen. . . . Der Irrealis im Altbabylonischen”, in: Sachverhalt und Zeitbezug. Fs. A. Denz, ed. R. Bartelmus—N. Nebes, Wiesbaden 2001, 60. p. 238: For the legend on the cylinder seal kt e/t 180 see M.T. Larsen, The Old-Assyrian City-State and its Colonies, Mesopotamia 4, Copenhagen 1976, 115 fn. 23 (reading sanga! su d!iSKUR in l. 4). p. 245 fn. 1717: For ¢amru “wine” in Emar cf. also A. Tsukimoto, “A Medical Text from the Middle Euphrates Region”, in: Priests and Officials in the Ancient Near East, ed. K. Watanabe, Heidelberg 1999, 192: 7. p. 254: VBoT 13: 9': read IS-õTUÕ (not IS-õTÚÕ). p. 255 fn. 1776: For dingir ¢a-ma-ri see J.G. Westenholz, “Emar— the City and its God”, in: Languages and Cultures in Contact. Proceedings of the 42th RAI (OLA 96), ed. K. van Lerberghe—G. Voet, Leuven 1999, 145-67. p. 302: For ARM 7, 219 see now M. Guichard, ARM 31, 133 (cf. also 132 = ARM 7, 119). p. 302 fn. 2224: Add te-es-su-ba-as ku-mu-ni in VS 17, 6 obv. 12. p. 321 fn. 2474: The year date in De Meyer, Tell ed-Dèr 2, 165 no 27 rev. 11f. should probably be read: mu sa us!(e)-si sa é diSKUR A-mi-sú-um i-du “Year in which A. laid the foundations of the Adad temple” (I owe this reading to F. van Koppen). This provides us with the building date of the Old Babylonian Adad temple of Sippar. p. 393f.: D. Charpin, JAOS 121 (2001) 686 argues that the oath by “Adad, their god” in an Old Babylonian document from Susa shows that Adad was the city-god of the family’s Babylonian home-town. p. 411 fn. 3446: S. 137 mit Anm. 953 (not “S. 136 mit Anm. 946”). p. 413ff.: On ›anis cf. now also M. Stol, “Das Heiligtum einer Familie”, in: Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien. Fs. C. Wilcke, ed. W. Sallaberger e.a., 293-300.
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p. 426 fn. 3528: sá é-sag-gíl may well be part of the original inscription; the seal then would have belonged to the Adad worshipped in Babylon’s main sanctuary (cf. p. 638f.). p. 446 fn. 3709: For Ea-sarru cf. also H.D. Galter, Der Gott Ea/Enki in der akkadischen Überlieferung, Graz 1983, 14-16, and S.M. Maul, “Neue Textvertreter der elften Tafel des Gilgamesch-Epos”, MDOG 133 (2001) 46f. p. 447, 1.22: Despite the copy the traditional reading na-as (not MUSEN-as ) is probably preferable. p. 448, 1.31: For this line see now H.A. Hoffner, Die Sprache 43 (2002-3) 80, 84f. p. 457 fn. 3774: KUB 36, 7a + 17, 7+ (instead of “KUB XXXVI 7a+ || VII 7+). p. 458 fn. 3779: In light of the cult inventory KUB 38, 12, I would still argue that the cities of Kumme (Kummiya) and Kumma (in the region of ›urma?) should be kept separate. It must be admitted, however, that the sequence of deities in KUB 45, 77: 10' = ChS 1/9, 104 (storm-god of Kumma, sun-goddess of Arinna, ›èbat) suggests that Kumma is also used as a by-form of Kumme (Kummiya). Otherwise the evidence is inconclusive: The storm-god of Kumma is named beside the storm-god of ›alab in the oracle-text IBoT 1, 33 (obv. 42) and might be mentioned in IBoT 2, 70 rev. 1', a fragmentary list of storm-gods, before the storm-god of ›alab and the storm-god of invocation (¢alziyawas ), who belongs to the circle of the Aleppine storm-god. The storm-god of Kumma figures prominently in KUB 3, 87, an Akkadian fragment that appears to be part of a letter, probably sent by an important prince or official in the region of Mittani, maybe in Alze, to Suppiluliuma. The text deals with oracle messages of the storm-gods of Iptalaim (sic?) and Kumma within the context of Suppiluliuma’s Syrian campaign. The text mentions Antaratli, who is well known from the historical introduction of the Sattiwaza-treaty. This suggests that the letter was written sometime shortly before, during or after Suppiluliuma’s one-year campaign, when Suppiluliuma installed Antaratli as king of Alze. The message of the storm-god of Kumma reminds one of the oracles of the stormgod of ›alab quoted in the famous letters of Zimrì-Lìm’s Aleppocorrespondence. I offer a tentative transliteration and translation of the fragment (cf. also A. Hagenbuchner, Die Korrespondenz der Hethiter, THeth 16, Heidelberg 1989, II 459f. text 349; for a photograph see S. Kosak, Konkordanz der hethitischen Keilschrifttafeln, Online-Datenbank, Version 1.1: http://www.hethport.uni-wuerzburg.de/hetkonk/):
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[x x x (x)] x x [ [dumu.kin-r]a(?) su-u[p-ra-as-su-mi(?) [x x x (x)]-ra ù ¢anÜ [ [x x i-d]i(?)-in-su ù x [ [d10(?) i]s-ti-su sa-nu-ti-su a[s-ta-al-ma(?)] [iq-ta-bi(?)] Isu-up-pí-lu-li-u-ma ÌR k[é-nu] [dumu.kin(?)]-ra su-up-ra-as-su-mi ù l[úsanga d10(?)] [a-na m]u¢-¢i-ia el-tap-ra ki-i dumu.kin-r[a-su(?)] [ik-su]-du ù Ian-tar-at-li a-na mu-u¢-¢i-[ia el-tap-ra] [SÀ(?)] ¢dÜISKUR ir-ta-hu-ub-ma Ian-tar-at-li x [x x] [i-n]a-an-na d10 urukum-ma i-na sa-lu-u[l-ti] a-na lúsanga-su i-na su-ut-ti-su iq-t[a-bi] I su-up-pí-lu-li-u-ma ÌR ké-nu dumu.kin-ri [su-up-ra-as-su] ù lúsanga sa d10 uruip-ta-la-i[m (. . .)] a-na mu¢-¢i-ia il-tap-ra ki-i dumu.[kin-su(?)] i-na kur urual-zi-ia ik-su-du [ù d10(?)] [uruip]-ta-la-im a-na mu¢-¢i-ia dumu.[kin il-tap-ra(?)] ¢ùÜ dumumes.kin-ri sa d10 a-kán-na i[q-ta-bu-u(?)] [d]¢10Ü(?) urukum-ma †e4-e-ma a-kán-na [is-ta-pa-ar(?)] ———————————————————— [a-n]a(?) Isu-up-pí-lu-li-u-ma ÌR ké-n[u aq-ta-bi(?)] [ma-a(?)] a-na qar-ra-du-ut-ti-ka4 a-na-ku dis[kur urukum-ma(?)] gis tukul.›I.A qar-ra-du-ti ad-d[i-in-kum lúKÚR.MES-ka(?)] sa-pal GÌR.MES-ka a-na-ku ¢úÜ-[sa-ak-ni-is x-x(-x)-ka(?)] a-na-ku-me ù d10 urukum-m[a [lu]gal(?)-ia el-li-ku x [ [x (x)] x lúKÚR [ [x x x] ¢aÜ-na dumu.[kin [. . .] . . . “[. . .] se[nd a messeng]er [to him]! [. . .] and [. . . gi]ve him!” And . . . [. . .]. [I asked the storm-god o]nce (and) a second time, [and he said:] “Suppiluliuma is a lo[yal] servant, send [a messenger] to him!” And the p[riest of the storm-god] sent (a message) [t]o me. When [his] messenger [arri]ved, Antaratli too [sent (a message)] to [me]. The storm-god[’s heart] was angry so that Antaratli [was . . .]. [N]ow the storm-god of Kumma has spo[ken] for a third time to his priest in his dream (saying): “Suppiluliuma is a loyal servant, [send] messengers [to him]!” And the priest of the storm-god of Iptalai[m (. . .)]sent (a message) to me. When [his] mess[enger] arrived in the land of Alziya, [the storm-god of Ip]talaim (possibly a mistake for
the storm-gods of the ancient near east
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Kumma?) too [sent] a messe[nger] to me. And the messengers of the storm-god s[poke] thus: [the st]orm-god of Kumma [has sent] a message (saying) thus: “[T]o Suppiluliuma, the loy[al] servant, [I have said]: For your valor, I, the storm-[god of Kumma], ga[ve you] weapons of valor. [Your enemies] I [made bow down] at your feet. [Your . . .] I am!” And the storm-god of Kumm[a . . . Unfortunately the fragmentary text contains no information on the location of Kumma. The storm-god of Iptalaim is unknown otherwise; the mere fact that the storm-god of Kumma is referred as the god who gave Suppiluliuma his weapons can hardly prove that it is the famous Tessub of Kumme whose oracle is consulted. If the author of our letter was in the region of Alze at the time and if Kumma is to be sought not too far from ›urma, it could well be the storm-god of South-Anatolian Kumma who is referred to here, not his famous counterpart residing far away on the Eastern ›abur. p. 479: For KUB 7, 60 // see now G. Del Monte, “The Hittite Óerem”, Babel und Bibel 2 (2005) 21-45. p. 459 fn. 4054: Note that KBo 21, 26 and 34, 203 are listed as indirect joins by S. Kosak and classified as “jh.”. p. 499 fn. 4085: For d10 ti-bi cf. now also V. Haas, OrNS 67 (1998) 138. p. 509: For the reading of the personal names in the Tell Taaanakh texts see the new edition of the texts in W. Horowitz—T. Oshima, Cuneiform in Canaan. Cuneiform Sources from the Land of Israel in Ancient Times, Jerusalem 2006, 127ff. p. 515 fn. 4185: For RS 17.116 obv. 2'f. see now S. Lackenbacher, Textes akkadiens d’Ugarit, LAPO 20, Paris 2002, 120 fn. 365. p. 517: “kinnàru-Leier” (not “kinnàru-Laute”). p. 554: For RPAE 6/3, 42 see now also M.R. Adamthwaite, Late Hittite Emar, Leuven 2001, 262ff. p. 555: In RPAE 6/3, 202 obv. 13 read probably sa é IdiSkur-bari (I owe this reading to An de Vos, for the name Adad-bàrû see Wettergottgestalten, 587, 653, fn. 4743). p. 556: Note that Msk 731042 and 74286a actually join (see W. Sallaberger, ZA 86 [1996] 140-147). p. 570: For the reading of the logogram ir see now J.D. Hawkins, in: S. Herbordt, Die Prinzen- und Beamtensiegel der hethitischen Großreichszeit auf Tonbullen aus dem Ni{antepe-Archiv in Hattusa, Mainz 2005, 296f.
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p. 573 and passim: Read zèràsu (not “zèrsu”). p. 575f.: For ICC 73 cf. also B.R. Foster, Before the Muses, 32005, 292. p. 580: For the two Kùbu’s of the Anu-Adad temple see now also MARV 6, 35 rev. 38f. p. 601f.: For rites in Assur’s Anu-Adad-temple in the Neo-Assyrian period cf. now also S.M. Maul, “Die Frühjahrsfeierlichkeiten in Assur”, in: Wisdom, Gods and Literature. Studies W.G. Lambert, ed. A.R. George—I.L. Finkel, Winona Lake 2000, 407, 410, 420. p. 603: For qersu cf. now D. Fleming’s comment in ZA 93 (2003) 288. p. 665f. fn. 5520: For VAT 10018 // 14226 see now M.J. Geller, “Akkadian Evil Eye Incantations from Assur”, ZA 94 (2004) 52-58. p. 668: Translation l. 37: “mirsu-Speise mit Sirup und Butterschmalz”. p. 683: K 3794 obv. 5: For a better translation of the phrase ina amàtìya . . . ina tamìt akarrabu kittu libsi see now W.R. Mayer, “Das Gebet des Eingeweideschauers an Ninurta”, OrNS 74 (2005) 55f. p. 683 fn. 5612: L. 6' read gub-su (tuszàssu), 9': ninda.ì.dé.a.
PHILOLOGICAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO HATTIAN-HITTITE RELIGION (I)* O®GUZ SOYSAL In memoriam Machteld J. Mellink
Abstract In the first part of the present study the frequent Hittite cult phrase d(GN) aku- / eku- “to drink a deity” is discussed as to whether it should be understood in the accusative or dative sense. The drinking act devoted to divine honor is accompanied chiefly by the accusative case of the deity name. There are also some exceptional cases in which the divine proper name is used in the dative case. In the light of a list of Hattian deities in KBo 21.85+ I 12'-25' it is proposed here that the divine name in the expression d(GN) aku- / eku- with ending -n may have been originally constructed in the dative case under influence of Hattian. Since the Hattian dative marker -n is formally the same as the Hittite ending -n for the singular accusative, it is possible that the Hittites had adopted this cult expression in their language in a manner where the divine proper name would function as accusative. This use may have been transformed later into the real “Hittite” accusative in -n. The second part deals with the cult object GIS¢alm/puti- (with other cognate designations) and with its possible connection to GISkalmus-. Materially, these tools appear not to have the same functions, but on the philological level, both words may stem from the same Hattian root ¢alwuutti-.
1. A new look at the Hittite cult term “to drink a deity” in a special consideration of Hattian language The Hittite religion was enriched not only by the existence of its “thousand gods” borrowed from various Ancient Near Eastern cultures in and outside of Anatolia, and by many festivals, ceremonies
* The manuscript was completed in September 2006. An early Turkish version of the first part “A new look at the Hittite cult term ‘to drink a deity’” appeared in Fs Belkıs and Ali Dinçol (2007) 731-737. The bibliographic and Hittitological abbreviations follow mainly those used in CHD (Chicago 1980 ff.) and HW2 (Heidelberg 1975 ff.). © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2008 Also available online – www.brill.nl
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and rituals, but also by numerous cult terms and expressions whose meanings remain sometimes obscure. One of these is the subject of this study. Despite its rich attestation in the Hittite religious texts, the frequent cult phrase d(GN) aku- / eku- “to drink a deity” still cannot be explained satisfactorily. To date it has been widely discussed in numerous studies with different approaches to the subject, how a deity would have been honored by this drinking act performed usually by the Hittite royal couple and occasionally also by a prince or a functionary in the cult rites: is it meant, with this “literal” expression, that the deity is actually to be drunk in the form of a liquid, since the name of the deity appears mostly in the accusative case as the direct object of the sentence? Or, is there rather a “figurative” idiom, whereby the deity is honored by the consumption of a cult beverage? The first view may be proceeding on the assumption that the soul of the deity is imbibed by the king’s drinking of a cult beverage symbolizing a particular deity, and denotes the king’s mystical participation in the essence of that divinity. Although there are indeed mystical conceptions in the Hittite cult life like “drinking someone’s soul”1 and “unification of the god’s and king’s souls,”2 the available written sources clearly show that the persons whose souls are drunk in the funerary rituals are just deceased human beings, and the expression “drinking someone’s soul” does not concern the gods at all. Therefore, the first interpretation seems to be difficult to prove.3 The second view, that presumes a kind of divine honoring by drinking a cult beverage, has more support in the secondary literature.4 The starting point for this is a striking syntactical feature of the phrase “deitydrinking” in which the name of the honored deity occasionally appears in the dative case instead of the accusative. Accordingly, the expression in question is transformed with this dative nuance into the meaning “to drink to / for a deity,” shorthand for “drinking
1 A. Archi apud A. Kammenhuber, Materialien Lfg. 5 and 6 (1977) Nr. 5, 204-206, 238, 252-253; H. G. Güterbock, in: CRRAI 34 (1998) 121-122, 124. On the other hand, it should be kept in mind that beside ZI-an eku- “to drink the soul” there is also dative phrase ZI-ni eku- “to drink to / for the soul” which is interchangeable with that accusative construction; cf. O. Carruba, StBoT 2 (1966) 41 and later H. G. Güterbock, ibid. 122. 2 Cf. A. Archi, in: FsOtten2 (1988) 15 n. 38. 3 Though, advocated again by H. G. Güterbock, in: CRRAI 34, 129. 4 Most recently J. Tischler, in: Die Indogermanistik und ihre Anrainer (2004) 330-331 and G. Beckman, in: A Companion (2005) 350.
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to the honor of the deity.” This can be phrased within an accusative sense roughly as “to honor the deity by cult drinking,” comparable to the English to toast somebody. Another attempt to explain the formula d(GN) aku- / eku- is the translation “to give a deity to drink.” This idea basically goes back to the usage of German causative verb tränken “to let drink, to give to drink” which requires the accusative case of the object. Considering the function of the Hittite verb aku- / eku- “to drink,” however, there are serious grammatical difficulties in accepting this interpretation, and it was given up quite some time ago.5 On our subject, several prominent authorities of Hittitology, including A. Kammenhuber,6 A. Archi7 and H. G. Güterbock8 released essential studies with a special focus on both the philological and religious details, and compiled the relevant bibliography. J. Puhvel9 and H. C. Melchert10 on the other hand, have dealt with “to drink a deity” rather in semantic or syntactic respects.11 Therefore, I would like to discuss the subject following a different approach, in which we may detect the possible linguistic origin of the nominal case of the object of the cult phrase in question, and its semantic metamorphosis over the centuries. In this respect, the Hattian language and pantheon should be taken into consideration as having a significant influence on Hittite religion. We may briefly categorize hundred of occurrences of the cult phrase “to drink a deity” as listed below. In order to avoid redundancies, in most cases the Hittite sentences are shortened and simplified so that only the divine names and the predicates of the act “to drink” either in singular or plural 3rd person are present here.
5
H. G. Güterbock, in: CRRAI 34, 121. SMEA 14 (1971) 143-159 and in: FsRichter (1991) 221-226. 7 Apud A. Kammenhuber, Materialien Lfg. 4 (1976), Lfg. 5 and 6 (1977) Nr. 5, 118-237, 239-243, 253-256, 263-264. 8 In: CRRAI 34, 121-129. 9 MIO 5 (1957) 31-33 and HS 116 (2003) 54-57. 10 JIES 9 (1981) 245-254. 11 Additionally, the following studies are worthy of note which deal with the expression “to drink a deity” with other linguistic and cult aspects: O. Carruba, StBoT 2, 40-41 (on the rare variations of this expression phrased with Akkadian dative ANA); H. Eichner, in: IE Numerals (1992) 47-50, 65 (on the numerals 2-e and 3-e within this expression); D. Yoshida, in: Priests and Officials (1999) 239-252 and M. Schuol, Hethitische Kultmusik (2004) 193-194, 196-197 (on the cult music accompanying this expression); H.-S. Schuster, HHB II (2002) 457-464 (on the Hattian divine pairs or groups appearing in this and other similar cult expressions). 6
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I) Divine name is written phonetically and has accusative ending -n: 1) dKarma¢ilin akuanzi (KUB 11.34 V 51'-52' [NS]) 2a) dZintu¢esun ekuz[i] (KBo 45.64 II 9' [NS]) 2b) [dZ]intu¢iyan akuw[anzi] (KBo 45.63 I 27' [NS]) Remarks: This writing of the divine name seems to present the Hittitized use of dZintu¢esun in example 2a, which sounds rather like a genuine Hattian form. 3) dZuliyan akuanzi (KBo 20.5 obv.? 9' [OS]) 4) 3 akuwanzi URUKartapa¢as dWàa¢isin URUSalampas dKà[tta¢¢]an URU Kà[tap]as? dWaa¢isin (KUB 28.104 IV 15'-18' [NS]) 5) 3-SU ekuzi dKata¢¢an dUTU dLAMMA LUGAL (IBoT 1.29 obv. 27 [MS?]) 6) dU É-TI d›asamilin d›ilassin . . . ekuzi (KUB 11.35 VI 9'-11' [NS]) 7) 4 ekuzi dAstanu!n d[W]aaputet dKuzzanisun dTa¢pilanun (KBo 23.79 III 5'-7' [LNS]) Remarks: The divine name dWaaputet with final consonant -t shows no ending -n as would have been expected; see also under category VIII a nr. 3. 8) 7 ekuzi d[. . .] dTaparwaasun dTappinùn dKamama[n?] d›ullan d Telipinun dGAL.Z[U(-) . . .?] (KBo 25.178 I 16-18 [NS]) II) Divine name is written logographically and has accusative ending -n: 1a) 1b) 2) 3)
d
UTU-un ekuzi (KUB 33.79 IV? 12' [NS]) UTU-un . . . akuwanzi (KBo 2.14 III 10-11 [NS]) taknas dUTU-un ekuzi (KUB 30.23 III? 19 [NS]) d DAG-in . . . NAG-anzi (KUB 55.60 iv? 7'-8' [LNS] // KUB 58.31 rev. 20'-21' [NS]) d
III) Philological elements in support of the accusative sense of the expression in Hittite: 1) apùùn DINGIR-LUM . . . ekuzi “drinks that deity” (KUB 10.72 V 18-19 [NS]) 2) ANA LUGAL kuis DINGIR-LIM àssus nu apùùn ekuzi “which deity is pleasant to the king, he drinks that one” (KUB 11.22 V 12'-13' [NS]) 3) apùùs DINGIR.MES-uss ekuzi “drinks those deities” (VS 28.10 I 20' [MS])
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4) kuiès DINGIR.MES ANA LUGAL àssawes nu apùùs akuskizzi “which deities are pleasant to the king, he drinks those ones” (KBo 43.123 rev. 1-3 [NS]) 5) dUTU dU dLAMMA taknas dUTU-un kuinna ar¢ayan . . . ekuzi “drinks the Sun deity, the Storm god, the protective deity (and) the Sun goddess of the earth each one separately” (KUB 30.24 II 19-20 [LNS], KUB 39.33 III 7'-9' [LNS]) 6) àssun UD-an . . . ekuz[i] “drink[s] the good day” (KBo 21.95 I 7' [NS]) 7) n=uss DINGIR.MES ¢arpanduss [a]kkuskizzi “[d]rinks the deities in groups” (KUB 27.16 IV 26-27 [NS]) 8) DINGIR-LAM [akku]skizzi “keeps [drinking] the deity” (KUB 27.16 IV 28-29 [NS]) 9) dUD-AM akuwanzi “they drink the divine day” (KUB 39.64:6' [OS?]) IV) Divine name is written phonetically with or without the accusative ending -n: 1a) dKarmà¢ili . . . akuwanzi (KUB 10.89 II 2'-3'[LNS]) 1b) dKarma¢ilin akuanzi (KUB 11.34 V 51'-52') [NS] 2) dMezzulla (// [d]Mezzullan) ekuzi (KBo 24.87 rev. 9' [MS] // KBo 21.80 IV 10' [MS]) 3) dTelipinun (// dTelipinu) akuwanzi (KUB 2.5 IV 12 [LNS] // KUB 25.1 V 1-2 [NS]) V) Divine name is written logographically and has no accusative ending -n: 1) dGAL.ZU eukz[i] (KUB 20.53 V 10' [LNS]) 2) dISKUR dISKUR URUZippalada . . . ekuzi (KUB 1.17 II 31-34 [NS]) 3) dUD.SIG5 ekuzi (KUB 30.23 III? 5 [NS]) VI) Divine name is obviously in accusative case, but employs no ending -n, instead occasionally a (long) vowel: 1) 2) 3) 4) 5)
d
Wuurunkatte akuanzi (KUB 11.34 IV 19'-20' [NS]) ›àtauri ekuzi (KUB 10.7:6' [LNS]) d Istanu dPalatappinu akuanzi (KBo 20.67 I 19' [MS]) d Tàru d›asgalà . . . ekuz[i] (KUB 55.18 II 2'-3' [NS]) 5 ekuzi dZindu¢isù dWaa¢isi dU.GUR d›aratsì dSisuma¢i (KBo 8.112 VI 9'-12' [NS]) d
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6) 2-e [e]kuzi [d]Taparwaasù dWaasez!zasù (KBo 2.29 rev. 5'-8' [NS]) 7) d›almassuitti ekuzi (AnAr 10311 rev. 6' [—]) Remarks: In the name of goddess d›almassuitti either the ending -n is omitted (instead of correct accusative dDAG-in as seen in II nr. 3 and VII nr. 3), or, less probably, this is the dative form of d›almassuitta. VII) Divine names in long lists including all aforementioned features: EN.ZU Ù dKuzanisun ekuzi [d]›ullan ekuzi . . . dTelipinun ekuzi (. . .) dISKUR Ù dWaasezzili ekuzi (KBo 20.33 obv.17-18, rev. 6' [OS]) 2) [. . . eku]zi d UTU d Me[zzu]lla [ d Tel]ipinù n d GAL.ZU [dTa]¢pill[a]nù [d?GUN]NI-an dSusuma¢in (KUB 2.6 I 2-5 [NS]) 3) d › alkin d Telipinun d UTU d UTU URU TÚL-na d U d U URU Ziplan[da] dLAMMA d›apandali dDAG-in dZABA 4BA 4 d GAL.ZU dU É-TIM dKandiwuuitten dKattanan dU KI.LAM d Wàasezzallin ekuzi (KUB 41.50 III 7'-12' [NS]) 1)
d
VIII a) Divine name ends in a consonant other than accusative ending -n: 1) 12-SU ekuzi . . . [dZipl]antel . . . [d . . .]kunuil (IBoT 1.29 obv. 62-66 [MS?]) 2a) Taurèt ekuzi (KBo 20.33 upper edge 1 [OS]) 2b) dTaurit ekuzi (KBo 25.184 II 17 [NS]) 3) 4 ekuzi . . . [dW]aaputet . . . (KBo 23.79 III 6' [LNS]) VIII b) Final consonant of the divine name is omitted: 1a) dTauri ekuzi (IBoT 2.74 obv. 5' [NS]) 1b) dTaurì ekuzi (KBo 4.13 V 23 [LNS]) 1c) dTaurì (// dTaurit) akuwanzi (KBo 4.9 VI 30 [LNS] // KUB 10.12 III 8' [NS]) 1d) dTauriya ekuzi (KBo 23.64 II 7' [MS]) Remarks: This form with ending -(y)a should be regarded as being in dative case; see also under category X nr. 3. IX) Divine name is phrased as dative: 1) ANA dISKUR ekuzi (KUB 34.77 obv?. 8' [NS]) 2) dUTU SAMÈ ekuz[i ] . . . AN[A dI]SKUR ekuzi . . . AN[A d LAMM]A ekuzi (KBo 15.25 rev. 15-17 [MS])
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3) ANA dU ekuzzi (KBo 21.36 r. col. 7' [MS]) 4) ANA dUTU ekuzzi (KBo 21.36 r. col. 4' [MS]) X) Unusual usages: 1) dKata¢zipuris . . . ekuzi (Bo 4846:10' [—]; see H. Klengel, in: FsPugliese Carratelli [1988] 106 n. 21) Remarks: This form with ending -s is incorrectly in nominative case. 2) 3 akuwanzi [URU . . . dK]atta¢¢as [URU . . .] dKatta¢¢as [URU . . . d W]àa¢isis (IBoT 2.78 I 6'-9' [NS]) Remarks: These divine names with ending -s are incorrectly in nominative case. For the correct usages for these see under category I nrs. 4, 5. 3) dTauriya ekuzi (KBo 23.64 II 7' [MS]) Remarks: This form with ending -(y)a should be regarded more likely as dative. 4) dPirwan dAskasipan dMUNUS.LUGAL-ri dMaliyan . . . akuwanzi (KBo 4.13 VI 9-11 [LNS]) Remarks: The unusual usage dMUNUS.LUGAL-ri (Hittite *¢assussari) “to / for the Queen” refers to the dative case. For the common form dKata¢¢an of this goddess associated with expression “to drink a deity” see under category I nrs. 4, 5. 5a) dUTU-as . . . ekuzi (KUB 27.66 II 19' [LNS]) 5b) dUTU-as dMezzullan ekuzi (KUB 30.41 V 2 [NS]) 5c) dUTU-as dMezzu[lla]nn=a ekuzi (KUB 30.41 V 13 [NS]) Remarks: The phonetic value underlying dUTU-as is claimed by A. Kassian—I. Yakubovich, in: GsForrer (2004) 399 ff. and 405 ff., to be the Akkadian dSamas. 6) MUNUSTawananas . . . akuwanzi (KUB 56.54 rev. 27 [NS]) Remarks: This form appears to be in nominative case. Compare, however, the phrase [nu?] dLAMMA LUGAL dDAGin MUNUSTawannannan (// dTawa[nnannan]) . . . NAG-anzi (KUB 55.60 iv? 7'-8' [LNS] // KUB 58.31 rev. 20'-21' [NS]), where it is unclear with MUNUS/dTawannanna, if a divinity or a deified queen is being worshiped; cf. O. Soysal, Anatolica 31 (2005) 197 n. 34. XI) Divine names from Luwian milieu (including Istanuwan texts): (On the relevant written material see A. Archi apud A. Kammenhuber, Materialien Lfg. 5 and 6, Nr. 5, 188, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 201, 234-236; D. Yoshida, THeth 22 [1996] 244-251).
