Understanding The History of Ancient Israel Proceedings of The British Academy

Contents
H G M Williamson Preface; List of Abbreviations xiii-xx

J W Rogerson Setting the Scene: A Brief Outline of Histories of
Israel 3-14
Keith W Whitelam Setting the Scene: A Response to John Rogerson
15-23
Hans M Barstad The History of Ancient Israel: What Directions
Should We Take? 25-48
Philip R Davies Biblical Israel in the Ninth Century? 49-56
Lester L Grabbe Some Recent Issues in the Study of the History of
Israel 57-67
T P Wiseman Classical History: A Sketch, with Three Artefacts
71-89
Chase F Robinson Early Islamic History: Parallels and Problems
91-106
Amélie Kuhrt Ancient Near Eastern History: The Case of Cyrus the
Great of Persia 107-127
David Ussishkin Archaeology of the Biblical Period: On Some
Questions of Methodology and Chronology of the Iron Age 131-141
Amihai Mazar The Spade and the Text: The Interaction between
Archaeology and Israelite History Relating to the Tenth–Ninth Centuries BCE
143-171
Christoph Uehlinger Neither Eyewitnesses, Nor Windows to the Past, but
Valuable Testimony in its own Right: Remarks on Iconography, Source
Criticism and Ancient Data-processing 173-228
M J Geller Akkadian Sources of the Ninth Century 229-241
K Lawson Younger Jr Neo-Assyrian and Israelite History in the Ninth
Century: The Role of Shalmaneser III 243-277
André Lemaire West Semitic Inscriptions and Ninth-Century BCE
Ancient Israel 279-303
Marc Zvi Brettler Method in the Application of Biblical Source
Material to Historical Writing (with Particular Reference to the Ninth Century
BCE) 305-336
Graeme Auld Reading Kings on the Divided Monarchy: What Sort
of Narrative? 337-343
Rainer Albertz Social History of Ancient Israel 347-367
Bernard S Jackson Law in the Ninth Century: Jehoshaphat's 'Judicial
Reform' 369-397
Nadav Na'aman The Northern Kingdom in the Late Tenth–Ninth
Centuries BCE 399-418
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Preface
No one familiar with the literature can doubt that there is currently a prob-
lem of method in the academic study of the history of ancient Israel. The
depth of this problem, which some would even label a crisis, may be gauged
by the fact that in some circles the level of debate has descended to that of
name calling rather than to a dispassionate evaluation of the evidence and
rational debate about its implications.
Among many possible causes for this situation, three may perhaps be sin-
gled out above all others. In the first place, the nature of the evidence at our
disposal is varied, fragmentary and partial—textual, epigraphic, icono-
graphic, archaeological and so on. This is generally the case, of course, for
ancient history of whatever region, and it raises the question about how such
varied types of evidence may legitimately be combined in order to produce a
responsible narrative history. There are so many gaps in our knowledge that
for many periods it is virtually impossible to establish a ‘master narrative’
which may then serve as the basis for the interpretation and integration of the
remainder. Disagreements therefore inevitably arise as to which source of
evidence should initially be privileged in historical research.
Secondly, and partly as a consequence of this first area of difficulty, schol-
ars disagree—sometimes quite sharply—over just what sort of history we
ought in any case be attempting to reconstruct. The influence of the Hebrew
Bible/Old Testament has been so powerful in our approach to the past of
which it speaks that we often forget that it was not primarily written to be an
historical source at all, but for other (in themselves wholly legitimate) pur-
poses which have inevitably shaped and determined what it will include and
exclude, emphasize and play down. These purposes are easily categorized as
theological or religious, but we forget too readily that they have a significant
impact on the understanding of history and that many scholars today do not
share them or, even if they do, think that they ought not to influence research.
So what do we mean by the history of ancient Israel in the first place? There
are many approaches to history beside the narrative of what used to be called
‘men and movements’, and the competing claims of methods which are them-
selves devised to elicit different appreciations of the past (social, economic,
historico-geographical, cultural or whatever) add to the confusion in current
understanding.
Thirdly, I do not think there is any escape from the fact that one of the
major sources at our disposal is the Bible itself. This already complicates the
Copyright © British Academy 2007 – all rights reserved

00 Prelims 1548 15/8/07 10:44 Page xiv
xiv Preface
situation with regard to the first two points just described, but it adds the fur-
ther problem that this particular text is regarded by many who study it
(indeed, this is precisely why they study it) as authoritative or privileged in a
way that is not true of any of the other sources. For some, indeed, this
extends to the level of the detail of the history which it tells, with the conse-
quence that all other evidence must be harmonized with it. Others would hes-
itate to be so extreme and yet still retain a strong sense—be that religious or
more generally cultural—that somehow this text is different in kind from the
others and, because of its role in the history of western civilization, deserves
a more respectful hearing than it is sometimes thought to have been accorded
by critical scholarship.
The present volume attempts to confront these problems (especially the
first two, though the third lies close beneath the surface) in a way which it
is hoped will bring fuller understanding to the nature of our present
predicament and allow it to be debated in a more rational, considerate and
informed manner than sadly has sometimes been the case. In planning it,
the following considerations have all played a part.
First, it was obviously imperative to bring together a group of scholars
who were known to hold different positions on one or more of the issues but
who at the same time were known to be capable of constructive debate and
open to points of view that might differ from their own. Readers will therefore
find that the juxtaposed chapters often present significantly contrasting points
of view, whether explicitly as responses or simply because the authors adopt
different approaches. Naturally no attempt has been made to hide these differ-
ences or to suggest that there is a right answer to the various topics treated.
Secondly, all have been invited to write with self-conscious reference to
method relating to the issues just outlined. Some have addressed that head-
on, while others have incorporated methodological considerations into their
accounts. In either case, however, the aim has been to talk about what a his-
tory of Israel should be about and how one should set about constructing it.
Thirdly, however, in order to give the volume a sharper focus, it was
decided to concentrate on the ninth century BCE as a test case. The reasons
for this choice were both negative and positive. Negatively, the preceding cen-
turies (not least the United Monarchy of the tenth century) have been well
worked in recent writing and to have returned to that period would have run
the risk of a needlessly repetitious rehearsing of old debates. Equally, as we
come down into much later centuries, the problems of historical method,
though great enough in all conscience, are perhaps not quite so acute as for
the earlier period. Positively, however, it seemed that the ninth century was an
ideal period because it is from then that we start to get written sources refer-
ring to Israel from outside the Bible, the archaeology is reasonably full (and
has given rise to intriguing questions of chronology) and while the biblical

00 Prelims 1548 15/8/07 10:44 Page xv
Preface xv
narrative is quite extensive it is still incorporated in books which all agree

cannot have reached their final form until several centuries later.
Finally, the volume tries to cover several important issues that have been
too seldom addressed. Under comparative perspectives, for instance, we learn
that the problems of so-called biblical history are not as unusual as we might
have thought. The problems of combining disparate sources of evidence are
well illustrated from other fields by Wiseman and Kuhrt, for instance, and
indeed in the case of the classical world Wiseman also draws attention to the
problems for ancient historians of a scholarly master narrative (even if it can-
not quite be called canonical). Even more, however, the study of early Islamic
history, as discussed here by Robinson, is also largely dependent on a reli-
giously authoritative text which in recent decades has also been subject to the
attentions of ‘revisionists’. This is not the only point of contact between our
fields, of course (Robinson also draws attention to the topic of the language
and nature of conquest, for instance), and I believe that scholars in each field
could learn much from each other if ever they were to start talking! Perhaps
the present volume may serve as a modest beginning.
If historians of Ancient Israel are not as sui generis as they sometimes
fondly suppose, it is good also to be reminded that the same applies to the
present generation. Approaches may differ in degree from those of earlier
generations, but in their own ways Rogerson, Whitelam and Grabbe raise the
question whether they differ in kind. The answer is, perhaps, not as much as
might at first have been thought, though Grabbe’s contribution adds the
important qualification that the manner in which the debate has been con-
ducted has perhaps plumbed new depths. (He also raises the controversial
question about whether some recent epigraphical ‘discoveries’ are, in fact,
forgeries, an issue on which agreement has not yet been reached by the
experts. Were the charge to be true, it would, of course, raise ethical issues
that go beyond the present discussion, but at least all will be agreed that the
consequences are deplorable.) Leading to a not dissimilar conclusion, the dis-
cussions of historical method by Barstad and Davies also serve to underline
that, however much their sources may differ, historians of ancient as well as
more modern times face certain fundamental questions in common and that
here again we would do well to learn from one another about the very nature
of our discipline and what it is that we are attempting to achieve.
The largest single group of chapters attends to the evidence itself. Perhaps
not surprisingly the sharpest divergences of approach relate to archaeology
(Ussishkin and Mazar) and the Bible itself (Brettler and Auld—and for a
somewhat more conservative approach than either, one may see also
Jackson’s chapter in the last section), though the other chapters in this sec-
tion (Geller, Younger, Lemaire and Uehlinger) also highlight how differently
the materials they treat may be evaluated for historical purposes.

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xvi Preface
The last small group are somewhat more synthetic in nature. Admittedly,
Albertz starts with a masterful survey of approaches to social history (itself
a highly relevant topic in the debate) but he moves on to make clear how such
an approach might illuminate the history of the ninth century, and not sur-
prisingly he above all (though not uniquely) needs to give attention to the pre-
ceding century in order to set the longer-term trends to which he attends in
their proper context. Jackson focuses on legal history, which is too often over-
looked in discussions of the social and cultural history of Israel, while
Na’aman seeks to make use of all available sources of evidence in piecing
together the outline of a political history of the period.
As already stressed, therefore, this book does not attempt to provide
answers to the many controversial topics which it addresses, but rather to give
readers a better understanding of the issues at stake when they turn them-
selves to a consideration of the evidence. Whatever differences of opinion
may remain among us as a group, we are at least all united in hoping that we
may be able to move forward by learning from those with whom we disagree
and by seeing our discipline within the wider academic as well as historical
setting in which it belongs but from which it has too often isolated itself.
The present volume had its origin in a symposium generously sponsored
by the British Academy in April 2005. This provided an agreeable forum in
which to debate some of the issues that have just been mentioned. Some of
the chapters in this book are revised contributions to that symposium, while
others have either been specially requested since or have been completely
rewritten in the light of the debate and in order to take fuller account of the
issues raised. It is matter of deep regret that one contributor, Professor E. A.
Knauf of Bern, was unable to complete his contribution because of severe ill-
ness. The volume is the poorer in consequence. We are all most grateful to the
staff of the Academy for their work on our behalf both in relation to the
original symposium and in connection with the publication process since.
Personally I received much help in the initial planning of this project from
Professor Graham Davies of Cambridge and Professor Lester Grabbe of Hull.
Subsequently, the Revd Dr Helen-Ann Hartley has been of great help with
various aspects of the editorial task. To them all, as to all the contributors to
this volume, I express my sincere gratitude.
H. G. M. Williamson
Oxford
February 2006

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Setting the Scene: A Brief Outline of

Histories of Israel
J. W. ROGERSON
WHERE SHOULD ONE BEGIN A SHORT HISTORY OF HISTORIES OF ANCIENT

ISRAEL? One answer might be with Wellhausen’s Prolegomena zur Geschichte
Israels (1883), a work which has cast its shadow over all subsequent attempts
to reconstruct the history of ancient Israel. However, and for reasons that I
hope will become clear, I have decided to begin with what became a standard
work in English, German, French and Italian in the eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries, Humphrey Prideaux’s The Old and New Testament con-
nected, in the History of the Jews, and neighbouring nations; from the declen-
sions of the Kingdoms of Israel and Judah to the time of Christ. Prideaux, who
lived from 1648 to 1724, and who was variously Archdeacon of Suffolk and
Canon, and later Dean, of Norwich, and who declined the chair of Hebrew
at Oxford in 1691, began to write the Connection in around 1712, completing
the first part in 1715 and the second part in 1718. Its purpose, as the word
‘Connection’ indicates, was to set Old Testament history in the context of
ancient Near Eastern history, to the extent that the latter was known from
classical and later Jewish sources in the eighteenth century. It began with the
accession of Tiglath-pileser to the Assyrian throne in 747 BCE, because reli-
able information about ancient Near Eastern history prior to that date was
not available. It was indebted to Josephus and to the chronological researches
of Scaliger (1583), Petavius (1627) and Ussher (1685) with whom Prideaux
often took issue, and although it gave preference to the Bible where this was
contradicted by other sources, it was a scholarly work which indicated that
the study of Old Testament history was a demanding discipline requiring the
close study of evidence whose interpretation was often controversial. The
history of the Persian empire and its relationship to Nehemiah was a partic-
ularly disputed area, and in a letter to the Bishop of Worcester dealing with
these difficulties, Prideaux was prepared to maintain that the references to the
priest Jaddua in Neh. 10.20 and 12.11, 22 ‘were all inserted after the book
was written, by those who received it into the Jewish canon, most likely about
the time of the high priest Simon the Just’ (Prideaux 1716–18, I, lxxi). An
Proceedings of the British Academy 143, 3–14. © The British Academy 2007.

01 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:45 Page 4
4 J. W. Rogerson
interesting side-light on Prideaux’s Connection is that when Handel’s libret-

tist prepared the text for Handel’s oratorio Belshazzar in 1744, he based his
work entirely upon Prideaux’s account, itself derived from Herodotus and
Xenophon, of how Babylon was taken when the dam that supplied water to
its protective canals was breached, and a group of soldiers was guided into the
city by Gobrias, a Babylonian, the murder of whose father had led him to
desert to the Persians.
If Prideaux’s Connection was designed to project the Old Testament’s
story of God’s dealings with Israel and Judah on to the screen of the history
of the surrounding nations, the purpose of Johann Gottfried Herder’s Ideen
zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit of 1784–91 was to demonstrate
God’s overall design in the government of the world. In that demonstration,
the history of Israel had a part to play, but only a small part as befitting a
small people, and as I shall indicate shortly in a telling quotation, Herder was
sharply critical of the mischievous influence that misinterpretations of the
Old Testament had had upon much human thought and endeavour, for all
that he pleaded for a fair hearing for the Old Testament story of the Hebrews.
An interesting feature of Herder’s narrative was his ‘secular’ account of
the reason for the downfall of Judah in the sixth century. His argument was
that the Davidic expansion of the state had created an inherently unstable
entity; that a country that was capable of supporting only shepherds and
husbandmen had sought to assume responsibility for great multitudes of
people. Such a situation had never been envisaged by the Mosaic legislation,
and the resultant clash between what Herder called the Mosaic ‘nomocracy’
and the ‘theocratic monarchy’ led to the nation’s downfall (Herder 1968, 139).
Herder was not the first to seek ‘secular’ reasons for the failures of Israelite
statehood. Precedents can be found in Josephus and in the De republica
Hebraeorum of Petrus Cunaeus (1617). But his placing of Israelite history
within the context of a universal philosophy of history broke new ground.
I mentioned earlier Herder’s withering attack on misunderstandings of
the Old Testament. Here is a sample:
How many absurd cosmogonies have been framed from the simple and sublime
history of creation given by Moses . . .. How many great men, among whom
even a Newton himself is to be reckoned, have the Jewish chronology and
Apocalypse robbed of time, that might have been employed in more useful
inquiries! Nay even with regard to morality and political institutions, the wri-
tings of the Hebrews, by being misconceived and misapplied, have imposed fet-
ters on the minds of those nations, by which they have been acknowledged. For
want of making a distinction between different periods, and different degrees of
intellectual cultivation, the . . . spirit of the Jewish religion has been deemed a
pattern for Christians to follow: and passages of the Old Testament have been
adduced to justify the inconsistent attempt of making Christianity . . . a
Judaical religion of the state (Herder 1968, 141–42).

01 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:45 Page 5
A BRIEF OUTLINE OF HISTORIES OF ISRAEL 5
It will come as no surprise to those familiar with my work that I move

from Herder to the scholar who, as a schoolboy, sat at Herder’s feet, Wilhelm
Martin Leberecht de Wette. It was in de Wette’s doctoral dissertation, sub-
mitted to the University of Jena in March 1805, that a note occurred which
stated the view of the development of Israelite religion and sacrifice that
would receive classic expression in the work of Wellhausen and others. The
note is too long to be given here in translation, but its point is that the
Pentateuch cannot have been written by one author at one time because of its
varying statements about places where sacrifice can be offered. Exod. 20.24–25
envisages a multiplicity of places of sacrifice, while Samuel, Saul, David and
Solomon sacrifice wherever necessary without incurring divine disfavour.
Indeed, God appears to Solomon in a dream after he has offered sacrifice at
Gibeon! These practices must therefore be earlier than the command in
Deuteronomy to sacrifice only at the central sanctuary, and the deuteronomic
law is to be identified with that found in the temple by Hilkiah in 2 Kings 22
(de Wette 1830).
De Wette followed up these observations with two volumes of Beiträge
(Contributions) published in 1806–07. In them he argued that the books of
Chronicles were dependent upon Samuel and Kings and that they could not,
therefore, be used to reconstruct a history of Israel that indicated a developed
priestly and sacrificial system centred upon Jerusalem from the time of
David. In dealing with the patriarchal narratives, de Wette argued that they
yielded little historical information. Their value was that they indicated the
beliefs and piety of the Israelites at the time of their composition, although
he was vague about when this time or times might have been. Moses had
probably formulated a short version of the Ten Commandments and had
caused a simple tent shrine to be constructed. He had not established a priest-
hood, nor given the laws and ceremonies attributed to him. In his later work
on Hebrew-Jewish archaeology, first published in 1814, de Wette wrote of the
traditions about the Exodus:
No part of Hebrew tradition is so ornamented with miracle, and so taken over
by poetic saga, as this. The prudent historian will, therefore, prefer simply to
retell these sagas than try arbitrarily to turn them into history (de Wette 1814,
27: my translation).
Of the traditions about Samuel he wrote that their importance lay partly in
the fact ‘that with them, we tread for the first time upon firm historical
ground’ (de Wette 1814, 33). On the other hand, he regarded the books of
Kings as a step backwards from the historical point of view, and made much
of the enormous exaggerations of numbers of sheep and oxen and workers
in 1 Kings 8, not to mention the prophetic sagas concerning Elijah and Elisha
(de Wette 1833, 232–33).

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6 J. W. Rogerson
In modern terms, de Wette’s views on Old Testament history were deci-

dedly minimalist. This minimalism was based upon two factors. The first was
a shrewd, critical reading of the biblical text in which he exposed every dis-
crepancy or contradiction that he and others had noticed, and eschewed any
attempt to harmonize or explain them away. This determination to live with
and to exploit contradictions was underpinned by the second factor, the
Kantian and post-Kantian aesthetic philosophy that de Wette embraced, in
which the necessary truths of an aesthetically shaped reason were a more reli-
able path to true religion than the contingent truths of history. De Wette’s
remark concerning his negative treatment of the narrative parts of the
Pentateuch, ‘die Geschichte verlor, aber die Religion gewann’ (de Wette
1806–07, II, 408), well summarized his position. He is an important reminder
that, when considering the writing of the history of ancient Israel, philo-
sophical and religious commitments can play a powerful role in shaping how
the task is undertaken.
The ‘minimalism’ that was advanced by de Wette and those who followed
him (e.g. Gesenius and Gramberg) was strongly opposed in the middle of the
nineteenth century by scholars such as Hengstenberg, Delitzsch and von
Hofmann (see Rogerson 1984, 50–68, 104–20). Their reason for doing so was
theological. In their different ways their theological commitments required
them to privilege the historical information contained in the Old Testament,
especially those sections dealing with Moses and the founding of priesthood
and sacrifice. Because these institutions prefigured the work of Christ, it was
necessary to maintain their historical integrity. However, the most interesting
opposition to ‘minimalism’, and the most important for the later develop-
ment of Old Testament scholarship, came from Heinrich Ewald, the author
of the monumental History of Israel, whose first, German, edition began to
appear in 1843. What distinguished Ewald’s history was the fact that it was
both critical and yet broadly traditional in its results. Ewald believed that the
Pentateuch and Joshua had reached their final form by way of at least six
redactional processes, stretching from the second part of the period of the
Judges to shortly before the fall of Jerusalem. His view of the Patriarchs was
that they appeared as ‘ideal types’ which expressed and embodied ancient
Hebrew hopes and ideals. But in spite of this critical approach to the biblical
material, Ewald was confident that he could reconstruct the migrations of the
Hebrew ancestors from north-east Mesopotamia, as well as their descent to
Egypt, their deliverance under the leadership of Moses, and the bequeathing
to them by the latter of some form of sacrificial and priestly institutions. In
proceeding in this matter, Ewald was indebted to developments in the field of
classical scholarship as instanced by Niebuhr’s Römische Geschichte of
1811–12 and Müller’s Prolegomena zu einer wissenschaftlichen Mythologie
of 1825, in which classical legends and Greek myths were held to contain

01 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:45 Page 7
factual information about the earliest history of Greece and Rome. This ‘his-
torical’ view of the value of myths and legends was in stark contrast to that
of de Wette, for whom such material was the result of poetic fantasy from
which one could learn only about the beliefs of those responsible for it.
Ewald’s monumental history began to appear in English translation from
1867. It owed its appearance to Charlotte Lupton, a member of a prominent
Leeds Unitarian family. Although Charlotte never allowed her name to be
publicly associated with the project, it was financed by her and she undertook
some of the work of translation. Its importance in England was that it
enabled liberal churchmen to argue that biblical criticism did not necessarily
produce results that were harmful to traditional views about Israelite history.
Ewald himself believed that Old Testament history, critically reconstructed,
provided evidence for the divine direction and oversight of history. In this
view, he was at one with scholars such as von Hofmann, and the same
conviction can later be found in the work of William Robertson Smith.
In the opinion of Wellhausen, who was a pupil of Ewald, the latter’s work
served to hinder the progress of the scientific study of Israelite history which
had begun with de Wette (Wellhausen 1965d, 131–32). The path to Wellhausen’s
masterly syntheses of 1878 and 1883 was laid by a number of researchers
such as Colenso and Kuenen, and just over ten years ago I argued that
Robertson Smith had arrived at his particular version of the ‘Wellhausen
position’ independently of his German colleague (Rogerson 1995, 164–79). In
what follows now I shall sketch Wellhausen’s account of the earliest history
of Israel, on the basis of his Geschichte Israels of 1880 (a privately printed
work similar to Wellhausen’s contribution to the ninth edition of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica; Wellhausen 1965b, 13–64), the Israelitische und
Jüdische Geschichte of 1894 and the Israelitisch-jüdische Religion of 1905
(Wellhausen 1965c, 65–109).
Wellhausen’s account begins with the Hebrews—a group from which the
Israelites later developed and which originally included Edom, Moab and
Ammon. This group of herdsmen with their sheep and goats moved in the
middle of the second millennium from the edge of southern Palestine to
Goshen in neighbouring Egypt. After being pressed into forced labour by the
Egyptians they took advantage of an outbreak of plague to leave Egypt, suc-
cessfully crossing the north tip of the Red Sea which favoured them and not
the chariot-bound group of pursuing Egyptian soldiers. Their journey ended
at the oasis of Kadesh where they remained for some time until they joined
their Moabite kinsmen in a battle against Sihon, the Amorite ruler of part of
Transjordan. A victory over Sihon enabled the Israelites to establish them-
selves north of the Arnon from where several incursions across the Jordan
enabled Judah to settle in the south, and other tribes to occupy the north,
with Reuben and Gad remaining on the eastern side. A series of local and

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8 J. W. Rogerson
more widespread battles with Canaanites in Palestine led to the situation

from which the monarchy would later emerge.
Fundamental to the beginning of Israel’s emergence was the work of
Moses who led the people to the oasis of Kadesh where Yahweh’s sanctuary
was located, and where he forged a religious bond with groups already united
by blood relationship under the formula ‘Jahveh the God of Israel and Israel
the people of Jahveh’. Moses was responsible for the Ark of the Covenant,
which was cared for by the priestly family of Phinehas and which was the
symbol of the presence of Yahweh. He also apprised the people of the moral
demands of Jahveh. ‘Jahveh war nicht bloß der Gott Israels, sondern also
solcher zugleich der Gott der Rechts und der Gerechtigkeit, der Grund, die
Triebkraft und der unausgesprochene Inhalt des Volksgewissens’ (Wellhausen
1965b, 18).
Several things are to be noticed about this reconstruction. While it totally
ignores the Patriarchal narratives (figures such as Abraham are projections
into the past from much later times), it allows that the exodus and wilderness
traditions may contain scraps of historical information. Second, it ascribes
the self-awareness of the Israelites as a nation to the twin notions of blood
relationships and a shared belief in Yahweh. Third, it requires a founder, in
the form of Moses, who, however, is a teacher of morality rather than the
founder of sacrificial and priestly institutions. If one looks for the origin of
the twin ideas of blood relationships and common religion as constitutive of
distinctive social groups, the most likely source is La cité antique published in
1864 by Fustel de Coulanges. This was an early and pioneering work of social
anthropology that drew upon classical sources and information about so-
called primitive peoples, and which explained the development of social
groups in terms of ancestor worship. The latter combined both the genealog-
ical and the religious. Wellhausen did not embrace the theory in precisely
this form—Yahweh was not a common ancestor but a warlike deity who
demanded justice; but the conjunction of the genealogical and religious
elements so prominent in de Coulanges is striking. A scholar who did follow
de Coulanges much more closely was Bernhard Stade, whose Geschichte des
Volkes Israel began to appear in 1881. Stade acknowledged his indebtedness
to de Coulanges, and maintained that in the ancient Semitic and thus Israelite
family, the religion was ancestor worship.
What was the origin of the name and social group Israel? Wellhausen’s
answer was that the name Israel meant ‘El fights’ and that Yahweh was the
warlike El after whom the people named itself (Wellhausen 1965b, 18). ‘Das
Kriegslager war die Wiege der Nation und die wahre Schmiede ihrer
Einheit—es war auch das älterste Heiligtum.’ This was not the view taken
by Stade and others, and a consideration of this issue will introduce the
important directions taken by scholarship after Wellhausen.

01 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:45 Page 9
Stade’s answer to the origin of Israel was in anthropological terms. The

entity ‘Israel’ must have come into being in the same way that all nations
arise, by social groups adopting the name of a dominant group. There must
once have been a tribe named Israel that had extended its influence over
neighbouring groups, as the Saxons, Franks and Friesians had done in
German history. This view was also accepted by Rudolf Kittel in the first edi-
tion of his Geschichte der Hebräer of 1888. Although he pointed out that it
was surprising that information about a once so powerful ancient tribe had
disappeared from later history, ‘wird man den Ursprung des Israelnames für
das Volk des Heiligen Landes sich doch wohl kaum in anderer Weise
vorstellen können’ (Kittel 1888–92, 18).
The approach of Stade and others was characterized by attention to gen-
eral anthropological theories of the development of peoples, and by particu-
lar studies of pre-Islamic Arab social organization. Of course, Wellhausen
and Robertson Smith (not to mention Theodor Nöldeke) were distinguished
contributors to the latter. But it was left to others to utilize these results for
the purposes of reconstructing Israel’s history. The general principle was
expressed thus by Stade: ‘Diejenige Verfassung, welche wir aus einer
Vergleichung der israelitischen und arabischen Stammeseinrichtungen
erschliessen können, wird einst der gesamten semitische Race eigen gewesen
sein’ (Stade 1881, 397).
One scholar who applied these approaches to a painstaking analysis of
the pentateuchal traditions was Carl Steuernagel in his 1901 monograph,
Die Einwanderung der israelitischen Stämme in Kanaan. This extremely
detailed and complex work, which in many ways anticipated the work of
Martin Noth a generation later, started out from information about the
positions and inter-relationships of the tribes within the boundaries of
Israel. Their changing relationships indicated later political and social
changes, but it could be concluded that in general the tribes got their names
after the settlement in Canaan, and that only four groups had entered
Canaan from Transjordan, namely, the Leah, Bilhah, Zilpah and Jacob-
Rachel groups, accompanied also by groups such as Amalekites and
Kenites. The ‘occupation’ was thus part of a larger movement of social
groups possibly caused by the establishment of the kingdom of Edom. It
most likely occurred in two waves, led by the Leah group. Following these
investigations, the stories of the Patriarchs in Genesis were then examined
and interpreted in the light of the results gained. Many elements were
described as ‘freie Dichtungen’ (Steuernagel 1901, 57); but historical remi-
niscences were also discoverable. The story of Jacob’s wrestling in Genesis 32
derived from a battle between the Jacob group and the inhabitants of north-
ern Gilead, in which the Jacob group, using the war cry ‘El fights for us’,
took the name of Israel as they fought against, and defeated the adherents

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10 J. W. Rogerson
of the god of northern Gilead. The Jacob group had found the divine name
‘El’ when it occupied the hill country of Ephraim.
Steuernagel was indicative of a trend away from Wellhausen and more in
the tradition of Ewald, for all that his results were far more radical, when
compared with the traditional view of Old Testament history. While the pen-
tateuchal traditions were dated between the later period of the Judges and the
later monarchy and reflected the times of their composition, they were still
held to contain material that could aid historical reconstruction of the pre-
settlement period. The framework for such reconstruction was provided by
late nineteenth-century views on how religions and societies had evolved
along a uniform path, some faster than others. There was also widespread
acceptance of Robertson Smith’s belief that Semitic peoples had passed
through a religious period of totemism and that many Israelite tribal names
were derived from totem animals.
The next phase in research, associated especially with the work of
Gunkel, would move historical reconstruction in a different direction, but
before this is described it must be remembered that while many scholars were
working with evolutionary theories backed by research into the pre-Islamic
Arab societies, others were embracing diffusionist approaches based upon the
burgeoning discipline of Assyriology. A principal representative of this latter
school was Hugo Winckler, who strenuously argued that the world in which
the people of Israel originated was one inseparably bound up with the great
civilizations of Mesopotamia whose influence extended into Syria-Palestine.
‘Israel’ was originally a religious sect whose leaders—Abraham, Joseph,
Moses—had opposed the moral and social failures of their times and had
taught ‘eternal’ laws and truths to their followers. The religion of Israel had
not evolved from semitic heathenism but owed its existence to ‘reformers’
operating in a world which could not escape the power or influence of city
states (Winckler 1906, 10–11, 21, 30). Winckler is probably best remembered
today for his advocacy of the North Arabian theory, the view that it was from
a kingdom of Musri in North Arabia and not from Egypt, that the Israelites
had made their exodus. His other arguments, however, which make one think
of Mendenhall and Gottwald, deserve consideration; and the diffusionist
anthropology that he advocated found later expression in the ‘myth and rit-
ual’ theories of Scandinavian and British scholarship, S. H. Hooke being a
notable representative of the latter.
Gunkel’s treatment of the Old Testament as found in the third edition of
his commentary on Genesis (1910) and Das Märchen im alten Testament
(1917) was based upon evolutionary theories, in his case, those of Wilhelm
Wundt’s Völkerpsychologie (1909). Wundt maintained that myths (stories
about gods) developed among more civilized peoples whereas in more ‘prim-
itive’ societies the folk-tale (Märchen) was predominant. This was because

01 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:45 Page 11
‘primitive’ peoples ascribed personality to forces of nature, and constructed

a world in which animals could speak and in which animals and birds could
put human beings in touch with the divine or the supernatural. The religion
of folk tales centred upon giants, demons, ghosts and goblins, and involved
magic. Gunkel’s contribution was to indicate the extent to which folk-tale
motifs could be found not only in Genesis but in other parts of the Old
Testament. From the theological point of view he believed that he could show
how much had been achieved during Israel’s history by the development of
its religion from the popular superstitions implied in the folk-tale motifs to
the noble ideals of the prophets. For our purposes, we can say two things. On
the one hand his findings tended toward historical scepticism, not only in
regard to the patriarchal narratives, but also in regard to those about Saul
and David. On the other hand, while accepting the results of source criticism
as formulated by Wellhausen and others, he stressed the importance of going
behind the literary sources to the smaller units of which they were made up,
and to the processes of their oral transmission. His attempts to identify the
social settings of these units was also important. It is not going too far, I
believe, to trace a line from Gunkel’s treatment of the patriarchal traditions
to that of Westermann in his Genesis commentary via the important book of
André Jolles, Einfache Formen, first published in 1930.
I jump now to Albrecht Alt and Martin Noth. When I began my studies
in 1957 they seemed to represent the radical and negative side of historical
criticism in opposition to the much more traditional views maintained by
Albright and his students Wright and Bright. In fact, in the light of what I
have been outlining in this chapter, Alt and Noth can be seen to be compar-
atively conservative; and this should not come as a surprise seeing that they
were heirs to the conservative, Leipzig school of Old Testament scholarship
going back through Rudolf Kittel to Franz Delitzsch. Alt’s 1929 monograph,
Der Gott der Väter, sought to provide an historical basis for the origin of the
patriarchal narratives by arguing that Abraham, Isaac and Jacob could be
understood as founders of religious groups, whose descendants or adherents,
worshipped a deity named after the founder. The phrases in Genesis ‘God of
Abraham’, ‘Fear (or Kinsman) of Isaac’ and ‘Mighty One of Jacob’ all
pointed in that direction. Alt undertook a careful analysis of the biblical
material to ascertain that the phrases ‘God of Abraham’ and so on were
embedded in the tradition in such a way as to justify regarding them as
ancient formulae that indicated the nature of the religion of the patriarchs.
He then compared the phrases with similar phrases found in Nabatean
inscriptions dating from the early centuries of the Common Era, with special
attention to the commonest phrase, the Greek theos Aumou. Alt argued that
the names Abraham, Isaac and Jacob were to be found in the tradition
because they had been recipients of divine revelation and founders of cults

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12 J. W. Rogerson
named after them, cults that were not bound to any particular localities. The
cycles of tradition that recounted their deeds, however, can only have reached
their present form after the settlement of the Israelite tribes in Canaan, and
in projecting these deeds back into the time before Moses and Joshua, the tra-
dition was guilty of a ‘heavy anachronism’ (‘einen schweren Anachronismus’,
Alt 1959, 49). Alt’s essay was characteristic of what could be called the
Alt–Noth school: detailed critical analysis of the biblical text and its tradi-
tional history, profound knowledge of the topography and archaeology of
Palestine, and the use of anthropological theory, in this case the view that
groups living in the same geographical and social conditions but separated in
time by over a thousand years would share common religious features.
Noth’s writings were similarly based upon profound study of the trans-
mission processes of the biblical text, a thorough knowledge of Palestinian
topography and archaeology and the use of models drawn from other soci-
eties, in his case most famously the amphictyonies known from Greek and
other societies. This enabled him to place the origins of Israel and its distinc-
tive traditions in a tribal confederation centred upon a common sanctuary in
Canaan in the period of the Judges. Various incidents recorded in the books
of Judges and 1 Samuel were interpreted in the light of this theory. In his later
work on the pentateuchal traditions, Noth proposed a very negative picture
of the figure of Moses on the basis of the principle found at least as early as
Ewald, that the more prominent a figure is in the final form of tradition, the
more likely it is that this figure is recent and the work attributed to him not
historical.
I do not intend to go any further than Alt and Noth because they bring
us into the post-war period, Alt having died in 1956 and Noth in 1968. The
reason why I have proceeded as I have is because I wanted to emphasize that
the present disputes between so-called maximalists and minimalists should
not be seen—supposing that anyone does see it in this way—as an argument
between those who uphold the basic reliability of the biblical presentation of
Israel’s history, and those who do not. What I have tried to outline—with
many gaps which others will easily be able to fill in—is a variety of responses
to the problems of writing the history of ancient Israel, which have been
affected by philosophical, theological, anthropological, sociological and lit-
erary critical considerations. They have ranged from the ‘minimalism’ of de
Wette two hundred years ago, through the ‘positive criticism’ of Ewald to the
intermediate, though none the less radical, positions of scholars such as Alt
and Noth. A big difference, of course, between the present state of things and
the times I have described is that recent literary criticism has dated the pen-
tateuchal traditions much later than was envisaged even by Wellhausen and
his followers. Also, archaeological investigations have put question marks
against something that Alt and Noth took for granted, namely, a Solomonic

01 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:45 Page 13
state and empire in which Israel’s historical traditions began to be written

down. If there are deep divisions today among scholars about the relative
merits of literary criticism and archaeological evidence, or about which
sociological models are most appropriate for reconstructing ancient Israel’s
history, this is nothing basically new, in my opinion. It is merely the contem-
porary version of the issues that inevitably came to the fore once it was
accepted that the actual history of ancient Israelite religion and sacrifice was
different from that presented in the Old Testament.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Alt, A., 1929. Der Gott der Väter (BWANT III, 12 ; Stuttgart), repr. 1959 in Kleine
Schriften, I (Munich), 1–78.
Coulanges, F. de, 1864. La cité antique (Paris).
Cunaeus, P., 1617. De republica Hebraeorum (Leyden).
Ewald, H., 1843–59. Geschichte des Volkes Israel (Göttingen). ET 1867–86. History of
Israel (London).
Gunkel, H., 1910. Genesis (3rd edn; Göttingen).
——, 1917. Das Märchen im Alten Testament (Tübingen).
Herder, J. G., 1784–91. Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit, ET, T. O.
Churchill [1800], Reflections on the Philosophy of the History of Mankind
[Chicago, 1968]).
Kittel, R., 1888–92. Geschichte der Hebräer (Gotha).
Jolles, A., 1930. Einfache Formen (Tübingen).
Müller, K. O., 1825. Prolegomena zu einer wissenschaftlichen Mythologie (Göttingen).
Niebuhr, B. G., 1811–12. Römische Geschichte (Berlin).
Noth, M., 1930. Das System der Zwölf Stämme Israels (BWANT IV, 1; Stuttgart).
——, 1948. Überlieferungsgeschichte des Pentateuch (Stuttgart).
Petavius, D., 1627. Opus de doctrina temporum (Paris).
Prideaux, H., 1716–18. The Old and New Testament connected, in the History of the
Jews, and Neighbouring Nations, 2 vols (London).
Rogerson, J. W., 1984. Old Testament Criticism in the Nineteenth Century: England and
Germany (London).
——, 1995. The Bible and Criticism in Victorian Britain: Profiles of F. D. Maurice and
William Robertson Smith (Sheffield).
Scaliger, J., 1583, De emendatione temporum.
Stade, B., 1881–88. Geschichte des Volkes Israel (Berlin).
Steuernagel, C., 1901. Die Einwanderung der israelitischen Stämme in Kanaan (Berlin).
Ussher, J., 1658. The Annals of the World (London).
Wellhausen, J., 1883. Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels (Berlin)
——, 1894. Israelitische und Jüdische Geschichte (Berlin).
——, 1965a. Grundrisse zum Alten Testament (Munich).
——, 1965b. ‘Geschichte Israels’, in idem (1965a), 13–64.
——, 1965c. ‘Israelitisch-jüdische Religion’, in idem (1965a), 65–109.

01 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:45 Page 14
14 J. W. Rogerson
Wellhausen, J., 1965d. ‘Heinrich Ewald’, in Grundrisse zum Alten Testament, 120–38.
Wette, W. M. L. de, 1806–7. Beiträge zur Einleitung in das Alte Testament, 2 vols
(Halle).
——, 1814. Lehrbuch der hebräisch-jüdischen Archäologie nebst einem Grundriss der
hebräisch-jüdischen Geschichte (Leipzig).
——, 1830. ‘Dissertatio critico-exegetica . . .’ (1805), in Opuscula theologica (Berlin),
148–68.
——, 1833. Lehrbuch der historisch-kritischen Einleitung in die kanonischen und
apokryphischen Bücher des Alten Testament (4th edn; Berlin).
Winckler, H., 1906. Religionsgeschichtlicher und Geschichtlicher Orient (Leipzig).
Wundt, W., 1909. Völkerpsychologie, II: Mythus und Religion (Leipzig).

02 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:46 Page 15
Setting the Scene: A Response to

John Rogerson
KEITH W. WHITELAM
SETTING THE SCENE
JOHN ROGERSON’S REVIEW OF THE STUDY OF ISRAELITE HISTORY from

Prideaux to Noth is a fine illustration of Ecclesiastes’ observation (1.9):
‘What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done;
and there is nothing new under the sun.’ The current debates on the history
of Israel are often presented as a part of some paradigm shift or, at the very
least, a new and savage phase in the study of Israelite history. However, this
review down to the time of Alt and Noth illustrates that contemporary dis-
cussions are a continuation of and working out of themes and debates that
go back to the beginnings of biblical studies as a critical discipline. But it is
also important to recognize, within this, the network of assumptions built
into the study of Israelite history from the nineteenth century onwards which
has placed a conceptual lock on how the history of the region should be
pursued and represented.
The publication of recent works such as A Biblical History of Israel
by Provan, Long, and Longman and Kenneth Kitchen’s On the Reliability of
the Old Testament take us back to the starting point of John Rogerson’s paper
and the work of Prideaux before the development of biblical studies as a
critical discipline in the nineteenth century. These two volumes, ostensibly an
attack upon the so-called minimalists, are a dismissal of the very enterprise
of critical biblical scholarship from De Wette onwards. Provan, Long, and
Longman’s arguments are a variant of the acerbic dismissal by Kitchen of
any critical discussion of the biblical text from Wellhausen to the present in
which he complains that ‘one can only shake one’s head in sorrow over the
sad history of Old Testament scholarship in the last two hundred years.
During the eighteenth and, above all, the nineteenth century, there arose a
spirit of inquiry that sought to go beyond just reading the Hebrew Bible
wholly “on the surface”’ (Kitchen 2003, 497). It is a rejection, for example, of
the scholars and their methods who contributed to In Search of Pre-Exilic

02 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:46 Page 16
16 Keith W. Whitelam
Israel, edited by John Day; a volume that is located firmly in the history of
the discipline from De Wette onwards.
Just as Prideaux, who showed some evidence of handling sources criti-
cally, believed in the inerrancy of the Bible, so Provan, Long, and Longman
(2003, 3, 99) claim to place ‘the biblical traditions at the heart of its enter-
prise’ and take ‘the text deeply seriously in terms of its guidance to us about
the past of which it speaks’. It is an appeal to tradition as the arbiter of his-
torical disputes that is a giant leap back to the pre-critical period when the
biblical text was privileged in a very strong sense. Although source criticism
had developed from the Renaissance onwards, particularly of classical works
and even the Koran, the biblical text was privileged in a way that distin-
guished it from other written texts. The publication of these two volumes is a
reflection of a neo-conservative agenda that has dominated American politics
in recent years and is becoming increasingly influential in biblical studies. It
is a movement that marks a return to a situation in which the forces of ortho-
doxy, authority and tradition are the mediators of meaning while intellectual
enquiry—in particular, the critical analysis of the biblical traditions and their
complex relationship to history—is characterized as dangerous or irrelevant.
But if we are seeking to understand how and why we have arrived at the
point we have in terms of critical biblical scholarship, it is important to look
at some of the broader trends that help to reveal the network of assumptions
built into the enterprise since the nineteenth century. Again, John Rogerson’s
discussion of De Wette, Ewald, Wellhausen, and scholarship through to Alt
and Noth illustrates that there is nothing new under the sun. All the major
issues that have dominated the discussion of Israelite history since the 1970s
are foreshadowed in this earlier work: the dating and location of the biblical
texts, their interpretation in light of extrabiblical materials, including archae-
ology, the starting point of Israelite history, the theological shaping of his-
tory, the move in recent years to what some term ‘social history’, and even
current debates on the political nature of history. On this last point,
Rogerson (1992) noted in an earlier study how histories of Israel in the sev-
enteenth century functioned as commentaries on their own political and
social settings. The Dutchman Cunaeus read the history of Israel as an egal-
itarian story opposing the misuse of power, while the English nonconformist
clergyman Lowman used Israelite history as a means of defending the
Protestant monarchy of England. Current debates—the so-called minimal-
ist–maximalist debate—are little more than a variation on and extension of
debates since the nineteenth century. The contemporary sceptical treatment
of many biblical narratives is nothing new and, after all, Voltaire was much
more scathing in his attacks on the inconsistencies and contradictions of the
biblical narratives than any recent commentators. If anything, it is the
Albrightian position with its search for certainty and objective facts that

02 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:46 Page 17
A RESPONSE TO JOHN ROGERSON 17
marks a disjunctive phase in the discussions. Hayes (1977, 51), notes in his
review of the history of scholarship: ‘The deists, in their discussion of the
Bible and the history portrayed in the Bible, presented the issues of biblical
criticism to the general public. In addition, their scathing attacks on the
defences supporting a factual, literal reading of the text were devastating. It
would never again be easy to present Israelite and Judaean history by simply
retelling and amplifying the biblical narratives.’ It is a particularly ironic
statement in light of the many publications we have seen with the title ‘A/The
History of Israel’ since the 1970s and particularly in light of some very recent
publications, which, given the current conservative climate, are both easy and
extremely lucrative to produce.
THE SHAPE OF ISRAELITE HISTORY
It is understandable that early scholars, such as Prideaux and Shuckford, who

were writing before the the decipherment of Assyrian, Babylonian, and
Egyptian texts or the development of archaeology, and therefore knew little
of the ancient world, wrote histories that reflected the shape of the biblical
narrative. Yet the histories reviewed by John Rogerson and those that fol-
lowed—from Bright to Soggin, Miller and Hayes, and on to Provan, Long
and Longman—retain the same broad shape; as though the shape is con-
tained in the ‘facts’ of history. This may not seem strange until one compares
other fields of history. If one looks at histories of Britain—by Norman
Davies, Simon Schama, Linda Colley, and others—they do not follow slav-
ishly the same format or shape. Or, take for example, Garret Mattingly’s clas-
sic study, The Defeat of the Spanish Armada, which begins with a flash back
to the execution of Mary Queen of Scots in order to explore the rivalry
between Catholic Spain and Protestant England. J. E. Neale described
Mattingly’s work, in the blurb on the back cover of the book, as ‘as read-
able and exciting as a novel’. Yet our histories of Israel, apart from differ-
ences over the starting point, slavishly follow the events (and usually the
characters) of the biblical narratives. Thus the biblical text is privileged in a
way that continues to have profound consequences for the way in which this
history is studied and presented.
So, for example, the shape of Charles Foster Kent’s two-volume A History
of the Hebrew People published in 1896 and 1897 differs little from that of
Robinson, Bright, Soggin, or Herrman. After an opening section on sources,
the land and origins of the Hebrews, Kent’s chapter divisions follow the bib-
lical narrative from the settlement in Canaan to the fall of Jerusalem to the
Babylonians. Yet it is contained within a grand teleological narrative that
opens with a chapter on ‘the scope and importance of Hebrew History’ and

02 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:46 Page 18
ends with ‘The last chapter of Judah’s History’ containing a final subsection,
‘Fulfillment of the prophetic revelation in Christianity’. The final sentences
read:
Later Judaism failed, however, to realize fully the prophetic ideals; only in the
perfect Son of Man, the Son of the Eternal Father, did the old half-truths find
their complete and personal fulfillment. The same God who gradually revealed
himself to his people amidst the varied experiences of their history perfected
that revelation in the life and work of the Christ, who inaugurated a world-
wide, spiritual kingdom, limited to no race or land or forms, and transcending
the highest expectations of inspired prophet and psalmist. (Kent 1897, 203–4)
It is clear from a survey of scholarship that such grand-scale teleological

histories became the norm within biblical studies despite the rise of modern,
so-called scientific historiography. Robinson’s A History of Israel, I: From
Exodus to the Fall of Jerusalem, 586 BC, published in 1932, exhibits the same
grand scale, moving from promising beginning, significant middle, to tragic
end. It moves from ‘Israel’s Heritage’, ‘The Birth and Growth of the Nation’,
to ‘The Israelite Monarchy: Its Rise and Zenith’, before the tragic denoue-
ment in the final section ‘The Israelite Monarchies: Their Decline and Fall’.
Enlisting the authority of the professional guild of biblical scholars, he says,
‘It falls to us now to attempt to trace what were the steps by which Israel suc-
ceeded in establishing a unified state in Palestine, and so created a people
who, alone of the ancient nations, have preserved their national identity to
this day’ (1932, 176). Yet then in a most remarkable statement he denies
Israel’s claim to the land by affirming that its legacy is democracy and its
monotheism: Israel’s role was spiritual not territorial. A claim, of course, that
was not insignificant in 1932 from a British perspective. It is the nation-state
that takes centre stage in this teleological narrative. John Bright’s classic his-
tory, which came to dominate English-speaking biblical studies, shows a sim-
ilar design, with the exception that it appears to move beyond Robinson’s
tragedy towards restoration. It opens with a ‘Prologue: The Ancient Orient
before ca. 2000 B.C.’ including a subsection ‘A. Before History: the Foundations
of Civilization in the Ancient Orient’, then moves on to ‘Antecedents and
Beginnings: the Age of the Patriarchs’, ‘The Formative Period’, ‘Israel under
the Monarchy: the Period of National Self-determination’, ‘The Monarchy
(Continued): Crisis and Downfall’, ‘Tragedy and Beyond: the Exilic and
Postexilic Periods’, ‘The Formative Period of Judaism’, and concludes with
an Epilogue entitled ‘Toward the Fullness of Time’. In this case, it is time’s
arrow that dominates the grand-scale narrative as it moves from before his-
tory to the fullness of time. As we have seen with Kent, the writing of
Israelite history has invariably been an explicitly Christian enterprise in
which later Judaism is often presented as defective or deficient; its main func-

02 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:46 Page 19
tion in such narratives being as preparation for the emergence of Christianity.

Such narratives are dominated by a strongly Rankean conception of history
as ‘the outworking of divine purpose’, whose textualization of time places
the nation-state, and so the (Protestant) West as the subject and pinnacle of
history. For von Ranke, European states of his day were ‘spiritual substance
. . . thoughts of God’, as he termed them, supreme examples of God’s pur-
poses working themselves out on earth (von Ranke, 1973, 119, cited in Evans
1997, 18). A modified form of this grand narrative is evident in the recent
Oxford History of the Biblical World (Coogan, 1998; see Whitelam, 2002,
288–92).
The shaping of our histories of ancient Israel in this way, particularly the
fact that they have been written from competing national perspectives, also
provides a conceptual lock on the models and understanding of history. As
Jack Sasson (1981) demonstrated some years ago, the models chosen to rep-
resent the Israelite past reflect the present, with German scholarship obsessed
by the movement from tribal confederation to unified state or American
scholarship emphasizing the concept of ‘the Chosen People’, the conquest,
and the manifestation of divine will in the historical realm. Bailey and Kent’s
textbook History of the Hebrew Commonwealth, published in the 1920s, illus-
trates how just as American imperial power gradually replaced that of the
British in the region, so its vision of the Israelite past, including chapters on
‘The Cradle of Democracy’ (which deals with Israel in Egypt and the
Exodus) or ‘The Struggle for Independence’ (on the period of the Judges),
replaced the British vision of Oesterley and Robinson. We can see the same
themes continued nearly forty years later in the chapter and section headings
of Bright’s classic work such as ‘The Constitution and Faith of Early Israel’
or ‘The Period of National Self-Determination’. The evolutionary notions
that underpin such narratives—the triumph of the Israelite state over deficient
Canaanite petty city-states or Israelite monotheism replacing the debauched
religion of the Canaanites—are not fossilized relics of past scholarship but
continue to exert a hold over current discussions concerning the David and
Solomonic monarchy, notions of centralization, and the textualization of
time.
Norman Cantor’s observations on the invention of the Middle Ages by
twentieth-century scholarship are just as applicable to biblical scholarship
and its pursuit of ancient Israel. A close reading of standard histories of
ancient Israel from the nineteenth century onwards demonstrates the perti-
nence of his analysis for understanding the history of our discipline. He
remarks that medievalists found ‘in the Middle Ages the mirror image of
themselves or parallel manifestations to trends and happenings in the twenti-
eth century’. He says, ‘Our profound learning about the high Middle Ages has
provided the opportunity for provocative image making of a medieval past

02 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:46 Page 20
that conforms to our current emotional and public needs’ (Cantor 1991,
27–28). He adds that ‘like all creative thinkers and artists, [they] fashioned
their interpretations of the Middle Ages out of the emotional wellsprings of
their lives, and these lives were in turn conditioned by the vast social and
political upheavals of the twentieth century’ (Cantor 1991, 42–43). Those who
work within biblical studies, crafting their histories of ancient Israel, are no
more able to escape their worldly affiliations than the great medievalists of
the past or present.
Given Sasson’s analysis of the different models used to represent the
Israelite past, it should come as no surprise in the context of contemporary
debates in the USA, Europe and Israel, on ethnicity, identity, multicultural-
ism, and immigration that the key areas of debate on Israelite history have
shifted from the transitions through tribe, chiefdom and state, which domi-
nated earlier scholarship, to the problems of ethnicity and identity. Our his-
tories of Israel are deeply enthnocentric, dominated by a notion of ethnicity
which assumes that it is bounded, static, and primordial. One of the chal-
lenges for current scholarship is to produce histories that reflect that ‘ethnic
identity is based on shifting, situational, subjective identifications of self and
others, which are rooted in ongoing daily practice and historical experience,
but also subject to transformation and discontinuity’ (Jones 1997, 13).
ESCAPING THE CONCEPTUAL LOCK?
In setting the scene, it is important to understand the network of assump-

tions that are buried deep within the study of the history of Israel in order to
open them to scrutiny—to expose that they are not self evident but contested
notions that shape the way in which we see the past—and thereby encourage
critical reflection on how we shape such histories. We might usefully ask:
‘Despite the many volumes with this title, do we possess a history of Israel?’
The majority of scholars continue to privilege the biblical text and reiterate
that it offers the best, or the only, avenue to access Israel’s past. Yet our stan-
dard histories of ancient Israel are a curious mixture of part prolegomena,
part commentary on the biblical text, and part historical reconstruction.
Interestingly, Hayes (1977, 61) remarked that having read Ewald’s history the
impression he was left with was ‘of having read a historical commentary on
the historical books, but not having read a history of Israel’. We might apply
this to all our histories of Israel, including the most recent. They are not nar-
rative histories—synthetic treatments describing, analysing, and explaining
the historical process—such as John Keay’s India: A History (2000), Norman
Davies’s The Isles (1999), Mark Mazower’s The Balkans (2001) or thematic
volumes such as Linda Colley’s Captives: Britian, Empire and the World

02 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:46 Page 21
1600–1850 (2003) or Roy Porter’s Enlightenment: Britain and the Creation of

the Modern World (2001). Nor do they show any sign of being acquainted
with contemporary history-writing. It is a genre that has been cut off from
the field of history. The increase in the number of volumes devoted to the his-
tory of Israel, particularly in the 1980s, did not signal a growing confidence
in the genre but reflected a crisis of confidence in the historian’s ability to
reconstruct Israelite history as traditionally conceived and the need to focus
more clearly on the processes of the history of Palestine. It is this which is at
the heart of the contemporary, combative debates and which is so often
misunderstood.
The history of ancient Palestine, as told by biblical scholars and archae-
ologists, has all too often been a history of ethnic difference and neat chrono-
logical divisions corresponding, supposedly, to ethnic, material, and cultural
differences. It is the rhythms of nature, the basic needs of livelihood and sur-
vival which dominated the lives of the inhabitants of ancient Palestine, not
the great men, their kingdoms and empires. Yet it is the latter which are the
subject of our histories of ancient Israel because they have been seen as the
proper subject matter of history within biblical studies. Nadav Na’aman’s
essay in this volume is a classic example of this type of approach to history-
writing. However, there is recent evidence of alternative approaches that are
concerned with the processes of history in which the Hebrew Bible is one
source of information on the lives of the population but not in the traditional
sense of the obsession with the dating and location of particular individuals
and their great deeds. The regional surveys conducted by Finkelstein, Ofer,
Herzog, and many others, have offered a different perspective on the study of
the history of the Palestine in the Iron Age and undermined previous bibli-
cally based reconstructions. Although there is no single-volume history which
represents this type of approach, a number of the individual essays in edited
volumes—particularly Finkelstein and Na’aman (1994) and Levy (1995)—
adopt a Braudellian perspective in analysing the results of surveys and exca-
vations in the context of long-term settlement and demographic trends in the
region. Similarly, recent work by Faust (2000a; 2000b), among others, pro-
vides a detailed treatment of aspects of rural society in Palestine during the
Iron Age that are only accessible to the historian through regional surveys
and recent excavations. However, such innovative approaches continue to
struggle to break the conceptual lock that has been imposed on history-
writing within biblical studies by continuing to employ, often unwittingly,
the models and assumptions that have dominated the discipline since the
nineteenth century.
Despite the influence of literary studies within biblical studies from the
1970s onwards, a movement that challenged the way in which historians read
and utilized the biblical narratives, we have not seen more innovative forms

02 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:46 Page 22
of history-writing comparable with other fields of historical studies: whether

of the type of Mattingly or of more experimental forms of narrative history.
This is due partly, of course, to the institutional fear of innovation, particu-
larly in the UK. Yet it is also due to the network of assumptions that have
built up since the nineteenth century which have determined what is the
proper subject of history and the ways in which it is to be investigated and
represented. It remains to be seen whether the study of Israelite history will
continue to affirm that ‘what has been done will be done’ or will offer an
alternative vision of the history of ancient Israel within ancient Palestine.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bailey, A. E., and C. F. Kent, 1920. History of the Hebrew Commonwealth (New
York).
Bright, J., 2000. A History of Israel (4th edn; Louisville, KY).
Cantor, N. F., 1991. Inventing the Middle Ages: The Lives, Works, and Ideas of the
Great Medievalists of the Twentieth Century (Cambridge).
Colley, L., 2003. Captives: Britain, Empire and the World 1600–1850 (London).
Coogan, M. D., 1998. The Oxford History of the Biblical World (Oxford).
Cunaeus, P., 1653. Of the Commonwealth of the Hebrews (London).
Davies, N., 1999. The Isles. A History (London).
Day, J., (ed.), 2004. In Search of Pre-exilic Israel: Proceedings of the Oxford Old
Testament Seminar (JSOTSup 406; London).
Evans, R. J., 1997. In Defence of History (London).
Faust, A., 2000a. ‘Ethnic Complexity in Northern Israel during Iron Age II’, PEQ
132, 2–27.
——, 2000b. ‘The Rural Community in Ancient Israel during Iron Age II’, BASOR
317, 17–39.
Finkelstein, I., and N. Na’aman (eds), 1994. From Nomadism to Monarchy:
Archaeological and Historical Aspects of Early Israel (Jerusalem).
Hayes, J. H., 1977. ‘The History of the Study of Israelite and Judaean History’, in
J. H. Hayes and J. M. Miller (eds), Israelite and Judaean History (London), 1–69.
Herrmann, S., 1973. Geschichte Israels in alttestamentlicher Zeit (Munich) (ET, 1975.
A History of Israel in Old Testament Times [London]).
Jones, S., 1997. The Archaeology of Ethnicity: Constructing Identities in the Past and
the Present (London).
Keay, J., 2000. India: A History (London).
Kent, C. F., 1896. A History of the Hebrew People: From the Settlement in Canaan to
the Division of the Kingdom (London).
——, 1897. A History of the Hebrew People: From the Division of the Kingdom to the
Fall of Jerusalem in 586 B.C. (London).
Kitchen, K., 2003. On the Reliability of the Old Testament (Grand Rapids, MI, and
Cambridge).
Levy, T. E., (ed.), 1995. The Archaeology of Society in the Holy Land (London).

