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in Neo-Hittite Kingship
A Preliminary Survey of Possibilities
Abstract: Ethnographic and historical data from many regions of the world indicate the extent to which
kingship as an institution involves the creative management of both affinity and consanguinity. Royal
ideologies often depict the king as an affinal relative of his people, but at the same time he is also a link to
prestigious sources of alterity which legitimize his right to rule over his people as an “intermediary”
between them and the outside world. Sahlins (1985; 2008; 2010; 2013) has written sweeping surveys of
the phenomenon of alterity as it applies to kingship and other forms of power, and has also demonstrated
the existence of what he refers to as “stranger-king formations” (2010:108) or “dual polities” (ibid.:109),
polities where the king traces his descent from a prestigious foreigner or deity, but is also related to his
people via a myth of kinship with an indigenous population from whom he derives his legitimacy. In this
paper I argue for the usefulness of these concepts in thinking about kingship in the so-called “Neo-Hittite”
polities of Anatolia and Syria in the Early Iron Age (c.1200-700 BC), using data derived from
archaeological and epigraphic sources.
Figure 1: Map of the Neo-Hittite and Aramaean States c.800 BC. From
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/fe/NeoHittiteStates.gif
The fall of the Hittite Empire gave rise to a variety of polities in which elite identity and
(kinship relationships based on sharing a common “substance”; Sahlins 2008:195) and affinity
(kinship relationships based on alliance with the forces of alterity; ibid.). While kingship in
general can be described as involving the practice of skilled management of alterity within a
framework of kinship, the specific historical circumstances in northern Syria and southeastern
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Anatolia at this time produced a situation in which the representation of kingship was
particularly loaded with great intercultural political significance. While in the beginning of this
period the remnants of the old Hittite Empire reorganized themselves into a number of powerful
“Neo-Hittite” states, the size and power of these polities gradually declined over time, to the
point where they became easy pickings for a resurgent Assyria in the second half of the 8th
century BC. Furthermore, the prestige of the old imperial Hittite international style that was
retained for several centuries after the fall of Ḫattuša gradually waned, both with the steady
increase in Assyrian power beginning around 900 BC, and with the migration of nomadic
Aramaic-speaking tribes into these polities’ territories, tribes that would eventually overthrow
the reigning Hittite-inspired dynasties and replace them with their own chieftains, beginning
Such a situation of tribes and empires in the midst of shifting “international styles” was
particularly conducive to the formation of what Sahlins (1985; 2008; 2010; 2013) refers to as
stranger-kingships, a Weberian ideal type (2010:108) referring to polities where the ruling
dynasty is both kin and stranger to its subjects, where it derives authority from kinship links to
both prestigious deities and/or “Other-peoples” as well as to the people it rules over. This
situation necessarily generates competing sources of sovereign legitimacy, sources which can be
exploited by both the king and his subjects in situations of domination and revolt. Indigenous
elites play a key role in this game. While they are not themselves of the royal lineage, by virtue
of their prior ties to the king’s land and subjects, they often control access to the local sources of
As will be explained below, it seems that the polities of northern Syria and southeastern
Anatolia in the Iron Age, both before and after the Aramaean and Assyrian takeovers, can be
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usefully analyzed as stranger-kingdoms. My primary case studies in this paper will be the
polities of Carchemish, Sam’al, and Palstin (Pattina). However, before getting to these case
studies we must make a short detour in order to describe the nature of political authority in
Figure 2: The Hittite Empire at its greatest extent, c.1300 BC. Egyptian-dominated territory is to
the south in yellow; Assyria to the southeast in green. From
http://www.ancient.eu.com/image/248/
It was Stanley Tambiah (1977) who first coined the term “galactic polity” in order to
Tambiah’s description of galactic political dynamics, apical kings, often claiming to be masters
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of the universe, must in fact exercise their power through subordinate chiefs and regional lords,
who themselves must exercise power through lesser chiefs and lords, and so on, down to the
level of village headman. In the Southeast Asian contexts, we sometimes find lesser chiefs
paying homage to two or three “masters of the universe” at the same time and playing the apex
Several studies have recently been put forward which examine the internal power
dynamics of Ancient Near Eastern societies and have questioned earlier views of these societies
as highly centralized. Seth Richardson (2012) has described early Mesopotamian polities as
“presumptive states,” polities in which the official propaganda depicted the power of the state as
centralized in the person of the king, but which in reality constantly had to negotiate with local
village and tribal leaders within its claimed territory. Bruce Routledge (2004) has analyzed the
kingdom of Moab in Iron Age Transjordan which existed from c.850-550 BC through the lens of
the galactic polity. In his close analysis of the Mesha Stele (c.830 BC), in which the Moabite
ruler Mesha describes his conquests, Routledge notes how Mesha refers a variety of “lands,”
each characterized by the name of a city or town, which were under his control; Routledge takes
each of these lands as a local sub-polity with its own leader(s) over whom Mesha was claiming
to be the paramount ruler. David Schloen (2001), building upon the earlier research of Lawrence
Stager (1985), critiques previous scholars as taking for granted the Classical Marxist model of
highly centralized states operating on an “Asiatic mode of production” and makes the case that a
more segmented form of political authority was characteristic of Ancient Near Eastern polities in
general, and was organized around metaphors of kinship ultimately rooted in the patrimonial
household characteristic of the way of life of the average Ancient Near Eastern peasant. Hence
the king of an Ancient Near Eastern polity was represented as a “father” to his people and at the
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same time was the “son” of the polity’s chief deity. Likewise, in situations of imperial
domination and vassalage, such as the Hittite Empire in the Late Bronze Age, the Great King of
Ḫatti was addressed as “my father” by his vassal rulers while at the same time he corresponded
with his “equal,” the King of Egypt, addressing him as “my brother.” Kinship relations were the
conceptual framework upon which the internal and international political orders were built.
While Schloen refers to this arrangement as “patrimonial,” using a version of classical Weberian
terminology, he does note that it is compatible with Tambiah’s notion of galactic polity (Schloen
2001:72).
It must be emphasized that it is not only individual polities that behave in a galactic
manner, but entire cultural and political systems as well. Norms of cultural prestige emanate from
apex polities or imperial centers, and the material forms of elite culture in the peripheral polities
often mimic the forms of those of the central polities even though the meaning attributed to these
material forms may change drastically as they move from culture to culture. Thus Sahlins
(2010:114) takes note of Edmund Leach’s classical study of Kachin social structure in highland
Burma (Leach 2004 [1959]), commenting on how Kachin village chiefs were often said to
“become Shan” by intermarrying with the neighboring Shan rulers of the lowlands who often
dominated them politically, and adopting their style, mannerisms, and architectural forms; the
Shan themselves, for their part, adopted much of their own royal style from the Chinese Empire
that historically dominated the entire region. Hence the dwellings of Kachin chiefs were referred
symbolic associations bear an uncanny resemblance to the Chinese imperial dragon; likewise
these dwellings came to be associated with rituals whose outward form and function (though not
necessarily their culturally-specific meaning) came to resemble those performed Chinese Temple
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of Heaven (Sahlins 2010:114). According to Sahlins, it is such galactic systems of political and
cultural domination which often give rise to stranger-kingships—in their competition for cultural
prestige via the appropriation of prestigious forms of alterity, sometimes a peripheral elite will
“substance”—with the galactic center, or with some other prestigious source of alterity such as
the divine realm, the untamed wilderness, or a famous deceased empire of the past. Such a
privileged claim to common substance with alterity positions these monarchs as affines—kin via
alliance rather than common substance—to their subject populations. No longer of common
with non-royal elites may complicate this), these kings are genealogically distinct, hence the
term “stranger-king.”