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›ùwassanna . . . ekuzi (KUB 27.66 II 23' [LNS]) ›uwassannan ekuzi (KBo 20.72 II? 31' [MS]) d Auwattan dKupillan . . . akuanzi (KUB 27.49 III 5 [NS]) d Lalariyan ›UR.SAGSarpan . . . ekuzi (KUB 27.66 II 24' [LNS]) d Mùlin ekuzi (KUB 27.65 I 11' [NS]) d LAMMA sarlaimen dZABA4BA4 . . . ekuzi (KUB 27.66 II 22' [LNS]) 6) dU pi¢assas(s)in ekuzi / akuwanzi (KUB 11.13 III 7'-8', IV 10'11' [LNS]) 7) dAMAR.UTU dIr¢àndus d›issallandus=a ekuzi (KUB 43.56 II 20'-21' [NS])
1a) 1b) 2) 3) 4) 5)
d d
XII) Divine names from Hurrian milieu: (On the relevant written material see A. Archi apud A. Kammenhuber, Materialien Lfg. 5 and 6, Nr. 5, 173-194, 195-196, 233, 234, 237). 1) d›epat ekuzi (KBo 15.37 II 13 [NS]) 2a) d›epaddun ekuzi (KUB 54.72 IV? 18' [NS]) 2b) 3-SU ekuzi . . . d›epatun (KUB 45.5 II? 13'-14' [MS]) Remarks: On the rare u-thematization of the divine name ›epat see J. J. S. Weitenberg, U-Stämme (1984) 260. 3a) dIS[TAR] URU›attarina dNinatta d[Ku]l[i]tta . . . e[kuzi] (IBoT 3.115 obv. 9-11 + KUB 47.69 obv?. 6'-7' [MS]) 3b) dNinattan dKulittan akuwanzi (KBo 19.142 III 21 [NS]) 4) dSàlus dKumarpi . . . ekuzi (KBo 15.37 II 17 [NS]) 5) [dIST]AR URU›attarina dNinatta [ . . .] dAya dUTU-ki . . . ekuzi (KUB 45.36 II? 5'-8' [MS]) d 6a) Serrin d›ur[rin] . . . ekuzi (KUB 20.42 V 14'-15' [NS]) 6b) GUDSerin GUD›urrin . . . ekuzi (KUB 11.22 V 15'-16' [NS]) 7) [d]É.A dGullan d›epat . . . ekuzzi (KBo 13.114 III 12 [NS]) XIII) Miscellaneous examples (divine names from various pantheons and their odd nominal cases contrary to Hittite grammar and syntax): 1) d L A M M A U R U T a u r i s A M A d K a l i m m a n d › a s a m e l e n TÚL Kuwannaniyan dÀssiyaza dU GISTIR ÍDZuliya dLAMMA ÍD GIS KÁ.GAL DINGIR.MES Ta!lawanis . . . ekuzi (KUB 2.8 V 18'-30' [LNS]) Remarks: dÀssiya(n)za displays either the Hittite singular nominative, or the Luwian plural accusative / dative form. DINGIR.MES Talawanis exhibits the plural nominative form, having
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3a)
3b)
4)
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also a misspelling for regular DINGIR.MES Salawanis. Here one would usually expect a plural accusative DINGIR.MES Salawan(i)us. For the correct writing dZuliyan for ÍDZuliya here see under category I nr. 3. 15 ekuzi dGulsus dMA›.MES-us dKuzanasu dU.GUR Ù dU.GUR URU ›ayasa dSÎN MUL ispanza d›asmaiùn dKata¢¢i d›aristassin d ›ilassin . . . (KBo 4.13 VI 31-36 + KUB 10.82:3'-8' [LNS]) Remarks: In this text passage, beside plural accusative forms d Gulsus and dMA›.MES-us, one observes also divine names in singular accusative case with regular ending -n like d›asmaiùn (if not Hattian dative! see below), d›aristassin and d›ilassin. Ispanza, however, is expressed in nominative case, and in the name of goddess dKatta¢¢i either the ending -n is omitted (instead of correct accusative dKatta¢¢in), or, this is the dative form of dKatta¢¢a. . . . dGulsus dKuduilis [dKud]usa¢ilis dDàrawa[s dAnzil]is dZukkis GUNNI [dZ]ilipùris dEN.ZU M[UL (-) . . . GE6-a]nza d›asammilis É.SÀ-as MUNUS.LUGAL [d›]aristassis d›ilass[is] . . . annarin tarpin . . . [ekuz]i (KUB 32.87 rev. 10'-14' + KBo 23.72 rev. 21'-25' [MS]) . . . dGulses dKuduilis dKudusa¢ilis d[Dàrawas dAnzil]is dZukkis GUNNI dZilipùris [dEN.ZU MUL(-) . . . GE6-a]nza d›asammelis É.SÀ MUNUS.LUGAL-as d›aristassi[s d›ilassis] . . . annarin tarpin . . . ekuzi (KUB 32.87 rev. 21'-25'+ KBo 23.72 rev. 31'-33' [MS]) Remarks: Except for two accusative forms annarin tarpin (a pair of entities which were deified by the Hittites) all divine names are apparently in nominative case. The accusative forms of d ›aristassi and d ›ilassi are listed above sub nr. 2. d ›asamme/ilis exhibits the Hittitized form against d›asmaiu(n) in nr. 2 above which is associated with the Hattian origin of this god name. 15 DINGIR.MES ekuzzi (// ekuzi) dMA› dGulsas GUNNI (// d GUNNI) dU.GUR Ù dU.GUR URU›àyasa dEN.ZU MUL-i GE6-anza d›asammilis dMUNUS.LUGAL d›arestassis d›ilassis . . . (KBo 19.128 VI 17'-22' [NS] // IBoT 3.15 I 5'-7' [NS]) Remarks: All divine names here are obviously merged into the nominative case. The only exception is—if it is to be regarded as Hittite—MUL-i “to / for the star” in dative case.
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As we may observe in most of the examples above, the drinking act devoted to divine honor is accompanied chiefly by the accusative case of the deity name. There are also some exceptional cases in which the divine proper name is used in the dative and even in nominative case; the latter, however, must be considered as simply a mistake and may have no morphological consequences. An interesting feature of some occurrences used with the accusative case has not drawn as much attention of scholars as it may deserve, where the final n-sound disappears. This issue may not be clarified by a simple acceptance of “stem form” or “Akkadianized use” of the divine names since in several cases they appear with a final long vowel replacing the ending -n. If one bears in mind that Hittite, being a typical “nominative-accusative” language, is careful and conservative with the proper use of the accusative case, this morphological problem needs an explanation. First of all, we can state that the plene-written vowel instead of final n-sound is unusual in Hittite word spelling. Secondly, taking the phonological facts into account, we are witnesses of another Ancient Anatolian language where a dropped final consonant like liquids -l and -r, nasals -m and -n or aspirate -¢ is often replaced by the plene-written form of the preceding vowel. This fact is expressed in O. Soysal, HWHT (2004) 76, by quoting the Hattian alternative lemmas is-pu-du-u¢ and apocopated is-pu-du-ú, ma-ƒa-as-ka-am and ma-a-ƒa-as-ga-a-a, ôaaas-¢a-ôuú-un and ôaa-a-as-¢a-ôuú-ú respectively. It has been determined recently that the nominal n-suffix in Hattian serves as the dative indicator.12 A long time ago, H.-S. Schuster, HHB I (1974) 123, 140, had pointed out the fact that this consonantal suffix can be replaced by a long vowel. An illuminating case for this assumption is the usage of kattè “to / for the king” instead of its full form *katten13 which is relevant also to the divine names compiled above
12 See O. Soysal, HWHT 185, 232 (with previous bibl.) and Anatolica 31 (2005) 196 with note 31. 13 A conclusive textual proof for this is the Hattian sentence with its translation into Hittite: [(pal )]a a=s=iya dWaasul / [(t)]a-ba-ar-na-an ka-a-at-te-e (= Hitt. nu pier iyata / tameta laba[rnai] LUGAL-i) “and they (= the gods) gave abundance (and) plenty to the tabarna / labarna king;” (KBo 21.110 obv. 10'-11' // KUB 2.2 + KUB 48.1 III 27-29) see H.-S. Schuster, HHB I 123 f.; O. Soysal, HWHT 185. The existence of a real “inflected” form of the Hattian designation for “king” kaat-te-en which is modified by the ending -n is revealed now from KBo 37.155 rev.? 8' composed in Old Hittite ductus.
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in the categories VI-VII.14 The deities who are honored “by drinking,” without Hittite accusative ending -n, but showing a final long vowel instead, are to be classified exclusively as of Hattian origin. If we combine all these facts together with an early statement of A. Kammenhuber, SMEA 14, 152, that the phrase “to drink a deity” may have been a reflection of the Hattian cult tradition, then we can presume that the divine name in the expression may have been originally constructed in the dative case. Since the Hattian dative marker -n is formally the same as the Hittite ending -n for the singular accusative, it is possible that the Hittites had adopted this cult expression in their language in a manner where the divine proper name would function as accusative. The omission of the case marker -n on the divine name in a Hittite context might indicate a serious grammatical mistake due to its important morphological function as marker of the singular accusative case, therefore it is hardly to be expected. Such an irregularity, however, would be tolerated, at least by the Hittites, if it indicated another nominal function (dative) within a foreign language like Hattian. As many occurrences do show, the usage “to drink a deity” with accusative notion was firmly established in Hittite, as is also supported by the grammatical features shown in category III above. On the other hand, some rare examples accompanied by the Akkadian word ANA referring to a dative notion in the same cult phrase reveal that the Hittites also tended to express it in a different way which is actually closer to the Hattian and therefore appears to be more accurate. To sum up, the linguistic-historical development of the ending -n in divine names as part of the cult expression “to drink a deity” may have occurred in the following stages: real “Hattian” dative ending -n → first transferred into Hittite as formal / fictive “Hittite” accusative in -n covering native Hattian deities → later transformed into real “Hittite” accusative in -n encompassing all deities which is also grammatically established in this language.15 14 See also the divine list KBo 21.85 I 12'-25' + KBo 8.109 I 7'-15' discussed in the main text. 15 On the syntactical level, similar usages are observed in the formulary of the other common cult rite d . . . ir¢ai- “to honor the god(s) by worshiping-round(s):” IBoT 1.29 obv. 28, 31-32, 47; KBo 10.9 rev?. 7'; KBo 22.169:2'-7'; KBo 25.12 I 5'-9'; KBo 25.87:6'; KBo 25.178 IV 17'-19'; KUB 10.5 VI 5'-6'; KUB 11.30 III 23'-25' + IBoT 4.197 obv. 4"-6"; KUB 12.8 II 5'-6'; KUB 20.18 VI? 7'-8'; KUB 20.19 III 4-5; KUB 20.96 III 14'-15', IV 17-18; KUB 25.8 II 15'-17'; KUB 30.41 IV 21-22; KUB 53.11 III 7-11; KUB 56.50 III 8; KUB 58.6 VI 6'-7'; KUB 58.40
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Although not closely related to the phrase “to drink a deity,” a unique attestation of another common cult term “to sacrifice to a deity” in KBo 21.85+ I 12': 1 UDU ANA dAstanun “one sheep to the Sun deity Astanu” depicts another strong proof for the Hittite uncertainty in using some cult terms. The lines KBo 21.85 I 10'25' + KBo 8.109 I 7'-15' include a long list of deities who receive animal offerings at the hand of the king:16 10' . . . LUGAL-us=kan UDU.›I.A-un kèdas DINGIR.MES-as sipanti 11' . . . “The king offers sheep to these deities: . . .” 12' 13' 14' 15' 16'
1 UDU ANA dAstanun 1 UDU dTaparwaasun 1 UDU d Tappìnùn 1 UDU d›ullàn [1] UDU dZiplantì 1 MÁS.GAL dKammammàn [1 MÁ]S.[GA]L d›awaantalì 1 UDU dNèràk 1 [UDU d]Kappùn 1 UDU d Waas¢ulilin 1 [MÁS.GA]L dKattellikamamma
17' 18' 19' 20' 21' 22'
1 UDU dTelipinun 1 UDU dWalzà 1 UDU dWuurukattè 1 UDU dIya¢sul dIstaràzzil 1 MÁS.GAL d Zizzasùn 1 UDU ÍDZùliyàn [1] UDU d Kà¢ùppùt 1 UDU dTà¢angullàn 1 UDU d ›almassùiddùn 1 UDU dKatta¢¢i[n] [dZuwu]urùn 1 UDU dWalpisùn
V 8'-9'. Noteworthy are especially the context of KBo 37.157: (8') [. . .] ir¢àizzi d Tùwas[a . . .] (9') [d . . .]in dTelipinu dZa[ . . .] (10') [d . . .]dù dSiwuurù d[ . . .] (11') [d . . .]dun dIstanu[n], and of KBo 39.88 II: (10') 2-e ir¢àizzi dTaparwaasu (11') d Waasizzasù, since the nominal structures of the deities here are associated with those listed under the categories IV and VI in the main text (see below). All of these deities are of Hattian provenance; some of them end in regular accusative marker -n in Hittite, while others omit this ending, or substitute it with long vowel. Another listing of the “honored” Hattian deities in KUB 53.13 II 1'-6' is of interest as well, although no pertinent verb (aku- / eku- or ir¢ai-) is preserved in the text passage in question. Beside the proper names with final long -ù like ¢dÜTeli-pí-nu-ú (II 2'), d›a-li-pí-nu-ú (II 4') and dÚ-ri-ia-du-ú (II 5') there also occurs d DAG-ti-ú (II 3'). This very unique form renders the throne goddess d›anwaasuit which is usually Hittitizied with various final vowels as d›almassuitta/i/u (B. H. L. van Gessel, Onomasticon I [1998] 77 f.). The spelling dDAG-ti-ú (= *d›almassuittiu), however, does not match any of those regular forms and makes no sense in a possible Hittite nominal case. This may again be a reduced spelling for Hattian oblique (i.e. dative) form *dDAG-ti=un. 16 These deities are discussed by E. Laroche, RHA 31 (1973) 83-89.
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23' [1 UDU d]Zalipurùn 1 UDU dWàa¢isìn 1 UDU [d . . .] 24' [1 UDU d›as]ammeiùn 1 UDU d›attusantewaas¢[ap] 25' [1 UDU] dWaaskurunàn 1 UDU d›ànikkù[n] 26' [mà]n? LUGAL-us UDU.›I.A-un sipanduwanzi [zinnai? / zinizzi?] “[Whe]n the king [finishes] sacrificing the sheep” The unusual philological content of this religious text, written in Middle Hittite script, had already come to the attention of Weitenberg, U-Stämme, 259. As the Akkadian word ANA indicates, the following deity Astanu, to whom the offering is made (sipant- KBo 21.85+ I 10' and 26'), must be in dative case. Surprisingly, however, to this divine name is attached a final -n, hence it appears to have the accusative case. Since the direct object of the sentence is a sacrificial animal, the accusative construction of the divine name does not make any sense here, thus this syntactical problem would be solved only with the interpretation of Astanun as being a “Hattian” dative. The assumption, that in the relevant passages of KBo 21.85+ a Hattian cult milieu is present, is supported by the use of the original Hattian spelling of the Sun deity Astan(u) instead of its later Hittite form Istanu. Moreover, all of the gods listed in KBo 21.85 I 12'-25' + KBo 8.109 I 7'-15' as recipients of animal offerings are to be classified as being of Hattian origin. Among these, some exhibit consonantal stems like Nèràk, Iya¢sul, dKà¢ùppùt or ending in (long) vowels like Ziplantì, Walzà, Wuurukattè; many others, however, possess a final -n like Taparwaasun, ›ullàn and Waas¢ulilin. This document, with its variety of divine names, is a valuable piece of evidence that the Hattian deities in religious texts with such spellings should be primarily regarded as being in the dative case. Weitenberg, U-Stämme, 259-260, had correctly realized that both the singular usage (ANA) dAstanun here and the other divine proper names ending in -un or alternatively in long vowel -ù elsewhere in association with cult expressions “to give / sacrifice / offer” cannot be explained by Hittite accusative, but rather should be understood within Hattian language or cult conception. Now we may add to his valuable conclusion some new philological determinations, that in Hattian there is no such suffix -un, but rather a simple -n which can be extended by other preceding vowels a, e/i as well, and its precise function is denoting the dative case in this language. In this respect, I hope that the remarks made here would improve Weitenberg’s suggestion in a better understanding of these cult phrases.
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One of the points of our investigation, also focusing on Hattian cult and language, is approval for the earlier assumption of J. Puhvel, MIO 5, 31 ff., a scholar of Indo-European languages, that the Hittite expression of honoring a deity by cult drink is to be understood in a dative sense. Strong linguistic support for his idea comes, surprisingly, from Hattian, a language which has nothing in common with Indo-European Hittite. However, the Hattian written sources, which may bring a definitive solution to the subject remain silent.17 Finally, an important, but yet unanswered question is whether the cult phrase “to drink to / for a deity” with its Hittite interpretation in accusative sense should be ascribed directly to the Hittite writing tradition only, or to have been orally carried out in the Hittite cult life as well. In this respect it is a striking point that four rare occurrences phrased in dative by ANA under category IX do not go back to the festival descriptions, but belong rather to a different text genre, the Middle Hittite rituals “Magie Anatolienne” CTH 396 and 470. Therefore one may assume that all phrases of “to drink a deity” in formal / fictive accusative case in those monotonous festival descriptions are rather anchored stereotype formulas under the influence of earlier Hattian cult traditions which are kept alive in the Hittite mind, hence they might have little to do with “spoken” language. The textual evidence of category IX, however, is not yet sufficient enough to draw general and decisive conclusions for this issue. 2. From Hattian ¢alwuutti- to Hittite GIS¢alm/puti- and GI>Skalmus-: the possible metamorphosis of a cult object and of its designation ¢alm/puti- appears exclusively in the religious documents as a wooden cult object.18 It is generally regarded that the other designations GIS
17 For instance, so far there is no single monolingual Hattian document known that mentions such words like (waa=)sa¢ap=un “to / for the god(s)” and *lin “to drink” (O. Soysal, HWHT 293) in an immediate context in which one may roughly recognize a phrase like “to drink for the god(s).” 18 GIS¢alm/puti- is interpreted by E. Laroche, NH (1966) 248: “nom d’arbre ou d’objet en bois;” idem, apud A. Kammenhuber in: HbOr (Altkleinasiatische Sprachen [1969]) 462: “hatt. Holz- oder Baumbezeichnung;” V. Haas, KN (1970) 307: “Schrein;” (based merely on an incorrect interpretation of the verb ¢as¢as-;) O. Carruba, Pal. (1972) 23: “ein Holzgegenstand;” M. Popko, Kultobjekte (1978) 131: “ein Teil des Tempels oder ein Kultgegenstand;” E. Neu, StBoT 26 (1983) 46:
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¢alputili- / GIS¢alputel and d›alm/putili- in Hittite cult are cognates of GIS¢alm/puti-.19 The fact that these words chiefly occur in texts with a Hattian background, and the existence of some similar sounding Hattian lemmata, e.g., ka = ¢alputti, ¢alwu u ttel and ka = ¢alwuuzzel, strongly suggest a Hattian origin for this word.20 Since GIS ¢alm/puti- is mentioned in the relevant passages in close relationship to the verba dicendi ¢u(e)k- “to conjure” and malt- “to recite” it is obvious that the object was considered by the Hittites to have a certain cultic importance: GIS
1) KUB 57.84 III 6'-8' // VBoT 130:3': kuitman GIS¢alpùtius / ¢as¢askanzi apùs=a=san / ¢ukkiskanzi “While they shape / plane the ¢alpùti-objects, they also conjure over them.” 2) KBo 25.112 II 14'-15': LUGAL-us=za suppiࢢati ANA [¢al]pùti màn¢and[a] / màldi kè=a QÀTAMMA “The king purifies himself. A[s] he recites to the [¢al]pùti-object, so also (he repeats) these in the same way;” cf. the parallel text KUB 28.75 II 24: ¢AÜNA GIS ¢al ¢pÜùti màn¢anda õmàÕ[ldi . . .]. 3) KUB 51.54 rev.? 11'-13': [m]àn GIS¢alputin [. . .] / [. . .] GIS¢alputi dài [. . .] / [nu? ki]san maldi “[W]hen he [. . .s] the ¢alputiobject (acc.), he places [. . . for] the ¢alputi-object. He recites [as fo]llows.” The verb ¢as¢as- “to shape, plane, polish” in regard to this object and mentioned in the occurrence 1 is noticed again, along with the profession LÚNAGAR “carpenter,” also in the following texts:
“Gegenstand aus Holz;” M. Forlanini, ZA 74 (1984) 255 (n. 40): “Fußschemel = GIS GÌR.GUB;” O. Soysal, JANER 4 (2004) 92 f.: “a deified wooden object in cult = Hitt. GISkalmus- ‘lituus.’” See furthermore the dictionary entries of GIS¢alm/putiin J. Tischler, HEG I (1983) 135; J. Puhvel, HED 3 (1991) 44; J. Friedrich— A. Kammenhuber, HW2 Lfg. 12 (1994) 79 f. 19 E. Laroche, RA 41 (1947) 77-78 (wrongly considers a connection with URU ›alpa;) idem, Rech. (1947) 73; idem, NH, 248; H. Klengel, JCS 19 (1965) 88, 92; A. Archi, SMEA 1 (1966) 115-117; H. Kronasser, EHS 1 (1966) 238, 324, 359; A. Kammenhuber in: HbOr (Altkleinasiatische Sprachen) 462; V. Haas, KN, 307 (w. n. 2); idem, ZA 78 (1988) 291 (n. 35); O. Carruba, Pal., 23-24; E. von Weiher, in: RlA 4 (1972-75) 63; M. Popko, Kultobjekte, 131, 134 (n. 8); E. Neu, StBoT 26, 46 (w. n. 232); M. Forlanini, ZA 74, 255 (w. n. 40); M. Nakamura, Nuntarriyas¢a (2002) 129; O. Soysal, JANER 4, 92-93 (w. n. 27); idem, HWHT, 143-144, 182, 277, 438, 520-521. 20 As generally regarded in the secondary literature cited in footnotes 18 and 19.