02 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:46 Page 23
Lowman, M., 1745. Dissertation on the Civil Government of the Hebrews: In which the
True Designs, and Nature of their Government are Explained (London).
Mattingly, G., 1962. The Defeat of the Spanish Armada (Harmondsworth).
Mazower, M., 2001. The Balkans (London).
Miller, J. M., and J. H. Hayes, 1986. A History of Ancient Israel and Judah (London).
Porter, R., 2000. Enlightenment: Britain and the Creation of the Modern World
(London).
Provan, I., V. P. Long, and T. Longman III, 2003. A Biblical History of Israel
(Louisville, KY).
von Ranke, L., 1973. The Theory and Practice of History (Indianapolis, IN).
Robinson, T., 1932. A History of Israel, I: From Exodus to the Fall of Jerusalem, 586
B.C. (Oxford).
Rogerson, J. R., 1992. ‘Writing the History of Israel in the 17th and 18th Centuries’,
in F. G. Martínez et al. (eds), The Scriptures and the Scrolls. Studies in Honour of
A.S. van der Woude on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday (VTSup 49; Leiden),
217–27.
Sasson, J. 1981. ‘On Choosing Models for Recreating Israelite Pre-monarchical
History’, JSOT 21, 3–24.
Schama, S., 2000. A History of Britain (London).
Soggin, J. A., 1984. A History of Israel: From the Beginnings to the Bar Kochba Revolt,
AD 135 (London).
Whitelam, K. W., 2002. ‘The Poetics of the History of Israel: Shaping Palestinian
History’, in D. M. Gunn and P. M. McNutt (eds), ‘Imagining’ Biblical Worlds:
Studies in Spatial, Social and Historical Constructs in Honor of James W. Flanagan
(JSOT Sup 359; London), 277–96.

02 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:46 Page 24

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 25
The History of Ancient Israel: What

Directions Should We Take?
HANS M. BARSTAD
THE ANNALES TRADITIONS
THERE CAN BE LITTLE DOUBT ABOUT THE ENORMOUS IMPORTANCE of the work
of Fernand Braudel and the French Annales tradition for the academic
study of history.1 Together with its many ramifications, the Annales 2 ‘school’
constitutes what is known today as the (French) ‘New History’.3
An easily available introduction to Braudel’s own views of history is
found in the preface to the first edition of the three tomes La Méditerranée et
1
A balanced introduction to the Annales is found in Iggers 1984, 43–79. More critical is Dosse
1987 and Carrard 1998. Cf. also the useful collection of essays in Revel 1999. A classic treatment
in English is Hexter 1972, 480–539. An excellent introduction to this important intellectual
French achievement is also found in Le Goff and Nora (eds) 1986. See also Le Goff 1988 and
Carrard 1998. Marino 2004 has shown how La Méditerranée slowly developed into a classic in
the English speaking world despite massive critique from many distinguished historians when
the work first appeared. An important step in this direction was caused by the strong revisions
in La Méditerranée in the second edition of 1966.
2
Named after the journal Annales d’histoire économique et sociale, founded by Marc Bloch and
Lucien Febvre in Strasbourg in 1929. From the beginning, the journal took an interest in the
social sciences and in multidisciplinary approaches to history. In particular, a stand was taken
against the political, individual and chronological approaches of ‘traditional history’. In 1949,
the name was changed to Annales, économies, sociétés, civilisations. The journal is still running.
It is published by l’École des hautes études en sciences sociales under the name Annales. Histoire,
Sciences Sociales, and appears six times a year.
3
The French ‘New History’ should not be confused with American ‘New History’ from the early
twentieth century or with the so-called New Historicism (in Britain also called ‘cultural materi-
alist’) of the late twentieth century. Connected with the latter movement, we find names such as
Jonathan Goldberg, Stephen Greenblatt, Louis Montrose, Stephen Mullaney, Leonard
Tennenhouse, Hayden White. An illustrative representative of this ‘anti-essentialist’ approach is
Toews 1998. The probably most famous slogan of the ‘New History’ is the so-called ‘linguistic
turn’. Strongly simplified, we may say that this issue concerns the relationship between reality
and language. Since antiquity, is has been common to assume that language imitates reality
(mimesis). Recent theoreticians have instead stressed more and more other aspects of this rela-
tionship, asking: does language represent/reflect reality or does it constitute/construct it? Since

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 26
26 Hans M. Barstad
le monde méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe II (1990).4 Corresponding to

the contents of each volume of the work, there are three different kinds of
history, each aiming at a total explanation.
The first kind of history is slow, almost immovable, relating to humans in
their given geographical environment. No wonder that some of the early
readers of Braudel’s volumes accused him of being a ‘geographer’ rather than
an ‘historian’. In the first volume of his work, correspondingly,5 Braudel
deals with mountains, plateaus, and plains, with oceans and peoples of the
sea, with islands and peninsulas. He then discusses users of desert and steppe,
relationships between Europe and the Mediterranean, and the Atlantic
Ocean. Further, he deals with climate and seasons. To finish off, Braudel
discusses travel routes on sea and land, navigation, and aspects of urbanism.
Above the first kind of history, which is almost outside of time, there is,
according to Braudel, a second kind, characterized by a slow rhythm.
Braudel refers to it, somewhat reluctantly, as ‘social history’ (history of
groups and groupings). When we browse the second volume of La
Méditerranée, dealing with this ‘slow’ history, we find that (at least) half of
the book deals with economy in various forms. Other topics are empires in
the time of Philip II, ‘societies’ and ‘civilizations’, and war.6
The third and last type of history, discussed in Braudel’s third volume,
represents what we would call traditional history. This particular kind of his-
tory deals not with humankind as such, but with individuals and events.
Borrowing an expression from Paul Lacombe and François Simiand, Braudel
also uses the term histoire événementielle, history of events. According to
Braudel, history of events is the least interesting to the historian.
Braudel has been criticized by later historians.7 However, we cannot over-
look the massive impact he has had on subsequent scholarship. His perhaps
most important legacy has been the connecting of the three types of history
with his concept of time. Each of his three layers (Braudel: plans étagés)
language itself is vital in creating and changing reality, its representation of reality cannot,
according to post-modernist theory, be stable.
4
The work was written in the years following 1939. It was defended as a doctoral thesis at the
Sorbonne in 1947, and published in 1949. It appeared in several later editions. The preface to the
first edition is dated to 1946, and is found on pp. 11–20 in the 1990 edition. Braudel is heavily
influenced by the writings of Lucien Febvre, to whom La Méditerranée is dedicated.
5
We should note, though, that the preface written in 1946 does not correspond well to the pres-
ent edition of La Méditerranée. In particular, important changes were made in the second edi-
tion. ‘Braudel’s 1966 revised Mediterranean was a different book. It changed its perspective from
a focus on geography to a greater emphasis on economics, political science, a revised conception
of civilization, and demography’ (Marino 2004, 642).
6
Again, we should keep in mind that much of this is the result of thoroughgoing revisions made
in the 1966 edition.
7
See the literature referred to in n. 1 above.

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 27
WHAT DIRECTIONS SHOULD WE TAKE? 27
represents a different kind of time: a geographical time (later called la longue

durée), a social time, and an individual time. The historian cannot get away
from the question of time.8 After Braudel, no one will claim that time is a
neutral or definite frame into which we may place reconstructed historical
facts. Time has become a part of what we do when we discuss historical
problems.
Even if a celebrated work like La Méditerranée has become known to
‘everyone’ (albeit one may wonder how many have actually read all of it), it
was in particular Braudel’s programmatic article from 1958 that made his
ideas known outside France (Braudel 1969). Here, Braudel discusses in some
detail his views on the plurality of time. He makes it clear that the ‘new his-
tory’ is an independent discipline, notwithstanding its willingness to learn
from a multitude of other disciplines (Braudel 1969, 43–44). The term ‘geo-
graphical’ time/history is now replaced with la longue durée. Rather than
‘social’ time/history he writes now of cycles and conjunctures. He retains the
terminology history of events (histoire événementielle), but prefers ‘short
time’ (temps court) for his former individual time. Of the latter (which would
include, for instance, political history), he is still critical.
Braudel further deals with models (whose hypothetical nature he stresses)
and structures in relation to his long term. As for structure, he is not influ-
enced by linguistic models. This would become problematic during the next
two decades or so, when structuralism became dominant on the intellectual
scene outside France.9
In France, the scientific nature of history was never really doubted.
History formed (as it does today) a part of the social sciences. For this rea-
son, Braudel stressed the necessity of using empirical data, often quantifiable,
to be able to identify the structures underlying social and cultural phenom-
ena. Later, this was referred to as histoire sérielle. It is a little uncertain who
coined the phrase (Dosse 1987, 178–92; Carrard 1998, 159–73).
Braudel is, nevertheless, critical of the social sciences for a variety of rea-
sons. One is their indifference towards history. Social scientists, according to
Braudel, avoid historical explanation (Braudel 1969, 56). The main culprit,
8
‘. . . le temps colle à sa [i.e. the historian’s] pensée comme la terre à la bêche du jardinier’.
Braudel 1969, 75.
9
Braudel refers to Lévi-Strauss several times in his 1958 paper. One may sense that he is a little
at a loss vis-à-vis Lévi-Strauss, whose famous book, Anthropologie structurale, was published in
1958. In the introductory chapter, ‘Histoire et ethnologie’ (first published in 1949) there is one
reference to Febvre, but none to Braudel. In his famous inaugural lecture of 1960, Lévi-Strauss
does refer to Braudel’s la longue durée. It is clear, however, that he connects this with his own
structuralism (see Lévi-Strauss 1996, 26–27). Overall, from the writings of Lévi-Strauss one
may also get the impression that history as a science is inferior to social anthropology. See
Lévi-Strauss 1974, 30–31 and Lévi-Strauss 1996, 350.

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 28
28 Hans M. Barstad
apparently, is represented by sociology.10 Braudel’s negative evaluation of

events, clearly, would add to his antagonism against the event-oriented social
scientists.
The reason why Annales should be considered in some detail in the pres-
ent context is that some biblical researchers have claimed that the Braudel
heritage may be useful for the study of the history of ancient Israel. This is
true to some extent, not least when it comes to the stress on interdisciplinary
approaches. However, we have to be very careful here. For instance, recent
attacks on positivism in the history debate have been directed as much against
Annales approaches as against other forms of traditional historiography (cf.
also Barstad 1997, 49–52).
Nonetheless, no one can deny that knowledge of climate, biology, geog-
raphy, population movements, and economic trends in Palestine during the
Iron Age is relevant to the student of the history of ancient Israel. It has,
customarily, been a weakness of histories of ancient Israel that they are not
multidisciplinary. In the future, this has to change. Archaeology, for instance,
is, due to the nature of our sources, extremely important in our efforts to
reconstruct ancient Israelite society.11 An interest in economy and the social
sciences is also a must.12
On the other hand, one does not have to be influenced by Annales to take
an interest in, for instance, economics or the social sciences; while in
Germany and in the Anglo-American world, Marx and Weber have probably
been more important.13
This said, it should be mentioned that the study of ancient Israel has, for
a variety of reasons, been remarkably little influenced by Annales approaches,
including their later developments (typically, Miller and Hayes 1986) True,
there are scattered references to Braudel in so-called ‘histories of Israel’, and
in scholarly articles. It is, however, difficult to see that Annales concepts have
been fully integrated into these works. One explanation may be that the study
of the history of ancient Israel is heavily influenced by German scholarship.
10
Braudel 1969, 58. The relationship between sociology and history has, from time to time, been
strained. Very negative is also Veyne 1978, 347–82 (originally written 1969–1970). Whereas the
situation in the 1980s appeared to be amiable in the English-speaking world (Lloyd 1995,
206–07), this was not so in France. It is clear, in France at least, that the immense success
of Bourdieu had become a challenge to history. This was sensed also by Braudel. Cf. Dosse
1987, 107.
11
See the important contributions by Amihai Mazar and David Ussishkin in the present volume.
12
In all modesty, the present author did attempt to write a book about Neo-Babylonian Judah
taking into consideration not only biblical and extra-biblical sources, but also archaeology,
economics and social theory (Barstad 1996).
13
On the influence of Marx on Lefebvre, see Iggers 1984, 146–49. Cf. also Dosse, 58–60. We
should realize, though, that Marxist history-writing has been highly critical of the Annales
tradition (see Iggers 1984, 68–79).

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 29
In Germany, French historiography has hardly been taken into consideration

at all (and vice versa).
Exceptions may be found in Syro-Palestinian archaeology.14 Mostly, how-
ever, I do not have the feeling that archaeologists have actually used Annales
in any thorough way.
The heritage of Braudel is unquestionably important, especially after the
‘reintroduction of the event’ among recent Annales scholars, influenced by
narrative strategies (Carrard 1998, 69–79). There are also some good exam-
ples of how scholars working within ancient Near Eastern studies may be
used as role models for the writing of the history of ancient Israel. I am
thinking here, for example, of the major volume on Phoenician and Punic
civilizations edited by the Belgian scholar Véronique Krings (Krings 1995),
and the volume on the history of Amorite Mesopotamia by Dominique
Charpin (Charpin 2004). Both of these are excellent examples of French
multidisciplinary approaches, belonging to the good Braudel heritage (‘total
history’ if one wants).
However, even if Annales in its later versions may be useful when used
with insight and caution, it is not sufficient to the historian of ancient Israel.
Since biblical historiography is narrative, event-oriented and pre-logical, and
since it for these reasons does not provide enough of the kind of empirical
data that the anti-event-oriented and anti-narrative analytical scientist
Braudel could use, his approach needs to be balanced. One could say that this
complementariness, at least in part, has already taken place within French
New History.
The immediate future of ancient history, nevertheless, including that of
ancient Israel, must take more into consideration developments and insights
from ‘narrative’ rather than from ‘positivist’ historiography.15
AN ISRAELITE NATIONAL HISTORY: GENRE AND REALITY
The so-called Deuteronomistic History was, possibly, written late in the sixth
century BCE (or later). For some of the problems connected with the use of
this text for historical reconstructions, see Marc Brettler’s contribution to the
present volume.
The purpose of this account is to explain the situation in which the
Judean nation finds itself after the fall of Jerusalem. The autonomous Judean
state has come to an end, following Nebuchadnezzar’s conquest of Jerusalem
14
For some examples of the use and influence of Annales on Palestinian archaeology, see Levy
and Holl 1995, 2–8. Cf. also Herzog and Singer-Avitz 2004, 235.
15
See the important survey in Ricœur 1983, 171–310.

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 30
30 Hans M. Barstad
and his taking of members of the upper classes to Babylonia. In the Hebrew
Bible, these events are viewed as divine punishment for the Judeans. Their
national god Yahweh has chastized them for their transgressions and viola-
tions of the divine laws during their stay in Canaan, the land given to them
by Yahweh. With this, the deuteronomistic story ends. In the parallel story in
Chronicles–Ezra–Nehemiah, dealing with the history of God’s chosen people
from the creation to the restoration of the land during the Persian period, the
events are taken even further in time, including also the restoration of the
land.
Attempts to date the final version of the history vary considerably, how-
ever, and nothing seems certain. More important to the historian than
certainty concerning the dating of the final form of the Deuteronomistic
History, though, would be the reliability of the historical information found
in this literature for the reconstruction of the history of Iron Age Palestine,
including that of the city-states of Samaria and Jerusalem. I feel that the dis-
cussions about the relative size, relations between, and historical importance
of ‘Israel’ and ‘Judah’ in the Iron Ages have been hampered by the influence
of monarchic categories stemming from nineteenth-century Europe. To get
out of the impasse, future discussions need to take into consideration our
much more adequate knowledge of ancient city-state systems.16
It is, of course, problematic to use such words as ‘nation’, ‘nationalism’,
‘king’, ‘kingdom’, and similar ‘modern’ terms in relation to pre-modern
societies. There have, consequently, been lively discussions concerning the
validity of such terms.
Some scholars have claimed that the term ‘nation’, for instance, should be
reserved for the modern world (in particular for the transition period from
agro-literal societies to modern industrial ones). However, since words like
‘nation’, ‘kingdom’, and ‘state’ have been used for such a long time about
ancient ‘communities’ like the ‘tribal federations’ or ‘chiefdoms’ of ancient
Israel and Judah, I see no reason to change the vocabulary here. Our com-
mon disciplines abound in similar anachronisms, and as long as we are
aware of this, and have a fair understanding of what we mean with these
expressions, I see no problems.
When we read the highly schematized and idealized story of the Judean
nation, we soon see that it follows a certain pattern, a ‘paradigm’. We find a
16
Herzog 1997 deals usefully with the urban archaeology of ancient Palestine from the Natufian
and Pre-Pottery Neolithic periods to Iron Age IIC (seventh to sixth centuries BCE). Hansen 2000
contains a wealth of information that may be utilized for comparative purposes. For instance, it
follows from some of the studies that city states can be quite small. Nichols and Charlton
1997 gives not only archaeological information, but contains many useful discussions on the
‘mechanics’ of city-state systems.

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 31
migration ‘myth’ (Exodus and Wilderness wanderings); a ‘myth’ of origins/

settlement (the Conquest of Canaan); a ‘myth’ of a golden age (the Davidic
empire); a degeneration ‘myth’ (inner decay under the Divided Monarchy,
Babylonian exile); a regeneration ‘myth’ (promising future through the
resettling of the land under Ezra and Nehemiah).
Hutchinson, working with the Gaelic Revival (1890–1921), has shown
how this pattern is common to similar national stories (Hutchinson 1987,
125–26). There is, apparently, a common human need which has led to the
creation of a particular literary genre for this kind of national history-writing.
The similarities are too striking to be explained as coincidental.
When ancient Israel used the genre of a national history in order to pro-
vide the country with a national identity (Mullen 1993), rather than to recre-
ate past reality out of an interest in ‘history’, this is in accordance with a long
tradition. It was only in ancient Israel, however, that this practice developed
into a fully fledged national history-writing.
The particular genre of this biblical national history does not differ much
from similar ‘national histories’ known from other cultures in many part of
the world (Hobsbawn and Ranger 1995). To a Scandinavian, the national
histories of Denmark, Iceland, Finland, Norway or Sweden are well known.
‘Nationalism’, accordingly, is attested long ‘before nationalism’ (Armstrong
1982, 333–83). Many other examples could be given.17 Here, I shall mention
only one example, taken from Iceland. On Iceland, the foundation for
modern democracy in the nineteeth century was strongly influenced by the
so-called Icelandic Commonwealth (930–1262 CE), a golden age, in which
real democracy was mythically believed to have existed (Ásgeirsson 1994).
We are here probably dealing with one of the longest lasting genres of our
civilization. In fact, it was only after the Second World War that historians
stopped occupying themselves with the collection of a nation’s collective
memory as their most important task (Noiriel 1996).
The theological stories of the Deuteronomist and the Chronicler do
not tell us what Israel’s history really looked like in ancient times. On the
other hand, we must not make the mistake of believing that because the
Deuteronomists and their fellow authors expressed themselves through spe-
cific genres, everything that we find in the deuteronomistic stories is pure
fiction. Also, as we shall see below, there is no such thing as pure fiction.
In historiographical works, it is the ordering of the different elements in
the stories that is fictional. Clearly, it does not follow from this, as some
scholars have chosen to believe, that there was not an ancient ‘kingdom’ of
17
For a survey of a variety of fictional narrative ‘foundation myths’ see Bhabha 1990. For the
use of history in the building of national identity in the United States, see Appleby, Hunt and
Jacob 1994, 91–125.

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 32
32 Hans M. Barstad
Israel at all. No one, I suppose, would claim that, due to the fictitious nature
of their foundation myths, the countries of Denmark, Finland, Iceland,
Norway or Sweden did not exist at all prior to the writing of their history.
The Hebrew Bible and the ancient Near East abound with examples of
literary genres that give expression to historical events. The point here is that
we are dealing with literary texts. For instance, there existed a particular
building genre in the ancient Near East (Barstad 1997, 58–60). When the
story of a king’s building activities was recorded, this genre was always used.
Since we are dealing with literary conventions, and not with a detailed his-
torical portrayal of what actually happened, it goes without saying that we
face serious problems when we want to use such texts as sources for histori-
cal reconstructions of past events. On the other hand, the use of particular
genres clearly does not imply that what we find in the texts does not refer to
actual events that did take place in the past. It is the task of the historian
to try to find out what the historical realities behind the stereotyped and
conventional literary language may have looked like.
REALISTIC ASPECTS OF FICTIONAL TRUTH
Even if it may sometimes look as if it is a well-kept secret, biblical studies

have changed not a little during the last thirty years or so. Historicist-genetic,
diachronic strategies, primarily concerned with pre-textual processes and
with the internal history of the biblical texts, have come under increasing
pressure from other, more ‘literary’-orientated methods, concerned above all
with the ‘final form of the text’. Following the rather modest beginning of the
so-called ‘Bible as Literature’ movement in the 1960s, literary and holistic
approaches have become more and more dominant.
Since cultural trends do not take place in isolation, this development
within biblical studies forms, clearly, a part of a larger anti-positivist and
anti-historicist development within academia. It would, therefore, be unwise
to pretend that nothing has happened and that it is ‘business as usual’.
One might have thought, then, that since the Hebrew Bible has come
closer to ‘literature’ this has, at the same time, removed the texts even further
from history. ‘Fiction’, as we know, is reputedly a bad thing. In my view,
however, the situation should be judged as rather the opposite.
In the present history debate, the old discussion about the representa-
tional nature of fiction has gained new momentum (Arnott 1994).18
18
Lowenthal 1995, 229: ‘All accounts of the past tell stories about it, and hence are partly
invented; as we have seen, story-telling also imposes its exigencies on history. At the same time, all
fiction is partly “true” to the past; a really fictitious story cannot be imagined, for no one could

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 33
Avid readers of novels will know all about this. For others, one example
will have to suffice. If one (say) wants to study the life of mining families, and
what is was like for a boy to grow up in a mining community in
Nottinghamshire around 1900, one probably comes much closer to ‘history’
through the reading of D. H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers (1913), than from
the study of all local archives taken together.
Most novels are stories that represent past reality, but of which one does
not ask the question: did this really happen? However, this kind of ‘his-
toricity’ has, to a large degree, been neglected. If we do not want to give up
the project of historical research as a whole, or to end up only with a dozen
or so ‘scientific’ historical facts that can be verified by imitating the hypothetic-
deductive methods of the sciences, ancient history shall have to put much
more weight on the ways in which fiction conveys important pieces of past
reality.
I was, yet again, reminded of how interwoven are the realities of fact and
fiction when I recently read the biography of Katarina (Pringsheim) Mann by
Inge and Walter Jens. Among several examples, one may single out the dis-
cussion of the contents of fifteen very detailed letters written by Katja Mann
to her husband from her various stays in tuberculosis sanatoriums in
Switzerland in the 1920s. When we read Mann’s Magic Mountain, we imme-
diately recognize the persons of her letters in Mann’s Swiss sanatorium stories
(Jens and Jens 2003, 131–36).
The Hebrew Bible is full of examples like this. As an illustration of how
fiction in the Hebrew Bible may convey adequate historical knowledge, we
have an excellent example in the Book of Ruth. Ruth is, together with Esther
and Jonah, the most fictitious book in the Bible. Nevertheless, in this very
short text there is much valuable historical information about attitudes to
and roles of women, the position of foreigners, and aspects of agricultural
life during the harvest and threshing seasons. We also find references to judi-
cial matters like inheritance of property, levirate marriages, and the redeem-
ing role of the kinsman. The latter concerns both the redeeming of the
property of the deceased relative and marrying the widow. Even if the book
cannot be dated, we are dealing with examples of historical realities in
ancient Israel.
understand it. The truth in history is not the only truth about the past; every story is true in
countless ways, ways that are more specific in history and more general in fiction.’ A similar
point was made by Iser 1993, 1, who claims that that the long-established division between fact
and fiction is unsatisfactory since fiction without any known reality would be incomprehensible.
And Berkhofer 1995, 67 writes: ‘history, historical fiction, and fiction all exist along a spectrum
ranging from supposedly pure factual representation of literal, historical truth to pure nonliteral,
invented fictional representation of phantasy. No work of history conveys only literal truth
through factuality, and few novels, even science fiction ones, depict only pure fantasy.’

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 34
34 Hans M. Barstad
As with the Book of Ruth, there is much historical information to be

extracted indirectly from a multitude of texts of the Hebrew Bible. A study
of Ezekiel 27, for instance, a prophetic word of doom against Tyre in the
form of a satirical lament, gives us, at the same time, important historical
knowledge of the trade network of Tyre and of Phoenician economy.
Such examples, of course, could be multiplied indefinitely. Here, I would
also like to refer to some of my own experience. For some time now, I have
been working with prophetic texts from ancient Mari. When I read these
ancient documents, I find a lot of historical information about prophecy
and divination in Amorite Mesopotamia in the eighteenth century BCE. In
contrast, the historicity of the Book of Jeremiah, is, as we know, quite com-
plex. However, when we read a literary work like Jeremiah, we soon discover
that the ways prophets are described fit very well into the ways prophets
acted in Mari. In this way, it becomes evident that the literary Book of
Jeremiah (as well as the other prophetic books of the Hebrew Bible) con-
tains correct information about the historical phenomenon of prophecy in
ancient Israel.
By taking into consideration the historicity of fictional texts, and realiz-
ing that such texts are not less ‘historical’ or not less representative of past
reality, a certain degree of historical objectivity may be obtained. Since texts
indirectly refer to realities outside themselves, a ‘mild’ form of realism is
always possible. In one sense of the word, we may say that all the texts of the
Hebrew Bible are historical since they come out of the past.
We may, consequently, learn a lot of history from the stories of the
Hebrew Bible. This is a different, but equally important kind of history.
History, fortunately, does not consist of verifiable events alone. Since we, in
most cases, do not have sufficient evidence for verifying events, much more
energy, therefore, should be put into the study of ‘fictitious’ history.
However, we cannot leave it at that. Since it is the task of the historian to
attempt to find out whether this or that particular event did take place or not,
there will always be a second stage. An excellent example of the historian at
work is found in Nadav Na’aman’s study of the story of the death of Ahab
in 1 Kings in the present volume.
NARRATIVE TRUTH AND HISTORICAL TRUTH
Whereas a ‘narrative’ approach to history appears to be (fairly) accepted

today, this, clearly, has not always been the case. Traditionally, stories were
always associated with fiction, and, consequently, regarded as ‘non-historical’
and ‘untrue’. A historical event must always be verified. Only then could his-

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 35
tory be said to belong to science. According to such views, scientific history

must be analytic, it cannot be descriptive.19
For this reason, it was also claimed that history must seek generalizations.
Human action is governed by certain mental and physical laws that it is the
task of the historian to discover. The debate about whether it is possible to
find laws in history as it is in the sciences goes back a long time. In the mod-
ern era, the philosopher Wilhelm Dilthey (1833–1911) characterized the task
of science as explaining through the dissolving of larger units into smaller
ones.
The mission of the humanities (Geisteswissenschaften), on the other
hand, is to understand by putting phenomena into larger contexts
(Lebenszusammenhang). In this way, Dilthey and his successors attempted to
define what characterized the humanities, and above all history, as a science
in relation to the pure sciences.
Another important influence came from the philosopher Wilhelm
Windelband (1848–1915) who published a book about history and the natu-
ral sciences in 1894. Here, he describes the difference between history and the
sciences as a difference between nomothetic and ideographic sciences.
Whereas the former attempt to set up general laws the latter deal with events
that happen just once (einmalig), and are not repeated. The influence of both
Dilthey and Windelband is felt strongly even today.
The problem with generalizations in history, however, appears to be that
they are insufficiently based on empirical evidence. This challenge was taken
up by the ‘early narrativists’ of the mid-sixties. Well-known names are Arthur
Danto (Danto 1965), Walter Gallie (Gallie 1963), and Morton White (White
1965). As philosophers, these scholars searched above all for new ways of
explaining history, asking whether narrative could fill the explanatory func-
tion better than, for example, Collingwood’s ‘re-enactment’, or scientific laws.
For various causes, their work was not well received by historians. One rea-
son for this could be that narrative explanations were felt as a threat to the
scientific nature of history.20
It may be worthwhile to take a closer look at these pioneer scholars. I have
chosen Gallie as an example. Gallie deals with historical understanding. He
takes his starting point in the fact that Dilthey, Weber, Collingwood and oth-
ers have claimed that historical study aims at a kind of understanding that is
different from what is common in the natural sciences. Gallie sympathizes
19
For customary objections to narrative explanations by historians, see Stone 1979, 3–8. Cf. also
Roth 1988, 1–2. Hobsbawm 1980 is critical of Stone.
20
For a short survey and critique of the main views of these early narrativists from a philo-
sophical point of view, see Dray 1971. After a while, these early narrativists gained more and
more recognition. A supporter of Danto, for instance, is found in Roth 1988, 6–8.

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 36
36 Hans M. Barstad
with this claim, but he is not happy with the quality of previous approaches.
In contrast, he sets out with the proclaimed intent to explain the nature of a
historical narrative. His point is that the historical narrative is (ideally) self-
explanatory. In this way, narratives replace explanation and proofs in the
sciences. Having dealt in some detail with story as such (claiming among
other things that history is, more or less, story), he discusses the relationship
between story and history.
A quotation from Gallie may illustrate more fully his point:
What, then, does the word “history” mean? I would claim that it stands for a
wide family or syndrome of researches and writings, the key members of which
always contain narratives of past human actions. These narratives are follow-
able or intelligible in the same general way that all stories are. Of course, to be
historical a narrative must rest upon evidence, i.e., it must deal with events that
can be shown to have actually happened at roughly assignable dates and places.
A historical narrative, furthermore, will usually succeed in making its subject-
matter more intelligible to its readers (who are usually presumed to have some
vague acquaintance with it) by showing its interconnections with other relevant
historical evidences and results. (Gallie 1963, 172)
One important detail in Gallie’s contribution is his claim that historical

events, in order to be historical, must have happened, even if they have a nar-
rative form. This is a characteristic shared by the great majority of the schol-
ars who have advocated the importance of narrative for the understanding of
history (cf. Pomian 1999, 15–78).
Today, we are standing at the end of a lengthy development where it is not
possible to say exactly where the process started and from whom the most
important contributions have come.
An important change followed in the wake of the works of Paul Ricœur.
Taking his starting point from a reading of Braudel’s La Méditerranée et le
monde méditerranéen, Ricœur accepts the plurality of time. At the same time,
he goes beyond Braudel, and stresses also the necessary connection between
time and narrative.21
In the current debate, the philosopher Ricœur and the historians
F. Ankersmit (Ankersmit 1983) and H. White are probably the three intellec-
tuals who have been associated most frequently with ‘narrative history’.22
Among several who have dealt with this issue more recently, probably the
most influential scholar in the English speaking world is Hayden White. In a
21
See Ricœur 1983–85, I, 365–96. Naturally, each of the three volumes of Ricœur abounds with
relevant thoughts on various aspects of time. Of particular interest to the present discussion are
his reflections on historical time (Ricœur 1983–85, III, 189–283).
22
Lemon 1995, 42–79 deals with narrative in history. Munslow 1997 argues that narrative is
history’s main discourse.

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 37
long series of articles and books, he has dealt with the representational
nature of historical narratives. This debate, in my view, is useful for everyone
engaged in the study of texts from the past, including students of the Hebrew
Bible.
One frequent misreading of White, in my opinion, is that he has been
thought to defend of the view that fictitious stories and factual stories are
identical. Chartier, for instance, writes:
The most frequent criticism of Hayden White’s works has to do with his refusal
to grant history the status of a form of knowledge different in nature from the
knowledge brought by fiction. Historians as varied as Arnaldo Momigliano
and Carlo Ginzburg or as Gabrielle Spiegel and Russel Jacoby have raised the
same objections: by holding history to be ‘a form of fiction-making’ (Tropics of
Discourse, 122), Hayden White chooses to champion an absolute (and highly
dangerous) relativism that denies all possibility of establishing ‘scientific’
knowledge concerning the past. When it is disarmed in this manner, history
loses all capacity to choose between the true and the false, to tell what happened,
and to denounce falsifications and forgers. (Chartier 1997, 33–34)
When we read White, we will soon see that he himself, at least, does not
take this view. For the present purpose, a quotation from 1988 may suffice:
A historical representation can be cast in the mode of a narrative because the
tropological nature of language provides that possibility. Therefore, it is absurd
to suppose that, because a historical discourse is cast in the mode of a narra-
tive, it must be mythical, fictional, substantially imaginary, or otherwise ‘unre-
alistic’ in what it tells us about the world. To suppose this is to indulge in the
kind of thinking that results in belief in contagious magic or guilt by associa-
tion. If myth, literary fiction, and traditional historiography utilize the narra-
tive mode of discourse, this is because they are all forms of language use. This
in itself tells us nothing about their truthfulness—and even less about their
‘realism’ inasmuch as this notion is always culturally determinate and varies
from culture to culture. Anyway, does anyone seriously believe that myth and
literary fiction do not refer to the real world, tell truth about it, and provide
useful knowledge of it? (White 1999, 22)
However, whenever pressed, it appears that White is unable to provide a

satisfactory answer to the past reality problem, and he ends up with histor-
ical aporia. In the statement from 1988, White does not really bring us beyond
the literary stage. It is not difficult to agree with what he says, and many could
have said the same. What is problematic to the historian is that White is hes-
itant to given any concrete examples of how he understands ‘traditional his-
toriography’. Equally disappointing is his answer to Chartier (White 1995).
Here, he uses an historical example, namely Napoleon. Again, however,
White does not really take up the history issue at all. The quintessence of his
answer is summed up in the following part of his answer to Chartier.

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 38
38 Hans M. Barstad
This is not to say that narrativizations of real events are more fictionalizing of
those events than a non-narrative treatment of them—for example, the ‘case
study’ treatment favored by the social sciences—would be. One cannot
transform a ‘real’ event, person, process, relationship, or what you have into a
‘function’ of a discourse without ‘fictionalizing’ it, by which I mean ‘figurating’
it. The translation of the stuff of reality into the stuff of discourse is a
fictionalization. (White 1995, 64–65)
All of this, again, is unproblematic. It does not, however, bring us any

further.
THE HISTORIOGRAPHICAL OPERATION
According to the present author, it is the task of the historian to look into the
events described in the sources in order to find out ‘what really happened’.
Since we all know that this objective is unobtainable (Barstad 2002, 437–39,
443–45), it is easily understood that the historiographical exercise may, from
time to time, be felt to be somewhat frustrating by its practitioners. On the
other hand, such frustrations may represent a healthy counterweight to for-
mer periods’ naive positivism concerning the past. Then again, it is important
to underline that we can know something about the past. The big question,
of course, is what we can know, and how we can know it.
We should keep in mind that much of the so-called crisis in history is
brought about by philosophers or other theoreticians who are not themselves
working as historians. We have, in other words, been witnessing a variant of
the old gap between ‘theory’ and ‘practice’. In the future, the two camps shall
have to start talking to each other. Historians simply cannot pretend that the
problems raised by philosophers do not exist. At the same time, philosophers
have to take seriously the work of the historians, and try to find out what it
is that they are attempting to do (Noiriel 1996, 319–27).
It follows from this that the important place to look for history is not in
discussions about history, but in what historians actually do. This emphasis
on the historiographical operation is nothing new: French classics by Marc
Bloch (Bloch 2004), Paul Veyne (Veyne 1978), and Michel de Certeau
(Certeau 1975), to mention only a few examples, all hold similar views.
A similar view of the practice of history is held by Roger Chartier.
Chartier, a true empiricist, attacks Hayden White.
If history produces a knowledge identical to that provided by fiction—no
more, no less — how are we to consider (and why should we perpetuate) the
weighty, highly demanding operations of gathering a documentary corpus, ver-
ifying information and testing hypotheses, and constructing an interpretation?
If it is true that ‘historical discourse resembles and indeed converges with fic-

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 39
tional narrative, both in the strategies it uses to endow events with meanings
and in the kind of truth in which it deals,’ if the reality of the events emplotted
is of no importance for the nature of the knowledge produced, is not the
‘historiographical operation’ a waste of time and effort? (Chartier 1997, 35)
Chartier refers to de Certeau in this case.

Starting from a definition of ‘science’ less narrow and less rigid than White’s, de
Certeau invites us to consider history a ‘scientific’ practice that, like all other
scientific practices, depends on variations in its technical procedures, on con-
straints imposed by the social setting and the institution of learning where it is
exercised, and on the rules that necessarily govern its writing. To define the
‘scientific’ nature of history in this manner—as the best possible, most nearly
adequate rendering of the referential reality it aims at—is neither to deny
its fundamentally narrative nature nor to think of historical thought within
the ‘Galilean paradigm’ of the mathematical sciences’. (Chartier 1997, 35)
We notice that here, too, Chartier’s agenda is more to do with the histor-
ian’s craft and the question of history as science. He differs with White also
because he regards history (as one normally does in France) as belonging
to the social sciences. Behind much of this lies the old debate about the
scientific nature of history (cf. also Chartier 1997, 13–27).
The answer from Hayden White is disappointing (White 1995, 66). In his
view, everything that an historian does in his work belongs only to the con-
ventions of the craft , ‘to the “theater” of the scholarship or erudition; it has
a ritual function, attesting as it does to the historian’s bona fides and is served
up in lieu of anything resembling a scientific procedure’ (White 1995, 66).
Such views, of course, are not new to academia, but have formed a part of
many debates, most recently e.g. in the ideology critique of the Frankfurt
school, and in so-called ‘post-modernist’ strategies.
Above, when discussing Gallie, we noticed how Gallie (and others)
claimed that historical events, even if they have a narrative form, must have
taken place in order to be historical. Similar claims have been made by other
philosophers and theoreticians, at least since Aristotle (Barstad 2002,
439–40). One of the most important recent theoreticians in this field was Paul
Ricœur. His early works, though, were not so well received.23
23
We notice with interest that Paul Veyne, inspired by an early work of Ricœur (Ricœur 1955),
wrote a very important early contribution on narrative history (Veyne 1978). Compare the fol-
lowing quotations from Veyne. ‘L’histoire est un récit d’événements vrais’ (Veyne 1978, 23).
‘Chercher les causes, c’est raconter le fait d’une manière plus pénétrante, c’est en mettre au jour
les aspects non-événementiels, c’est passer de la bande dessinée au roman psychologique. Il est
vain d’opposer une histoire narrative à une autre qui aurait l’ambition d’être explicative; expli-
quer plus, c’est raconter mieux, et de toute manière on ne peut pas raconter sans expliquer; les
“causes” d’un fait, au sens aristotélicien, l’agent, la matière, la forme ou la fin, ce sont, au vrai,
les aspects de ce fait’ (Veyne 1978, 131–32). See also Pomian 1999, 15–78.

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 40
40 Hans M. Barstad
We notice with interest that Ricœur, in his important work on time and
narrative, uses White as one of his inspirations (Ricœur 1983–85, I, 286–301;
more critically 1985, III, 273–82). A few years later, however, Ricœur, too,
utters himself highly critical of the consequences that White draws from his
views.24
Others also have seen similarities between the views of White and Ricœur
concerning the question of the historical representativity of narrative.
However, since White eludes making his views on historical truth any more
cogent, he ends up with a relativism that cannot be accepted. True, relativism
can be healthy, as White himself writes, claiming that a responsible relativism
does not lead to nihilism (White 1995, 66).
There are, however, degrees of scepticism, and as a historian I would like
to know how we can know which of two ‘competing stories’ is true in a his-
torical positivist fashion. White writes about historians who deny the holo-
caust that ‘Opposition to the revisionists, then, is rather more a pedagogical
than a scholarly or scientific issue. We would not wish their views to prevail
not only because they are delusional, but because they would have a perni-
cious effect on future generations’ (White 1995, 66. Cf. Chartier 1997, 36–37).
In my view, this is unacceptable. If discussions about historical ‘facts’ were
reduced to pedagogical or moral issues, this would mean the end of history.
White refers to the views of those historians who deny the holocaust as delu-
sional. In the history debate, however, we must know whether these stories
did take place or not. We must know why they are delusional.
One further statement from White’s answer to Chartier may be quoted. ‘I
do not believe that one can “say whatever one wishes” about everything. I do
not believe that events are determined by language, although I think that
whatever meanings we attribute to events are produced in and by language’
(White 1995, 66). So far so good. This, as we see, is fairly similar to the views
of, for instance, Derrida. These insights are very important to historians deal-
ing with texts, but they are not sufficient as historical knowledge (Barstad
2002, 438). And White’s explanation for his statement reveals that his is a dif-
ferent world. ‘This is because I think that there are no meanings inherent in
any kinds of events, natural or historical’ (White 1995, 66). This is an echo of
Derrida’s ‘Il n’y a pas de hors-texte.’ With this statement, in my view, White
has stopped being an historian. Nor does he allow others to be so.
24
Ricœur 2000, 327–39, referring to the most recent discussion. White, on the other hand, also
reviewed the work of Ricœur, referring, not unexpectedly, to Ricœur’s work as ‘The Metaphysics
of Narrativity’ (White 1987, 169–84).

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 41
It is simply of no use to claim that there is a difference between fact and

fiction25 when this difference can never be learnt or told by anyone. This is
what Ricœur refers to as a ‘category mistake’ (Ricœur 2000, 328).
Chartier claims that even if the past is usually accessible only through
texts, this does not imply that the forces that govern the production of dis-
course are the same as those creating conduct and action.26 This is, in itself,
a legitimate statement. We may, nevertheless, argue that Chartier here does
not take the problem of language seriously. He appears to forget that ‘con-
duites’ and ‘actions’ must also be described. This is the view of Hayden White.
In my view, no one can deny that every time a historical event is trans-
formed into language, this does something to the event. The past reality of
historical events can never be identical with the past reality that we find in the
‘writtenness’ or the ‘spokenness’ about these events after they took place.
After 2000 years, and multiple language versions, the events are taken far away
from the reality in which they once took place. Such insights must not be
exchanged with a naive realist, objectivist view of historical truth (cf. Barstad
2002, 438).
It is with interest we notice that this focusing on genre sheds new light
on old discussions concerning the nature of history and the question of
generalizations.
Apparently, it is not history itself, but history-writing that is governed by
‘unconscious structures’ and gives history coherence and meaning (cf. above).
25
I have always thought that White’s writings do not deny the existence of past reality. Compare,
for instance, the following quotation, originally written in 1978. ‘I have never denied that knowl-
edge of history, culture, and society was possible; I have only denied that a scientific knowledge,
of the sort actually attained in the study of physical nature, was possible. But I have tried to show
that, even if we cannot achieve a properly scientific knowledge of human nature, we can achieve
another kind of knowledge about it, the kind of knowledge which literature and art in general
give us in easily recognizable examples’ (White 1985, 23). However, in the light of his answers to
Chartier, these statements are hardly of any help to the historian. If we cannot at all account for
any connections between stories and the historical events that once created them, it is difficult to
see the relevance of White’s works to historical research.
26
Chartier 1997, 19–20. In the French original, ‘Les historiens (dont je suis) pour qui demeure
essentielle l’appartenance de l’histoire aux sciences sociales ont tenté de répondre à cette double,
et parfois rude interpellation. Contre les formulations du “linguistic turn” ou du “semiotic chal-
lenge” selon l’expression de Gabrielle Spiegel, ils tiennent pour illégitime la réduction des pra-
tiques constitutives du monde social aux principes qui commandent les discours. Reconnaître
que la réalité passée n’est accessible (le plus souvent) qu’à travers des textes qui entendaient l’or-
ganiser, la soumettre ou la représenter n’est pas pour autant postuler l’identité entre deux
logiques: d’un côté, la logique logocentrique et herméneutique qui gouvernent la production des
discours; d’un autre, la logique pratique qui règle les conduites et les actions. De cette irré-
ductibilité de l’expérience au discours, toute histoire doit tenir compte en se gardant d’un usage
incontrôlé de la catégorie de “texte”, trop souvent indûment appliquée à des pratiques (ordinaires
ou ritualisées) dont les tactiques et les procédures ne sont en rien semblables aux stratégies
discursives’ (Chartier 1994, 590–91).

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 42
42 Hans M. Barstad
White maintains that there exist basic narrative strategies (he calls them fun-
damental tropes) for emplotting events, and that these incompatible forms of
emplotment are products of the historian’s art in telling the event (see, for
instance, White 1990, 1–25).
This appears to be the point also of MacIntyre who apparently sees all
human action as the performing of already existing stories, as ‘enacted
narratives’.27
Chartier asks a shrewd question in this context. ‘Is it possible to link,
without serious contradiction, post-Saussurean linguistics and the freedom
of the historian as a literary creator?’ (Chartier 1997, 32).
Dray, who has discussed the nature and role of narrative in historiogra-
phy at some length, puts it the following way: ‘What matters for the present
purposes is whether experienced reality, and especially social reality, can pos-
sess the kind of structure that it takes narration to display without there
being a narrator’ (Dray 1989, 145).
SOME HOPES FOR THE FUTURE
Similar to the situation in other branches of ancient history, the challenges in

relation to ancient Israelite history are obviously multifarious.28
Some major problems are occasionally found in relation to historicist29
and positivist presuppositions, created by theories, tastes and mentalities that
have survived from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This criticism is
valid also for ancient Near Eastern historiography of which ancient Israelite
studies forms a part.
27
MacIntyre 1985, 211. For a critique of MacIntyre, see Norman 1991, 126–27.
28
I have dealt with various problems relating to these questions in Barstad 1997 and Barstad
2002
29
‘Historicism’, of course, is a notoriously difficult term to define. There are many useful obser-
vations in D’Amico 1989, with a weight on Popper. Cf. also Hamilton 1996. Foucault writes on
the issue: ‘Dans la pensée moderne, l’historicisme et l’analytique de la finitude se font face.
L’historicisme est une manière de faire valoir pour lui-même le perpétuel rapport critique qui
joue entre l’Histoire et les sciences humaines’ (Foucault 1966, 384). I would also like to quote the
elegant attack of Paul Veyne on historicism. ‘L’historisme, de Herder et Hegel à Collingwood et
Toynbee, est inutile ou faux; il a suscité des difficultés, plutôt que résolu ou même posé des prob-
lèmes. Pour sortir de l’historisme, il suffit de poser que tout est historique; si on le pousse ainsi
jusqu’au bout, l’historisme devient inoffensif. Il se borne à constater une évidence: il arrive à tout
instant des événements de toute espèce et notre monde est celui de devenir; il est vain de croire
que certains des ces événements seraient d’une nature particulière, seraient ‘historiques’ et con-
stitueraient l’Histoire. Or la question initiale que posait l’historisme était celle-ci: qu’est-ce qui
distingue un événement historique d’un autre qui n’est le pas? Comme il est apparu rapidement
que cette distinction n’était pas facile à faire’ (Veyne 1978, 48).

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 43
Whether we like it or not, we must never stop reminding ourselves that

what we do cannot be done in grand isolation. We all belong to a much larger
academic environment. The true crisis in our field today, in my view, is more
to do with an unfortunate lack of interdisciplinary approaches and interests
than with the breakdown of so-called traditional scientific history. To the
historian of ancient Israel, an interest in archaeology, economics and politi-
cal science is an absolute necessity. It is also a sad fact that when biblical
scholars engage in interdisciplinary enterprises, their knowledge is quite often
outdated.
The crisis in history during recent years, in my view, has not really so
much been a crisis in history as it has been a crisis in the belief in overarch-
ing ideologies and mentalities (whether Marxist, structuralist, or naive posi-
tivist). What we have been witnessing could in fact be regarded not as a crisis,
but as a necessary purgatory from which we emerge decontaminated.
The most important outcome of the post-modernist debate is that
historical truth can be different from positivistic, scientific truth, and that
historians must accept to use multi-methodological approaches to history,
rather than to work with any single research paradigm.
Many of the anti-positivist attacks have been directed towards views of
history represented by the so-called Annales School. For this reason, tradi-
tional Annales approaches to history (Braudel) may be less useful to students
of the ancient Near East and of ancient Israelite historiography than what
some scholars may appear to believe. On the other hand, recent develop-
ments within French historiography, with its weight on the narrative and on
multidisciplinary approaches, may be useful.
In the future, the temperature of the debate should be lowered, and the
use of invectives like ‘maximalists’ and ‘minimalists’ (in biblical studies), or
‘relativists’ and ‘anti-realists’ (in historical studies) should be avoided. Ad
hominem argumentation should be disapproved of. It is unfortunate that so
much of the scholarly debate has been hindered by offensive language.
Personally, I have a lot of sympathy for what has been called narrative
approaches to ancient Israelite history. This has been misunderstood by some
colleagues. Not many, to my knowledge, who have engaged seriously in these
discussions would claim that history is a kind of ‘fiction making’, and that we
have no way of establishing true knowledge about the past (cf. McCullagh
1998, 15–16).
The purpose of the discipline of the history of ancient Israel is, conse-
quently, to find out ‘what happened’ and to deal with what is true in a posi-
tivistic manner (‘historical facts’). If this had not been the case, it would, I
suppose, have been pointless to engage in the current debate altogether. There
are, as far as I know, few who do not share similar views on the objective of
ancient Israelite history. A historical event can only be true in one way, and

03 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:48 Page 44
44 Hans M. Barstad
not in a multiplicity of ways. Quite another matter, of course, is that the

nature of historical events accessible to the historian has, as a rule, not only
become multifaceted, but quite often even unavailable (Barstad 2002).
Future challenges concern above all questions concerning which methods
to use, the quality of our sources, and the nature of ‘narrative historical
truth’. There are some major difficulties connected with various aspects of
‘time’, including, for instance, the relationship between past and present.30
The greatest challenge for the moment seems to have been brought about by
what has been called the ‘linguistic turn’. Here, problems relating to text and
‘textuality’ have made the question of historical sources much more com-
plex.31 Following this development, the most pressing problem for the prac-
tising historian today concerns the relationship between literary genres and
historical reality.
Obviously, not all problems are solved if we do accept a narrative view of
history. From the discussion above, it must follow that a story about a his-
torical event, even if told simultaneously (‘eyewitness’), can never be ‘identi-
cal’ with the historical event itself. We have access to the historical event only
indirectly. The nature of the form of the narrative (genre) and its epistemo-
logical status in relation to experienced reality, consequently, remains perhaps
the most important question.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Ankersmit, F. R., 1983. Narrative Logic: A Semantic Analysis of the Historian’s

Language (Martinus Nijhoff Philosophy Library 7; The Hague).
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Armstrong, J. A., 1982. Nations before Nationalism (Chapel Hill, NC).
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Search for the Ancient Novel (Baltimore), 199–215.
30
Momigliano 1966 is a classic work that also refers to the Hebrew Bible. A more recent book
that I have also found useful is Gosden 1994. The French debate of time and history has been
particularly fruitful. See, above all, Ricœur 1983–1985; and 2000. In addition to the works by
Braudel, see also Bloch 2004, 57–66; Le Goff 1988; Leduc 1999; for the ancient Near East, see
De Pury 1989, and Briquel-Chatonnet and Lozachmeur 1998.
31
‘En somme l’histoire de la pensée, des connaissances, de la philosophie, de la littérature sem-
ble multiplier les ruptures et chercher tous les hérissements de la discontinuité, alors que l’his-
toire proprement dite, l’histoire tout court, semble effacer, au profit des structures sans labilité,
l’irruption des événements’. The problems with both of these histories, however, are identical.
‘Ces problèmes, on peut les résumer d’un mot: la mise en question du document’ (Foucault 1969,
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——, 2002. ‘“Fact” versus “Fiction” and Other Issues in the History Debate, and their
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l’URA 1062 ‘Etudes Sémitiques’ (Antiquités Sémitiques 3; Paris).
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of the Cliff: History, Language, and Practices (Parallax: Re-visions of Culture and
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Storia della Storiografia 24 (1993), 133–142.]
——, 1997b. ‘History between Narrative and Knowledge’, in idem 1997, 13–27. [First
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and corr. edn; Agora 176; Paris).
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——, 1989. ‘Narrative and Historical Realism’, in W. H. Dray, On History and
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46 Hans M. Barstad
Foucault, M., 1966. Les mot et les choses: une archéologie des sciences humaines
(Collection Tel 166; Paris).
——, 1969. L’archéologie du savoir (Bibliothèque des Sciences humaines; Paris).
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in Judah’, Tel Aviv 31, 209–44.
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Questions’, Past & Present 55, 3–17.]
——, 1999b. ‘British History and the Annales: A Note’, in ibid., 236–45. [First publ.
1978 in Review: A Journal of the Fernand Braudel Center for the Study of
Economies, Historical Systems, and Civilizations 1,157–62.]
——, 1999c. ‘On the Revival of Narrative’, in ibid., 246–53. [First publ. 1980 as ‘The
Revival of Narrative: Some Comments’, Past & Present 86, 3–8.]
——, and T. Ranger (eds), 1995. The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge). [First publ.
1983.]
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the Creation of the Irish Nation State (London).
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NH).
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(Baltimore).
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(Hamburg).
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(Handbuch der Orientalistik I. Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten 20; Leiden).
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(Collection Points. Série histoire 259; Paris).
Le Goff, J., 1988. Histoire et mémoire (Collection Folio Histoire 20; Paris).
—— (ed.), 1988. La nouvelle Histoire (2nd rev. edn; Paris). [First publ. 1978 CEPL.]
——, and P. Nora (eds), 1986. Faire de l’histoire. I. Nouveaux problèmes. II. Nouvelle
approches. III, Nouveaux objets. (Collection Folio. Histoire 16–18; Paris). [First
publ. 1974.]
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York).
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Anthropologie structurale deux (first publ. 1973; repr. Collection Agora 189; Paris),
11–44.
——, 1996b. ‘Critères scientifiques dans les disciplines sociales et humaines’ (first
publ. 1964), in ibid., 339–64.
Levy, T. E, and A. F. C. Holl, 1995. ‘Social change and the archaeology of the Holy
Land’, in T. E. Levy (ed.), The Archaeology of Society in the Holy Land (London),
2–8.
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[1st edn 1993.]
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MacIntyre, A. 1985. After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory (2nd edn; London).
Marino, J. A., 2004. ‘The Exile and his Kingdom. The Reception of Braudel’s
Mediterranean’, JMH 76, 622–52.
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(Beiheft 6. History and the Concept of Time), 1–23.
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Historian and the Creation of Israelite National Identity (Semeia Studies; Atlanta,
GA).
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Cultural Approaches (Smithsonian Series in Archaeological Inquiry; Washington).
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Terms’, History and Theory 30, 119–35.
Pomian, K., 1999. Sur l’histoire (Collection Folio Histoire 97; Paris).
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Proche-Orient ancien : Actes de Colloque de Cartigny 1986 (Les Cahiers du
CEPOA 5; Leuven).
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fiction. III, 1985. Le temps raconté (Paris).
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48 Hans M. Barstad
White, H., 1985. Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore).