historical migrations of peoples as well as by fictional claims of kinship with emperors, gods, or
heroes; in the Near Eastern examples studied below we find that there is very often a core of
historical reality in monarchs’ claims to foreign ancestry vis-à-vis their subjects. The most
important element of stranger-kingship is the political structure that it produces: a “dual polity”
(Sahlins 2010:109) in which the king has privileged consanguineous kinship relations with the
gods or certain heroic strangers which the majority of the people of his realm do not, but where
religious specialists and other local elites who control the king’s access to the gods of the land
have privileged kinship relations with the people themselves, and thus serve as a competing
source of royal legitimacy based in consanguineous kinship vis-à-vis the subjects which is often
in conflict with the king’s own claims to legitimacy based on affinity vis-à-vis the subjects. This
necessarily creates tensions within the political system and often leads to a diarchic or
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heterarchic power structure within a polity that is conceptually a monarchy. This tension is often
expressed via a myth of marriage between the dynastic founder and an indigenous political
leader’s daughter, an indigenous political leader who is often linked genealogically to the
polity’s priesthoods which are firmly associated with the land and territory; conversely, such an
indigenous political leader may not be closely linked with the priesthood, but instead may
become a “prime minister” to the stranger-king and serve as a basis for incorporating local non-
Economically, this creates a system in which the “indigenes”—that is, those who claim
“a privileged spiritual relation to the land and its products” (Sahlins 2010:110)—are the main
societies, the form of production referred to here is agricultural production. The indigenes in this
system by necessity compose the majority of the peasant population, directly ruled over by local
lords, chieftains, and priestly lineages that are often treated as the “owners” (ibid.:109) of the
land before the rise of the founder of the stranger-dynasty. These indigenous elites are therefore
“kingmakers,” in the sense that they provide the foundations of the royal dynasty’s legitimacy in
ruling the land, as it is primarily through the king’s affinal relationships to them that he
There is also a duality between the gods of king and those of the indigenes. The gods of
the king are celestial and cosmopolitan, while those of the indigenes are terrestrial and local:
1
In the eyes of the king himself, however, the hereditary dynastic principle often takes precedence over any
relationships to indigenous elites. On a pan-elite basis, therefore, the maintenance of the political structure
depends on a dialectic between the dynastic principle, on the one hand, and marriage ties between king and local
elites on the other. These principles may themselves be contested by the non-elite populations of the kingdom,
who may or may not have completely different principles on which political legitimacy is based. However, the
ideologies of the non-elite are largely inaccessible to us archaeologically, as they did not produce texts that we can
interpret.
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“More than merely political, the conjunction here is cosmological, which is what helps it endure.
In the instance at hand, the foreign rulers are to the native people in some such encompassing
relation as the Celestial is to the Terrestrial, the Sea to the Land, the Wilderness to the Settled; or
in abstract terms, as the Universal is to the Particular, a ratio that also holds for their respective
gods. We see, then, why the narratives of the original stranger hero function as all-round cultural
constitutions: the union with the other, which is also an elemental combination of Masculine and
Feminine, gives rise to the society as a self-producing cosmic totality, if it does not also restore a
cosmogonic unity. On a specifically human plane, the same is replicated in the legendary
marriage of the god-like stranger with the native princess that synthesizes their opposition in the
dynastic line they initiate. But then, as a fruitful union of socially and sexually differentiated
persons, marriage itself demonstrates the principle that the acquisition of alterity is the condition
In what follows, I will examine the evidence for the ruling dynasties of several North
Syrian and Anatolian polities in the period following the end of the Hittite Empire (although
occasionally going back a little earlier when the argument demands it). I will argue that it is
useful to analyze these societies through the lens of the stranger-king concept as it provides us
with a useful heuristic for understanding the structure of political authority in these kingdoms
and the ideologies of cosmology and kinship on which they were based.
The term “Neo-Hittite” refers primarily to an artistic and architectural style. The term is
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descended from that of the Hittite Empire that emerged following the disintegration of that
empire into the constellation of petty states found here. The style is characterized by large portal
lions, monumental orthostats featuring narrative scenes of royal and divine significance and,
from the 9th century BC on, a distinctive palace style generally referred to as the bīt ḫilāni
(Bonatz 2004).
Most of the states where this style is attested produced inscriptions in Hieroglyphic
Luwian, although in the southeastern part of this stylistic zone, this was replaced or
supplemented beginning in the 9th century BC with various West Semitic languages written in
alphabetic script, predominantly Aramaic dialects2, but occasionally also Phoenician. The switch
from Hieroglyphic Luwian to West Semitic alphabetic monumental inscriptions did not,
general stylistic shifts away from the Neo-Hittite style were correlated with the expansion and
For example, at Sam’al (Zincirli Höyük), which became an Assyrian vassal state around
840 BC in the reign of Kilamuwa, royal art and architecture becomes increasingly Assyrianizing
in style over the next century and a half yet retains a distinctly local flavor in part derived from
its Neo-Hittite origins (Bonatz 2014:210). However, apart from a single graffito inscribed on a
piece of metal discovered in the 2013 season3 (in which the author participated), no Luwian
Hieroglyphic inscriptions have been found at the site. The earliest monumental inscription dates
to the reign of Kilamuwa and is written in Phoenician, while later inscriptions are written in a
2
I consider Sam’alian to be an Aramaic dialect. This will be clarified below in the section about Aramaeans and the
Aramaic language.
3
The actual metallic object was discovered in a previous season. However, the Luwian graffito was not noticed
until the object was cleaned at the dig house in 2013.
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local dialect called Sam’alian as well as in Standard Old Aramaic, the latter of which becomes
prevalent in the reign of Bar-Rakkab, last king of Sam’al, with the increase of Assyrian
influence4. This reflects the shift of Sam’alian royal art away from one “ideological center”
(Carchemish; Bonatz 2004:209) to another (Assyria [ibid.:205], which had a large population of
Aramaic-speakers and beginning in the 8th century BC used Aramaic for administrative purposes
alongside the traditional Akkadian), corresponding to (but following in time by about a century)
It should be noted that by the 9th century BC the Assyrians were using the terms “Ḫatti”
and “Amurru” interchangeably to refer to the area occupied by kingdoms using this architectural
style (Osborne 2012:32). In the preceding Late Bronze Age, “Ḫatti” referred to the Hittite
Empire, while “Amurru” was the name of a small kingdom in what is now northern Lebanon.
However, the overlap of these terms and their association with what we would identify as Neo-
Hittite art and architecture is attested by the Display Inscription of Sargon II (r.722-705 BC),
which claims that Sargon built “the exact copy of a palace from the land of Ḫatti, which is called
bīt ḫilāni in the language of the Amorites” (translation from Osborne 2012:32). In this context,
the term “language of the Amorites” clearly refers to West Semitic-speakers (Aramaeans and
others) living in “Ḫatti.” That Ḫatti and its architectural style held some sort of alterity-prestige
for the Assyrian kings even at this late date when Assyria was clearly the dominant power is
reflected in the Southwest Palace of Sennacherib (r.705-681 BC) at Nineveh and the North
Palace at the same site. Room XLVIII (M) in the Southwest Palace was “deliberately designed as
a western-style unit, reminding visitors which culture had the upper hand between east and
west,” (Osborne 2012:36) i.e., between Assyria and the Neo-Hittite polities to its west. The
4
This political significance of this will be discussed in the section on Sam’al below.