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4) 2076/g obv.17' [. . . URUZi¢n]uwas GIS¢alpùtin ¢as¢assanz[i] “They shape / plane the ¢alpùti-object of [the city Zi¢n]uwa.” (cited by M. Forlanini, ZA 74, 255 n. 40) 5) KUB 54.64 obv. 26'-27': [ . . . ¢as¢]assanzi LÚNAGAR.MES kuiès GIS ¢alputin / [. . .] “They [sha]pe / [pla]ne [. . .]. The carpenters who the ¢alputi-object [. . .].” On the phonetic level it is noteworthy that in this word a p ~ m interchange is taking place which is proper to Hattian,21 as we observe it between the variations GIS¢almuti in KBo 27.38:6' and GIS ¢alputi in the duplicate KUB 25.31 obv. 19. The spellings GIS¢almu-di-o and GIS¢al-mu-ti-o appear also in the newly edited fragments KBo 44.156:4' and KBo 53.209:4', 8' respectively. Another cult designation which can be clearly classified as a derivation (or extended form) of GIS¢alm/puti- is GIS¢alputili-. The relevant occurrences are cited here: 1) KUB 20.88 VI? 8'-10': (A list of sacrificial meats) GIS¢alpùtili / piran tìyanzi “They place in front of the ¢alpùtili-object.” 2) KUB 20.88 VI? 14'-15': n=at GIS¢alpùtili piran katta / ¢uisuwa=ssan UZU suppayas ser dài “In front of the ¢alpùtili-object he places them (= aforementioned bread loaves topped with liver) down on the top of raw meat.” 3) K U B 2 0 . 8 8 V I ? 1 6 ' - 1 7 ' : L Ú S A G I - a s D U G K U K Ù B K A S DUMU.LUGAL pài DUMU.LUGAL / GIS¢alpùtili piran 3-SU sippanti “The cupbearer gives a beer-pitcher (to) the prince. The prince performs libations in front of the ¢alpùtili-object three times.” 4) KUB 44.32:18'-19': n=an=kan GIS¢alput[ili piran? . . .] / anda is¢iyanz[i] “They bin[d] it (= a sacrificial animal?; cf. GU4.MA›.›I.A ibid. 20') [in front of ?] the ¢alput[ili]-object on [ a . . .].” 5) KUB 54.64 obv. 20'-21': (The men of Nerik shout for joy) [. . .] LÚ.MES aras LÚ.MESari GIS¢alputel ¢alzi ¢yÜan ¢zÜi “Colleagues call each other ‘¢alputel !’” According to the examples 1-3 GIS¢alputili- denotes an object in front of which various offerings of meat and bread are situated and libations with cult beverages take place; all these fully confirm the sacred status of GIS¢alputili-, but do not prove if it is a direct receiver 21
O. Carruba, Pal., 23, 24.
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of those offerings. Example 5 provides additional information that this designation is spoken perhaps as a salutation between colleagues in certain cult ceremonies. The same word appears also in the hypostatic character as d ›alm/putili- whose attestations are compiled by B. H. L. van Gessel, Onomasticon I 79 f.: 1) KUB 12.4 IV 7: màn=kan d›alputilis suppai
sarà paizz[i] “When (the cult image of) ›alputili travel[s] up to the holy .” 2) KUB 55.5 rev.? IV 4', KUB 25.27 III 9 and IBoT 2.8 IV? 4': lukkatti=ma=kan d›alputilis paizzi “On the next day (the cult image of) ›alputili travels.” (more on this text see below) 3) KBo 20.101 rev.? 9'-10': d›àsgalàn d›alpùtilin TUS-as / ISTU GAL ekuzi “He, seated, honors ›àsgalà and ›alpùtili by cult drinking from a cup.” 4) IBoT 2.82 I ? 9'-10': [. . . ¢upp]aran ? PÀNI d›alputili / [. . . LÚ.M ES ] NAR aku¢wÜanzi “They [place? a ¢upp]ara-[vessel] before ›alputili, [and the] singers drink [that cult beverage?].” 5) In broken and inconclusive context KUB 56.51 II 6-7: ANA d ›almutil¢i=kan xÜ [. . .] / EZEN.ITU UL [. . .] (deity name appears here with -m-spelling). As for as the word formation is concerned, GIS/d›alputili- is clearly not a Hittite adjective in -ili in the sense of “(one) pertaining to GIS ¢alm/puti-,” but rather displays the Hittitized form of Hattian ¢alwuuttel and (ka=)¢alwuuzzel (compare the Hittite spelling GIS¢alputel ) which are marked with masculine gender in -l. In Hattian, with the addition of the suffix -l the noun is possibly transformed from the inanimate class into the animate one. The Hittite word, on the other hand, additionally has the theme vowel -i conditioned by the nominal inflexion in this language. Outside of the festival descriptions mentioned above, the HattianHittite bilingual composition KBo 37.9+ (// KUB 28.1) is the only other document where d›alputili- is attested. The text has been extensively studied in JANER 4, 75-98. Accordingly, d›alputili- may possess another designation in Hattian, and the deity itself stands in close relationship with the throne goddess ›anwaasuit. The latter fact is an essential point for understanding the character and role of d›alputili-. The relevant consecutive sentences with their variations in the duplicate text read thus:
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¢anwaasuit [k]àtta¢ / nidu¢il [kà]tte (KBo 37.9+ obv. 11'-12') [d(›anwaasuit) k(à)]tta¢ dNidu¢el katti (KUB 28.1 IV 28"). The Hattian phrase is translated into Hittite as [d›almassuit22 MUNUS.LUGAL-as d›alp]utilis=ma LUGAL-us (KUB 28.1 IV 30"). Both nominal sentences are to be understood simply “›anwaasuit is the queen, Nidu¢el (Hitt. = ›alputili) is the king.” In JANER 4, 92 f., in regard to the divine beings in the passages above I have posited the following suggestions: ›alputili- may have been presented here in the hypostatic character and as an acting deity23 (. . .) Its counterpart in the Hattian passages appears as d Nidu¢el and Nidu¢il which is not attested anywhere else, and seems to be an isolated Hattian divine designation.24 It is striking that Nidu¢il / ›alputili in both languages of our composition, bears the title “king” (katti and LUGAL-us ) and accompanies the deified throne dais ›anwaasuit with the title katta¢ “queen” in the Hattian passage. The different sex of the divine characters becomes apparent in the suffixes of their Hattian designations as well: ›anwaasuit (with feminine suffix -t) against dNidu¢el / Nidu¢il (with masculine suffix -l ). I would like to assume that this divine pair represents together the royal symbols “throne” and “king’s crook, lituus” (Hitt. = GIS kalmus-). The previously mentioned divine pair the [Sun goddess?] “queen” [Estan?] and the Storm god [“king”] Taru could have some contextual link with the description here. Perhaps we may associate in these passages the conceptions of the divine rulership in heaven represented by the pair of [Estan]—Taru, and of the royal monarch on earth symbolized by the pair of ›anwasuit—Nidu¢el (= ›alputili). d
Although such a form (GIS)kalmus- has hitherto not been detected in the Hattian vocabulary, the occurrence of kal-mu-se-e[l?(-) . . .] in a Hattian context (KUB 34.93 obv.? 3')25 provides possible evidence for the origin of (GIS)kalmus-.26 If kalmuse[l] renders a complete word
22 Alternatively, the Hittitized form d›almassuiz or, due to space reasons, a shorter spelling like dDAG-iz is possible for a restoration. 23 As he gives orders together with his female partner ›anwa suit in regard to a their appointed priest in KUB 28.1 IV 28"-34" // KBo 37.9(+) obv. 11'-14'; see O. Soysal, JANER 4, 85, 96. 24 This can be a secondary name, or rather an epithet of ›alputili, as the Hattian Storm god Taru occasionally bears the designation dTaparwaasu “thousand plenty” instead of his real name; see O. Soysal, Anatolica 31 (2005) 196 w. n. 27. Indeed, the deified (Ka)¢alwuuzzel itself, the Hattian form of ›alputili, applies in some Hattian invocation passages various attributes like ¢aliyanna and kastut[. . .] (or kastuw[a . . .]); HWHT 277, 286, 433, 537. 25 HWHT 527. 26 For GISkalmus without any Hittite connection or Indo-European etymology, except for an unconvincing attempt by E. Laroche, in: FsBittel2 I (1983) 309, see:
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in this form, it could very well be the phonetic variation of the masculine formations ¢alwuuttel and (ka=)¢alwuuzzel (see above). This assumption would, of course, require a long orthographic transition covering the phonetic interchanges ¢ ~ k, m ~ wx and s ~ t ~ z, but all these phenomena are peculiar to Hattian.27 On the other hand, one may possibly consider kalmuse[l] also a Hittitized form since the word occurs not in a monolingual Hattian context, but in a cult song performed by the zintu¢i-women in Hittite times. There are plenty of text passages available where the royal insignia GIS kalmus “lituus” and GISDAG “throne” are attested together. The best-known phase for their co-appearance is compiled from numerous sources of festival descriptions with some slight textual variations:28 (DUMU.É.GAL) GADA-an (SA GISSUKUR.GUSKIN) LUGALi pài GISkalmus=ma=kan (// GISkalmus=ma=ssan katta) GISDAG-ti (ZAGaz / LUGAL-i ZAG-naz) dài “(The palace attendant) gives the cloth (of the golden spear) to the king, and he places the lituus (down) at the throne (to the right of the king).” Additionally, a rather obscure attestation [. . . GI]SDAG-ti ITTI GIS kalmusi dài in KBo 38.6 I 19' should be mentioned here. It is to be observed, however, that in these cases both objects seem not to be deified since there is no divine determinative applied to them. In support for the position in JANER 4, 93, that GISkalmus and GIS/d ›alputili are substantially or functionally related, we may refer also to the co-appearance of d›alputili and GIS/dDAG (= ›almasuit(ti)) “throne (dais)” in a festival description29 like the aforementioned case of GISkalmus and GISDAG:
H. Kronasser, EHS 1, 328; J. Tischler, HEG I 469; J. Puhvel, HED 4 (1997) 28-30. Additionally, cf. E. Neu, StBoT 18 (1974) 36; J. Siegelová, Annals of the Náprstek Museum 12 (1984) 142; G. Beckman, in: FsOtten2 (1988) 42-43 (w. n. 65); E. Rieken, StBoT 44 (1999) 211-212; H. A. Hoffner, JAOS 120 (2000) 70-71. The similar sounding bird designation kalmusi- in Hittite may possibly go back to GIS kalmus (thus, E. Laroche, ibid.), perhaps inspired by a remarkable, e.g. curved?, body shape of the animal. 27 HWHT 165, 166. 28 KBo 4.9 III 27, 29-31, KBo 27.42 I 4, 8-10, KBo 30.76 l. col. 6'-8', KBo 45.8 II 3'-5', KUB 10.3 I 23, 25-26, KUB 10.21 I 17, 18-20, KUB 20.69:4', 6'-7', KUB 25.16 I 7, 9-10, KUB 58.22 II 17', 19'-20', IBoT 3.59:2', 7'-9'. 29 Cf. A. Archi, SMEA 1, 115 and 116; J. Friedrich—A. Kammenhuber, HW2 Lfg. 12, 79; M. Nakamura, Nuntarriyas¢a, 51 f., 77.
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lukkatti=ma=kan d›alputilis paizzi / INA É.DINGIR-LIM=ma suppa warpùwar / LÚ.MESsalas¢us=ma=za GISDAG-tin / ISTU É-SUNU iyanzi “On the next day (the cult image of) ›alputili travels. In the temple (there) is sacred bathing. The salas¢a-men worship ›almasuitti (with offerings) from their house” (KUB 55.5 rev.? IV 4'-7' and IBoT 2.8 IV? 4'-5'), and similarly in: lukkatti=ma=kan d›alputilis paizzi / LÚ.MES salas¢i<s>=ma=za dDAG iyanzi (KUB 25.27 III 9-10). It is to be noticed here that both objects are deified by adding the divine determinative. Taking all above information in account, the following comparative observations on GIS kalmus, GIS ¢alm/puti-, GIS ¢alputili- and d ›alm/putili- can be stated: GIS
kalmus “(king’s) crook, lituus” appears in the cult ceremonies as an object mainly associated with the presence of the Hittite king, where it is being used or manipulated various ways. Thus, it is a mobile implement: it is carried, placed somewhere, held in the hand, and gets handed over to the king. GIS 2) ¢alm/puti- seems to be some sort of wooden icon or idol. We are told that it is shaped or planed by the carpenters, but there is no textual indication about its use in cult ceremonies unlikely as GISkalmus. In contrast to GISkalmus it is also an addressee of conjurations and recitations. In KUB 28.75 II 1 (Hittite passage) it is mentioned first GIS¢alpùti (sg. d.-l.), but in the following lines II 3, 4 (Hattian passage) the divinity (Ka)¢alwuuzzel is being praised. Nevertheless, this case does not mean the exact identity of both sacred individuals since a deity can be spoken to, or called upon by means of its cultic symbol, and the wooden object GIS¢alputi- is obviously serving this function here. 3) The name of GIS¢alputili- is chiefly involved in offering and libation scenes which is not the case with GIS¢alm/puti-. d 4) ›alm/putili- is personified as a masculine deity who is acting by himself (see above and n. 23) as he also travels up to the holy place. With this “travel” one should understand, of course, that the image or symbol of the god is in reality being carried by the cult personnel. Finally, d›alm/putili- appears to be subject of “cult drinking,” thus he is honored as a regular god like others in the Hittite pantheon. 1)
The combination of these cult elements and their designations with the related Hattian forms may yield the following conclusions:
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1) Hattian feminine and also inanimate? (ka=)¢alputti → Hittitized as GIS¢alm/puti- “icon of lituus” → and further also as GISkalmus “crook, lituus (as tool).” 2a) Hattian masculine and also animate? ¢alwuutte(l), (ka=)¢alwuuzzel → Hittitized as GIS¢alputel, GIS¢alm/putili- → and also as kalmusel → 2b) further personified and deified as ›alwuutt/zzel30 → Hittitized as d›alm/putili “deified lituus (or its divinity)” who is the male partner of d›almassuit “deified throne (or its divinity)” as presented in KBo 37.9+ // KUB 28.1. Summarizing, a precise differentiation between these cult designations can be made: Hittite GISkalmus should stand closer to GIS¢alputithan to masculine GIS¢alputili- and deified d›alputili (Hatt. ¢alwuuttel and (ka=)¢alwuuzzel for which we possibly have the Hittitized? form kalmusel ). On the philological level there is no difficulty for the acceptance of GIS¢alm/puti- and GISkalmus as words stemming from the same Hattian root; but semantically they do neither alternate nor replace each other in Hittite documents, and materially they appear not to have the same functions. Thus, one may see in GIS kalmus a certain “Hittitization” not only for designation of the tool GIS¢alm/puti- in a narrow sense and on the phonetic level, but also for its cult functions as it may have changed during the centuries due to Hittite religious traditions and ceremonial customs. Additional Abbreviations Used A Companion: A Companion to the Ancient Near East. Edited by D. C. Snell (Oxford [2005]). Die Indogermanistik und ihre Anrainer: Die Indogermanistik und ihre Anrainer. Dritte Tagung der Vergleichenden Sprachwissenschaftler der Neuen Länder. Stattgehabt an der Ernst-Moritz-Arndt-Universität zu Greifswald in Pommern am 19. und 20. Mai 2000. Herausgegeben von T. Poschenrieder (Innsbruck [2004]). Fs Belkıs and Ali Dinçol: Vita. Belkıs Dinçol ve Ali Dinçol’a Arma
30 Compare the Hattian phrase *¢alwu ttel as¢àw=i “›alwu ttel is? god” in KUB u u 28.83 obv. 4'; HWHT 438, 579 (with previous bibl.).
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Onomasticon: B. H. L. van Gessel, Onomasticon of the Hittite Pantheon. Part I, II, III. HdO, Sec. 1, Vol. 33 (Leiden, New York / Boston and Köln [1998, 2001]). Priests and Officials: Priests and Officials in the Ancient Near East. Papers of the Second Colloquium on the Ancient Near East—The City and its Life held at the Middle Eastern Culture Center in Japan (Mitaka, Tokyo) March 2224, 1996. Edited by K. Watanabe (Heidelberg [1999]).
APPENDIX HATTIAN ORIGINS OF HITTITE RELIGIOUS CONCEPTS: THE SYNTAX OF ‘TO DRINK (TO) A DEITY’ (AGAIN) AND OTHER PHRASES PETRA M. GOEDEGEBUURE In the preceding pages O
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JANER 8.1
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eku- “to drink” would be the one in which the liquid or its container is in the accusative, and the recipient or beneficiary in the dative (“I am drinking (a glass of) wine to your health”). But as Soysal has shown, in Hittite the construction with the dative is extremely rare, and moreover, in each case the verb eku- is used absolutively (i.e., without accusative-object), see for example (1a, Soysal IX 4)) and (1b, Soysal IX 1)): 1a nu ANA dUTU ekuzzi[ “He drinks to the Sundeity (dat.).” KBo 21.36: 4' (MS, ritual fragment, CTH 470). 1b EGIR-ma ANA dIS KUR ekuzi nu tem[i] “Afterwards he drinks to the Weathergod (dat.), and I sa[y]” KUB 34.77 obv.? 8' (NS, ritual fragment, CTH 470). Otherwise, only the vessel is mentioned, but in that case the vessel is always accompanied by the deity in the genitive case, thus identifying the beneficiary of the action:4 2 § 34 LUGAL-us MUNUS.[LU]GAL-s=a esanda GAL dUTU d Mezz[u]lla asandas 35 akuanzi “The king and queen sit down. They drink the cup (acc.) of the Sungoddess (and) Mezzulla while seated.” KBo 17.74 ii 34-35 (OH/OS or MS, thunderstorm ritual, CTH 631).5 However, the overwhelming majority of drinking to a deity is expressed with the deity in the accusative. In most cases the container is omitted (see for example 3 = Soysal I 3)), but there are also numerous cases in which we find a complete construction with the container in the instrumental (4a = Soysal VI 3)) or instrumental ablative (4b):6 3 [LUGAL-us MUNUS.LU]GAL-ass=a TUS-as dZuliyan akuanzi “The king and queen drink (to) Zuliya (acc.) while seated.” KBo 20.5 rev.! 9' (OS, KI.LAM festival, CTH 627).7 4a [L]UGAL-us MUNUS.LUGAL-ass=a GUB-as àssuzerit 19 dIsstanu d Palatappinu akuanzi “The king and the queen drink (to) the Sun-goddess ‘and her child’ (acc.) with a fine cup (instr.) 4 For more examples see A. Archi in A. Kammenhuber, Materialien zu einem hethitischen Thesaurus, Lieferung 5, Nr. 5 eku-/aku- (Heidelberg: Carl Winter 1976): 121ff. 5 Ed. Erich Neu, Ein althethitisches Gewitterritual, StBoT 12 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1970): 20f. 6 See for example the lists in A. Archi, Materialien 5, Nr. 5: 136f., 139, 142. 7 Translit. Itamar Singer, The Hittite KI.LAM Festival. Part II, StBoT 28 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1984): 36.
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while standing.” KBo 20.67 i 18'-19' (OH/MS, festival of the month, CTH 591).8 S hùmantes GAL-az 20 1=SU 4b LUGAL-us GUB-as DINGIR.MES ekuzi “The king, while standing, drinks once (to) all the gods (acc.) with a cup (abl.).” KUB 2.13 vi 19-20 (OH/NS, festival of the month, CTH 591).9 The alternation of a dative with an accusative to indicate the recipient or beneficiary of the action is not only attested with eku-, but also with wahnu- “to whirl” and sipant- “to libate, offer”:10, 11 5a [u]g=a=smas=san ÉRIN.MES-an sè[(r)] 3=SU wahnùmi “But I whirl the soldier over them (dat.) three times.” KBo 17.1 ii 17'-18', w. dupl. KBo 17.6 ii 11' (both OS, ritual for king and queen, CTH 416).12 5b nu marn[(uan KAS.LÀL)] GESTIN-an ANA dUTU sipanti “He libates marnuan-drink, honey-beer (and) wine to the Sungod (dat.).” VBoT 58 rev. iv 42-43 (OH/NS, ritual part of the myth of the disappearance of the Sungod, CTH 323), w. dupl. KUB 53.20 iv 16' (OH/MS).13 6a “He falls down on the bedroll,” [(n=an LÚ dU-as MÁS.GALza 3)]=SU wahnuzzi “and the man of the Stormgod whirls (over) him (acc.) three times with a billy-goat.” KUB 28.82 i 7' (both OH/NS, Hutusi’s ritual, CTH 732), w. dupl. KBo 13.106 i 7 (OH/NS).
8 Ed. Jörg Klinger. Untersuchungen zur Rekonstruktion der hattischen Kultschicht. StBoT 37 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1996): 304f.; Daisuke Yoshida, Untersuchungen zu den Sonnengottheiten bei den Hethitern. Schwurgötterliste, helfende Gottheit, Feste, THeth 22 (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag C. Winter, 1996): 179. 9 Ed. Klinger, StBoT 37: 568f. 10 This construction with sipant- was already recognized by C.W. Carter, o.c., 449, and Heiner Eichner, o.c., 66. 11 There may very well be other verbs with optional dative or accusative marking of the recipient or beneficiary, but a study of this phenomenon lies outside the scope of this note. For more examples of wahnu- and sipant- and a thorough discussion of the syntactic transformations involved, see Melchert JIES 9 (1981): 247ff. 12 Ed. Heinrich Otten and Vladimir Soucek, Ein althethitisches Ritual für das Königspaar, StBoT 8 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz 1969): 26-27; translit. Erich Neu, Althethitische Ritualtexte im Umschrift, StBoT 25 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz 1980): 7. 13 Ed. Detlev Groddek, “Die rituelle Behandlung des verschwundenen Sonnengottes (CTH 323),” in Silva Anatolica. Anatolian Studies Presented to Maciej Popko on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday, ed. Piotr Taracha (Warsaw: Agade, 2002), 122, 125.
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6b DUMU.LUGAL=ma=kan É-ri 27' [anda dK]atahhin URUZippalantel d Kashala (dupl. [Kashal]an) 28' [(12=SU sipa)]nti “But [inside] (his) house the prince offers (to) [K]atahhi (acc.) (and) Kasshala of Zippalanta twelve times.” IBoT 1.29 rev. 26-28 (MH?/MS?, festival of procreation, CTH 633),14 w. dupl. KBo 45.51 v 1-3 (NS). Even though all three verbs show both constructions, the distribution of these constructions is not the same. Whereas the use of the dative and the accusative with wahnu- and sipant- is of the same order, eku- “to drink” with a god in the dative is extremely rare, as mentioned above (Soysal’s category IX, with only four attestations). As Soysal already observed, the overwhelming majority of phrases with a god in the accusative is the likely result of interference from Hattian. In that language the recipient of the drinking, the god, either carried the dative marker -n or showed lengthening of the final vowel. It therefore seems likely, in view of the strong influence of Hattian religion in the Old Hittite kingdom, that the formal similarity between the Hattian dative marker and the Hittite accusative marker caused the near-extinction of the Hittite phrase with the dative. Even though her interpretation of the phrase was different,15 Kammenhuber already observed that the concept of ‘god-drinking’ probably originated with the Hattian population. This has not been claimed about the acts of whirling some object over a person or entity or libating to some deity or deified object: libation to deities is a cross-cultural phenomenon, and I assume that whirling something over someone is not restricted to Hattian culture either. Hattian linguistic interference is therefore not expected, at least not to the extent as with the Hattian concept of ‘drinking (to) a deity’. This might explain why the recipient or beneficiary of the verbs wahnu- and sipant- remained to be expressed in the dative case besides the accusative. The Hittite phrase “to drink (to) a deity” always occurs in the descriptive parts of ritual texts. Up to this date there are no such descriptions in Hattian, even though all Old Hittite recitations such
14
Ed. Yoshida, THeth 22: 105. Annelies Kammenhuber, “Hethitisch hassus 2-e ekuzi ‘Der König trinkt zwei’,” SMEA 14 (1971): 152-153. The concept of ‘god-drinking’ should be understood as a libation (“Der Sache nach handelt es sich um eine Libation des Königs oder des Königs und der Königin,”, o.c., 152). 15
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as invocations, incantations, myths and prayers were mainly conducted in Hattian. But perhaps we may conclude from the influence of this Hattian morphological feature on a Hittite syntactic construction that there was a stage in which also the ritual descriptions were expressed in Hattian. Klinger16 already proposed something similar with respect to the scribal error dPala(-)tappinu in KBo 20.67 i 19' (4a repeated here): 7 [L]UGAL-us MUNUS.LUGAL-ass=a GUB-as àssuzerit dIstanu d Palatappinu akuanzi “The king and queen drink Istanu “and her child” / “and” Tappinu) with a fine cup while standing.” KBo 20.67 i 18'-19' (OH/MS, festival of the month, CTH 591). The ‘name’ Palatappinu does not represent a real deity, but is an error of translation and has to be analyzed as the Hattian coordinator pala “and”, and either the possessive prefix ta- “her”17 and the substantive pinu “child”,18 both Hattian as well, or the deity Tappinu.19 Either way, the sequence dIstanu dPalatappinu stands for d UTU and dMezzulla, i.e., the Sungoddess and her daughter Mezzulla.20 As O
Klinger, StBoT 37: 28 fn. 70, p. 330. See Klinger, StBoT 37: 683 and O
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In addition to the scribal mis- or reinterpretations of the three Hattian phrases just discussed, Soysal’s analysis of the Hattian origins of the expression d(DN) eku- “to drink a deity” now provides further proof that Hittite prescriptive religious texts are based on Hattian compositions. Whether these compositions were transmitted orally or in writing before being translated into Hittite, we are not yet in a position to decide. Additional Abbreviations JIES = Journal of Indo-European Studies. HWHT = Soysal, O
Bibliography Archi, Alfonso and Annelies Kammenhuber. Materialien zu einem hethitischen Thesaurus, Lieferung 5, Nr. 5 eku-/aku- (Heidelberg: Carl Winter 1976). Carruba, Onofrio. Das Beschwörungsritual für die Göttin Wisurijanza. StBoT 2. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1966. Carter, C.W. Review of Johannes Friedrich, Hethitisches Wörterbuch. Zweites Ergänzungsheft, Oriens 15 (1962): 449-450. Eichner, Heiner. “Indogermanische Chronik 24a. Anatolisch.” Die Sprache 24.1 (1978): 61-70. Friedrich, Johann and Annelies Kammenhuber. Hethitisches Wörterbuch. Zweite, völlig neu bearbeitete Auflage auf der Grundlage der edierten hethitischen Texte. Band II: E. Heidelberg, 1988. Gessel, Ben H.L. van. Onomasticon of the Hittite Pantheon, Part 1. HdO 33. Leiden– New York–Köln: Brill, 1998. Groddek, Detlev. “Die rituelle Behandlung des verschwundenen Sonnengottes (CTH 323).” In Silva Anatolica. Anatolian Studies Presented to Maciej Popko on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday, ed. Piotr Taracha, 119-131. Warsaw: Agade, 2002. Kammenhuber, Annelies. “Hethitisch hassus 2-e ekuzi ‘Der König trinkt zwei’.” SMEA 14 (1971): 143-159. Klinger, Jörg. Untersuchungen zur Rekonstruktion der hattischen Kultschicht. StBoT 37. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1996. Laroche, Emmanuel. Catalogue des textes hittites. Paris: Éditions Klincksieck, 1971. ———. “Études de linguistique anatolienne.” RHA 31 (1973): 83-99. Melchert, Craig. “ ‘God-Drinking’: a Syntactic Transformation in Hittite.” JIES 9 (1981): 245-254. Neu, Erich. Ein althethitisches Gewitterritual. StBoT 12. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1970. ———. Althethitische Ritualtexte im Umschrift. StBoT 25. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1980. Otten, Heinrich and Vladimir Soucek. Ein althethitisches Ritual für das Königspaar. StBoT 8. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1969.