——, 1990. The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical
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White, M., 1965. Foundations of Historical Knowledge (New York).

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Biblical Israel in the Ninth Century?
PHILIP R. DAVIES
ON HISTORY
HISTORIANS (LIKE ARCHAEOLOGISTS) ARE NOTORIOUSLY DIVIDED between

those who like theory and those who just like to forget theory and get on with
the job. Disdain between the two is usually about equal. Neither pursuit, of
course, is much use without the other. But theory should come first, even
under the more accessible name of ‘reflection’.
History is not ‘the past’ (except in a loose, idiomatic sense). It is not
even ‘what we happen to know about the past’: it is ‘what we choose to
narrate about the past’. History is ‘the past as meaningful’, and its mean-
ing is created (not ‘interpreted’) by means of narrative. Narrative generates
‘history’ by means of the artificial selection, not only of a particular sub-
ject, time and place out of the past (as if any part of the past could be
isolated in this way from everything else) but also by the unavoidable cir-
cumstance that we only know a fraction of the past anyway—and even
that we cannot comprehend.
Hayden White (1973) famously illustrated this point by arguing that all
historical explanations are rhetorical or poetical, because they have, as nar-
ratives, their own form of emplotment. History never states simply ‘what’,
but also something more: why or how. He also argued that there is no way
to prioritize one mode over the other: each is ‘truthful’ (or claims to be)
according to its own chosen trope: romance, tragedy, comedy or satire.
Each of these tropes corresponds to a ‘locus of perfection’, respectively
past, immediate future, present or distant future, embodying a philosophy
of history, and may be characterized respectively as metaphor, metonymy,
synecdoche and irony.
White has often been accused of stating, or at least implying, that one his-
tory is as good as another: he claims, after all, that historical narratives are
verbal fictions, their contents invented as much as found and their forms hav-
ing more in common with their counterparts in literature than they have with
those in the sciences. But this is a misunderstanding of his position. White
argued rather for an equality between the various narrative plots, not between

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50 Philip R. Davies
individual presentations of that plot. For while history, as narrative, can

never fully or accurately reflect history as ‘sum total of all that has
happened’, White’s argument asserts (rather as Wittgenstein argued about
language and reality in his Philosophical Investigations [1953]), that there is
no way to go behind any narrative form to some underlying ‘truth’, a ‘real’
history. It seems to me that he is disclosing, in effect (again with
Wittgenstein), ‘rules of the game’. The rules of modern critical history, for
example, involve, among other things, certifiable evidence, argument, logical
inference and deduction, coherence and probability. It is perfectly straight-
forward within this perspective to identify ‘better’ histories or reject ‘incom-
petent’ ones on the basis of their adherence or non-adherence to these rules.
But even good critical histories cannot be called ‘objective’ even if they
adhere to all the known facts. For the ‘fictionality’ of modern critical histor-
ies lies not (or ideally, not) in any invention (or omission) of data, but in the
invention of links between them, of explanations—and, of course, in their
selection and arrangement. The theory and practice of history-writing is
bedevilled by imprecise and misleading terminology: not just the term ‘his-
toricity’ (which simply, and wrongly, equates ‘history’ with ‘facts’) but also
the opposition of ‘fact’ and ‘fiction’: White’s point—and I agree with him
absolutely—is that even a fully factual history is still a ‘fiction’, albeit of a
different genre from the novel or epic or fable or myth; closer, but still distinct
from, the historical novel. A critical history needs facts, but facts do not of
themselves make the history.
Some readers of this might object: is it really true that ‘the past’ in its
totality, its ‘objectivity’, has no intrinsic meaning and that ‘history’ is a prod-
uct of narrativizing? Many modern religious people believe, like the biblical
authors, that history does have a meaning, one that is prescribed by the god
who created the world and everything in it. Such a view cannot be refuted
metaphysically, but would be valid for a modern critical history only insofar
as such an interpretation can be sustained by the rules of its game. Whether
a meaning that by definition originates outside history can be included within
a history may be a debating point close to sophistry: whether the existence
of a transcendental deity is even in theory verifiable (short of a public theo-
phany) is a more substantial objection; and there remains still the logic that
a history without a god is a more ‘economical’ explanation (in Occam’s
sense). And finally, even the Bible acknowledges that transcendental causes
do not have to be consistent. No: modern critical history is an account of the
deeds of humans and assumes that humans, collectively and individually, are
the immediate causes of history (we must not reject those long-term factors
beloved of Annales historians). Virtually every modern biblical historian
accepts this basic principle, and also accepts, of course, that the Bible itself
does not. Therefore, converting (if indeed that is the right course) the biblical

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BIBLICAL ISRAEL IN THE NINTH CENTURY? 51
history1 into a modern critical history requires more than a rational para-
phrase. From White’s perspective it would be highly problematic. Thinking
about how one might differentiate a good ‘transcendental’ history from a bad
one will illustrate the objection. The present war between Christian and
Islamic ideologies in Iraq is a good illustration. One can easily imagine how
future historians will craft their various narratives about this conflict (as
indeed they are doing now). Can we do better with ancient history?
But whatever modern critical history-writing believes it has gained in its
power of representation of the past, it has also lost something of the cultural
value of pre-critical histories, including the Bible’s. For to say that ‘history’ is
always a form of fiction is not to deny that it has a vital role in human civi-
lization beyond the mere recounting of past times and deeds. Individual
human identity is formed by memory, and awareness of our identity is only
possible because we have a memory. Human memory, of course, is neither
photographic nor constant, but constantly amending, editing, reselecting,
and in the process re-forming the identity of the person remembering.2
History is, first of all, a form of collective memory, defining the group; and
for most if not all humans group identity is part of individual identity. The
purpose of making meanings out of the collective past is thus to establish or
affirm a social identity. Mary Douglas (1986, 112) has famously considered
how nations maintain their shape partly by moulding their citizens’ under-
standing of the past. Huizinga’s definition of history, made famous in our
own discipline by Van Seters (‘History is the intellectual form in which a
civilization renders account to itself of its past’ [Van Seters 1983, 1, from
Huizinga 1963, 9]) makes almost the same point. Modern histories of ancient
Israel fulfil this in a special way, it seems to me: they are not imparting
ancient history to a disinterested audience, but are engaged in the building,
or the refurbishing, of a religious and cultural identity. Histories of Greece
and Rome arguably function also as a cultural ‘memory’ for the West, but
hardly to the same degree. Histories of ancient China or of the Aztecs do not
perform this function for most Western readers, nor do biographies (unless
they are hagiography). Modern critical history has been detached from these
cultural roots and functions. (By contrast, competing non-critical histories
continue to fuel racial and religious conflicts all over the world, including the
Middle East.) It is partly for this reason that history as an academic discipline
continues to debate its nature, whether as humanistic or scientific (for an
1
I am using ‘biblical history’ in the singular, well aware that there exist different histories within
it. However, for the purposes of my argument, the biblical portrait of Israel may be taken as
sufficiently unified.
2
For an excellent recent account of the complex workings of human memory, see Draaisma
2004.

04 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:49 Page 52
52 Philip R. Davies
excellent illustration of this dilemma, see Appleby, Hunt, and Jacob 1994).
While modern histories continue to be ‘plotted’ and to mediate ideological
values, they are not generally designed to build identity. They may rather seek
to illustrate a thesis about power, human nature, or to attack some other his-
tory. Anyone familiar with recent history-writing about ancient Israel will be
aware of the very strong ideological stakes that often emerge, but unlike other
histories, these often still do involve issues of identity.
ON THE HISTORY OF ANCIENT ISRAEL AND JUDAH
Modern history-writing about ancient Israel is not only a special case

because it continues in part to fulfil the traditional role of history as identity
builder. There is also the problem of a primary, virtually monopolistic, and
scriptural source. Every modern history of ‘ancient Israel’ has been exeget-
ical. No historian has simply gone back to the primary sources and started
from scratch. Or rather, the biblical narrative has been taken as the primary
source, as a given history that is complete in itself; hence all modern histories
have been a rewriting of this history. A few more or less rehearse it: equally
few resist it, and the majority rewrite it. Yet until fairly recently there was no
other option. Archaeology, which might have offered such a possibility, ini-
tially failed, preferring to seek confirmation of the story rather than to assist
in better appraisal of the source (the literature is too extensive to cite; see e.g.
Shavit 1997; Davis 2004 for Jewish and Christian examples respectively). The
decisive outcome of the West Bank survey, and the results of excavations, for
example in Megiddo and Jerusalem, have nevertheless provided (given the
earlier work of biblical scholars such as Alt and Noth, one might almost say
‘confirmed’) the possibility of a different story, by blurring the distinction
between ‘Canaanite’ and Israelite’ that is crucial to the biblical historiogra-
phy and its formation of ‘Israelite’ identity. Additionally, as ‘biblical archae-
ology’ has begun to catch up with the practice of archaeology elsewhere, it
has been realized that biblical and archaeological discourses are by nature
different and their combination is far from a straightforward matter.
This last issue has been addressed recently by Halpern (1997) and
Williamson (2004). Halpern characterizes ‘text’ and ‘artifact’ as ‘two mono-
logues’ arising out of different cultures, but, as often in his work, the discus-
sion moves strongly in the direction of a positive correlation of the two in
matters of detail. What Halpern’s work lacks is methodological control over
the use of analogous or complementary data; his combination of such data
often seems promiscuous, driven by the possibility of convergence or mutual
confirmation rather than a more disinterested criterion. He displays a reluc-
tance to lose any part of the biblical narrative, as if such a loss is actually a

04 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:49 Page 53
loss of ‘history’ itself.3 Williamson is more cautious, and also more genuinely
illuminating, in discussing different ways of explaining causality. But after
reading both I remain unclear as to the way forward that each envisages. On
the one hand, the monopoly that the biblical narrative still has on any
history-writing needs to be broken before we can really approach a critical
history of ancient Israel; on the other hand, archaeology seeks to uncover the
material remains of that society of which (even if only through its elite) the
biblical narrative (as distinct from the Masoretic text!) is itself an artifact.
Hence, in the end, both disciplines ought to converge: they ought, ideally, to
be mutually illuminating. And yet, that cannot come about unless both elab-
orate their histories independently and in a form appropriate to the nature of
their evidence. A good deal (including a good deal of nonsense) has been
written about literary and archaeological data and their ‘convergence’ or
‘mutual confirmation’: but even those who pay lip-service to an independent
archaeological history in fact fail to do so (on Dever’s attempt [2001], see
Davies 2005). Despite its enormous merits, even the single history of ancient
Israel that sets out to be archaeologically based (Finkelstein and Silberman
2001) in fact leans heavily on the theory of a Josianic age that, while not actu-
ally the biblical portrait, is a scholarly elaboration of that portrait, and not
one derived purely from archaeological data.
The problem is partly one of commission: the majority of archaeologists
of ancient Israel (especially North American) still operate with a pro-biblical
ideology, while the role that archaeology has played in Zionist nation-
building is extensively documented. But a deliberate pro-biblical, or even
chauvinistic, bias is hardly a fair charge against post-Zionist archaeology as
a whole (there seems, alas, to be hardly any equivalent progress in North
America, where ‘biblical archaeology’ is alive and well), as the present volume
illustrates. The problem is mainly a lack of imagination coupled with a lack
of logical rigour. If I may briefly take up the cudgels on behalf of what has
come to be called ‘minimalism’, I would say that its attempt to reassess the
relationship between the biblical historical narratives, the world they describe
and the world they arise within should have eased the way towards a greater
independence of the Bible in archaeological reconstruction. Instead (as
Lester Grabbe’s essay in this volume illustrates), ‘minimalist’ ideas have been
largely distorted into yet another replay of ‘biblical veracity impugned and
defended’ and with most archaeologists (curiously) lining up to attack it as
such, rather than to see it as a methodological ally. But the premise that above
all ‘minimalism’ wanted to establish is that the biblical account of Israelite
history is not to be approached primarily as a source (though to some extent
3
This propensity finds an echo in the title of his paper, ‘Erasing History’ (1995).

04 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:49 Page 54
54 Philip R. Davies
it can occasionally be used in this way), but a product of ancient Israelite (or
rather, Judean) history, a history that we as yet do not understand well
enough, and will not understand simply by continuing to exegete the Bible as
a way of writing history.
ON ‘BIBLICAL ISRAEL’
How is the methodologically and psychologically hegemonic role of the bib-

lical history the ‘master narrative’ to be overturned? First, by acknowledging
that ‘attacks’ on this hegemony are not anti-Bible and do not arise from any
dislike or antagonism to its content, but from a desire to understand better
what sort of writing it is and why it came into existence and to agree that
we need more and better use of archaeology not just of the period about
which the narrative speaks (the so-called ‘biblical period’, the Iron Age), but
the period in which it was produced in its complete, literary form (the real
‘biblical period’). Terms like ‘ninth century’ and ‘Iron Age’ (while not intrin-
sic to the passage of time but products of a cultural grid) represent an
improvement on ‘United Monarchy’ and ‘Divided Monarchy’, but these latter
terms remain implanted mentally as part of a larger portrait that we may call
‘biblical Israel’. Yet the results of recent archaeology require something
more radical, as I now want to suggest.
Even if the case against a centralized state governed from Jerusalem in the
tenth century is not proven (and of course it is not), neither is the converse.
We simply do not know whether there was ever such a state, and the tradi-
tional recourse of giving the biblical version the benefit of the doubt is no
longer good enough. Certainly, there are archaeological features consistent
with a centralized state, but in the absence of the biblical story would such an
inference really be justified? If it were true that there was no such state
embracing the territory and people of the northern and southern Palestinian
highlands (and the northern Negev) and that the founder of the Iron Age
state in the northern highlands of central Palestine was Omri (whom we
know from Assyrian and Moabite inscriptions), then there are major impli-
cations. David and Solomon, Rehoboam, and Jeroboam, plus the ‘kings’
from Baasha to Nadab must be put in some kind of parenthesis. Was
Jeroboam II really ‘the II’? Are Rehoboam and Jeroboam more like
Tweedledum and Tweedledee? If there was no ‘United Kingdom’ what place
remains for either, with their main roles negated?
We can even dispense with the ‘if’. The very core of the biblical narrative
is that Judah and Israel formed a single nation, from Abraham onwards.
Disposing of the patriarchal age and everything else up to the Judges period
(at the earliest), the historian finds an account of this ‘nation’, which some-

04 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:49 Page 55
what mysteriously has lost Judah under Saul, unified under David but not
for long. After the ‘separation’ the two nations then continue, mostly, as the
biblical story runs, as enemies or at best as reluctant allies. Therefore, even if
there were a ‘United Monarchy’, however limited, however brief, does that
represent an adequate historical basis for the notion of an ‘Israelite nation’
embracing the two kingdoms?
In 1977 a new genre was born: Miller and Hayes edited Israelite and
Judaean History, followed by their A History of Ancient Israel and Judah
(1986); then came Soggin’s Introduction to the History of Israel and Judah
(1993—but see the title of the first edition [ET 1984]) and Ahlström’s History
of Ancient Palestine (1993), which adjusted the lens further. There has been a
realization that the proper objects of a modern critical history are two king-
doms, not one nation. On the other hand, we still have titles such as ‘Life in
Biblical Israel’ (King and Stager 2001) or ‘A Biblical History of Israel’
(Provan, Long, and Longman 2003), as if this crucial point had not been
grasped (which it hasn’t!). What, then, explains the biblical notion of a single
nation? Archaeology may not be able to answer that question directly, but it
can assist by helping to eliminate some of the possibilities and spending more
time and care on periods outside Iron Age I and II.
At considerable risk of innocent (and malicious) misrepresentation, I sug-
gest we need to regard the question of ‘biblical Israel’ as distinct from the
kingdoms of Israel (or Ephraim, or Jacob, or Bit Humriya, or Samaria, or
whatever else it went by) and Judah as a major historical problem and not
as a given datum. When and why did Judeans begin to think of themselves as
‘Israel’? This question, it must be remembered, is not prompted by archaeo-
logical data alone, but arises also from contradictions within the biblical
narrative itself.
We need to acknowledge, first, that ‘biblical Israel’ can never be the sub-
ject of a modern critical history, but is rather a crucial part of that history, a
‘memory’, no doubt historically conditioned, that became crucial in creating
Judaism. This realization will enable us not only to write a decent critical
history of Iron Age central Palestine but also to bring that history and the
biblical narrative into the kind of critical engagement that will lead to a
better understanding of the Bible itself.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Ahlström, G., 1993. A History of Ancient Palestine (JSOTSup 146; Sheffield).

Appleby, J., L. Hunt, and M. Jacob, 1994. Telling the Truth about History (New York
and London).
Davies, P. R., 2005. ‘Crypto-Minimalism’, JSS 50, 117–36.

04 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:49 Page 56
56 Philip R. Davies
Davis, T. W., 2004. Shifting Sands: The Rise and Fall of Biblical Archaeology (New
York).
Dever, W. G., 2001. What Did the Biblical Writers Know and When Did They Know It?
What Archaeology Can Tell Us about the Reality of Ancient Israel (Grand Rapids,
MI).
Douglas, M., 1986. How Institutions Think (Syracuse, NY).
Draaisma, D., 2004. Why Life Speeds Up as You Get Older: How Memory Shapes Our
Past (ET; Cambridge).
Finkelstein, I., and N. A. Silberman, 2001. The Bible Unearthed: Archaeology’s New
Vision of Ancient Israel and the Origin of its Sacred Texts (New York).
Halpern, B., 1997. ‘Text and Artifact: Two Monologues?’, in N. A. Silberman and
D. Small (eds), The Archaeology of Israel: Constructing the Past, Interpreting the
Present (JSOTSup 237; Sheffield), 311–40.
——, 1995. ‘Erasing History: The Minimalist Assault on Ancient Israel’, Bible Review
11/6, 26–35, 47.
Hayes, J. H., and J. M. Miller, 1977. Israelite and Judaean History (Philadelphia and
London).
Huizinga, J., 1963. ‘A Definition of the Concept of History’, in R. Klibansky and
H. J. Paton (eds), Philosophy and History: Essays Presented to Ernst Cassirer (New
York), 1–10.
King, P. J., and L. E. Stager, 2001. Life in Biblical Israel (Louisville, KY).
Miller, J. M., and J. H. Hayes, 1986. A History of Ancient Israel and Judah
(Philadelphia, PA).
Provan, I. W., V. P. Long, and Longman III, T., 2003. A Biblical History of Israel
(Louisville, KY, and London).
Shavit, Y., 1997. ‘Archaeology, Political Culture, and Culture in Israel’, in N. A.
Silberman and D. Small (eds), 1997. The Archaeology of Israel: Constructing the
Past, Interpreting the Present (JSOTSup 237; Sheffield), 48–61.
Soggin, J. A., 1984. A History of Israel (ET, London; 2nd edn, 1993: An Introduction
to the History of Israel and Judah [ET, London]).
Van Seters, J., 1983. In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the
Origins of Biblical History (New Haven and London).
White, H., 1973. Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century
Europe (Baltimore and London).
Williamson, H. G. M., 2004. Confirmation or Contradiction? Archaeology and Biblical
History (The St George’s Cathedral Lecture, 12; Perth).
Wittgenstein, L., 1953. Philosophical Investigations (ET, Oxford).

05 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:49 Page 57
Some Recent Issues in the Study of the

History of Israel
LESTER L. GRABBE
A LOT OF PEOPLE WRITE ON THE HISTORY OF ANCIENT ISRAEL: biblical schol-

ars, archaeologists, social scientists. But most such writers are not historians
and often do not understand what a proper historical investigation should
look like. This has been the bane of the history of Israel: that most of those
who write on history are ultimately not interested in history as such. History
is only a vehicle for something else—theology or hermeneutics or even mod-
ern Middle Eastern politics. I would like to hold up as an excellent example
of a proper historical approach the work of Nadav Na’aman. I think he well
illustrates the proper source analysis, the balancing of text and artifact, and
the careful attention to central historical questions.
My purpose is to point to some issues relating to scholarly debate that are
not always understood because they relate to approaches and attitudes. Yet
such matters are often more important in the direction taken by debate than
the actual issues of data and specific scholarly method.
THE BANE OF LABELS: ‘MAXIMALIST’ VERSUS ‘MINIMALIST’
The first issue to be considered is that of ‘minimalists’ and ‘maximalists’.

These terms have become widely used in recent years, and no doubt they
serve as useful shorthand. But I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that the
terms are more harmful than helpful. In the usage of some, they have become
a means of dismissing arguments one does not like without bothering to pro-
duce a proper scholarly defence or refutation. Yet Philip Davies wrote an arti-
cle some years ago which captured an important observation already in the
title: ‘What Separates a Minimalist from a Maximalist? Not Much’ (2000).
The fact is that we are all minimalists—at least, when it comes to the patri-
archal period and the settlement. When I began my PhD studies more than
three decades ago in the USA, the ‘substantial historicity’ of the patriarchs

05 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:49 Page 58
58 Lester L. Grabbe
was widely accepted as was the unified conquest of the land. These days it is
quite difficult to find anyone who takes this view.1
Another current issue is the question of whether the United Monarchy ever
existed. Opinions are divided over this question, but I doubt that there are
many who accept the biblical picture of David’s and Solomon’s reigns. Who is
the ‘minimalist’? The one who rejects the existence of a United Monarchy or
the one who accepts it but believes it was only a ‘transition between local
leadership of a tribal society to the foundation of two neighbouring kingdoms
in the late tenth century BCE’?2
Unfortunately, the terms ‘minimalist/maximalist’ go beyond a label. They
have become embroiled in a rather nasty altercation between individuals that
far exceeds scholarly disagreement. It seems at times that there is a contest to
see who can out-scaremonger those of a different point of view about Israel’s
history. I am not about to express an opinion on the ‘low chronology’3 at the
moment, but I fail to see how belief in it is a major threat to Western civil-
ization. Axel Knauf’s article, ‘The low chronology and how not to deal with
it’ (2000) comes to mind. And I remember the comments of two separate
reviewers of Philip Davies’s 1992 book, In Search of ‘Ancient Israel’. One said
its views were dangerous; another dismissed them contemptuously as ideas
that could be safely ignored. This seems to sum up eloquently the ludicrous
nature of some of the debate: dangerous people who can be safely ignored.
This is one of the main reasons I would like to get away from the ‘maxi-
malist/minimalist’ dichotomy, because of the way in which it has served as a
vehicle for ad hominem characterizations. We all have our scholarly differ-
ences. That’s fine—and there is no suggestion here that one should fail to
make these known. But the proper response is argument, not name-calling.
When someone charges that a scholarly position is being maintained by being
‘grossly misleading, illogical, disingenuous, or all three’,4 I think this has gone
beyond attacking a viewpoint to attacking a person. The scholar to whom
those words were applied is the last person I would have thought of as ‘disin-
genuous’. His position on history and archaeology has been well defended
with substantial argument. Disagree with him if you will, but do not impugn
his integrity, which is what these words do.
The term ‘nihilist’ was applied to the position of some of the so-called
‘minimalists’. Use of the term was subsequently defended as a descriptive
1
For a survey of how the field changed between about 1970 and 2000, see my article, Grabbe
2000.
2
See Nadav Na’aman’s article in this volume, pp. 399–418 below.
3
This is the thesis of Israel Finkelstein, as expounded in several articles, such as 1996; 1998a;
1998b; 1999; 2001.
4
This is a statement in reference to David Ussishkin in Jane Cahill 2003, 75.

05 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:49 Page 59
SOME RECENT ISSUES 59
label, not an example of personal abuse.5 Perhaps, but I am not sure that
those on the receiving end saw it as mere description. In any case, what does
this have to do with scholarly argument? If they are right, they are right,
regardless of any ‘nihilistic’ implications; if they are wrong, they are wrong,
regardless of whether any wider consequences follow from their views.
Of course, there has been plenty of vilification of ‘maximalists’. The trou-
ble is that finding maximalists is like the hunting of the snark—they are very
elusive. Rainer Albertz has sometimes referred to himself as a ‘conservative
maximalist’, but he is only making a joke. He is nowhere near being a maxi-
malist. In fact, until recently I could find no ‘maximalist’ history of Israel
since Wellhausen. For when Philip Davies asked what separated a minimalist
from a maximalist, he was actually using ‘maximalist’ to refer to standard
critical scholars. In fact, though, ‘maximalist’ has been widely defined as
someone who accepts the biblical text unless it can be proved wrong.6 If so,
very few are willing to operate like this, not even John Bright (1980) whose
history is not a maximalist one according to the definition just given.
But just recently a maximalist history has appeared: A Biblical History of
Israel, by Iain Provan, Philips Long, and Tremper Longman (2003). Reading
it is utterly boring. An occasional extra-biblical inscription or cuneiform
tablet is brought in, but it is mainly just a paraphrase of the biblical text—a
very brief paraphrase of the biblical text because much of the troublesome
detail is omitted. There are some attempts at harmonizing texts with outside
data, there is the occasional quotation of another scholar—usually a fellow
conservative evangelical. But the basic ploy is to ignore difficulties. There
are no novel solutions to conundrums in the text, there are no innovative
reconstructions, there are no new insights.
For those not interested in history, a maximalist approach can be very
appealing; paradoxically, so can a hard-core minimalism. In both cases, one’s
approach is simple, whereas to do proper history you have to wrestle with all
the sources with their differences, contradictions, and difficulties. I refer again
to Provan, Long, and Longman (2003, 75) who note:
Attempts to find firmer ground in the supposedly more scientific fields of
archaeology and/or social theory overlook the fact that these means of access
to Israel’s past are not more ‘objective’ in any meaningful sense than the bibli-
cal testimony, given that each involves a significant measure of interpretation
the moment results are reported or an attempt is made to integrate them into
anything approaching a ‘history.’
5
William Dever, who originally used the term with regard to Philip Davies, clarified and
defended his use of the term (though with evident unease) in Dever 1996, 45.
6
William W. Hallo claims to have coined this definition: Hallo 2005, 50, citing Hallo 1980, 3–5
nn. 4, 11,12, 23, 55.

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60 Lester L. Grabbe
Of course archaeology needs a theoretical context to have any sort of mean-

ing. Like any other source of historical information, archaeology has to be
interpreted. So they are right as far as that goes. But where they are mislead-
ing is not to recognize the difference between artifactual data and data
from literary texts. An artifact shows that something actually existed; it is an
object from the past; it is real (unless it has been faked, but more on that
later). On the other hand, a text is the product of someone’s mind. The data
in it have already been filtered. They have been interpreted; they may have
been distorted. They may even have been invented.
I remember an episode at an invited conference some years ago. Most of
the people present were textual scholars, but one in particular was an archae-
ologist. He gave a very interesting presentation and made important contri-
butions to the discussion. But more than once in the discussion he made a
comment along the following lines: ‘I don’t know what the latest literary the-
ory is, but my Bible says . . .’! The irony of an archaeologist who seemed to
be giving preference to the unexamined text was not lost on most partici-
pants. The point for us is that no source is sovereign. All sources have their
place and give different sorts of data. The historian has to analyse and
interpret all sources, whether literary, epigraphic, or archaeological.
The differences in type and quality of data between literary and archaeo-
logical mean that archaeology is often a means of testing the credibility of
the text, while the text provides details that cannot be given by the artifacts.
After analysing a source, a historian may decide that it provides a lot of
usable information or a little or none. The judgement on that source may be
maximalist, minimalist, or somewhere in between. But whether you end up
with a minimalist or maximalist—or an in-between—reconstruction should
not be a priori but a posteriori. It is a decision made after the process of full
analysis, not in advance.
AD HOMINEM ARGUMENT AND ITS TREACHEROUS SIBLINGS
As an ex-fundamentalist I am rather sensitive to arguments by conservative

evangelicals which use the trappings of scholarship but which in my opinion
cloak fundamentalist motives. But I think John Emerton was quite right
when I once heard him say that even in such cases we should answer the
actual argument and not just dismiss it because of the presumed motive. We
can always find reasons to say that someone takes a scholarly position
because of personal or ideological motives. ‘He’s just conservative. She’s sim-
ply a radical. He’s a Zionist. She is anti-Semitic.’ One of the ugliest and most
reprehensible actions in all this, by the way, is the insinuation that some schol-
ars are anti-Semitic simply because of scholarly positions they have taken.

05 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:49 Page 61
Sadly, there is a convenient catalyst for personal attacks, the magazine

The Biblical Archaeology Review. When BAR first appeared in the 1970s, I
welcomed it. There was and is room in the market for a well-done popular
journal of archaeology. Like many I subscribe and read it regularly. But in
recent years it seems to have lent itself to those wanting to make personal
attacks on other scholars, and some have found the opportunity too tempt-
ing to ignore and ended up saying things they would not dream of saying in
an academic journal.
Two British scholars published an article putting the case for dating the
Siloam inscription to the Maccabean period (Rogerson and Davies 1996).
The response of BAR was to collect a group—mainly with a Harvard con-
nection—to attack this position under the heading of ‘pseudo-scholarship’
(Hackett, et al. 1997). Some of those who published in BAR made some rel-
evant and serious points; unfortunately, for others it was just a chance to
thump their chests and declare what great epigraphers they were. But the real
abuse of editorial privilege was the header of ‘pseudo-scholarship’. No doubt
it was supplied by the BAR staff, not the contributors, but as the proverb says,
‘if you sup with the devil, you’d better bring a long spoon’. The redating of
the Siloam inscription may be wrong—and most so far think it is—but it is
not ‘pseudo-scholarship’. If there is any ‘pseudo-scholarship’ around, it is
much more likely to be found in the pages of BAR.
A BAR article early in 2005 appeared to report on a conference on the his-
tory of ancient Israel, organized in Rome by the well-respected scholar of the
ancient Near East, Mario Liverani.7 There were widespread differences in
point of view and a robust debate took place. You would not know this from
Shanks’s article which was along the lines of, ‘Isn’t it awful the terrible things
they are saying about the Bible?’ His knowledge was of course entirely based
on paper drafts placed on a website, not from anyone of his staff being pres-
ent at the conference (the conference had in fact taken place two years earlier,
in March 2003). And it was a case of selective quotation, without any attempt
to present context or full argumentation. The impression left on any readers
without background knowledge was completely unfair and distorted.
Such articles have me completely puzzled by the editorial policy of BAR.
I understand the editor is not himself particularly religious, yet he seems at
times to pursue an almost fundamentalist agenda. I once thought this might
have to do with his audience, which seems to contain a significant conserva-
tive evangelical contingent. The editorial policy could then be seen as a way
of appealing to this audience. But as time has gone by I have wondered if
there is not something much more personal to it all. The trouble is, personal
7
See Anonymous January/February 2005. The conference has now been published as Liverani
2005.

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62 Lester L. Grabbe
agendas do not usually make good editorial policy. We see it now in the
astonishing recent developments in which the journal has touted artifacts
obtained on the antiquities market, and then attempted to defend them
against the charge of being forgeries. Any pretense of editorial neutrality has
more or less gone by the board. I think of a recent issue8 in which the indict-
ment of certain individuals as antiquities forgers is presented in an even-
handed and balanced fashion—even-handed and balanced if you have only
one arm. We know the accused are innocent. Why? Because they say they are.
What’s more, their lawyers say they are. There you have it—two witnesses—
what more could you want? I know nothing about the case other than what I
read in the press, though I find it hard to believe the indictment is completely
frivilous. But it seems to me that we should let the legal process take its course
before pronouncing on the matter.
ANTIQUITIES FORGERY: WE CANNOT IGNORE THE ISSUE
The fact is that one of the issues very much coming to the fore in recent
years—though it is probably not as new as we might like to think—is that of
the forgery of antiquities. As more and more items are obtained through the
antiquities market, the bigger the potential problem becomes. We now find
that a number of discoveries hailed as evidence of the biblical account are
questionable or even out-and-out fakes. To take one cherished example, even
the famous Berekyahu ben Neriyahu seal impressions, alleged to belong to
the scribe of Jeremiah, now seem suspect.9 The first one found is an interest-
ing case study since it is such a striking example of an artifact whose imme-
diate relevance for the history of ancient Israel is plain even to the layman.
To find a bulla—and not just one but two—from the personal seal of the
scribe who wrote down Jeremiah’s words at the prophet’s dictation makes
you feel that you are almost personally present in Jerusalem in the last days
of the kingdom of Judah. Then, when you find what might be Baruch’s own
fingerprint, it is enough to send shivers up and down your spine.
It is thus hardly unusual that Avigad (1978; 1986) put particular empha-
sis on the Baruch seal impression when he set about publishing the lot of
seals of which they were a part, the so-called ‘Burnt Archive’. Avigad also
8
Anonymous March/April 2005. No author is listed; the article was presumably written by BAR
editorial staff, though parts of it seem to be by Shanks.
9
The first one found was published in Avigad 1978. More recently another has allegedly been
discovered and was published in Deutsch and Heltzer 1994, 37–38 and Shanks 1996. This latter
seal impression is part of the indictment against Robert Deutsch and Raphael Brown (Rollston
and Vaughn 2005, 4).

05 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 63
asserted that there ‘was no reason to suspect their authenticity, and I seri-
ously doubt whether it would be possible to forge such burnt and damaged
bullae’ (1986, 13). I have not seen this first impression questioned in print
(though I keep hearing rumours), but now that the second one is alleged to
be forged, the first cannot fail to be queried. It is always possible that the
second one is a counterfeit copy of the first, but when the first is among
many unprovenanced seal impressions bought on the antiquities market, the
question of authenticity must be forcefully raised for it as well.
I even had a small tangential encounter with a major forgery early in my
career. I was taking a class from William Brownlee when he read a paper at the
Society of Biblical Literature meeting in 1971. His paper was on the so-called
‘Philistine Scrolls’ that had come into his and George Mendenhall’s posses-
sion. He returned from the meeting (which I had not attended) to tell us that,
as he was showing photographs of the texts, Frank Cross had pointed out that
some of the text was taken from the Siloam inscription. I doubt that Brownlee
simply accepted Cross’s word for it; I am sure he checked it for himself, but he
was convinced that the ‘Scrolls’ were a forgery. Brownlee commented that
Mendenhall was in the eastern Mediterranean and could not be reached. As
we know, when Mendenhall received the news, he refused to accept it and
apparently continues to maintain the authenticity of the ‘Philistine Scrolls’.
When the story is told, it is often overlooked that Brownlee quickly accepted
the exposure of the ‘Scrolls’ as fakes, an exemplary attitude in my opinion,
since this must have been a great disappointment to him.
One of the rules of thumb that scholars have developed is the rule of ‘too
good to be true’: if an artifact appears to be too important or too exciting to
be true, it probably is! This might appear to be perverseness on the part of
scholars: they want direct evidence of Israel’s history, yet when they find it,
they reject it as ‘too good to be true’. BAR makes great capital of this, with
elaborate scorn. But remember: this applies only to unprovenanced antiquities.
Artifacts found in proper controlled excavations are accepted as authentic.
Very seldom has the authenticity of such objects been questioned. If a forger
wants to make a lot of money, what better way than to produce something
that is ‘too good to be true’?
I think we are rapidly coming to the situation of having to take a
‘Popperian’ view of the situation. By this, I mean that antiquities not
obtained within a proper archaeological context can never be authenticated;
they can only be falsified. That is, just as a scientific theory—according to
Karl Popper1 0 —can never be proved but only falsified, so antiquities market
artifacts that have not been falsified will still retain a certain aura of
10
See Popper 1959.

05 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 64
64 Lester L. Grabbe
uncertainty. There is an unfortunate air of naive arrogance on the part of

some technical scholars. Christopher Rollston (2003, 183–86) tells of a lab
which managed to create a fake patina that would pass most tests for authen-
ticity, yet the very people able to do this took the stance that forgers would
not be able to do the same. Many intelligent people through the ages have
underestimated the ability of frauds and cheats to fool them, to their cost.
When potentially large sums of money are at stake, it is worth the while of a
good forger to invest the necessary time, money, and equipment to produce a
plausible counterfeit. And those who think that antiquities cannot be so clev-
erly forged that they cannot fool modern lab tests or the judgement of expert
epigraphers ought to read some of recent discussions of the subject. The
series of articles posted on the SBL website, articles in the journals Tel Aviv
and Israel Exploration Journal, and other recent publications are too weighty
just to cast aside.11
Of course, there are some epigraphers that do not accept the judgement
of the IAA committees, and it is quite fair to point this out12 —and for them
to present their arguments—but readers have been left with a rather distorted
picture of what is consensus and what is genuine controversy. Tendentious
headlines such as ‘Forgery Hysteria Grips Israel: Is Everything a Fake?’,13
suggest that if there is hysteria, it exists in the pages of BAR. Museums
around the world are filled with artifacts relating to ancient Israel and Judah
that no one questions. It is the unprovenanced objects sold on the antiqui-
ties market that cause the problems. Almost as pernicious as forgery is
the illegal pillaging of genuine antiquities, which destroys the context.14 Any
encouragement to looting the heritage of antiquity is unforgivable.15
11
For a sample, see Cook 2005; Goren 2005; Goren, Ayalon, Bar-Matthews, and Schilman 2004;
Lemaire 2005; Rollston 2003; 2004; 2005; Rollston and Vaughn 2005; Vaughn and Dobler 2005;
Vaughn and Rollston 2005.
12
As is well known, André Lemaire has not been convinced by some of the identification of for-
geries. In my communication with him, he has made the point that the problem of forgeries is a
scientific problem which, when it is an inscription, has to be dealt with by both epigraphers and
people working from the point of view of the material aspect (which also has to be interpreted).
He notes that the Mesha stela and the Tel Dan inscription have both been accused of being for-
geries. That means that being genuine or a forgery does not depend on any declaration (not even
by the IAA) but on the value of the arguments presented in favour or against the authenticity
after a critical examination.
13
BAR 31/5, 4 (table of contents).
14
Christopher Rollston (2004) discusses in detail how much is lost when artifacts are obtained
on the market without their context. In many cases, without this context the artifact tells us lit-
tle or nothing.
15
In a personal communication André Lemaire has noted that the problem of pillaged antiqui-
ties is a separate issue from that of forgery: it is mainly a ‘political’ problem. As can be seen with
both Iraq and Palestine, this problem is mainly connected with politically unstable situations.

05 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 65
THE END OF THE MATTER
But to return in my conclusion to a point I made earlier: scholarship

advances by debate. It advances by weighing arguments and considering the
merits of alternatives. Nothing is gained by calling names, making personal
attacks, or substituting ad hominen comment for proper argument. By all
means, let us be rigorous in presenting our own views and in scrutinizing the
evidence presented for alternative perspectives. There is nothing wrong with
robust argument. I’m not a pacifist! All theories need to be tested in the
crucible of scholarly debate. This must go on and on.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
[Anonymous] January/February 2005. ‘Minimalists on Parade’, BAR 31/1, 16–17.

[Anonymous] March/April 2005. ‘Update — Finds or Fakes: The Other Shoe–Five
Accused of Antiquities Fraud’, BAR 31/2, 58–69.
Avigad, N., 1978. ‘Baruch the Scribe and Jerahmeel the King’s Son’, IEJ 28, 52–56.
——,1986. Hebrew Bullae from the Time of Jeremiah: Remnants of a Burnt Archive
(Israel Exploration Society; Jerusalem).
——, revised and completed by B. Sass. 1997. Corpus of West Semitic Stamp Seals
(Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities/Israel Exploration Society;
Jerusalem).
Bright, J., 1980. A History of Israel (3rd edn; Philadelphia: Westminster).
Cahill, J., 2003. ‘Jerusalem at the Time of the United Monarchy: The Archaeological
Evidence’, in A. G. Vaughn and A. E. Killebrew (eds), Jerusalem in Bible and
Archaeology: The First Temple Period (SBLSymS 18; Society of Biblical
Literature; Atlanta, GA), 13–80.
Cook, E. M., 2005. ‘The Forgery Indictments and BAR: Learning from Hindsight’,
SBL Forum (http://www.sbl-site.org/Article.aspx?ArticleId⫽371), 1–4.
Davies, P. R., 1992. In Search of ‘Ancient Israel’ (JSOTSup 148; Sheffield: JSOT, 1992).
——, 2000. ‘What Separates a Minimalist from a Maximalist? Not Much’, BAR 26/2,
24–27, 72–73.
Deutsch, R., and M. Heltzer, 1994. Forty New Ancient West Semitic Inscriptions
(Archaeological Center Publication; Tel Aviv and Jaffa).
Dever, W., 1996. ‘Revisionist Israel Revisited: A Rejoinder to Niels Peter Lemche’,
Currents in Research: Biblical Studies 4, 35–50.
The question is what is the best practical way to stop it. He is not sure that the best way is to for-
bid any marketing of antiquities but perhaps to control the trade and to intervene as soon as it
is clear that some place is being looted (as was done for Qumran, Wadi ed-Daliyeh, and, unfor-
tunately only partly, for Khirbet el-Qôm). He concedes that this is a debatable point, but what
he feels is not debatable is that the objects themselves should be thrown away or completely
ignored. On the contrary, they have to be used critically, as much as possible, even if their inter-
pretation suffers from the handicap of originating in uncontrolled excavations. Thus, the two
problems of forgeries and pillaging of antiquities have to be clearly distinguished.

05 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 66
66 Lester L. Grabbe
Finkelstein, I., 1996. ‘The Archaeology of the United Monarchy: An Alternative

View’, Levant 28, 177–87.
——, 1998a. ‘Bible Archaeology or Archaeology of Palestine in the Iron Age? A
Rejoinder’, Levant 30, 167–74.
——, 1998b. ‘Notes on the Stratigraphy and Chronology of Iron Age Taanach’, TA
25, 208–18.
——,1999. ‘Hazor and the North in the Iron Age: A Low Chronology Perspective’,
BASOR 314, 55–70.
——, 2001. ‘The Rise of Jerusalem and Judah: The Missing Link’, Levant 33, 105–15.
Goren, Y., 2005. ‘The Jerusalem Syndrome in Biblical Archaeology’, SBL Forum
(http://www.sbl-site.org/Article.aspx?ArticleId⫽374), 1–8.
——, A. Ayalon, M. Bar-Matthews, and B. Schilman. 2004. ‘Authenticity
Examination of the Jehoash Inscription’, Tel Aviv 31, 3–16.
Grabbe, L. L., 2000. ‘Writing Israel’s History at the End of the Twentieth Century’,
in A. Lemaire and M. Saebø (eds), Congress Volume: Oslo 1998 (VTSup 80;
Leiden), 203–18.
Hackett, J. A., F. Moore Cross, P. Kyle McCarter, Jr., A. Yardeni, A. Lemaire,
E. Eshel, and A. Hurvitz, 1997. ‘Defusing Pseudo-scholarship: The Siloam
Inscription ain’t Hasmonean’, BAR 23/2, 41–50, 68.
Hallo, W. W., 1980. ‘Biblical History in it Near Eastern Setting: The Contextual
Approach’, in C. D. Evans,W. W. Hallo and J. B. White (eds), Scripture in Context:
Essays on the Comparative Method (Pittsburgh Theological Monograph Series 34;
Pittsburgh, PA), 1–26.
——, 2005. ‘The Kitchen Debate: A Context for the Biblical Account’, BAR 31/4,
50–51.
Knauf, E. A., 2000. ‘The “Low Chronology” and How Not to Deal with It’, BN 101,
56–63.
Lemaire, A., 2005. ‘Response to the Forgeries Issue’, SBL Forum (http://www.sbl-
site.org/Article.aspx?ArticleId⫽379), 1–3.
Liverani, M. (ed.), 2005. Recenti tendenze nella ricostruzione della storia antica
d’Israele (Contributi del Centro Linceo Interdisciplinare ‘Beniamino Segre’ 110;
Rome: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei).
Popper, K., 1959. The Logic of Scientific Discovery (ET; London).
Provan, I. W., V. P. Long, and T. Longman III, 2003. A Biblical History of Israel
(Louisville, KY, and London).
Rogerson, J., and P. R. Davies, 1996. ‘Was the Siloam Tunnel Built by Hezekiah?’ BA
59, 138–49.
Rollston, C. A., 2003. ‘Non-Provenanced Epigraphs I: Pillaged Antiquities,
Northwest Semitic Forgeries, and Protocols for Laboratory Tests’, Maarav 10,
135–93.
——, 2004. ‘Non-Provenanced Epigraphs II: The Status of Non-Provenanced
Epigraphs within the Broader Corpus of Northwest Semitic’, Maarav 11, 57–79.
——, 2005. ‘The Crisis of Modern Epigraphic Forgeries and the Antiquities Market:
A Palaeographer Reflects on the Problem and Proposes Protocols for the Field’,
——, and A. G. Vaughn. 2005. ‘The Antiquities Market, Sensationalized Textual
Data, and Modern Forgeries: Introduction to the Problem and Synopsis of the

05 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 67
2004 Israeli Indictment’, SBL Forum (http://www.sbl-site.org/Article.aspx?Article

Id⫽379), 1–8.
Shanks, H., 1996. ‘Fingerprint of Jeremiah’s Scribe’, BAR 22, 36–38.
Vaughn, A. G., and C. Pillers Dobler, 2005. ‘The Probability of Forgeries: Reflections
on a Statistical Analysis’, SBL Forum (http://www.sbl-site.org/Article.aspx?Article
Id⫽372), 1–6.
——, and C. A. Rollston, 2005. ‘Epilogue: Methodological Musings from the Field’,

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06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 71
Classical History: A Sketch, with

Three Artifacts
T. P. WISEMAN
THIS CHAPTER HAS TWO MODEST AIMS. The first is to draw attention to the
chronological range of Greco-Roman history and to the nature of the main
narrative sources; the second is to present three brief case-studies of how
archaeological evidence has been used in relation to what the narrative
sources tell us.
We begin about 1200 BCE, with the end of the Bronze Age palace culture,
which is conventionally called Mycenaean. The destruction of the palace
centres—at Knossos, Mycenae, Pylos and Thebes—was responsible for
preserving the ‘Linear B’ tablets, which form our earliest evidence for the
Greek language. It is important to remember that these tablets were not like
the archives that survive from ancient Near Eastern centres: there are no
narrative chronicles, no treaties, no diplomatic correspondence, just short-
term administrative records that were not intended to be kept. They survived
only because the clay they were written on was baked accidentally, in the fires
that destroyed the palace sites.1
How and why the palaces were destroyed is a controversy we need not go
into. What matters is that there followed a long period of comparative impov-
erishment in Greece and the Aegean, during which the art of writing was
evidently lost. The first evidence for its rediscovery—not in the old syllabary
used by the Linear B scribes, but in alphabetic script—occurs in the ninth
century BCE, in a very unexpected place: in 1989 five Greek letters were found
scratched on a grave-marker pot of local manufacture in an early Iron Age
cemetery in central Italy, just 20 kilometres east of Rome.2 That find-spot,
and the fact that the Greek alphabet itself was adapted from the Phoenician,
presupposes the reappearance of Greek traders on the sea-routes of the
1
Summary in Chadwick 1987.
2
See Bietti Sestieri and De Santis 2000, 33–73 on the Osteria dell’Osa necropolis (p. 53 for tomb
no. 482 and its graffito).

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 72
72 T. P. Wiseman
Mediterranean three and a half centuries after the fall of the Bronze Age
palaces.
The palaces were not rebuilt; this revived culture of the speakers of Greek
manifested itself architecturally in temples and cult sites. Some of them, like
those of Zeus at Olympia, Poseidon at Corinth or Apollo at Delphi and
Delos, became important centres with festivals that attracted visitors from far
afield. The list of victors at the Olympic games was later used as a basis for
Greek historical chronology, which is how ‘the first Olympiad’, supposedly in
776 BCE, comes to be a convenient marker for the beginning of ‘Greek his-
tory’.3 These ‘Panhellenic’ festivals provide the necessary precondition for
one of the defining phenomena of Greek civilization, the Homeric epics.
It is now universally recognized that the Iliad and the Odyssey are oral
poetry, composed to be sung or recited in performance. But it is equally clear
that each of them is a single huge poem, created as an artistic unity, which
would have taken at least three long nights to perform from beginning to end.
The epics clearly transcended what we may imagine was the bard’s regular
repertoire; they were tours de force, conscious masterpieces on a monumen-
tal scale, for performance at the most special of special occasions. Somewhere
in the region of 700 BCE is the best guess for the date of their composition,
but whether that was also the date they were written down is a very contro-
versial question—and the controversy equally involves the works of Hesiod,
whose Theogony, on the origin and genealogy of the gods, was also composed
about that time.4
My own view—if I may be dogmatic—is that the sixth century BCE was
probably the time when Greek scribes first started using their alphabetic skill
not just for lists and laws and epitaphs but also for the preservation of the
songs of poets. Whenever the moment was, from then on narratives like the
anger of Achilles, the wanderings of Odysseus or the dynastic struggle that
put Zeus in power on Olympus were no longer dependant on winged words
in the voice of the bard, but could also be read and reread in written texts.
By the sixth century there were Greek city-states established widely round
the Mediterranean and the Black Sea. Both at home and abroad, they were
self-governing political entities, dependent on written law-codes rather than
the arbitrary rule of a king; and their new literature was equally independent
and self-reliant. In the old oral mode, the bard’s knowledge comes from the
Muse, who inspires his song or even sings it herself through his mouth. The
writers of the sixth century react against that. They are sceptical, critical,
3
Summary in Bickermann 1968, 62–79, esp. 75–76 on Olympiads.
4
See most recently Taplin 2000, esp. 13–15 on oral poetry, 23–32 on Panhellenic festivals, 32–37
on written texts.

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 73
CLASSICAL HISTORY 73
using their own minds, asking awkward questions about traditionally

accepted beliefs.
This is the time of what is sometimes called ‘the Greek miracle’, the ori-
gin of philosophy and science.5 More important for our purposes, it was also
the origin of historiography, in the person of Hecataeus of Miletus. He wrote
in prose, on genealogy (which implies chronology) and on historical geog-
raphy (the origins of cities and peoples). These works are lost, but there are
many quotations from them in later authors, including the opening sentence
of the Genealogies:6
Hecataeus of Miletus gives the following account. I write these things, as they
seem to me to be true. For the stories of the Greeks are many and ludicrous, as
they appear to me.
Right from the very beginning the tone is argumentative and polemical. It is
precisely the tone picked out six centuries later by Josephus as the defining
characteristic of Greek historiography:7
It is surely obvious from the internal evidence that the works of their historians
are not based on any certain knowledge, but on their private conjectures in
regard to the events.
As Josephus goes on to point out, in this matter the difference between

Greeks and Jews is fundamental:8
In our literature there is not an infinity of discrepant and irreconcilable vol-
umes. The number is limited to twenty-two, which contain a record of all time
and in which we legitimately repose our confidence. [. . .] During the vast period
which has elapsed since their composition, no-one has ventured either to add to
them or to subtract from them or to transpose their arrangement. From his
birth every Jew regards them instinctively as the decrees of God, which he faith-
fully observes and for which he cheerfully faces death, if called upon to do so.
Many Jewish captives before now, on many occasions, have been known to
endure tortures and horrible forms of death in public theatres rather than
breathe a word contrary to the law and the records with which it is associated.
Would any Hellene endure the like in his own person? He would not even
undergo a minor discomfort for the sake of preserving all the works of Hellenic
literature. The Hellenes regard these as mere words improvised according to the
caprice of the writers.
5
The standard work is Kirk, Raven, and Schofield 1983.
6
Hecataeus fr. 1 (tr. Moles 1993, 93). The most useful account of Hecataeus is still Pearson 1939,
25–108.
7
Josephus Against Apion 1.15 (tr. Toynbee 1924, 53–54).
8
Ibid., 1.38, 42–45 (tr. Toynbee 1924, 57–58).

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74 T. P. Wiseman
From a different point of view, one might distinguish them as accounts that
depend on each author’s own intellectual effort rather than on the authority
bestowed by traditional religion.
But we must return to our chronological sketch. The fifth century BCE saw
a sequence of events that was formative for the Greeks’ conception of them-
selves: the defeat of the two Persian invasions of the Greek mainland; the
counter-offensive to free the cities of the Asia Minor coast from Persian
control; the development of the alliance formed to achieve that end into an
Athenian ‘empire’; and the consequent power struggle, between Athens and
her empire on the one hand and Sparta and the Peloponnesians on the other,
that took the form of a long and traumatic war. That is the background to
the two texts which are as foundational to the historiography of the western
world as Homer’s two epics are to its poetry.9
Like Homer, Herodotus conceived his work on a huge scale. It was a writ-
ten text, but probably intended for oral presentation in the first instance,
unlike that of his younger (and even more ambitious) contemporary
Thucydides. The nature of their achievement can best be explained in their
own words.
First, Herodotus, probably about 425 BCE :10
This is the display of the research of Herodotus of Halicarnassus, made so that
human achievements should not fade with time, and so that great and won-
drous deeds displayed by Greeks and barbarians should not be without lasting
fame: my particular concern is the reason why they went to war with one
another.
‘Research’—or ‘enquiry’—is what the Greek word historie means. The

enquirer’s motivation is Homeric, to preserve the glory of great deeds, but
he also wants to explain the reason for the great war between the Greeks and
the Persian ‘barbarians’.
After an entertaining account, in the form of rationalized mythology,
of what other people said was the cause of it all—‘Persian experts say . . .
the Greeks have a different story . . . the Phoenicians do not accept the
Persians’ account’, and so on—he then takes up the narrative on his own
responsibility:11
This, then, is what the Persians and Phoenicians say. But I am not going to say
that these things happened this way or otherwise, rather I shall indicate the man
whom I myself know to have begun unjust deeds towards the Greeks, and then
9
Excellent discussion and bibliography in Marincola 2001 (for Greek historiography in general)
and in Moles 1993 and Goldhill 2002, 10–44 (for Herodotus and Thucydides in particular).
10
Herodotus 1.pref. (tr. Goldhill 2002, 11).
11
Herodotus 1.5.3 (tr. Moles 1993, 95).