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North Palace contains the garden scene of Aššurbanipal (r.668-627 BC) as well as Room S, both
of which are also highly evocative of architecture and furniture from the Neo-Hittite style
(ibid.:32-36). It should be noted that the term “Ḫatti” is used in some instances to refer to
Carchemish in particular, for example in the Nimrud Inscription of Sargon II (2.1I81) which
refers to Pisiri, king of Carchemish, as the “King of Ḫatti” (translated in Hallo and Younger
2003:298-299), while Yaubidi, king of Hamath, is referred to in another inscription of the same
king (2.118E, the “Great Summary Inscription”) as “an evil Hittite” (translated in ibid.:296-297).
Clearly the term “Ḫatti” had a variety of meanings in Neo-Assyrian usage, referring to both
North Syria in general (analogous to the “kings of the Hittites and the kings of Aram” referred to
in I Kings 10:29, with whom Solomon is supposed to have traded horses5), and to the kingdom
of Carchemish in particular, which had been the dominant political power in North Syria from
the 12th-10th centuries BC and had maintained a tradition of political and cultural continuity with
the Hittite Empire going back to the Bronze Age (at least until the 10th century BC; see below).
Thus, while it goes without saying that no ethnic or linguistic unity should be attributed
to the polities or style referred to here as “Neo-Hittite,” the Assyrian and biblical evidence does
indicate that some notion of “Hittite-ness” was attributed to certain inhabitants and polities of
North Syria by their neighbors. This “Hittite-ness,” was distinguished from an “Aramaean”
component on the part of at least one biblical author, and maintained a particular association with
Carchemish in at least some contexts within the Assyrian scribal tradition, although it also had a
5
While other biblical texts identify “Hittites” as one of the peoples living in Canaan before the Israelite conquest,
these texts generally refer to the mythical time period of the Patriarchs and Exodus, and therefore should be
bracketed from the present discussion. The context of the comment about Solomon’s horse trade, however, while
placed in an aggrandizing and probably inaccurate narrative about Solomon’s greatness (cf. Sass 2010), is
nonetheless revealing of the geopolitics assumed by the author or scribe who inserted the comment—for this
individual, the “kings of the Hittites” are placed in association with the “kings of Aram,” to Israel’s north in what is
now Syria. Note also II Kings 7:6, where the king of Damascus is depicted as fearing that the king of Israel has hired
“kings of the Hittites” to attack him.
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much broader application as well. The imprecise but still limited associations of the terms
“Ḫatti” and “Hittite” in our sources referring to this period should be kept in mind throughout the
following discussion. However, their imprecision and porousness does not detract from their
usefulness as analytical categories, as it is precisely this fluctuating reference that would have in
part made them useful terms for kings wishing to base their authority on the prestigious alterity
of a dead empire.
Fig. 3: Basalt portal lion orthostat from ‘Ain Dara near Aleppo in Syria, 10th century BC. Typical
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Fig. 4: Plan of a bit-hilani type palace from Tell Tayinat, site of Kunalua, capital of Palstin
The first Hittite dynasty of Carchemish was installed by the Hittite Empire around 1340
BC, upon the conquest of North Syria by Šupiluliuma I, who installed his son Piyyašili as King
of Carchemish (Van Exel 2010:66). The rulers of Carchemish, until the fall of Ḫattuša around
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1180 BC, represented a collateral branch of the ruling dynasty of Ḫattuša, serving as a sort of
“viceroyalty” to the Great Kings of Ḫatti who had control over the affairs of the lesser kings of
Syria. Local Syrian monarchs addressed the kings of Carchemish as “my father” the same way in
which they would have addressed the Great Kings of Ḫatti, and in periods of imperial weakness
the kings of Carchemish assumed even greater control over the local Syrian polities, as can be
Indeed, the picture of Hittite control of Emar, as detailed in Van Exel 2010, provides us
with the earliest examples of the Hittite kings of Carchemish acting in their capacity as stranger-
kings in a galactic context. While subordinate to the Great Kings at Ḫatti, the kings of
Carchemish exercised a large degree of control over the smaller kingdoms under their rule. The
data provided by the cuneiform archives at Emar, in comparison to the slightly earlier pre-
conquest ones at Ekalte, demonstrate the ways in which Hittite rule changed the political
institutions of the region. Prior to the Hittite conquest of North Syria around 1340 BC, it would
seem that both Emar and Ekalte—culturally-similar “Amorite” (West Semitic) polities located
along Upper Euphrates—operated according to what Van Exel (ibid.) refers to as an “ideology of
peer authority.” While Ekalte possessed a king, it would seem that his authority was extremely
limited, and the authority within the polity was exercised by a “upper council” of “Elders”—
probably elderly male heads of extended patrimonial households deriving their legitimacy from
the city-god Ba‘laka (as attested by their seals)—led by a ḫazannu, or “mayor,” elected from
among their numbers. In addition to this council, there also seems to have been an informal
institution of the “Brothers,” probably representing all adult males, whether they were heads of
households or not. While we do not know if the king of Ekalte represented himself as a stranger
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reminiscent of the ideal type of stranger-kingship, in which the indigenes’ claim to power
limiting that of the king is based on an intimate association with both the land (or in this case, the
city-state), and its local deities (in this case, Ba‘laka, probably the local Upper Euphratean
Moving along in time to the period after the Hittite conquest, the archives from the
nearby polity of Emar attest to a similar political structure to that of pre-conquest Ekalte (Van
Exel 2010). Indeed, before the Hittite conquest, there is no evidence at all for kingship at Emar,
the highest political office being that of the elected ḫazannu. It would seem that kingship at Emar
was implemented by the administration at Carchemish, probably with the hereditarization of the
post of ḫazannu. Over the course of nine “generations” as enumerated by Van Exel, the kings of
Emar seem to have gained more and more power at the expense of the local councils, until the
local Emarite kingship was removed by King Kuzi-Tešup of Carchemish in the early 12th century
BC.