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Puhvel, Jaan. “On an alleged eucharistic expression in Hittite rituals.” MIO 5 (1957): 31-33. Singer, Itamar. The Hittite KI.LAM Festival. Part II. StBoT 28. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1984. Soysal, O
EARLY MESOPOTAMIAN ASTRAL SCIENCE AND DIVINATION IN THE MYTH OF INANA AND SUKALETUDA1 JEFFREY L. COOLEY Abstract The Sumerian tale of Inana and Shukaletuda recounts how the goddess Inana is raped by a homely gardener upon whom she seeks and ultimately finds revenge. Though this general plot has long been understood, certain elements of the story have remained largely unexplored. Previous scholarship has often suggested that within Inana and Shukaletuda, the goddess Inana is often described in her astral manifestation (e.g. S. Kramer 1961, 117; K. Volk 1995, 177-179 and 182-183; B. Alster 1999, 687; J. Cooper 2001, 142-144). Nevertheless, to date there has been no systematic treatment of this assumption and this study seeks to fill this gap. It is my thesis that certain events of the story (i.e. Inana’s movements) can be related to a series of observable celestial phenomena, specifically the synodic activity of the planet Venus. This also explains the heretofore enigmatic climax of the story, in which Inana crosses the entire sky in order to finally locate her attacker, as a celestial miracle required by the planet Venus’ peculiar celestial limitations. Furthermore, since in ancient Iraq the observation of astronomical phenomena was often done for the purpose of celestial divination, I suggest that certain events within the story may be illuminated if situated within that undertaking.
Introduction Finding and explicating celestial content in the mythology of ancient Iraq has traditionally been a troublesome undertaking. As was the case in other ancient pantheons, many of the gods of Mesopotamia
1 I wish to offer my sincere thanks to Jerrold Cooper for properly introducing me to this fascinating myth and, moreover, for his outstanding advice and generous encouragement on this project. I would also like to express my gratitude to Piotr Michalowski and Christopher Woods for their insightful critical comments. Naturally, I am responsible for the contents, including any errors. Throughout this article, translations and transliterations of Sumerian texts follow various editions (e.g. Volk 1995, Edzard 1997, etc.), while references and citations of Sumerian texts follow ETCSL (http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/). Abbreviations follow the CAD unless otherwise noted.
© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2008 Also available online – www.brill.nl
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had both celestial as well as mundane manifestations. At the beginning of modern Assyriology, this ambiguity led to a remarkable amount of creative speculation regarding the celestial underpinnings of Mesopotamian myth among scholars of the Pan-babylonianist school. The journey of the hero in the Gilgamesh Epic, for example, was understood as a mytho-poetic metaphor for the sun’s journey through the signs of the zodiac.2 Such imaginative interpretations were the result, in large part, of radically inaccurate reconstructions of the history and antiquity of Mesopotamian celestial sciences. Since the Pan-Babylonianists’ astral approaches were shown to be faulty,3 scholars, by and large, have warily avoided interpreting Mesopotamian literature in such a manner. Nevertheless, it is clear that many Mesopotamian myths have considerable astral content. One of these myths is the Sumerian story of Inana and Sukaletuda. The story of Inana and Sukaletuda begins with a brief, hymnic introduction, which praises Inana (1-41). In this prologue the goddess is described as departing from the sky and the earth, arriving in the mountains to dispense justice. Following the prologue is a diversionary tale involving Enki and a raven (42-88). This story, whose relation with the rest of Inana and Sukaletuda is a bit problematic, relates how Enki commissioned a raven to undertake various agricultural chores, such as watering a field with a shadouf and cultivating a plant which will become the very first palm tree. After this diversion, the story proper begins. We are introduced to a gardener named Sukaletuda who is perfectly wretched at his task (91-96). Virtually all the plants in the garden plots for which he is responsible are uprooted or die under his care, with the notable exception of a broad, shade-providing poplar tree. Lamenting his obvious agricultural inadequacies and partially blinded by a storm, he looks to the gods in the sky for solace and perhaps guidance (97-102). There he sees Inana, who is thoroughly exhausted by her many travels (103-115). The goddess spots the inviting poplar tree in one of the plots in Sukaletuda’s care, and she decides to rest her weary eyes beneath its welcoming branches (116). Sukaletuda is amazed at the goddess’ presence in his very own garden. While she is sleeping he removes her divine garments, and has intercourse with her in some sort of darkly comedic parody of the hieros gamos
2 3
Jensen 1906, 77-116. See, enjoyably, Kugler 1910.
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(117-125). When Inana wakes up, she senses immediately that something has happened. She inspects herself and determines that she has been violated (126-127). Infuriated, she sets out to determine who has perpetrated this horrendous crime. In her wrath, Inana strikes the land with a series of plagues, designed to punish and force the country into revealing the person responsible for the heinous act. She first turns the water in the wells of the land to blood, so that it is unfit for consumption, but this fails to reveal her attacker (129-136). Witnessing the fury of the wronged goddess spilled out over the land and aware that her net is slowly hemming him in, Sukaletuda goes to his father for advice, recounting the events of the story up to that point (137176). His father tells him to hide within the city, were he will disappear among the teeming throng of humanity and the goddess will be unable to find him (177-184). This is an effective strategy: Inana searches for him in the mountains and is unable to locate him. Inana is not deterred by her failure and she sets a second plague in the land—this time it is a vicious cluster of storms (185191). Once again, the collective punishment fails to expose her attacker (192-193). Sukaletuda again recounts the situation to his father, who gives the same advice he did previously, to hide in the city (194-210). Once again, Inana is unable to find him by searching in the mountains (211-213). So the goddess plagues the land a third time, in this instance blocking the roads so that all traffic comes to a standstill, but this too falls short of producing the culprit (214-220). For a third time, Sukaletuda relates these events to his father, who yet again advises him to vanish in the anonymous masses of the city (221-235), and the goddess, again looking in the wrong place, is unable to find him in the mountains (236-238). Reminding herself of the wrong committed against her and frustrated with the failure of her previous attempts, Inana travels to the city of Eridu, where she descends into the apsu to seek aid from the ever-wise Enki (239-245). Threatening permanent absence from her own sanctuary, the E-ana temple in Uruk, she demands to be allowed to bring her attacker to justice (246-249). Enki consents (250) and Inana spans across the entire sky like a rainbow and, with this spy-satellite-like purview, finally locates the terrified gardener (251-255). Sukaletuda attempts to explain himself and his actions to Inana, by detailing the events that led up to his wicked offence (256-289). Not surprisingly, she is utterly unmoved and she sets his fate. He is to die, though his name will live on in the musical
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whimsy of the palace and pasture, in songs sung by court bards and lonely shepherds (296-310). Since a critical edition of the complete text was not accomplished until 1995 by Konrad Volk,4 there has been very little in the way of comprehensive interpretation of the story. The tale was first brought to light by Samuel Noah Kramer, whose initial publication primarily discussed the obvious parallels between the second plague in the story, in which the wells turn to blood, with the biblical account of the blood plague in Exod 7:14-24.5 Kramer returned to the text a number of times in the following decades, finally publishing a translation of a nearly completely reconstructed text in 1989.6 Claus Wilcke7 followed by Volk,8 both offered political interpretations of the myth which argued, among other things, that the story was an attempt to express the tensions between traditional Sumerian society and the rise of Akkadian power during the Sargonic Dynasty. For Bendt Alster, the story is what it is: a darkly amusing tale about a sorry gardener who rapes a goddess, almost gets away with it, who in the end dies but whose name lives on in song.9 Finally, Jerrold Cooper, in his critique of historical interpretations of Sumerian myth, suggested that the story is primarily astral in nature, though he does not exclude other mythological motifs.10 This study, obviously, builds on Cooper’s astute proposal. The primary divine character in the story is Inana, a divinity who is associated with the planet Venus.11 Previous scholarship on the text has recognized that Inana, at several points, is described in her astral manifestation.12 Kramer in particular understood Sukaletuda’s gazing into the sky after his garden fails to be an obvious act of celestial divination.13 It follows that not only is the description of Inana’s divinity astral, but also to some degree her actions and movements within the story might be related to her (i.e. Venus’)
4
For a more thorough history of scholarship, see Volk 1995, 9-14. Kramer 1949. 6 Kramer 1956, 66-70; 1981, 70-74; Bottéro and Kramer 1989, 257-271. 7 Wilcke 1973a, 62-63. 8 Volk 1995, 25-40. 9 Alster 1999, 687-688. See also Alster 1974, 30-32 in which he examines the myth, though cursorily, within a structuralist framework. 10 Cooper 2001, 142-144. 11 See Brown 2000, 67, as well as Litke 1998, 161 (IV 181). 12 Volk 1995, 177-179 and 182-183; Alster 1999, 687. 13 Kramer 1961, 117. 5
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actual celestial activities, an idea which Volk proposed, though did not explored fully.14 Furthermore, the interest the story places on celestial matters, specifically observing Inana, could indicate some sort of relationship not merely with general celestial observation, but rather with celestial divination in particular. This paper will explore, then, whether the Inana and Sukaletuda narrative can be illuminated by means of the Mesopotamian of celestial tradition. I understand that tradition in its broadest terms, including not only the methods and concepts of ancient Mesopotamian astronomy, but also that astronomy’s primary motivation—divination. Thus, I will proceed with two separate but related theses. The first is that certain events of the story (i.e. Inana’s movements) can be related to a specific series of observable celestial phenomena, specifically the synodic activity of the planet Venus. The second is that certain events within the story may be illuminated if situated within the tradition of Mesopotamian celestial divination. I do not hesitate to admit that both of these approaches are fraught with speculations and assumptions. A general caveat is that Mesopotamian astral myths are often difficult to identify with certainty, because, unlike the classical collections such as Hyginus’ Poeticon Astronomicon or the Katasterismoi of Pseudo-Eratosthenes, astral mythology from ancient Iraq was never assembled in a single collection in antiquity. So, though I believe the general theses of this study are valid, I consider the specifics to be tenuous by definition. Another consideration specific to Inana and Sukaletuda is that for the purposes of this study, I am not including the story of Enki and the Raven in the overall narrative arc. The main narrative and the subplot do have certain features in common, such as a general agricultural context, important trees, and roles for Enki. Both Enki and a raven can be associated with celestial features in later periods.15 But within the pericope in Inana and Sukaletuda, the raven’s activities are confined to the ground and a tree; it does not interact with either Inana or Sukaletuda. Furthermore, the connection between Enki’s minor, though crucial, later appearance in the narrative (245-250) to his first appearance is difficult to determine. If the crucial lines linking this passage with the introductory 14 This is a question proposed but left open by Volk 1995, 21, 39 (see especially note 249). 15 E.g. Hunger and Pingree 1989, (for Enki/Ea) I ii 19-20, 26-27, II ii 7, (for the Raven) I ii 9, I iii 20, II B 3.
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hymn (23-38, 41-46) had been better preserved the connection would no doubt have been clearer. For my purposes here, since the subplot has no effect on Inana’s movements in the story, the larger narrative can be analyzed without it.16 Inana and Sukaletuda and Venus Phenomena Many scholars accept that the related Sumerian tale of Inana’s Descent to the Underworld at least in part describes the setting of the planet Venus in the west followed by her journey through the underworld and eventual rising in the east.17 There is, therefore, precedent for astral aspects in the interpretation of Sumerian Inana mythology. Assuming the association of Inana with the planet Venus within Inana and Sukaletuda, the goddess’ movements within this story also should be the peculiar movements of Venus. The planet, which is the second brightest object in the night sky, is erratic in comparison to the stars and most of the other planets due to its inferior positioning between the earth and the sun. To earthly observers, most other celestial bodies rise in the east and move across the dome of the sky until they set on the western horizon. When Venus, on the other hand, rises in the east just before sunrise (G), it never visibly crosses the entire sky. Each night, the time interval between the planet’s rising and sunrise increases because the planet’s distance from the sun increases. The length of its nightly visibility increases commensurately. But the planet never really escapes from the horizon (no more than 46 degrees from the sun), at one point becoming stationary, after which the time interval between its rising and the sun’s decreases, until it seems to disappear from the eastern horizon (S), whence it came. During this period of visibility, it can be seen nightly before sunrise for about eight months. Because it moves behind the sun (i.e. superior conjunction), it is subsequently not visible in the sky at all for around eighty days. Venus then reappears, but this time on the western horizon just
16 I will not speculate here as to the origin of the Enki and the Raven story or its role in the overall narrative. For this, perhaps, see Volk 1995, 29 (especially note 171), 37. 17 See, for example, Wilcke 1976, 83; Hostetter 1979; Heimpel 1982, 59; Volk 1995, 21. Cf. Buccellati 1982, who takes a myth-and-ritual approach to Inana’s Descent.
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after sunset (J). Its western movements are similar to those in the east. Venus is visible after sunset for about eight months in the west as well, again no more than 46 degrees from the sun, at one point becoming stationary and returning to the western horizon (V). This second period of invisibility, which is due to Venus’ passing in front of the sun (i.e. inferior conjunction) can last anywhere from three days (in the winter) to over two weeks (in the summer). Venus then rises again in the east (G) before sunrise and the whole cycle, which lasts 584 days, begins again (= synodic interval). Furthermore, after five repetitions (about eight years) this cycle starts at about the same time of the year (= characteristic period). It is crucial to remember that, unlike the stars, Jupiter, Saturn or Mars, Venus never appears high overhead. Venus’ movements are indeed odd, and it takes some cultures time to come to the realization that the eastern and western manifestations are in fact the same celestial body. The Greeks, for example, originally identified the morning and evening stars with two separate deities, Phosphoros and Hesporos respectively. In Mesopotamia, it seems that this was recognized prehistorically. Assuming its authenticity, a cylinder seal from the Erlenmeyer collection attests to this knowledge in southern Iraq as early as the Late Uruk/ Jemdet Nasr Period,18 as do the archaic texts of the period.19 Thus, the understanding that the morning and evening appearances of Venus are the same celestial body dates at least to the beginning of the fourth millennium.20 Whether or not one accepts the seal as authentic, the fact that there is no epithetical distinction between the morning and evening appearances of Venus in any later Mesopotamian literature attests to a very, very early recognition of the phenomenon.
18 Nissen et al. 1993, figure 18. Depicted on the seal is a bull over which are three stars (or DINGIR signs). In front of this (or behind) is Inana’s characteristic reed bundle, grouped together with several signs, including: EZEN, ‘festival’; UTU, ‘sun, i.e. morning; SIG (Akk. saplu), ‘lower, western; i.e. evening’; DINGIR which is taken as representing simply a star, normally MUL (written as three DINGIR signs). The whole group seems to indicate ‘the festival of the morning and evening Inana/Venus’ (Nissen et al. 1993, 17; see also briefly Brown 2000, 246). 19 For the festivals of Inana as evening and morning stars in archaic texts, see Green 1980, note 34, Szarzynska 1997, 115-153, and Englund 1998, 127. 20 Contra Kurtik 1999, places the identification of Inana with the planet Venus in the mid-third millennium.
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It is less certain, however, when an understanding of the specificities of Venus’ movements were realized. Most likely originating in the Old Babylonian Period, the so-called Venus Tablets of Ammißaduqa describe not only Venus’ synodic 584-day cycle, but also the eightyear characteristic period.21 If the observations on which the Venus Tablets are based do indeed date to the Old Babylonian Period, then certainly we can assume some knowledge of Venus’ synodic period before these long-term sightings were made and recorded. Since the requisite knowledge of Venus’ movements was probably in place at the time Inana and Sukaletuda was composed, it does appear as if Inana’s movements within the story could be related to regular Venus phenomena, specifically referring to Venus’ celestial movements over a single synodic period.22 In the introductory hymn to Inana, the goddess is described as departing the sky and the earth in order to head to the kur: 15 16
u4-ba [. . . ]-e an mu-un-sub ki mu-un-sub kur-ra ba-e-a-il2 d inana-[ke4] [an m]u-un-sub ki mu-un-sub kur-ra ba-e-a-il2
Then the . . . . . . left heaven, left the earth and climbed up into the kur. Inana left heaven, left the earth and climbed up into the mountains.23
Inana’s departure from the sky and the earth (i.e. places where she would be visible) and her entering the kur, must be understood as a setting. If kur is to be understood as ‘mountain’, from the perspective of the plains of southern Iraq, the mountains which Inana is climbing lie in the east. Thus, Inana’s movement here could be understood as her disappearance in the east (i.e. last visibility in the east, S). But the semantic spectrum of the term kur is quite wide, ranging from ‘mountain’ to simply ‘land’, and even ‘underworld’. Indeed, both the east and west are referred to in the story as kur (i.e. 101-102). Alster took kur in the passage to refer to the underworld in accordance with its usage in Inana’s Descent to the Underworld—in fact, 15-16 in Inana and Sukaletuda are nearly identical to 4-5 in that myth.24 Wilcke asserted that the term here is being used in parallel with the two locations Subir and Elam (113), both of which are mountainous from the perspective of southern 21
Reiner and Pingree 1975 (hereafter, BPO 1). Here, I diverge from Volk 1995, 21, who assumes that all of the events take place while Inana/Venus is visible. 23 Transliterations and translations of Inana and Sukaletuda follow Volk 1995. 24 Alster 1974, 30. For a full discussion of the parallels, see Volk 1995, 20-12, 142. 22
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Iraq.25 Volk further strengthened this understanding by noting that Inana is very clearly said to ‘ascend’ (il2 = elû)26 and ‘descend/ascend’ (e11 = waràdu, elû) the kur in Inana and Sukaletuda (4-5, 8, 15-18), as opposed to simply ‘descend/ascend’ (e11) as she does in Inana’s Descent to the Underworld (4-5).27 Such reciprocally vertical movements might seem to indicate actual mountains, but it is unclear whether the description of Inana’s movements in the introductory hymn (15-20) and those which take place at around the time Sukaletuda spots her (112-115) are referring to the same event. The text remains ambiguous. Nevertheless, as Cooper notes, regardless of how we understand kur in this passage, it is clear that Inana, though not necessarily entering the underworld or the mountains per se, is nevertheless leaving the sky and is no longer visible.28 Given the fact that her next appearance is probably in the east (see below), it seems likely that Inana’s movements in the prologue are describing the interval between her last appearance in the west (V) to just before her first eastern visibility (G). It is at this time that the story of Enki and the Raven is inserted. When the main story resumes, Sukaletuda, who has been working on his land, gets his first glimpse of the goddess: 101 [sig-se3 igi mu-un-il2 di§gir] un3-na kur utu e3-ke4-ne igi bi2-in-du8-ru 102 [nim-se3 igi mu-un-il2 di§gir un3]-na kur utu su2-ke4-ne igi bi2-in-du8-ru 103 [dgidim dili du-ra igi] mu-ni-[in-du8]
He looked down and saw the exalted gods of the land where the sun rises. He looked up and saw the exalted gods of the land where the sun sets.29 He saw a lone traveling ghost.
Here, Sukaletuda is scanning the heavens. Perhaps he is looking first to the east, where the sun rises, then to the west, where it
25
Wilcke 1973b. Normally, il2 is the equivalent of Akk. nasû, ‘to raise’, but in this context it seems to mean ‘ascend’. 27 Volk 1995, 20-21. 28 Cooper 2001, 143 note 58. 29 Volk 1995, 177 and Black et al. 2004, 200, take sig, ‘lower, below’, and nim, ‘upper, above’, as referring to ‘lowlands’ and ‘respectively’, with Volk arguing that one cannot raise look below to search for high gods (i.e. igi il2 = ìni nasû) downward (though Enki, presumably one of the high gods resides within the earth in the apsu!). Consequently, Volk understands the two pairs sig ↔ nim and kur ud e3 ↔ kur ud su2 in poetic opposition rather than assuming that the highlands are to the east and the lowlands are to the west. 26
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sets. But more likely, he is simply scrutinizing the entire sky. During this inspection, he sees what appears to be a gidim, ‘ghost’. It is Inana, who, with her eerie, ghost-like form, seems to be returning from the underworld.30 If the goddess is returning from the underworld, she must be in the process of rising. In the story, her appearance is described as a sign, perhaps an oracular one:31 104 [di§gir dili] du-ra [§giskim mu-ni-in-zu]
He recognised the lone travelling god and her sign.32
After seeing her in the sky, Sukaletuda is astounded to see her, tired from her journey, land in his field and lie down to rest under his own tree: 112 u4-¢ba nin-§gu10 anÜ mu-un-ni§gin2na-ta ki mu-un-ni§gin2-[na-t]a 113 dinana an mu-un-ni§gin2-na-ta ki mu-un-ni§gin2-n[a-]ta 114 ¢elamkiÜ su-bir4ki-a mu-un-ni§gin2na-ta 115 ¢duburÜ a[n] gi16-gi16-il-la mu-unni§gin2-na-ta 116 nu-gig kus2-a-ni-ta im-ma-te dur2-bi-se3 ba-nu2
Once, my lady had roamed the heaven, she roamed the earth, Inana roamed the heaven, roamed the earth, she roamed Elam and Subir, she roamed the stretching horizon of heaven, she became tired, she approached and at its roots she lay down.
Cooper suggests that since Inana is described as moving from Elam to Subir the text is actually describing Venus’ northward movement as it follows the sun between the winter and summer solstices.33 This would only take place after the winter solstice when the sun changes its course and begins its slow six-month journey to its northernmost point at the summer solstice. This could be the case, especially since Sukaletuda’s responsibilities include watering (a sig10; 93, 141, 263) and ‘building wells’ near the plants (pu2 ak; 94, 142, 264), both of which indicate summer activities. But there are few other seasonal indicators in the story. In any case, Elam and Subir lie east and north of southern Iraq, and so her brief appearance in the night sky (104) followed by her resting on earth 30
Volk 1995, 178-179. Cf. Inana’s Descent 78-84. The mantic significance is to be discussed below. 32 The idiom §giskim zu most obviously means ‘to recognise an omen’ (e.g. Sulgi C A 98; UET 6/2 234 [=Proverbs from Urim]; and Gudea A xii 11), but, §giskim also occurs in various idioms meaning ‘to recognise, identify’ (e.g. Nungal A 54; Lu-di§gira to his Mother 9, 21, 32, 40, 47, 53; Curse of Agade 216; Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld, 85, 207). 33 Cooper 2001, 143. 31
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(116) describe Venus’ brief celestial appearance before sunrise in the east (G) and her quick disappearance shortly after when the planet is lost in the light of dawn just before sunrise. Inana, as the story goes, spends some time on earth, sleeping under a poplar tree exhausted from her travels. The gardener sexually assaults the goddess in the brief period after she disappears in the light of dawn and when the sun actually rises. The goddess discovers this terrible fact after sunrise: 126 u4 im-zal dutu im-ta-¢e3-aÜ-[ra] 127 munus-e ni2-te-a-ni igi im-kar2-ka[r2] 128 ku3 dinana-ke4 ni2-te-a-ni igi im-kar2-kar2
When the day came and Utu had risen The woman carefully examined herself, Shining Inana carefully examined herself.
Enraged, Inana searches for Sukaletuda three times unsuccessfully. She searches for him in the mountains, but his father cleverly advises him to hide himself in the city, where he would disappear in the anonymous urban mass. The goddess consequently is unable to locate her attacker: 184 [munus-e sa3 kur-kur]-ra-ka nu-¢umÜ-ma-ni-in-[p]a3
The woman did not find him among the mountains.34
For her investigation, Inana searches the kur-kur, ‘lands, mountains’. As previously noted, the term kur is a broad one. It could simply be indicating the borders of the land in general, the eastern kur where the sun rises and the western kur, where it sets (as in 101-102)—the two places where astral Inana’s celestial activities are confined. The previous episodes in which Inana is said to have entered the kur in some way (4-5, 8, 15-18) were understood as periods of Venus’ invisibility. Here, however (181, 184, 210, 213, 235, 238) she is simply searching the mountains and is not necessarily entering them. Indeed, the second plague, which is comprised of a cluster of meteorological activities, assumes her presence in the sky. In these passages then, in which Inana searches for Sukaletuda and launches her series of plagues, the kur-kur might refer to actual mountains in the east over which the goddess is hovering. From there she is able to hunt for her attacker and instigate the plagues. If this is the case, the mountain searches and the three plague
34
Also 210, 235.