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 75
I shall advance forwards into my account, going through small and great cities
of men alike.
Again there is a Homeric echo, of the much-wandering hero Odysseus who

‘saw many cities of men’; but no Homeric Muse is invoked to tell the story.
Herodotus will begin with the result of his own enquiry, the man he himself
knows to have started the enmity, namely Croesus the king of Lydia.
Of course, on his way through nine long books, Herodotus also tells a
great number of stories of which he does not claim to guarantee the truth. He
is not only a researcher but a public performer, an entertainer—and that is
where he differs from his great contemporary. Here is the opening of
Thucydides’ text:12
Thucydides from Athens wrote his account of the war which the
Peloponnesians and the Athenians fought against each other, beginning from
when the war broke out, because he expected that it would be major and the
most worthy of discussion of previous events . . .
and he goes on to give his evidence for that judgement, emphasizing the uncer-
tainty of knowledge about the past, but insisting that probable inferences can
nevertheless be made.13
Anyone who considered from the aforesaid indications that things were more or
less what I have described would not go wrong, neither trusting what the poets
have eulogised about them, embellishing them for the purpose of exaggeration,
nor what the prose writers have put together for the purpose of enticement to
the audience rather than the truth.
Note that the prose writers, people like Herodotus, are still thought of as
performing before an audience. Thucydides’ history is not like that:14
Perhaps the lack of the mythical element in my history will appear rather
unpleasing to an audience; but if those who wish to look at clarity—both of
the things that have happened and of those which, in accordance with human
nature, are going to happen again some time like this and in similar form—
should judge it useful, that will be sufficient. It is set down as a possession for
always rather than as a competitive display for instant hearing.
It is a ‘possession for always’ because it is designed from the start as a writ-

ten text, able to be consulted when analogous circumstances arise in the future;
and its value lies in the fact that the author guarantees the accuracy of what
he writes. Either he was there himself or he has found out by interviewing
eyewitnesses and cross-checking their accounts.
12
Thucydides 1.1.1 (tr. Goldhill 2002, 31).
13
Thucydides 1.21.1 (tr. Moles 1993, 101).
14
Thucydides 1.22.4 (tr. Moles 1993, 104, slightly adapted).

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76 T. P. Wiseman
Thucydides wrote the history of the war he had lived through himself.
Herodotus’ narrative ended not long before his own time, and even its begin-
ning (Croesus, the man he knew was the start of it all), was within the mem-
ory of the great-grandfathers of people he had talked to. Usable evidence was
still available, and that was what made their sort of historiography possible.
Their situation was quite unlike that of Homer, for whom the war of Troy
belonged to a past that could not be measured, a world quite different from
the degenerate present, to which only the Muse’s divine help could provide
access.
However, prose narrative did not have to be restricted to the recent past,
and there were other Greek historians who began their narratives in periods
for which no reliable records survived and ‘research’ of the kind Herodotus
and Thucydides boasted of was simply impossible. Their method could only
be the rationalization of mythological stories, with a chronology based on
counting the generations of legendary genealogies.15 By that means it was
even possible to calculate the date of the Trojan War itself, as if it were an his-
torical event, and Agamemnon and Hector historical characters. By the third
century BCE at least twelve different dates for the fall of Troy had been
offered, ranging from (in our terms) 1334 to 1049 BCE.16
By now we are in the ‘Hellenistic’ period, when the great powers of the east-
ern Mediterranean were the kingdoms that grew out of Alexander’s conquest
of the Persian Empire (Macedonia, Seleucid Syria, Ptolemaic Egypt), and the
great powers of the western Mediterranean were the Phoenician colony of
Carthage and her deadly rival, the newly powerful Republic of Rome.
Like their Latin and Etruscan neighbours, the Romans had been in close
touch with Greek culture since the early Iron Age.17 Indeed, their sixth-
century royal dynasty, the Tarquins, had been Corinthian in origin. So now
that their long struggle with Carthage could compete with the Persian and
Peloponnesian Wars in extent and geopolitical importance, naturally they
used the Greek literary genre of historiography to immortalize it. The first
Roman historians, Fabius Pictor and Cincius Alimentus, were writing during
the long war with Hannibal that ended in 202. Their works are lost, except
for later citations, but we know that they went right back to the foundation
of Rome, or even before, and brought the story down to their own time,
thus combining the rationalizing of legendary material with a Thucydidean
eyewitness account of contemporary events.18
15
On Hellanicus, Ephorus and their like, see Marincola 1997, 95–127.
16
Listed in Jacoby 1904, 146–48.
17
Evidence summarized in Wiseman 2007, 67–69.
18
Dionysius of Halicarnassus (late first century BCE) 1.6.2: ‘Each of these men [Fabius and
Cincius] related the events at which he had been present with great exactness, as being well

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 77
The same format was followed by most of their successors in the follow-
ing two centuries—the period when Rome acquired her overseas empire and
the republican constitution broke down in violent civil strife—but it is only
the last and greatest of those authors whose narrative survives (and that only
in part).19 Titus Livius, known in English as ‘Livy’, began his huge history in
the final stages of the civil war that destroyed the Republic, a context which
no doubt explains the moral intensity of his preface:20
My concern is that each reader should pay keen attention to these things: what
kind of life, what kind of character the Romans had, through what kind of men
and by what means power was both acquired and expanded at home and
abroad; then, as discipline tottered a little, let him follow that character in his
mind as it began to fall apart, so to speak, then as it collapsed more and more,
then began to rush headlong, until we have come to these times in which we can
endure neither our faults nor their remedies.
This in fact is an especially healthy and fruitful element of the study of his-
tory, that you contemplate object-lessons of every type of model set up in a
conspicuous monument; thence for yourself and your state you can choose what
to imitate, thence what to avoid, if it is loathsome in its beginning, loathsome
in its outcome.
Rome survived the crisis of the civil wars, and flourished under the ‘princi-
pate’ of Augustus; but the new autocracy soon developed into a murderous
tyranny, which found its own historian early in the second century of our
era.21
Tacitus was interested in power—how it was acquired, and what was
done with it. The first paragraph of his masterpiece, the Annals, is a thumb-
nail sketch of arbitrary power at Rome from the primeval kings down to
Augustus. His preface, delayed until the reader has been forced to share the
cruelties of the reign of Tiberius, makes it very clear what Tacitus thinks his-
tory is about: just as historians of the Republic were valuable for their
insights into democracy and oligarchy, so ‘now that the situation has
changed’ it will be useful to record how emperors behave. But his aim is not
only political. It is also, like Livy’s, a moral one:22
Few men have the proficiency to distinguish the honourable from the baser, or
the useful from the harmful, whereas the majority are taught by what happens
to others.
acquainted with them, but touched only in a summary way upon the early events that followed
the founding of the city.’ (Tr. E. Cary, Loeb Classical Library.)
19
On Livy, see Kraus and Woodman 1997, 51–81.
20
Livy pref. 9–10 (trans. Kraus and Woodman 1997, 55).
21
On Tacitus, see Kraus and Woodman 1997, 88–118; Woodman 2004 is much the best
translation of the Annals.
22
Tacitus Annals 4.33.2 (tr. Woodman 2004, 137).

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78 T. P. Wiseman
The end of the Annals is missing, but it just so happens that the text breaks
off at the point where an ex-consul has been ordered by Nero to commit sui-
cide. Calmly he opens his veins, and calls to the junior senator who has to
report that the sentence has been carried out:23
We are making a libation to Jupiter the Liberator. Look, young man! May the
gods avert the omen, of course, but you have been born into times when it is
expedient to strengthen the spirit with steadfast examples.
***
At this point I bring my chronological sketch to a close—not because Greco-
Roman history was over by the early second century (far from it), but because
Tacitus can count as the last of the ‘classic’ authors. As the very phrase ‘clas-
sical antiquity’ implies, the study of the Greco-Roman world has tradition-
ally been based on ‘the classics’, Greek and Latin texts which have earned
that status by their literary excellence and the perception that what they have
to say applies beyond the circumstances of their original composition. The
analogy with the books of the Bible is inexact, in that the classics were never
thought of as the word of God,24 but there is a sense in which their privileged
status presents an analogous historiographical problem. The classic texts
have always been where knowledge of the ancient world begins; it has always
seemed natural to accept their evidence as the default position, to be accepted
unless actually proved incorrect. Archaeology, epigraphy, numismatics and
papyrology have traditionally been thought of as ancillary disciplines, useful
for adjusting the details of what we know from the classic authors.
Of course that is not good historical procedure: all sources of informa-
tion must be subjected to the same critical attention before the historian
forms any hypothesis about the past. But it is easy to see how the classic texts
have maintained their overpowering influence, since this very method of his-
torical enquiry was what Herodotus and Thucydides created, and what they
tell us, and what Tacitus tells us, is quite properly regarded as evidence of the
highest quality. That, however, applies only to the recent history for which
Herodotus, Thucydides and Tacitus were in a position to find good informa-
tion. The problem arises with the classic authors’ treatment of the distant
past, as in Homer and Livy. Why should that be privileged? Why should the
23
Tacitus Annals 16.35.1 (tr. Woodman 2004, 355).
24
However, in 1875 Gladstone told Mrs Humphry Ward that there were two things left for him
to do (Jenkyns 1980, 200): ‘One is to carry Home Rule — the other is to prove the intimate
connection between the Hebrew and Olympian revelations!’

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 79
burden of proof be on those who doubt the historicity of Hector and

Romulus?
To illustrate the problem in a way that may perhaps offer analogies
with the study of ancient Israel, I should like to draw attention to three
archaeological discoveries and the way their evidential value has been
assessed.
***
The first is very famous, the gold mask discovered by Heinrich Schliemann
on 6 December 1876 in the first of the ‘shaft graves’ at Mycenae, the so-called
‘tomb of Agamemnon’ (Fig. 6.1).25 Notoriously, Schliemann was driven by a
belief in the literal truth of the Homeric narratives, and all his excavations,
whether at Ithaca, Troy or Mycenae, were intended to justify that belief.26
Several authoritative narrators in the Odyssey (beginning with Zeus himself)
report the killing of Agamemnon and his companions on their return to
Mycenae after the fall of Troy, and according to Pausanias their tombs were
still to be found in the ruins of the ancient citadel.27 That was enough for
Schliemann: ‘I have not the slightest hesitation to admit that the tradition
which assigns the tombs on the Acropolis to Agamemnon and his compan-
ions . . . may be perfectly correct and faithful.’28 Naturally, the king in the
gold mask must be Agamemnon himself.
It soon became clear that Schliemann’s chronology was hopelessly out.
Just as the famous ‘treasure of Priam’ that he had discovered at Troy turned
out to be more than a thousand years too early, so too the shaft graves and
their gold were shown to belong to the sixteenth century BCE, at least three
centuries before the supposed time of Agamemnon. Schliemann’s pursuit of
the truth of Homer had produced spectacular results, and a huge increase in
knowledge about the Aegean Bronze Age: he had found Troy, he had revealed
the wealth of Mycenae. But he had not found Priam or Agamemnon, and he
had not demonstrated the historicity of the Trojan War.
Of course this is a very old story, and archaeologists nowadays are not
like Heinrich Schliemann. But we should not imagine that the power of the
25
Schliemann 1878, 311–12 (report), 334–39 (identification). Schliemann’s reports were
printed in The Times under the headline ‘The Tomb of Agamemnon’ (3 Jan. 1877, 10 and 12 Jan.
1877, 7).
26
‘Relying on information in the Iliad, in which I had the same faith as I had in the Gospels’
(quoted in Latacz 2004, 289); e.g. Deuel 1978, 135–38 (Ithaca, 1868); 187, 204, 207, 212 (Troy,
1872–73).
27
Homer Odyssey 1.35–43 (Zeus), 4.512–37 (Proteus), 11.405–34 (shade of Agamemnon);
Pausanias Description of Greece 2.16.6.
28
The Times 12 Jan. 1877, 7 ⫽ Schliemann 1878, 336 ⫽ Deuel 1978, 250.

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 80
80 T. P. Wiseman
Figure 6.1 Mask of gold foil, found in Shaft Grave 1 at Mycenae in 1876. By courtesy of the
Society for the Promotion of Hellenic Studies.
privileged text is any less strong now than it was 130 years ago. In his splen-
did new book, Troy and Homer, Joachim Latacz provides a synthesis of the
latest research on Troy, prompted by Manfred Korfmann’s excavations there
since 1991, and in particular by the discovery in 1996 of a bronze seal with
an inscription in ‘hieroglyphic Luwian’.29 According to Latacz, this discovery
makes possible ‘a solution to an old mystery’ (as his subtitle puts it): the
historical status of Homer’s tale of Troy.30
The first part of the book is a demonstration (1) that Homer’s (W)ilios,
that is, Troy, is the Wilusa of the Hittite records, and (2) that the Achai(w)oi
29
Latacz 2004, 49–72 (50, fig. 11 for the illustration).
30
Ibid., 16 (‘the problem which was thus solved’).

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 81
and Danaoi of Homer’s narrative are respectively the Achhijawa of the Hittite
records and the Danaja referred to in an inscription of the Egyptian Pharaoh
Amenophis III in about 1350 BCE. This is how Latacz concludes those two
arguments:31
1 We need now to state the first important result attained so far: since 1996,
for the first time in the history of the study of Troy, it has been possible to give
Homer’s Iliad the status of a source text.
2 We may now state our second main result: for the first time in the history of
Trojan studies, on the basis of recent research outside the Greek area, Homer’s
Iliad has achieved the status of source material.
What has been shown is that Homer uses genuine Bronze Age names for
the protagonists of his ‘Trojan War’; and Latacz goes on to show that some
of the metrical formulae used in the epics also probably originated in the
Bronze Age. But to go from that to the conclusion that Homer’s Trojan War
was a historical event is a huge non sequitur, and in the end Latacz’s nerve
fails him:
We can then formulate our conclusion thus: at the point which research has
now reached, it may be that we cannot say anything definite about the histor-
icity of the ‘Trojan War’. However, the possibility that a historical event could
underlie the tale of Troy . . . has not diminished as a result of the combined
research endeavours of various disciplines during the last twenty years or so.
He goes on to claim, with some bravado, that ‘the abundance of evidence

pointing precisely in this direction is already almost overwhelming . . . the
solution seems nearer than ever’.32 In fact, the methodological problem is as
far from a solution as it ever was.
Moses Finley set out the issues with matchless clarity forty years ago, and
his case has never been answered.33 It is demonstrable that heroic traditions
about events far in the past distort those events out of all recognition.34 The
examples cited by Finley are the Song of Roland, the Nibelungenlied, and the
South Slav oral tradition on the battle of Kosovo; he might equally well have
used the narrative of King Arthur in Geoffrey of Monmouth.35 Why should
the Homeric tradition be an exception? Archaeologically, the destruction of
Troy VIIa belongs at about the same time as the destruction of the palaces at
Mycenae and Pylos. Leave Homer out of it, and there is a likely context in
31
Latacz 2004, 91, 138.
32
Ibid., 286–87.
33
Finley 1964— part of a high-profile debate, but ignored by Latacz.
34
Ibid., 1964, 2–3.
35
Geoffrey of Monmouth History of the Kings of Britain 9.1–11.2; for ‘the Arthur of history’,
see Hutton 2003, 39–58.

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 82
82 T. P. Wiseman
the disturbances in the early twelfth century BCE, which included the defeat
by Ramesses III of a coalition of invaders from the north at the very frontiers
of Egypt, and soon after that the fall of the Hittite empire.36 But no one will
leave Homer out of it. Latacz’s new book merely confirms the premise of
Finley’s argument, that the problem is the classicists’ ‘will to believe’.37
However, perhaps Homer is a special case. Let us shift our focus to Italy,
and the early history of Rome.
It is certain that Rome was once ruled by kings, and it is likely that the last
king’s expulsion in or about 507 BCE is reliably historical; even though the
Romans’ own historiographical tradition began only three centuries later, the
event may well have been recorded by Greek historians who were interested
in the Corinthian dynasty of the Tarquins. But there is no reason to suppose
that such authors were also interested in the details of the post-revolution
regime in Rome, so the narrative in Livy and Plutarch of the first year of the
Roman Republic—respectively five and six centuries before their time—is
certainly not reliably historical.38 In particular, the constitutional legislation
of Publius Valerius, supposedly one of the first consuls, nicknamed ‘The
People’s Friend’, looks very anachronistic; it may well have been invented by
the patrician Valerii of centuries later.39
But now let us look at my second artifact (Fig. 6.2), discovered in 1977 by
the Dutch archaeological team excavating the temple of Matuta at the Latin
town of Satricum, about 65 kilometres south of Rome. The sixth-century
temple was destroyed, and then rebuilt in a grander form, at an archaeologi-
cal date estimated at 500 BCE, or a little after. Re-used in the new temple
was a stone slab that had served as the base of a dedicatory offering, with
an inscription naming the dedicators as Popliosio Valesiosio suodales, the
companions of Poplios Valesios, or in classical Latin, Publius Valerius.40
Naturally, the name caused a sensation. The consul in Year One of the
Republic was an historical character after all! In 1996 Jos de Waele, a senior
member of the excavation team, went a stage further: insisting on the his-
toricity of the entire early-republican narratives of Livy and Plutarch, inclu-
ding the details of episodes like the battle of Lake Regillus and Coriolanus’
36
Summary in Sandars 1985; explicitly omitted from Latacz’s argument, although the seal which
is his key evidence belongs in the post-destruction context of Troy VIIb (Latacz 2004, 286, cf.
49, 118–19).
37
Finley 1964, 2: ‘nearly everyone . . . agrees that “the tradition of the expedition against Troy
must have a basis of historical fact”. In the absence of literary or archaeological documentation,
there is no immediate control over this will to believe.’
38
Corinthian Tarquins: Zevi 1995. First year of the Republic: Wiseman 1998.
39
Legislation: Livy 2.8.1–2, Plutarch Life of Poblicola 10.5–12.3. Valerian family tradition:
Cicero Pro Flacco 1, 25 (59 BCE).
40
Full details in Stibbe et al. 1980.

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 83
86.5
62.5
16.5
15
63.2
20
20 87
10
10
0
5 10
20
30 cm.
Figure 6.2 Inscribed block, found in the temple of Mater Matuta at Satricum in 1977. The
inscription reads: [. . .] IEISTETERAI POPLIOSIO VALESIOSIO | SVODALES MAMARTEI.
By courtesy of the Royal Netherlands Institute in Rome.
march on Rome, which ever since Niebuhr and the beginning of critical
Roman history had seemed irredeemably mythologized, he combined the
‘historical’ and archaeological data to provide an exact chronology of the
site, attributing the destruction of the earlier temple to Coriolanus in 488.41
Of course that is a possible date, but what matters to us is the methodology,
a defiant proclamation of uncritical belief:42
The critical position of the ancient historians since Niebuhr towards the early
Republic can be shown to be unwarranted . . . With the discovery of the
Satricum stone doubts about the historical veracity of the Early Republic might
be eliminated . . . It is high time that these remnants of modern hypercritical
historiography are cleared up once and for all . . . The distrust by which certain
data can, and others cannot be accepted, is no longer justifiable . . . Only the
combination of historical and archaeological evidence affords a picture as
complete as possible.
41
De Waele 1996, 234–35 (Lake Regillus), 236–37 (Coriolanus); cf. Niebuhr 1828–32, 1.582–5 on
Lake Regillus (‘auch hier denn ist nur Heldenlied’), 2.265–75 on ‘Die Sage von Coriolanus’.
42
De Waele 1996, 231, 237, 240.

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 84
84 T. P. Wiseman
If only it were so simple! What the Satricum stone clearly implies is that
Poplios Valesios was a clan leader with his followers, a quasi-feudal warlord;43
what the narratives of Livy and Plutarch tell us is that Publius Valerius was
a democratic constitutionalist. The Roman oral tradition remembered his
name, just as the Homeric oral tradition remembered those of (W)ilios and
the Danaoi. What it did not remember was what he really did. That is the
point about oral tradition: it does not transmit what has become obsolete.
For all de Waele’s rhetoric, the ‘historical’ and archaeological evidence can-
not just be combined into a single story. Once again, the problem arises from
the will to believe—but this time it comes from the archaeological side, not
from the classicists.
My third artifact (Fig. 6.3) offers a quite different lesson. It is a gold bulla,
or locket, of the kind worn round the necks of free-born Roman boys, and it
was found in 1794 ‘among ashes and burnt bones in an urn of red earth [i.e.
ceramic] by some labourers in a vineyard about twelve miles from Rome, on
the way to Albano’.44 The inscription reads ‘HOST.HOS.’, which a passage in
Macrobius enables us to expand to ‘Hostus Hostilius’:45
Learned antiquaries relate that at the time of the rape of the Sabine women,
one (named Hersilia) was carried off clinging to her daughter and was given by
Romulus to be the wife of a certain Hostus, a man of outstanding valour who
had come from Latium to the place of refuge set up by Romulus at Rome. She
was the first of the Sabine women to give birth to a child, a son, to whom, as
the first to be born in a foreign land (in hostico), she gave the name Hostus
Hostilius. Romulus, too, honoured the boy with a golden bulla and the distinc-
tion of the praetexta [bordered toga]; for the story goes that, when Romulus
called the Sabine women together to console them for their capture, he prom-
ised to confer a signal honour on the child whose mother was the first to bear
a citizen of his city of Rome.
Livy and other sources tell us that this boy’s own son was Tullus Hostilius,
the third king of Rome.46
Naturally, the Macrobius story cast doubt on the authenticity of the bulla;
assumed to be a forgery, it was denied a place in the Corpus of Latin
Inscriptions,47 and now it is practically forgotten.48 But one wonders why a
forger who wanted to create a relic of the age of Romulus did not make the
inscription look even slightly archaic. I think there is a case to be made that the
piece is genuinely ancient—though not of course from the time of Romulus.
43
Cornell 1995, 143–44.
44
Yates 1851, 166.
45
Macrobius Saturnalia 1.6.16 (tr. P. V. Davies, New York 1969).
46
Livy 1.22.1, Dionysius of Halicarnassus 3.1.2, Pliny Natural History 16.11.
47
Heinrich Dressel, in a note to CIL 16.7066, notes laconically ‘posui inter suspectas’.
48
Brief references in Paully-Wissowa: Mau 1899, 1050; Münzer 1913, 2504.

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 85
Figure 6.3 Gold bulla, found in a cinerary urn near Albano in 1794. The inscription reads:
HOST[us] HOS[tilius]. Reproduced from The Archaeological Journal vol. 8 (1851).

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 86
86 T. P. Wiseman
First, the circumstances of its discovery, in a cremation urn, are what one
would expect for a bulla of the first century BCE or later.49 Second, the leg-
endary Hostilii at the origins of Rome were clearly a reflection of the histor-
ical Hostilii, a senatorial family attested from the late third to the mid-first
century BCE.50 Third, it was a fashion in the first century BCE for distinguished
families to use exotic ancestral forenames for their children: for example
Faustus Cornelius Sulla (son of Lucius), Iullus Antonius (son of Marcus),
Potitus Valerius Messalla (son of Marcus), Cossus Cornelius Lentulus (son of
Gnaeus).51 We happen to know from a casual comment in a speech of Cicero
that one of the tribunes elected for 42 BCE was a Hostilius with the forename
Tullus, just like the legendary king.52
So there is no need to doubt the historicity of a child named Hostus
Hostilius. He could well have been a contemporary of the Volusus Valerius
Messalla whose name appears on bronze coins of about 6 BCE; in the legen-
dary world of newly founded Rome, Hostus Hostilius and Volusus Valerius
had faced each other in the great battle between Romulus’ Romans and the
Sabines whose women they had taken.53 The bulla is not genuine evidence for
the eighth century BCE; it may, however, be genuine evidence for the first.
If I am right, here we have a case where critical scholarly standards were
rightly applied, but knowledge may have been lost in the process. That is a
phenomenon very different from the ingenuous will to believe with which we
have been concerned hitherto. I emphasize it here merely to draw the moral
that things are always more complicated than they seem; simple solutions are
never likely to be helpful.
***
I hope this very superficial treatment of a parallel world has some helpful
analogies for historians of ancient Israel. Some of the differences are obvious
enough—indeed, as we saw, they were pointed out by Josephus nineteen
centuries ago. The privileged texts of the classic authors are not privileged
in quite the same way as those of the Bible, and the authors’ circumstances
and motives for writing are much more clearly understood. But the modern
49
Mau 1899, 1050: ‘Bullae aus römischer Kaiserzeit sind nicht selten in Aschenurnen von
Kindern gefunden worden.’
50
Pliny Natural History 16.11, on Hostus Hostilius honoured by Romulus ‘quod Fidenam
primus inrupisset’, and 35.23, on L. Hostilius Mancinus ‘qui primus Carthaginem inruperat’
(146 BCE).
51
Syme 1958, 172–75 (with other examples, including Imperator Caesar Augustus and Nero
Claudius Drusus).
52
Cicero Philippics 13.26 (unnecessarily doubted by Syme 1964, 117).
53
Sutherland 1984, 76 (moneyer Volusus, Augustus nos. 441–42); Dionysius of Halicarnassus
2.46.3 (Sabine Volusus); Livy 1.12.2–3, Plutarch Romulus 18.4–5 (Hostus in the battle).

06 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:50 Page 87
historian’s need to deal critically with them, and to avoid privileging what
they say over other types of information, may be as acute in the field of
biblical studies as it is in mine. The will to believe should be resisted.
In particular, inference from artifacts should not be prejudiced by what
the texts lead us to expect. The gold mask is evidence for the power of
Mycenae long before Homer’s Agamemnon was imagined as ruling there; the
inscription from Satricum is evidence for social realities in archaic Latium
quite beyond Livy’s understanding; and if the bulla turns out to be evidence
neither for the age of Romulus nor for the forgery of antiquities in eighteenth-
century Italy, but rather for family pride and pretentiousness in the Rome of
Augustus, well, even that is something worth knowing.
Table 6.1 Chronological table.
1300
1200 Destruction of Bronze Age palaces; Linear B
1100
1000
900
800 Osteria dell’Osa graffito (alphabetic script)

‘First Olympiad’ HOMER?
700 HESIOD?
600
Croesus in Lydia; ‘Presocratics’
500 Expulsion of Tarquin from Rome HECATAEUS
Persian Wars; Athenian empire HERODOTUS
400 THUCYDIDES
Alexander
300
Wars of Carthage and Rome
200 FABIUS PICTOR
100
Civil wars; Augustus LIVY
BCE /CE
Julio-Claudian emperors
100 TACITUS
PLUTARCH
200
300
Constantine
400
End of western emperors
500

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88 T. P. Wiseman
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bickermann, E. J., 1968. Chronology of the Ancient World (London).

Bietti Sestieri, A. M., and A. De Santis, 2000. Protostoria dei popoli Latini: Museo
Nazionale dei Terme di Diocleziano (Milan).
Chadwick, J., 1987. Reading the Past: Linear B and Related Scripts (London).
Cornell, T. J., 1995. The Beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to
the Punic Wars (c.1000–264 BC) (London).
Deuel, L., 1978. Memoirs of Heinrich Schliemann: A Documentary Portrait Drawn
from his Autobiographical Writings, Letters, and Excavation Reports (London).
de Waele, J.A.K.E., 1996. ‘The Lapis Satricanus and the Chronology of the Temples
of Mater Matuta at Satricum’, Ostraka 5.2, 231–42.
Finley, M., 1964. ‘The Trojan War’, JHS 84, 1–9.
Goldhill, S., 2002. The Invention of Prose (Greece and Rome New Surveys in the
Classics 32, Oxford).
Hutton, R., 2003. Witches, Druids and King Arthur (London).
Jacoby, F. (ed.), 1904. Das Marmor Parium (Berlin); repr. 1980 (Chicago).
Jenkyns, R., 1980. The Victorians and Ancient Greece (Oxford).
Kirk, G., J. Raven, and M. Schofield, 1983. The Pre-Socratic Philosophers
(Cambridge).
Kraus, C. S., and A. J. Woodman, 1997. Latin Historians: Greece and Rome (New
Surveys in the Classics 27; Oxford).
Latacz, J., 2004. Troy and Homer: Towards a Solution of an Old Mystery, tr. K. Windle
and R. Ireland (Oxford).
Marincola, J., 1997. Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography (Cambridge).
——, 2001. Greek Historians (Greece and Rome New Surveys in the Classics 31,
Oxford).
Mau, A., 1899. ‘Bulla’, Paulys Real-encyclopädie der classischen Altertums-
wissenschaft, 3, 1047–51.
Moles, J. L., 1993. ‘Truth and Untruth in Herodotus and Thucydides’, in C. Gill and
T. P. Wiseman (eds), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World (Exeter), 88–121.
Münzer, F., 1913, ‘Hostilius (4)’, Paulys Real-encyclopädie der classischen Altertums-
wissenschaft, 8, 2502–4.
Niebuhr, B. G., 1828–32. Römische Geschichte (Berlin).
Pearson, L., 1939. Early Ionian Historians (Oxford); repr. 1975 (Westport, CT).
Sandars, N. K., 1985. The Sea Peoples: Warriors of the Ancient Mediterranean
1250–1150 BC (rev. edn; London).
Schliemann, H., 1878. Mycenae: A Narrative of Researches and Discoveries at
Mycenae and Tiryns (New York).
Stibbe, C. M., et al., 1980. Lapis Satricanus: Archaeological, Epigraphical, Linguistic
and Historical Aspects of the New Inscription from Satricum (The Hague).
Sutherland, C. H. V., 1984. The Roman Imperial Coinage, I (rev. edn; London).
Syme, R., 1958. ‘Imperator Caesar: A Study in Nomenclature’, Historia, 7, 172–88.
——, 1964. ‘Senators, Tribes, and Towns’, Historia 13, 105–25.
Taplin, O., 2000. ‘The Spring of the Muses: Homer and Related Poetry’, in O. Taplin
(ed.), Literature in the Greek World (Oxford), 4–39.

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Toynbee, A. J., 1924. Greek Historical Thought from Homer to the Age of Heraclius
(London and New York).
Wiseman, T. P., 1998. ‘Roman Republic, Year One’, Greece and Rome 45/1, 19–26.
——, 2007. ‘The Prehistory of Roman Historiography’, in J. Marincola (ed.), The
Blackwell Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography (Oxford), 67–75.
Woodman, A. J., 2004. Tacitus: The Annals (Indianapolis, IN).
Yates, J., 1851. ‘Additional Observations on the Bulla Worn by Roman Boys’,
Archaeological Journal 8, 166–71.
Zevi, F., 1995. ‘Demarato e i re “corinzi” di Roma’, in A. Storchi Marino (ed.),
L’incidenza dell’antico: studi in memoria di Ettore Lepore, I, (Naples), 291–314.

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Early Islamic History:

Parallels and Problems
CHASE F. ROBINSON
IN EARLY 2004 A BOOK ENTITLED CROSSROADS TO ISLAM APPEARED. It was

written by Yehuda Nevo, an amateur archaeologist, and J. Koren, his
research assistant, and was published posthumously by Prometheus Press, a
house that had already earned a reputation for producing collected volumes
that offered iconoclastic views on early Islam. These had been edited by ‘Ibn
Warraq’, a pseudonym for a former Muslim who, having repudiated Islam in
a Russelesque work entitled Why I Am Not a Muslim (Ibn Warraq 1995), had
set upon a programme of popularizing and polemicizing: popularizing
obscure works of mostly French and German Orientalism that subverted tra-
ditional accounts of the origins of Islam, and polemicizing against the relia-
bility of that tradition and those who defended it. Armed with the source- and
form-critical tradition of much of the best nineteenth- and twentieth-century
Orientalist scholarship, Ibn Warraq especially targeted traditional accounts
of the Qur’an and the life of Muhammad (1998; 2000; and 2002). Nevo’s tar-
gets were many (sometimes his arguments are difficult to disentangle from his
assumptions), and they overlap with Ibn Warraq’s, but his work is method-
ologically distinctive in Islamic studies in that it is the first to combine
criticism of the literary and historical evidence (such as that compiled by
Ibn Warraq) with an attempt to adduce the alternative: the epigraphic,
archaeological and numismatic evidence for early Islam. This, as we shall see,
leads him to conclusions that are altogether more radical than Ibn Warraq’s
or, for that matter, virtually any other scholar’s. They are also wrong. Still,
because early Islamic history shares not only some geography with ancient
Israel but also a comparable historical and historiographical trajectory, I
trust a discussion of this and other recent work on the seventh and eighth
centuries will be of some interest to those working with similarly exiguous
and controversial evidence, particularly since at least some of Nevo’s (and
others’) views seem to have been informed by the study of ancient Israel itself.
Islamicists may divide themselves into ‘sceptical’ or ‘revisionist’ scholars on
the one hand, and ‘traditional’ or ‘conservative’ ones on the other, but the

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 92
92 Chase F. Robinson
divide is much the same as that which separates the ‘minimalists’ from the
‘maximalists’ familiar to readers of this volume.
Nevo reaches four principal conclusions, and, following his sequence, I shall
enumerate and gloss these in turn. I then turn to a broader discussion of how
his views arose and what to make of them.
i. ‘The Arabs took over the eastern provinces of the Byzantine empire without
a struggle’
Islam is conventionally said to begin in western Arabia, where Muhammad

lived and preached, first in his home-town of Mecca, and then, after his emi-
gration (hijra), in Medina. Soon after his death, his followers are said to have
engaged Byzantine and Sasanian armies in Syria, Palestine and Iraq, thus
spreading Islamic hegemony—if not necessarily the Islamic faith—in the
metropolitan Near East. The relevant accounts are provided by conquest nar-
ratives—of marches, battles, sieges, and treaties between Muslim armies and
Byzantine armies during 630s and 640s—which are transmitted in great
detail by the ninth- and tenth-century Islamic historical tradition in Arabic.
Because this tradition can frequently be shown to be utterly unreliable, Nevo
rejects it altogether; he also argues that no contemporaneous or seventh-
century sources in any language record the conquest. Instead of conquest,
Nevo has a weakened Byzantine state cede the eastern provinces to Arabs, at
least some of whom had served as foederati in Byzantine armies—a
‘takeover’ or translatio imperii.
As long ago as the 1920s, Alt challenged the biblical truth of conquest,
abandoning the idea that it was violent, but holding to the view that the
Israelites entered the land from outside it, thus giving rise to what Jodi
Magness (2003) calls the ‘peaceful infiltration model’. As readers of this vol-
ume will know much better than this writer, Alt has now been outflanked by
those who have abandoned what was left of the biblical narrative, arguing for
an internal ethnogenesis: the Israelites did not conquer from abroad, their
identity crystallized from within. Islamics has been innocent of a comparable
line of criticism—until relatively recently. Here it is noteworthy that the two
prominent scholars who have challenged Islamic conquest narratives in sim-
ilar ways—that is, in challenging both their facticity and, more generally, a
pre-conquest history of Islam itself, largely by adducing the epigraphic evi-
dence—are both Israeli (Sharon 1985; Nevo 1991; 1994), especially given
that Israeli Islamics, being thoroughly grounded in the philological tradition,
is generally quite conservative. Why such radical conquest criticism emerged

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 93
EARLY ISLAMIC HISTORY 93
there probably admits several answers, an obvious one being that archaeol-
ogy and epigraphy seem to exert more influence there than they do amongst
very early Islamicists elsewhere. It is according to archaeological and epi-
graphic evidence that Palestine no more ‘fell’ to invading Muslims than did
Canaan to invading Israelites. Another, which is closely related and irre-
sistible, is the press of politics. The model of internal ethnogenesis can be
adduced in arguments about Jewish and Palestinian identities and claims
upon the land (Whitelam 1996). Nevo’s model is also curiously colonial in
inspiration, which seems to reflect a specific politico-academic context:
Palestine, an unruly and difficult province, is ceded by one empire (the
Byzantines) in ways that curiously anticipate another (the British). (The rea-
sons why the British did so are easier to discern than those of the Byzantines,
given the emperors’ policies and the province’s revenues.)
Now there is an attractive efficiency in Nevo’s argument, for once one has
dispensed with the conquests, replacing them with peaceful takeover and, if
one wishes, tribal migration, one no longer needs to explain their spectacular
success. Defeating the long-lived and powerful Byzantine and Sasanian
empires was no easy thing. The explanation that prevails amongst Islamicists
belongs to Donner (1981) in what has become the standard book on the
topic, The Early Islamic Conquests, where he goes to great lengths to argue
that in both timing and execution they are indeed unthinkable unless in essen-
tial ways they are Islamic—that is, unless one envisions an elite of com-
manders and tribesmen that, in sharing a unifying vision that they owe in
some measure to Muhammad and the Qur’an, is capable of the coordinated
action that conquest narratives describe: opening and closing fronts, dis-
patching commanders and armies, negotiating settlements and the like.
Without such tactical and strategic nous, not to mention the enthusiasm of a
newly embraced faith, how could the relatively small Arab armies have
defeated the two great super-powers of late antiquity?
All of this said, the reliable evidence, which is considerably fuller in the
Islamic case than it is in the Israelite case, makes Nevo’s view untenable. As
we shall see, conquest—that is, the violent seizure of power—did indeed take
place, if not necessarily in the ways that the historical tradition portrays it.
ii. ‘The Arabs were pagan at the time of the takeover’
According to Nevo, the Islamic tradition (and much secondary scholarship)

is mistaken not only in speaking of the conquests, but also in speaking of
Islamic conquests. Finding no early inscriptional evidence in the Negev for
Islamic identity or belief, he argues that its Arabs remained pagan through-
out the seventh century. (He confusingly argues for an absence of evidence
for paganism in Arabia.) The birth of Islam, for Nevo, was protracted, and
took place in Palestine.

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 94
There is something to be said in favour of posing the question of how the

earliest stages of Islamic belief related to political action in general and con-
quest in particular: were Muslims investing in the future—that is, state- and
empire-building on the model of their Near Eastern forebears—responding
to foreign imperialists and/or preparing for the eschaton? The first of these is
suggested by much of the tradition and is prevalent in the secondary litera-
ture, while the second and the third have their advocates (Crone 1987;
Casanova 1911–13). Donner himself has now suggested that piety, rather
than creed, is what gave the earliest community such shape and coherence as
it had in the earliest period (Donner 2002–03). There is also something to be
said in favour of posing the question of pre-Islamic belief and conversion,
which has recently been reopened by G. Hawting (1999), who has argued that
many descriptions of Arab paganism that survive from the ninth and tenth
centuries, though typically adduced as descriptive evidence for pre-Islamic
paganism, are best understood as a prescriptive discourse directed by
monotheists against fellow monotheists who held aberrant views. In this
and other respects, he is fiercely sceptical about the prospect for historical
reconstruction of any variety, and follows a model that imbeds the forma-
tion of Islam within a much larger process of monotheist articulation (cf.
Wansbrough 1978).
Of course, in posing and trying to answer questions about religion and
conversion, one naturally assumes that our historical and literary sources
are reliable enough to infer at least the outlines of that belief and action.
(Hawting and Nevo argue very different things about early Islamic belief,
but they share a radical distrust in the reliability of the historical record.)
Privileging the (extremely spotty and controversial) epigraphic evidence from
the Negev, this Nevo does not assume. As we shall see, problems plague both
his command of the evidence and the model with which he interprets it.
iii. ‘Muhammad is not a historical figure. . . [he] enters the official religion
only c. 71/690’
The Arabian prophet, who is traditionally said to have been born around 570
and to have died in 632, is thus neither the founder of a new religion nor the
reformer (or sectarian) of a continuous monotheist tradition. Instead, he is a
literary-religious fiction, designed, at least in part, to legitimize Arab rule
outside Arabia. Put differently, holy origins (revelation/prophecy; rejection
of prophecy; emigration/deliverance) in a distant land (Arabia) are retrofit-
ted to endow Arabs ruling in Syria with a legitimizing ideology; in Nevo’s
view, the retrofitting takes place when it does because the Marwanid branch
(rg. c. 690–750) of the Umayyad dynasty (rg. 661–750) was undertaking the
project of islamicizing and arabicizing the nascent state. Tradition would
have it that monarchy (in the form of prophecy, followed by caliphal rule)

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 95
and monotheism were married in about 622, when Muhammad left Mecca
and settled in Medina, drawing up what has been called a ‘constitution’ there
to govern his community of believers; Nevo would have it that the two were
born twins in about 690.
There is, of course, a striking parallel to be noted: in both the Israelite
and Islamic cases, new monarchy can be said to generate ancient memory.
In fact, this recycling of processes—processes of state-building and myth-
making—can be said to form the backdrop against which surface similarities
acquire sharper focus.1 If Marwanid rule in greater Syria witnessed the inven-
tion of Muhammad and Arabian origins, what do we make of the fact that
its de facto founder, ‘Abd al-Malik b. Marwan (rg. c. 692–705),2 not only
built the Dome of the Rock upon the Temple Mount, but also named a son
Sulayman (Solomon)? As we shall see, monarchy and state-building do seem
to have shaped the historical tradition, but once again Nevo falls afoul of the
available evidence.
iv. ‘The Qur’an is a late compilation; it was not canonized until the end of the
second century AH or perhaps early in the third’
According to tradition, the Qur’an had its origins as serial revelations

revealed by God to Muhammad, which were recorded in his lifetime on the
available media (especially stones and bones), these revelations naturally
coming to an end with his death in 632. Since tradition holds that
Muhammad was illiterate, the task of recording them fell to scribes, and their
work was subsequently reshaped into codices, of which there were several
competing versions. Scripture is said to have been shaped into in its canon-
ical form in Medina by the caliph ‘Uthman (rg. 644–656), who ordered the
production and distribution of an authorized version, along with the sup-
pression of the pre-‘Uthmanic codices. The Qur’an, according to this very
simplified accounting, was thus both closed and stable (if not yet completely
fixed, ne variatur) by a contemporary of the Prophet himself.
Now we shall see that this traditional accounting poses several problems,
not least of which is that it telescopes what is normally a protracted set of
scriptural processes (revelation, recording, redaction, transmission, closure)
into a remarkably short period of time—in effect, a single generation. But
abandoning it in favour of Nevo’s merely produces different problems. One is
pragmatic. As far as reconstructing early history is concerned, our chief piece
of evidence for the Arabian context of Islamic origins and, of course, for the
monotheist reforms of Muhammad, disappears at a single stroke. Indeed, we
lose our clearest and most emphatic evidence for a doctrine that explains
1
On biblical myths and Prophetic biography, see Rubin 1994 and 1999.
2
I follow the regnal dating argued in Robinson 2005.

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 96
conquest—that is, jihad. It is true that the Qur’an generally produces much
less history than the tradition—especially in the form of Qur’anic commen-
tary—produces for it; whereas books have been written about biblical his-
toriography (Van Seters 1983), the Qur’an is neither keenly concerned with
history nor clearly reflective of the social setting of its composition. On the
other hand, even the most iconoclastic critic of the tradition can squeeze
some very useful history from the text (Crone 2005); in other words,
intractable evidence can yield results when the appropriate questions are
asked of it. Other problems are more severe. For example, protracting the
period of composition beyond the conquest divide leaves unanswered why
nothing in our text clearly betrays a non-Arabian Sitz im Leben; and if one
conceives of proto-Qur’anic logia as we currently understand Prophetic
hadith, we might expect at least some of the anachronisms that characterize
the hadith. To anticipate a point I shall make below, some of the Qur’anic
lexicon is impressively archaic.
In sum, there is stylistic variation in the Qur’an, but since the hands that
fashioned it were many fewer than those that fashioned the Pentateuch and,
moreover, since they did so much, much quicker, it has nothing like its het-
erogeneity. Of course precisely because it came together relatively quickly—
perhaps within about a century—there is no prospect that a Qur’anic
documentary hypothesis will reveal its history.
II
To recapitulate: what we have is a series of radical views, which, taken singly

or together, subvert the narrative of Islamic origins that prevails not only
amongst most Muslims, but also amongst most scholars. It may be useful
here to explain how they arose.
Nevo’s Crossroads is both the most recent and the most radical instalment
in a programme of revisionism that has its ultimate origins in late nineteenth-
century Orientalist historicism; the ‘scientific’ study of Islam was born well
after that of ancient Israel, and it is only now starting to catch up. Although
Wellhausen was part of this trend, his contribution was in this respect mod-
est. The action was less in the history of the Islamic scripture than in the his-
tory of Islamic law: inasmuch as the documentary hypothesis both represents
the principal achievement of the academic study of Israelite origins and
beliefs, and marks the ascendancy of critical-historical approaches in that
field, what can usefully be called the ‘Goldziher-Schacht’ hypothesis on the
emergence of Prophetic tradition (the hadith) represents the parallel achieve-
ment and marks the same ascendancy in Islamics. As its name suggests, we
owe the hypothesis—which holds that the notion of Prophetic sunna (‘way’,

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 97
‘paradigmatic conduct’), composed as it was of orally transmitted hadiths,

was not contemporaneous with Muhammad or his immediate followers, but
rather emerged only during the eighth century and matured in the ninth—
not to Wellhausen, but to I. Goldziher (d. 1921) and J. Schacht (d. 1969).
(Wellhausen’s important contributions to Islamics lay elsewhere, such as in
pre-Islamic belief and Umayyad political history.3) The study of both ancient
Israel and early Islam has been fiercely controversial, but while both the doc-
umentary hypothesis and the Goldziher–Schacht theory of the emergence of
Prophetic sunna have been modified and adjusted, it is hard to imagine that
either will ever be fully dislodged.
No doubt there are other parallels between the two fields, but things
should not be pushed too far: whereas the study of ancient Israel suffers from
a lack of non-biblical evidence and enjoys an unbroken tradition of sustained
research by small armies of scholars, the study of early Islam suffers from a
surfeit of evidence and a poverty of scholars. With so many books and so few
people to read them, progress is always slow. But more is involved than just
the number of scholars: scholarship can take place most anywhere, but it
takes firm root only when the soil is fertile. Historical criticism of early Islam
remained relatively underdeveloped for much of the twentieth century not
simply because the difficulty of Arabic and philological inclinations make for
conservative scholars, but also because the field was being pushed in other
directions. For one thing, liberal and ecumenically minded approaches were
producing accounts that complemented (and in some cases replaced) earlier
works that implicitly (and sometimes explicitly) reflected long-held hostility
towards Islam (Watt 1953 and 1956). Muhammad was no longer a pseudo-
prophet, madman or epileptic—and he certainly existed. At more or less the
same time, post-war American imperialism had an academic reflex in ‘mod-
ernization’ theory and, more generally, the application of social-scientific
approaches to subsequent periods of Islamic and Middle Eastern History
(Lockman 2004). Religion being on the wane (it was held), the origins of the
religious tradition garnered less attention than they do now—for obvious
reasons.
So conditions were not favourable for historical criticism of early Islam to
flourish—and this continued to be the case even after the 1970s and 1980s,
when Islamicists had begun to test the Goldziher–Schacht theory and apply
its implications to adjacent problems. It is hard to overstate the significance
of the revisionists’ challenge, especially in the political context of the so-
called ‘return of Islam’. The most influential revisionist studies (the first edi-
tion of Noth’s work, Crone’s and Cook’s Hagarism, and Wansbrough’s two
3
See e.g. Wellhausen 1887 and 1902; both are still cited in the literature.

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 98
books) were all published between 1973 and 1978, and by 1979, of course, the
Iranian Revolution had taken place—only the most successful of many
attempts to impose a politics that turns on a deliberately archaic discourse of
Islamic law and society rooted in its purported origins. There is no squaring
the revisionists’ criticisms of the law and history with the prevailing politics
of public Islam or, for that matter, much of the identity politics of American
academia. The revisionists’ model of Islamic traditionalism holds that the
hadith —the Prophetic sayings and descriptions of Prophetic conduct that
form most of the building blocks of the foundation for Islamic law—are
spurious unless proven otherwise. Similarly for scripture and history: if one
holds that the Qur’an was assembled during the eighth and ninth centuries,
one loses the rest of the law’s building blocks, and if one extends Schacht’s
criticisms of the hadith to the akhbar (accounts) of the historical tradition, as
revisionists have, we lose virtually all that remains. Little wonder then that the
revisionism of the 1970s and 1980s sparked a counter-attack, not only by
neo-traditional Muslims, but also by conservative Orientalist positivists, who
have a stake of their own in defending the historicity of the early Islamic
tradition.
So if the tradition behind Nevo’s scepticism stretches back to the late
nineteenth century, its proximate influence was a tide of revisionism that rose
in the late 1970s and early 1980s, which called into question not only the
essential narratives of Islam’s origins, but also the traditional account of the
Qur’an’s assembly,4 and which has been swimming against the stream. Put
another way round, the positive results yielded by these approaches are frag-
mentary and provisional, while the traditional narratives, well-polished,
familiar and ubiquitous in the primary and secondary literature, remain
compelling.
Now, the revisionists’ radicalism should not be overstated. For all his
iconoclasm, Nevo, like most other so-called ‘revisionists’, remains a positivist
at heart: that is, he remains interested in identifying and securing descriptions
of a reality witnessed by evidence from the past, be it fragmentary or full, so
as to explain historical change. The most controversial ‘revisionist’ work of
them all, Hagarism, can be said to replace one description with another, one
which happens to present early Islam as a Jewish sectarian movement (Crone
and Cook 1977). As Wansbrough (2003, 10), who is one of a small handful
of those who qualify as anti-positivist by this description, put it derisively:
‘What seems to be required is some kind of certainty that what is alleged to
have happened actually did.’ If the revisionist tent is therefore a large one, vir-
tually all those in it still share the view that what the tradition apparently
4
Noth 1973; Crone and Cook 1977; Wansbrough 1977 and 1978.

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 99
offers as seventh-century history, continuously and accurately transmitted

through the eighth century to survive in the extant ninth- and tenth-century
sources, is unreliable because it was generated polemically and transmitted
inaccurately. Precisely what these polemics were and how transmission was
not secure are complicated topics that I have tried to sketch out elsewhere
(Robinson 2003, chs 1–4); suffice to say here, the origins of the historical tra-
dition lie in practices of oral story-telling, and upon these practices and tales,
the transformations of early Muslim society had a deep, disorienting and dis-
torting effect: the shift of the capital from stateless, pagan and letterless
Arabia to the highly lettered and monotheistic late antique heartlands of
Syria and Iraq; the settlement of Arab tribesmen in garrison cities in Iraq and
Iran, and all the tribal and geographic rivalries and controversies that this
engendered; the rise of Islamic monarchy and the direct and indirect patron-
age it offered to the production of knowledge. The décallage between pur-
ported event and record may be considerably shorter than it is in the history
of ancient Israel, but Islamic history between the seventh and ninth centuries
can fairly be described as a series of discontinuities, dislocations and disrup-
tions, most of which militated against the transmission of authentically his-
torical data. ‘Since hundreds of years separate the “conquest events” from
the period in which these tales were composed in writing, and since written
transcription of presumed oral tales may be more informative in regard to the
period in which these tales were transcribed than to the time in which they
were presumed to have been composed, it is clear that our “sources” (i.e. oral
traditions) for the “conquest period” are extremely problematic and should
be treated with the outmost caution’ (Na’aman 1994, 227). The sentence was
written about the Hebrew accounts of the conquest of Canaan; it could have
been written about nearly all the Arabic accounts of the conquest of
Palestine.
What is the shape of the décallage? For the purposes of simplicity, the
Arabic historiographic tradition can be usefully divided into three categories:
biography, chronography—that is, annalistic and regnally organized his-
tory—and prosopography—principally, but not exclusively, biographical
dictionaries, usually of learned men. All three, in varying quantities, have a
great deal to say about the origins of Islam: the early biographical tradition
is dominated by Prophetic biography, the chronographical, which is usually
heavily dependent upon biography for Prophetic history, by the providential
history of the community, and the prosopographical by the creation of an
early Islamic diaspora of scholar-transmitters. Now all the relevant genres
within these categories have their origins in the late eighth and ninth cen-
turies—some 200 years after the Prophet’s death; all of them, moreover, have
their origins in Iraq under the Abbasid dynasty of caliphs—that is, the
Baghdad-based dynasty that overthrew the Syrian-based Umayyads, who

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 100
ruled from 661 to 750; and finally all of them rely for early Islamic history
upon oral traditions. The first Prophetic biography of any real size was writ-
ten by Ibn Ishaq, who died in 767; it survives in several recensions and redac-
tions, all of which belong to the early ninth century, and the most important
of which belongs to Ibn Hisham (d. c. 835). Chronography and prosopogra-
phy are similarly late, and their origins murky (the earliest examples are lost).
The earliest extant chronography was written by Khalifa b. Khayyat, who
died in 854; it survives in a single redaction preserved in a single, North
African manuscript. The earliest extant prosopography was written by Ibn
Sa‘d, who died in 845.
Those, then, are the earliest sources, but they are not necessarily the
fullest: the ninth and early tenth centuries were times when sources were
(relatively) fresh and ambitions great, and the effect was an explosion of
knowledge, a proliferation of books of staggering size. When it comes to
reconstructing Islamic history, the single most important source is the largest
of all the chronographies of the period, the Ta’rikh (History) of Abu Ja‘far
al-Tabari (d. 923). It is no exaggeration to say that the conventional narrative
of Islamic history from Muhammad to about 900 is unthinkable without
al-Tabari’s 16-volume history of the caliphate. And by this time, the period of
providential prophecy, glorious conquest and tragic civil war was as distant
to him as the French Revolution is to us.
III
Much more could be said about the emergence and shape of the tradition,
but in a volume such as this it may be more useful to describe—if only
schematically—the principal ways that Islamicists have tried to handle it.
Nevo’s is only one of several approaches to the seventh century: the ‘descrip-
tive’ approach favoured by traditionally minded scholars is now often viewed
as credulous at best (Donner 1998), and a number of alternative and com-
plementary methods have emerged, all of which, despite their diversity, aim
at isolating contemporaneous, near-contemporaneous or in any case rela-
tively early narratives, echoes, traces or reflexes of the events that we wish to
describe and explain. (It is worth noting in passing that the deeper epistemo-
logical question of whether such pieces of evidence, taken singly or together,
can do any more than approximate a truth is usually left unasked. If it is a
truism that all attempts to write history are inherently problematic; it is espe-
cially true that all conclusions about early Islamic history are necessarily
probabilistic.) All history-writing relies upon recognized or unrecognized
models, and good history-writing not only reads evidence fairly according to
an appropriate model, but adjusts and balances those readings and models in

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 101
the light of each other. In the case of early Islamic history, this balancing act
is difficult to pull off: there being such a paucity of reliable evidence, models
can have a way of pre-determining conclusions. Such is the case, as we shall
see, for Nevo.
The available and relevant evidence can be broken down into four
overlapping categories:
1 the huge corpus of Islamic literature and learning (e.g. historiography,
biography, prosopography, hadith and Qur’an commentary), which generally
dates from the eighth and ninth centuries at the earliest, the only generic
exception being early Islamic poetry;
2 a small and more-or-less stagnant pool of non-Islamic literary evi-
dence, which dates from the seventh century, and is chiefly Christian (in order
of utility: Syriac, Greek, Armenian, Latin and Christian Arabic);
3 a small, but fast-growing body of material evidence—epigraphy,
archaeology, art history and numismatics—which, for academic and politi-
cal reasons, largely comes from modern-day Israel, Palestine, Jordan and
Syria, although the Gulf and Arabia are starting to yield evidence;
4 an even smaller, but just as fast-growing body of documentary evi-
dence, both Islamic and non-Islamic, which survives either independently on
durable material (especially papyri and leather) or, in much smaller amounts,
imbedded in 1 or 2.
The method of those following what Donner calls the ‘descriptive’
approach was to read 1, in some cases minimizing rhetoric and hyperbole
(e.g. grossly inflated figures), excluding the nonsensical (e.g. miracles in the
Prophet’s life, angels on battlefields) and occasionally collating it with 2.
More recently, systematic attempts have been made to analyse the ‘chains of
transmission’ (isnads) that preface so much of the material recorded in 1, so
as to identify and isolate not only early accounts, but even some early com-
pilations. The work is very laborious, but it is beginning to pay off.5 This said,
conclusions that take us all the way back to the seventh century remain
inferential, and, of course, assigning a late seventh-century provenance to
material is not the same as proving that it is historically accurate.
Revisionists’ methods have been several, but they generally involve either
excluding 1 altogether and/or privileging 2, 3, and 4 over it, or analysing 1 in
such a way as to produce early evidence that can sit aside 2, 3 and 4.
Hagarism infamously followed the first of these, leaving the Islamic tradition
in favour of the non-Islamic; both its method and its conclusions have
generated controversy (Hoyland 1997). Others have privileged the non-
Islamic, rereading the Islamic accordingly (Robinson 2000). Still others have
5
See, for some examples, Motzki 2000; Schoeler 1996; Görke and Schoeler 2005.