Kuzi-Tešup himself took on the mantel of “Great King” upon the fall of Ḫattuša. In his
inscriptions, Kuzi-Tešup also claimed kingship over the northern city-state of Malatya, taking on
the full title “Great King and Hero of Malatya and Carchemish” (Hawkins 2000a:73; Van Exel
2010:66). Apparently this dual polity of Carchemish and Malatya split upon the death of Kuzi-
Tešup, but the next three kings of Carchemish continued to use the old Hittite title of “Great
King and Hero” (Hawkins 2000a:73-81), and the following four kings of Malatya also emphasize
their descent from the “Great King and Hero” Kuzi-Tešup (Hawkins 2000a:73, 282ff), although
his origin from Carchemish is not mentioned in their inscriptions and they do not claim the title
themselves. The title “Hero” here is interesting for our stranger-kings argument—while it is of
very old origin in the Middle East, harking back to early Mesopotamia, myths of stranger-
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kingship often emphasize the newcomer’s heroic deeds that secure him the throne, deeds that
often involve a conquest over the forces of both the divine and animal worlds—in short, over the
forces of alterity (Sahlins 2008; 2010). In the Ancient Near Eastern context, this hero-symbolism
is best known from the Epic of Gilgamesh, the titular hero of which served as the prototype of
kingship in Mesopotamia (Winter 2008) and who was known in the Hittite world via translations
of the epic (cf. Foster 2001). In the title of “Hero,” then, we have multiple levels of alterity being
used to legitimize Kuzi-Tešup’s kingship—to the residents of Malatya, his origin as the king of
Carchemish would have made him a stranger; his descendants at Malatya recognize this by
claiming descent from him, hero-title and all, but not claiming that title for themselves; and his
successors at Carchemish maintained their claim to his title (although not the kingship over
Malatya). Overall, it seems that Carchemish in the immediate post-empire period had replaced
Ḫattuša as the center of galactic prestige in the Hittite world, and the early Malatyan kings’
invocation of their descent from the hero-conqueror of Carchemish represents the alterity-
prestige associated with that center from the Malatyan point of view. By claiming affinity with
the Hero of Carchemish, the early kings of Malatya claimed a source of alterity vis-à-vis their
population in the very act of claiming affinity with the ruling dynasty of a neighboring state,
despite the fact that the populations of both polities participated in a wider Neo-Hittite cultural
koiné associated with the now-defunct imperial center at Ḫattuša. Subsequent rulers of Malatya
seem to have dropped the claims of descent from Kuzi-Tešup, perhaps implying a change of
dynasty, but the appropriation of the alterity-prestige of the old Hittite traditions remained
Around 1000 BC, the dynasty of Kuzi-Tešup at Carchemish was overthrown by a man
named Suhis, who made certain important changes to the royal style and titulary (Gilibert
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2011:12-13; Hawkins 1999a:77-8, 82ff). The dynasty of Suhis dropped the title of “Great King”
for themselves, possibly reflecting the fading memory of the institutions of the old Hittite
Empire, instead calling themselves “Country-Lords,” a much more humble title reflecting the
“feudal” or galactic nature of the Carchemishite polity at this time, organized into a series of
small-scale vassals based in cities (Gilibert 2011:14-15). This is also reflected in the re-naming
of the polity in inscriptions from the “land” of Carchemish to the “city” of Carchemish (Hawkins
1999a:82ff; Gilibert 2011:14-15), emphasizing the very real decline in power of the city at the
expense of a resurgent Assyria as well the increasingly powerful Aramaean tribes and the rise of
the kingdom of Taita to the west (see below). The inscriptions do, however, give us a glimpse of
the hierarchically-organized galactic titulary at this time, which seems to have consisted of Great
Kings, Kings, Country-Lords, and River-Lords in that order (see also the section on Taita
below). Interestingly enough, at least one Great King (Ura-Tarhunzas) seems to have remained
While the dynasty of Suhis seems to have severed some of the more obvious links to
stranger-kingship vis-à-vis its population in the form of the cult of the dead ancestors. In
particular, there is evidence that monarchs and their queens were deified upon death (Gilibert
2011:31-2, 46-7; Hawkins 1999a:87-92). BONUS-tis, wife of Suhis II, seems to have been at
least semi-deified in her commemorative image on the Long Wall of Sculpture at Carchemish,
and a colossal statue dedicated to the god Atrisuhas—which Hawkins (1999a:101) translates as
“image (soul) of Suhis,” i.e., the deified dynastic ancestor Suhis I—was erected by his
descendent Katuwas, horns of divinity and all (Hawkins 1999a:94ff; 1999c: Plates 10-12). The
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their divinity, and would become a deity himself upon his death, implying that he was of a
Fig. 5: Statue of Atrisuhas standing atop lion base from Carchemish. Note that the motif of a
figure standing atop lions is usually associated with the Storm God (Hadad, Teshup, or Tarhunt),
http://www.newsnfo.co.uk/images/God%20Atarluhas%20sml%20copy.jpg
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Taita, Hero and King of the Land of Palstin
While the fall of the Hittite Empire cannot be attributed to a single cause, one of the
major events that occurred in its wake was the migration of “Sea Peoples” of Aegean origins into
the coastal regions of Southern Anatolia and the Levant. While there were various groups of
these peoples, some of whom appear as mercenaries in earlier periods, the most prominent of
them appear to have been the Philistines, who are known to have settled in the coastal region of
Southern Palestine, where they appear as a distinctive culture organized into four or five city-
states during the Iron Age. However, new discoveries at Tell Tayinat in the Amuq region of
Hatay Province in Turkey, as well as new readings of previously-published Luwian texts from
Aleppo and the Hama region in Syria, suggest that the Philistines had a wider distribution along
the Levantine coast than previously thought. In particular, Tell Tayinat, known in the Iron Age as
Kunalua, capital of the Kingdom of Pattina or Unqi, was settled in the early 12th century BC by a
group of immigrants with material culture and dietary practices of mixed Aegean-Anatolian-
Cypriot origin, similar to the classical “Philistine” material culture of the same period in the
Southern Palestinian coast (Harrison 2009). A pair of Luwian inscriptions from Meiharde and
Sheizar in the Hama region in Syria, along with inscriptions found at the Temple of the Storm
God at Aleppo, attest to the existence of a powerful stranger-kingdom with Philistine roots, with
Two stelae in the Hama region—later the Kingdom of Hamath (attested in the 9th century
BC and later, and itself a stranger kingdom, although that is beyond the scope of this paper6)
6 th
Sader (2014:22) suggests that the 9 -century BC dynasty of Hamath may itself have been an offshoot of Taita’s
dynasty. The inscriptions of this kingdom are in Luwian as are the names of its kings. Given that Hamath was on the
periphery of Bronze Age Hittite rule and seems to have been outside the Neo-Hittite elite cultural sphere until the
time of Taita, the present author finds this suggestion plausible.
19
were found at the nearby sites of Meiharde and Sheizar, both mentioning a man called Taita,
King and Hero of the Land of Palstin (Hawkins 1979; 2009). One of the stelae is a funerary
monument to Taita’s wife, and both are dedicated to the “Divine Queen of the Land”—probably
the West Semitic goddess Baalat, known from later Hamathite Luwian inscriptions as Pahalatis
(Hawkins 1999b:403ff), and also known as the main goddess of the nearby Phoenician city-state
of Byblos (Peckham 2001). The other is simply Taita’s dedication to this same “Divine Queen of
the Land.” We here find one of the classical elements of stranger-kingship: a king, based in a
foreign region (in this case the Amuq, see below), paying homage to the local deities, probably
with the interdiction of local priests. However, his inscriptions are not in the local Semitic
language, but rather in Luwian, part of the “international style” of the Syro-Anatolian region at
this time (probably around 1000 BC; cf. Hawkins 2009; Harrison 2009). As we will see below,
Taita’s kingdom can be considered as not only a “dual polity,” but in fact, as a “triple polity” at
It is almost certain that the “Land of Palstin” that Taita claims to be king over is identical
to the polity known in later Neo-Assyrian inscriptions as Pattina, reflecting the instability of the
boundary between the d and l phonemes in Luwian (cf. Hawkins 2009), and its standardized
transcription into Akkadian as the former. This polity Pattina, however, is only known from
Neo-Assyrian sources of the 9th century BC and later, when it is relatively weak, limited to its
core territory in the Amuq region around Tell Tayinat, its power eclipsed within Syria by both
Damascus and Hamath. The inscriptions of Taita and his wife, however, attest to a much larger
and hitherto unknown extent of this polity in the poorly-documented decades around the turn of
the 1st millennium BC. The name of the polity Palstin reflects the name of the Philistine
immigrants who are known to have settled in the Amuq region in the 12th century BC. However,
20
it is unknown if Taita himself claimed Philistine ancestry or simply inherited a polity named
after a large component of its population base—Taita is a good Luwian name, and, as noted
before, Taita’s inscriptions and iconography are in the standard Neo-Hittite international style of
the period. Additionally, a 9th-century ruler of the much smaller rump-state governed by Taita’s
successors is named Šupiluliuma (Bhanoo 2012), the same name as the Hittite Great King who
conquered Syria some 500 years earlier, possibly suggesting a claim of dynastic or at least
cultural links with the old imperial center of Ḫattuša (Hawkins 2009 notes that such “classical”-
sounding Hittite names were quite common throughout the Iron Age southern Anatolia well into
the 8th century BC, despite the fact that Hittite as both a spoken and written language had long
been replaced by Luwian). It is also common for polities ruled by stranger-kings to be named
after the people they rule rather than the people they claim to be descended from (Marshall
Sahlins: Personal Communication), and if we take the ideal type as our model, it is not
unreasonable given the evidence to hypothesize that Taita was a king claiming links with the old
Hittite ruling house (as suggested in Harrison 2009), ruling over a population consisting of a
major Philistine component which provided the name of the polity, as well as most likely an
refer to the polity as Unqi as well as Pattina, the former being an indigenous name for the region
known from the Bronze Age which still survives in the form of the modern geographic
designation “Amuq.”