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episodes would be referring to Venus’ eight month period of visibility in the east (G to S). This is an appealing option, since, having failed in her attempts to bring her attacker to justice, Inana inspects herself yet again by the morning light (239-241). Previously (126-128) this temporal designation seemed to indicate her first visibility in the east just before sunrise (G). Now it seems to be indicating her last visibility in the east (S), also just before sunrise. Irritated by her inability to discover her attacker, Inana travels to Eridu, the home of the wise god Enki, for advice: 245 abzu ¢eridugÜki-¢gaÜ den-ki-ka3-se3 ku3 [dinana-k]e4? §giri3 im-ma-an-gu[b]
Pure Inana directed her steps to the apsu of Enki’s Eridu.
If she is visiting Enki in the apsu in Eridu, she must no longer be visible in the sky, since Eridu is, of course, an actual city and the apsu is Enki’s freshwater abode located within the earth. Following Inana’s appearance over the eastern mountains, this descent and consultation with Enki may refer to an 80-day period of invisibility (superior conjunction) following her disappearance in the east (S-J). But Inana’s visit to Enki is fairly brief in the narrative and it does not seem long enough to indicate the ca. 80-day absence from the sky that a superior conjunction necessitates. Perhaps she is simply visiting Enki during the day when she is always invisible. Enki agrees to Inana’s demands that she be allowed to locate the perpetrator. Inana departs Eridu and the apsu and, in an impossible celestial event, crosses the entire sky like rainbow: 251 [k]u3 dinana abzu eriduki-ta im-ma-da-ra-ta-e3 252 [n]i2-te-a-ni dtir-an-na-gim an-na ba-an-gi16-ib ki ba-da-an-us2 253 ¢ulu3? i3Ü-dib-be2 me-er i3-dib-be2
With that holy Inana rose from the apsu of Eridu. She stretched herself like a rainbow across the sky and reached thereby as far as the earth. She let the south wind pass across; she let the north wind pass across.
Inana’s path spans from east to west, such that both the north and south winds are able to cross it. Since it is not feasible for Inana as the planet Venus to cross the entire sky this must be understood as a miraculous event.35 Most translators reconstruct the lacuna in 255 to read: 35 A rainbow, of course, does not actually span the entire sky, and the simile could simply be referring to an arc-like movement of Venus which is other than
early mesopotamian astral science and divination 255 munus-e s[a3? kur-kur]-¢raÜ-ka im-ma-na-ni-in-pa3
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But the woman found him among the mountains.36
Alternatively, Jerrold Cooper suggests we reconstruct the line thusly: 255 munus-e s[a3? ki-en-gir]-ra-ka im-ma-na-ni-in-pa3
But the woman found him in the heart of [Sumer].37
Inana is able to move away from both horizons, which lie to the east and west of Sumer respectively and, with Enki’s help, position herself directly over the city-dense region in which the culprit is hiding. By describing Inana’s movements in such a manner, the ancient author has revealed his knowledge of the normal movements of the planet. In the context of the story, the wondrous phenomenon’s corresponding event within Venus’ synodic cycle is the planet’s eight month period of visibility in the west (J-V). Inana’s extraordinary ability to cross the entire sky becomes the fulcrum event in the story, a true deus ex machina, which allows the goddess to find her attacker. Thus, Sukaletuda can be brought to justice, his name can go down in song and legend, and the story can be resolved. Inana and Sukaletuda and Mesopotamian Celestial Divination Assuming the validity of correlating Inana’s actions within the story with the celestial movements of Venus leads us to a second interesting possibility. We know that the primary motivation for celestial observation in later periods of Mesopotamian history was celestial divination. In celestial divination the movements of the heavenly bodies, as well as other astral phenomena, were understood as preceding mundane events that had an impact on the entire land, rather than individuals.38 Could it be that Inana’s/Venus’ movements within the story relate to celestial divination in that they portend events which are to happen later in the story, such as the three plagues? her normal, horizon-bound motion. In that case, the novel movement is still to be considered miraculous within the context of the story. 36 Black et al., 2000, 204. But cf. Volk 1995, 132 (‘Die Frau hatte ihn [doch] innerhalb [aller Länder?] gefunden) and 206, who expresses his doubts regarding this restoration. 37 Personal communication. 38 In Sach’s terminology, this is judicial divination rather than personal. See Sachs 1952, 49-75.
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There are certain admitted difficulties with this, however. The first is that there are no known Sumerian celestial divination texts. There are, in fact, no known Sumerian divination texts in general. Nevertheless, the circumstantial textual evidence strongly indicates that celestial divination was indeed practiced before the Old Babylonian Period.39 Since there is no extant Sumerian celestial divination literature, we are then left to consult the later written tradition, epitomized in the celestial divination series Enùma Anu Enlil (EAE) as well as other supporting texts, such as the NeoAssyrian reports and letters which draw on that series.40 It will be granted that, if the earliest celestial divination traditions were oral,
39 While the titles of diviners are preserved in Sumerian professions lists (celestial diviners do not seem to be mentioned) and no less an individual than Sulgi of Ur claims to have been a skilled practitioner (Castellino 1972, Sulgi B 131149) it seems that these professionals operated without texts. (For mantic series before the Old Babylonian Period, see Michalowski 2006, 249; for a contrasting view, see Richardson 2007.) Koch-Westenholz 1995, 33, has questioned the likelihood of celestial divination before the Old Babylonian Period altogether. Nevertheless, the density of mantic references in Gudea Cylinder A would suggest otherwise (Edzard 1997, 69-88). The specific practices include dream interpretation (Gudea Cylinder A ii 1, III 26, iv 12) and extispicy (Gudea Cylinder A vii 16-17, xiii 16-17). In addition to these references, and more important for celestial divination, is Ningirsu’s response to Gudea’s request for a §giskim, ‘sign, omen’ (Gudea Cylinder A ix 9-10): Gudea, let me inform you of gu3-de2-a e2-§gu10 du3-da §giskim-bi ga-ra-ab-sum the sign for the construction of my house, let me tell you the bright star(s) §garza-§ga2 mul-an ku3-ba gu3 ga-mu-ra-a-de of heaven indicating my cultic rites.
Ningirsu’s sign cannot be a simple-to-interpret indicator, marking a propitious time or site for construction. Rather, §garza, ‘rite, ordinance, cultic regulation’, implies something more specific and elaborate requiring professional knowledge for its proper interpretation. The act, as indicated in this text, of observing the sky for signs and interpreting them for the proper service to the gods and the general well being of the land is nothing less than celestial divination in the Mesopotamian tradition. For a brief synthesis of pre-Old Babylonian astronomical materials, see Brown 2000, 246-247, as well as Rochberg 2006, 337-339. In addition to these references indicating human participation in celestial divination are the several references to a lapis lazuli star tablet that is consulted by the gods themselves in Sumerian texts. See Horowitz 1998, 166-168 for references. 40 For a discussion of Enùma Anu Enlil and bibliography see Rochberg 2004, 66-78. To this, add Reiner and Pingree 2005, Al-Rawi and George 2006, and Rutz 2007. For the Neo-Assyrian reports and letters, see Hunger 1992 (hereafter SAA 8) and Parpola 1993.
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then it is an assumption that when those traditions were in fact committed to tablet, they carried forth the general tendencies of the former. Thus, I do not propose that the omens which I cite below actually existed in such a form at the time of the story’s composition. Rather these later omens exhibit a point on a hermeneutical trajectory which has its roots in the earliest, oral stages of the celestial divination tradition. Sukaletuda is a lousy farmer. It appears as if everything in the land under his care has either died or has been pulled up. The only thing that remains is gisasal2, ‘a poplar tree’.41 Though not important in the celestial omen tradition, the poplar tree is relevant in another Mesopotamian mantic tradition: [DIS g]isASÁL KIMIN (= A.SÀ SÀ URU gisASÁL GUB) DINGIR NA BI ana mi-ig-ri-sú US.US-sú
“If he plants a poplar in a field in the city, god will lead that man voluntarily(?).”42
Mantically speaking, a field with a poplar in it is considered good luck.43 It may come as no surprise, then, that Sukaletuda turned his gaze toward the skies, awaiting some indication, in spite of his agricultural failure, of divine favour. According to the Sumerian Farmer’s Instruction, it was good agricultural practice for a farmer to pay attention to the sky: u4 mul an-na su im-ma-ab-du7-a-ta 10-am3 a2 gud a-sa3 zi-zi-i-da-se3 igi-zu nam-ba-e-gid2-i44
When the heavenly star(s) are right, do not be reluctant to take the oxen force to the field many times.
This kind of celestial observation was undoubtedly targeted at determining the proper agricultural seasons by noting the positions of certain fixed stars. Nevertheless, other portents were expected.
41 Normally understood as a Populus euphratica, or Euphrates Poplar (Akk. ßarbatu) the tree does not produce any fruit and is known for its rapid growth and shade; see CAD Í 108-109 and Volk 1995, 182 for discussion. 42 CT 39 3:25. The tablet is from the series Summa àlu. 43 Though in Inana and Sukaletuda, the specific plot is not called A.SÀ (= eqlû), ‘field’, but rather a MÚ.SAR (93) or simply SAR (107) (= mùsaru), ‘garden plot’, which measures 144 square cubits—Sukaletuda is presumably responsible for a number of these plots. See discussion in Volk 1995, 153. Furthermore, there is no indication that Sukaletuda’s plot is in the city, despite his father’s advice to hide there. 44 Civil 1994, 1:38-39. See also Volk 1995, 179 note 842.
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Indeed, in the story a sign of favour does arrive. Sukaletuda, observing the western sky, sees Inana: 104 [di§gir dili] du-ra [§giskim mu-ni-in-zu]
He recognised the lone travelling god and (her) sign.
Her appearance is labelled explicitly as a §giskim, ‘omen’, and most commentators have understood it as such.45 Most celestial omens regarding Venus’ appearance are generally positive. For example: [DIS muldil-bat ina EN.TE.N]A ina d UTU.È [ina BURU14 ina dUTU.SÚ.A] nap-hat LUGAL-MES KÚR-MES [SILIM-MES BURU14 KUR SI.SÁ KUR NINDA-HI].A DÙG.GA KÚ [tas-mu-ú u sa-li-mu k]a-lis GAR-an
[If Venus] rises [in winter] in the east, [at harvest time in the west]: enemy kings [will be reconciled; the harvest of the land will prosper; the land] will eat good [bread; reconciliation and peace] will take place everywhere.46
Within the portions of EAE which deal specifically with Venus’ regular cycle, the so called ‘Venus Tablets of Ammißaduqa,’ Venus rising in the east was generally associated with positive apodoses. These were often agriculturally related: ina itiÁS UD.28.KAM ina dUTU.È IGI-ir EBUR KUR SI.SÁ
On the 28th day of Sebet, (Venus = Ninsianna) appears in the east: the harvest of the land will do well.47
This association between Venus’ appearance and the success of agriculture is undoubtedly due to Inana/Istar’s patronage of fecundity and reproduction. In contrast, when Venus is not visible, it is generally ominous. For example: DIS muldil-bat ina AN NU IGI-ir HA.A [KUR]
If Venus is not visible in the sky, destruction of the land.48
45 Bottéro and Kramer 1989, 260 and Volk 1995, 179. But note Black et al. 2004, 200 ‘He recognised a solitary god by her appearance.’ 46 SAA 8 247:2-3 (= 536:2-4). See also Reiner and Pingree 1999 (hereafter BPO 3), 48-49: 94. Cf. BPO 3, 48-49: 95. 47 BPO 1, #55. For agricultural prosperity corresponding to sightings in the east, see also BPO 1, #1, 3, 5, 9, 13, 15, 19, 21, 23, 26, 29-32, 34-35, 39-41, 45, 47-48, 50, 55, 57, 59-60. In fact, of the thirty-eight omens associated with eastern sightings of Venus, twenty-five of them are agriculturally positive. 48 BPO 3, 72-72:15'.
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Thus, Inana’s celestial appearance, particularly after a period of invisibility, is a propitious omen for the agricultural state of the entire land, including our pathetic gardener. But when the goddess enters one of his plots, this is an even greater and more specific blessing. Her presence there can only portend Sukaletuda’s own personal success. This attitude is reflected in another omen, when the planet Venus enters the constellation known as the Field, it bodes very well: DIS muldil-bat ina SÀ mulAS.GÁN IGI-ir SÈS.ME ina AN-e A.KAL.ME ina ID[IM] BURU14 kurMAR.TUki SI.SÁ na-mu-ú SUB.ME TUS-[MES]49
If Venus appears inside the Field: there will be rains from If Venus appears inside the the sky and floods from the springs; the harvest of the Westland will prosper; abandoned pastures will be resettled.
Inana’s entering Sukaletuda’s plot is this very event transposed to a mundane plane. This is precisely what Sukaletuda needs since the storms have brought no rain to his plot; they have only blown dust into his eyes (97-98).50 Mantically speaking, Inana’s presence on his land can only mean a bright future for Sukaletuda. Unfortunately for him and his fellow countrymen, he reverses the propitious significance of Inana’s manifestation by his unwelcome sexual act. The following three plagues descend not on the perpetrator, whose identity Inana seeks, but on the entire country. They sound like they might be typical omen apodoses: wells turn to blood, there is a vicious storm, and traffic ceases on the roads. Here, however, the celestial divination corpus leaves us wanting. Though similar to celestial divination apodoses in that they all apply to the land as a whole rather than to individuals, none of these specific plagues appear in the extant literature.51 As Volk notes, the motif of water appearing as blood does occur in the protases of other mantic literature, but these are
SAA 8 357:6-r2 = BPO 3, 210-211:11, 214, 221:14. The same issue here remains as with the comparison with CT 39 3:25, that the terms for the celestial parcel of land in the omen (mulAS.GÁN, ikû, ‘field’) and in the story are not the same, though the agricultural parcel in the story, (MU.)SAR is a subdivision of an ikû (1/100th ). 51 Despite this, one of the details of the second plague might provide a link to the celestial divination tradition. While she is whipping the land with a furious storm, Inana is aided by others: 49 50
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not illuminating in this study.52 Nevertheless, the general pattern is what we find in celestial divination: a particular celestial phenomenon occurs and the result affects the entire land. While her plagues are ineffective, Inana determines a method of apprehending her culprit by appealing to Enki. Enki is, of course, well regarded for his sagacity and his consultation is not an uncommon
tum 9u18-lu mar-uru5 hus igi-se3 [mu-un-si-§gen] 201 pi-li-pi-li dal-ha-mun e§ger-ra-ni-[se3 im-us2] 202 ab-ba-su2-su2 inim-kur2-dug4-dug4 ad [gi4-gi4 . . .] 203 7 a-ra2 7 an-edin-na mu-un-[da-sug2-sug2-ge-es]
200
The south wind and a vicious storm wind preceded her. The pilipili and a dust storm followed behind her. Abba-susu, Inim-kur-dugdug, . . . . . . counsellor . . . . . . . Seven times seven helpers (?) stood beside her in the steppe.
“Seven times seven” does not seem here to actually refer to forty-nine individuals, but is rather hyperbole for seven who are particularly powerful. As Volk notes, only six of the seven are named; two of these, Abba-susu and Inim-kur-dugdug, are known deities from the god list AN = da-nu-um, where they are described as Inana’s ki§gga ‘messengers’ (Volk 1995, 196; Litke 1998, 160-162 [IV 143, 145, 161]). Another individual in her entourage is a pilipili, a kind of functionary that seems to be particular to Inana’s cult, while the remainder are meteorological phenomena: ulu, ‘south wind’; marru hus, ‘vicious stormwind’; dalhamun, ‘dust storm’. The seventh could have been mentioned in the lacuna at the end of lines 202 (=190), but it does not seem to be large enough nor correctly placed to contain another name. While this hodgepodge of helpers looks as if it was simply thrown together, it could be that the emphasis on the number seven was a deliberate reference to the constellation MUL.MUL, ‘the Stars’ (our Pleiades), who are later equated with the collective deity Sebitti (literally, ‘the Seven’). See, e.g., Hunger and Pingree 1989, I i 44: DIS MUL.MUL d7.BI DINGER.MES GAL.MES, ‘The Stars, the Seven, the great gods’. The Stars are a particularly malevolent constellation in celestial divination. When they are seen together with Venus, they can cancel her normally benevolent nature (SAA 8 282:r1-3): 1 ina SAG MU MUL.MUL ina KAB? muldil-bat GUB LÚ.KÚR : A.KAL BURU14 ú-tál-lal
If at the beginning of the year Pleiades stand on the left of Venus: the enemy, variant: a flood will disrupt the harvest. mul See also SAA 8 536:3-4: DIS A.EDIN MUL.MUL KUR-ud d[IM RA] / muldilbat ina SÀ MUL.MUL [GUB-ma], ‘If the Frond reaches the Stars: [Adad will devastate.—] Venus [stands] in the Stars.’ Here, the original omen has the constellation the Frond approaching another constellation, which is, of course, impossible, and so the diviner has equated the Frond constellation with the planet Venus, thus generating possible, applicable omens. The result of this conjunction, as in Inana and Sukaletuda, is devastating storms. Thus, the story might be relating Venus’ conjunction with a malevolent asterism, here deliberately co-opted by the goddess in order to bring disaster to the land. 52 Volk 1995, 48-49.
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motif in Sumerian53 and Akkadian literature.54 However this plea is understood in the context of ancient Mesopotamian literature, it should be noted that, in Inana and Sukaletuda, Inana does not appeal to Enki for advice per se. Rather, she demands that he expose her attacker and Enki reluctantly grants her request (250). This consultation seems to be less for the sake of Enki’s sage counsel and more for the sake of his permission. Though Enki is one of the high gods, it is nevertheless awkward that Enki, a chthonic god of the freshwater in the earth, should have any dominion over events in the sky—which is the place from which Inana finds her solution. It is possible that Inana’s request of Enki is in regard to his sovereignty over a particular stretch of the sky known in celestial divination literature as harràn sùt dEa, ‘the Path of Ea’.55 This path was one of three celestial divisions, the other two being harràn sùt d Anu and harràn sùt dEnlil. The exact delineation of these three paths seemed to have fluctuated somewhat over time, but in general they each covered a swath of the sky from the eastern to western horizons and were respectively arranged from the north to south: the Path of Anu, the Path of Enlil and the Path of Ea. Enki’s path might have seemed the closest in proximity to southern Iraq, the locus of the crime and its perpetrator. Inana needed permission to enter this section of the sky and to span it in its entirety. Inana, with Enki’s help, is finally able to discover the culprit by a miraculous act of spanning the entire sky: 252 [n]i2-te-a-ni dtir-an-na-gim an-na ba-an-gi16-ib ki ba-da-an-us2
She stretched herself like a rainbow across the sky and reached thereby as far as the earth.
Within the Mesopotamian scholarly tradition in general, as well as the celestial divination tradition in particular, Inana/Istar/Venus was equated with dTIR.AN.NA, ‘the rainbow’. As Volk noted, for example, Inana/Istar is associated with the divine Rainbow in the god list AN: da-nu-um.56 There is also a specific star called
53 E.g. Inana and Enki, Farber 1973; Enki and the World Order 387-450, Benito 1969; Debate between Sheep and Grain 181-191, Alster and Vanstiphout 1987. 54 E.g. Adapa Fragment B 14'-15, Izre’el 2001, 16-17; Atrahasis I 99-100, Lambert and Millard 1969, 49. 55 For a description of the three celestial paths, see Koch 1989, 14-22. 56 CT 25 31 Rev ii 8: [d]TIR.AN.NA : MIN (ma-an-za-at) dMIN (istar). See Volk 1995, 202. See also Litke 1998, 166-167 (IV 288, 291).
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mul
TIR.AN.NA,57 which is related specifically to the planet Venus in celestial divination practice, at least in the Late Babylonian Period.58 And there are several omens in which Venus appears with a rainbow. While most of these are too fragmentary to offer useful comparisons,59 one Neo-Assyrian report mentions an interesting assemblage of celestial phenomena: A.AN GÙ dIM ¢an-ni Ü-[u] sa a-dan-ni sa ta-mar-t[i ] sa ddil-bat su-u DIS ina ITI.NE dIM GÙ-sú SUB-ma UD SÚ AN SUR-nun d TIR.AN.NA GIL NIM.GÍR ib-ri-iq A.KAL-MES ina IDIM LÁ-MES
This rain and thunder concerns the appointed time of the sighting of Venus. If in Ab, Adad thunders, the day becomes cloudy, it rains, a rainbow arches, lightning flashes: the floodings will become scarce at the source.60
Here, the diviner notes that stormy weather, seen with a rainbow at the time that the planet Venus is supposed to be sighted, indicates (contrary to what one may assume) that water will be scarce.61 This could be related to the events in Inana and Sukaletuda in that in both the omen and in the story, all signs (in both cases involving Venus’ appearance, storms, and a rainbow) seem to point to agricultural prosperity, and yet result in the exact opposite. While this is an appealing proposition, it must be remembered that Inana is not equated with the rainbow in Inana and Sukaletuda, rather she is said to be like a rainbow, dtir-an-na-gim. As previously stated, this must mean that Inana was able to span the entire sky in contrast to her normal movements which would otherwise keep her close to the eastern and western horizons. This is obviously impossible and within the context of the story this event is to be taken as a miracle. It is hardly unusual for the celestial omen material to describe celestially-impossible situations in its protases, such as fixed stars approaching each other or lunar eclipses occurring
57
See Hunger and Pingree 1989, 27 (I i 33). Pinches et al. 1955 (= LBAT), #1576 ii 7: mulTIR.AN.NA dMIN (=ddil-bat). 59 BPO 3, 43-44:18; 140-141: r ii 35-37. 60 SAA 8 31:1-8 (Cf. 33:3; 43:2; 453:4). 61 Alternatively, we have an explanation followed by an omen citation. Rain and thunder occurring at the same time that Venus is sighted is equated with rain and thunder together with a rainbow. In either case, the practical upshot is the same: there will be an unexpected lack of water. 58
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at the beginning or end of a month. Nevertheless omens describing Venus breaking out of her normal course are not common: DIS muldil-bat GIM MUL-ha ir-ta-naq-qí SÈG.MES ina AN-e A.KAL.MES ina IDIM TAR.MES GIM dßal-bat-a-nu ma-h-dis i-s [aq-qam-ma]
If Venus as soon as she rises goes progressively higher: rains in the sky, floods in the springs will cease—like Mars she goes very high.62
Another, later omen expresses a similar idea: [DIS muldil-bat ana ziq]-pi is-ta-naq-qa-a SÈG.MES TAR.MES.63
If Venus keeps going higher to the zenith, rains will cease.
As a general principle with most celestial omens, when a celestial body does not act according to certain expected ideals it generates a negative apodosis.64 In this case, Venus rises high in the sky just as Mars which, as a superior planet, is able to do. The outcome is commensurately negative. In Inana and Sukaletuda, Inana’s irregular and altogether impossible celestial movement bodes ill, though in this instance it is not for the land in general as one would expect in celestial divination, but only for Sukaletuda. He will, of course, be killed by the understandably vengeful goddess. Conclusion The story of Inana and Sukaletuda depicts the goddess Inana in her astral manifestation, not only in regard to her appearance, but also her particular movements. Specifically, in the story Inana is seen bound to the eastern and western horizons. Furthermore, the fulcrum takes place when Inana receives permission to miraculously step out of these prescribed movements, freeing herself from the shackles of her normal celestial course. By doing so she is able to discover her attacker and bring him to justice. Inana and Sukaletuda is an astral myth, which exploits the accepted celestial phenomena of the planet Venus as inspiration for its narrative. Moreover, though there are no extant Sumerian celestial divination texts, Inana and Sukaletuda possibly demonstrates the antiquity of the later written
62 63 64
BPO 3, 100-101:12; cf. the variant interpretation BPO 3, 219, 224:40. BPO 3 236, 240:7; 218, 222:23. For these ideal celestial schemes, see Brown 2000, 113-122.
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celestial divination tradition. In the story, Inana’s celestial, and indeed, earthly appearance is first equated with possible agricultural fecundity. This propitious possibility is quickly reversed by Sukaletuda’s actions, however, and the result brings ruination on the entire land, as is typical in Mesopotamian celestial divination. Bibliography Alster
B. Alster, ‘On the Interpretation of the Sumerians Myth, “Inanna and Enki”’, ZA 64, 20-34. – 1999 Review of K, Volk, Inanna und Sukaletuda: Zur historischpolitischen Deutung einers sumerischen Literaturwerke. JAOS 119, 687-688. Alster & Vanstiphout 1987 B. Alster and H. Vanstiphout, ‘Lahar and Anshan: Presentation and Analysis of a Sumerian Disputation’, ASJ 9:1-43. Benito 1969 C. Benito, ‘Enki and Ninmah’ and ‘Enki and the World Order.’ Philadelphia. Black et al. 2004 J. Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, Oxford, 2004. Bottéro & Kramer 1989 J. Bottéro and S. Kramer, Lorsque les dieux faisaient l’homme: Mythologie mésopotamienne, Paris. Brown 2000 D. Brown, Mesopotamian Planetary Astronomy-Astrology, CM 18, Groningen. Buccellati 1982 G. Buccellati, ‘The Descent of Inanna as a Ritual Journey to Kutha?’ Syro-Mesopotamian Studies 4/3, 3-7. Castellino 1972 G. Castellino, Two Sulgi Hymns (BC), Studi Semitici 42, Rome. Civil 1994 M. Civil, T he Farmer’s Instruction: A Sumerian Agricultural Manual, Aula Orientalis—Supplementa 5, Barcelona. Cooper 2001 J. Cooper, ‘Literature and History: The Historical and Political Referents of Sumerian Literary Texts’, in T. Abusch et al. (eds.), Proceedings of the XLV e Rencontre Assyrologique Internationale, Part 1, Harvard University: Historiography in the Cuneiform World, Bethesda. Edzard 1997 D. Edzard, Gudea and his Dynasty, RIM Early Periods 3/1, Toronto. Englund 1998 R. Englund, ‘Texts from the Late Uruk Period’ in R. Englund et al. (eds.) Mesopotamien: SpäturukZeit und Frühdynastische Zeit. Annäherungen 1, OBO 160/1, Göttingen, 15-223. Farber 1973 G. Farber, Der Mythos “Inanna und Enki” unter besonderer Berücksichtung der Liste der me. Studia Pohl 10. Rome.