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 102
applied varieties of source and form criticism to the early Islamic tradition,
in the hope of isolating early material: it may be of interest to readers of this
book that a crucial figure in this enterprise was Albrecht Noth, the late son
of Martin Noth (Noth 1973 and 1994). In this connection it must be said that
these approaches have been considerably more effective in throwing doubt
upon the reliability of the tradition than they have been in generating posi-
tive results. The results of Noth’s criticism were principally negative—neither
he, nor anyone else who has worked on eighth- and ninth-century historical
narrative, has managed to isolate many early strata, much less show that they
are reliable. Perhaps the most accomplished redaction critic was Calder, yet
another student of Wansbrough’s; just as Wansbrough pushed forward the
date of the Qur’an from the seventh to the ninth century, Calder (1993)
pushed forward the dating of several foundational legal texts from the late
eighth or early ninth century to the later ninth or early tenth. Far from
getting us closer to Islamic origins, the criticism has moved us further away.
Categories 3 and 4 figured only modestly in the text-based revisionism of
the 1970s and 1980s, but the material and documentary evidence has become
increasingly important, at least in part because more and more of it is becom-
ing available. This is particularly the case for the papyri.6 Just how much light
this material and documentary evidence will shed on the question of origins
remains unclear, however. For one thing, most of the documentary material
that survives was generated by non-Muslims, and apart from a small corpus
of religious and literary texts (including Qur’an fragments) on papyrus, much
of it, Islamic and non-Islamic, was generated by the lower levels of provin-
cial bureaucracies for bureaucratic purposes; the documents accordingly have
much to say about how provincial administrations and economies worked,
but allow us only very occasional glimpses at the evolution of Islamic belief
and practice. The Egyptian papyri, for example, can document the use of an
Islamic dating system anchored in the Hijra, but they say little about what the
Hijra meant to Muslims. For another thing, although archaeology is yielding
important evidence for long-term patterns of settlement, land use and urban-
ization during the sixth, seventh and eighth centuries, it only very awkwardly
reflects events and short-term trends. Much the same can be said of epigra-
phy, which more accurately reflects language use and protracted processes of
linguistic change.
This final point can be illustrated with the argument from silence, which
is frequently adduced by those working with the material evidence. Nevo
takes this to extremes: to him, there is no reliable early evidence that con-
quests took place—either historical accounts that he will accept or archaeo-
6
See e.g. Sijpesteijn and Sundelin 2004; Johns 2003.

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 103
logical evidence for destruction that he can clearly associate with political
change. Since such evidence is absent, the conquests did not take place.
Similarly, because the early graffiti and epigraphy fail to document either
Muhammad or an Islamic creed, Muhammad is a later invention and so, too,
‘Islam’ itself.
But this is errant nonsense. For one thing, there are contemporary and
near contemporary accounts of the conquest, and much as Nevo wishes them
away, they pass all reasonable standards for authenticity. Some are very brief
(see e.g. Hoyland 1997, 116–39), but others are relatively detailed. One par-
ticularly detailed narrative is an East Syriac account, which was composed in
south-west Iran in about 670 or 680, is based on first-hand accounts of the
conquest of southern Iraq and knows of a second-hand account of the con-
quest of Egypt. This, the so-called ‘Khuzistan chronicle’, makes it perfectly
clear that conquest in the conventional sense did take place; in fact, what I
tried to show in a study of that source is that it actually corroborates the
much later Islamic tradition on matters of real detail (Robinson 2004;
Hoyland 1997, 192–98). The Islamic tradition is problematic in the extreme
(Conrad 1992), but the occasional control yields surprising results.
So the silence is not genuine and, what is more, the historical tradition is
not necessarily as unreliable as one assumes. But leaving aside the serendipi-
tous survival of the odd seventh-century Syriac source that speaks of con-
quest in real detail, there is also the matter of how to read the sources that do
not. For to read conquest narrative while expecting anything like full descrip-
tions of conquest violence, as does Nevo, is to misconstrue its function
amongst monotheists of the seventh century, be they Christian, Jew or oth-
erwise. What interested our earliest authors was not the facticity of conquest
as such, but the meaning and significance of its aftermath: what did it mean
that God had favoured the Arabs? Had Christian sin—especially the sin of
schism—provoked God to punish? Would he always do so? These were the
concerns of the earliest authors, who took it for granted that conquest had
taken place. Similarly, the epigraphic evidence: not only does the non-Islamic
tradition document a seventh-century belief in Muhammad’s prophecy, but
the function of early Islamic graffiti, which are frequently intercessionary in
character, was not to record catechisms; just as pre-Islamic intercessionary
graffiti written by pagans includes few or no articles of belief, so too early
Islamic intercessionary graffiti. That many seventh-century Syrian Arabs
were not Muslims in the classical sense—that is, the late eighth- or ninth
-century sense—is obvious to the point of being banal; but that is very
different from saying, as does Nevo, that they did not hold recognizably
Islamic beliefs distinctive to them.
A second example: what does it mean that we lack a single complete man-
uscript of the Qur’an that is securely datable to the first century of Islam?

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 104
Combined with a model that holds that scriptures are assembled and close
gradually, it can be taken to mean that the Qur’an belongs to the eighth and
ninth centuries. Such, in fact, is Wansbrough’s view, which Nevo adopts with
little comment. Here the evidence is mixed. On the one hand, the Islamic
accounts are confusing (in part because they speak of post-‘Uthmanic edit-
ing), and it is very hard to see how ‘Uthman could have established or
enforced an authoritative version in the 650s, or indeed why he would have
attempted to do so: the notion of an ‘official’ or ‘authorized’ version makes
little sense in the context of his reign (Robinson 2005). On the other hand,
some historical, literary, and epigraphic evidence—especially the inscriptions
on the Dome of the Rock—make it clear that texts much like what we know
to be the Qur’an were circulating during the seventh century. In fact, while
every word of our Qur’an could comfortably be said to belong to seventh-
century Arabia, there is a small pool of terminology and vocabulary that sits
very uneasily in eighth- and ninth-century Iraq: over and over, the lexical and
grammatical tradition fails to make convincing sense of this vocabulary; one
thus infers that it was archaic. (A recent study, by another pseudonymous
author, Christoph Luxenberg, makes a strong case for an Aramaic substrate
underneath the Qur’an’s classical Arabic, but this substrate could very well
have been deposited in Arabia.) It seems that scripture did not close or
become authoritative as quickly as the tradition would have it, but the
absence of early manuscript evidence cannot be taken as positive evidence for
anything. The fact is that beyond some papyri, which are largely administra-
tive throughout the early period, we lack much of any datable written mater-
ial, Qur’anic or otherwise. In sum, arguments from silence can be persuasive,
provided, first, that the silence is genuine, and second, that it accords with
what the positive and extant evidence, rather than an arbitrary model, would
have us believe.7
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Calder, N., 1993. Studies in Early Muslim Jurisprudence (Oxford).

Casanova, P., 1911–13. Mohammed et la fin du monde (Paris).
Conrad, L., 1992. ‘The Conquest of Arwad: A Source-critical Study in the
Historiography of the Early Medieval Near East’, in A. Cameron and L. Conrad
(eds), The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East, I, Problems in the Literary
Source Material (Princeton), 317–401.
Crone, P., 1987. Meccan Trade and the Rise of Islam (Princeton).
——, 2005. ‘How did the Quranic Pagans Make a Living?’, BSOAS 68, 369–86.
7
I am indebted to A. Silverstein for reading and commenting upon this article.

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 105
Crone, P., and M. Cook, 1977. Hagarism: The Making of the Islamic World
(Cambridge).
Donner, F., 1981. The Early Islamic Conquests (Princeton).
——, 1998. Narratives of Islamic Origins: The Beginnings of Islamic Historical
Writing (Princeton).
——, 2002–03. ‘From Believers to Muslims: Confessional Self-identity in the Early
Islamic Community’, al-Abhath 50–51, 9–53.
Görke, A., and G. Schoeler, 2005. ‘Reconstructing the Earliest S ira Texts: The Higra
in the Corpus of ‘Urwa b. al-Zubayr’, Der Islam 82, 209–20.
Hawting, G., 1999. The Idea of Idolatry and the Emergence of Islam (Cambridge).
Hoyland, R., 1997. Seeing Islam as Others Saw It (Princeton).
Ibn Warraq, 1995. Why I Am Not a Muslim (Buffalo).
——, (ed.), 1998. The Origins of the Koran: Classic Essays on Islam’s Holy Book
(Amherst).
——, (ed.), 2000. The Quest for the Historical Muhammad (Amherst).
——, (ed.), 2002. What the Koran Really Says: Language, Text, and Commentary
(Amherst).
Johns, J., 2003. ‘Archaeology and the History of Early Islam: The First Seventy
Years’, JESHO 46, 411–36.
Lockman, Z., 2004. Contending Visions of the Middle East: The History and Politics
of Orientalism (Cambridge).
Luxenberg, C., 2000, Die syro-aramäische Lesart des Koran (Berlin).
Magness, J., 2003. The Archaeology of the Early Islamic Settlement in Palestine
(Winona Lake, IN).
Motzki, H., 2000. ‘The Murder of Ibn Abi l-Huqayq’, in H. Motzki (ed.), The
Biography of Muhammad: The Issue of the Sources (Leiden), 170–239.
Na’aman, N., 1994. ‘The “conquest of Canaan” in the Book of Joshua and in
History’, in I. Finkelstein and N. Na’aman (eds), From Nomadism to Monarchy
(Jerusalem), 218–81.
Nevo, Y., 1991. ‘Methodological Approaches to Islamic Studies’, Der Islam 68,
87–107.
——, 1994. ‘Towards a Prehistory of Islam’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 17,
109–41.
——, and J. Koren, 2003. Crossroads to Islam (Amherst).
Noth, A., 1973. Quellenkritische Studien zu Themen, Formen und Tendenzen frühis-
lamischer Geschichstüberlieferung (Bonn); ET (with L. Conrad), 1994. The Early
Arabic Historical Tradition: A Source-critical Study (Princeton).
Robinson, C. F., 2000. Empire and Elites after the Muslim Conquest (Cambridge).
——, 2003. Islamic Historiography (Cambridge).
——, 2004. ‘The Conquest of Khuzistan: A Historiographic Reassessment’, BSOAS
67, 14–39.
——, 2005. A ‘ bd al-Malik (Oxford).
Rubin, U., 1994. The Eye of the Beholder: The Life of Muhammad as Viewed by the
Early Muslims (Princeton).
——, 1999. Between Bible and Qur’an: the Children of Israel and the Islamic Self-image
(Princeton).
Schacht, J., 1953. The Origins of Muhammadan Jurisprudence (Oxford).

07 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:51 Page 106
Schoeler, G, 1996. Charakter und Authentie der muslimischen Überlieferung über das
Leben Mohammeds (Berlin and New York).
Sharon, M., 1985. ‘Arabic Inscriptions from Sede Boqer’, in R. Cohen, Archaeological
Survey of Israel: Map of Sede Boqer West (167), 31–5.
Sijpesteijn, P., and L. Sundelin (eds), 2004. Papyrology and the History of Early
Islamic Egypt (Leiden).
Origins of Biblical History (New Haven).
Wansbrough, J., 1977. Quranic Studies (Oxford).
——, 1978. The Sectarian Milieu (Oxford).
——, 2003. ‘Res ipsa loquitur: History and Mimesis’, in H. Berg (ed.), Method and
Theory in the Study of Islamic Origins (Leiden), 3–19.
Watt, M. W., 1953. Muhammad at Mecca (Oxford).
——, 1956. Muhammad at Medina (Oxford).
Wellhausen, J., 1902. Das arabische Reich und sein Sturz (Berlin).
——, 1887. Reste arabischen Heidenthums (Berlin).
Whitelam, K., 1996. The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian
History (London).

08 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:52 Page 107
Ancient Near Eastern History: The Case

of Cyrus the Great of Persia
AMÉLIE KUHRT
THE FOCUS OF THIS VOLUME CONCERNS THE PROBLEMS encountered in writing

the history of Israel, in view of the sharp divergences that exist in approach-
ing the main source for doing so, that is, the Bible. My contribution is a
consideration of how an historian of the ancient Near East sets about recon-
structing a picture of the past using material of great diversity in terms of
type and historical value. It seemed most appropriate to do this by picking a
specific example and using it as a test case to illustrate the problems, which
are by no means unique to the biblical text (see, for example, Brettler’s paper
in this volume). In order to demonstrate my approach I have chosen the
figure of the Achaemenid king, Cyrus II ‘the Great’—a figure familiar to
all biblical scholars. I have divided the discussion into three main sections,
beginning with the creation of our conventional image of the king, and its
consolidation, then a critical examination of the evidence which has been
used to strengthen the picture, and, finally, some historical realities.
THE CONVENTIONAL IMAGE AND ITS CONSOLIDATION
The basis for the standard picture of Cyrus is provided by material in classi-
cal writers and the Old Testament. The classical material is not totally con-
sistent: according to Herodotus,1 he was the grandson of the Median king
Astyages, ruler of a vast empire, whose daughter was married to a Persian,
the Persians being subject to the Medes. Although Astyages tried to eliminate
him at birth because of an ominous dream, Cyrus survived and eventually led
the Persians to liberate themselves from the Medes (Hdt. I, 95, 107–30). He
not only took over the Median realm, but added to it almost the whole of
1
Herodotus’ dates are not certain; it is generally thought that he wrote in the 440s and/or 430s.
A useful recent introduction is Bichler and Rollinger 2000; for particular aspects, see Bakker, De
Jong, and Van Wees 2002.

08 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:52 Page 108
108 Amélie Kuhrt
the rest of the known world, beginning with Lydia, followed by Babylon
and, finally, Central Asia, where he was killed in battle fighting the wild
Massagetae beyond the Jaxartes river (modern Syr-Darya, Hdt. I, 201–14).
The Greek doctor, Ctesias, who worked at the Persian court in the late fifth
to early fourth century,2 has Cyrus start life in the lowest stratum of Persian
society, working himself up to the position of royal cup bearer, and eventu-
ally overthrowing the Median realm (FgrH 90 F66, 1–7).3 He pays much more
attention to Cyrus’ wars in Central Asia—again the setting of Cyrus’
death—which precede and succeed his Lydian conquest, while his account of
the capture of Babylon is not preserved (FgrH 688 F9, 4–8). Xenophon’s
philosopher-king Cyrus, in his Education of Cyrus, is again Astyages’ grand-
son, with a Persian father; the Median realm is ceded to him when he marries
a Median princess; many peoples join him voluntarily because of his gen-
erosity and moral rectitude; his conquests include Egypt; his crowning
achievement is the capture of Babylon, in the course of which the Babylonian
king is killed. Cyrus dies surrounded by his family and friends, offering
prayers to the gods and uttering words of blessing and wisdom. Although
most recognize that Xenophon’s story of Cyrus is more fiction than fact,4 bits
of his account are used to pad out historical events, such as the repeated asser-
tion that Gobryas was a Babylonian general who defected to the Persians.5 A
common feature of all the Greek stories is that Cyrus’ paternal forebears
were non-royal; that Persia was subject to the Medes, and that Cyrus treated
defeated enemies generously: thus, the defeated Lydian king, Croesus, was
promoted to a position of trust and, according to Berossus (FgrH 680
F10a), the Babylonian ruler Nabonidus was resettled in Carmania.6
This reading of Cyrus as uniquely merciful and just is traditionally com-
bined with the biblical material. In the vision of the Judaean writers, the ter-
2
There is now a growing consensus that Ctesias’ account reflects Persian oral traditions. This
runs counter to the long-held view (following Jacoby’s influential article of 1922) that Ctesias
plagiarized earlier Greek historians, such as Herodotus, introducing variants to obscure this and
claiming reliability because of his experiences in Persia. For a full reassessment, as well as a new
edition of his fragments, see now Lenfant 2004.
3
The fragment is from Nicolaus of Damascus’ world history, written in the first century BCE,
making use of earlier writers, including Ctesias. That this story was taken from Ctesias is
virtually certain, see Drews 1974; Lenfant 2004, 93–5, F8d*(1–7); cf. Kuhrt 2003.
4
A useful outline of the problems presented by the Cyropaedia is Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1993.
5
See e.g. Yamauchi 1990, 85–86; RLA s.v., Gubaru. This part of Xenophon’s story also features
in D. W. Griffith’s silent epic Intolerance (1916), which is remarkable in presenting Cyrus in a
very hostile light.
6
This seems to be echoed in the Babylonian text from the early Hellenistic period, the ‘Dynastic
Prophecy’ (Grayson 1975, 32–33, ii 20–21), which reads ‘The king of Elam (i.e. Persia) will
change his place [. . .] He will settle him in another land [. . .].’ For a detailed discussion of this
text, arguing against Grayson’s interpretation that the text shows Cyrus in a poor light, see Van
der Spek 2003, 319–20.

08 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:52 Page 109
ANCIENT NEAR EASTERN HISTORY 109
rible fate Judah had suffered at the hands of Nebuchadnezzar in 597/6, 587/6
and 582, when Jerusalem and its temple were destroyed, its king and people
taken into exile in Babylonia, was reversed by Cyrus’ victory in Babylonia in
539. This marked the liberation of the Jews, their return home and the
restoration of their community and its cultic focus.7 Within the biblical con-
text this is seen by readers as unprecedented and representing a radical depar-
ture from the policy of earlier imperial conquerors, such as the Assyrians and
Babylonians, and is perhaps to be related directly to Persian religious beliefs.8
This image of the young conqueror rising from nothing to liberate and rule
the world, one who respects his subjects’ religious beliefs, has also played an
important role in European political discourse on the ideal enlightened
monarch.9 The picture is highly idealized, reflecting the interests and biases
of the various writers and their audiences. All the most influential ones
worked, at the earliest, a hundred years after the events.10 This means that
events will inevitably have been slanted and reshaped, which need not mean
that the individual elements making up the stories are necessarily false, rather
that their setting into narrative frameworks linked to a particular writer’s
political agenda is bound to have a distorting effect. There is evidence, how-
ever, much closer in date which has been taken to confirm the essential cor-
rectness, not just of the course of events, but also of the revolution in policy
ushered in by the Persian conquest.
Most influential has been the Cyrus Cylinder (see Appendix, no. 1), a
Babylonian text deposited in the foundations of Esagila, the Marduk temple
in Babylon to commemorate work undertaken on the temple by the Persian
king.11 It begins by referring to the suffering endured by the Babylonians
under Nabonidus, Cyrus’ defeated enemy. Moved and angered by their
plight, Marduk, the patron god of Babylon, departs and searches the world
for a suitable ruler. His eye lights upon Cyrus of Persia, whom he appoints to
take over the kingship and leads into his city, which Cyrus enters without
battle or opposition. After a joyful reception, Cyrus sets about putting
7
See Bedford 2001 for a critical analysis of the dates, the process and what it involved.
8
For discussion with references, see Bedford 2001, 122–28 together with the notes.
9
See, for example, the articles by Brosius, Lewis and Sancisi-Weerdenburg in AchHist V.
10
Some of the biblical material is earlier: Haggai and Zechariah must certainly be dated to the
reign of Darius I, but they, of course, ignore Cyrus’ role in the restoration (see Bedford 2001).
The dates for Deutero-Isaiah are uncertain: Vincent 1977 and Davies 1995 argue for a cultic
setting of the prophecies, rather than a political-historical one; Garbini 1988, 87–101 places
him in the reign of Darius I; Ackroyd 1990 has stressed the lack of historical precision of the
prophecies.
11
The Akkadian cuneiform text, inscribed on a clay cylinder, was found at Babylon and is now
in the British Museum. The most useful complete recent editions (i.e. including the important
additional fragment from Yale, BIN 2, no.32) is Berger 1975, and Schaudig 2001, 550–56. See
also the discussions by Kuhrt 1983, and Van der Spek 1983.

08 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:52 Page 110
110 Amélie Kuhrt
everything right that had been done wrong by his defeated predecessor: he
reinstates and increases offerings to the gods; he returns divine statues to
their shrines, reinstalling their attendant staffs; he repairs the civic fabric of
Babylon and relieves the inhabitants from their servitude. This has been read
in conjunction with the biblical vision of Cyrus and taken to show that he
introduced a new policy of religious toleration together with active support
for local cults, exemplified by the permission he granted to the Jewish exiles
to return to Jerusalem and rebuild their temple, with generous funding from
central government (Ezra 1.2–4; 6.2–5).
CRITICAL RE-APPRAISAL OF THE BABYLONIAN EVIDENCE
Before drawing such far-reaching conclusions from one text, the evidence has
to be evaluated within its own specific cultural context. The first point to note
is that the cylinder is a document commemorating Cyrus’ building work,
which was placed in the foundations of the Marduk sanctuary in Babylon,
Esagila. Place and function inevitably help to determine its message. Thus
Marduk will be presented as the chief actor, who personally engineers Cyrus’
triumph.12 As it is by his will that Cyrus becomes the new king, it is inescapable
that the preceding ruler’s reign must have run counter to the divine order.
This is a standard way in which Babylonians dealt with the problems they
had faced repeatedly in the preceding two centuries, when they had had to
submit to the rule of a series of usurpers and Assyrian conquerors (Kuhrt
1987). Closer examination of the text and comparison with earlier material
shows, indeed, that each motif in the Cyrus Cylinder was drawn from a reper-
toire of traditional Mesopotamian themes, used by such earlier claimants to
the Babylonian throne to legitimize their rule. One example of this is the
commemorative cylinder of the Chaldaean Marduk-apla-iddina II (the bibli-
cal Merodach-baladan), who had no claim to the Babylonian throne, but
12
A fragmentary cylinder from Sîn’s (the moon god) temple in Ur (UET I, no. 307) is normally
attributed to Cyrus, because its wording resembles that of the Cyrus Cylinder from Babylon:
[. . .] and over the people joyfully named my name, Sin, [the lamp] of heaven and earth, with
his favourable omen filled my hands with the four quarters of the world. I returned the gods
to their shrines [. . .] let them dwell. [. . .] life of long days, a firm throne, an everlasting reign
and kingship without equal, grant me as a gift.
But the argument is not watertight. As is clear (see further in this paper) the wording of the
Cyrus Cylinder is standard Babylonian for such texts and situations. So Schaudig’s contention
(2001, 480–81) that it could well refer to Nabonidus (himself a usurper on the Babylonian
throne, see Beaulieu 1989) carries considerable weight. But it, too, must of course remain hypo-
thetical. If it should eventually be found to relate to Cyrus, then it would reflect the fact that,
when carrying out work in Sin’s city and on his house, the Persian king would have presented his
achievements as due to Ur’s patron god.

08 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:52 Page 111
seized it by force during the uncertain period that followed Sargon II’s
usurpation of the Assyrian kingship in 722/1 (see Appendix, no. 2).13 If we
compare this text with the Cyrus Cylinder, we find many of the elements that
appear there being deployed by Marduk-apla-iddina in order to strengthen
his grip on the throne. Thus, he has been personally picked for the kingship
by the head of the Babylonian pantheon, who has ensured his victory over
the previous Assyrian rulers. In response, Marduk-apla-iddina performs the
sacred rites and restores the sacred shrines. The confirmation that he is act-
ing correctly and piously in the way he does this is the finding of a royal
inscription placed in the temple foundations by an earlier, legitimate
Babylonian king, which he honours by leaving it in place and laying his own
memorial document next to it. Cyrus, it should be noted (Appendix, end of
no. 1) acted in precisely the same way, reverently acknowledging the Assyrian
king, Ashurbanipal, as an earlier, revered predecessor, whose pious work on
the temple’s fabric is marked and honoured (see further Kuhrt 1983).
Interestingly, the annals of Sargon II present the Assyrian king’s own sub-
sequent defeat of Marduk-apla-iddina twelve years later in very similar terms
to those used by his defeated enemy earlier (Appendix, no. 3). What this text
adds, significantly, is that, after defeating the current ruler, the new claimant
to the Babylonian throne entered into negotiations with Babylonian citizens
(Appendix, no. 3, section iii). Their successful conclusion was signified, in
Sargon’s case, by the community leaders formally offering him the ‘left-overs’
(Akk. rihate) from the divine meals, which were regularly presented to the
acknowledged king of Babylon (see Fuchs 1994, 332 n. 349). In accepting
these, the new aspirant also accepted the duties that went with being a
Babylonian sovereign, namely, to respect and uphold the privileges of the
urban elite, and care for divine and civic buildings. Such work on sanctuaries
and urban structures was not something that could be done at will—it
required consultation with the gods (through divination) to see whether the
proposed work was in line with divine plans. Approval of the plan to build
(through the proclamation of positive omens) in turn showed that the gods
favoured the new ruler and that favour was reconfirmed by the new king, who
13
Further motifs comparable to the Cyrus Cylinder (divine abandonment in response to the
plight of inhabitants, gathering the scattered peoples, etc.) are inscribed in the introduction to
the land-gift bestowed by Marduk-apla-iddina II on Bel-ahhe-eriba, the governor of Babylon.
The donation is commemorated on an exceptionally fine boundary stone (Akk. kudurru, VS I 37,
esp. i 17–42; ii 28–29), now in the Vorderasiatisches Museum, Berlin; see Leemans 1944–1948,
para.7. The image of the king making the grant to Bel-ahhe-eriba is often reproduced (see e.g.
the cover of Kuhrt 1995, II).

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112 Amélie Kuhrt
traditionally formed and brought the first brick, finding the inscription of a
blessed and pious earlier ruler who had performed similar work.14
These comparisons show very plainly that the Cyrus Cylinder fits per-
fectly with established Babylonian traditions for coping with the serious dis-
ruptions created by war and conquest. That, of course, has important
implications for the conclusions we can draw from it. Thus, nothing in it sig-
nals the introduction of a new Persian (as against Assyro-Babylonian) policy.
All references to the ‘restoration’ of shrines and their staffs are part of the
familiar rhetoric deployed by conquerors and would-be kings, ready to accept
the duties incumbent on them in their new position. In fact, it reflects rather
more of the pressure Babylonian citizens were able to bring to bear on the
new royal claimant. In such a context, the reign of the defeated predecessor
was automatically described as bad and against the divine will—how else
could he have been defeated?—and, therefore, all his acts became, inevitably
and retrospectively, tainted.
This is also, perhaps, how another Babylonian text, the so-called ‘Persian
Verse Account’ needs to be understood.15 This is a literary composition slan-
dering Nabonidus’ reign mercilessly and ending with a hymn in praise of
Cyrus. It repeats and elaborates some of the themes found in the introduc-
tory passage of the Cyrus Cylinder, echoes of which appear in Deutero-
Isaiah’s vision of Cyrus as the anointed of Yahweh, the chosen tool to deliver
his people from oppression and ushering in a Judaean renaissance. Getting at
the historical realities that lie behind such standardized proclamations pro-
pounded in the name, and in support of, the victor after his triumph, is vir-
tually impossible, but one thing must be clear: neither text can be used to
support the idea that Cyrus introduced radical new policies of religious tol-
erance, including the unprecedented return of deportees to their former
homes.
HISTORICAL REALITIES
Let me now turn to a text that allows us to obtain a clearer sense of Cyrus’
reign, confirming some of the conclusions already drawn. It still gives us only
a partial picture, but what there is is revealing. This is a Babylonian chroni-
cle (Appendix, no. 4), which covers (with breaks) the reign of Nabonidus,
including his defeat and Cyrus’ triumph. The chronicle is part of the
14
On the elaborate rituals of building in Mesopotamia, see Kuhrt and Sherwin-White 1991;
Bedford 2001, 157–80; Fried 2003.
15
The publication is Smith 1924, Pls. V–X; 83–92; Schaudig 2001, 563–78 is the most recent
edition, with a new translation.

08 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:52 Page 113
Babylonian chronicle series, which begins in the middle of the eighth century
and continues through into the second century BCE. The texts were (almost
certainly) compiled on the basis of contemporary notations relating to astro-
nomical observations—part of a kind of data base correlating planetary
movements, weather, prices and political events (Van der Spek 1993).16 Their
exact purpose is not known, but it is probable that they were linked to
attempts to manage the future. Important for the historian is the fact that the
chronicles, based on such material, were not written at the behest, or in the
interests of any political agency, nor were they reworked in order to meet
the expectations of a particular audience. The chronicles are scrupulous in
noting defeats suffered by Babylonian kings, their failure to arrive on time
in the military arena or the fact that the text being used by the writer is
damaged or has omitted information, so that his compilation is incomplete.17
The chronicle’s dispassionate, if generally terse statements are, where we have
them, extremely reliable.
What emerges from this particular one? First, and valuably, it gives us a
virtually certain date for Cyrus’ defeat of the Median king Astyages (550)
and a very precise chronology for his conquest of Babylon itself (October
539). From the moment of Cyrus’ victory, the Babylonian business commu-
nity dated its transactions by him as ruler, which incidentally also provides us
with a date for his death, between 12 and 31 August 530. Herodotus’ curi-
ously precise figure of twenty-nine years for Cyrus’ length of reign may well
be right (Hdt. I, 214), which would place Cyrus’ accession to the Persian
throne in 559. These are the only chronologically fixable points of Cyrus’
career. Apart from this, the chronicle has a (now damaged) account of the
struggle between Cyrus and Astyages. It states clearly that the conflict was
provoked by the Median king, whose expansion plans included the conquest
of Persia. This contradicts the still widespread and reiterated notion that
Persia was subject to the Medes.18 Conversely, it agrees with Herodotus’
account that the Median army mutinied, and handed Astyages over to Cyrus
(Hdt. I, 127–30).
The chronicle contains a further mention of Cyrus in 547/6, which is usu-
ally taken to be a reference to Cyrus’ conquest of Lydia (Appendix, no. 4, ii,
15–18). However, it is worth emphasizing, yet again, that, however attractive
this is, the traces in the tablet do not make such a reading possible, so we do
not know the object of Cyrus’ campaign in that year. Neither Herodotus nor
Ctesias have a precise chronology for the sequence of events, and we know
16
This has been contested by Brinkman 1990, but is defended by Van der Spek 2003 and Kuhrt
2000.
17
See e.g. ABC 1, I, 6–8, 36–37; 3, l.28.
18
See on this the discussion by Rollinger 1999.

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114 Amélie Kuhrt
very little in detail of Cyrus’ activities, so we should resist the temptation to

force the chronicle entry to fit in with what we should like to be there.19
Most important is the chronicle’s account of Cyrus’ confrontation with
Nabonidus. It is possible that tension between the two powers had been grow-
ing for some time—certainly there is a reference to Persia in a very broken
context in the chronicle’s entry for 540. This may explain Nabonidus’ action
in collecting the divine statues of several cities in Babylon for (one assumes)
safety in the face of the expected Persian attack (Beaulieu 1993). In late
September 539, the Babylonian army led by its king faced the Persian troops
on the Tigris, near Opis. The battle was won by Cyrus, who followed up his
victory by plundering the city and massacring its inhabitants. Shortly after
this, Sippar, which was next in line of attack, surrendered, perhaps in order
to avoid sharing the fate of Opis. From what follows, it is clear that Cyrus
halted here, but sent his general (Gubaru/Gobryas) with an army ahead to
invest Babylon and take the defeated Babylonian king prisoner. Only after
Babylon had been secured, three weeks later, did Cyrus enter the city himself,
which was now prepared to receive him as its new ruler (see Pongratz-Leisten
1993, ch. 5; Kessler 2002), almost certainly as a result of negotiation with
representatives of the Babylonian citizenry.20 Cyrus made the appropriate
royal gestures in response, that is, initiating the ‘restoration’ of order follow-
ing the disruptions of war. After making arrangements for the administration
of the country, which, as we know from Babylonian documents, continued to
rely heavily on the existing Babylonian framework and personnel, he installed
his son, Cambyses, as king of Babylon. The formal occasion for this was the
Babylonian New Year Festival, celebrated in late March, 538. This was a
lengthy ceremony (two weeks) during which the king’s contract with the
Babylonian gods and citizens was publicly reaffirmed. The festival had taken
on a particular importance during Babylonia’s disturbed history in the imme-
diately preceding centuries21 and its correct celebration by Assyrian kings was
carefully noted by Babylonian chroniclers. An important phase in the festival
was the point where the king led the image of the god Nabu from the ‘Sceptre
House’ in procession into the main temple courtyard. As Cambyses had
already been formally installed as king of Babylon in Nabu’s cella (confirmed
by the local dated documents), he would have been expected to enact this
phase of the ceremony. But a restudy of the last lines of the chronicle
19
This problem was trenchantly analysed by Cargill 1977, and the position has not changed
since, although it continues to be asserted that the chronicle provides a precise date for Cyrus’
conquest of Lydia. A full re-examination is in Rollinger (in press).
20
See the passage in Sargon’s Annals, Appendix, no. 3 (iii), and cf. Babylon’s surrender to
Alexander, Kuhrt 1990; Van der Spek 2003.
21
See Kuhrt 1987; Pongratz-Leisten 1993 and the comments and corrections in George 1996.

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(George 1996, 379–81) suggests, strongly, that it was Cyrus who took the lead
in this, robed, as the chronicle observes, in Persian (‘Elamite’) dress. The
political message of such an action, in the context of such a very traditional
Babylonian ceremony, must be that there was a clear limit to how far Cyrus
was prepared to fall in with Babylonian custom. Instead, the Babylonians
were made to recognize, unmistakably, that they were now the subjects of a
foreign ruler.
In trying to trace something of Cyrus’ background, the Babylonian mater-
ial is again revealing. With one exception, Cyrus’ title is ‘King of Anshan’.
Until perhaps the early seventh century, the region of Fars in south-west Iran
and its main city, Anshan, formed a significant part of the old kingdom of
Elam. It is now generally accepted that, by at least the late second millen-
nium, Iranian pastoralists (i.e. Persians) had moved into this territory and
mingled with the local population.22 From the late eighth century onwards,
Elam experienced political problems as a result of conflict with Assyria. In
the course of this, they lost control of the Fars region, certainly by the middle
of the seventh century, if not earlier. One outcome was the emergence of a
new, small kingdom there, ruled by a Persian dynasty, but calling themselves
‘kings of Anshan’. Cyrus proudly traces his genealogy in the Cyrus Cylinder:
‘son of Cambyses, great king, king of Anshan, grandson of Cyrus, great
king, king of Anshan, great-grandson of Teispes, great king, king of Anshan’
(Appendix, text 1 iv). The historical reality of this claim is confirmed by the
Elamite legend on an heirloom seal impressed on five of the published
Persepolis Fortification tablets, which reads: ‘Cyrus, the Anshanite, son of
Teispes’, that is, Cyrus’ grandfather.23 So this ‘Persian’ dynasty perceived
itself to be ruling part of the old Elamite realm, using a venerable Elamite
title. Further, it had clearly held this position for about a century before
Cyrus’ reign. And the archaeological evidence from Fars suggests that from
around the time of the dynasty’s formation, the region became much more
densely settled (Miroschedji 1985). This evidence contradicts the later tradi-
tions found in Herodotus, Ctesias and Xenophon, according to whom Cyrus’
family was not royal, with the Persian dynasty only beginning with him.
Instead, we now need to see him as fourth in a line of ‘great kings’, who had
begun to lay the groundwork on which the Persian empire was built. It is
quite possible that Astyages’ attack on Cyrus was a move to try to contain the
growth of this threatening power.
Although it is possible to see something of this development, it remains
as yet rather shadowy, and nothing prepares one for Cyrus’ immense
22
See the thorough and very clear analysis in Henkelman 2003a; 2003b.
23
PFS 93* impressed on PF 692–95, 2033, dating between 503/2 and 500/499; see Hallock 1977,
127–28 and fig. E5; Garrison and Root 1996/8, figs. 2a–c.

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116 Amélie Kuhrt
achievements. It is only with him that the landscape of Fars was transformed
by the creation of the great royal residence at Pasargadae—the name taken
from Cyrus’ tribe (Hdt. 1.125). It contained a series of substantial stone
buildings, using novel architectural forms and layouts.24 Elaborately
columned buildings take their inspiration from an architectural tradition
used in the previous centuries and on a smaller scale for palatial residences in
the northern and middle Zagros.25 A series of such palaces (or pavilions) were
set around an artificially irrigated formal garden.26 Parts of the palaces were
decorated with reliefs clearly derived from the Assyrian iconographic reper-
toire, although one seems to combine Elamite and Egypto-Levantine
features. A large structure (the Zendan), possibly associated with royal
ceremonies (Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1983), displays features found in a seventh-
century temple in the central Zagros (Tepe Nush-i Jan, RLA 9, 624–25 and
figs.1–3). A substantial citadel, never completed, dominates the site.
Particularly intriguing is a great precinct containing a stepped altar set on a
platform; a similar platform with stair access faces it.27 It reminds one,
inevitably, of what was to become the standard image of the king on the
façade of the rock-cut royal tombs from Darius I on: the king with the tip of
his bow resting on his foot, stands on a stepped podium facing a fire altar on
an identical podium; he raises his hand in a gesture of salutation to a figure
in a winged disc, with hand outstretched in the same manner; the whole scene
is set on a throne-like structure borne aloft by labelled representatives of the
imperial subjects (Schmidt 1970). The tomb of Cyrus himself,28 the focus of
a royally supplied cult until the last days of the empire, sits high on a stepped
base, and has a gabled roof reminiscent of the architectural traditions of
western Anatolia. The masonry techniques, indeed, confirm that people from
that part of the world were engaged in the construction work at Pasargadae
(Nylander 1970; Boardman 2000, 53–62). The creation and building of the
24
The fundamental work on Pasargadae was carried out by David Stronach (Stronach 1978).
The magnetic surveys conducted by French archaeologists in recent years show that the seem-
ingly isolated stone-built structures were surrounded by mud brick buildings and walls, so that
the urban nature of the site can no longer be denied (Boucharlat and Benech 2002).
25
The main sites are Hasanlu IV (Dyson 1965; 1989; Young 2002), Tepe Nush-i Jan (RLA 9,
624–29), Baba Jan (C. Goff’s reports in Iran 6–8 (1968–70), 15–16 (1977–8) and 22 (1985)),
Godin Tepe (Young 1969; Young and Levine 1974).
26
The recent French researches (see above, n. 24) indicate that other sections of the city were laid
out as parkland.
27
It was thought that associated with the precinct was a structure intended to accommodate an
audience. But the French survey (above n. 24) has established that this terrace and the walls are
later in date.
28
See Arrian’s description, Anabasis VI 29.4–7, derived from Alexander the Great’s companion,
Aristoboulos, which suggests that the tomb was set within a garden, although that may be a
misreading; see Henkelman 2006, ch. 5.7.4.

08 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:52 Page 117
city (5 km2) was an immense undertaking that implies the existence of a

developed administrative structure in place to deal with the logistics of so
large an enterprise. It drew not only manpower from the newly conquered ter-
ritories, but also selected motifs, techniques and layouts from the new impe-
rial lands to create a spectacular setting in which Cyrus’ vision of his kingship
could be celebrated in an appropriate ceremonial setting. It remained an
important centre in the region throughout the empire’s existence, and was the
locus for the initiation of each new king, who was ritually associated there
with the founder of the Persian empire before being crowned (Plutarch,
Artoxerxes 3.1–2). The combination of motifs from earlier, now subject, poli-
ties and the use of a mixed labour force reflects tangibly Persian claims to
world dominion—an ideology fully developed by Cyrus’ successors.
CONCLUSIONS
Although the evidence is not huge, it is sufficient to counter the image of the
Cyrus of European and Jewish tradition. Instead of a young idealistic liber-
ator, with a new vision for ruling the world, we can begin to define a king, heir
to an already fairly significant realm, who deploys brutal and placatory
gestures in a calculated and effective manner. Evidence for his treatment of
defeated enemies is not unequivocal. While Ctesias and Herodotus both have
him treat Croesus kindly, the lyric poet Bacchylides has Croesus and his fam-
ily vanish from the face of the earth, suggesting that, according to some
traditions, he was killed.29 For Nabonidus’ fate, we have the statements
of Berossus and the Hellenistic Babylonian Dynastic Prophecy, according
to both of which he survived (see above, p. 108). But both are late, and
Xenophon has him killed in battle, a fate contradicted by the reliable
Nabonidus chronicle, although it reveals no more than that he was taken
prisoner, with his ultimate fate unknown. It would not, of course, be
unprecedented for defeated kings to be taken into the victor’s court and
provided with resources: the ration texts from Nebuchadnezzar’s palace illus-
trate precisely this practice (Weidner 1939). Building on the local infrastruc-
ture in order to administer newly conquered territory was a standard, and
logical, interim measure for any conqueror.30 In terms of religious tolerance,
too, it is hard to define the difference between Assyrian and Achaemenid
29
Bacchylides of Keos lived c. 520–450 BCE, and thus represents an earlier tradition than
Herodotus; see Maehler 1982/1997 F3, for the relevant poem.
30
The example of Judah under Babylonian rule between 597/6 and 582 is a rather obvious
example of this.

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practices. The Assyrians acknowledged the potency of local deities.31

Imposing the ‘yoke of Assur’ on, or setting up ‘the weapon of Assur’ in, con-
quered territory symbolized incorporation into the empire and the duties that
entailed, not the enforcement of a new religion (Holloway 2002, 158–77).
This is comparable to the ideology propagated by Darius I and his successors:
Auramazda was the god of the king, most clearly expressed in one of Darius’
inscriptions from Susa (Kent 1953, DSk):
§1 I (am) Darius, the great king, king of kings, king of countries, son of
Hystaspes, the Achaemenid.
§2 King Darius proclaims: Auramazda is mine; I am Auramazda’s; I worshipped
Auramazda; may Auramazda bear me aid.
The king and his deity, who had created the universe and entrusted its con-
tinued well-being to the Persian ruler, encapsulated the ideals of Persian
imperial order which it was the duty of all subjects to obey and uphold.
In fine, political considerations motivated Cyrus’ actions at every step. In
order to establish and consolidate control as firmly as possible, he needed to
woo the support of local elites, something best done through accommoda-
ting himself to local norms whenever possible. But this was preceded by
victory in battle and a definitive show of force, followed by no uncertain
reminders to new subjects of their subservient position. What we can define
of Cyrus’ career fits smoothly with the behaviour of his imperial predecessors
and successors.
What are the implications of this for the Judaean exiles and the rebuild-
ing of the Jerusalem temple? 32 Cyrus’ name became so enmeshed in legend
and epic that all kinds of achievements were attributed to him, as shown, for
31
Some might be reluctant to accept the speech of the Assyrian commander at the siege of
Jerusalem in 701 (2 Kings 18.19–25) or the story of the Assyrian king responding to a request to
send an expert to instruct the new inhabitants of Samaria about Yahweh (2 Kings 17.25–28) as
evidence of the fact that the Assyrian regime acknowledged the power of local gods, and might
even support their cult. It nevertheless seems to me significant that such images were included in
the biblical narrative. In addition, there is the material from elsewhere presented and discussed
by Cogan 1974.
32
I am still very uncertain how to understand Deutero-Isaiah — into what historical and politi-
cal context to place him. The seductive picture painted by Sidney Smith in his Schweich Lectures
(1944), and so eagerly seized upon by many (e.g. Boyce 1982) is totally hypothetical, Note that
he used the image of Isaiah and the Babylonian author(s) of the ‘Verse Account’ to cast them in
the role of pamphleteers, spreading propagandistic ‘Flugblätter’ in order to fan opposition to
Nabonidus. The contemporary echoes are not far to seek. But the main prop he used to build his
theory was material produced after the Persian conquest (see above, p. 112). The extent of oppo-
sition to Nabonidus during his reign is not known, and it is important to remember that later,
Hellenistic tradition about his reign was equivocal — according to one, the ‘Dynastic Prophecy’,
he was bad, according to another, he was presented as wise and learned (Machinist and Tadmor
1993).

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example, by Xenophon’s claim that he conquered Egypt. That there was a

restoration in Judah in the Perisan period is not in doubt. But whether it hap-
pened under, or in the wake of direct orders by, Cyrus is as doubtful as what
it really entailed, which in turn depends on getting a clearer picture of the
situation in sixth-century Jerusalem.33
APPENDIX
1. Cyrus Cylinder
(Text: Berger 1975; Schaudig 2001, 550–56)
(i) vilification of predecessor:

An imitation of Esagila he made [. . .] to Ur and the other cultcentres. A cult order
that was unsuitable [. . .] he spoke daily, and, an evil thing, he stopped the regular
offerings [. . .] he placed in the cult centres. The worship of Marduk, king of the gods,
he removed from his mind. He repeatedly did that which was bad for his city. Daily
[. . .] he destroyed all his [subjects] with an unending yoke. In response to their lament
the Enlil of the gods grew very angry [. . .] their territory. The gods who lived in them
left their dwelling-places, despite his anger (?) he brought them into Babylon.
(ii) a good, new ruler is personally picked by Babylon’s god:

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

Without battle and fighting he let him enter his city Babylon. He saved Babylon from
its oppression. Nabonidus, the king who did not honour him, he handed over to him.
All the inhabitants of Babylon, the whole of the land of Sumer and Akkad, princes
and governors knelt before him, kissed his feet, rejoiced at his kingship; their faces
shone. ‘The lord, who through his help has brought the dead to life, who in (a time
33
Bedford 2001 lays out the problems very clearly.

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of) disaster and oppression has benefitted all’—thus they joyfully celebrated him,
honoured his name.
(iv) genealogy and titles:

I, Cyrus, king of the universe, mighty king, king of Babylon, king of Sumer and
Akkad, king of the four quarters, son of Cambyses, great king, king of Anshan,
grandson of Cyrus, great king, king of Anshan, great-grandson of Teispes, great king,
king of Anshan, eternal seed of kingship, whose reign was loved by Bel and Nabu and
whose kingship they wanted to please their hearts—when I had entered Babylon
peacefully, I set up, with acclamation and rejoicing, the seat of lordship in the palace
of the ruler.
(v) the new ruler cares for city and cults:

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

Marduk, the great lord, rejoiced at my [good] deeds. Me, Cyrus, the king, who
worships him, and Cambyses, my very own son, as well as all my troops he blessed
mercifully. In well-being we [walk] happily before him. [At his] great [command] all
the kings, who sit on thrones, from all parts of the world, from the Upper Sea to
the Lower Sea, who dwell [in distant regions], all the kings of Amurru, who dwell in
tents, brought their heavy tribute to me and kissed my feet in Babylon.
(vii) Return of cult statues and their staffs:

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

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

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

[. . . An inscription] with the name of Assurbanipal, a king who preceded me [. . .]
I found [. . .]
2. Cylinder of Marduk-apla-iddina II, Chaldaean king of Babylon (721–710)

(Text: RIMB 2, B.6.21.1)
(i) a good, new ruler is personally picked by Babylon’s god:

He (Marduk) looked (with favour) upon Marduk-apla-iddina, king of Babylon, the
prince who reveres him, to whom he (Marduk) stretched out his hand . . . The king of
the gods . . . duly named him to the shepherdship of the land of Sumer and Akkad,
personally said: ‘This is indeed the shepherd who will gather the scattered (people).’
(ii) Marduk causes the Assyrians to be defeated

With the power of the great lord, the god Marduk, and of the hero of the gods, the
god Utulu, he defeated the widespread army of Subartu (i.e. Assyria) and shattered
their weapons. He brought about their overthrow and prevented them from treading
on the territory of the land of Akkad.
(iii) Marduk-apla-iddina performs the divine rituals and restores shrines

With the excellent understanding which the god Ea, the creator, maker of all things,
had bestowed upon him, (and with) the extensive knowledge which the god Ninsiku
had granted him, he directed his attention to performing the rites, to administering
correctly (?) the rituals, and to renovating the cult centres and the sanctuaries of the
divine residences of the great gods of the land of Akkad.
(. . .)

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(iv) reference to act of pious earlier ruler:

I saw the royal inscription of a king who had preceded me (and) who had built
that temple. I did not alter his inscription, but (rather) I placed (it) with my own
inscription. (. . .)
3. Annals of Sargon II of Assyria (722–705)

(defeated Marduk-apla-iddina II, 710–709; text: Fuchs 1994, ll. 260–63;
311–14)
(i) reviling of previous ruler

He (Marduk-apla-iddina, the Chaldaean) entered the land of Sumer and Akkad,
dominated (it) and ruled Babylon, the city of the lord of the gods, twelve years against
the will of the gods.
(ii) Marduk picks Sargon as king

But Marduk the great lord, saw the evil deed of the land Kaldu, which he hates, and
on his lips was (the command) to remove sceptre and throne of his kingship from him.
Me, Sargon, the reverent king, he chose definitively from among all the kings and
raised my head (i.e. elevated me to this role). In order to block the path of the Kaldu,
the evil enemy, into the land of Sumer and Akkad, he made my weapons strong.
(iii) After Sargon’s victories in Babylonia, Marduk-apla-iddina flees to his

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

(The Nabonidus Chronicle; text: Smith 1924, 98–123; ABC no. 7; Glassner
2004, no. 26.)
(col.ii) 1. (550/49) (Astyages) mustered (his army) and marched against Cyrus, king of
Anshan, for conquest [. . .]
2. The army rebelled against Astyages (Ishtumegu) and he was taken prisoner. They
handed him over to Cyrus [. . .]
3. Cyrus marched to Ecbatana ((kur) Agamtanu), the royal city. The silver, gold,
goods, property [. . .]

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4. which he carried off as booty (from) Ecbatana he took to Anshan. The goods (and)
property of the army of [. . .]
(ii 5–12: report on Nabonidus’ activities and events in Babylonia, 549–7 BCE; then:)
13. (547/6) On the fifth day of the month Nisanu (6 April) the queen mother died in
Durkarashu which (is on) the bank of the Euphrates upstream from Sippar.
14. The prince and his army were in mourning for three days (and) there was (an
official) mourning period. In the month Simanu (June)
15. there was an official mourning period for the queen mother in Akkad. In the
month Nisanu (April) Cyrus, king of Parsu, mustered his army
16. and crossed the Tigris below Arbailu (⫽ mod. Erbil). In the month Ayyaru (May)
[he marched] to [. . .]
17. He defeated its king, took its possessions, (and) stationed his own garrison (there)
[. . .]
18. Afterwards the king and his garrison was in it [. . .]
(ii 19–end of column: primarily internal Babylonian affairs)
(col. iii; beginning broken)
1. (540/539) [. . .] killed(?)/defeated(?). The river . . . [. . .]
2. [. . .]. . . Ishtar of Uruk [. . .]
3. [. . .] of Per[sia(?). . .]
4. [. . .]
((539/8) iii 5–10: description of New Year Festival performed by Nabonidus and his
measures to protect divine statues)
10. Until the end of the month Ululu (ended 26 September) the gods of Akkad [. . .]
11. which are above the . . . and below the . . . were entering Babylon. The gods of
Borsippa, Cutha,
12. and Sippar did not enter. In the month Tashritu (27 September–27 October) when
Cyrus did battle at Opis on the [bank of]
13. the Tigris against the army of Akkad, the people of Akkad
14. retreated. He carried off the plunder (and) slaughtered the people. On the
fourteenth day (6 October) Sippar was captured without battle.
15. Nabonidus fled. On the sixteenth day (8 October) Ug/Gubaru, governor of
Gutium, and the army of Cyrus without a battle
16. entered Babylon. Afterwards, after Nabonidus retreated, he was captured in
Babylon. Until the end of the month the shield
17. of the Guti (i.e. troops) surrounded the gates of Esagila. Interruption (of
rites/cult) in Esagila or the temples
18. there was none, and no date was missed. On the third day of the month
Arahshamnu (29 October), Cyrus entered Babylon.
19. They filled the haru-vessels in his presence. Peace was imposed on the city, the
proclamation of Cyrus was read to all of Babylon.
20. He appointed Gubaru, his governor, over the local governors of Babylon.
21. From the month Kislimu (25 November–24 December) to the month Adaru
(22 February–24 March, 538) the gods of Akkad which Nabonidus had brought
down to Babylon
22. returned to their places. On the night of the eleventh of the month Arahshamnu
(6 November, 539) Ug/Gubaru died. In the month [. . .]

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23. the king’s wife died. From 27 Adaru (20 March) to 3 Nisanu (26 March) [there
was] mourning in Akkad.
24. All of the people bared(?)/shaved(?) their heads. When on the 4th day (of Nisanu
⫽ 27 March, 538), Cambyses, the son of Cyrus,
25. went to E-ningidar-kalamma-summu (⫽ temple of Nabu 8a hare in Babylon), the
official of the sceptre-house of Nabu [gave him(?)] the sceptre of the land.
26. When [Cyrus(?)] came, in Elamite attire, he [took] the hands of Nabu [. . .]
27. lances and quivers he picked [up, and(?)] with the crown-prince [he came down(?)]
into the courtyard.
28. He (or: they) went back [from the temple(?)] of Nabu to E-sagila. [He/they libated]
ale before Bel and the Son of [. . .]
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Archaeology of the Biblical Period: On

Some Questions of Methodology and
Chronology of the Iron Age
DAVID USSISHKIN
IN THIS CHAPTER I BRIEFLY SUMMARIZE MY VIEWS on the role of archaeology

in the study of the biblical period and biblical history, with special reference
to the ninth century.
QUESTIONS OF METHODOLOGY
There are many facets to the discipline of archaeology. Numerous theoretical

studies have been written on archaeology in general; its definition and its role,
function and meaning relating to different cultures, lands and periods. I will
not go into these aspects but confine my remarks to the problems of archae-
ology of the biblical period, that is the Bronze and Iron Ages, in the land of
Israel. This is the kind of archaeology on which this volume is focused, and
this is the kind of archaeology that has formed the centre of my professional
work for nearly fifty years. Referring to it I shall use here the old fashioned
term ‘biblical archaeology’.
It seems to me that at the present time the primary aims of biblical
archaeology and the biblical archaeologist are the collection of data, the def-
inition of these data, the understanding of these data and their immediate
interpretation, but not more than that. The field archaeologist digs, uncovers
structures and walls and pottery and other finds, and his or her main duty is
to record and understand these finds in the most objective and professional
manner. His concern should be the recording and definition and interpreta-
tion of basics, such as the nature of the finds, their cultural affinities, their
date, their stratigraphical context and so on. And of course the archaeologist
should be as objective as possible, devoid of other interests, emotions or
religious beliefs which could well distort his objective approach.

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132 David Ussishkin
The need for objectivity in archaeological research must be emphasized:

firstly, most data can usually be interpreted in more than one way: this or
that wall can be assigned to the upper level but it may also be assigned to
the lower. Or this and that storage jar can be assigned to a floor, but also
to a pit dug from above. Or the uncovered fragment could be part of a
bowl but it also resembles a jug. And so forth. Secondly, the archaeologist
bears a great responsibility since in most cases he cannot repeat the
discovery: uncovering the data is also the destruction of the data. For
example, the archaeologist uncovers a jar lying in the debris—once he has
extracted the jar we cannot repeat the discovery and study afresh the
context of the same jar.
Taking into account all the above I feel that the work of the archaeologist
resembles that of a police detective, whose primary task when dealing with a
case is to sort out the facts, and to interpret them in the most objective man-
ner possible. Indeed, as I often state in lectures and in writing, I feel that my
mentors are Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot and their colleagues.
Biblical archaeologists should no doubt learn from the legal profession,
which for hundreds of years developed tools and strict rules for the evalua-
tion of facts and their interpretation. These are the rules of evidence prac-
tised in courts of law. The legal profession developed its tools and rules which
decide what is allowed in analysing a case and what is wrong, and in fact sim-
ilar rules should be applied by the archaeologist when he arranges and analy-
ses his data. However, unfortunately there is no such methodological system
guiding the work of the archaeologist, with negative and destructive results.
I doubt very much, for instance, whether by following such a work method
Yigael Yadin could have ascribed the four-entry city gate in Megiddo to King
Solomon (see e.g. Yadin 1970, 84–89 and a critical study by Ussishkin [1980]),
Moshe Dothan could have identified an early Philistine city wall in Ashdod
(see Dothan and Porath 1993, 68–73, and a critical study by Finkelstein and
Singer-Avitz [2001, 238]) and Adam Zertal could have identified a Sardinian
colony on Mount Carmel (see e.g. Zertal 2001 and a critical study by
Finkelstein [2002]).
When biblical archaeological research began more than 150 years ago, it
was dependent on the Bible and biblical research. The Bible was the start-
ing point of the research ever since the tours of Edward Robinson in the
Holy Land. The dependence of archaeology on the biblical text is symbol-
ized by the term ‘bible and spade’. The biblical text gave the impetus to
archaeological research and formed its inspiration. It had a definitive impact
on the research, on the decisions taken in the field and, needless to add, on
the interpretation of the finds.
The biblical archaeologists of our time can in fact be divided into three
groups according to their approach to the use of the biblical text.