The evidence from the Temple of the Storm God at Aleppo (cf. Hawkins 2009;
Kohlmeyer 2009) also seems to position Taita within the ideal type of the stranger-king. Aleppo
was already a very old site of the worship of the Storm God by the time the Hittites got to it; the
temple dates to the 3rd millennium BC, and cuneiform texts from the “Amorite” period (Middle
21
Bronze Age) refer to the deity worshipped there under the Semitic moniker of “Adad of Aleppo.”
After the conquest of the region by Šupiluliuma of Ḫatti around 1340 BC, the temple was
extensively renovated in classical Hittite style, and Luwian inscriptions from the Late Hittite
Imperial Period refer to the “Storm God of Aleppo,” depicted in Hittite garb with horns of
divinity; it is likely that the local Semitic inhabitants of Aleppo would have continued to refer to
the god as Haddu or Hadad, and that the deity would probably have been referred to as Tešup in
Seemingly cognizant of the long-standing local importance of this temple, Taita made his
mark on it by inserting his own orthostats and inscriptions onto the outside of the temple
(Hawkins 2009; Kohlmeyer 2009), including one in which he has himself facing a (much earlier)
image of the Storm God on an almost equal plane, minus the horns of divinity which mark the
Storm God as a divine being. In this composite image, Taita claims the prestige of a realm of
alterity which is both temporal and ontological—by putting himself “on equal footing” with the
Storm God, he makes a claim to privileged access to the divine forces which control nature and
fertility; at the same time, by inserting his own Iron Age image and inscription into a Bronze Age
scene which dates back to the hoary days of the Hittite Empire, he implicitly makes a claim to
continuity with that empire’s legacy, positioning himself as a “rival” to slightly earlier kings at
Carchemish and Malatya who were making the same claims, but who since the coup of Suhis I at
Carchemish had ceased to make such claims. There are multiple levels of alterity being
mobilized in the figure of Taita—that between his implicit links to the old Hittite Empire due to
his active participation in both the Neo-Hittite international style as well as renovation of old
Hittite monuments, his claimed link to the Philistines of Aegean origin as revealed in the name
of his kingdom, as well as even deeper links with indigenous Semitic-speaking populations as
22
represented in his respect for both the “Divine Queen” of the Hamath region (Baalat) as well as
his attempt to derive legitimacy from his renovation of the Temple of the Storm God at Aleppo
which, although by the time Taita got to it already had a long history of Hittite rule, was
nonetheless of very old origin and, although this cannot be demonstrated directly from the data at
hand, most likely had a very old priesthood to go with it, as was quite common in the Near East,
from Babylonia to Palestine. The survival of these old, venerable sites of religious ritual is
known to have often included the survival of institutional priesthoods tied to the location of
veneration, despite the coming and going of new rulers and populations, and the changes of
name by which the gods in question might be known. Thus the religiously-motivated
assassination of the Assyrian king Sennacherib for his destruction of the holy city of Babylon
(Parpola 1980), and the propaganda of the Persian king Cyrus the Great paying homage to the
Babylonian priests of Marduk on whom he was dependent for his legitimacy (Lincoln 2007).
This phenomenon of new kings paying homage to old gods at old temples staffed by old
priesthoods, tied to the locality at which they worked and to the people who lived there, is very
typical of stranger-kingship, and Taita’s multiple levels of alterity—in which his own Hittite
pedigree intersects with the Philistine identity of his polity, which itself intersects with the pre-
kings can become indigenes by virtue of being conquered by yet another set of strangers (Sahlins
2010:108). It should also be noted that the indigenous gods Taita pays homage to at Aleppo and
Hamath are celestial storm and fertility gods, demonstrating the both the king’s co-optation and
incorporation of the terrestrial, local forces of fertility, as well his ability to mobilize the
celestial, universal forces of the storm god (Hadad, or Baal) and his consort (Baalat).7
7
It should also be noted that one of Taita’s inscriptions at the Aleppo temple attests to the galactic hierarchy of his
23
Fig. 6: Monument of Taita, “King and Hero of the Land of Palastina,” dedicated to the “Divine
Queen of the Land.” Found at Meharde, near Hama in Syria. From
http://www.hittitemonuments.com/meharde/meharde02.jpg
polity, which included kings, country-lords, river-lords, and commoners. It is interesting that Taita does not claim
the title of Great King for himself, although he was almost certainly aware of it—Taita was most probably
contemporary with the Carchemishian Great King Ura-Tarhunzas, who was probably little more than a figurehead.
The expansion of Taita’s polity was roughly contemporaneous to the time in which Carchemish, under the new
dynasty of Suhis, was significantly reconfiguring its royal ideology; shortly after this time, the title of Great King
disappears from the Neo-Hittite world altogether, perhaps so as not to arise the ire of a newly-resurgent Assyria.
24
Fig. 7: Taita (right) facing the Storm God in greeting pose, from the Temple of the Storm God at
Aleppo, Syria. Source:
http://www.wmf.org/sites/default/files/imagecache/project/images/project/SYR-
TemplStormGod-main-pane_0.jpg
necessarily involves delving into a bit of historical linguistics, particularly concerning the
replacement of most Neo-Hittite dynasties by Aramaic-speaking ones beginning around 900 BC,
and as to whether the royal dynasty of Sam’al can be considered “Aramaean” or not. I believe
that this can be answered in the affirmative, but before doing so it is necessary to briefly delve
into some proto-history concerning the origins and cultural affiliations of the people later known
to history as “Aramaeans.”