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Lambert & Millard 1969 Litke 1998 Michalowski 2006
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M. Green, ‘Animal Husbandry at Uruk in the Archaic Period’, JNES 39, 1-35. W. Heimpel, ‘A Catalogue of Near Eastern Venus Deities’, Syro-Mesopotamian Studies 4/3, 59-72. W. Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, Winona Lake, Ind. H. Hostetter, ‘A Planetary Visit to Hades’, Bulletin of the Centre for Archaeoastronomy 2, 7-10. B. HruSka, ‘Inanna und Sukaletuda: Eine gutgeheissene Unzucht mit der Kriegsgöttin’, ArOr 66, 318-324. H. Hunger, Astrological Reports to Assyrian Kings, SAA 8, Helsinki. H. Hunger and D. Pingree, MUL.APIN: An Astronomical Compendium in Cuneiform, AfO Beiheft 24, Horn, Austria. S. Izre’el, Adapa and the South Wind: Language Has the Power of Life and Death. Winona Lake. P. Jensen, Das Gilgamesch-Epos in der Weltliteratur Vol. I, Strassburg. J. Koch, Neue Untersuchungen zur Topographie des babylonischen Fixtsternhimmels, Wiesbaden. U. Koch-Westenholz, Mesopotamian Astrology: An Introduction to Babylonian and Assyrian Celestial Divination, CNI Publications 19, Copenhagen. S. Kramer, ‘A Blood-Plague Motif in Sumerian Mythology’, ArOr 17, 399-405. From the Tablets of Sumer: Twenty-Five Firsts in Man’s Recorded History, Indian Hills, Colo. ‘Mythology of Sumer and Akkad’, in S. Kramer (ed.), Mythologies of the Ancient World, Chicago, 93-137. History Begins at Sumer: Thirty-Nine Firsts in Man’s Recorded History, Philadelphia. F. Kugler, Im Bannkreiss Babels: Panbabylonische Konstruktionen und Religionsgeschichtliche Tatsachen, Munster. G. Kurtruk, ‘The Identification of Inanna with the Planet Venus: A Criterion for the Time Determination of the Recognition of Constellations in Ancient Mesopotamia’, Astronomical and Astrophysical Transactions 17, 501-513. W. Lambert and A. Millard, Atra-hasìs: The Babylonian Story of the Flood. Oxford. R. Litke, A Reconstruction of the Assyro-Babylonian God-Lists, AN: dAN-NU-UM and AN: Anu sa amèli, TBC 3, Bethesda. P. Michalowski, ‘How to Read a Liver—In Sumerian’, in A. Guinan et al. (eds.), If a Man
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Builds a Joyful House: Assyriological Studies in Honor of Erle Verdun Leichty, Leiden, 247-257. Nissen, et al. 1993 H. Nissen, P. Damerov and R. Englund, Archaic Bookkeeping: Early Writing and Techniques of Economic Administration in the Ancient Near East, Chicago. Parpola 1993 S. Parpola, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars, SAA 10, Helsinki. T. Pinches et al. 1955 T. Pinches et al., Late Babylonian Astronomical and Related Texts, Providence. Al-Rawi & George 2006 F. Al-Rawi and A. George, ‘Tablets from the Sippar Library XIII: Enùma Anu Enlil XX’, Iraq 68, 23-57. Reiner & Pingree 1975 E. Reiner and D. Pingree, Babylonian Planetary Omens Part One. Enùma Anu Enlil Tablet 63: The Venus Tablet of Ammißaduqa, Bibliotheca Mesopotamica 2/2, Undena, Calif. – 1998 Babylonian Planetary Omens Part Three, CM 11, Groningen. – 2005 Babylonian Planetary Omens Part Four, CM 30, Leiden. Richardson 2007 S. Richardson, ‘gir3-gen-na and Sulgi’s “Library”: Liver Omen Texts in the Third Millennium BC (I)’, CDLJ 3. Rochberg 2004 F. Rochberg, The Heavenly Writing: Divination, Horoscopy, and Astronomy in Mesopotamian Culture, Cambridge. – 2006 ‘Old Babylonian Celestial Divination’, in A. Guinan et al. (eds.), If a Man Builds a Joyful House: Assyriological Studies in Honor of Erle Verdun Leichty, Leiden, 337-348. Rutz 2007 M. Rutz, ‘Textual Transmission between Babylonia and Susa: A New Solar Omen Compendium’, JCS 58, 63-96. Sachs 1952 A. Sachs, ‘Babylonian Horoscopes,’ JCS 6, 49-75. Szarzynska 1997 K. Szarzynska, Sumerica: Prace sumeroznawcze, Philologia Orientalis 3, Warsaw. Volk 1995 K. Volk, Inanna und Sukaletuda: Zur historisch-politischen Deutung einers sumerischen Literaturwerkes, SANTAG 3, Wiesbaden. Wilcke 1973a C. Wilcke, ‘Politische Opposition nach Sumerischen Quellen: der Konflikt zwischen Königtum und Ratsversammlung. Literaturwerke as politische Tendenzschriften’, in A. Finet (ed.), La voix de l’opposition en Mesopotamie. Colloque organize par l’Institut des Hautes Etudes de Belgique 19 et 20 mars 1973, Brussels, 37-65. – 1973b ‘Der Anfang von “Inanna und Sukaletuda’, AfO 24, 86. – 1976 ‘Inanna/Istar’, RlA 5, 74-87.
THE ROLE OF THE SCRIBE IN THE MAKING OF THE HEBREW BIBLE JOHN VAN SETERS In his book, Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible,1 Karel van der Toorn begins by making the bold assertion that the Bible was the work of a small scribal elite within the largely oral culture of ancient Israel, and “was born and studied in the scribal workshop of the temple,” in particular, that of the Second Temple Period between 500 and 200 bce. He states: “The scribes we will be looking at were scholars and teachers: they wrote, edited, copied, gave public readings, and interpreted. If the Bible became the Word of God, it was due to their presentation” (2). The task to find evidence of this scribal activity, however, is not so easy. The internal evidence from the Bible itself is heavily dependent upon the hypothetical results of redaction criticism as pointing to “editorial expansion, scribal annotation, seams and incongruities in the text” (3). The external evidence for scribal activity may be found in some epigraphic discoveries related to the Bible’s background and the comments of later writers, such as Josephus, the scribal practice as revealed in the Qumran scrolls, comparisons made with the Septuagint, and statements in the Apocrapha. Of primary importance for van der Toorn, however, is the comparative evidence from the ancient Near East, particularly Mesopotamia, which also produced a body of literature that claimed to be revelations by a god or ancestor and mediated through scribes. For van der Toorn this means that instead of thinking of the Bible in terms of books and authors, one must think of a “stream of tradition” controlled by a long succession of scribes. Van der Toorn likewise believes there was a common international scribal culture throughout the Near East, so that what can be learned from Mesopotamia and Egypt “is often pertinent to scribal culture in Judah as well” (4). 1 K. van der Toorn, Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007). All page references to this book are placed in parenthesis.
© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2008 Also available online – www.brill.nl
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In order to apply this comparison van der Toorn must disabuse us of the modern concept of books and authors as inappropriate for antiquity. He states: “Prior to the Hellenistic era—that is, before ca. 300 b.c.e.—there were no books. There were documents, literary compilations, myths, collections of prayers, ritual prescriptions, chronicles, and the like, but no books, no trade in books, and no reading public of any substance. . . . The Bible is a repository of tradition, accumulated over time, that was preserved and studied by a small body of specialists” (5). The first two chapters attempt to support this claim by discussing the nature of text production within the ancient scribal culture, and the problematic nature of authorship as it relates to the predominantly anonymous literary production of Near Eastern antiquity and the Bible. Next, van der Toorn takes up the question of the comparative evidence for scribes and scribal culture from Mesopotamia and Egypt, where it is most abundant (chap. 3); then he proceeds to apply this understanding of the scribe to the Hebrew Bible (chap. 4); finally he seeks to describe the actual process of text production (chap. 5). Van der Toorn stresses that in the predominantly oral culture of the ancient Near East, the scribes belonged to the social elite. They were not just copyists but also sages and scholars, and their education and activity as scribes was associated with the temple workshop and library. Using the model of Mesopotamian scribes, van der Toorn argues that the scribes behind the Bible were temple scribes, who can be identified with the Levitical scribes from the time of Ezra onward, for which he finds evidence in late Persian and Hellenistic texts. He then traces their priestly and scribal lineage back into the earlier period as those responsible for the biblical texts. In terms of text production, van der Toorn rejects any distinction in antiquity between the scribe as author and as editor, and sets out “six ways in which scribes produced written texts. They might engage in (1) transposition of oral lore; (2) invention of a new text; (3) compilation of existing lore, either oral or written; (4) expansion of an inherited text; (5) adaptation of an existing text for a new audience, and (6) integration of individual documents into a more comprehensive composition” (110). Van der Toorn illustrates all of these scribal methods with examples drawn from Mesopotamia, and applying them to a few biblical texts. Once van der Toorn has established the social roles of written texts and scribes and their methods of text production, he seeks to test this
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 101 analysis by an examination of the Book of Deuteronomy and the Book of Jeremiah. In chapter six Deuteronomy is offered as an example of the various scribal modes of text production within the legal and narrative traditions of the Bible as a whole. By making reference to the so-called “canon formula” of Deut 4:2 and 13:1, i.e., that nothing should be added or removed from the text, van der Toorn asserts that the text was rigidly controlled by using a single master copy that was under the supervision of the Levitical scribes. Although it was subject to revision and expansion over the course of 200 years, these changes were limited to only four major editions subsequent to Josiah’s original reform document.2 These changes took place in 40 year intervals between ca. 620-500 bce, when the need arose for a new text to replace the worn-out master copy, and when circumstances required an up-date to the text to reflect new social and religious realities. Each new copy was therefore a “formally authorized new edition” (147) made by the priestly scribes as the successors of Moses. Using introductory rubrics and concluding colophons, van der Toorn identifies the themes and limits of the four editions as the Covenant Edition (620 bce), the Torah Edition (580 bce), the History Edition (540 bce), and the Wisdom Edition (500 bce). Van der Toorn admits that the language and perspective does not correspond well with that of other “priestly” texts of the Pentateuch so he must argue for a “division in the priesthood between servants of the altar, on the one side, and administrators, judges, and scholars, on the other” (160), the second group being the Levitical priests of Deuteronomy. For van der Toorn it appears that Ezra was the final editor of Deuteronomy (172). In chapter seven van der Toorn attempts to reconstruct the scribal production of the prophetic books from various clues within these books, with special attention to Jeremiah as a representative specimen. He points to evidence of the existence of written oracle collections in pre-exilic times, compiled by scribes, such as Baruch’s collection of Jeremiah, and supports this with the extrabiblical examples of the Balaam inscription of Deir aAlla (eighth century bce) 2 This scheme of four editions is explicitly borrowed and adapted by van der Toorn from R. H. Pfeiffer, Introduction to the Old Testament (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1941), 182-87. However, Pfeiffer’s “200 years” extends from 621 b.c.e. to ca. 400 b.c.e.
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and the Neo-Assyrian collections of oracles (seventh century bce). Van der Toorn also shows that while some of the pre-exilic prophets may have been able to write and make use of short written statements for symbolic reasons, their oracles were delivered orally and transcribed by scribes. He associates this scribal transcription with temple scribes, because their oracles were so often delivered within that context, and they were then stored in temple archives. Van der Toorn then goes on to expand on Jeremiah as a “scribal artifact” by attempting to show how blocks of texts such as the socalled Confessions and the Oracles against the Nations became attached to Jeremiah. He elaborates further on the role of “collective memory” as the source of a large part of the narrative portion of the book. By using the differences between the MT and LXX versions of Jeremiah one can discern three major divisions in the book, the first part dealing with the oracles of Jeremiah, the second part with the acts of Jeremiah, the third part with the oracles against the nations. (In LXX the second and third parts are interchanged). Because oracles in the first part are often related to acts in the second part and because there are many doublets, van der Toorn suggests that the oracles were originally imbedded within a particular narrative event that was transmitted by Jeremiah’s sympathizers by oral tradition and it was only when scribes committed these traditions to writing that they subsequently divided them into the two collections of oracles and deeds. The scribal style they employed was similar to that employed by the scribes of Deuteronomy. My using the differences between the MT and LXX texts of Jeremiah, particularly the many pluses in MT, van der Toorn argues for successive “editions” of Jeremiah, in which the “editor of the MT edition” expanded and modified the earlier edition reflected in LXX for ideological purposes. Finally, in this chapter van der Toorn notes the transition in the early exilic period to prophecy as a written genre, with prophets like Second Isaiah writing their message. The transition of prophecy from an oral to a written genre of communication of the divine word leads to important consequences for the understanding of revelation as embodied in a book, which becomes the subject of chapter eight. To understand this transition van der Toorn once again appeals to Mesopotamian parallels, notably the seventh century Catalogue of Texts and Authors. This “Catalogue lists the works of the cuneiform tradition in their order of presumed antiquity. . . . The earliest group of texts are ‘from the mouth of
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 103 Ea,’ the second group of texts are by sages from before the Flood, most notably Adapa, and the third and largest group of texts are by the various postdiluvian scribes and scholars of great repute. Antiquity is the yardstick of authority: the older the work, the higher its rank among the classics.” (207-8). The oldest group, which includes various forms of incantation literature and two Sumerian myths, are attributed by the scribes of this Catalogue to the dictation of the god Ea to the sage Adapa as the revelation of divine wisdom. Van der Toorn suggests that this represents “a new paradigm of revelation” from the oral lore of the practitioners of these religious arts “to the textual lore of the Mesopotamian scholars” (209). This he supports by reference to two myths, one from ca. 1100 bce and the other from ca. 750 bce, which recount the dictation of texts having to do with divination and exorcism to ancient scribes, the secret lore of certain groups of religious professionals. Thus the professional compendia, as part of the “cuneiform canon,” have been incorporated into the “main scholarly disciplines” (210). Furthermore, from such Babylonian classics as the Enuma elis, and the Epic of Gigsamesh of the twelfth century bce down to the Song of Erra of the eighth century bce come hints of these works as divinely revealed, because they relate to the era before the flood. Van der Toorn accounts for this change in “the revelation paradigm as a consequence of the shift in the tradition from the oral to the written” (217). Instead of the religious lore being the preserve of specialists who kept and maintained it, the written tradition became the property of the scribes. “Through the construct of an antediluvian revelation from Ea to the apkallus, transmitted in an unbroken chain of sages, scribes, and scholars, the written tradition could claim a legitimacy issuing from the gods” (219). In this way the secret lore of the specialists became the secret lore of the scribes. Van der Toorn proceeds to draw a parallel with Mesopotamia by seeing the cult reform of Josiah in 622, based upon a book of the law, as “a turning point in the relationship between the oral and written traditions” (221), in which the latter becomes the primary source of authority. In this case, however, the “oral lore of the specialists” is completely rejected in favor of a radically different tradition that claimed the antiquity of Moses. It is this shift in the revelation paradigm that is articulated in the exilic version of these events in DtrH and in the Torah Edition of Deuteronomy. Moses becomes the scribe who receives the divine dictation and transmits
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it in the form of a book to the Levitical priests who, in van der Toorn’s view, are also scribes and scholars. He briefly sketches the development of a theology of the Torah as divine revelation down to the rabbinic sages. In turning to the Prophets as revealed literature, van der Toorn takes up explicit references to written collections of prophetic oracles: in the story of Jeremiah’s scroll, the prophesy of Ezekiel represented as a scroll in his call narrative, and subsequent evidence suggesting the rise of the prophetic book in the sixth century bce. The transition from oral to written prophecy was not immediate; the two forms existed side by side for some time. By the Hellenistic period, however, the change had largely taken place. Van der Toorn concludes his discussion of revelation by stating that the scribes invented a notion of revelation that was “coterminous with a set of texts” (231) instead of being mediated through charismatic persons, a change that came about through the transition from oral to written tradition. Finally, in chapter nine van der Toorn looks at the construction of the Hebrew Canon from the perspective of scribal culture. Equating the notion of “canon” with “catalogue” in the sense of a list of a specific number of books in a particular order, van der Toorn invokes the Talmudic list of twenty-two (or twenty-four) books as an “early tradition,” going back to the first century ce, by which time he considers the list to have been closed. Rejecting the traditional view of the three-stage growth of “Law,” “Prophets,” and “Writings,” and the more recent explanations of organic growth, van der Toorn considers the notion of the canon as the catalogue of the temple library in Jerusalem. This view is based upon the assumptions that “there was a library in the temple at Jerusalem, . . . that the holdings of that library were regarded as special, that is, protocanonical, . . . [and] that there was a library catalogue as a precedent of the canon” (237). While van der Toorn supports the assumption of a temple library in Jerusalem, he finds difficulty in limiting it to such a small collection of books. Van der Toorn also considers Carr’s idea of the canon as a selective curriculum,3 using the Mesopotamian model of a curriculum imposed by an authority;
3 D. M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005).
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 105 in the case of Jewish scribes it would be the temple authorities. In the end he finds some problems with the notion of curriculum as well. Van der Toorn advocates a two-stage canon, in place of the traditional three stages. In the first stage he revives the notion whereby Ezra the scribe (450 bce) is an editor who combined the various documents or strands of the Pentateuch to produce the five books of Moses, basically as it is today, and imposed it as “canonical” and binding under the authority of the Persian ruler. The second stage of canonization comes about in 250 bce when “the scribes of the temple workshop at Jerusalem prepared an edition of the Prophets, the Psalms, and the Book of Proverbs to meet the demands of a growing class of literate laymen; their edition was meant to be definitive and to be put at the disposal of the public, to be read in local places of worship, in schools, and by private individuals. At the same time, the temple scholars formulated the doctrine of the closure of the prophetic era. According to this new doctrine, the Spirit of prophecy had departed from Israel after the days of Ezra” (252). Their editing of the Book of the Twelve to close the Prophets, and their various prefaces and postscripts to the books of Prophets, Psalms and Proverbs all attest to this editorial activity. The primary motivation for this publication was market “demand for a national literature by an educated public” (259). This still left room for other works to be discovered, such as the Book of Daniel, that were thought to belong to the era of revelation and to be added to the collection. The ultimate criteria for inclusion in, or exclusion from, the canon were “authorship and antiquity.” Thus, for van der Toorn “the biblical canon is a triumph of scribal culture in the sense that the scribes succeeded in transforming the written traditions of a professional elite into a national library” (263) embodied in the Hebrew Bible. The thesis is controversial and its presentation intentionally provocative; in the book he makes many sweeping statements whose qualifications are sometimes buried in endnotes. It is not possible to take up every contested issue, so that a selection will have to be made of some of the most salient ones. Van der Toorn begins his study by attempting to remove misconceptions about the Bible as a book containing the works of a number of authors in the modern sense of this term, and much of what he says is familiar to most biblical scholars and necessary to the novice. Nevertheless, his discussion of books and authors in antiquity is often confusing
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and misleading. He makes the statement: “Books are a Hellenistic invention, born in a time of increasing literacy as schools and libraries spread around the Mediterranean and in the Near East” (9). In this statement and the following discussion van der Toorn is using the term “book” in two different senses, in the one he means it as a distinct literary work by an author or editor, and in the other as an object in a particular form, the codex in the modern world, but in the Hellenistic world it would be that of a papyrus scroll (biblion). Since “books,” understood as distinct works, could consist of multiple scrolls (biblia) in the sense of a division, as we use the term volume —Homer’s two epic poems each consisted of 24 books, i.e. scrolls,—the matter can be confusing. However, it is not at all clear in what sense van der Toorn means us to understand the term book in the quotation above. Papyrus scrolls were certainly used for literary works, as well as other documents and records long before the time of Alexander, and most of those collected in the library of Alexandria predated the Hellenistic period. There were also distinctive works of particular authors from the pre-Hellenistic period, set down on scrolls and subsequently copied by other scribes for distribution, whether for personal use or for sale. It is true that distribution of such books greatly expanded in the Hellenistic and Roman periods with a more organized booktrade, but books in either sense cannot be characterized as an “invention” of the Hellenistic period. It must also be emphasized that the Phoenicians inherited the use of papyrus scrolls from the Egyptians centuries earlier and the Greeks in turn inherited its use along with the alphabet from the Phoenicians, so there is little doubt that such scrolls were in use in Judah as well long before the Hellenistic period. While it may be useful to warn against the anachronism of understanding the Bible as a codex in the time of its formation, the primary argument has to do with the notion of the book as a distinct literary artifact. In place of the notion of a book, van der Toorn wants to substitute the concept of a “steam of tradition” for the various kinds of texts that were collected and transmitted by scribal schools. This is undoubtedly a very useful concept in emphasizing the continuities over long periods of time within various groups of texts. Nevertheless, it can be misleading when it is set so sharply as a point of difference between ancient texts and modern books. On the one hand, all cultures, both ancient and modern, have their “streams of tradition” reflected in many different literary and
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 107 non-literary genres;4 on the other hand, ancient societies also had their belles lettres, which were not traditional, but creative and new, even if they made use of traditional themes and stories. Thus, for example, the great tragedians of Greece, Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, certainly belonged to a “stream of tradition” in their use of heroic themes, and in the genre of drama in which their plays were presented, but their works were distinct literary artifacts when committed to writing and distributed as such. The same could be said, more or less, for the other classics, and one can say much the same for other such works from Mesopotamia and Egypt. Are Gilgamesh and the Story of Sinuhe merely scribal products of the “stream of Tradition,” or are they distinct literary artifacts, regardless of whether one was inscribed on clay tablets and the other on a papyrus scroll? They both became “classical” texts in their respective cultures, and the same possibilities could exist within the Jewish literary tradition as well. Concerning the subject of authorship in antiquity, the same kind of confusion exists in van der Toorn’s comparison between its ancient and modern forms. Van der Toorn rightly critiques the use of modern romantic notions of authorship for ancient writers as anachronistic, but this does not mean that one can completely exclude the existence of ancient authors.5 Indeed, van der Toorn repeatedly states that authors, like books, were the invention of the Hellenistic age, excluding in the process all consideration of classical Greece, even though the “classics” that stem from this earlier period were used as artistic models by authors for later periods right down to modern times. Historical criticism, which arose in the pre-romantic period and which could be quite anti-romantic, had an interest in discovering the “real” author of a text, as opposed to the imputed author, and to set that “real” author into his or her own time and social context. The recent appeal to a discussion about romantic notions of authorship has become a way of substituting editors for authors, and van der Toorn merely substitutes scribes for editors. Another argument that has been commonly used against the notion of ancient authorship, and which is repeated by van der Toorn, is that of anonymity. Because an author’s name is not 4
E. Shils, Tradition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981). See my own remarks about this in “Author or Redactor,” Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 7/6 (2007), 1-23 (www.jhsonline.org). 5
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directly associated with a literary work, he or she is viewed as only an editor or scribe. This qualification strikes me as quite arbitrary. The classical convention of identifying the author of a particular work by name had a variety of reasons associated with fame and fortune (although certainly not the modern notion of copyright), and this convention spread in the Hellenistic and Roman periods to the larger ancient world. Yet even in the classical world there were works of uncertain authorship that became associated with authors of greater fame. That does not alter the nature of the literature. By the same token, the Hellenistic world also gives us the name of famous “editors” or scholars, such as those of Alexandria. This does not mean that prior to this period such scholars did not exist, and those who deny that there were authors in antiquity are only too happy to populate their world with anonymous editors. Van der Toorn applies this principle of anonymity to the Hebrew Bible to claim its lack of authorship. Of course, the prophets are an exception, and based upon the evidence of Assyrian collections of oracles, it is entirely reasonable to believe that from the eighth century onwards, specific oracles were associated with particular prophets, even if such collections were expanded with invented ones that did not go back to that prophet. Van der Toorn sees the first awareness of authorship in the Book of Chronicles in the fact that the Chronicler speaks of his sources in terms of the works of named prophets, but these are the Chronicler’s own inventions in order to claim authoritative sources for his fictions. His work, however, remains quite anonymous, based on the convention of the earlier historical works. Van der Toorn also speaks of “honorary authorship” (33) as in the case of Hammurabi’s Law Code, and of pseudepigraphy as the fictional author, as common features of the ancient world, but in both these cases the notion of authorship is implicit. Hammurabi takes credit for authorizing the code and claims responsibility for everything in it. That is what is implicit in the ancient meaning of auctor and auctoritas from which the modern concepts of authorship are derived. Pseudepigraphy is merely an attempt to gain authority for a document which it would not otherwise have if the real author were known. That is certainly the point of the attribution of Deuteronomy to Moses, and this is long before the Hellenistic age. It is true that the Hellenistic age greatly encouraged the identification of literary works with authors, and some like Ben Sirach even “signed their name,” as it were, to their work. However, others, like 1 Maccabees are anonymous, while 2 Maccabees claims to be
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 109 an abridgement of a work by Jason, the Cyrene, but this abbreviator is not otherwise known. Van der Toorn admits that some preHellenistic works were signed, but then states that “The existence of some works that were signed by the author supports the idea that scribal authors were primarily celebrated as craftsmen” (40). This seems to me a case of special pleading. He goes on to explain that in the case of the author of the Erra Epic, whose name is given, he does not take credit for his work but claims that the whole was revealed to him and he was only its compiler. This, however, is not very different from the Greek epic convention in which both Homer and Hesiod claim inspiration from the muses. In his discussion of the Catalogue of Texts and Authors from the Assurbanipal library, van der Toorn points out that the term used to indicate the author, sa pî, “from the mouth of,” is also used to introduce the “editor,” and then goes on to claim that “The author [of the Catalogue] makes no distinction between authors and editors” (44). The reason for this is obvious. The whole concept of editor is a modern invention and completely anachronistic for antiquity. It could not distinguish a category that did not exist. What would have been helpful at this point is to compare this Catalogue with that developed by the Alexandrian scholars for the Library there, with its list of authors.6 Van der Toorn next takes up the application of the comparative method as the primary source of evidence for understanding the scribal culture in ancient Judah. Since the Bible itself says so little about scribes, and virtually nothing about temple scribes, van der Troorn’s case rests very heavily upon comparison with Mesopotamian materials, of which he is an acknowledged expert. The reader would, therefore, be inclined to give this evidence great weight. Nevertheless, there are a number of serious problems with his use of this type of comparative data. First, the scribal cultures of Mesopotamia and Egypt are already more that two millennia older, many times larger and much more sophisticated in every respect than that of Judah, whose scribal culture only began in a rudimentary way in the late eighth century.7 Furthermore, the elite
6 Van der Toorn does make a few remarks about the Library of Alexandria at the end of his book, but he does not acknowledge that it is a list of authors and their books primarily from the pre-Hellenistic age. 7 D. W. Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah: A Socio-Archaeological Approach ( JSOTS 109; Sheffield: Almond Press, 1991).