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ARCHAEOLOGY OF THE BIBLICAL PERIOD 133
The first group includes the fundamentalists, who believe in the reliability
of the biblical text in all its details, and that the text forms the basis and guide
for their archaeological work. I can mention, for example, Bryant Wood and
his work on Jericho (e.g. Wood 1990), and Adam Zertal, who restored an
imaginary altar on Mount Ebal on the basis of the biblical text (e.g. Zertal
1986–87). Both of them, as well as other scholars of this group, are good,
professional archaeologists, but their archaeological work is clearly biased
and distorted by their views on the biblical text.
The second group should be termed the ‘Followers of Albright’. This
group includes the majority of biblical archaeologists practising today.
Prominent among them are the American scholars who have been introduced
to archaeology through theology and biblical studies. I can mention people
like Albright himself, Ernest Wright or William Dever. The ‘Followers of
Albright’ also dominate biblical archaeology in Israel. Yigael Yadin, who was
a follower of Albright, was the leader of this school of thought in Israel, and
its present centre is Jerusalem. Significantly, neither Yadin nor the majority
of Israeli biblical archaeologists are religious, hence their adherence to this
school of thought does not stem from religious beliefs.
The basic concept of the ‘Followers of Albright’ is the acceptance of the
framework of biblical history as the basis for their archaeological studies.
They take the archaeological data and fix them into this framework in exactly
the same way that children assemble a jigsaw puzzle: also in this game one
follows a known general framework, and then whenever an additional piece
is identified, one puts it into its proper position in the framework.
The third group includes a small number of scholars, whom I labelled
‘the Followers of Hercule Poirot’ for lack of a better term, and at pres-
ent their centre is at Tel Aviv. I shall mention here Aharon Kempinski,
Ze’ev Herzog, Israel Finkelstein and myself, and there are several others.
These scholars believe that in recent years the discipline of biblical
archaeology has developed tremendously and reached maturity, that huge
amounts of significant data have accumulated, and also new research
techniques and methods have been adopted and applied. As a result, bib-
lical archaeology has slowly become an independent discipline, and
archaeological research can now be conducted in an objective manner
without leaning on the biblical text.
A good example of the deep abyss that lies between the ‘Followers of
Albright’ and the ‘Followers of Poirot’ is the case of Jerusalem during the
tenth and ninth centuries. The biblical text gives a clear picture of the mag-
nificent city at that time: David’s capital spread over the hill known as the
‘City of David’. During Solomon’s reign Jerusalem was surrounded by a wall,
the city was extended to the north, and an acropolis containing the temple
and a royal palace was built on the Temple Mount. The archaeological

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134 David Ussishkin
evidence, assembled during 150 years of intensive research, apparently indi-

cates the existence of a modest settlement in the central part of the City of
David, but there is clearly no evidence for a city wall, nor any evidence for
settlement in the large, extensively excavated area separating the City of
David from the Temple Mount.
The ‘Followers of Albright’ describe Jerusalem of the tenth and ninth
centuries as follows: ‘we know from the biblical text that Jerusalem was a
large, fortified city which included the acropolis on the Temple Mount. So far
archaeology has discovered some remains in the City of David. We have to
wait patiently for further discoveries.’ Descriptions of Jerusalem along this
line can be found, for instance, in the studies of Amihai Mazar (1990, 375–80,
2006), and Jane Cahill (2003).
On the other hand, the ‘Followers of Poirot’ describe Jerusalem of the
tenth and ninth centuries as follows: ‘Extensive archaeological research
shows that Jerusalem of that time was an unfortified settlement extending
over the central part of the City of David. No remains have been uncovered
in the large area separating this settlement and the Temple Mount, which at
that time, therefore, could not have been an integral part of the settlement.
The evaluation of the biblical text should take these data into account’ (e.g.
Ussishkin 2003a; 2003b).
It must be emphasized that actually the ‘Followers of Poirot’ can hardly
be grouped together, having different opinions on how to relate archaeology
to the biblical text. My colleagues Ze’ev Herzog, and even more Israel
Finkelstein, believe that they can offer their interpretations of the text and
the historical issues on the basis of the archaeological evidence. Finkelstein
goes a long way in this direction (e.g. Finkelstein and Silberman 2001) and he
proudly considers himself as an ‘historian who practises archaeology’
(Finkelstein 2005, 12). In my view the archaeologist should concentrate on
the study of the archaeological data, leaving the questions of history and the
Bible to be dealt with by the historian and the biblical scholar who are more
qualified to do so. Also, his archaeological work can possibly be affected and
biased by dealing with wider biblical and historical questions.
Let me refer to this question in some detail. In my view the disciplines of
archaeology on the one hand and history and biblical studies on the other are
based on different methods and different ways of thinking. These two disci-
plines should be researched and practised by different scholars. When one has
problems with one’s teeth one goes to a dentist, and when one has problems
with one’s eyes an ophthamologist is consulted, but an ophthamologist does
not treat teeth and vice versa. The same rule should apply to archaeology
versus history as much as possible.
I have already emphasized that the archaeologist should refrain from
analysing the Bible and history. But this of course is true also in the ‘opposite

09 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:52 Page 135
direction’, so that biblical scholars and historians should refrain from

analysing archaeological data, thinking that they are as well-qualified to do
so as professional archaeologists (e.g. Na’aman 2001, 270–75). However, I am
afraid that this is usually not the case.
It seems unnecessary to add that both disciplines depend on one another.
We have to combine archaeology and history in order to provide an overall
picture of what happened. Even pure archaeological research relies in many
instances on the written text. The dating of the foundation of Samaria, the
reconstruction of the royal palace and temple in Jerusalem and the question
of Nehemiah’s wall in Jerusalem are good examples, illustrating the depend-
ence of archaeological research on the written text.
In my view the proper methodology should be some cooperation between
archaeologists, biblical scholars and historians. The archaeologist elucidates
and organizes the data objectively, explains their meaning and limitations,
and summarizes them. In the next stage the historian and biblical scholar
study the results of the archaeological work and incorporate them into their
own research.
THE STRATIGRAPHIC/CHRONOLOGICAL FRAMEWORK OF THE

IRON AGE
At this point I shall take a look at the archaeological framework of the Iron
Age on the basis of these general background remarks. The archaeological
framework is made of stratigraphy and chronology. In my view the strati-
graphic/chronological framework for the Iron Age in the land of Israel is
based on several central key sites, in the way a table is secured on four legs,
and a building is raised on proper foundations. These key sites are Megiddo
in the north and Lachish in the south, as well as the two capital cities
Jerusalem and Samaria. Everything else—important though it might be—
should be connected to the stratigraphy and chronology of these key-sites.
The total destruction of Lachish Level VI, the last Canaanite city flourish-
ing under Egyptian hegemony, is dated by an object bearing a cartouche of
Ramesses III (1182–1151 BCE, low chronology) and by two recently identified
scarabs of Ramesses IV (1151–1145 BCE, low chronology) (Krauss 1994;
Lalkin 2004; Ussishkin 2004, 69–72). The destruction of Megiddo Stratum
VII, the last Late Bronze Age, Canaanite city, is dated by an ivory object bear-
ing a cartouche of Ramesses III and by a statue base of Ramesses VI
(1141–1133 BCE, low chronology), which unfortunately was not found in situ
(e.g. Ussishkin 1995, 258–61). This evidence is augmented by the Egyptian
stronghold of Ramesses III in Level VI Lower in Beth-Shean. The above evi-
dence provides an approximate date of 1130 BCE for the end of the Egyptian

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136 David Ussishkin
hegemony of the Twentieth Dynasty in Canaan and for the end of the
Canaanite city-states. In my view these events mark the end of the Late Bronze
Age and the beginning of a new era, the Iron Age (Ussishkin 1985, 224–26).
The destruction of Lachish Level III, the Judean fortress city, is securely
dated to Sennacherib’s conquest in 701, and the destruction of Judean
Jerusalem and of Lachish Level II, the later Judean stronghold, is securely
dated to the Babylonian conquest of 588/6 BCE (e.g. Ussishkin 2004, 88–93).
As to the period between the destructions of Lachish Levels VI and III,
that is between 1130 and 701, we have some additional chronological anchors
and crucial data. I have divided them into four separate issues.
First, the date of the appearance and settlement of the Philistines, marked
by their typical pottery, has to be mentioned. According to the current view
adopted by most scholars, represented in the present volume by Amihai
Mazar, the Philistines arrived in the Coastal Plain and settled there during
the reign of Ramesses III, when other parts of Canaan were still ruled by the
Egyptian pharaoh (e.g. Mazar 1985; Singer 1985; Stager 1995 and recently
Bunimovitz and Faust 2001). In my view (e.g. Ussishkin 2004, 72–73; forth-
coming), shared by Eliezer Oren (1985), Israel Finkelstein (e.g. 1995), Eli
Yannai (1996) and Nadav Na’aman (2000, 4), the arrival and settlement of
the Philistines, marked by their typical painted pottery, should definitely be
dated after 1130 BCE, that is after the final destruction of Canaanite Lachish
at the end of Level VI. Lachish is the main chronological anchor in this issue.
Canaanite Lachish maintained strong commercial and cultural ties with
other countries and with the Canaanite cities in the Coastal Plain (Ussishkin
2004, 65–68). These connections are manifested at Lachish by pottery and
other objects from Egypt, north-western Anatolia, Mycenae, Crete, Cyprus,
Syria, Lebanon, north-western Arabia as well as the Coastal Plain.
Significantly, even fresh sea fish, such as grey mullet, bass, and sea bream, as
well as large Nile river fish—Nile perch—were imported from the coast to
Lachish (Lernau and Golani 2004). After the complete destruction of the
Level VI city Lachish was abandoned for a long period of time. As Lachish
is located so near the Philistine Pentapolis, and as Canaanite Lachish main-
tained strong commercial and cultural connections with the Coastal Plain, it
would have been natural for some Philistine pottery to have been imported to
Lachish if indeed the Philistine cities were contemporary with Lachish VI.
However, the fact is that no Philistine pottery has been found in the extensive,
large-scale excavations carried out at Lachish since the 1930s. The only pos-
sible explanation for the total absence of Philistine pottery is that this type of
pottery was introduced only after the destruction of Lachish, that is after
1130 BCE. While this datum is of a negative nature, to my mind it is never-
theless definitive. The lower date for the Philistine settlement naturally affects
the dating of later strata in many other sites.

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Second, the use of Shishak’s list of cities as a chronological anchor is a

problem of crucial importance. It was Albright who in 1943 wrote with ref-
erence to Tell Beit Mirsim Stratum B that ‘Shishak’s irruption. . .. swept
through Palestine, north and south, east and west, with seeming impartiality’
(Albright 1943, 37–38). Albright’s assumption that Shishak destroyed the
entire country is generally accepted, and hence a ‘Shishak’s destruction level’
is noted and identified in most contemporary sites excavated since Tell Beit
Mirsim. However, the object, nature and course of the campaign, and what
really happened there are far from clear. Shishak might have completely
destroyed some settlements, in other cases he might have destroyed only parts
of settlements, and he might have conquered all or some settlements without
destroying them at all. I am convinced (Ussishkin 1990, 71–74) that the erec-
tion of a royal stele in Megiddo indicates that Shishak conquered this city
with the aim of holding it rather than destroying it, as assumed by most
scholars (e.g., recently, Harrison 2003, 60–62) and this might well apply to
other places and regions. One way or another Shishak’s list is useless as a
secure archaeological and chronological anchor.
The only possible exception is Stratum XII in Tel Arad. It is generally
agreed that the Iron Age settlement in Tel Arad has to be identified with one
of the two Arads mentioned in Shishak’s list. Stratum XII represents the earli-
est Iron Age settlement at this site. If this is the place mentioned in the list, it
follows that Stratum XII dates to the second half of the tenth century and
not later, a date that will affect the date of other contemporary sites such as
Level V at Lachish, Tell Beit Mirsim Stratum B and Tel Beer-Sheba Stratum
VII (see recently Herzog and Singer-Avitz 2004, 229). Personally, I have some
doubts about the reliability of this datum and its chronological use, as the
course and character of Shishak’s campaign in this part of the country are
far from clear.
Third, based on the biblical evidence, the foundation of the city of
Samaria and the building of the enclosure of Jezreel should be dated to the
reigns of Omri and Ahab, in the second quarter of the ninth century
(Ussishkin 2007). This would mean that the pottery assemblage recovered in
the one-period Jezreel enclosure dates to that time.
Fourth, the problem of Jerusalem. Based on the archaeological data, as
well as on the above chronological framework, the process of development of
biblical Jerusalem can at present be fairly accurately reconstructed (Ussishkin
2003a; 2003b). The different ways of interpreting the data from Jerusalem
have already been mentioned. A strongly fortified settlement extended on the
hill known as the ‘City of David’ during the Middle Bronze Age. This settle-
ment apparently came to an end at the end of the Middle Bronze Age, and
one would assume that the strong fortifications went into disuse at this time.
After the end of the Middle Bronze Age Jerusalem was continuously settled,

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138 David Ussishkin
the smaller, unfortified settlement located in the central part of the City of
David. This was the settlement of the el-Amarna period, and the settlement
of the period of the United Monarchy and later the settlement of the ninth
century. I have to add here that nothing is known from the archaeological
perspective about the Temple Mount during the tenth and ninth centuries.
The Temple Mount could possibly have been built during this period, as
described in detail in the biblical text, but in that case it did not form an integ-
ral part of the contemporary settlement limited to the central part of the
City of David. During the later part of the eighth century, as proven by the
assemblage of Lachish Level III type pottery, Jerusalem became a large, heav-
ily fortified city, which extended over the City of David, the Temple Mount
and the Western Hill. This large city lasted till the Babylonian destruction of
586, which is characterized by Lachish Level II type pottery. Significantly,
based on the archaeological evidence, Jerusalem of the ninth century was a
small, poor settlement, while other contemporary settlements in Judah, first
and foremost Lachish Level IV, were already fortified towns containing large
public buildings. These data are important for any historical evaluation of
this period.
The above data can be summarized in the following, schematic table:
Table 9.1 Schematic Table: Important Stratigraphic/Chronological Data of the Iron Age.
Period Dates
BCE Historical data Megiddo Lachish Jerusalem Other sites
Late 20th Dynasty Stratum Level VI Small, Beth-Shean

Bronze VIIA unfortified Level VI
IIIB settlement in Lower
ca. End of Destruction Destruction City of Destruction
1130 Egyptian David
hegemony ↓
Iron I Philistine Strata Gap in
settlement VIB-VIA habitation
Iron IIa United
Monarchy
ca. Shishak’s Stratum VB Level V Arad XII
925 campaign ↓? ↓?
Stratum Omride
VA-IVB Level IV Samaria
& Jezreel
Iron IIb Strata Level III Large,
701 Sennachrib’s IV-III Destruction fortified city
campaign
Iron IIc Level II
Stratum II
588/6 Babylonian Destruction Destruction
campaign

09 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:52 Page 139
The rest of the archaeological evidence must be fitted into the strati-
graphic and chronological framework presented above. This is not easy for a
variety of reasons, among them lack of inscriptions, ambiguity of clear
stratigraphic evidence in many sites, and the difficulty of comparing pottery
from different regions of the country. Hence there are possibilities for differ-
ent interpretations and different chronologies. In my view, as long as no new
additional data are available, it would be impossible to solve the chronologi-
cal differences being debated at present.
One attempt to retrieve new chronological data is the application of the
14
C dating method. To the best of my knowledge the excavation of Lachish
was the first dig where carbon samples taken from historical levels were
collected and tested, and all these tests were recently published in the final
excavation report (Carmi and Ussishkin 2004). This method has now been
enthusiastically adopted by Amihai Mazar, Israel Finkelstein and others in
their current chronological debates (see most recently Levy and Higham
2005). However, this method is far from providing conclusive and perfect
results. Most samples discussed were not taken from stratified layers in the
key sites listed above, and furthermore, this method provides only approxi-
mate dates. So we observe, as manifested in the recent Oxford conference,
that the interpretation of the same 14C tests can be fitted to different ideolo-
gies (see ibid.). The problems of the 14C dating method have been apparent in
recent years in the ongoing discussions on the destruction date of the Thera
eruption (e.g. Manning 1999). For the time being I prefer to rely on the
archaeological methods of dating.
In summing up, although the archaeological investigation of the biblical
period in the land of Israel started more than one hundred years ago, we still
know relatively little, and one hopes that extensive work in the future will
close the gaps in our knowledge.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Albright, W. F., 1943. The Excavation of Tell Beit Mirsim III: The Iron Age, Annual
of the American Schools of Oriental Research (New Haven, CT), 21–22.
Bunimovitz, S., and A. Faust, 2001. ‘Chronological Separation, Geographical
Segregation, or Ethnic Demarcation? Ethnography and the Iron Age Low
Chronology’, BASOR 322, 1–10.
Cahill, J. M., 2003. ‘Jerusalem at the Time of the United Monarchy: The
Archaeological Evidence’, in A. G. Vaughn and A. E. Killebrew (eds.), Jerusalem
in Bible and Archaeology: The First Temple Period (Society of Biblical literature,
Symposium Series 18; Atlanta, GA), 13–80.
Carmi, I., and D. Ussishkin, 2004. ‘14C Dates’, in D. Ussishkin (ed.), The
Renewed Archaeological Excavations at Lachish (1973–1994) (Monograph

09 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:52 Page 140
140 David Ussishkin
Series of the Institute of Archaeology of Tel Aviv University 22; Tel Aviv),
2508–2513.
Dothan, M., and Y. Porath, 1993. Ashdod V: Excavation of Area G (‘Atiqot 23;
Jerusalem).
Finkelstein, I., 1995. ‘The Date of the Settlement of the Philistines in Canaan’, Tel
Aviv 22, 213–39.
——, 2002. ‘El-Ahwat: A Fortified Sea People City?’, IEJ 52, 187–99.
——, 2005. ‘From Canaanites to Israelites: When, How and Why’, in Convegno
Internazionale: Recenti Tendenze nella Ricostruzione della Storia Antica D’Israele
(Roma, 6–7 Marzo 2003) (Rome), 11–27.
——, and N. A. Silberman, 2001. The Bible Unearthed (New York).
——, and L. Singer-Avitz, 2001. ‘Ashdod Revisited’, Tel Aviv 28, 231–59.
Harrison, T. P., 2003. ‘The Battleground: Who Destroyed Megiddo? Was it David or
Shishak?’, BAR 29/6, 28–35, 60–64.
Herzog, Z., and L. Singer-Avitz, 2004. ‘Redefining the Centre: The Emergence of
State in Judah’, Tel Aviv 31, 209–44.
Krauss, R., 1994. ‘Ein wahrscheinlicher Terminus post quem für das Ende von
Lachisch VI’, Mitteilungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft zu Berlin 126,
123–30.
Lalkin, N., 2004. ‘A Ramesses IV Scarab from Lachish’, Tel Aviv 31, 17–21.
Lernau, O., and D. Golani, 2004. ‘The Osteological Remains (Aquatic)’, in
D. Ussishkin (ed.), The Renewed Archaeological Excavations at Lachish
(1973–1994). (Monograph Series of the Institute of Archaeology of Tel Aviv
University 22; Tel Aviv), 2456–2489.
Levy, T. E., and T. Higham (eds), 2005. The Bible and Radiocarbon Dating.
Archaeology, Text and Science (London).
Manning, S. W., 1999. A Test of Time. The Volcano of Thera and the Chronology and
History of the Aegean and East Mediterranean in the Mid Second Millennium BC
(Oxford).
Mazar, A., 1985. ‘The Emergence of the Philistine Material Culture’, IEJ 35, 95–107.
——, 1990. Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, 10,000–586 B.C.E. (New York).
——, 2006. ‘Jerusalem in the 10th Cenury BCE: The Glass Half Full’, in Y. Amit,
E. Ben Zvi, I. Finkelstein, and O. Lipschits (eds), Essays on Ancient Israel in Its
Near Eastern Context: A Tribute to Nadav Na’aman (Winona Lake, IN), 255–72.
Na’aman, N., 2000. ‘The Contribution of the Trojan Grey Ware from Lachish and Tel
Miqne-Ekron to the Chronology of the Philistine Monochrome Pottery’, BASOR
317, 1–7.
——, 2001. ‘An Assyrian Residence at Ramat Rahel?’, Tel Aviv 28, 260–80.
Oren, E. D., 1985. ‘“Governors’ Residencies” in Canaan under the New Kingdom: A
Case Study of Egyptian Administration’, Journal of the Society for the Study of
Egyptian Antiquities 14, 37–56.
Singer, I., 1985. ‘The beginning of Philistine settlement in Canaan and the northern
boundary of Philistia’, Tel Aviv 12, 109–22.
Stager, L. E., 1995. ‘The Impact of the Sea Peoples in Canaan (1185–1050 BCE)’, in
T. E. Levy (ed.), The Archaeology of Society in the Holy Land (New-York), 332–48.
Ussishkin, D., 1980. ‘Was the “Solomonic” City Gate at Megiddo Built by King
Solomon?’, BASOR 239, 1–18.

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——, 1985. ‘Levels VII and VI at Tel Lachish and the End of the Late Bronze Age in
Canaan’, in J. N. Tubb (ed.), Palestine in the Bronze and Iron Ages: Papers in
Honour of Olga Tufnell (London), 213–30.
——, 1990. ‘Notes on Megiddo, Gezer, Ashdod, and Tel Batash in the Tenth to Ninth
Centuries B.C.’, BASOR 277/278, 71–91.
——, 1995. ‘The Destruction of Megiddo at the End of the Late Bronze Age and its
Historical Significance’, Tel Aviv 22, 240–67.
——, 2003a. ‘Solomon’s Jerusalem: The Text and the Facts on the Ground’, in A. G.
Vaughn and A. E. Killebrew (eds), Jerusalem in Bible and Archaeology: The First
Temple Period (Society of Biblical literature, Symposium Series 18; Atlanta, GA),
103–15.
——, 2003b. ‘Jerusalem as a Royal and Cultic Center in the 10th–8th Centuries
B.C.C.’, in W. G. Dever and S. Gitin (eds), Symbiosis, Symbolism, and the Power of
the Past: Proceedings of the Centennial Symposium . . . Jerusalem, May 29–31,
2000 (Winona Lake, IN), 529–38.
——, 2004. ‘A Synopsis of the Stratigraphical, Chronological and Historical Issues’,
in D. Ussishkin (ed.), The Renewed Archaeological Excavations at Lachish
(1973–1994) (Monograph Series of the Institute of Archaeology of Tel Aviv
University 22; Tel Aviv), 50–119.
——, 2007. ‘Samaria, Jezreel and Megiddo: Royal Centres of Omri and Ahab’, in
L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Ahab Agonistes: The Rise and Fall of the Omri Dynasty.
(LHB/OT 421; European Seminar in Historical Methodology 5; London and New
York) 293–309.
——, forthcoming. ‘Lachish and the Date of the Philistine Settlement in Canaan’, in
M. Bietak (ed.), Proceedings of the 2nd EuroConference of “SCIEM 2000”,
Vienna, 28 May–1 June 2003.
Wood, B. G., 1990. ‘Did the Israelites Conquer Jericho? A New Look at the
Archaeological Evidence’, BAR 16/2, 44–59.
Yadin, Y. 1970. ‘Megiddo of the Kings of Israel’, The Biblical Archaeologist 33,
66–96.
Yannai, E., 1996. Aspects of the Material Culture of Canaan during the Egyptian 20th
Dynasty (1200–1130 BCE) (unpublished PhD thesis; Tel Aviv University. Hebrew).
Zertal, A., 1986–1987. ‘An Early Iron Age Cultic Site on Mount Ebal: Excavation
Seasons 1982–1987’, Tel Aviv 13–14, 105–65.
——, 2001. ‘The “Corridor-builders” of Central Israel: Evidence for the settlement of
the “Northern Sea Peoples”?’, in V. Karageorghis and C. E. Morris (eds),
Defensive Settlements of the Aegean and the Eastern Mediterranean after c. 1200
B.C. (Nicosia), 215–32.

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10
The Spade and the Text: The Interaction

between Archaeology and Israelite
History Relating to the Tenth–Ninth
Centuries BCE
AMIHAI MAZAR
INTRODUCTORY REMARKS
AS IS CLEARLY REFLECTED IN THIS VOLUME, there exists today a wide spec-

trum of views concerning the process of the writing and redaction of the var-
ious parts of the Hebrew Bible, as well as the evaluation of the biblical text
in reconstructing the history of Israel during the Iron Age.1 An archaeologist
like myself, who is an outsider to textual research and who wishes to study
the Iron Age of the southern Levant, must make a choice between divergent
views and epistemological approaches when trying to combine archaeologi-
cal data with biblical sources. The five major possibilities may be identified as
follows:
1 Accepting the bulk of the information in the Bible as credible and
attempting to fit the archaeological data to the biblical text.
2 Claiming that the entire biblical narrative is useless as a source for
writing a history of biblical Israel. If this claim is accepted, archaeology and
external sources (many of them suspected as biased) remain the sole source
for reconstructing some kind of history.
3 Claiming that as archaeologists we should limit ourselves to our
trade—the reconstruction of social and economic changes based on the
study of material culture alone—and should not intervene in historical dis-
cussions of any sort.
4 Using archaeological and historical data in the Bible and external
sources in a manipulative way, reconstructing processes, phenomena and
events based on archaeological and biblical data freely and imaginatively.
1
There is no point in citing even part of the vast literature on this subject. The most important
works are cited in this volume by Na’aman, Brettler and others.

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144 Amihai Mazar
5 Claiming that the biblical sources retain important kernels of

ancient history in spite of the comparatively late time of writing and edit-
ing. Archaeology can be utilized, in addition to the goals in point 3 above,
to examine biblical data in the light of archaeology and judge critically the
validity of each biblical episode.
I choose the last approach, and in so doing, I join those who claim that
the Pentateuch, the Deuteronomistic History (DtrH), and large parts of the
prophetic and wisdom literature were written at some time during the late
monarchy (eighth–early sixth centuries BCE), and that during the exilic and
post-exilic periods they went through stages of editing, additions and
changes. I also accept the view of many scholars that the late monarchic
authors and redactors used early materials such as temple and palace
libraries and archives, monumental inscriptions perhaps centuries old, oral
transmissions of ancient poetry, folk stories rooted in a remote historical
past, and perhaps even some earlier historiographic writings (Miller and
Hayes 1986, passim; Halpern 1988; Na’aman 1996a; 1997a; 2002; Dever
2001; Na’aman in this volume; Brettler in this volume).
Although the bulk of the biblical historiographic texts can be considered
as literary works biased by late Judean theology and ideology, it may never-
theless retain valuable historical information, which may be assessed on the
basis of external written sources and archaeological finds. Assyrian inscrip-
tions and commemorative inscriptions, such as the ninth century BCE Mesha
and Tel Dan stelae, confirm that the general historical framework of the DtrH
narrative relating to the ninth century was based on reliable knowledge of the
historical framework of that century. Our understanding of the periods pre-
ceding the ninth century is foggier, since Israel is not mentioned in any exter-
nal source from Merneptah in the late thirteenth century to Mesha in the late
ninth. Thus my working hypothesis is that the DtrH and other biblical texts
may include valuable historical information, in spite of the distortions, exag-
gerations, theological dispositions and literary creativity of the authors. I
imagine the historical perspective in the Hebrew Bible as a telescope into time:
the further in time we go, the dimmer the picture is. Considering that the sup-
posed telescope stood somewhere in the late eighth or seventh centuries BCE, it
provides us with a more accurate picture of the ninth century, a dimmer one of
the tenth century, and so forth. We also have to recall selective memory, inner
censorship and biases in information because of personal or other motiva-
tions. This is true with any history-writing, even of the last century, not to
speak of ancient history.
What is the role of archaeology in the reconstruction of biblical history?
In the current controversy over the historicity of the biblical texts,
archaeology is vital as it can provide external, presumably objective, data on

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ARCHAEOLOGY AND ISRAELITE HISTORY 145
realia related to the issues under debate. Modern archaeology is concerned

with the reconstruction of a variety of aspects of ancient societies: settle-
ment patterns, social structures, the reconstruction of ancient polities, vari-
ous aspects of the ancient economy, daily life, ritual and belief, and even
cognitive issues. A major goal of archaeological research is the study of
long-term processes; and in certain cases we are able to study individual
events.
The correlation between archaeological finds and texts is only one aspect
of the archaeologist’s work—perhaps one of the most difficult—yet it
remains a challenge that must be faced. Archaeology has the potential to be
an invaluable source for an objective judgement of biblical sources. Alas, by
the same measure the interpretation of archaeological data and its associa-
tion to the biblical text is a veritable minefield, as it is often inspired by the
scholar’s personal attitude towards the text. In many cases, when archaeolo-
gists and historians utilize archaeological material in the discussion of a par-
ticular historical question, we face over and over again arguments that, at
their core, are circular. This was as true at the time of William F. Albright and
his followers as it is today. There are few items of data in the archaeological
record that are not disputable. Such few ‘pegs’ (specified later in this chapter)
are of great importance to our subject, yet it should be recalled that many
other archaeological conclusions are debatable, no matter when or by whom
they were written.
Despite this, the role of archaeology as an invaluable tool for examining
aspects of the biblical historiographic framework remains firmly intact. As a
result of such examinations, I have observed, on the one hand, increasing cor-
relations between archaeological discoveries and certain biblical references
relating to Israel and its neighbours from the Iron Age I onwards, and on the
other some contradictions between the biblical narrative and the archaeolog-
ical record. In the following pages, I will attempt to illuminate several cases
where archaeology can be used alongside the biblical narrative relating to the
tenth and ninth centuries BCE (for my views relating to earlier periods see
Mazar 2003a, 86–89).
I. EXAMINING THE TENTH CENTURY
During the past decade, there has been intense debate concerning the tenth
and ninth centuries. Upon reading the Hebrew Bible, one would expect
archaeology to prove the existence of the strong, mature state of David and
Solomon with a large city in Jerusalem, dense urban settlement throughout
the country, and formal inscriptions and art. The conventional picture

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146 Amihai Mazar
(summarized in Mazar 1990, 368–402; Dever 1982; Dever 1997; Herr 1997,
120–32) indeed drew a picture that could fit the biblical description. Yet this
view came under attack during the last two decades by those who posit scep-
tical views, based on the absence of such expected features as those men-
tioned above (e.g. Wightman 1990; Jamieson-Drake 1991; Niemann 1997;
Finkelstein 1996, 1999b; Finkelstein and Silberman 2001; Ussishkin 2003 et
al.). Their claims are that such a kingdom is not mentioned in any written
sources outside the Bible; Jerusalem, its supposed capital, was either entirely
unsettled or a small village during the tenth century; literacy is hardly known
during this period; the population density was poor; there is no evidence for
international trade, and more. On the other hand, many of the same scholars
claim that the ninth century was a period of great prosperity, at least in the
Northern Kingdom of Israel, as proven by external sources and the archae-
ological evidence at Samaria, Jezreel, Megiddo, Hazor and numerous other
sites. Judean history of the ninth century is under debate.
The biblical texts relating to David and Solomon can be read as national
sagas, containing fictional, ideologically motivated stories intended to glorify
a supposed golden era in the history of Israel; yet in my view it is a long way
from such a reading to a total deconstruction of the historicity of the United
Monarchy as an historical entity. In evaluating the text we should also recall
that the time lapse between the supposed United Monarchy and the Omride
dynasty is less than a century, while the time lapse between the ninth century
and the supposed time of writing of DtrH is several centuries. Why should
we accept the historicity of the biblical account regarding ninth century
northern Israel and discredit the historicity of the United Monarchy or
Judah in the ninth century?
In what follows I will examine some of the issues related to this subject.
Iron Age chronology and historical interpretation
Any attempt to utilize archaeology in an historical reconstruction of the

tenth to ninth centuries in the southern Levant must be based on a solid
chronological framework. However, during the last ten years an intense
debate has developed around this subject, following the suggestion of
Finkelstein to lower the chronology of the twelfth to tenth centuries by
about eighty to a hundred years (1996; 1998; 1999a; 1999b; 2002b). This is
a rather complicated and often misunderstood subject, which needs some
explanation.
The chronological debate concerns two major issues: the first relates to
the beginning of the Philistine settlement in Philistia, and the second to the
dating of archaeological strata of the eleventh to ninth centuries BCE. I pass

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 147
over the first, since it is outside the scope of the present discussion (for my
views see Mazar 1997; 2005; and forthcoming). Regarding the second issue,
Finkelstein’s wholesale lowering of dates attempts to empty the tenth century
from the archaeological assemblages which had served in the past as the
foundation for the ‘Solomonic paradigm’ of Yigael Yadin (see below). The
low chronology is supposed to enable the replacement of this paradigm by a
new one, according to which the kingdom of David and Solomon did not
exist or was a small local polity; the first Israelite state was the Northern
Kingdom of Israel in the ninth century BCE, and Judah became a state not
before the eighth century BCE. Similar conclusions were suggested earlier by
David Jamieson-Drake (1991), based on the conventional chronology.
In the debate that followed various methodological issues were raised
(Mazar 1997; 2005 and forthcoming; Ben-Tor and Ben-Ami 1998; Ben-Tor
2000; Byrne 2002; Kletter 2004; Stager 2003, 64–67). A major one, in my
view, is what can be referred to as a typical ‘chicken-and-egg’ question: was
the low chronology born as a result of an independent archaeological endeav-
our or as an archaeological response to a certain historical paradigm? In
each of Finkelstein’s many low chronology articles the chrono-stratigraphic
discussions and the historical evaluations are intermingled in a way that does
not permit differentiation between cause and result. He has attacked the
‘Albrightian’ tradition of biblical archaeology, which, he claimed, attempted
to fit the archaeological evidence into a conservative interpretation of the
biblical narrative. Yet it appears that his archaeological conclusions are not
less biased by historical paradigms.
The period under debate is framed by two secure anchors: the upper is the
presence of the 20th Egyptian Dynasty in Canaan until c. 1140/1130 BCE, and
the lower is related to the Assyrian conquests between 732 and 701 BCE.
Additional though less secure chronological anchors can be established along
the 400 years that separate these two extreme points. The first anchor is
evident at the site of Jezreel, excavated by Ussishkin and John Woodhead
(1997). Though the history of Jezreel is known only from the Bible, all agree
that it was indeed the second royal residency of the Omride dynasty after
Samaria, and that it was destroyed soon after the end of that dynasty,
c. 840/830 BCE. The pottery from the destruction layer of Jezreel can thus
be dated to that time. Since this pottery resembles that of the so-called
‘Solomonic’ city at Megiddo Stratum VA–IVB (Zimhoni 1997, 13–28, 39–56),
it served Finkelstein as a major argument in dating this city at Megiddo to
the ninth century as well. However, in her study of the Jezreel pottery,
Zimhoni (1997, 29–39) had shown that similar pottery was found in the
constructional fills below the royal enclosure, probably originating from an
earlier town or village; such a pre-Omride occupation could date to the tenth

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148 Amihai Mazar
century BCE. This suggests that throughout much of the tenth and ninth
centuries, the same pottery repertoire was in use.
The second chronological anchor is related to Arad and the Negev
Highlands sites (on these see below p. 151). All participants in the debate
agree that the village of Arad Stratum XII and the Negev Highlands sites are
to be identified with the settlements mentioned in Shoshenq’s inscription
(Cohen 1980; Mazar 1990, 395–96; Na’aman 1992, 81–83; Finkelstein 2002a,
114–15; Cohen and Cohen-Amin 2004, 157; Singer-Avitz 2002, 111–19;
Herzog and Avitz-Singer 2004, 229). We thus have here an agreed anchor for
dating the pottery assemblage of southern Judah in the second half of the
tenth century. But this contradicts Finkelstein’s low chronology, since the
same pottery appears at many other sites whose dates have conventionally
been established as tenth century, but lowered by Finkelstein to the ninth
century, such as Lachish Stratum V, Tel Batash Stratum IV, and so on.
A series of stratigraphic-ceramic correlations between Arad and the
north through sites like those at Lachish, Tel Batash, Gezer, Tell Qasile and
others provide a secure relative sequence of archaeological strata. As a result
of such a study we can conclude, for example, that the Canaanite city of
Megiddo Stratum VIA cannot be contemporary with the tenth century
southern assemblages as Finkelstein maintains, but must represent an earlier
cultural phase (Mazar 2000; Harrison 2004, 105–08).2 This is a serious inner
contradiction in Finkelstein’s low chronology. His chronology creates other
unresolved problems, such as huge gaps in the twelfth to eleventh centuries, a
300-year duration for the ‘collared rim jars’, and more.
Alerted by the finds at Jezreel and at Tel Rehov, I have suggested a mod-
ification of the conventional chronology by giving a long duration for the
Iron IIA, spanning over both the tenth and ninth centuries BCE, in my esti-
mation from c. 980 to c. 840/830 BCE, after the end of the Omride dynasty. A
similar framework had been suggested already by Aharoni and Amiran
(1958) following excavations at Hazor, was retained by Barkay (1992), and
was recently accepted by many archaeologists, among them the excavators or
researchers of Hazor, Jezreel, Beth Shean, Tel Rehov, Gezer, Beth-Shemesh,
Timnah (Tel Batash), Jerusalem, Tell e s-Safi (⫽Gath), Ashkelon, Arad and
2
Harrison, in a new analysis of Megiddo VIA, retains its traditional destruction date of c. 1000
BCE (while Finkelstein claims that it was destroyed by Shoshenq). This traditional date is now
confirmed by two 14C dates on short-term samples from Megiddo VIA, which were collected in
Tel Aviv University excavations. See Boaretto et al. 2005, figs. 1–2. One sample of seeds was
dated at Rehovot and Tucson. The 1 sigma date of the Tucson measurement (T18163a) is
1130–970 (61.2 % probability) and 960–940 (7% probability). The 2 sigma is between 1190–910
BCE. The second measurement (RT3944, prepared at Rehovot and measured at Tucson) gave a 1
sigma of 1260–1120 and 2 sigma of 1300–1040. These dates (except the lower edge of the 2 sigma
in the Tucson example) support the traditional dating of Stratum VIA to the eleventh century.

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 149
Beer-Sheba (references are provided in Mazar 2005).3 Inner division of the

period was detected in both the south, at Arad and Beer Sheba (Herzog and
Avitz-Singer 2004), and the north, at Hazor and Tel Rehov. I refer to this
archaeological chronology as the modified conventional chronology (MCC).
It enables us to define three major pottery periods in the 450 years between
c. 1150 and 700 BCE: the Iron IB, Iron IIA, and Iron IIB, each with regional
variations and each lasting about 150 years. This scheme, which is supported
by the 14C dates from Tel Rehov (Mazar et al. 2005), Megiddo and other sites,
provides more flexibility in the interpretation of the archaeological data, and
it would make the position of those who wish to utilize archaeology for
secure historical interpretations of the tenth to ninth centuries BCE harder to
sustain. Thus the door is left open to date Megiddo Stratum IVB–VA to
either the tenth or the ninth centuries. Instead of a clear-cut division between
the tenth and ninth centuries in terms of material culture, we get long
duration and continuity of the material culture throughout most of this
period.4
Shoshenq I ⫽ Shishak raid
The lack of external sources relating to the United Monarchy should not
surprise us since the tenth century was to a large degree a time of political
vacuum in the international arena. The only external source available is
the Shoshenq I inscription at Karnak, which commemorates his raid to the
Land of Israel in 925 BCE (according to Kitchen 2000, 40–41) or c. 920 BCE
(according to Shortland 2005). The mention of Shishak’s campaign in 1 Kgs
14.25–28 cannot be dismissed as an invention of a seventh-century BCE or
later author. The writer must have had earlier records of some sort.
Unlike any of the Egyptian New Kingdom military campaigns to
Canaan, Shoshenq’s list mentions sites north of Jerusalem such as Beth
Horon and Gibeon. The only plausible explanation for this must be the exis-
tence of a substantial political power in the central hill country that was sig-
nificant enough in the eyes of the Egyptians to justify the unusual route for
the campaign. The only sensible candidate for such a power is the Solomonic
3
An exception is Gilboa and Sharon 2003, who maintain low chronology based on 14C dates
from Dor. For a response see Mazar et al. 2005.
4
More than sixty 14C dates from various sites relating to this period were recently published by
Boaretto et al. 2005. The authors conclude that their results support the low chronology. An
analysis of these results indicates, in my view, support for my modified conventional chronology.
Four dates from the Tel Aviv University excavations at Megiddo are instructive: two of
Stratum VI support a destruction of this city at the end of the eleventh century (see n. 2 above)
and two from Stratum VB–IVA support a date in the tenth century. These dates from

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150 Amihai Mazar
kingdom.5 If indeed the raid took place after Solomon’s death, Shoshenq
perhaps attempted to intervene in the events that followed. The fact that
Jerusalem is not mentioned in the inscription does not mean much—if the
city surrendered, perhaps there would have been no reason to mention it; or,
alternatively, its mention could have appeared on one of the broken parts of
the inscription.
As to the remaining section of the route: most scholars (except Na’aman
1998) reconstruct a route that crosses the central mountains ridge towards the
Jordan Valley. The mentioning of Rehov, Beth Shean and ‘the Valley’ in a
continuous line fits this latter reconstruction.
There are various views concerning the question of whether Shoshenq
destroyed cities along his route, and, if so, whether we can identify such
destructions in the archaeological record. The commonly held answer to both
questions is ‘yes’. Violent destructions at Tell el-Hammah, Tel Rehov
(Stratum V), Beth Shean (Stratum S-1a), Tel ‘Amal, Taanach (Period IIB)
and Megiddo (Stratum IVB–VA) may be contemporary and attributed to this
event, though such identification should be taken with caution (for a recent
analysis see Stager 2003, 64–67).6 Na’aman (1998) however, claimed that
Shoshenq did not destroy any city.
In my view, the question as to whether cities were destroyed is less impor-
tant than the very mentioning of certain names in the list. It is not conceiv-
able that Shoshenq’s scribes merely copied names from earlier topographic
lists at Karnak, since there are many toponyms known only from Shoshenq’s
Megiddo support the conventional chronology or my modified conventional chronology but

negate the low chronology. In my view, analysis of the entire data in this publication negates both
the conventional chronology as well as the low chronology as suggested by Finkelstein and forces
us to combine most of the tenth to ninth centuries into one archaeological horizon, in line
with my modified conventional chronology. The results of this new analysis will be published
elsewhere.
5
Finkelstein 2002a, 127–29 suggested that Shoshenq’s target was Saul’s kingdom around
Gibeon, and that he was also responsible for the destruction of Shiloh. This is mere speculation,
attempting to rewrite history to fit the low chronology, which itself seems to be born out of a
historical paradigm. Finkelstein does not deny the existence of David and Solomon as historical
figures; his theory means that Saul was a ruler of a ‘Gibeonite’ state contemporary with
Solomon. In choosing between modern speculative history (method no. 4 in the introduction to
this chapter) and the ideologically motivated history of the DtrH I prefer the latter.
6
Finkelstein 2002a attributed many destruction layers to Shoshenq, even at sites which are not
mentioned in the inscription, such as Ekron (Stratum IV). In light of this it is strange to read his
and Piasetzky’s (2003) criticism of our proposal that Tel Rehov Stratum V was destroyed by
Shoshenq (Bruins, Mazar and Van der Plicht 2003). This proposal was based on the mentioning
of Rehov (next to Beth- Shean) in Shoshenq’s inscription, on the presence of a severe destruc-
tion layer (though localized and not found throughout the site) and on the dating of this layer
to the second half of the tenth century by precise 14C dates. As to Finkelstein’s suggestion that
Megiddo VIA was destroyed by Shoshenq, see n. 2 above.

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 151
inscription. Thus a toponym that appears there should be looked for in the
archaeological record, regardless of whether it was actually destroyed or not.
Arad, Taanach and Rehov are important examples, to which I will return
shortly.
The Negev
Such concentration of settlement fits the unusual phenomenon of short-lived

settlements known in the Negev Highlands and in the Beer Sheba-Arad
region. About fifty massive, well-planned buildings (so-called ‘fortresses’)
and about 500 scattered houses were discovered in the Negev Highlands. The
material culture in these settlements indicates to my mind a symbiosis between
people who came from Judah or the southern coastal plain and local desert
nomads (for recent synthesis see Haiman 2003; Cohen and Cohen-Amin
2004, 9–158). The sophisticated architecture, including a good number of
four-room houses, and the wheel-made red slipped pottery must be explained
as traditions and actual artifacts brought from outside the desert, while the
surrounding simple dwellings and the hand-made pottery found in these sites
can be attributed to local nomads who concentrated next to the new dwellers,
finding sources of income in this new neighbourhood (for different interpre-
tations see Finkelstein 1995; Na’aman 1992). The researchers of these sites,
Rudolph Cohen, Zeev Meshel and Mordechai Heiman, dated them to the
tenth century BCE and associated their destruction to Shoshenq; this view is
acceptable, and negates the view of others (Beno Rothenberg, David Etam,
Israel Finkelstein) who suggested that these settlements were founded by
local semi-nomadic population during the eleventh century BCE (Finkelstein
1995).7 It can hardly be believed that such architecture and pottery would be
attributed to a nomadic population with no tradition of its own. The expla-
nation of these sites as a local ‘nomadic chiefdom’ does not seem probable.
The settlements appear to be the outcome of an outside initiative, either by
the Israelite United Monarchy or (less probable) by coastal cities. The moti-
vation for this wave of settlement must have been economic, perhaps related
to the vast copper smelting activity at Feinan (Khirbet en-Nahas, now dated
mainly to the eleventh to ninth centuries BCE; Levy et al. 2004). The site of
Hazevah in the Arabah Valley, where a large tenth-century building was
discovered below a later fortress, could be an important feature in such a
trading system.
7
Finkelstein 2002a, 114 recently changed his view and now attributes the Negev Highland sites
to the tenth century, until their destruction by Shoshenq; this destruction date is agreed also by
Na’aman 1992.

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152 Amihai Mazar
Shoshenq’s list includes dozens of places in the Negev. Some of them

carry Hebrew names such as hgr abrm (Hagar Abraham) and hgr ‘ard rbt
(Hagar ‘Arad Rabat), thus hinting at the identification of the settlers. The
goal of this southern branch of the Egyptian campaign was perhaps to put
an end to the widescale settlement in this region, which was potentially
considered by the Egyptians as competing with or threatening their own
interests. Indeed, the settlement wave in the Negev Highlands came to an
end abruptly, as a result of this campaign.
Jerusalem in the Iron I-IIA period
The evaluation of Jerusalem as a city during the tenth to ninth centuries is

crucial for defining state formation in Judah—if there was no capital, there
was probably no kingdom. Ussishkin (2003) claims that Jerusalem was not
settled in the tenth century and Finkelstein’s (2001) definition of tenth-
century Jerusalem as a small village calls for re-evaluation of the data
(Cahill 2003; Mazar 2006).
The ‘stepped stone structure’ of the City of David in Jerusalem is an enor-
mous support wall of an exceptional monumental building. A terminus post
quem for its construction is an Iron Age I house containing twelfth-century
BCE pottery found by Kenyon below the foundations of the so-called ‘ter-
races’ she excavated. The latter are probably the foundations of the stepped
structure itself, as suggested by Cahill. Iron IIA pottery published by Cahill
from the lowest floor in a dwelling built on top of the stepped structure (2003,
59, fig. 1.13a) provides a terminus ante quem for its construction. Therefore,
the stepped structure and the terraces must have been constructed between
the twelfth and the tenth centuries BCE, and have gone out of use during the
Iron IIA, perhaps in the ninth century BCE. It is thus legitimate to relate this
building to tenth-century Jerusalem. The stepped structure must be explained
as a support structure of a huge building that stood on the crest of the ridge
to the west. The inner part of this building may have been partially discov-
ered by Eilat Mazar in 2005, north-west of the stepped stone structure. She
uncovered here a monumental building at least 30 by 10 m in size (yet it
extends beyond the limits of the excavation area) with walls over 2 m wide.
The stratigraphic and ceramic data resemble that of the stepped structure
(E. Mazar 2006).8 The magnitude and uniqueness of the stepped structure
8
The walls are founded on bedrock or on a thin layer of debris which includes Iron I pot-
tery. Iron IIA pottery assemblage (including red slipped and burnished pottery as well as a
black-on-red Cypriot imported jug) which can be dated to the tenth to ninth centuries was
found in a single context related to an addition to the original building. I thank Eilat Mazar
for this information.

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 153
and its possible related inner building have no parallel anywhere in the
Levant between the twelfth and early ninth centuries BCE. It may be suggested
that this is Metsudat Zion—‘the fortress of Zion’—mentioned in the biblical
description of David’s conquest of Jerusalem. David is said to have changed
the name of the citadel to ‘Ir David, ‘the City of David’ (2 Sam. 5.7; 2 Sam.
5.9). Such an identification remains, of course, hypothetical, yet it might
appeal to those who believe that the biblical narrative preserved kernels of
valuable historical information from the remote past.
Iron IIA pottery (tenth to ninth centuries BCE) was found in all of the
areas excavated by Yigal Shiloh on the eastern slope of the City of David as
well as in the excavations carried out by Eilat Mazar in 2005.9 According to
the modified chronology I utilize, this pottery may be dated either to the
tenth or the ninth centuries BCE. The fact that almost no Iron IIA architec-
ture was preserved on the eastern slope of the City of David is just one aspect
of the unexpected state of preservation of structures on this steep slope.
Erosion, continued use of stone structures over hundreds of years, the search
for older building materials by later builders and rock-quarrying caused a dis-
tortion of the archaeological picture in Jerusalem. Thus, for example, the
lack of Late Bronze structures should be explained on the same grounds
(Na’aman 1996b).10
The massive fortifications discovered during the last decade by Reich and
Shukron (1999) around the Gihon spring are among the mightiest fortifica-
tions ever found in any Bronze or Iron Age site in the southern Levant. The
construction of this system was dated to the Middle Bronze Age. Yet did this
tremendous system and passage to the spring go out of use at the end of the
Middle Bronze? During the Iron Age II the water system was known and
modified twice, once before the reign of Hezekiah and once when Hezekiah’s
tunnel was cut. It may be assumed (though there is no direct proof) that the
immense towers were also in continued use from the Middle Bronze period
until the Iron II.11
9
The pottery from Shiloh’s excavation was partly published (by A. de Groot and D. Ariel in
Ariel (ed.) 2000, 35–42, 93–94, 113–21, figs. 11–15). The pottery from Area E will be published
in a volume of ‘Qedem’ submitted by A. De Groot and H. Greenberg. The pottery from Eilat
Mazar’s excavations (the cache mentioned in n. 8) belongs to the same horizon. In all cases, red
slipped and hand-burnished pottery was found.
10
In the excavations directed by Eilat Mazar on the summit of the City of David almost no
remains of the Iron IIB (eighth to seventh centuries BCE) were found, except a few pottery sherds
and a single bulla. This does not mean that the summit of the City of David was unsettled dur-
ing the later monarchy. It is just another expression of the unexpected state of preservation of
ancient remains in Jerusalem. Therefore it is impossible to accept Ussishkin’s 2003 conclusions,
which are based on the absence of remains from certain periods in Jerusalem.
11
This was suggested by Cahill 2003 and seems probable to me. Recall that Kenyon suggested such
a continuity in relation to the much poorer Middle Bronze wall that she found higher on the slope.

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154 Amihai Mazar
The Temple Mount area is unknown archaeologically, and thus there is

no direct evidence related to the supposed Solomonic structures there. If
Solomon had indeed built a royal acropolis and a temple on the mount, then
Jerusalem would be a city of 12 hectares with a royal acropolis and a temple,
recalling Iron Age cities in northern Syria (Ussishkin 1973). If, however,
Solomon did not built these structures and his role is removed from history,
who then was responsible for the construction of the Jerusalem temple and
palace? There is no doubt that such a temple stood on the Temple Mount
prior to the Babylonian conquest of the city, but we lack any hint in the
biblical sources of an alternative builder.
Much has been written concerning the Near Eastern parallels to the plan,
form and decoration of the temple and its equipment, and I pass over this
subject here (e.g. Zwickel 1999). It is enough to recall that the two Iron Age
temples of Tell Tainat and ‘Ain Dara in northern Syria, which are the closest
parallels to Solomon’s temple, were destroyed during the eighth century BCE,
and such temples are unknown after that. It thus appears that the biblical
description of the temple could not have been an invention of the seventh
century or later.
In summary, Jerusalem of the tenth century was initially a city of about
4 hectares, which could have reached an area of 12 hectares at the time of
Solomon. It appears that parts of this large area remained unbuilt. The mas-
sive citadel at the summit of the City of David, supported by the stepped
structure, is exceptional in this period. Such a city cannot be imagined as a
capital of a large state, yet it could well have served as a power base for rulers
such as David and Solomon, providing that we define correctly the nature of
their kingship and state.
Settlement and demography
Data suggesting a low settlement density and lack of urbanization in the

tenth century have been presented by Jamieson-Drake (1991, 48–80),
Finkelstein (2001, 107–08), and Lehmann (2003) as an argument in favour of
minimizing or even precluding the existence of the United Monarchy. Yet
these studies are strewn with methodological problems, as they rely on the
interpretation of surface surveys. It is difficult to assess results of such
surveys at sites that were settled continuously for most of the Iron Age: the
pottery collected would come from the last occupational phases, and only
stratigraphic excavation could reveal the sites’ occupational history. Both
temporal and spatial aspects of the development of such sites remain enig-
matic, and thus any calculations of the numbers and areas of settled sites
during the tenth and ninth centuries BCE are susceptible to significant errors.