The ancestors of the Aramaeans were most likely the indigenous pastoral nomads of the
entire Syro-Euphrates region (cf. Lipinski 2000a: Chapter 1; 2000b; Sader 2014), probably of the
25
same stock as the earlier Amorite and Sutaean nomads of the same region. While the Aramaeans
do not appear as a collective ethnicon in the Assyrian sources until the end of the 12th century
BC, individual tribes that would later be known as “Aramaean” make their appearance a century
before this (ibid.). It would seem that the Aramaeans, as first encountered in the Assyrian sources
in the 12th and 11th centuries BC, were a confederation of various tribes indigenous to the Upper
Euphrates region. Whatever unity this tribal confederation had when it was first encountered
seems to have dissolved fairly quickly, as various branches of the Aramaean tribal confederation
were founding independent kingdoms in Syria and Mesopotamia by around 900 BC, from
Damascus in the South to Arpad (based in Aleppo) in the North. Various other groups of
Aramaic-speakers, who may not have actually identified as Aramaeans, were at play here as
well, such as the Chaldeans, a tribal confederation who settled in southern Babylonia (Lipinski
2000b) as well as the Laqê, who seem to have consisted of an amalgamation of Aramaic-
speakers and North Arabian-speakers (Lipinski 2000a: Chapter 3), and who seem to have had
It is here that we must make a distinction between Aramaeans per se and Aramaic-
speakers. In his 1995 article “What is Aramaic?” John Huehnergard argues that Sam’alian—the
Northwest Semitic dialect spoken by the royal dynasty at Sam’al—falls outside the range of “Old
Aramaic proper” and is probably no more closely related to Old Aramaic than it is to any other
insistence that the development of bn into br (“son”) and wḥd into ḥd (“one”) has no historical
8
Unfortunately, while the relationship between Hamath and the Laqê, including and especially the figure of Zakkur
“Man of ‘Ana, King of Hamath and Lu‘ash,” is perhaps the most interesting case of stranger-kingship in the entire
Iron Age, there is simply too much data regarding the political structure of Hamath in order to do it justice in a 40-
page MA thesis. Zakkur makes a brief appearance in this section, but mostly as background information for my
argument regarding Sam’al.
26
significance because lexical items are a poor gauge of language evolution may have relevance if
this were the only innovative trait uniting Aramaic and Sam’alian, but when this is combined
with the other shared innovative features that Huehnergard dismisses in an ad hoc manner—the
orthographic realization of Proto-Semitic * with the letter qof, the near-absence of the N-stem
(Gzella 2014:101), the development of the emphatic particle *hin into a conditional particle
(Dion 1978:116), and a final vowel of î in the causative and probably D-stem forms of the final-
weak verbs (ibid.), a picture emerges of a dialect which, while not standard Old Aramaic, is
clearly closer to it than to any other known language. It should be noted that Garr, in his 1985
study of the dialect continuum of Syria-Palestine in 1st millennium BC, takes the bulk of the
represents a spoken dialect intermediate between Sam’alian and standard Old Aramaic (Pardee
2009), indicates that Sam’alian was indeed within a dialect continuum with Old Aramaic. The
evidence of dialect continuity indicates that the Semitic-speaking royal dynasty of Sam’al can be
considered part of the same population movement that led to the rise of Aramaic-speaking
dynasties in former Neo-Hittite territories, even if they were never part of the tribal
Indeed, I would argue that the commonsense assumption that Aramaic-speaking tribes are
necessarily self-identified Aramaeans and vice versa may need to be revised in light of the
evidence. The Chaldean tribes of Southern Babylonia were almost certainly Aramaic-speakers
and yet are never referred to as “Aramaeans” in any historical documents, and indeed are
consistently distinguished from Aramaean groups living in the same region (Lipinski 2000b).
27
The biblical authors claimed Aramaean ancestry for the Israelites (Deuteronomy 26:5; Genesis
22:20-24; 25:20; 28:5), although they did not speak Aramaic and more often than not defined
themselves against the larger concept of “Aram,” which was usually associated with a region
stretching from northern Palestine to the Harran region of Syro-Mesopotamia, and especially the
kingdom based around Damascus (Genesis 24:10; II Samuel 10:6-8; 15:8; Zechariah 9:1),
The Laqê, for their part, seem to have been a tribal confederation consisting of both
Aramaic and North Arabian speakers (cf. Lipinski 2000a). It is in this light that we should note
that Zakkur, the man who overthrew the Neo-Hittite dynasty of Hamath in 807 or 806 BC and
supposedly replaced it with his own “Aramaean” dynasty, never refers to himself as an
Aramaean in his famous inscription9—instead, he refers to himself a “Man of ‘Ana,” a city in the
Middle Euphrates region known from other sources to have been under the suzerainty of Hamath
and to have been occupied by the Laqê confederation (Lipinski 2000a: Chapter 11). Describing
the conflict that followed his seizure of power over Hamath, he refers to a coalition of kings that
tried to remove him from the throne as led by “Bar-Hadad, son of Hazael, King of Aram.” Thus,
while Zakkur makes a claim to kingship over the prestigious throne of Hamath, and
simultaneously speaks with pride of his origin as a stranger from ‘Ana, it is the king of
Zakkur had no interest in claiming that title for himself, probably because he identified first and
foremost as a “Man of ‘Ana” and probably a Laqêan, who had previously been in a subordinate
9
For two different transcriptions and translations of the inscription, see Gibson 1975:7-17 and Lipinski 2000a:254-
5. The Lipinski translation is more current and seems to be the one that is more accepted in other literature, and
thus it is the one that I follow.
28
relationship with the Neo-Hittite king of Hamath but took advantage of some historical
contingency to overthrow him. While the language he spoke and wrote in is certainly an Aramaic
dialect according to the standards of modern Semitic linguists, this does not ipso facto imply that
he identified himself as Aramaean; indeed, to the extent that he did, if at all, it was probably
What the data do imply, however—and this is where we shall return our focus to the
dynasty of Sam’al—is that despite these very real ethnic distinctions, Aramaic-speaking tribal
groups—including, but not limited to, the Aramaeans proper—can be considered as part of a
generalized movement and sedentarization of pastoral tribal groups of the Syro-Euphrates region,
beginning in the late 12th century BC and reaching its peak in the late 10th and early 9th centuries
BC, when these groups started to found their own city-based kingdoms in the midst of Neo-
Hittite and Assyrian territory. It is in this context, then, that we can turn to the situation in the
kingdom of Sam’al, whose ruling dynasty, although not necessarily or primarily self-identified
Aramaeans, seem from the linguistic evidence to have been part of the same general “wave” of
migration and sedentarization that led to the rise of polities like Damascus and Arpad around the
same time. As I will argue, with this in mind, the evidence that the ruling dynasty of Sam’al can
be considered to be within the range of variation of the stranger-king ideal type is very strong. It
29
Fig. 8: Aramaic-inscribed stele of Zakkur, King of Hamath and Lu‘ash, c.800 BC. Found at Tell
Afis (ancient Hadrach/Hatarikka) in Syria, north of Hama (ancient Hamath). From
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/20/Zakkur_Stele_0154.jpg
30
Sam’al (Zincirli) and the Kingdom of Ya’diya
Sometime around 920 BC, a man named Gabbar founded a kingdom in what is now the
Islahiya valley in Turkey, at the foot of the Amanus Mountains, at a site (known in modern times
as Zincirli) that had probably been abandoned for a century or two. The site’s name, Sam’al, is a
common Semitic word for “North,” and it is known by this name in Akkadian texts as early as
the Middle Bronze Age (c.2000-1600 BC), clearly from the viewpoint of Semitic-speakers
located to its south (Schloen and Fink 2009). This is also the name by which the kingdom is
known in the Iron Age by the Assyrians, also Semitic-speakers who were viewing it from their
more southerly viewpoint (ibid.). However, inscriptions found at the site itself indicate that this
rather Semitocentric name is not the only one by which the site itself was known. Local Iron Age
inscriptions in both Phoenician and Aramaic attest to the fact that, while the capital city was
known by its Semitic-speaking rulers as Sam’al, the kingdom itself was known locally as
Ya’diya. Starke (1999:525, cited in Schloen and Fink 2009:7) suggests on the basis of
It was these new Aramaic-speaking rulers who transformed this former small town into a
rather large citadel, which after the middle of the 9th century BC also became home to a large
lower town (Schloen and Fink 2009). The early architecture of the citadel is of typical Neo-
Hittite style, and elements of this style appear in the two most famous inscriptions of the site,
that of King Kilamuwa (c.840 BC) and that of the royal official Kutamuwa (mid-late 8th century
BC). It is these two stelae, in fact, that give us the most fascinating information about the ways in
which affinity and alterity were being manipulated to legitimize kingship over a heterogenous
population.