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scribal scholars of Mesopotamia worked with cuneiform texts in Akkadian and Sumerian, which by the mid-first millennium were completely foreign to the population and even to many of the common scribes, who likely worked in Aramaic using scrolls. Similarly in Egypt, the scribes trained in hieroglyphs were quite distinct from those who only worked with papyrus scrolls in hieratic or demotic. Making comparisons of any sort between cultures, therefore, must be done with extreme caution. Second, for the purpose of supporting his thesis, van der Toorn focuses entirely upon the temple scribes, making all of them part of the social elite and treating them all as sages and scholars. He leaves the impression that all of the texts that he discusses are the product of this elite priestly group. This is a serious distortion of the facts. Most scribes were of the quite mundane variety, clerks and account keepers, and professional letter writers (secretaries), in other words those who produced by far the greatest amount of texts that turn up in excavations, many of which remain unpublished. Most of these scribes have little to do with temple priests, but even among temple personal there were such scribes, because the temples of Mesopotamia and Egypt often controlled very large estates of land and property. By far the largest bureaucracy was that of the palace and these always produce the largest volume of texts, both of the mundane type, but also literary and religious texts. Van der Toorn recognizes a distinction between palace and temple and the differences and larger size of archives and libraries in the palaces of Mesopotamia, but he dismisses the distinction between court and temple scribes when it comes to Judah. To leave the impression that in Judah all such texts would have been the product of the “temple workshop,” as van der Toorn does, is not supported by any comparative evidence, and much of the epigraphic evidence speaks against it. Third, the texts that were of primary concern to the temple scribes of Mesopotamia were those that correspond to the liturgical and ritualistic activity of the priests. If one were to ask what texts in the Bible compare most closely with such a corpus, then it is precisely certain blocks of texts that are now found within the P Code of the Pentateuch. One could also make a case for a collection of certain types of psalms. However, van der Toorn says almost nothing about the Priestly corpus of the Pentateuch because it would be detrimental to his thesis about Deuteronomy and the
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 111 “Levitical priests” as the temple scribes.8 By contrast, the historiographic texts of Mesopotamia and Egypt were not the concern of priests but the preoccupation of the king and the court. Furthermore, the collections of prophetic oracles were not part of the temple texts; they were not even included within the “canonical” Catalogue of Texts and Authors of the palace library. Yet they were directly related to the royal court and found in the palace archives. Furthermore, even if a copy of important royal documents, such as treaties or loyalty oaths that invoked the deities as witness, were placed in the temple and became part of its collection, they originated in the palace “workshop.” Consequently, if Deuteronomy corresponds most closely to this model, then it does not belong to the priestly “workshop,” but is the product of royal scribes who are the ones most likely to deal in such matters. The same goes for law “codes” and royal edits; they are the work of “jurists” who belong to the court administration, not the temple. There is likewise no evidence that the belles lettres were the product of the temple scribes. Nor does van der Toorn explain what happened to these bureaucratic and temple scribes after the fall of Jerusalem, but it is doubtful that they all ended up in the same place. With the establishment of a new administrative center in Mispah, at least some scribes were needed there. Those scribes who were deported to Babylon among the elite of Jerusalem may have found themselves in various locations in Babylonia, some even working for the royal bureaucracy. When it comes to applying this dubious comparative model of temple priests to the biblical texts, van der Toorn makes a rather strained effort to support his view that the Levites were a special class of learned temple scribes who were responsible for the production of biblical texts and their final “editing.” Most of his evidence is drawn from post biblical Hellenistic and later texts. To read this evidence back into earlier periods he must rely on texts in Chronicles, such as 2 Chron 34:13, which adds to the account of Josiah’s renovation of the temple in Kings the fiction that the Levites along with the priests were in charge of the supervision of
8 On p. 160 van der Toorn is forced to admit that there is a distinction between the language of Deuteronomy and the P corpus of the Pentateuch and proposes a split within the priestly ranks. This solution is hardly convincing. Priestly texts were produced by priestly scribes and non-priestly texts by other scribes, and there is nothing in the comparative literature that suggests otherwise.
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the work and in this capacity some of the Levites served as “scribes,” that is to say, accountants and book-keepers, because they handed out funds for the purchase of materials and the payment of the workers. It is entirely misleading to suggest that this verse supports the notion that these Levites were “scholars of scripture” (79). Nor can one put any weight on the text in 2 Chron 17:7-9 which speaks about officers, Levites and priests making the rounds of the cities of Judah with a scroll of the Torah of Yahweh, teaching the people. This does not single out the Levites as a special group of scribes and certainly says nothing about writing this book. The account is pure fiction, in any case. The famous text in Neh 8:7-8, which mentions the Levites in their role of explaining or translating the text of the Torah as it was being read out, has always been difficult to interpret. Whatever their function, it is not described as scribal. What is much more significant is the fact that in all the places in the Priestly code and elsewhere in Chronicles where the function of the Levites is spelled out, they are never mentioned as scribes but a lower level of priestly assistants in cultic activity or singers in the liturgy or involved in mundane tasks in the temple service. In his discussion on the making of books, van der Toorn downplays the role of the scribe as “a mere copyist,” although this was indeed a major occupation of most scribes. He then protests: “The traditional distinction between authors, editors, and scribes is misleading because it obfuscates the fact that authorship and editorship were aspects of the scribal profession” (109). This statement is itself misleading because “the scribal profession” encompasses many different professions and specializations and no “scribe” had expertise in all of them, and the more advanced scribes were often limited to a single profession. The basic education as a scribe merely led to a wide range of possibilities depending on the size and level of sophistication of the society, such as the Mesopotamian or Egyptian scribal cultures. So distinctions among scribes are very important. I agree with van der Toorn that the distinction between author and editor is misleading, but for quite different reasons. He has difficulty with the notion of ancient authorship and wants to absorb it into that of editor under the guise of the “scribe,” whereas I consider the notion of editor as an anachronism. When van der Toorn describes the ways in which scribes produce written texts (see above p. 100), he has in mind primarily all of the various tasks that scholars in the past have attributed to the redactor, to which he adds the one function of an author, that of
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 113 “invention of a new text.” It is curious that nowhere in his list does he mention the most prominent method used by scribes in producing texts, that of copying one text from its exemplar. The copy may be very carefully and accurately made and collated against the exemplar, depending on the purpose of the text being copied, or it may be altered by copyists for a wide variety of reasons, most of which should not be characterized as “editing.” Scholarly “editors” of the ancient world did not do any of the things that Van der Toorn attributes to them.9 Among the scribal methods listed, he mentions “transcription of oral lore,” which according to his examples is another way of referring to copying from dictation. However, van der Toorn wants to stretch the notion of oral dictation to include the collection and transmission of oral tradition, which he believes is reflected in the Book of Genesis, making J and E into scribal editors. This, of course, is sheer hypothesis, built upon the very old model of the so-called editors who created the poems of Homer from “oral lore.”10 The scribal method of “invention of a new text” has to do with literary composition, and this is an area that is highly contested. Van der Toorn’s primary example is the Book of Chronicles which he says is “a product from the scribal workshop” (117), about which we know nothing directly. There are no parallels to this genre in Mesopotamia, and since there are many examples of such historiography in Greece, some comparison with these might have been helpful.11 Calling the Chronicler a scribe is no more helpful than referring to Herodotus as a scribe. One of the principles of classical education was that of emulation of older models, and it is clear that the Chronicler tried to emulate Samuel-Kings, making his own improvements on it. Whether he did so, “using the tools and techniques he acquired during his scribal education” (118), is difficult to say, since we know nothing directly about them. Van der Toorn, in fact, deals with emulation or imitation under the title of “adaptation” as a scribal method of text production, but in the classical
9 See my discussion of editing and copying of texts in the classical world, in The Edited Bible, 27-59. 10 See ibid., 133-84. 11 See K. G. Hoglund, “The Chronicler as Historian: A Comparativist Perspective,” pp. 19-29 and I. Kalimi, “Was the Chronicler a Historian?” pp. 73-89 in The Chronicler as Historian (ed. M. P. Graham et al.; JSOTS 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997).
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rhetoric imitation of the “classics” is the basis of creativity in the training of authors and remains so down to modern times. Concerning the scribal “compilation of lore,” I have no doubt that the Hebrew Bible contains such examples. However, I am not certain that the Covenant Code offers a good example of this, and I find it most curious that van der Toorn compares it with Babylonian omen texts, when the most obvious comparison would be with the Hammurabi Law Code, on which it may be directly dependent.12 That, however, would push the example into the category of literary composition, where he does not want to go. On the other hand, the collections of omen texts in Mesopotamia were not the product of just any scribe, but of particular divination specialists— indeed, a different specialist for each different kind of text.13 It seems equally likely that the collections of priestly instruction (tôrâ) were also the work priestly specialists and not typical of scribes in general. In his discussion of “expansion” as a scribal method, van der Toorn makes the statement: “The preparation of a new copy of the text, enlarged with supplementary data of various kinds, could conceivably take place either in the course of a new edition or in the far more common process of reproduction from a master copy” (125). This statement is problematic. First, the notion of “edition” is an anachronism from the age of the printing press. It assumes a kind of control over publication in antiquity that simply did not exist.14 Second, the whole history of textual criticism contains abundant evidence against any such scheme. For example, there were short texts, medium texts and long texts of Homer, they coexisted side by side for a long time until the medium text won out, and the differences had nothing to do with “editions.” In fact, the critical edition of the “editor” Aristarchus of Alexandria rejected most of the additions, but the book-trade chose the medium text and it
12
J. Van Seters, A Law Book for the Diaspora: Revision in the Study of the Covenant Code (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 95-99; D. P. Wright, “The Laws of Hammurabi as a Source for the Covenant Collection (Exodus 20:23-23:19),” MAARAV 10 (2003), 11-87. 13 See the detailed study of these by F. H. Cryer, Divination in Ancient Israel and its Near Eastern Environment: A Socio-Historical Investigation ( JSOTS 142; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press), 124-215. 14 Van Seters, The Edited Bible, 1-26.
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 115 won out.15 Contrary to what van der Toorn claims, it is not the scribe as editor but as copyist who is responsible for the expansions. Van der Toorn also follows a recent trend in treating textual expansion as related to the “oral lore of the masters” and therefore comparable to the Jewish oral Torah as found in the “rabbinic tradition . . . handed down alongside the written Torah” (128). Connecting biblical “scribes” with the rabbis in this way is just fruitless conjecture, and what speaks most against it is the observation of E. Bickerman, who states: “Modern scholars misrepresent the soferim by confusing these notaries, accountants, and legists with the rabbis. It would be a rather amusing metonymy if the rabbis, who discouraged their students from writing down their opinions, had styled themselves ‘writers.’ . . . In fact the rabbis of the Talmud never called themselves soferim, reserving that name for penmen, drafters of documents, and teachers of elementary reading and writing.”16 This matter will be taken up in more detail in my review of van der Toorn’s discussion of Deuteronomy and Jeremiah. Finally, van der Toorn deals with the scribal method of “integration” of various documents into a unified composition. This is a way of integrating the Documentary Hypothesis into his scheme by merely substituting scribe for redactor. He goes on to state: “By writing a work that integrated documents with different ideas and perspectives, the scribes were creating a national written heritage that transcended earlier divisions” (141). This reflects the theory of the Pentateuch as an imperially imposed compromise, under the leadership of the single scribe, Ezra, in which the Pentateuchal documents with quite different perspectives ( J, D, P) and the products of different workshops, were somehow collected into one place for the purpose of “creating” a single definitive work. There are, of course, more questions than answers in this suggestion. After laying out his understanding about the scribal culture of ancient Judah, van der Toorn turns to the task of testing his views on Deuteronomy and Jeremiah “by looking at concrete examples: in so doing, the analysis will show that the authorship that the tradition attributes to Moses and Jeremiah has to give way to the scribes as the actual producers of the biblical texts” (141). Van der Toorn’s discussion of Deuteronomy is characterized as a “close 15
Ibid., 163-73. E. J. Bickerman, The Jews in the Greek Age (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988), 163. 16
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reading” (143), but in fact it merely refers to a number of prooftexts that are construed to fit his thesis. This very brief chapter raises a number of questions. First, it is hard to see how Deuteronomy can be representative of the Pentateuch or the historical books, when the character of this narrative corpus is so different from the rest. Van der Toorn even seems to concede that the P corpus is the work of a different group of priests, but they would hardly be working in the same “workshop.” And what of the non-P corpus ( J) which has no role for priests or Levites, not even in connection with the “tent of meeting”?17 Second, as indicated above (p. 101), van der Toorn reconstructs four editions spaced 40 years apart over a 120 yrs period. As support for this he draws a parallel with the Gilgamesh epic, but this parallel is problematic. He assumes that the epic had only two major “editions,” the first in the Old Babylonian period (ca 1700 bce) and the second “standard version” (ca 1100 bce) 600 years later. In fact, there may have been a variety of versions between these two, but except for an appendix (tablet 12) there were probably no further changes to the standard version down to the time of Ashurbanipal (seventh century bce).18 All of this remains highly conjectural. There is no evidence of any strict control over a master copy; and the epic was widely distributed in the mid-second millennium and existed in many exemplars. The history of the Homeric poems, which he ignores, suggests that they were frequently copied and widely disseminated so that the library of Alexandria collected many different exemplars. At the same time the poems were publicly recited orally by Rhapsodes, a guild of the poems’ guardians, who were certainly not scribes. There is simply no evidence for the kind of text history that van der Toorn suggests for Deuteronomy. Van der Toorn borrows his scheme of four “editions” from R.H Pfeiffer’s proposal of 1941,19 which he suggests is still widely accepted today, although that is very doubtful. However, Pfeiffer’s delineation
17
The curious reference to Aaron as a “Levite” who speaks for Moses (Exod 4:1416) seems to reflect a tradition of the Levites as oral teachers of tôrâ. See Van Seters, The Life of Moses, 61-62. 18 J. H. Tigay, The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982); K. L. Sparks, Ancient Texts for the Study of the Hebrew Bible (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2005), 275-78. This work contains a convenient summary of current views and an extensive bibliography. 19 R. H. Pfeiffer, Introduction to the Old Testament, 182-87.
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 117 of the “editions” and his whole approach to the redaction of Deuteronomy is very different from that of van der Toorn. The latter refers to the “near consensus that the Book of Deuteronomy as we know it is the end product of more than 200 years” (144), but in his own scheme he allows for only 120 years. The 200- year period of editing that he refers to actually fits Pfeiffer’s dates of 621-400, rather than his own. Regarding the first edition, the “Covenant edition,” van der Toorn finds the introduction in the rubric in Deut 4:45, which he renders: “These are the treaty stipulations—the decrees and the verdicts—that Moses spoke to the people of Israel when they left Egypt.” Here he renders adt as the equivalent of the priestly term adwt, “covenant,” and the second and third terms in the sequence of nouns as merely a clarification of the content of this “covenant.” But in Deut 6:20 we find the very same string of nouns hadt wh˙qym whmsp† ym “the testimonies and the statutes and the ordinances,” a text that belongs to his “Torah edition.” When he comes to deal with the colophon in 28:69 at the end of his “Covenant edition” he notes that here the text does use the term b^rît for covenant. But he fails to note that the colophon also includes a reference back to the covenant at Horeb in Deut 5, which he has relegated to his “Torah edition.” Thus, the distinctions between the “Covenant” and “Torah editions” are often quite arbitrary. Van der Toorn assumes with many scholars that the basic document in Deut 12:1-16:17 is a revision of the Covenant Code and bypasses the recent debate on these issues,20 but it is surely
20 H.-C. Schmitt, „ Das Altargesetz Ex 20,24-26 und seiner redaktionsgeschichtlichen Bezüge,“ in J. F. Diehl, et al. eds., » Einen Altar von Erde mache mir . . . « Festschrift für Diethelm Conrad zu seinen 70. Geburtstag, 2003, 25767; B.M. Levinson, “Is the Covenant Code an Exilic Composition? A Response to John Van Seters,” in In Search of Pre-exilic Israel: Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar (ed. J. Day; London: T & T Clark, 2004), 297-317; idem, “The Birth of the Lemma: The Restrictive Reinterpretation of the Covenant Code’s Manumission Law by the Holiness Code (Leviticus 25:44-46),” JBL 124 (2005), 617-39; B. Jackson, “Revolution in Biblical Law: Some Reflections on the Role of Theory in Methodology,” JSS 50 (2005), 83-116; J. A. Wagenaar, “The Annulment of a ‘Purchase’ Marriage in Exodus 21,7-11, ZABR 10 (2004), 219-31; J. Van Seters, A Law Book for the Diaspora: Revision in the Study of the Covenant Code ( New York: Oxford University Press, 2003); idem, “The Altar Law of Ex. 20,24-26 in Critical Debate,” pp. 157-74 in Auf dem Weg zur Endgestalt von Genesis bis II Regum. Fs Hands-Christoph Schmitt zum 65. Geburtstag (ed. M. Beck and U. Schorn; BZAW 370; Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 2006); idem, “Revision in the Study of the Covenant
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important to at least understand what text it is that this first edition of Deuteronomy is thought to be revising. If it is only the laws in Exod 21-23, then this does not include the law of the altar in 20:24-26, which is part of the prologue and closely associated with the whole Sinai theophany and law giving parallel to Deut 5 in his second edition. What exactly was the text that was part of the “stream of tradition” which his Levitical scribes inherited, and does he suppose that each successive revision of Deuteronomy returned to the older Pentateuchal source to include a yet further revision and add it to Deuteronomy? Even Deut 4 must then be understood as yet a further revision of Exod 19-20. All of these questions are simply ignored. When van der Toorn comes to discuss the “Torah Edition,” he begins with making a distinction between the sèper habb^rît and the sèper hattôrâ. This terminology does not come from Deuteronomy but from the use of both terms in 2 Kings 22 and 23 where Dtr makes no distinction between the terms, as van der Toorn later admits. Furthermore, he once again ignores the fact that the term “Book of the Covenant” is used in Exod 24:3-8 for the series of laws in Exod 21-23, the mispa†îm which Moses writes in a book and which are then used as the basis of a solemn covenant. What is the relationship of this usage to that of 2 Kings 22-23? Van der Toorn’s attempt to deal with the texts in Deuteronomy and Kings in isolation from those in Exodus will not do. Furthermore, he interprets the “commandment and decrees and ordinances” which Moses is to receive in private in Deut 5:31 as equivalent to what is called in Babylonia “the oral lore of the masters,” of which the Levitical scribes were supposed to be the experts, and which allowed them to give their “authoritative interpretation” (i.e. their expansions) of the older law. This conjecture is completely fanciful and unconvincing. First, the text has in mind the preexisting document of the so-called Urdeuteronomium, not some vague body of oral tradition, and it presents the story as a way of accounting for the existence of the laws of Deut 12-26 alongside of the Ten Commandments, written in stone. This larger body of laws is given to the people as a book at the end of their journey. Second, the scene in Deut 5:22-31 is directly equivalent to that in Exod 20:18-21, which results in the deity dictating to Moses the Covenant Code, Code and a Response to my Critics,” SJOT 21 (2007), 5-28; idem, “Law of the Hebrew Slave: A Continuing Debate,” ZAW 119 (2007), 169-83.
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 119 and this collection of laws Moses writes in a book and gives to the people. There is nothing in all of this that suggests a body of “oral lore,” or a group in authoritative interpreters. Van der Toorn’s attempt to link the Levites to the judiciary is equally desperate (158). First, he appeals to Deut 17:8-13, in which it states that in serious legal cases where a verdict may be in dispute the matter is to be brought before a centralized judiciary consisting of a priest or priests and a judge who will arrive at a verdict. Just how this is to be done is unclear from this text, but this does not give van der Toorn license to make out of the priests a kind of supreme court. What the text most likely has in mind are those difficult cases that must be settled by the use of ordeal and this rite could only be administered by a priest (see Num 5:11-31), as authorized by a judge. This was also the case with the taking of oaths administered by a priest, as Mesopotamian parallels make clear.21 There is no question that this was a common practice in Israel and the text assumes this fact. The point of the text is that this rite could no longer be done by priests locally but must now be administered at the central sanctuary, as repeatedly stated in Deut 17:8-10. When it comes to the appointment of judges (Deut 16:18-20), nothing is said about using Levites for this purpose. Second, van der Toorn’s reading of the law of the king in Deut 17:14-20 is likewise fanciful. He regards the text as suggesting that the king is to be “subservient to the priests,” because it says that the king is to be chosen by God; “this is another way of saying that the candidate for kingship had to have the approval of the priests.” (158). The remarks in 17:14-16, however, seem to reflect Dtr’s account of the election of Saul and David, in which the priests play no role whatever, as well as the excesses of Solomon. The king is also exhorted to make a copy for himself of Deuteronomy from the one that is in the safekeeping of the Levitical priests (17:18). Van der Toorn stretches the meaning of this text to suggest that they had a “monopoly on the Torah” (159) and on all of its editorial processes. However, the text merely suggests that the priests were the custodian of the law book as a sacred object, the original, from which a royal scribe could make a copy.22 Furthermore, 21 See G. R. Driver and J. C. Miles, The Babylonian Laws, Vol 1 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1952), 466-69. 22 Assurbanipal often requested copies of important religious texts from the priests of the major temples of Babylonia for his own personal use and his library. He was hardly under the supervision of these priests.
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the deposit of covenant documents in the temple follows a very old tradition of placing in temples treaties made under oath to which the gods are witnesses. Nowhere in Deuteronomy does in suggest that any of the Levites were themselves scribes. Their duties as spelled out in Deut 18:1-8 have to do with their right to serve at the one altar, nothing more. Van der Toorn tries repeatedly to represent the priests as the successor to Moses. To do this he must argue that the prophet who is presented as the successor to Moses in 18:15-22 is in fact a redefinition of prophecy into “the priests who possess the Torah.” That is simply a case of special pleading, based upon the acceptance of all the previous arguments about the priestly control of Deuteronomy and not on anything suggested within the text. When Joshua is chosen as successor to Moses (Deut 31:7-8), the priesthood does not have any role in this; and even in a later version in which Joshua’s investiture takes place at the Tent of Meeting (31:14-15, 23), there is not a priest in sight. The Levites who carry the ark of the covenant are commanded by Moses to put the book of the Torah beside the ark for save-keeping as a kind of legal document, which can be used as an indictment against the people if they violate its terms. Their role as caretakers does not turn them into scholars and jurists of the legal tradition. The treatment of the “History Edition” can only be described as superficial, particularly because within the parts that he identifies with Dtr there are clearly later additions as well. In particular there are additions by a Priestly writer within Deut 1:1-5, in 10:6-9, in 32:48-52, and within 34:1-12. In particular, the colophon in 34:1012 does not belong to Dtr’s version of Moses’s death, but is part of a post-Dtr (=J) addition.23 The whole point of van der Toorn’s discussion of the History Edition is to attribute to his Levitical scribes the notion that “they are also historians” (162). However, in taking over Pfeiffer’s pre-Nothian ideas about multiple Deuteronomistic editors, van der Toorn fails to come to terms with the relationship of the “historical” portions of Deuteronomy to the rest of the so-called Dtr History as a work of a singular historian. To accept the view that Deuteronomy became incorporated into a larger historical work would create havoc with his editorial history.
23 See J. Van Seters, The Life of Moses: The Yahwist as Historian in Exodus-Numbers (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1994), 451-56 for detailed analysis.
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 121 Van der Toorn likewise takes over Pfeiffer’s notion of a Wisdom Edition as the last major redaction of Deuteronomy, identified in Deut 4 and 30, but he fails to explain why he does not include chapter 29 with 30, as Pfeiffer and many other scholars do.24 Furthermore, what is striking is the frequent reference to covenant (b^rît) between Yahweh and his people and the complete absence of this term in van der Toorn’s Covenant Edition. To be sure, the term does occur in 28:69 [29:1], which van der Toorn regards as the colophon to the Covenant Edition. However, other scholars feel that this verse is an introduction and connecting link with what follows, rather than the conclusion to the preceding text.25 As we have seen above, it has connections with both the Horeb pericope in Deut 5 and the historical framework of Dtr, both of which are outside of the Covenant Edition. Van der Toorn makes much of the wisdom character of Deut 4, a fact that has long been recognized. Concerning the “scribe” of the Wisdom Edition, he states: “Wisdom, in his experience, is an international currency; it can be recognized for what it is, irrespective of the mother tongue or nationality of the observer. Concomitant with his high regard for wisdom, the editor displays a trust in the value of argumentation” (163). The matter, however, is not so simple. If one looks at the so-called discourses in Proverbs 1-9, one finds that the typical terms used to characterize the sage’s teaching and authority, his “teaching” (tôrâ ), his “commandments” (mißwòt), are in sharp contrast to their use in Deuteronomy which speaks of living by Yahweh’s instruction and commandments.26 This belongs to a process of the theologization of wisdom, intended for the faithful and very much in conflict with the more “secular” international scribal culture. One is reminded of Philo’s use of Hellenistic philosophy to articulate the true meaning of the Law of Moses for the faithful in Alexandria in opposition to paganism. Philo’s writings were not the product of a Hellenistic academy; and Deuteronomy was not produced in a sage’s “workshop.” Van der Toorn places the “Wisdom Edition” in the Babylonian diaspora, based upon various Babylonian parallels, as he does with
24 Pfeiffer, Introduction, 185-87; see also A. D. H. Mayes, Deuteronomy (Grand Rapids, MI : Eerdmans, 1979) 358-71. 25 Mayes, Deuteronomy, 360-61. 26 R. N. Whybray, Wisdom in Proverbs (SBT 4; London: SCM, 1965), 67-68.