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 155
A comparison of the settlement pattern in the Iron I to that of the eighth

century BCE points to a gradual increase in settlement over this timespan of
about 500 years. Avi Ofer, who assembled and analysed data from surface
surveys conducted in the Judean Highlands (between Jerusalem and south
of Hebron) estimated the built up area in this region during the tenth cen-
tury as 33 hectares, which may have accommodated c. 7,000 people (Ofer 1994,
102–05). Gunnar Lehman’s study, based on assembling data from various
surveys, came up with a low number of up to 10,000 people in Judah (the
Hebron hills, Jerusalem and the Shephelah) in the tenth century BCE (exclu-
ding the Northern Negev and Negev Highland) (2003, 141). This estimation
appears to be too low when considering Ofer’s results in a limited area of the
hill country. A higher estimate of about 20,000 people in Judah is more real-
istic, and such a number is considered by many as the threshold for the exis-
tence of a state. If we add to Judah the Israelite territories of northern Israel
and parts of Transjordan, this number would increase substantially and may
provide a sufficient demographic basis for an Israelite state in the tenth
century.
Urbanization
Excavated sites throughout the Israelite territories such as those at Hazor,

Kinneret, Beth-Shean, Tel Rehov, Megiddo, Yoqne’am, Tell el-Far’ah
(North, i.e. biblical Tirzah), Tell en-Nasbeh (?), Beth-Shemesh, Tell Beit-
Mirsim, Lachish, Beer Sheba and others indicate a process of urbanization
during the tenth century BCE. This would be the first stage of a development
that continued in most of these sites without abrupt interruption until the
late eighth century BCE. It should be mentioned though that many of the sites
remained unfortified and were not sufficiently developed as urban centres
during the tenth century.
The urbanization is accompanied by an important change in material cul-
ture, significantly expressed in pottery production: the Canaanite painted
pottery tradition, which survived in the plains until the late eleventh/early
tenth century, gives way to new traditions, characterized by new forms and
the appearance of red slipped and hand-burnished pottery. These new
traditions would continue to develop throughout most of the ninth century.
Solomonic Hazor, Megiddo and Gezer

Yigael Yadin’s renowned thesis (1972, 135–64) concerning Hazor, Megiddo
and Gezer in relation to Solomon’s building activity as detailed in 1 Kings
9.15 is still accepted by some but criticized by others. Ben-Tor (2000), based
on the traditional chronology, strongly supports this thesis in light of his

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156 Amihai Mazar
current excavations at Hazor. The five Iron Age IIA stratigraphic phases at
Hazor cannot be condensed into a seventy-year time slot in the ninth century
(as argued by Finkelstein) and thus it makes sense that the six-chamber gate
and casemate wall of the earliest of these cities (Stratum X) were constructed
during the tenth century.
The situation at Megiddo is complicated on account of the fewer strati-
graphic phases there. Between the last Canaanite city (Stratum VIA) of the late
Iron Age I and the Assyrian destruction of 732 BCE, there are three relevant
strata: the unfortified village or settlement of Stratum VB; the ‘palaces city’
(Stratum IVB–VA), and the ‘stables city’ (Stratum IVA). The first two yielded
Iron IIA pottery, which may be dated, based on my modified chronology, to
both the tenth and ninth centuries.
Stratum IVB–VA, Yadin’s ‘Solomonic city’, included at least two ashlar
built palaces; there was no city wall but the city was surrounded by a belt of
houses, which gave some defence. The elaborate six-chamber ashlar gate may
have been founded in this city, though its date is highly debated.12 The ques-
tion of the construction date and duration of this city are also debated.
12
The absence of a city wall in Stratum IVB–VA does not necessarily imply the absence of a gate.
The city was certainly defended by the outer belt of houses, and if indeed it contained elaborate
palaces, it probably required an elaborate gate as well, as was indeed the case in the Late Bronze
Age strata at Megiddo, where a monumental gate led to a city with no city wall. The date of the
six-chamber gate at Megiddo is disputed. While Yadin attributed it to Stratum IVB–VA,
Aharoni, Herzog, Wightman, Ussishkin, Finkelstein and others claimed that it was founded in
Stratum IVA (which Aharoni dated to the time of Solomon, Finkelstein to the time of Jeroboam
II and all others to the Omride era in the ninth century). In my opinion, the construction of the
gate can still be attributed to the previous Stratum IVB–VA, based on the following arguments:
* The Chicago expedition describes three superimposed gates: a two-chamber gate repla-
cing a four-chamber gate, the latter replacing the six-chamber gate. All three are related
to the same city wall, the ‘offsets insets’ Wall 325. If this was founded in the eighth cen-
tury, as Finkelstein claims, it would be difficult to explain such extensive changes in the
plans of the city gate in a time period limited to the eighth and seventh centuries BCE.
Such a phenomenon is unparalleled anywhere else.
* The city wall 325 abuts the upper part of the six-chamber gate as preserved. If the gate
had only one floor at a high level as claimed by those who date it to Stratum IVA alone,
we would need to conclude that the five nicely constructed ashlar courses, with wooden
beams between some of them, were buried below this floor, never intended to be seen.
In the Late Bronze Age gate of Stratum VII at Megiddo, which had similar ashlar
courses, the floor abutted the bottom of the lowest of these courses. A similar situation
could have existed at the Stratum IVB–VA gate as suggested by the excavator Gordon
Loud in his field diaries and repeated by Shiloh (1980). In such a case, the six-chamber
gate should be understood as having had two distinct architectural phases, the lower of
Stratum IVB–VA and the upper of Stratum IVA.
However, it must be admitted that there are stratigraphic details which pose problems regarding
the attribution of the gate to Stratum IVB–VA, in particular, the drain of Stratum IV–VA that
passes below the south-eastern pilaster of this gate structure.

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 157
According to the conventional chronology, it was constructed by Solomon

and destroyed by Shishak; according to Crowfoot and Finkelstein it was con-
structed during the ninth century by the Omrides; Ussishkin and others
maintained that though it might have been constructed by Solomon the city
was not destroyed by Shoshenq and continued almost unchanged into the
ninth century (for the various views see Finkelstein, Ussishkin and Halpern
2000, 557–63, 595–602). According to the modified chronology that I
endorse, the pottery found in the destruction level of this city could be dated
to either the tenth or the ninth centuries, and this leaves the door opened to
all three interpretations to be acceptable. This conclusion demonstrates the
flexibility in the interpretation of archaeological data for historical recon-
struction. Finkelstein’s view would lead to the conclusion that Ahab’s
Megiddo was an unfortified city—highly improbable in the light of the huge
fortifications found at nearby Jezreel and at other Israelite cities of the ninth
century BCE.
At Gezer, Dever and others attribute the six-chamber gate without
hesitation to the tenth century (Dever 1982; 1997, 226; Kenyon 1971; 1987,
98–105). I tend to agree, though the modified chronology would enable us
to date this structure to the ninth century as well.
To sum up, my proposed modified conventional chronology can justify
either acceptance or negation of Yadin’s thesis. We can progress no further
with this matter.
Lachish and the emergence of Judah

Our inability to date certain occupation strata to either the Solomonic or
the Omride eras complicates matters with regard to historical interpretation.
An example is the case of Lachish in relation to the emergence of Judah
(Ussishkin 2004, 76–83 with references). At Lachish, the long occupation gap
following the mid-twelfth century destruction of Stratum VI came to an end
with the foundation of Stratum V in the Iron Age IIA. This new unfortified
town was founded during the tenth century (as suggested by Tufnell, Aharoni,
Ussishkin’s earlier view, Herzog and Singer-Avitz 2004) or during the ninth
century, as suggested by Zimhoni and followed by Ussishkin (2004, 79). The
nature of this city remains unclear as well: was it just a poor, unfortified set-
tlement (as described by Ussishkin), or did it include the first phase of the
monumental palace (Palace A) as thought by Tufnell and Ussishkin (his earl-
ier view)? Answers to such questions are essential for historical reconstruc-
tion: if the city was founded in the tenth century and included Palace A, it
would accord well with the archaeological situation in Jerusalem as described
above, and could serve as evidence for the emergence of Judah as a state in
the tenth century. Yet the answers are not definitive, and one remains in the

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158 Amihai Mazar
same quandary of being subjected to historical paradigms when making a

choice between the two alternative interpretations of the archaeological data.
Lachish is included in the list of Rehoboam’s fortification system (2
Chron. 11.5–12). The date of this list is a debated issue and the question
whether Lachish was fortified during the end of the tenth century might
throw some light on this question (discussion and references in Ussishkin
2004, 75–76). The city was fortified only in Stratum IV, when a six-chamber
gate and a massive brick wall were constructed. Could this city have been
founded in the late tenth century and identified as the city that Rehoboam
built? Ussishkin’s current answer to this question is negative (2004, 79). He
dates the foundation of Stratum V to the late ninth century and Stratum IV
even later, in the late ninth/early eighth centuries.13 But in fact, Stratum IV
contains the same Iron IIA pottery that is found in Stratum V, and both can
be dated to either the tenth or the ninth centuries BCE. A more precise dating
is impossible, and thus in this case, too, different options are open.
The Sorek Valley sites and Solomon’s districts

Beth-Shemesh and Tel Batash along the Sorek Valley east of Ekron were
rebuilt in the Iron IIA on a new plan (Bunimovitz and Lederman 2001;
Mazar 1997, 254–56; Mazar and Panitz-Cohen 2001, 279–81). Two short
Hebrew inscriptions found at each of these sites mention the name Hanan,
which can be related to Elon Beth Hanan, a place-name mentioned in the sec-
ond district in the list of Solomon’s districts of 1 Kings 4.9. This seems to be
more than mere coincidence. Perhaps the family of Hanan settled this region
and the name was preserved in both these inscriptions and the biblical name.
Again, the possible tenth-century date of the inscriptions strengthens the
possible tenth-century origin of the biblical list.
Judah emerged in the south?

In a recent study of the Arad–Beer-Sheba Valley in the Iron IIA, Herzog and
Singer-Avitz (2004) present chronological conclusions that are similar to my
MCC as presented above; they date the foundation of major urban sites in
this region as well as in the southern Shephelah (such as Lachish V) to the
late tenth century. However, their conclusion that Judah emerged as a state in
this southern region rather than in the Judean hills, is based on a misunder-
13
The low date in the late ninth century given by Ussishkin to the foundation of Stratum V at
Lachish contradicts his own earlier dating to the tenth century BCE as well as the conclusions of
studies like Mazar and Panitz-Cohen 2001 and Herzog and Singer-Avitz 2004, who attribute the
foundation of Stratum V to the tenth century BCE.

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 159
standing of the archaeology of Jerusalem. As mentioned above, there is no

lack in remains from this period in Jerusalem and its vicinity.14
II. A GLANCE AT ISRAEL AND JUDAH IN THE

NINTH CENTURY BCE
In the following section, I will abruptly address certain issues related to the
ninth century (for synthesis of the archaeology of the states of Israel and
Judah see Mazar 1990, 406–526; Barkay 1992; Isserlin 1998; Herr 1997).
While the archaeology of the Northern Kingdom of Israel in the ninth
century is well substantiated, the emergence of Judah as a state during the
late tenth and ninth centuries is a subject of debate. The excavations at
Samaria and Jezreel confirm that the capital of the Northern Kingdom and
the subsidiary residence of the Omrides at Jezreel were indeed monumental
and well-planned royal enclosures in the ninth century BCE. The design of
both enclosures, the massive lime floors of the spacious courtyards, and the
use of ashlar masonry and architectural decoration are features of royal
architecture, which may have been inspired by Phoenician prototypes, though
they are hardly known at Phoenicia proper because of lack of excavations
(Kenyon 1971; Shiloh 1979; Mazar 1990, 406–16; Ussishkin and Woodhead
1997). There is a close correlation between the biblical narrative and the
archaeological picture relating to these sites (Williamson 1991; Na’aman
1997b). In addition to these two royal sites, excavations in a good number of
major cities (Dan, Hazor, Kinneret, Megiddo, Yoqne’am, Beth Shean, Tel
Rehov, Tell el-Far’ah [Tirzah] and Tell en-Nasbeh) and of minor towns and
villages of the Northern Kingdom as well as surface surveys in the Galilee
and Samaria hills (Zertal 2001) revealed evidence for population growth, den-
sity of occupation, trade relations, art and writing during the ninth century.
Of this vast material, I will mention here only a few items that can be related
to biblical texts.
The temple enclosure at Tel Dan was identified by Avraham Biran as the
sacred place constructed by Jeroboam (I Kgs 12.28–31). Even if this precise
identification may be questioned, the very existence of a major temple enclo-
sure at Dan during the ninth–eighth centuries BCE is beyond question, and
corroborates the basics of the biblical tradition concerning Dan.
14
Salvage excavations at the large site of Moza (directed by A. De Groot and Z.Greenhoot) have
indicated continued occupation from the tenth century BCE until the end of the Iron Age. This is
one of the few Iron Age sites in the Judean hills where a stratigraphic sequence covering the
entire Iron II period was documented.

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The citadel and other administrative buildings at Hazor Stratum VIII

were dated by the excavators to the time of the Omride dynasty, and there is
no reason to doubt this date.15 At Megiddo, the architecture of Stratum IVA
(if indeed it should be dated to the ninth century) includes the large stables
complexes which would fit the mentioning of Ahab as leading 2,000 chariots
to the battle of Qarqar according to Shalmaneser III’s monolith inscription.
Though this number may be an exaggeration, it still should be noted that
Ahab appears in this inscription as the owner of the largest number of char-
iots among the allies; it is tempting to attribute the Megiddo ‘stables city’
(Stratum IVA) to his time. Finkelstein’s date of Stratum IVA in the eighth
century is in my view not probable, though it is not impossible, in terms of
pottery chronology.
Excavations at numerous sites have demonstrated strong connections
between northern Israel, Phoenicia, Cyprus and to some extent even
Greece.16 At Tel Rehov, the ninth-century city of 10 hectares (Stratum IV)
was destroyed abruptly in heavy fire, perhaps as a result of Aramean con-
quest after the fall of the Omride dynasty. The rich variety of finds from this
site demonstrates the influence of strong Canaanite traditions in the local
cult and art, as well as imported Cypriot and Greek pottery. Several inscrip-
tions incised on pottery vessels are evidence for literacy (Mazar 1999; 2003b;
Coldstream and Mazar 2003; Mazar et al. 2005). Similar evidence is to be
found at other sites, mainly along the western Galilee (Hurvat Rosh Zayit)
and the valleys of Jezreel and Beth Shean.
Finally, the Tel Dan and Mesha’s stelae, as well as the Assyrian docu-
ments from the time of Shalmaneser III clearly demonstrate the status of the
Northern Kingdom during the ninth century. Though the details of the bib-
lical account may have been distorted by the Israelite historiographer, there
is no doubt that the Israel of the ninth century was a developed state with
strong impact on the entire region (Na’aman in this volume).
Unlike the Northern Kingdom, the status of Judah in the ninth century
is a controversial issue (for synthesis of the data and references see Mazar
1990, 416–60; Barkay 1990; Herr 1997, 141–47; Herzog and Avitz-Singer
2004). Some current authors claim that Judah was of no importance until the
eighth century BCE; some even claim that it gained importance only after the
fall of Samaria (Jamieson Drake 1991; Finkelstein 1999b; 2001; Finkelstein
15
Finkelstein 1999a claimed that Hazor Stratum VIII was constructed by the Arameans after the
conquest of the site by Hazael. This claim has no factual basis other than the desire of the
author to lower the date of Stratum VIII to the last third of the ninth century BCE. This would
force us to condense Strata VII, VI, VB and VA at Hazor to a mere seventy years, which appears
to be unrealistic.
16
Full references for the sites mentioned in this and the following sections would require much
space. Only a few recent publications are cited here. See Stern 1993 for references.

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 161
and Silberman 2001, 229–50). Such views contradict the mentioning of

Judah in the Tel Dan inscription, and in my view contradict the archaeolo-
gical picture. As shown earlier, the story of Judahite sites is that of a gradual
development from the late tenth century onwards. Unlike the Northern
Kingdom of Israel, Judah did not suffer from any severe military attack until
Sennacherib’s invasion in 701 BCE and its consequences, and Jerusalem was
not affected even by that invasion. The longevity of pottery assemblages, the
lack of destruction layers and the durability of massive stone buildings in the
Judean hills and the Shephelah blur the eyes of archaeologists who wish to
define in detail the development of Judean material culture in the ninth
century as against that of the previous or later centuries. This longevity is
the result of continuous development and prosperity in Judah throughout the
ninth and eighth centuries BCE. Cities and towns that were founded in the
late tenth or ninth centuries continued to survive with little change well until
the late eighth century. This explains situations at sites such as Jerusalem,
Beth-Shemesh, Lachish, Tell Beit Mirsim and others, where only few strata
represent these centuries (for Beth-Shemesh see Bunimovitz and Lederman
2001; for Lachish see Ussishkin 2004, 76–90).
At Arad, five strata (XII–VIII) were attributed to the tenth–eighth
centuries; the earliest is well anchored in the tenth century (above p. 148) and
thus provides a convenient starting point for Judean pottery chronology. The
pottery from Strata X–VIII is almost identical, illustrating the longevity of
pottery production in Judah. The same is probably true of Tel Beer-Sheba,
though some of the data is still unpublished.
Finally, I mention briefly the site of Kuntillet ‘Ajrud where a rich assem-
blage of inscriptions and paintings on pottery jars and wall plaster have
been found. Based on the pottery assemblage and 14C dates, this site is dated
to c. 800 BCE. Located close to the main road between Gaza and the Red Sea,
it seems to have been used as a road station as well as religious centre by peo-
ple from both Israel and Judah. This can be deduced from both Israelite and
Judean pottery forms found there. This site adds an important dimension to
the study of Israelite culture and religion in the late ninth century, which is
beyond the present discussion.
III. A GLANCE AT ISRAEL’S NEIGHBOURS IN THE

TENTH–NINTH CENTURIES BCE
In this section, I will briefly mention some of the implications of the archae-
ological work carried out recently related to Israel’s neighbours.

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162 Amihai Mazar
Philistia in the tenth–ninth centuries BCE

The intensive archaeological investigations in Philistia have revealed the
history of four of the five major Philistine cities mentioned in the Bible:
Ashkelon, Ashdod, Gath and Ekron. Of these, Ekron (Tel Miqne) and Gath
(Tell es-Safi) appear to be huge cities during the twelfth–eleventh centuries,
Ekron reaching an area of almost 20 hectares, and Gath a similar or larger
area.17 Yet Ekron diminished during the tenth century to an area of only 4
hectares, while Ashdod increased its settled area from about 8 to about 40
hectares during the same century, and Gath maintained its huge area of
about 20–30 hectares throughout the period (Gitin 1998; Maeir 2004). One
possible explanation for the shifts at Ekron and Ashdod is pressure on the
western Sorek region by the emerging United Monarchy. This might have
affected Ekron, which was the closest to Judah. It shrunk in size and popu-
lation, perhaps losing much of its hinterland. Gath, Ashdod and Ashkelon
(and probably Gaza, which remains unexplored) continued to thrive through-
out the tenth and ninth centuries, in accord with the biblical narrative, which
excludes Philistia from the territory of David’s conquests or later Judah.
Gath suffered a severe and violent destruction towards the end of the
ninth century, followed by decline in the eighth century. This fits exception-
ally well the biblical mentioning of its conquest by Hazael (2 Kgs 12.18), and
its almost total disappearance from later biblical references (Maeir 2004).
Here again, the biblical texts reflect knowledge of past events that must have
been anchored in ancient sources.
The Transjordanian states

Our knowledge of the twelfth–ninth centuries in Transjordan was negligible
until a few years ago. At Edom, recent excavations directed by Tom Levy of
a large-scale copper-smelting centre at Khirbet en-Nahas which operated
during the eleventh–ninth centuries BCE call for a new assessment of
Edomite history (Levy et al. 2004). Edom might already have been emerging
as a state in this period, thus explaining its frequent mentions in the biblical
narratives concerning the tenth and ninth centuries. I suspect that Bozrah
(Buseirah) could be the capital of such a state, yet the excavations at this site
did not penetrate below the late Iron Age strata there.
Current research also suggests the emergence of Moab in the twelfth–
eleventh centuries. Lahun, on the northern bank of the Arnon brook, was
a flourishing settlement in the twelfth century (Homès-Frederik 2000) and
Khirbet al-Mudayna al-‘Alyia further to the south was a well-fortified town
17
The size of Ashdod at this time was about 8 hectares; the size of Ashkelon remains unknown.

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 163
overlooking the Arnon river during the late Iron I period, c. 1000 BCE
(Routledge 2000). These discoveries and others to come may revolutionize our
knowledge of the emergence of Moab.
Ammon is less known in this period. The fortified city at Tell al-Umayri
flourished during the twelfth century BCE, yet the eleventh–ninth centuries at
Ammon are hardly known.
Phoenicia
Excavations at Dor, Achziv and Horvat Rosh Zayit shed new light on the
emergence of the Phoenician culture. At Achziv, an ashlar built burial cham-
ber was in continuous use from the tenth to the eighth–seventh centuries BCE,
thus demonstrating continuity from the early tenth century onwards in the
development of Phoenician pottery and burials (E. Mazar 2004).
The small but well-constructed citadel at Horvat Rosh Zayit in the
Western Galilee (Gal and Alexandre 2000) was perhaps a trading post
between Phoenicia and Israel during the late tenth and early ninth centuries
BCE. Its location close to the modern village of Cabul calls for its identifica-
tion with biblical Cabul, as suggested by the excavators, and thus it may pro-
vide a circumstantial background to the story in 1 Kings 9.10–13. This story
may reflect complex trade relations and border affairs between Israel and the
city state of Tyre during this period.
At Dor, the emergence of the Phoenician culture could be detected strati-
graphically; however, this site raised some controversies which are beyond the
scope of the present chapter (Stern 2000; Gilboa 2003).
The Arameans
We lack direct archaeological evidence on the emergence of the Aramean
states, and in particular Aram Damascus. Some compensation comes from
two sites, Tel Hadar and Bethsaida, in the territory of Geshur, a small
Aramean state located north and east of the Lake of Galilee and mentioned
in several biblical contexts, in particular related to David’s biography.
Tel Hadar included fortifications, a large granary and a store building
dated by the excavator to the eleventh century (Kochavi 1998 with earlier ref-
erences); Bethsaida Stratum VI, dated by its excavator to the tenth century
BCE, was an 8-hectare city fortified by immense city walls (Arav and Bernett
2000). Its fortifications were rebuilt in Stratum V (ninth century or at the
latest eighth century BCE), when its city gate was the largest ever excavated in
the southern Levant. Though Geshur was the smallest Aramean state, its
fortifications and public structures are evidence for strong central authority
and economic power from the late eleventh century BCE until the Assyrian

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164 Amihai Mazar
conquest. Here again, the archaeological evidence may corroborate the

kernel of biblical stories related to David’s biography.
Literacy
The dearth of inscriptions from tenth-century BCE contexts is said to prove

the lack of literacy at this period and thus the improbability of a central
administration and, consequently, of a state such as that of the United
Monarchy. However, the Northern Kingdom of Israel, which is mentioned in
several sources outside the Bible, did not yield many more inscriptions. Renz’s
corpus of Hebrew inscriptions (1995) attributes to the tenth century the
‘Gezer calendar’ and three short inscriptions from Tel Batash, Tel ‘Amal and
Rosh Zayit; to these we may now add two short inscriptions, one from Beth-
Shemesh and one from Tel Rehov Stratum VI (Mazar 2003). To the ninth
century, Renz could attribute only four short ostraca from Arad (the strati-
graphic contexts and chronological value of which, however, are debatable),
one short inscription from Tell el-Hammah, and the inscriptions from
Kuntillet ‘Ajrud, which are later than the Omride dynasty. To these we now
may add two inscriptions from Tel Rehov Stratum IV (Mazar 2003). One of
these mentions the name nm8 ⫽ Nimshi, and the same name was found on a
ninth-century jar in nearby Tel ‘Amal. Is this name related in some way to
Nimshi, Jehu’s father or grandfather?
In the light of the small amount of inscriptions from both the tenth and
the ninth centuries we may claim that the lack of a significant number of
inscriptions from the tenth century BCE does not preclude the existence of a
state such as that of David and Solomon. A knowledge of writing in the tenth
and ninth centuries BCE is evidenced by the few short, utilitarian inscriptions
that are known from this period, and it can be assumed that most of the
administrative writing was done on perishable materials. Inked inscriptions
on pottery sherds or complete jars and inscribed seals were introduced in
both Israel and Judah only after the end of the ninth century; the absence of
such inscriptions in the tenth and ninth centuries should not be used as an
argument against the existence of states in those centuries.
CONCLUSIONS: FROM THE TENTH TO THE NINTH CENTURIES
It is certain that much of the biblical narrative concerning David and

Solomon is mere fiction and embellishment written by later authors.
Nonetheless, the total deconstruction of the United Monarchy and the
de-evaluation of Judah as a state in the ninth century as described above

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 165
is based, in my view, on unacceptable interpretations of the available

data.
In evaluating the historicity of the United Monarchy, one should bear in
mind that historical development is not linear, and history cannot be written
on the basis of socio-economic or environmental-ecological determinism
alone. The role of the individual personality in history should be taken into
account, particularly when dealing with historical phenomena related to fig-
ures like David and Solomon (for recent theoretical discussions of the
emergence of the Israelite state see Masters 2001; Joffe 2002).
Leaders with exceptional charisma could have created short-lived states
with significant military and political power, and territorial expansion. I
would compare the potential achievements of David to those of an earlier hill
country leader, namely Lab’ayu, the habiru leader from Shechem who man-
aged during the fourteenth century to rule a vast territory of the central hill
country, and threatened cities like Megiddo in the north and Gezer in the
south, despite the overrule of Canaan by the Egyptian New Kingdom.18
David can be envisioned as a ruler similar to Lab’ayu, except that he operated
in a time free of intervention by the Egyptians or any other foreign power,
and when the Canaanite cities were in decline. In such an environment, a tal-
ented and charismatic leader, politically astute, and in control of a small yet
effective military power, may have taken hold of large parts of a small coun-
try like the Land of Israel and controlled diverse population groups under his
regime from his stronghold in Jerusalem, which can be identified archaeolog-
ically. Such a regime does not necessitate a particularly large and populated
capital city. David’s Jerusalem can be compared to a medieval Burg, sur-
rounded by a medium-sized town, and yet it could well be the centre of a
meaningful polity. The only power that stood in David’s way consisted of the
Philistine cities, which, as archaeology tells us, were large and fortified urban
centres during this time. Indeed, the biblical historiographer excludes them
from David’s conquered territories. Short-lived achievements like those of
David may be beyond what the tools of archaeology are capable of grasping.
The identification of Solomonic public buildings and fortifications
remains a debated issue. In my view, Yadin’s theory can be maintained in
most cases.
Great changes took place in the material culture in many parts of the
country during the tenth century (according to the conventional chronology).
This new material culture must reflect changes in the social, political and
economic matrix, and perhaps also in the self-identity of many population
18
Incidentally, it should be noted that archaeology has revealed no significant finds from
fourteenth-century Shechem, as it did not provide any information on Abdi Heppa’s Jerusalem.

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166 Amihai Mazar
groups. It remains to ask to what extent these changes occurred in relation to

the emergence of the Israelite state and its neighbours.
The United Monarchy can be described as a state in an early stage of evo-
lution, far from the rich and widely expanding state portrayed in the biblical
narrative. Shoshenq’s invasion of the Jerusalem area probably came in
opposition to the growing weight of this state.
The mentioning of bytdwd ( , ‘the House of David’, as the name of
the Judean kingdom in the Aramean stele from Tel Dan, possibly erected by
Hazael) indicates that approximately a century and a half after his reign,
David was recognized throughout the region as the founder of the dynasty
that ruled Judah. His role in Israelite ideology and historiography is echoed
in the place he played in later Judean common memory.
As to the ninth century, the emergence of the northern state of Israel is
now well documented by both archaeology and external sources. Its eco-
nomic wealth and international relations are widely known. Judah was not a
wealthy state like its northern counterpart, yet its existence in the ninth cen-
tury should not be denied. Urbanization and population density were much
less developed here than in Israel and Philistia, yet they justify the existence
of a state, strong enough to be mentioned in Hazael’s Tel Dan inscription.
Thus biblical historical data relating to Judah in the ninth century and its
relations with its neighbours should not be dismissed as unreliable.
Rather than accepting a revisionist theory that compels us to discard an
entire library of scholarly work, the evidence brought here calls for balanced
evaluation of the biblical text, taking into account that the text might have
preserved valuable historical information based on early written documents
and oral traditions that retained long-living common memory. These early
traditions were cast in the mould of literature, legend, and epic, and were
inserted into the later Israelite historiographic narrative which is thickly
veiled in theology and ideology. Yet many of these traditions contain kernels
of historical truth, and some of them can be examined archaeologically, as
demonstrated in this chapter. By ridding the texts of their literary, theologi-
cal and ideological layers and using the archaeological data critically, the
Hebrew Bible may be evaluated as a source for the extraction of historical
data, yet this has to be evaluated as much as possible in light of external evi-
dence. The results may prevent us—if I may use a colloquialism—from
throwing the baby out with the bathwater.
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Ussishkin, D., 1973. ‘King Solomon’s Palaces’, BA 36, 78–105.
——, 2003. ‘Solomon’s Jerusalem: The Text and the Facts on the Ground’, in
A. G. Vaughn and A. E. Killebrew, Jerusalem in Bible and Archaeology (Atlanta,
GA), 103–16.
——, 2004. The Renewed Archaeological Excavations at Lachish (1973–1994) (Tel
Aviv).
——, and J. Woodhead, 1997. ‘Excavations at Tel Jezreel 1994–1996: Third
Preliminary Report’, Tel Aviv 24, 6–72.
Yadin, Y. 1972. Hazor, The Head of All Those Kingdoms (London).
Wightman, G., 1990. ‘The Myth of Solomon’, BASOR 277/278, 5–22.
Williamson, H. G. M., 1991. ‘Jezreel in the Biblical Texts’, Tel Aviv 18, 72–92.
Zertal, A., 2001. ‘The Heart of the Monarchy: Pattern of Settlement and New
Historical Considerations of the Israelite Kingdom of Samaria’, in A. Mazar
(ed.), Studies in the Archaeology of the Iron Age in Israel and Jordan (JSOTSup
331; Sheffield), 38–64.
Zimhoni, O., 1997. Studies in the Iron Age Pottery of Israel (Tel Aviv).
Zwickel, W., 1999. Der Salomonische Tempel (Mainz).

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 171
Table 10.1 Divisions of the Iron Age in Israel.
Wright 1961
Iron IA: 1200–1150 BCE

Iron IB: 1150–1000BCE
Iron IC: 1000–918 BCE
Iron IIA: 900–800 BCE
Iron IIB: 800–587 BCE
Aharoni-Amiran 1958
Israelite I 1200–1000 BCE

Israelite II 1000–840 BCE
Israelite III 840–587 BCE
The New Encyclopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land (ed. E. Stern) 1993;
Mazar 1990
Iron IA: 1200–1150 BCE

Iron IB: 1150–1000 BCE
Iron IIA: 1000–925 BCE
Iron IIB: 925–720 BCE
Iron IIC: 720–586
Barkay and Ben-Tor 1992
Iron I: 1200/1150–1000 BCE

Iron IIa: 1000–800 BCE
Iron IIb: 800–700 BCE
Iron IIIa: 700–586 BCE
Iron IIIc: 586–520 BCE
Current Suggestion (A.Mazar)
Iron IA: 1200–115001140

Iron IB: 1150/40–c. 980 BCE
Iron IIa: c. 980–c.840/830 BCE
Iron IIb: c. 840/830–732/701 BCE
Iron IIIa: 732/701 BCE–605/586 BCE
Iron IIIc: 605/586–520 BCE

10 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:53 Page 172

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 173
11
Neither Eyewitnesses, Nor Windows to

the Past, but Valuable Testimony in its
Own Right: Remarks on Iconography,
Source Criticism and Ancient
Data-processing
CHRISTOPH UEHLINGER
A single witness shall not suffice to convict a person of any crime or wrong-
doing in connection with any offense that may be committed. Only on the
evidence of two or three witnesses shall a charge be sustained. If a malicious
witness comes forward to accuse someone of wrongdoing, then both parties to
the dispute shall appear before the LORD, before the priests and the judges
who are in office in those days, and the judges shall make a thorough inquiry. If
the witness is a false witness, having testified falsely against another, then you
shall do to the false witness just as the false witness had meant to do to the
other. So you shall purge the evil from your midst.
Deut. 19.15–19 NRSV
IT IS A TOPOS AMONG PRACTITIONERS OF ANCIENT HISTORY to present their

work in metaphorical terms as some kind of legal investigation. Historians
are trained to balance testimonies of various kinds, which often preserve
partial and sometimes conflicting views and interpretations of the past. What
are the prerequisites for a fair trial, when we aim at balanced and reasonably
accurate historical judgement? To begin with, one might think that we should
start to collect as much evidence as possible—a basic principle that sounds
like a truism but is not always respected. Moreover, the evidence produced
should be of various kinds, which means, for instance, that we should not
build a case on verbal testimony alone—essential points may never have been
mentioned during the interviews, but ultimately build up a case. Furthermore,
the pertinence of any single piece of evidence should be evaluated and its
relative weight put in balance. The most difficult task, however, will always
be to connect various unrelated testimonies so as to bring some order into the
process and to understand whether they really belong to the same story. This

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 174
174 Christoph Uehlinger
may lead us to conclude that some testimonies should better be disregarded

altogether. In many senses, the work of an historian thus resembles that of a
detective, as rightly argued elsewhere in this volume by David Ussishkin.
Not a few fellow historians would prefer to go beyond that role and
assume the authority of a judge, or possibly a jury. A good judge will aim at
understanding what happened (or, in the words of Leopold von Ranke, ‘wie
es eigentlich geschehen’). But he or she will know that what happened is gen-
erally not exactly what people are aware of, nor what they have kept in their
memories and even less what they tell during the audience, especially when
they are interested parties themselves. The tasks of a judge and an historian
differ, however, when it comes to judgement: while the former must divide
between true or false and pronounce a sentence, the latter may prefer a more
sceptical attitude and refrain from too definitive a judgement. He or she may
take a decision, but should not dismiss the possibility that he or she is wrong,
and that one would have to revise one’s judgement when new evidence or
better arguments allow or ask for reconsideration.
In no way should the historian become an attorney or prosecutor. This,
however, is precisely what seems to happen quite often in current debates
among ‘biblical historians’, ‘maximalists’ and ‘minimalists’ alike, and we our-
selves may sometimes have fallen prey to this—the worst case being that one
takes on several roles at once, detective, prosecutor and judge.
The aim of this chapter is to investigate the potential use of visual
sources, together with the methods employed for studying visual evidence,
such as iconography or iconology, for the history of ‘ancient Israel’.1 It is
divided into three main parts: remarks on the theoretical and conceptual
framework, particularly the notion of ‘eyewitnessing’; some considerations
on method, particularly iconography; and some case examples chosen from
monuments which are so well known to historians of ancient Israel that they
are well suited to illustrate both the pitfalls of more conventional interpre-
tations and the potential of alternative approaches, more sensitive to the
monuments’ peculiar status as visual documents.
1. HISTORY AND VISUAL ART, A MATTER OF EYEWITNESSING?
Historians of ancient Israel are familiar with the many problems involved in
the use of texts of various genres as historical sources, whether inscriptions
or literary compositions. It is generally to them that we devote most of our
attention, even when entering such difficult fields as social history where we
1
I am aware of the many problems surrounding this concept, on which see Davies 1992.

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VALUABLE TESTIMONY IN ITS OWN RIGHT 175
consider the lives of people, the vast majority of whom could neither read
nor write and who did not leave behind any written testimony concerning
their works and days. During the twentieth century, students of ancient Israel
became used to considering another set of evidence, namely material culture
as recovered by archaeological excavations. However amateurish our ways of
dealing with archaeology may often be, all books of the ‘history of ancient
Israel’ genre written during the second half of the twentieth century tried
to integrate at least part of this additional evidence. To be fair, most of
them—and for that matter, most archaeologies of ancient Israel/Palestine as
well—attempt to bring the Bible and archaeology into some sort of balance.
While opinions diverge over precedence, that is, whether or not archaeology
should always have priority over texts, particularly biblical texts 2 (the other
way round being rarely argued though often practised), I see no one who
would question in principle that both domains are essential for historical
research.
Few have really considered a third witness. Visual sources both monu-
mental and minute provide a testimony of another kind, which deserves to be
investigated in its own right.3 The relative neglect of visual evidence in stud-
ies of the history of ancient Israel, Judah and their neighbours is surprising
only in principle. It may be explained both in terms of medium and genre
(conventionally, ‘history’ refers to a narrative text, be it written or recited),
the neglect of iconography by historians in general (images have long been
regarded as art and mere illustration instead of independent evidence), the
relative dissociation of philological, archaeological and art-historical expert-
ise in modern scholarship, and perhaps also the religious background of most
students of the history of ancient Israel (Judaism and Protestantism each
having their particular relationship to images, although of course they are
neither artless nor aniconic). Some of these points will be discussed below.
Students of history, archaeology, biblical studies, or for that matter theology
have all learnt how to read and write, but they have rarely been taught in a
systematic way how to look at images, how to interpret them and how to
evaluate their potential for any particular segment of history they are
interested in.
In legal terms and common sense, eyewitness testimony weighs more than
the story of someone who happened to hear about something that is said to
have happened somewhere at some time. One would therefore presume that
visual evidence should attract particular interest among students of ancient
2
I have stated my personal opinion on these matters in Uehlinger 2001, 25–39, and 2005b,
282–86.
3
Note the legal metaphor in Keel’s title phrase, Das Recht der Bilder, gesehen zu werden (Keel
1992).

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history. As it stands, however, not only is this not the case, but the metaphor
of the eyewitness is part of our problem, as we shall see.
1.1. Disciplinary histories
Before turning to the sources—namely visual evidence that may be related to

the history of ancient Israel and Judah—let us briefly consider the state of
the art among fellow historians in neighbouring disciplines. The problem is
not peculiar to the history of ancient Israel, but is a particular consequence
of how knowledge is organized in modern academia. As a matter of fact,
many disciplines belonging to the so-called ‘humanities’ (or arts and letters),
and particularly those that address issues of ‘culture’ (note the recent rise of
a new concept of Kulturwissenschaften, hardly defined but unquestionably
fashionable, in Germany), give considerable importance to the historical
study of their subject, and to their own peculiar history, that is the genesis
and development of theories and methods within their discipline. Hence
the scholarly study of art has long been concerned almost exclusively with
the history of art (including the evolution of style, technique, genres, etc.), the
study of literature with the history of the respective literatures defined
according to language or nation, the study of music with the history of
(mainly Western European) music, and so on. Theology has produced bibli-
cal history and ecclesiastical history, while the study of non-Christian reli-
gions, for some time much concerned with so-called sacred literature,
developed during the nineteenth century into a full-blown discipline called
‘history of religions’. Historians, for their part, have long been trained to
work on particular sets of mostly written documents, with an emphasis on
archival material or various types of historiography, from ancient to modern.
As a result, ‘humanities’ happen as histories.
Libraries in humanities therefore contain histories of virtually any subject
of scholarly concern (including, e.g., a learned history of the je-ne-sais-quoi
in Early Modern Europe, Scholar 2005). Such ‘histories’ are generally defined
by the rules of any particular discipline, to the extent that one may well ask
what makes them ‘histories’ at all, and whether they have about them some-
thing of a lowest common denominator. They generally move within a canon
of methods and theories which are recognized within their respective disci-
pline, and thus contribute essentially to the growth and enlargement of intra-
disciplinary master narratives. Not surprisingly, then, the history of a certain
period and place does not look quite the same to a philologist, an archaeol-
ogist, an art historian or an historian tout court. The question is whether and
to what extent these scholars and disciplines communicate with each other
and exchange their relative insights, or whether they expect the primary

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 177
sources of the neighbouring field simply to duplicate their own disciplinary

master story.
1.2. Visual art and history
During the last two decades, several important conferences have been organ-
ized (e.g. Rotberg and Rabb 1988; Tolkemitt and Wohlfeil 1991) and major
textbooks published by renowned authors, art historians and historians on
how to use pictorial evidence for the purpose of history-writing (most
recently, Burke 2001 and Roeck 2004).4 They have helped to build bridges
between the disciplines in a cultural-historical perspective that tries to com-
bine such different approaches to history as nineteenth-century German
Kulturgeschichte (minus the latter’s philosophical conundra), the French
Annales tradition and structuralism and the distinctive qualities of an often
more pragmatic, less theory-driven English tradition of learning. Although
they generally address pictorial material relating to the European tradition
from the late Middle Ages to the present, they provide interesting theoret-
ical background and stimulating insights and discussions for their fellow
historians of the ancient Near East and ancient Israel as well.
To be sure, historians of the ancient Near East have a long tradition of
using visual evidence for their history. However, their studies are often more
antiquarian in perspective and rarely address problems of method and the-
ory concerning ancient visual art, at least as far as European scholarship is
concerned (Bonatz 2000 is a notable exception).5 The reason for this state of
affairs is probably that history of art, as an academic discipline that is quite
far removed from Near Eastern studies in terms of institutional affiliation, is
traditionally concerned first of all with the history of so-called classical (i.e.
Greek and Roman) art and the European tradition. Interestingly enough,
however, artworks of quasi-canonical status belonging to that tradition have
been repeatedly called upon by leading theorists from many other disciplines
both in the humanities and social sciences (philosophy, psychology, literary
criticism, culture theory, anthropology, etc.). This has generated continuous
4
To some extent, Roeck’s monograph runs parallel to Burke’s, although Roeck (a professor of
history at the University of Zurich) goes into more detail and treats the subject in an almost
exhaustive, if sometimes less thesis-driven, way. To compare the two books is to learn about two
cultures of learning and the different academic environments to which they are indebted. Since
this chapter addresses English-speaking readers (and for my own convenience as well), I shall
refer more often to Burke, borrowing as much from his insights as from his wording.
5
American scholars such as Irene J. Winter, Holly Pittman, Margaret Cool Root and others have
regularly dealt with theoretical issues (interestingly enough, this seems to be a field of female
scholarship especially). My purpose here is not to single out any particular scholar, but a tendency
within a whole discipline, particularly in European research.

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alternative academic discourses and even paradigms referring to these works

of art, discourses and paradigms which history of art as a discipline could
not easily ignore. In comparison, historians of the ancient Near East have
been far less exposed to critical theory, and theory tout court, whether for bet-
ter or for worse. A famous episode in the history of research concerns the
archaeologist Anton Moortgat’s interpretation of Near Eastern imagery in
terms of perceived Tammuz mythology (Moortgat 1949),6 which met with
harsh disapproval from philologists such as F. R. Kraus (1953). Kraus’s crit-
icism signalled considerable suspicion against art-historical approaches to
ancient Near Eastern material or visual culture in general (see Keel 1992,
20–23 on the Moortgat/Kraus controversy and its consequences). Only in
more recent years have practitioners of ancient Near Eastern history (philol-
ogists) and ancient Near Eastern art historians been coming closer again,
often meeting on common grounds prepared by archaeology.
When considering the relationship of history and visual art, or ‘visual
history’ (Gaskell 1991), we should distinguish between the issue of what one
may call historical imagination, or how visual art contributes to shape our
images of the past, and problems concerning the proper methods of interpre-
tation to be applied when we deal with visual documents in an historical per-
spective. The case examples discussed in section 3 of this chapter have been
chosen with an eye to both issues.
Regarding the first issue, historical imagination, we should mention the
late Francis Haskell’s History and its Images. Art and the Interpretation of the
Past (1993), which has become a classic on the subject. Haskell (1928–2000)
was Professor of the History of Art at Oxford University. The purpose of his
book is historiographical in the sense that he presents a history of the use of
visual evidence by students of history. From fifteenth-century numismatists
to twentieth-century cultural historians or from Petrarca to Huizinga, he asks
what kind of images were available to these scholars, what kind of images
they privileged for their particular aim as historians, how they approached
the sources they relied upon, and how the images they used had an impact on
them and contributed to shape their own image of history or historical imag-
ination. Haskell’s book provides fascinating background for another narra-
tive, which is better known to students of the ancient Near East, namely how
since Napoleon’s Egyptian expedition through the discoveries of Place,
Layard, Rassam and other early explorers Europe discovered the ancient civ-
ilizations of western Asia in the context of imperial competition. The impact
on historical imagination of monuments and of their public exposure in
6
While Moortgat’s approach does not contradict Erwin Panofsky’s method of iconography and
iconology (on which see below), it was more influenced by the work of Ludwig Curtius
(1874–1954), a classical archaeologist with considerable expertise in Near Eastern art as well.

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 179
imperial museums has been amply documented, and also the way it modelled
the perception of the ancient Near East by Orientalist scholars, whether his-
torians, philologists or archaeologists (see Gunter 1992; Larsen 1996; Bohrer
2003). Within the field of ancient Israelite and Judahite history, images such
as that of King Jehu paying homage to the Assyrian king Shalmaneser III
(see below section 3.2. on the Black Obelisk) or the sculptures showing the
conquest of Lachish by Sennacherib (see section 3.3.) have left a powerful
imprint on the historical imagination of scholars since their discovery and
early display in the mid-nineteenth century. Haskell’s book demonstrates that
the intellectual matrix that determined that perception had already been
shaped by a long-standing use of antiquarian evidence for Europe’s own his-
tory and self-understanding which was ultimately rooted in early humanism,
but particularly by modern imperial experiences and nationalisms (see his
chapters on ‘Historical Narrative and Reportage’, ‘The Birth of Cultural
History’, ‘The Arts as an Index of Society’, and ‘Museums, Illustrations and
the Search for Authenticity’).
1.3. Eyewitnessing
Let us come back to the metaphor of legal investigation, the balancing of tes-
timony, and the particular status of an eyewitness. Peter Burke (1937),
Professor of Cultural History at the University of Cambridge, has recently
published in the ‘Picturing History’ series a monograph entitled Eyewitnessing.
The Use of Images as Historical Evidence (2001). In this book, he brilliantly
surveys the potentials and pitfalls of images being used as ‘admissible evi-
dence’ in critical history-writing. Images, writes Burke, may contain valuable
information about unpreserved material culture and the use of particular
objects in certain contexts. They may stage social practices such as feasting,
hunting or warfare, including details such as camp organization during a
military campaign (for each of these categories one immediately thinks of
relevant Assyrian sculptures, which are not treated by Burke since the ancient
Near East falls outside the horizon of European cultural history). Images can
display various aspects of social organization, power and prestige, including
codes of gender and age differentiation or ethnic distinctions. They thus pro-
vide essential evidence that would otherwise be lacking, and it seems obvious
therefore that historians should not ignore their testimony. However, says
Burke,
Relatively few historians work in photographic archives, compared to the num-
bers who work in repositories of written and typewritten documents. Relatively
few historical journals carry illustrations, and when they do, relatively few
contributors take advantage of this opportunity. When they do use images,

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 180
historians tend to treat them as mere illustrations, reproducing them in their

books without comment. In cases in which the images are discussed in the
text, this evidence is often used to illustrate conclusions that the author has
already reached by other means, rather than to give new answers or to ask new
questions. (Burke 2001, 10)
Whenever available and used, images have an impact on historical imagi-

nation and, says Burke, ‘allow us to “imagine” the past more vividly’ (ibid.,
13), a point extensively documented by Haskell, as we have seen.
Beyond mere imagination, Burke’s book also offers a fascinating pan-
orama of examples where visual evidence (whether sources or traces) can
indeed make a formidable contribution to the work of the historian, provided
he or she has learnt how to ‘read’ the pictures (‘reading pictures’ being a very
old trope that goes back at least as far as Pope Gregory the Great, c. 540–604
CE), to ask the right questions and to handle the ‘evidence’ with care. Take
portraits, for example, a genre which has a particular affinity to ‘documenta-
tion’: they are formalized ‘presentations of the self’, not equivalents of a can-
did camera, and what they record is, writes Burke, ‘not social reality so much
as social illusions, not ordinary life but special performances. But for this
very reason, they offer priceless evidence to anyone interested in the history
of changing hopes, values or mentalities’ (ibid., 26, 28). The testimony of
images ‘is essential for historians of mentalities, because an image is neces-
sarily explicit on issues that may be evaded more easily in texts. Images can
bear witness to what is not put into words’ (ibid., 31). But ‘what we see is a
painted opinion, a “view of society” in an ideological as well as a visual sense’
(ibid., 122).
Still, images as much as texts require ‘source criticism’, since their testi-
mony ‘like that of texts, raises problems of context, function, rhetoric, recol-
lection (whether soon or long after the event), secondhand witnessing and so
on’ (ibid., 15). According to Burke, we should always ‘begin by studying the
different purposes of their makers’ (ibid., 19—a phrase that seems to echo
Michael Baxandall’s ‘patterns of intentions’, on which see below, section
2.2.). While images can sometimes provide insights in spaces left blank by
other sources, we should not use them only to answer questions raised but left
unanswered by the texts. Visual documents must be contextualized, but they
also need to be studied in their own terms. Probably the best thing images
may offer to historical research is that they offer a different, peculiar kind of
evidence and allow other questions to be asked than are raised by texts or
(other) archaeological and artifactual evidence.

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1.4. Problems with eyewitnessing
While it may be true to some extent that images ‘record acts of eyewitness-
ing’ (Burke 2001, 14), Burke himself demonstrates at length that the eyewit-
ness metaphor is not without problems. One may say that images document
ways of seeing or looking at and representing reality much more than that
reality itself; they do not provide windows to the past but witness to the gaze
and mise en scène on behalf of both ancient image-makers and their modern
interpreters. I shall not go into the difficult subject of gaze in more detail
here, but limit myself to pointing out that this is a much-debated issue in cur-
rent art and visual culture criticism. Reception aesthetics—to which artists
such as René Magritte have themselves contributed in their own, somewhat
provocative way—have long taught us to study pictures not only as pure
objects and one-way-decodable messages in themselves, but to give equal
importance to ‘the eyes of the beholder’, to the process of ‘looking at’ and to
the gaze as active instances in a complex hermeneutic encounter (‘der
Betrachter ist im Bild’). In the face of pictures as much as texts, meaning is
actively construed by the person who seeks to understand. It is essential
therefore to ask how and for what purpose historians use images in their
historiographical projects.
In the history of ancient Israel as in any other, the way images are used
and discussed tells us at least as much about the gaze, or the way people look
at Israelite and Judahite history, as about that history itself. Consider an arti-
cle published recently in the Biblical Archaeology Review, focusing on the
Israelite exodus from Egypt (fig. 11.1):7 drawing on biblical texts, epigraphic
evidence (of various origins and dates) and archaeological bits and pieces, the
author argues for an early date and a high degree of historical trustworthi-
ness of the so-called Song of the Sea (Exod. 15). We do not have to address
this particular argument here. More interesting for our purpose is the way the
argument is framed by a massive title (‘Eyewitness testimony’), an assuring
subtitle, a lead text—and pictures. The question ‘How old are the Bible’s nar-
ratives of the Exodus from Egypt?’ may sound rhetorical when it appears just
underneath a subtitle that declares that ‘Parts of Exodus [were] written
within living memory of the event’. The main title’s message is supported by
visual evidence of the strongest kind: the Black Obelisk and its so-called
‘Jehu vignette’. Of course, this monument has nothing to do with the Exodus;
the way of referring to it owes more to present-day tabloid rhetoric than to
history and historical scholarship. We should refrain from blaming the
author: his text does not even mention the Black Obelisk and he is certainly
7
In accordance with bibliographical rules, the article is quoted as Halpern 2003, although the
author was probably not involved in the preparation of the visual decorum.

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 182
Figure 11.1 Modern appeal to visual evidence as ‘eyewitness testimony’ (Biblical Archaeology
Review vol. 29, fasc. 5, 2003, pp. 50–51).

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 183
Figure 11.1 cont.

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 184
not responsible either for the visual formatting rules followed by the Biblical
Archaeology Review or for the particular headlines. What is really intriguing
and interesting for our concern is the appeal to the eyewitness metaphor
together with the conspicuous reference to an emblematic image. It seems as
if visual evidence was employed here in order to effectively counterbalance
insights of historical-critical Bible research, namely, that the Exodus story is
no eyewitness testimony at all. An image is used to support a claim for his-
torical truth, a truth claimed via visual evidence and pitted against critical
enquiry. Seeing is believing: the logic behind the screen has long been
engraved in the cultural memory of the West (and probably far beyond).
The valuation of ‘eyewitnessing’ is itself a cultural construct, which has
deeply influenced the way Western historians deal with images of the past. In
381 CE, a lady called Egeria travelled to Egypt and Palestine where she spent
three years of her life visiting holy places. When arriving at the ruins of
Ramesse (probably localized at Qant ir), she was shown a monumental dou-
ble statue said to have been erected by the sons of Israel in honour of their
holy men Moses and Aaron. This at least was the explanation of her local
guide, readily accepted by the pilgrim. The actual monument may well have
been a double statue of King Ramesses II and an Egyptian god, such as those
which have been found by Flinders Petrie at Memphis and Tell er-Retabe or
by Pierre Montet at Tanis ( S an el-Hagar; see Keel 1994, 156–61). When
Egeria saw these biblical characters with her own eyes, her faith and confi-
dence in the founding traditions of the Bible were reinforced. Just as pil-
grimage has much to do with eyewitnessing, our search for historical
eyewitness testimony sometimes belongs to the realm of intellectual pilgrim-
age. To be sure, the historical identification of the main characters rep-
resented on the Black Obelisk are certainly more pertinent than in the case
of lady Egeria’s Moses and Aaron, but the way in which the Biblical
Archaeology Review article quoted above wants us to relate to ancient history
works along much the same lines as pilgrimage, at times to the point of devo-
tion. Such a sense of witnessing and what our eyes should believe does not
need to be illusory per se, but it cannot be the critical historian’s point of view.
2. REMARKS ON METHOD
2.1. Iconography and beyond
This is not the place for going into details of iconographical methodology.
Suffice it to say that art-historical interpretation of a kind that interests the
historian still owes much to the approach to iconography and iconology ini-
tiated by the famous German art historian and Renaissance expert Erwin

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 185
Panofsky (1892–1968) in close discussion with Aby Warburg and Ernst

Cassirer, among others (on method, see especially Panofsky 1932; 1939;
1957).8 Panofsky’s scheme of interpretation—which he updated several times
during his career, being clearly convinced that it was basically sound—dis-
tinguishes three levels of interpretation corresponding to as many levels of
meaning in the work itself:
1 pre-iconographical description of motifs, concerned with the primary
or natural meaning and consisting of recognizing objects and forms, expres-
sions and actions (such as thirteen men sitting around a table for a meal and
conversation);
2 iconographical analysis sensu stricto, which aims at recognizing the
secondary or conventional meaning of motifs and compositions, not least
with recourse to literary tradition (e.g. the Last Supper);
3 iconological interpretation, concerned with so-called ‘intrinsic mean-
ing’, which for Panofsky meant ‘those underlying principles which reveal the
basic attitude of a nation, a period, a class, a religious or philosophical per-
suasion’, that is, great ideas and values of a period and its Zeitgeist.
Considering the individual artwork in symptomatic terms as an expression
and medium of Zeitgeist, Panofsky was most interested in this third-level
operation, basing himself on the somewhat airy concept of ‘synthetic intu-
ition’. It is obvious at once that such a scheme could only be designed by a
classical humanist (cf. Summers 1995).
More influential than any other method put forward during the twentieth
century, Panofsky’s approach has stimulated intense discussions (see
Kaemmerling 1979; Lavin 1995). While some authors criticized Panofsky’s
elitist indifference to social context, others objected to his obvious logocen-
trism: his second level switches too quickly to literary tradition, instead of
remaining with the visual evidence itself and the latter’s own, peculiar tradi-
tion; and the third level of meaning is often construed on the basis of utterly
sophisticated philosophical speculations hardly substantiated by the visual
evidence on the pictorial documents themselves. As a whole, Panofsky’s
method ‘is too literary or logocentric, in the sense of assuming that images
illustrate ideas and of privileging content over form, the humanist adviser
over the actual painter or sculptor’ (Burke 2001, 41). According to Burke,
Panofsky and his colleagues and followers were in fact applying or adapting
to images ‘a distinctively German tradition of interpreting texts’, pioneered
a century earlier by the classical scholar Friedrich Ast (1778–1841), who had
8
With the rise of National Socialism in Germany, the intellectual heritage of Warburg, Panofsky
and others moved to London, where the Kulturwissenschaftliche Bibliothek ultimately merged
into the Warburg and Courtauld Institute, and to the Institute of Advanced Studies at Princeton,
NJ (see Michels 1999).