31
The Kilamuwa inscription, for example, is written in Phoenician, a Northwest Semitic
language that, though related to the Aramaic dialect spoken by the ruling dynasty, is nonetheless
distinct and by this time was probably not mutually intelligible with it. The “homeland” of the
Phoenician language was the Phoenician coast, home to the wealthy mercantile city-states of
Tyre, Sidon, and Byblos (Peckham 2001). While in terms of size these polities paled in
comparison to the wide swaths of territory ruled by inland tribal states like Sam’al, they were
nonetheless incredibly wealthy, and likely served as a source of prestige alterity which could be
mobilized by kings for various purposes10. The Old Aramaic and Paleo-Hebrew alphabets, for
example, were both borrowed directly from the Phoenician script in the 9th century BC, despite
the already existing alphabetic scripts in the regions in which the languages written by these
scripts were spoken (Peckham 2001), and Phoenician motifs were a large part of the Assyro-
Aramaic international style that spread across the Middle East after the decline in prestige of the
Neo-Hittite international style and the resurgence of Assyria after 900 BC. The fact that
Kilamuwa wrote in Phoenician, a language that nobody within his polity (except perhaps a few
Phoenician merchants) spoke, is a testament to the prestige of this language, and it has been
suggested (Gilibert 2011:79-84) that he deliberately used this prestigious foreign language in
order to communicate “neutrality” in the conflict between the oppressed mškbm and the powerful
b‘rrm within his polity. It has long been suggested that these two groups of people represent,
respectively, the indigenous Luwian-speakers and the foreign Semitic speakers from whom the
royal dynasty was derived; this is bolstered by Lipinski’s derivation of these words from the
roots škb (to settle) and b‘r (to roam), respectively (Lipinski 2000a:236). In this interpretation,
10
As Sahlins (2010) notes, mercantile wealth is often considered to be a particularly prestigious form of alterity,
and many stranger-kings start out as stranger-merchants.
32
agriculturalists who were being politically and economically dominated by the b‘rrm, the
“nomads” (Tropper [1993:27ff] translates “Wilden” in German) who formed the power base and
origin of the ruling dynasty. That Kilamuwa depicts himself as a fair mediator between these two
“alterity-as-neutrality” motive behind his use of Phoenician. Also interesting in terms of galactic
political dynamics Kilamuwa’s frank admission of his position of weakness vis-à-vis his
neighbors—he is at the mercy of his more powerful neighbors the Danunians to the west, and is
forced to “hire” (i.e., envassal himself to) the king of Assyria to come save him—although he is
sure to emphasize how cheaply the Assyrian monarch offered his “services!”
Kilamuwa’s name and genealogy are interesting. He was preceded by his brother Sha’il,
and his father Hayyan, both of which are good Semitic names, but his own name—and that of his
mother, TMN—are of Luwian origin (cf. O’Connor 1977; Schloen and Fink 2009; Tropper
1993:27ff). It has been suggested (Schloen and Fink 2009) that Kilamuwa had a different mother
than his brother Sha’il, perhaps suggesting some motivation to his redistribution of wealth and
mediation of conflict between the two segments of the population based in his own Luwian
heritage on his mother’s side. It appears that we may have here, frozen in time, direct attestation
to the moment in which an element of the structure of stranger-kingship was created, the moment
in which the foreign dynast married a daughter of the indigenous elite and produced a son in the
form of Kilamuwa.
The fusion of Semitic and Luwian elements at Sam’al are even more apparent in the
mortuary inscription of Kutamuwa, a royal official with a Luwian name and probably Luwian
ancestry, whose funerary inscription was, however, written in a dialect of Aramaic intermediate
between the “Old Sam’alian” used in the inscriptions of some of the Sam’alian kings after
33
Kilamuwa and the Standard Old Aramaic that was adopted for most inscriptions during the reign
of Barrakib, the last king of Sam’al before the kingdom was turned into an Assyrian province
towards the end of the 8th century BC (Pardee 2009). The iconography of Kutamuwa’s stele
attests to an eclectic mixture of Neo-Hittite, Aramaic, and Assyrian influences; the Aramaic
Luwian hieroglyphs (Struble and Hermann 2009), which by this time (late 8th century BC) were
largely going out of use except for at Carchemish and a few pockets in Anatolia (Hawkins 2009).
While no cremation burial has been found, it is clear that from both the inscription (which
mentions that the deceased’s soul is “in this stele”) and several vessels found in the mortuary
chamber, that Kutamuwa had been cremated, a primarily Indo-European (i.e., Hittite-Luwian)
tradition that the Hittites and their successors had introduced into parts of the Semitic-speaking
world (Peckham 2001; Schloen and Fink 2009; Struble and Hermann 2009). Schloen and Fink
suggest that the explicit mention of the deceased’s soul being in the stele was needed for
clarificatory purposes in a world in which these old Luwian burial traditions had been largely
replaced by Semitic practices of inhumation and collective secondary burial—that is, Kutamuwa
was communicating to his family that it was “safe” to cremate him in the old tradition, in
Also present in Kutamuwa’s stele are the mention of several Luwian gods that are largely
absent from the purely Semitic pantheon mentioned in the royal inscriptions, one of whom,
Kubaba, was also the chief deity of Carchemish (cf. Pardee 2009; Schloen and Fink 2009). In
addition to Kubaba, we also find two Anatolian deities mentioned in the guise of epithets of
Hadad (the chief Semitic deity of the pantheon)—“Hadad of the Vineyards,” known in Anatolian
context as “Tarhunt of the Vineyards” (Sanders 2013:92 and n.32); and “Hadad QRPDL,” who is
34
probably an Aramaicization of the Luwian term ḫarpatalli connoting a bond of alliance through
the sharing of sacrifice; thus “Hadad the Sacrificial Ally” (ibid.:94-5). Another epithet of Hadad
mentioned here is “He who is in Charge of Provisions,” echoing the description of Hadad from
the nearby site of Tell Fekheriye as the deity who distributes offerings to his fellow gods; this
epithet of Hadad, unattested anywhere else, could be purely local to this area (ibid.:95).