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the previous two editions, and dates it to the Persian period, ca 500 bce. The dating of the text, however, is not so easy to decide, and his arguments for this are very weak. There are many correspondences with the language and perspective of Second Isaiah, but the direction of influence is disputed. Braulik, for instance, compares the theme of monotheism in both Deuteronomy 4 and Second Isaiah and concludes that Deuteronomy is earlier.27 Furthermore, a number of scholars have noticed a direct dependence of Exod 20:22 upon Deut 4:36, which makes van der Toorn’s late date difficult.28 Nothing speaks against a date in the exilic period. Regarding the last three editions which are said to have been produced in Babylonia by Levitical scribes, where exactly does van der Toorn visualize the placement of this “workshop” if there was no temple? Who was in charge of this “editorial” process, especially if the priestly hierarchy itself seems to have been divided? Where was the scroll kept? What did the scribes do between editions, since they did not copy texts—the usual occupation of scribes? All of his prior treatment of scribal culture, its role in education and its relationship to the temple, does not seem very relevant to life in the exile and the diaspora community in Babylonia. Was the community of Jews who were left behind in Judah bereft of any “biblical” text, even after the first return, until the priests and Levites return under Ezra? Van der Toorn further argues that throughout Deuteronomy Moses is presented as a model scribe, but this is nowhere explicitly stated. Only at the very end of Deuteronomy is Moses said to have written the laws down in a book to be kept for future reference, but this makes Moses no more a scribe than Hammurabi, or than Yahweh who is quite explicitly stated to have written the Ten Commandments on the two tables of stone (Deut 5:22; 10:1-5). Nor is Moses ever represented as a priest. The fact that Moses teaches and preaches does not make him into a Levitical priest, since teaching was an activity of sages and preaching is associated more properly with prophets throughout the Deuteronomistic History, especially accompanied with threats of judgment. The attempt to transform Moses’s explicitly prophetic role into a priestly one is
27
G. Braulik, The Theology of Deuteronomy (Dallas, TX: BIBAL Press, 1994), 123-26. 28 See Van Seters, A Law Book for the Diaspora, 49-51 for discussion of these texts.
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 123 special pleading. This is particularly the case with his attempt to link the notion of oral Torah with the priests as a continuation of the office of Moses. The “oral Torah” is quite anachronistic from the time of the rabbis, who were neither priests nor scribes. The fact that van der Toorn can make so many glib pronouncements in support of his view is illustrated by one of his concluding statements: “Deuteronomy takes us from Hilkiah to Ezra; both are priests and both are associated with the Book of the Torah. Ezra, however is also a scribe.” Hilkiah, the high priest, who is said to have “found” the scroll, was not himself a scribe but relied upon the royal scribe, Shaphan, to read the document to the king. And Ezra has never been associated with Deuteronomy, but more likely with the Priestly Code. Without commenting in detail on van der Toorn’s treatment of the Book of Jeremiah as a product of the scribal culture, I will highlight a few important details. He makes a great deal of the fact that oracles of prophets were copied by scribes of the temple and stored in collections in temple archives, sighting the NeoAssyrian examples, but this is not what this evidence suggests. In the case of the Assyrian collections from the time of Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, Marti Nissinen indicates that these kings in particular “consulted all kinds of specialists in different methods of divination. Among them were not only astrologers and haruspices, but also prophets whose words Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal regarded as significant enough to be copied, compiled and put in the royal files.”29 In other words, the prophetic collections were made by royal scribes for the service of the king and stored for consultation in the palace “archives.” They were not compiled by temple scribes, who did produce and store in the temple archives other specialized texts of divination over many centuries as a “canonical collection” because these were essential for the practice of their profession. The Mari prophecies were also found in the royal archives as part of the files of a particular king and not as part of a long literary tradition. If one can seriously doubt the presence of collections of prophetic oracles in temple archives, then van der Toorn’s scheme of the scribal process of making prophetic texts is cast in doubt.
29 M. Nissinen, References to Prophecy in Neo-Assyrian Sources (State Archives of Assyria Studies VII; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1998), 4, see also p. 170.
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Van der Toorn considers possible objections to this temple connection, i.e. that the subject matter does not fit with the temple concerns and that the biblical prophecies seem to be the special collection of the followers of individual prophets; nevertheless he maintains his belief in the temple files. Yet he asserts that these files were largely irrelevant because the writers of the oracles worked from memory rather than consulting the files, just as Baruch did from his own or Jeremiah’s memory for the oracles along with its biographical elements. He them claims that subsequent scribes expanded the collection from “collective memory” based upon “hearsay” and from oracle records in the temple files. This is all quite speculative and contradictory. It is difficult to understand how this corpus of Jeremiah’s prophecies is transmitted from the collection of Baruch and friends to a scribal workshop somewhere in the exile, where it is reworked into the book that we now possess. It is significant that van der Toorn ignores the major studies on Jeremiah, such as William Holladay, Robert Carroll, and William McKane, to name the most obvious. In McKane’s monumental work, he strongly disputes the view of successive editions in Jeremiah, proposing in its place the suggestion of a “rolling corpus.” Based upon the most extensive and critical comparison of all the variants between MT and the Septuagint in Jeremiah, McKane concludes: Here a comparison of MT and Sept. reveals how the Hebrew text has developed and shows that we are not encountering a systematic, comprehensive scheme of editing, but exegetical additions of small scope, operating within limited areas of text. This exegetical expansion or commentary is triggered by a verse or a few verses of pre-existing text, and it this procedure which is indicated by the term ‘rolling corpus.’ Such triggering or generation necessarily has a piecemeal character: the pre-existing Hebrew text, as represented by Sept., has generated a kind of expansion which does not serve the ends of a thoughtful, all-embracing redaction or a superintending, theological tendency.30
This conclusion completely undercuts any basis for the broad editorial activity that van der Toorn proposes for Jeremiah and McKane’s analysis likewise undermines Emmanuel Tov’s view of two editions, upon which van der Toorn’s treatment of Jeremiah is based.31 30 W. McKane, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Jeremiah, vol. 1: Introduction and Commentary on Jeremiah I-XXV (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1986), lxxxilxxxii. 31 For a fuller discussion of this issue, see Van Seters, The Edited Bible, 327-32.
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 125 Perhaps there is a way of understanding the development and preservation of written collections of prophetic oracles. Prophetic oracles are ephemeral by nature because they are associated with specific situations, with the result that in a short time they become obsolete, like a bill of sale. That is likely why so few are found in Mesopotamian collections and these have a very limited time-span. By contrast, the great divination omen lists, consisting of observations of heavenly bodies, entrails of animals, etc., compiled by diviners, which were linked to events of the distant past, could be used by these experts for centuries to predict future events. When the reform movement of Deuteronomy banned all forms of divination except prophecy, then the oracles of past prophets, whose words had proven to be true, could be used in place of omens as a guide to future events. Prophecy became increasingly linked to prediction and the esoteric interpretation of past oracles to the disclosure of future events. In chapter eight, van der Toorn argues that with the transition of oral to written prophecy, the scribes invented an understanding of revelation that was based upon the written word. In order to make his case, he again appeals to Mesopotamian culture, and once again I find the example a little misleading. He proposes the view that it was in the twelfth century bce that scribes in Mesopotamia made use of a new paradigm of revelation, based upon the transition of oral lore to written text. This he sees in the collection and standardization of incantations, astrology, medical texts, and omen texts, a process that ends several centuries later in the seventh century Catalogue of Texts and Authors. Such a comparison, however, is problematic. Mesopotamia was a scribal culture for 2000 years before this change in the Twelfth century and there were certainly many texts related to all aspects of divination prior to this period, which were kept and consulted by literate specialists during this period. Collections of omen texts of many different kinds, each used by its own particular specialist, go back to the Old Babylonian period, some earlier, and continued to increase in size and complexity down to the late first millennium. Furthermore, throughout the first millennium bce such compendia of texts were still in the hands of specialists, who used them in their practice. There may have been a more developed articulation of their divine origin to enhance the authority of those specialists who possessed and made use of these materials, but to suggest that it somehow had to do with a shift from oral to written tradition is quite
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misleading.32 Furthermore, as Cryer points out, some forms of divination continued to be practiced privately (e.g. the interpretation of dreams), without any textual control, and yet were still held in high regard, even by royalty, at the height of the NeoAssyrian empire.33 Many of these forms were probably banned by the Deuteronomists because they could not be so easily controlled. Furthermore, in the seventh century the kings of Assyria made frequent use of prophets and other forms of divination that did not belong to the written collections so that Mesopotamian religion of the first millennium could hardly be called a religion of the book. In the application of this thesis of oral to written revelation in the case of Deuteronomy, however, van der Toorn has a problem because he accepts the view that the major tradition behind D is the written Covenant Code, of which D is a revision. To get out of this pickle he simply asserts: “The innovation of Deuteronomy lies not in the fact of its being written Torah, then, but in its claim to be a source of authority overruling the oral tradition” (225). But surely this is special pleading. The Covenant Code and its context place the full weight of authority upon the text of the Book of the Covenant, which alone becomes the basis of the covenant between God and his people, even more clearly than is the case in Deuteronomy.34 Furthermore, in his history of the concept of revelation, van der Toorn chooses to skips over any discussion of how the Book of the Torah goes from being a designation for a law book within Deuteronomy to a designation of the Pentateuch as a whole. That problem, however, has been a very thorny one in Pentateuchal studies, which cannot be so easily dismissed. In his summary on the transition from oral to written revelation, van der Toorn makes the statement that “Textbooks supplanted oral lore as the main source of instruction and reference” (232), and in doing so he is perpetrating a rather crass anachronism.35 It
32 See, in particular, the detailed study by Cryer, Divination, 124-215; also W. Farber, “Witchcraft, Magic, and Divination in Ancient Mesopotamia,” CANE 3:1895-1909; A. L. Openheim, Ancient Mesopotamia (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964), 206-27. 33 Cryer, Divination, 157-67. 34 In my view the Covenant Code is later than Deuteronomy; see A Law Book for the Diaspora. 35 This view was first proposed by Richard Simon. See Van Seters, The Edited Bible, 185-91.
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 127 is similar to Carr’s notion of biblical texts as constituting a curriculum, but the latter was much more guarded in what he meant by this.36 One can say with some confidence that no biblical text was specifically created as a teaching instrument, a “textbook,” any more than Homer or the classics, which were used in Greek education, were created for this purpose. Later, in his discussion of David Carr’s association of the canon with a curriculum, he seems to contradict himself and reject the idea of biblical books as textbooks.37 In the one place that van der Toorn attempts to make use of the Alexandrian tradition of scholarship to develop his notions of the canon, he does not quite get it right. He states that the pinakes were used “as normal library catalogues. Because the selective pinakes listed only the foremost among the poets, orators, historians, and philosophers, they functioned in fact as a kind of canon” (243). He then uses this to suggest that a similar selective process was made for use in the synagogue library: “The canon resembles the pinakes in that it can be viewed as a list of works ideally present in every synagogue library” (243-44). The analogy breaks down for a number of reasons. First of all, the pinakes was in fact a comprehensive catalogue, and in the case of the Alexandrian Library, the Pinakes of Callimachus was one hundred and twenty scrolls long. It was not just a list of books, but organized by authors under various categories, and contained biographical material, as well as the number of lines in the edition used by Callimachus.38 However, it was actually a subsequent scholar, Aristophanes, who made use of the Pinakes of Callimachus to create a selection of authors in each category of literature who were the best of their class, and it is this selective list that became the classici, meaning writers of the first class.39 This selection of the “classics” by the leading Greek scholars of the day was not just a recommended list for libraries. It had everything to do with education and establishing the foundation of the curriculum. These were the works to be mastered and emulated
36
Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart. See pp. 244-47 and note 47. 38 See P. M. Fraser, Ptolemaic Alexandria, vol. 1:Text (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972), 452. 39 R. Pfeiffer, History of Classical Scholarship from the Beginning to the End of the Hellenistic Age (Oxford: Clarendon, 1968), 206-7. 37
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and it was to these works that the Alexandrians gave their greatest attention. The Jewish canon developed as a rival to this Hellenistic canon, and the Torah of Moses as a rival to Homer.40 Above all, it is Josephus, in Contra Apion 1:38-41, who compares the select number of twenty-two books of the Jews’ sacred corpus with the much larger number among the Greeks, and it is clear that he has the corpus of “classics” in mind, with which he is very familiar, as he demonstrates in his work.41 His classification of the biblical books is made to correspond with those that would be familiar to the Greeks, but it clearly remains a puzzle to decide what he means by his categories. The five books of Moses consisting of the laws and the archaic history from the creation to Moses’ death is clear enough. However, he lists thirteen books of history by prophets, and four books of hymns and precepts. This seems like a desperate effort to come up with the fixed number of twenty-two books, but about this number van der Toorn has no comment. Instead, he places great weight upon the notion of the “canonical era” of prophecy as the defining criteria for the eventual creation of the canon, even though it is first articulated by Josephus three centuries after its supposed invention in the third century bce. Furthermore, he only invokes this argument in defense of the historical reliability of Moses and the histories and not for the third group of hymns and precepts. In fact, as Mason points out, even Josephus was quite inconsistent on this matter, regarding John Hyrcanus (135-104 bce) as a prophet.42 All the evidence from Qumran and from the Septuagint speaks against van der Toorn’s thesis, as well as the fact that Ben Sirach was for a long time revered in the synagogues as a staple of their libraries. It is much more likely that the notion of a “canonical age” of prophecy was invented as a rationalization for a more limited canon and not the reverse. The Greeks certainly regarded their great works of the past as inspired by the Muses, and the scholars of Alexandria, although not priests, did their work in the Museum, the temple of the Muses. They gave particular attention to Homer, the most inspired work
40
See Bickerman, The Jews in the Hellenistic Age, 171. See S. Mason, “Josephus and his Twenty-two Book Canon,” in The Canon Debate (ed. I. M. McDonald and J. A. Sanders; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002), 114; also Van Seters, The Edited Bible, 354-55. 42 Mason, “Josephus,” 117. 41
the role of the scribe in the making of the hebrew bible 129 of them all, and divided both of his poems up into twenty-four books, each numbered according to a letter of the Greek alphabet. Josephus, who was well educated in Homer (cf. C. Ap. 1:12), must have been well aware of this method of the division of Homer and uses the same kind of division for the Jews sacred books, even though numbering the books by using the alphabet was quite unnecessary and very awkward for the Jewish corpus.43 It seems more likely to me that Josephus and his generation were influenced more by this Greek idea of a selected corpus of great works of the past and by Greek notions of inspiration than by a very esoteric seventh century Mesopotamian conception of divine authorship. It should be obvious at this point, that I cannot accept the general thesis of this book, namely, that a succession of temple priests over the course of several generations were responsible for the creation, redaction, and transmission of all the biblical books and for the final delineation of the ultimate shape of the Hebrew canon. In spite of his accumulation of a massive amount of comparative material, especially from Mesopotamia and his erudite mastery of it, too little attention is actually paid to the biblical side of the equation, and the connections become forced and superficial. Nevertheless, the sheer vigor of his argument forces one to go back again to the texts and reconsider a new range of possibilities. It is unfortunate that, in spite of reading David Carr’s book, he pays so little attention to the Greek cultural context. Given his academic stature in the discipline of biblical and Near Eastern studies, I am sure that the work will receive a lot of attention and, hopefully, some close scrutiny.
43 Note that the number twenty-four, corresponding to the Greek alphabet, is often used as an alternative to twenty-two. For a discussion of these numbers see Van Seters, The Edited Bible, 353-55.
REVIEW: TT 136 Das thebanische Grab Nr. TT 136 und der Beginn der Amarnazeit, by Alfred Grimm and Hermann A. Schlögl. Wiesbaden: Harassowitz: 2005. Pp. vi + 56, 54 black-and-white plates. The title of this curious monograph is not entirely representative of its contents, but it may be also be claimed that no single title could adequately encompass its divergent themes. The volume is comprised of just four chapters, each devoted to a distinctly different topic, so that the whole does not present a coherent unity of flow: nonetheless it is, in places, a provocative study of certain aspects of the reign of Akhenaton (in particular the syncretism of Osiris with this king) and its immediate aftermath. Chapter 1 serves as an introduction to the primary thesis of the book—the supposed Osirian aspects of the Aton religion—using as a springboard Theban tomb 136, which the authors are in the process of preparing for publication. The location of the tomb had been lost1 until the authors’ present research, so that the lack of even a rudimentary map in this volume, showing its situation in the Theban necropolis, is a disappointing omission. The authors assert that the tomb was originally made for an official called Ipy, then apparently taken over by one Ipy-ankh, a usurpation made easier by the similar names. Although no complete title is preserved on the walls or ceiling of the tomb, the first owner is equated with the well known royal steward of Memphis, Ipy, nephew of the vizier Ramose and a courtier known for his letter to Akhenaton in year 5. There is nothing objectionable per se in postulating a Theban tomb for a Memphite official, but the identity of these two individuals apparently rests on the most fragmentary (and unpersuasive) textual evidence: the title [. . .] nb t¡.wy [. . .]. It is unfortunate that the reader can have little reliance on the epigraphic observations offered in this chapter. The tomb itself is very badly damaged, so that it is critical that the photographs of 1 As noted by Friedericke Kampp, Die thebanische Nekropole, vol. 1. Theben 13. (Mainz: von Zabern, 1996), p. 424.
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the walls be accompanied by line drawings that reliably clarify what still remains of the original decoration. Instead, only an inadequate sketch of the tomb owner on the right thickness of the doorway is provided, in addition to hand copies of two sun hymns. The hymn above the tomb owner’s head is stated to have been recarved, as suggested by the presence of an intrusive vertical line that is described as the remnant of an earlier column divider. Yet there is apparently no other trace of the purported earlier text registration, nor any suggestion as to the content of the original inscription. The accuracy of the hand copy itself seems doubtful, since the photograph seems to disallow the proposed text restoration in respect to sign distribution and spacing (pl. 6). Nor, alas, can the reader place confidence in the summary reconstruction of the tomb owner’s figure (see pls. 4-5). To be sure, the line drawing is not intended to be an exact copy (compare the facial details with the photograph in pl. 6), but the over-long forward arm is restored using a remnant of relief that cannot possibly belong to it, unless the rock itself has shifted drastically. Moreover, the location and reading of the cartouche of Neferkheperura— which securely assign the tomb to Akhenaton’s reign—are both suspect. The location of the royal name, tucked ignominiously under the owner’s buttocks, with the title nsw.t-b™ty perched directly atop the enclosing ring, is dubious in the extreme. There is no space above the cartouche for the continuation of a column of text, nor is there any attempt to suggest a context for the royal title: a floating titulary in this location is unparalleled and prima facie unthinkable.2 Furthermore, to judge from the photograph provided, the canted orientation of the signs within the cartouche raises the suspicion that these “traces” are only fissures in the stone. One can only hope that such reasonable doubts will be answered in the final publication of the tomb, said to be forthcoming. The main element of tomb 136 that serves to introduce the Osirian theme of Chapter 2 is the single extant Osiride pillar (out of four originals) in the tomb apparently carved in the image of Amenhotep IV/Akhenaton in the early years of his reign, according to the authors, by virtue of several stylistic features. Due to the
2 The anomalies are such that one wonders, in fact, whether the epigraphic conclusions are based on close examination of the wall or primarily on inadequate field photography. The photograph in pl. 7 was taken at an angle.
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badly damaged nature of the tomb, very little, if anything, of the original finished surface remains, so the stylistic likening of this pillar to the colossi of Amenhotep IV at Karnak is based primarily on gross form, not on detail (pls. 8-9). The enlarged belly and swollen hips noted by the authors, however, are not unique to this ruler: they are also to be found (for example) on certain statues of Amenhotep III in his last decade. The most convincing criterion linking the pillar to Amenhotep IV is the apparent presence of raised bands on the wrists of the figure that, in later statuary, contain the Aton’s didactic names; but again, due to the ambivalent nature of the documentation, the reader is left in doubt as to whether these raised bands are clearly there.3 Chapter 2 outlines the volume’s main thesis that Akhenaton did not banish Osiris, the god of the underworld, from Atonist theology, as so many scholars have claimed, but instead incorporated him in his own person, as son of the solar disk and its sole representative on earth, with the world of the living and the dead thus combined in a single king-deity. In part, the thesis stems from such observations as the existence of mummiform (ostensibly Osiride) figurines of Akhenaton from the royal tomb at Amarna, and from the fact that there is no evidence of persecution of Osiris during Akhenaton’s reign. The authors support their thesis largely by reassigning a group of stela depicting Osiris, Isis, and Horus to the early reign of Amenhotep IV (rather than the immediate aftermath of the Amarna period) on stylistic grounds centering on the figure of Osiris, who dominates the lunettes of the stelae. The artistic criteria are lamentably spare, however, and are asserted to consist of the “facial features” of Akhenaton—without further elaboration as to what these may be—or the presence of an elongated neck, or the “Knickung in der Hals-Kopf-Achse” that has indeed been used as a diagnostic feature of Akhenaton on reliefs dated to his reign. The extent to which such features may survive his reign, however, has not yet been fully explored, but many scholars have assumed this to be the case. Nor are apparent contradictions to this revised chronology fully addressed, such as personal names with the theophoric element “Amun” left intact, which by itself would suggest a post-Amarna date. The authors then proceed to identify Isis
3 The authors do note the trace of a kilt, which would indicate a royal figure; one must await the tomb publication for confirmation of this feature.
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with queen Tiye, also by reason of her facial features,4 concluding that the falcon-headed Horus must thus represent the third figure in a familial triumvirate: the deceased Amenhotep III (as on the Munich stela ÄS 51, pls. 20-21). Since this last identification clearly cannot be based on royal “Gesichstszüge”(!), attention is drawn to a number of parallel instances wherein Amenhotep III is indeed represented acting as a god, and specifically as the falcon god Horus.5 More startling is the authors’ contention that the lunette depictions of Horus, labeled “protector of his father,” must represent Amenhotep III as the son of Osiris/Akhenaton and Isis/Tiye, thus inverting the historical biological relationship. There are three objections to this argumentation. First, the stelae are redated to the reign of Akhenaton on the basis of art-historical criteria that are then used to support the identification of Osiris as the king. Second, the labeling associated with Osiris is largely limited to such banal epithets as “foremost of the westerners, lord of Abydos, ruler of eternity,” etc. It is distinctly arguable whether contemporary Egyptians (literate or not) would have recognized, in a specifically Abydene deity, the person of their living king by virtue of such subtle distinctions as the “Knickung in der Hals-KopfAchse.” Third, the tortured familial perturbation (Akhenaton-Tiye and their “son” Amenhotep III) makes little sense in terms of either traditional or Atonist religion, but seems necessitated solely by the occurrence of “Nebmaatra” connected to the epithet “protector of his father” in at least two instances. The reader cannot help but feel that the syncretism has a simpler explanation: that Amenhotep III is honorifically identified as the son of Osiris and Isis, whose mythic son he is on earth. Indeed, in one instance cited, British Museum 365 (pl. 28), the name and titles of Amenhotep III were clearly added as an afterthought, tucked into a convenient vacant space and carved in smaller scale, probably as a posthumous homage. Furthermore, the nagging question remains open: why should such a significant concept as the unity of Akhenaton-Osiris never be 4
These same features, however, have also been ascribed to Neferneferuaton; see Dimitry Laboury, “Mis au point sur l’iconographie de Neferneferouaton, le predecesseur de Toutankhamon,” in Egyptian Museum Collections around the World, vol. 2, edited by Mamdouh Eldamaty and Mai Trad (Cairo: Supreme Council of Antiquities, 2002), pp. 711-22. 5 See, usefully, Suzanne Bickel, “Aspects et fonctions de la déification d’Amenhotep III,” BIFAO 102 (2002), pp. 63-90. The king’s name accompanies most of her examples.
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explicitly labeled as such, and be confined to free-standing stelae, rather than represented in a more explicit way on the walls of Amarna tombs? The last two chapters are brief excurses, offering comments on quite separate topics. Chapter 3 likens a lapidary carving of a pair of embracing monkeys to similar charming representations of royal Amarna personages in kissing poses, with the observation that the monkeys may represent a deliberate caricature, satirizing the intimate artistic conventions of the Amarna period and, by implication, the Aton religion that spawned them. Chapter 4 summarizes the authors’ views on the origins and parentage of Tutankhamun. No new evidence is adduced in this case, but a previously published relief in a private collection (pl. 48) is usefully brought to the reader’s notice, making the important point that a “shade” (sw.t) of Tutankhamun existed at Amarna—a structure normally reserved for important members of the royal family—and that the occurrence of the early didactic name of the Aton indicates that the prince must have been born by Akhenaton’s twelfth year. The authors reach the sober conclusion that Tutankhamun’s parents were Akhenaton and, probably, Nefertiti. In every respect this volume, so curiously titled, is amply illustrated and referenced, with a great deal of useful discussion contained in the footnotes, which reward careful reading. But in the end the theories set forward must be considered as provocative rather than convincing.
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