Characteristic of the ideal-type of stranger-kingship, the gods of the royal dynasty are
global and cosmopolitan, while those of the indigenes are local; the exclusion of non-Semitic
deities from the royal cult at Sam’al, deities that were still apparently worshipped even by high
officials of Luwian ancestry, fits within this pattern. What complicates the picture here, however,
is that the “local” traditions of the indigenous Luwians were also part of a much wider “global”
tradition of Neo-Hittite international style, while the global traditions of Sam’al were
cosmopolitan in the sense of being “pan-Semitic”—most of the gods mentioned in the royal
inscriptions, particularly Hadad, El, and Shamash, were common Semitic deities who had
recognizable analogues in royal cults throughout the Levant and Mesopotamia; indeed, the only
deity that seems to have been completely unique to the Sam’alian dynasty was Rakkab’el—
literally, “El’s Chariot”—who was at once both a personification of the High God El’s vehicle,
as well as the patron deity of the royal house of Sam’al at least from the reign of Ḥayya forward
(cf. Lipinski 2000a:239; O’Connor 1977). It is likely that religious specialists of local, Luwian
origin were responsible for the cults of Luwian gods (albeit sometimes reconfigured as epithets
or manifestations of Hadad), while religious specialists of Semitic origin were responsible for the
Lastly, a look at some of the inscriptions from the reign of Bar-Rakkab, last king of
Sam’al and a loyal vassal of Assyria, attest to his conscious choice to further integrate Sam’al
35
into the developing Assyro-Aramaic koiné of the second half of the 8th century BC. Most of Bar-
Rakkab’s inscriptions were written in Standard Old Aramaic, probably a result of a conscious
choice to further integrate Sam’al into the new prevailing international style (the prestige of Neo-
Hittite style now having been completely lost), although inscriptions at the cultic site of Gercin
continued to be written in Old Sam’alian, attesting to its local prestige as a dynastic cultic and
literary language (Pardee 2009). However, neither Old Sam’alian nor Standard Old Aramaic
actually reflects the spoken dialect of Sam’al at this time; the dialect of the Kutamuwa stele,
being intermediate between the two, probably approximates the local spoken Aramaic most
closely, at least that used by the elite classes (ibid.). We seem here to have a case of complex
language politics, in which multiple dialects of the same language were used for different
purposes in navigating the complex intersections between distinct cosmopolitan and vernacular
worlds—on the one hand, we have a standardized, archaizing “cultic vernacular” in the form of
Old Sam’alian, used for long-standing dynastic cultic rituals at the specialized site of Gercin; on
the other, we have the use of Standard Old Aramaic in order to integrate Sam’al into the
increasingly cosmopolitan world of the Neo-Assyrian Empire; and in between these two
extremes were probably a variety of Aramaic sociolects, only one of which is captured in the
language of the Kutamuwa stele. Further complicating the picture is the fact that Bar-Rakkab
possessed both an Aramaic and a Luwian signet ring (Schloen and Fink 2009).
A final, and particularly telling example of Bar-Rakkab’s desire to integrate himself into
the increasingly cosmopolitan world of the Assyrian Empire is an inscribed relief depicting Bar-
Rakkab on one of the bīt-ḫilāni style palaces (no. IV) found at Zincirli. The inscription reads:
2011:85-6). Baal-Harran (“Lord of Harran”) is clearly a reference to the Moon God, Sin,
36
worshipped at the city of Harran, a major city of the Assyrian Empire as well as a prominent
Aramaean cultic center (Niehr 2014). As suggested by Gibson (1975:93), this is clearly a
political statement—Bar-Rakkab, the most highly-integrated of the Sam’alian kings into the
Assyro-Aramaic koiné associated with the complete dominance of Assyria over the region from
c.745-640 BC, wishes to associate himself with the prestigious alterity of his own overlord, his
own stranger-king, the King of Assyria, by dedicating a relief to an important Assyrian and
Aramaean god worshipped at an important Assyrian and Aramaean city. Indeed, it would seem
that Bar-Rakkab was so loyal to Assyria that he was willing to give up his kingdom’s autonomy
upon his death—he is the last known king of Sam’al, and on his death it seems to have been
rather peacefully organized into an Assyrian province (Schloen and Fink 2009), escaping the
violence (often including the flaying alive of civilians and rebellious vassal-kings) that was
usually intrinsic to this process. Just when it seems the memory of any division between West-
Semites and Luwians at Sam’al was beginning to fade, Sam’al lost its Aramaic-speaking
stranger-dynasty and gained a new one, based far to the east in Assyria. One wonders if the king
37
Fig. 9: Phoenician-inscribed stele of Kilamuwa, King of Sam’al/Ya’diya, c.840 BC. From
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/04/Pergamonmuseum_-
_Vorderasiatisches_Museum_046.JPG
38
Fig. 10: Aramaic-inscribed stele of Katumuwa, last quarter of 8th century BC. Source:
http://0.tqn.com/d/archaeology/1/0/x/3/1/Kuttamuwa_stele.jpg
Conclusions
The above examples provide us with a quite powerful case for the usefulness of the ideal-
type of the stranger-king in helping us think about the ways in which alterity and kinship were
mobilized by Ancient Near Eastern kings in the contexts of shifting empires, populations, and
international styles. It should be emphasized that the ideal type, is not an end in itself, but rather
a heuristic that allows us to ask more detailed questions—in this case about kinship, alterity, and
39
sovereignty—by breaking it down into its component parts. Indeed, as argued by John Kelly
(2006), Weberian ideal types, when used skillfully, allow us to find answers to certain questions
regarding human behavior and, when necessary, allow us to re-frame the questions or ask new
questions altogether. Indeed, the data from Carchemish and Sam’al, in particular, illustrate the
various “structures of the conjuncture” (Sahlins 1981) and versa that occur when political
structure and human action act dialectically upon one another through time. The data from reign
of Taita of Palastina, when put within this framework, open up new questions we might ask
about the intersections of the local and the global within a multi-ethnic polity, with a royal
ideology framing itself within a standardized international style, and yet within that style
mobilizing elements of diverse local and foreign traditions into a set of symbolic meanings that
are unique to that specific polity at that specific period in history. And the data from Sam’al
present a number of questions regarding the interaction between Aramaic and Luwian-speakers
and the basis upon which an intermarrying elite was able to maintain control over an originally
We must keep in mind that ultimately, all of the characters in our story—Kilamuwa,
Kutamuwa, Kuzi-Teshup, Taita, Suhis, BONUS-tis, Zakkur, etc.—not to mention the myriads of
commoners who did not leave royal inscriptions, and whose lives and existence are known to us
only through relatively mute archaeological remains—were human beings like ourselves, people
who lived, loved, fought, and died, and each of whom attributed particular meanings to actions
and events that were singular and unique to them, despite the similarities between them which
we might recognize, some 3000 years later, as “structures” in the Lévi-Straussian sense. These
structures, such as stranger-kingship and galactic polity, certainly exist, but they are never exact
and immutable; rather, they are recognizable but inexact patterns that reveal themselves from the
40
collective results of motivated and meaningful human action. History is not simply the collection
and interpretation of documents and artifacts; these documents and artifacts must be understood
in relation to the fact that they were produced by human bodies moving on the ground, bodies
with brains, brains with minds, and minds that were always and already thinking in terms of
2001[1973]; Ricoeur 2007), codes of meaning which were nonetheless changeable due to the
very acts that they inspired and legitimized. It is ultimately with these questions in mind—
questions of structure and meaning, process and agency, power and alterity—that the model of
the stranger-king provides a useful new way of looking at the Ancient Near Eastern data.
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