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distinguished three levels in literature, namely the grammatical, the historical

and the cultural, and who recognized the ultimate end of interpretation in
hermeneutics (see Burke 2001, 36).
Despite much legitimate criticism, however, the general plausibility of
Panofsky’s scheme is still widely recognized, and rightly so. Not surprisingly,
many of the critics have extended or adapted the scheme to their own theo-
retical preferences, without replacing it altogether (regarding ancient Near
Eastern iconography, see for instance Keel [and Uehlinger] 1992, 267–73;
Kühne 1999; Bonatz 2000, 5–12). Many authors continue to use the term
‘iconography’ in a sense that combines Panofsky’s levels 1 and 2, and they use
‘iconology’ as a closely related term, often comparing ‘geography’ to ‘geol-
ogy’ and generally replacing Panofsky’s appeal to Zeitgeist by a more definite
concern for social history, patronage and audience, context, cultural tradition
and so on (Ginzburg 1983). Iconography and iconology have thus definitely
moved beyond Panofsky’s concern for the ‘essential tendencies of the human
mind’ and a prime interest in philosophy and symbolism to more historicized
interpretations of visual art and culture. These more recent approaches con-
cur with earlier ones in their conviction that images and iconography con-
tribute more to the history of mentalities, or cultural history, or social history
in the Annales tradition, than to the history of single events. This being said,
there is hardly any historical interpretation of visual documents that would
currently not be based on iconography (Roeck 2004, 43).
Having once acknowledged the conceptual displacement from philosophy-
driven iconology to social and cultural history or even historical anthro-
pology, we may take stock of the so-called ‘linguistic turn’ in the humanities
and add some of its benefits, particularly from structuralist and semiotic
theorists such as Claude Lévi-Strauss, Roland Barthes and Umberto Eco, to
the iconographical and iconological project. Burke rightly stresses that ‘inso-
far as they do analyse specific elements of images, Lévi-Strauss, Barthes and
Eco might all be described as doing iconography rather than breaking with
it’ (Burke 2001, 176; cf. Boon 1995).9 In a theoretical, meta-linguistic per-
spective, images may indeed be considered as formalized visual messages
quite analogous to texts or any other medium of symbolic communication.
By the same analogy, we could speak of a visual (or pictorial) language
(langue) that performs as an idiom (corresponding to the parole in struc-
turalist terminology) with its proper vocabulary (motives), with iconemes
carrying particular semantic values and meanings arranged into scenes, for-
mulae or constellations according to specific syntactical and compositional
rules and conventions, rules that may themselves vary according to genre, tra-
9
Compare Roeck 2004, 57: ‘Ihre eigentliche Wirkung hat die Ikonologie für die Semiotik und
für strukturalistische Ansätze gezeitigt.’

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dition and context (and that may also on occasion be transgressed). Since
images have their own rhetoric and pragmatic, they may even act—as much
as speech is said to act (J. L. Austin, J. Searle)—although it would probably
be more pertinent to say that people act with and through images (see
Bräunlein 2004 on ‘Bildakte’). The latter is particularly obvious when we con-
sider images that were used on purpose as media for political, partly public
and to some extent ideology-driven communication, such as the monumental
images we shall address later in this chapter.
Although the analogy of images with texts, of visual communication with
language, may have its own pitfalls, it can also be helpful to supplement
Panofsky’s three levels of meaning with the three basic linguistic categories of
syntax, semantics and pragmatics. One could go on including more of mod-
ern media and communication theory and terminology (Uehlinger 2005a),
but I shall stop at this point. There are so many plain analogies that scholars
working in the field of textual and literary analysis should have no difficulties
in recognizing the practicability and potential usefulness of visual analysis
and interpretation for historical analysis, past polemics notwithstanding. As
a matter of fact, a growing number of scholars studying the ancient Near
East investigate the reciprocal relationship of images and texts, comparing
for instance the visual rhetoric of narrative and formal sculptures and the
textual rhetoric of Ashurnasirpal’s annals in the throne-room of his palace
at Kalach/Nimrud (see Winter 1981 and Lumsden 2004 with references to
earlier bibliography; compare Tefnin 1979, 1981, 1984, 1991 on related issues
in Egyptian art and visual communication).
2.2. Patterns of intentions, and the triangle of re-enactment
When analysing visual documents, we nowadays look for cultural codes

negotiating meaning in shifting socio-historical contexts rather than for
meanings that we could fix on a stable cultural canvas. This is the place to
mention one of the classic essays on the historical explanation of art,
Michael Baxandall’s Patterns of Intention (1985). According to Baxandall, a
British art historian (1933) who taught at the Warburg and Courtauld
Institute and at the University of California at Berkeley, if one takes pictures
as visual artifacts, these should be historically explained as products of pat-
terned intentions, that is, ‘products of purposeful activity, and therefore
caused’ (Baxandall 1985, vi). ‘Intention’ is not construed by Baxandall as an
individual, historical artist’s particular state of mind, or as an exclusively
‘authorial intention’, but as a ‘relation between the object and its circum-
stances’ (ibid., 42)—one could as well speak of ‘intentionality’ or ‘purpose-
fulness’, the main point being that these qualities are not only located within

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the historical actor’s mind but objectively related to the historical object or
document: ‘it is primarily a general condition of rational human action
which I posit in the course of arranging my circumstantial facts or moving
about on the triangle of re-enactment’ (ibid., 41).
Explaining a visual document of the past requires that one asks questions
about the knowledge, skills and abilities required on behalf of its authors, but
also about the document’s social location, its function as a medium of social
communication, the modes of reception it could generate, and so on. Because
it replaces the object to be understood in a complex network of past social
relations and actors, ‘interpretation’ or ‘explanation’ have much to do with re-
enactment. ‘The maker of a picture or other historical artifact is a man
addressing a problem of which his product is a finished and concrete solu-
tion. To understand it we try to reconstruct both the specific problem it was
designed to solve and the specific circumstances out of which he was address-
ing it’ (ibid., 13–14). The ‘triangle of re-enactment’, as Baxandall has coined
his procedural framework, is formed by a problem (why this picture, required
and produced by whom, to what end and in which social and institutional
context?), a culture (its dispositions, values and expectations, genres and sub-
jects, abilities and competences) and the outcome of the pictorial process,
namely, the resulting work of art. Accordingly, ‘historical objects may be
explained by treating them as solutions to problems in situations, and by
reconstructing a rational relationship between these three’ (ibid., 35).
Re-enacting problems, means, situations and solutions of other cultures
poses particular challenges, since the problem, the means and the circum-
stances are all shaped by a particular cultural tradition: ‘not some aesthetical
sort of cultural gene but a specifically discriminating view of the past in an
active and reciprocal relation with a developing set of dispositions and skills
acquirable in the culture that possesses this view’ (ibid., 62). By consequence,
‘a first task in the historical perception of a picture is therefore often that of
working through to a realization of quite how alien it and the mind that made
it are’ (ibid., 115).
2.3. Putting the images back into context, or images as artifacts and media
Such principles are of course well known to students of ancient literature,

though not always made as explicit as one might wish when it comes to deal-
ing with canonical literature such as biblical texts, and at any rate rarely taken
into account when students trained in literature make use of visual evidence
in order to support a particular case for the purpose of historical argument.
The historical interpretation of visual documents must not concentrate exclu-
sively on the ‘content’ or ‘subject matter’ of an image—what one might call

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its semantic aspects—but should always take into account the peculiar
potentials and possibilities (or circumstances) of visual representation at a
given place and period: the formal constraints (syntax) which are often
related to material, style, skill and even genre. Whenever possible, it should
also address a document’s pragmatic function, that is, the particular position
within the total network of social communication of a society. To put it
briefly, explaining an image in historical terms requires contextualization and
sensitivity for the practicalities of social communication.
Drawing mostly on early modern and modern paintings and twentieth-
century photographs, Peter Burke has argued that ‘images should not be con-
sidered mere reflections of their time and place, but rather extensions of the
social contexts in which they were produced’ (2001, dust-jacket). His
approach to ancient images ‘might be described as the “cultural history of
images”, or even the “historical anthropology of images”, since it is con-
cerned to construct the rules or conventions, conscious or unconscious, gov-
erning the perception and interpretation of images within a given culture’
(ibid., 180). I think that this is precisely the way we should address ancient
Near Eastern images as well. When concerned with Israel and/or Judah, such
images may become valuable witnesses for the history of ancient Israel, pro-
vided we consider them as testimonies not so much of ancient eyewitnesses
but of ancient ‘gaze’—‘testimonies of past social arrangements and above all
of past ways of seeing and thinking’ (Burke 2001, 185). When ancient images
distinguish between locals and foreigners, for instance, by attributing differ-
ent costume and attitude to people, we are tempted to look at them as win-
dows to past reality. It would be preferable, however, to consider them first in
a more formal way, as indexical signs of distinction and witnesses to peculiar
visual taxonomies. As mentioned above, critical discussions of Orientalism
have taught us that European images depicting members of ‘oriental’ cultures
and societies tell us much more about eighteenth- and nineteenth-century
Europe, the societies which by means of such images shaped both their
stereotypical, prejudiced image of the ‘others’ and their own value system
and identity, than about the ‘Oriental’ foreigners themselves and their way of
life (Burke 2001, 123–39, has a chapter on ‘stereotypes of Others’). This is
even more obvious in the case of images that show interaction between mem-
bers of one society, one culture and another. Considered thus, images may
indeed become a primary source for the study of past mentalities and reali-
ties, but we should carefully consider not just what they represent, but also
how they do it, why they do it in their particular way and with what audience
in mind. Images tell as much about those who represent as about what or
whom they represent. To put it squarely, we should take the images back into
their social and historical contexts, where they functioned as media of socially
meaningful communication and sometimes even served a recognizable

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function within a definite ‘figurative policy’ (a key term I borrow from

Porter 1993).
To sum up, practising iconography or iconology in a social-historical per-
spective means that we consider images not only as pictures and representa-
tions of something else, as windows to the past, but in their very materiality
as artifacts made by someone at some time, often on behalf of someone else,
for a particular purpose and with an audience in mind.
2.4. From casual observer to serious student—once more, on historical

imagination
Historians working with visual sources engage in a peculiar way with the
past. While art theory has long recognized the essential ‘share of the
beholder’ in any perception and interpretation of visual evidence, however
acquainted one may feel with a culture or however strange the object to be
looked at may be, ‘looking into the past’ exposes the historian working with
visual sources more than others to historicist temptations and fallacies. The
danger of historicist misunderstandings considerably increased during the
twentieth century, with the growing importance gained by photography and
film as media of documentation. Hayden White once coined the term ‘histori-
ophoty’ as a complement to the usual ‘historiography’ in order to account
for the photography-based representation of history that is so characteristic
of the twentieth century (White 1988). Alan Trachtenberg has argued that
‘the idea of the camera has so implanted itself that our very imagination of
the past takes the snapshot as its notion of adequacy, the equivalent of
having been there. Photographs are the popular historicism of our era; they
confer nothing less than reality itself’, to the extent that ‘historical knowledge
declares its true value by its photographability’ (1985, 1, quoted by Haskell
1993, 4). According to Burke, ‘In the age of photography, the memory of par-
ticular events became more and more closely associated with their visual
images. (. . .) In the age of television, the perception of current events is vir-
tually inseparable from their images on the screen’ (Burke 2001, 140). While
there can be no doubt that new media have a powerful impact on our way of
writing and visualizing history, such statements should make us particularly
suspicious when, as we have seen, scholarly debates on the history of ancient
Israel and the trustworthiness of biblical sources are staged in a public arena
according to the rules of tabloid communication.
Many so-called documentaries have been thoroughly criticized for their
blatant or alleged non-objectivity. We all know that ‘the camera can lie’ as
much as any other medium, particularly in an age where post-production and
image manipulation have become banalized everyday operations accessible to

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 191
any individual with a minimal exposure to multimedia technology. Perhaps

this makes it easier for contemporary scholars to take a (de-)constructivist
stance towards their object much in the way described above with reference
to Baxandall: images are carefully designed and crafted products of pat-
terned intentions, skills and purposes. Yet to conclude that there may be a liar
behind every photographer is a truism as well as a blatant exaggeration.
Somewhat in reaction against reception-oriented approaches that stress
the active participation of the beholder’s eye in giving meaning to images,
post-structuralist theory also takes an interest in ‘the ways in which past
works of art actually work at prefiguring the shape of their subsequent his-
tories’ (Holly 1996, xiii). While vulnerable to misunderstandings and even
abuse, images—as much as texts, for that matter—do not under normal cir-
cumstances allow for any sort of interpretation; rather, they channel the
interpreter towards more or less adequate, or suitable, or at least plausible
explanations. This implies that some more or less plain meaning and/or sig-
nificance is encoded in images (one of the more delicate tasks in practice is of
course to draw a line between the more and the less). Historians working with
visual data should take seriously the questions posed by Michael Ann Holly,
a former professor of art and art history at the University of Rochester who
is now affiliated with the Clark Art Institute in Williamstown, MA. In the
preface to her Past Looking: Historical Imagination and the Rhetoric of the
Image (1996), she asks:
How do works become intelligible to those who write about them? Where does
the process of historiographic invention begin? If indeed it is the case that a
dynamic understanding of interpretation demands that we as art historians
come to terms with what we do to the work, it is equally useful to ask what the
work of art does to us: how it sets us (its scholars) up as spectator-historians to
see things in certain rhetorically specific ways according to its own logic of fig-
uration. In writing about the past, we may be striving to look at its visual traces
without realizing that those works of art are also forever looking back at us
(Holly 1996, xiv).
The latter formulation may seem unnecessarily rhetorical to those who

are less inclined to consider the object of their study in terms of an active
partner engaging in an interpersonal communication. Still, Holly reminds us
that images, like texts, have their rhetoric and power of persuasion (one might
refer to Freedberg’s classic Power of Images here), and that dealing with
visual sources requires some readiness on behalf of the observer–historian to
engage carefully with the strategies of persuasion displayed by the docu-
ments. Just how much images have indeed a genuine capacity of their own to
direct our perception and interpretation may be illustrated by the fact, for
example, that Austen Henry Layard identified face A of the Black Obelisk
(see Figs. 11.6–7 below) as the main face since the very day of its discovery.

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 192
His opinion has never been questioned since, but may, on the contrary, be
easily substantiated by structural analysis. When for Holly ‘the choice seems
to be between the objectivity of the objects of art or the subjectivity and sub-
jecthood of their interpreters’ (1996, 7), I would therefore prefer exploring
both and choosing a kind of third way in between, combining both the struc-
tured message of the document and the structuring intelligence of its
beholder.
Again according to Holly, ‘A casual observer can walk away. The histor-
ian of art, however, is compelled to repeat, or at least react to, the conceits of
positioning in his or her historical account’ (ibid., 9). It is our decision
whether, as historians of ancient Israel, we want to remain casual observers
or step in and engage seriously with visual sources. In the latter case, keeping
in mind what we have learned with Baxandall on re-enactment, we might
rephrase our task along the lines of a series of articles by exegete David
Clines, well known to Hebrew Bible scholars: ‘Why is there a {Merenptah
stela, a Black Obelisk, a Lachish relief etc.}—and what does it do to you
when you look at it?’
3. MONUMENTS AND ‘VISUAL HISTORY’—CASE STUDIES
Let us now address a few Egyptian and Assyrian monuments which are of
immediate relevance for the history of ancient Israel. I am aware of the fact
that royal monuments do not provide the only (nor perhaps the most fitting)
visual documentation for a history of ancient Israel. To represent history as
the history of the mighty and their enemies would definitely be very old-
fashioned historiography (though it still sells well with the tabloids). Much
like royal inscriptions, monumental images are of a particular genre and
should not be considered in isolation from other sources. The so-called minor
arts for instance, such as seals, amulets, various kinds of private luxury
objects or terracotta figurines could be called in to tell a much more nuanced
and complicated story of their own about values and beliefs, cultural contact
and changing orientations in the history of ancient Israel, Judah and their
neighbours. But I have chosen my examples from royal monuments with two
reasons in mind: first, they are all well known to historians and Bible schol-
ars alike and have been used time and again to illustrate famed episodes in
the history of ancient Israel. They have thus acquired a somewhat emblem-
atic status and they have so strongly influenced our historical imagination
that they may well serve as patent examples of the more conventional gaze
usually practised in our discipline—but still allow for a somewhat deeper
understanding. Second, several other contributions to this volume refer to
royal inscriptions when dealing with political history. It might be useful, then,

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 193
to explore visual information from royal monuments that may be most easily
compared to these.
My primary aim will be to investigate the particular pitfalls of approaches
that have explicitly appealed to or implicitly resulted from the ‘eyewitnessing
principle’. In every instance and in contrast to a ‘windows to the past’
approach, I shall address the monumental images as media of social com-
munication, deliberately used by royal authorities within a formal scheme of
figurative policy. Far from being exhaustive, my interpretations should exem-
plify one or another basic problem faced by historians working with these
data: how do we identify the protagonists represented on a monument? How
can we correctly decipher the visually encoded message of a monument? How
does source criticism operate in visual analysis? To what extent can such
monuments, whose very purpose was to give particular rulers a special place
in history, tell us something about ancient perceptions of history? As I hope
will become clear in the course of my discussion, one major concern for an
historian with such images must be what I call the ‘data-processing’ issue.
3.1. Identification: ‘Israelites’ on Merenptah’s Karnak reliefs?
The first example illustrates a very basic problem in visual studies: how do we
identify the protagonists represented on a picture, provided such an identifi-
cation is actually necessary to fully understand the image’s message? How
and what, if anything, do images themselves contribute to identification?
The very fact that numerous so-called historical-narrative representations,
Egyptian and Assyrian alike, are accompanied by texts (ranging from short
captions to more elaborate portions that supplement the images as in mod-
ern cartoons or comic strips; see Tefnin 1981; Gerardi 1988; Russell 1999)
shows that the dual problem of (1) correlation of a scene with a particular
event and (2) identification of the main protagonists was already considered
by the authors of ancient monuments. On the other hand, information could
be supplemented for ancient onlookers in the form of oral commentary,
whenever deemed necessary, provided one had a competent guide at hand. In
any case, the images delivered messages even to those who could not read the
captions (when there are captions at all, which is often not the case)—and
regardless of whether all the protagonists were correctly identified or not.
Preserving documentary information for later historians was not the primary
task of these monuments. Nevertheless, one should not belittle the problem
of identification on the ground that images themselves do not always per-
form well on this matter. The challenge for the modern historian is to extract
a maximum amount of information from the sources without, however,
pressing them beyond their own means.

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The problem may be illustrated with a series of reliefs carved and plas-
tered on the outer western face of the so-called Cour de la Cachette, which is
part of the Great Temple of Amun at Karnak. Two expert epigraphers, Frank
Yurco (1986) and Kenneth Kitchen (1993, 304–05; 2004, 268–70), have long
recognized that these reliefs, which partly run over earlier ones of Ramesses
II (1279–1213 BCE) and were later usurped by other kings, had originally been
commissioned by King Merenptah (reigned 1213–1204 BCE). Unfortunately,
the wall in question is in a very bad state of preservation, but enough remains
of its two-registered visual narrative (Fig. 11.2) that one may recognize three
scenes turned left which show the pharaoh conquering towns, while on two
other scenes turned right the king is shown binding enemies and leading long
rows of captives towards the god Amun. The right end of the composition is
presently missing; part of it has been painstakingly reconstructed by
Françoise Le Saout (1978–81) from disassembled building blocks on the
ground, and the remaining blanks may be roughly filled in by controlled
imagination on the basis of comparable standard compositions (for which see
now the impressive documentation assembled by Heinz 2001; for the various
scenes relating to Merenptah’s Asiatic campaign see ibid., 294–97).
One of the towns attacked by the king towards the left (Yurco’s ‘scene 1’,
my A1 on Fig. 11.2) has an accompanying text that identifies it as Ashkelon.
This town is also mentioned in the famous passage containing the earliest ref-
erence to date to some collective entity called ‘Israel’ on the so-called ‘Israel
stela’ from Thebes (Fig. 11.3; see COS 2.6 for easy reference). The latter also
mentions the towns of Gezer and Yano’am. Since Merenptah uses the epithet
‘binder of Gezer’ on another stela from Amada, this king (or someone act-
ing on his behalf) is likely to have conquered Gezer early in his reign. Building
upon these initial connections, Yurco correlated the information contained in
the Theban stela inscription with that of the Karnak temple reliefs. He sug-
gested that the three towns represented on the sculptures should be identified
as Ashkelon, Gezer (‘scene 2’, my A2) and Yano’am (‘scene 3’, my B2),
respectively, while the fragmentary remains just above the Ashkelon scene
(‘scene 4’, my B1: Fig. 11.4) would represent part of Merenptah’s battle
against Israel, resp. the Israelites (see Yurco 1986; 1990; 1991; 1997). Since
the foes on that scene are clearly designated by their costume, hairstyles,
beards and so on as Canaanites, Yurco considers the relief to provide sup-
porting evidence for one prominent opinion on Israelite origins, namely that
the ancient Israelites were originally Canaanites, an argument that has been
more fully developed by Lawrence E. Stager (1985, published earlier than
Yurco’s study but depending on the latter’s epigraphical insights which were
still unpublished at the time), Michael G. Hasel (1998, 199–201) and others.
Since Israelite origins are always a matter of intense debate, it comes as
no surprise that other scholars, among whom Anson F. Rainey has taken the

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Figure 11.2 Karnak, Great Temple of Amun, location of monumental wall reliefs relating to Merenptah’s campaign to Canaan, outer western face of the
VALUABLE TESTIMONY IN ITS OWN RIGHT
so-called Cour de la Cachette (end of thirteenth century BCE; based on Yurco 1986: 191 fig. 1b, additional tags by author).
195
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Figure 11.3 So-called ‘Israel stela’ from the mortuary temple of Merenptah at Karnak (year 5,
1208 BCE; Mitchell 1988: 41 doc. 12).

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Figure 11.4 Scenes from Merenptah’s wall reliefs from the Great Temple of Amun at Karnak (see Fig. 11.2 for location). Scene A 1: conquest of ‘Ashkelon’
197
(identified by caption); scene B 1: royal team pursuing a “Canaanite” chariot and men in open field (author’s montage based on Wreszinski 1923: pl. 58f
[lower register] and Heinz 2001: 296 No. I.6 [upper register]).
11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 198
lead, should oppose Yurco’s interpretation and suggest alternative explana-

tions (see Rainey 1991; 2001). According to Rainey, we can indeed identify
Israelites on the sculptures but must look for them on the right side of the
wall (‘scenes 5–8’, my A3–5: Fig. 11.5). They should be identified among the
Shasu, that is, another social segment of ancient Canaan’s population. In
contrast to urban Canaanites, Shasu are generally represented on Egyptian
reliefs as a non-urban population encountered in the open countryside,
although there are exceptions to the rule. Modern scholars describe them as
rural peasants or pastoral nomads or both, depending on their favourite soci-
etal model for Late Bronze Age and early Iron Age Palestine (see Staubli
1991, 35–64; Hasel 1998, 217–36).
Who of Yurco or Rainey is right, if either? Or in terms of tabloid histori-
ography: ‘Can you name the panel with the Israelites?’ (Rainey 1991; Yurco
1991). Should we look for Merenptah’s ‘Israel’ to the left or the right, close
to town or in the open countryside? The basic question, in my view, is
whether we should look for ‘Israel’ at all when studying the Cour de la
Cachette reliefs. Being inclined to side with Rainey in this particular debate,
I think that the point should be argued in a somewhat more sophisticated
way.
For the present purpose, I should like to stress that in spite of their radi-
cally different conclusions, Yurco and Rainey have much in common when it
comes to their methodology and approach to images. First, they both take as
their starting point the final passage of the stela, a textual document which is
physically unrelated to the sculptures under discussion. They are searching
the reliefs for ‘Israel’ because they think it must be there, which is a ques-
tionable assumption that would need solid arguments to be sustained. Let us
recall that the so-called ‘Israel stela’ was found by Flinders Petrie in the king’s
mortuary temple on the opposite, western side of the Nile. The stela’s con-
ventional designation is a misnomer, since Israel (and for that matter, the
Canaanite towns) are mentioned only in a few short phrases towards the end
of the inscription. These are part of the laudatory conclusion of a text that
is otherwise concerned with Libyan invaders. Neither Yurco nor Rainey
study the textual reference in its own context, and they do not try to establish
the relative weight of the ‘Israel’ reference in the overall context of
Merenptah’s inscriptional discourses (contrast the more contextual and
genre-sensitive approach of Kitchen 2004). Second, both Yurco and Rainey
clearly impose an a priori interpretative grid on the visual evidence, instead
of first and foremost analysing the latter in its own right and according to
its peculiar visual semantics, syntax, composition and rhetoric (though in
all fairness, it must be stressed that Yurco has a number of very pertinent
observations on compositional details). Third, it is obvious that both authors
draw heavily on external evidence, arguments and theories when they link up

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Figure 11.5 Scenes from Merenptah’s wall reliefs from the Great Temple of Amun at Karnak (see Fig. 11.2 for location). Scenes A 3–5: Shasu prisoners
captured by king Merenptah and led to Egypt; scenes B 4–5: king instructed by Amun and leaving for the campaign (author’s montage based on Wreszinski
1923: pl. 58b [lower register], Heinz 2001: 296–97 nos. I.8, I.10 and I.11 [upper register]).
199
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the reliefs with the debate on ancient Israel’s ethnicity and origins. Fourth,
both have obscured contradictory evidence instead of critically accounting
for it: why, pace Yurco, are there no Shasu mentioned on the stela if there was
such a close link between the reliefs and the stela as he pretends? And why,
pace Rainey, should we identify the various Shasu represented on the relief
with just one entity called ‘Israel’? Or else, if we should not, that is, if ‘Israel’
may be among the Shasu but not represented by all of them, why then are no
other Shasu groups mentioned in the stela? Finally, if the early Israelites were
Shasu (or Canaanites, for that matter), why does the stela make no reference
at all to their putative ethnic identity?
The really critical point lies in the correlation of one single text with one
single, and physically removed, series of images—or rather, some bits taken
from here with some others from there. As argued by both Yurco and Rainey,
such isolated, de-contextualized correlations are highly arbitrary. Since both
conclusions are based on insufficient and partly circular argument, neither of
them can be considered to have made a convincing case. What we would need
instead is a step-by-step argument advancing more carefully from two sides:
the inscriptional and the visual evidence, both considered in their own arti-
factual context, particular taxonomy and historiographic tradition. The stela
from Thebes needs to be put into the context of other inscriptional data,
including the duplicate on another, interior wall of the Cour de la Cachette
(see Kitchen 2004, who rightly argues that all extant inscriptions of
Merenptah should be considered for a convincing argument). The reliefs
should first of all be studied for themselves, free of any textual canvas, and
the visual evidence evaluated according to its own rules: rules of semantics
and taxonomy in distinguishing various population groups living in Canaan;
rules of syntax and rhetoric in order to understand the proper sequence of
individual scenes. The reliefs should also be compared to earlier, closely
related reliefs of Sethos I and Ramesses II on the walls of the nearby
hypostyle hall, which seem to have provided the closest models for
Merenptah’s sculptors (see Heinz 2001, 242–46, 265–70). And of course we
should add to our understanding of the reliefs the information contained in
their own captions and accompanying texts, long before turning to any other
text such as the ‘Israel stela’.
All this cannot be done within the limits of this chapter. To cut a long
argument short (Uehlinger, forthcoming a), it is probable that the final part
of the stela inscription and the reliefs ultimately go back to a common source
and hence may correlate with each other to some extent (in order to be more
specific, one must, however, resort to source criticism and reconstruct the
data-processing chains). Such a common source granted, the reference to
‘Israel’ on the stela may indeed be considered as a kind of functional com-
plement which runs parallel to Shasu representations on monumental reliefs.

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This does not mean, however, that the ‘Israel’ group were actual Shasu. It
simply means that for Merenptah’s sculptors, who probably worked without
any precise visual information concerning the physical appearance of the
‘Israel’ group, the Shasu type provided a traditional and convenient visual
formula when they sought to represent a population group perceived in the
documents they had at hand as somehow distinct from urban Canaanites.
As this example should demonstrate, identification is a serious problem
for scholars using visual evidence in historical research. The main reason for
this is that pre-Hellenistic images (if not images in general) do not perform
very well in matters of individuation and identification. If not supported by
a caption, identification of a given scene with a particular historical episode
is a difficult task. Nor is it always possible to correlate such scenes with infor-
mation preserved in contemporary inscriptions. When such correlations are
possible, they require a sophisticated argument which should be deemed
plausible only on the condition that it respects the relative discretion and
autonomy of both media. Moreover, we should recall that identity and
identification always function within a taxonomic system. The latter is partly
conditioned by the constraints of a medium and the circumstantial need
for (and/or capacity and skill of) differentiation employed by scribes and
artists operating on the basis of established conventions within the frame-
work of their particular task and purpose. We should not expect the tax-
onomies of images and texts to coincide in every case. On the contrary, such
a plain correspondence would be the exception rather than the rule.
3.2. Visual propaganda in context: the Black Obelisk in historical perspective
Things seem to look easier when we turn to the Black Obelisk of

Shalmaneser III, king of Assyria (858–824 BCE). This emblematic monument
was discovered in 1846 at Nimrud (ancient Kalchu) by A. H. Layard (fig.
11.6) and has been exhibited at the British Museum since 1848.10 Its date of
composition can be established on the basis of an annalistic inscription
(Grayson 1996, 62–71, no. 14) which runs over the obelisk from top to
bottom on all four sides. This represents the latest known recension of
Shalmaneser’s annals, reaching to Shalmaneser’s 31st palû which was actually
his 33rd year of reign (⫽ 826/5 BCE; see Yamada 2000, 25–27 for details
regarding the chronology). It is tempting to consider (Smith 1977, 85) that
10
The following builds on (and occasionally corrects) Keel and Uehlinger 1994 and Uehlinger
2001 (both with earlier literature). I plan to come back to this rather extraordinary monument
in a separate study. See Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 152 for good photographs of the vignettes
(although some of them are wrongly labelled).

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Figure 11.6 Black Obelisk from Kalchu/Nimrud, regnal year 33 of Shalmaneser III (826/5 BCE;
Börker-Klähn 1982: no. 152 after original drawing by A. H. Layard; see Layard 1851: pls. 53–56).
the monument was erected for special jubilee celebrations during that year,
when Shalmaneser took over a second eponymate (see Finkel and Reade
1995) in the midst of pressing domestic difficulties (on which see below).
Fig. 11.7 gives a graphic explanation of the disposition of texts and
images on the monument, an aspect rarely discussed in detail in the second-
ary literature. The annals first take eighteen lines of inscription from the top
(seventy-two lines altogether when counting faces A–D). They are then inter-
rupted by a series of twenty pictorial vignettes, arranged in five registers on
each face. Each pictorial register is accompanied by a single-line legend run-
ning above the vignettes all around the monument. Following the fifth regis-
ter of images, the annals continue for another 118 lines disposed on all four
sides.11 Following Baxandall’s re-enactment approach, one step towards
making sense of the Black Obelisk as a whole could be to consider the rela-

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Figure 11.7 Location and layout of texts and images on the Black Obelisk (author’s montage
based on a drawing by Ulrike Zurkinden-Kolberg, Fribourg).
tionship of images and texts in the way they were carved on to the monu-
ment: once the general disposition had been sketched on the stone, the images
were sculpted first, then the captions added, and the annals were apparently
inscribed last. Incidentally, this sequence fits well the way the monument
11
Face A comes with twenty-three lines, quite generously spaced, in contrast to the other faces
where the scribes experienced growing difficulties to account for the required text (face B:
twenty-eight lines, face C: twenty-nine lines, face D: thirty-eight lines!). In contrast, the line
count at the top of the monument is constant, although the disposition of the text seems to have
been designed with particular care on face A: lines 1–14 appeal to the great gods of Assyria ‘who
decree destinies, who aggrandize my sovereignty’, while the following lines introduce
Shalmaneser as ‘king of all people, prince, vice-regent of A88ur, strong king, king of all the four
quarters, sungod of all people, ruler of all lands’, but also as heir of Ashurnasirpal, ‘exalted
priest, whose priesthood was pleasing to the gods and who subdued all lands at his feet’, thus
providing the divine and the dynastic legitimation for the ruling king (Grayson 1996, 63–64).

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Figure 11.8 Black Obelisk, registers 1 and 2 (details from Layard 1851: pls. 53–56)
is apprehended when it is approached from some distance and looked at

progressively, step by step, with some leisure and patient curiosity.
According to caption 1 (Grayson 1996, 148–49, no. 87), the first row of
images shows tribute (madattu, i.e. compulsory payment) received from King
Sua (⫽ Asû) of Gilzanu. Caption 2 (ibid., 149, no. 88) mentions tribute of
King Jehu ‘son of Omri’ (a much-discussed phrase that should be translated
as ‘the heir of the royal house of Omri ⫽ the legitimate ruler of Israel’, since
Israel was at that time often referred to as Bit-9umri, literally ‘the House of
Omri’, by Assyrian scribes). Captions 3–5 refer to further tribute from other
rulers and regions (Mu s ri/Egypt, Su s i and Patina), which we can ignore
for the present purpose. Registers 1 and 2 (fig. 11.8) are distinguished from
the subsequent ones and given particular prominence by their uppermost
position, the twice-repeated representation of the Assyrian king with his
entourage, the figuring of individuals bowing down in front of the king and
additional details. A-2, the ‘Jehu vignette’, is often hailed as ‘the only known
visual representation of an Israelite king’. Not infrequently, modern viewers
look at it as if it were a press photograph, showing the very moment when the
Israelite king submitted to his Assyrian overlord (see above, section 1.4, on
the use of this image in an ‘eyewitnessing’ argument). We learn from earlier
annal recensions that Jehu had submitted in Shalmaneser’s 18th palû (i.e. 841
BCE) at a place called Ba’li-ra’si.12 Since no other encounter of the two kings is
12
The relevant textual sources are presented and discussed (with much earlier bibliography) by
K. Lawson Younger in his contribution to the present volume.

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Figure 11.8 cont.
known from textual sources, scholars tend to identify the scene represented
on the obelisk with Jehu’s submission in 841. But instead of giving way to
such a ‘snapshot-type gaze’, let us step back for a while and consider what the
Black Obelisk can tell us about ancient Israelite history, and what it cannot.
To begin with the latter, A-2 is certainly no portrait of Jehu (pace Smith
1977, 72: ‘that unique portrait which survives of the reigning Israelite
monarch Jehu’), and we should expect nothing of the kind from Assyrian
sculptors. As a matter of fact, nothing distinguishes ‘Jehu’ from ‘Sua’ in
terms of their physiognomy, hairstyle, even clothing (note that both kings
have taken off their mantle and are shown almost as appearing in their
underwear). The same holds true for their accompanying delegations, whose
costumes are largely identical; the garments worn by the ‘Israelites’ on
vignettes B-2 to 4 cannot therefore be considered as trustworthy renderings
of Israelite costume of the time (Wäfler 1975, 72–76). Some scholars have
argued that the two figures bowing down on the face A vignettes could
actually represent emissaries rather than the two kings mentioned in the cap-
tion. However, they are so conspicuously singled out from their respective
delegations that they must be more than just common first-in-lines. Taken
together, images and captions leave no doubt that the two individuals are
indeed meant to represent Sua/Asû and Jehu, regardless of the fact that the
images do not lend them individual traits or costume.

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No clue is given by the image as to whether we should relate Jehu’s sub-

mission to any particular occasion: when, where, and why? Was it a totally
peaceful event, as Shalmaneser’s celebrating attitude and civil retinue seem to
imply, in contrast to his more bellicose appearance on the upper vignette?
This would fit the encounter of the two kings at Ba’li-ra’si. But again, it would
be better to refrain from looking for any particular occasion at all. The ‘Sua’
and ‘Jehu’ vignettes quite clearly complement each other, which means that
one vignette not only stands for itself and in line with its own register but is
bound to work in tandem and thus to communicate some details which are
lacking from the other. The relationship of the two main vignettes on the
obelisk is clearly one of synthetic parallelism, and we should not look at a
single line (still less, a single vignette) in isolation.
Let us ask, then, what these images can tell us: they convey an idealized
image of the Assyrian king, powerful as a warrior chief (A-1: note weapons
and weapon-bearers) and trust-inspiring as a ruler of peace (A-2, note the
towel, the umbrella and the flywhisk, which are emblematic of ceremonial
court etiquette). To this splendid king of kings, foreigners submit from vari-
ous parts of the world. With regard to potential audience, it is interesting to
notice that the images give far greater attention to the distinction of func-
tional role and hierarchical status among Assyrians than among foreigners.
Regarding attitude in detail, ‘Sua’ touches the king’s feet and looks towards
him, while ‘Jehu’ has no physical contact and looks down to the ground. This
detail is certainly intentional; it could signal different settings of the two sub-
missions, though the distinction could as well be contextual and fit the
respective bellicose or peaceful environments. Note, however, that both
foreign rulers submit without being forced.
The inversion of Venus and the sun, which appear high between the
Assyrian king and the submitting ruler, has occasionally been commented
upon (Lieberman 1985). Taken ‘literally’ (or rather, astronomically), it signals
that the upper encounter (A-1: Venus left of sun, i.e. as evening star) is ori-
entated westwards, which befits a ruler approaching from the east, while the
other (Venus right of sun, i.e. as morning star) concerns a ruler approaching
from the west. As a result, vignettes A-1 to 2 stress that rulers from east and
west submit to Shalmaneser (or have submitted, though images tend to imply
present tense rather than preterite). This is a clear instance of what Edith
Porada has called a visual ‘merism’ (as reported by Liebermann 1985; see
Porada 1983), while Michelle Marcus, who has studied the use of geography
as an organizing principle on the monuments of Shalmaneser III, uses the
concept of ‘visual polarity’ (1987, 88). Parallelism, merism and polar struc-
tures are conspicuous figures of style, which were often used in Near Eastern
literary compositions, but could operate as well on the level of visual
communication.

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The result is obviously to the benefit of Assyria, since riches of the world
are brought from all quarters to Assyria. In sum, the Assyrian king stands
uncontested at the centre of a peaceful world. We may perhaps read some
kind of modus potentialis into the images: should anyone want to challenge
the authority of the king, this might temporarily disturb the flow of goods
towards Assyria, but the king would no doubt be strong enough to repel his
rivals (note the hint at the strength of the lion in vignette A-4!).
To this story, here only briefly summarized, we can now add various lay-
ers of contextual evidence, starting with the captions, which serve to enhance
the audience’s understanding of the pictures and of the monument as a
whole. First, the captions are phrased following a standard scheme known
also from annalistic and summary inscriptions. They refer to madattu (‘trib-
ute’) received by the king (first person singular, as usual in royal inscriptions)
and specify various goods brought along such as (in the case of ‘Jehu’) sil-
ver, gold, various gold vessels, tin, a royal sceptre and some sorts of javelin.
Some of these items are represented on the vignettes, but others are not.
Generally speaking, images and captions were certainly meant to echo each
other, although they do not completely correspond to each other when it
comes to the details—a typical problem of information management and
data-processing when the execution of a task requires the competences of
more than one individual. Second, the five captions mention the origins of
the tribute: Gilzanu, a country situated north-east from Assyria in the Zagros
Mountains, in register 1; Bit-9umri, far to the south-west, in register 2; and
Musri/Egypt, Susi and Patina for the remaining three registers. Captions 1
and 2 thus confirm what we have already perceived as a polarity of east and
west; the visually designed synthetic parallelism or merism is enhanced and
supported by the textual information. Third, only two foreign kings are pic-
tured whereas the names and origin of four foreign kings are mentioned in
the captions. Once again, images and texts do not fit completely, but concen-
tration on only two foreign rulers supported the intended visual effect of
polarity much more effectively than a rendering of four, which would have
appeared rather repetitious.
Why did the sculptors specifically single out these two kings, Sua/Asû and
Jehu? The first reason may again be geography, since Gilzanu and Bit-9umri
stand for the furthest extensions of the Assyrian empire under Shalmaneser
III (Green 1979, 35–39; Porada 1983, 15–15; Marcus 1987). Another reason
may be that both kings (but probably those who are mentioned in the other
captions as well) submitted ‘voluntarily’ to Shalmaneser (Elat 1975). In the
case of Sua/Asû, who had submitted to Shalmaneser as early as 856 BCE, the
assumption is supported by Shalmaneser’s inscriptions; as for Jehu, the case
is less clearly established, if the general logic of the Black Obelisk does not
itself point toward such a hypothesis. In any case, in comparison with former

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Omride policies, Jehu seems to have taken a definitely different option with
regard to Assyria, considering Shalmaneser as a protective ally rather than an
enemy. It stands to reason that he chose to submit to the Assyrian king in
order the better to secure his domestic position in Israel.
We still have not clarified the precise meaning and significance of the sym-
bolic gesture involving prostration of a foreign king at the feet of the king
of Assyria. Scenes representing this gesture are generally read as icons of
submission and humiliation. The ‘Jehu’ vignette, which is often illustrated in
isolation in books on the history of ‘Ancient Israel’, has therefore been
understood as an emblem of imperialistic oppression and forced submission.
However, such an explanation does not tell the whole story. A more image-
sensitive interpretation should go beyond phenomenology (prostration being
a conspicuous way of ‘playing the death’, in ethological terms) and compare
our vignettes with other scenes of prostration as depicted in Assyrian visual
art. Several such scenes appear on monumental sculptures of Ashurnasirpal
II and Tiglath-pileser III, on the bronze strips from Shalmaneser’s Balawat
gates, on a wall painting of Esarhaddon from Til-Barsip (Smith 1977, 76–79;
Keel and Uehlinger 1994, 406–14) and on an unprovenanced neo-Assyrian
helmet (Born and Seidl 1995, 18 Abb. 9, 25 Abb. 22, 44). On some of these,
the man humbling himself is clearly an Assyrian soldier or officer; when he is
shown wearing his weapon, the figure must have been in a position of partic-
ular confidence with the king. On other scenes, the man prostrating himself
is a foreigner (always unarmed, and rather basically clothed). On one of the
latter scenes, the king puts his foot on the fallen man’s neck and raises a spear
as if about to put him to death. The scene has been interpreted as represent-
ing utter humiliation or even a death sentence, as if the foreign ruler were
about to be killed by the Assyrian king. However, as always in human
ethology and cultural anthropology, we must distinguish between a phenom-
enological meaning of a gesture (its etymology, so to speak), its symbolic
meaning for the semantics of ritual and a ritual’s pragmatic function. The
particular case mentioned here, which appears on a slab of Tiglath-pileser
III, can arguably be related to a famous incident involving King Hanun from
Gaza (see Uehlinger 2002 for detailed demonstration). Well-documented in
the royal inscriptions, the scene does not show an execution, but a kind of
symbolic or ‘virtual’ death experienced by the fugitive Hanun after his return
to Gaza and submission to the Assyrian king. The only doubts concerning
the interpretation of the scene concern the question whether it should be
understood on an exclusively symbolic level (as a telescoped representation of
submission and reinstallation), or whether it shows an actual ritual once per-
formed by Tiglath-pileser and Hanun. The same holds true for the ‘Sua’ and
‘Jehu’ vignettes on the Black Obelisk. More important, however, if the two
kings are represented in an attitude of prostration or ‘seizing the feet’ of

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Shalmaneser, they are not simply humiliating themselves in general terms, but
also appear in a privileged position vis-à-vis the Assyrian king, not to say as
the latter’s favourites! He who humbles himself will be rewarded: the mean-
ing of these scenes can only be understood once we put them in the wider
context of others and establish the rules and conventions of Assyrian visual
rhetoric.13
Let us finally recall the actual findspot of the Black Obelisk, the piazza in
front of the royal palace of Kalchu (Gadd 1936, 147–48; Sobolewski 1982,
336 and fig. 9; and see Reade 1979; 1980; 1981 for the interplay of monu-
ments, architectural context, ideology and propaganda). It is interesting to
note that while the monument’s position allowed close inspection, so that any
viewer who wished to do so could examine its four sides in detail, face A
clearly contained the key scenes and actually delivered the essential message
of the whole pictorial narrative in nuce to those who passed more quickly. To
the literate among them, face A of the obelisk’s stepped top (the introductory
lines of the annals) would have delivered a particular ‘theopolitical’ message,
namely the king’s legitimation on behalf of the great gods of Assyria.14 It
seems obvious that this obelisk, like earlier ones by Ashurnasirpal erected in
similarly conspicuous places, was intended to communicate an exclusively
positive, one might say ‘idealized’, image of the king and of the benefits of
his reign for Assyria, well in line with the generic properties of Assyrian
obelisks. In order fully to appreciate this message of peace and welfare, we
must finally take into account the political context of Shalmaneser’s year 33:
in spite of jubilee celebrations, this was actually a time of political crisis and
unrest, with the king’s own son Ashurdanapli leading a civil war against his
father and the latter’s general and second-in-command (turtanu) Dayyan-
Ashur.15
Historians of ancient Israel are used to mentioning vignette A-2 of the
Black Obelisk in association with King Jehu’s first encounter with and sub-
mission to Shalmaneser at Ba’lirasi in 841 BCE. However, it is doubtful that
Assyrian scribes and sculptors would have given such prominence to that
13
Smith 1977, 90 has noted seven instances in Shalmaneser’s inscription where ‘reference to
madattu is combined with verbiage expressing the theme of grasping the king’s feet (. . .), and on
two additional occasions 1 lm [Shalmaneser] III goes even further to note that the setting up of
a king followed the former gesture (. . .); these were persons who had not been among the rebels
who withheld madattu but rather who saw that it was “received” ’.
14
See above, n. 11.
15
Note that Yamada 2000, 321–34 attributes the second eponymate not to Shalmaneser himself,
but to Dayyan-Ashur, and he argues that the Black Obelisk may have been commissioned by the
turtanu himself. The latter suggestion cannot be tested on present evidence. One should observe,
however, that while the text of the annals does indeed lend conspicuous prominence to Dayyan-
Ashur, it does not diminish the king’s own position instead, and the pictorial message certainly
proclaims the king’s more than anyone else’s glory.

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particular moment as late as 826/5 BCE, when the agenda was set by much
more pressing needs. As a matter of fact, the annals inscribed on the Black
Obelisk give a ‘significantly truncated version’ of the 18th palû,16 according
to Younger,17 a version which does not even mention Jehu. I do not think,
therefore, that we should identify the tribute represented on the vignettes
and/or mentioned by the caption with the one offered in 841 BCE at Ba’lirasi.
But why then should Jehu appear at all on the Black Obelisk? Two explana-
tions may be suggested: either those who commissioned the monument had
studied earlier documents and wanted to highlight Jehu’s submission as an
emblematic event, since it concerned the westernmost ruler who had actually
and personally submitted to Shalmaneser (in contrast to the Egyptians, who
had only engaged in economic exchange and diplomatic relations). This
explanation could be supported by the parallelism of registers 1 and 2.
Alternatively, the submission of both Sua/Asû and Gilzanu may be viewed in
paradigmatic terms, as examples of ‘voluntary submission’ that had lasted
over many years until the very time when the Black Obelisk was commis-
sioned. One can hardly imagine these images being planned and put on pub-
lic display if neither Sua/Asû nor Jehu had remained loyal to Shalmaneser
during the latter’s entire reign.
That Jehu’s loyalty should have such an emblematic and/or paradigmatic
significance for Shalmaneser and be symbolically valued and recognized as
such in public as late as 826/5 BCE, during a jubilee shattered by civil war, cer-
tainly adds an interesting nuance to our perception of both Assyrian and
Israelite history. This was not only late in Shalmaneser’s reign, which would
come to an end two years later, but also relatively late in Jehu’s career, which
is thought to have lasted until 818 BCE. In contrast to the kings of Damascus,
who had their own hegemonic ambitions in southern Syria as can best be
studied for the reign of Hazael, the kings of Israel seem to have entertained
a rather cooperative relationship with Assyria since the earliest days of Jehu.
The latter must have remained a loyal vassal from 841 BCE through the
remaining years of Shalmaneser until the end of his own reign, and his suc-
cessors continued that policy. Incidentally, it may well be that their coopera-
tion with Assyria even led to some kind of artistic emulation: among the
fragmentary wall-paintings of Kuntillet ‘Ajrud, dated c. 800 BCE, one piece
stands out which must once have belonged to some narrative composition
with a military subject matter (Beck 1982, 48–49 [⫽ 2000, 147–48]), very
much of the type which had become en vogue in Assyrian palaces during the
ninth century.
16
The relevant lines appear on face B in a context generally characterized by truncation;
since lack of space is not yet an issue here, this truncation must have occurred during the
pre-inscriptional process of redaction.
17
See his contribution to the present volume.

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3.3. Data-processing and source criticism: why Lachish, and why that way?
With Merenptah’s Karnak reliefs and Shalmaneser’s Broken Obelisk we

have taken a position distant enough from the history of events to be sure
that even when ancient Near Eastern images were meant to represent specific
occasions in history, we should not regard them as eyewitness documents. We
can now briefly address the famous Lachish sculptures from Room XXXVI
of Sennacherib’s Southwest palace in Nineveh (Figs 11.9–11.10). Over the
years, David Ussishkin has built up an elaborate interpretation of these
sculptures based on his intimate knowledge of the site’s topography and
archaeology. He has ventured so far as to suggest that the sculptures are not
only based on eyewitness evidence, but that they represent the city of Lachish
as it would appear to an Assyrian onlooker (actually the king himself super-
vising the assault on the Judahite town), from a precisely located spot on the
hill south-west of Tell ed-Duweir (see Ussishkin 1980; 1982; 1990; 1996). I
have exposed elsewhere in detail why I consider this theory untenable
(Uehlinger 2003). Ussishkin’s interpretation is ultimately based on erroneous
premises: it relies on a partly incorrect assemblage of the sculptures, runs
against some basic rules of Assyrian iconography and submits the sculptures’
visual evidence to constraints of archaeological information much in the
same way as Yurco and Rainey have superimposed textual information on
Merenptah’s Karnak reliefs. I shall not repeat my discussion here, but focus
on the issue of source criticism.
To begin with, it is well known that the Assyrian visual and textual
records about the 701 BCE campaign to Phoenicia, Philistia and Judah differ
in one major regard, which we could summarize as ‘Jerusalem vs. Lachish’.
The royal inscriptions concentrate on Ekron and Jerusalem but make no ref-
erence at all to Lachish.18 In contrast, the royal sculptures highlight the con-
quest of Lachish as a particularly significant event, but seem to ignore
Jerusalem. The Lachish reliefs occupy a particularly important place in
Sennacherib’s palace and may be regarded as the climactic composition
among all the sculptures concerned with the 701 campaign, indeed one of
the most sophisticated compositions throughout the palace. Regarding the
Assyrian siege against Jerusalem, the communis opinio argues that Sennacherib
did not represent it on the sculptures because it had been a failure. This
18
The latter town could have been mentioned in a ‘report to the gods’ drafted after the cam-
paign. But the relevant fragmentary tablet which is thought by many to represent part of that
document refers to Azekah and to another, neighbouring town (probably Gath) but does not pre-
serve a reference to Lachish. The attribution of this document to Sennacherib remains a matter
of dispute (see Frahm 1997, 229–32, who favours Sargon II).

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Figure 11.9 Plan of room XXXVI of Sennacherib’s Southwest palace at Nineveh, with location of sculptures

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 213
recovered by A. H. Layard (Uehlinger 2003, 269, fig. 7).

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Page 214
Christoph Uehlinger
Figure 11.10 Sennacherib’s Southwest palace at Nineveh, central slabs of room XXXVI showing the conquest of Lachish (see Fig. 11.9 for location; Uehlinger
2003, 269, fig. 7.
11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 215
explanation is, however, heavily dependent on the biblical tradition. One

should not a priori exclude alternative explanations:
(a) The siege of Jerusalem and surrender of Hezekiah may have been omitted
from the sculptures because the king himself did not participate in the
operation.
(b) The siege against Jerusalem was apparently a minor operation in military
terms, which would have made it unfit for inclusion in the heroic schemes
of palace reliefs. From a military point of view, the conquest of Lachish
and the battle of Eltekeh represented much more important, even climac-
tic events of the 701 campaign.
(c) An important caveat against speculating too far on the reasons for
Jerusalem’s absence from the sculptures is that we do not know for sure
whether the episode was or was not depicted in Sennacherib’s palace. A
number of slabs, including episodes from the 701 campaign, have not yet
been positively identified with locations mentioned in the inscriptions; one
of them might possibly relate to Jerusalem (see Uehlinger 2003, 293–303).
(d) However, the episode may be lacking on the sculptures because Hezekiah’s
submission to Sennacherib was essentially a post-campaign event accord-
ing to the combined testimony of the annals and the Books of Kings. As
a post-campaign episode, it would not have been recorded in the field
diaries nor possibly in the ‘report to the gods’. Since these were the pri-
mary source for the officials and artists who designed the palace decora-
tion, Jerusalem would simply not have appeared in their records.
The latter point brings us to what we may call the ‘historiographical

process’ as it unfolded at the royal Assyrian chancellery. In order properly to
interpret complex pictorial documents such as the Lachish reliefs, we need to
consider the way information about any particular subject was registered,
stored, transmitted and eventually rendered by scribes and sculptors. The
extent of what, how and with what authority things should be reported
varied according to media, genre, purpose and context of a document.
Described in very general terms, both ancient scribes and sculptors faced a
similar problem when trying to accomplish their task at their best: what
should they include, how should they present it, and on what documentary
basis? To explore these questions requires that the historian adopt a ‘data-
processing approach’.
When analysing images and monuments such as the Lachish sculptures,
historians should—in partial adoption of Baxandall’s ‘re-enactment’ model
—consider the task, namely to represent an historical event and its signifi-
cance on the walls of a major palace suite on the basis of available informa-
tion. What were the actual procedures involved in the commissioning and
execution of this task? Much of what we can answer derives from indirect
evidence and argument, and a good deal of historical and artistic imagina-
tion. But a hypothetical account of how the Lachish reliefs came into

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 216
existence may well prevent us from too naive and historistic readings of their
subject matter (see Uehlinger 2003, 274–77 for an earlier account).
The issue is particularly vexed because of the probable intersection of
verbal and visual information and media (see chains of data-processing
from event to final document summarized in Fig. 11.11). In my earlier study
I have argued with particular reference to the fortifications of Lachish as they
appear on the sculptures (a monumental gate bastion and two heavily forti-
fied walls), that since the visual rendering of the town conflicts with the
archaeological facts, the primary data collected by Assyrian expedition
members could not be sketches drawn by field artists but were probably
memoranda drawn up by scribes, that is textual information. Following a
campaign, such memoranda and field diaries were organized, synthesized
and expanded into more or less embellished, literary presentations, which
would lead up to the rather colourful genre known as ‘letters to the gods’.
Missing data may have been occasionally supplemented through active mem-
ory by officials who had participated in a particular campaign. It is quite
unthinkable that the conquest of Lachish should not have figured in such a
report although, as we have seen, there is no document that preserves the rel-
evant passage. At some point in the redactional process leading from diaries
to the ‘reports to the gods’, information was handed over to officials who
were in charge of choosing the subjects to be displayed on the sculptures. A
little later, the textual chain of data-processing entered the subsequent stage
of annalistic redaction. Lachish and other episodes were now removed from
the record and compressed into a summary reference to forty-six Judahite
towns and villages. In contrast, the Lachish episode was preserved in the
data-processing chain that led towards the visual representation of the
campaign. The king himself was probably involved at several stages of this
procedure. Once the general topic had been selected and its architectural
environment designated, senior designers must have conceived the way in
which the particular event would be rendered on the sculptures. For that pur-
pose and only at that stage, they now had to transpose the textual informa-
tion, occasionally supplemented by oral testimony, into another medium,
namely pictorial narrative.
Before even addressing issues of subject matter, the designers had to face
important formal constraints, most notably architectural context, layout and
macro-syntactical considerations (see Fig. 11.9). While clearly to be ‘read’
from left to right, the visual programme of room XXXVI of Sennacherib’s
palace displays a thoroughly planned composition, aiming at spatial symme-
try, starting and ending with static processions of horsemen and chariotry
and focusing on the intense, almost ecstatic attack on the city represented
exactly at the centre of the room’s main long wall. Under normal lighting
conditions, the siege would probably be seen across the preceding room(s)

11 Chapter 1548
15/8/07
No field [Architectural Primary pictorial validation in situ

sketches! context] design (sketch?) process execution
Relief
10:54
IMAGE
Royal chancellery: Letters to Epigraphs aide-

drafts for subsequent the gods mémoire?
Page 217
literary use in royal

inscriptions
Annals Subsequent etc.

Field descriptions?
editions
TEXT
Field diaries
Booty lists
Summary inscriptions etc.
Booty administration
Treasury, magazines etc.
Event Data collecting Data processing Editing of information Communication
Figure 11.11 Chain of information processing from event to historiographical account in text and images (author’s reconstruction based on pre-
served documentation and circumstantial evidence).
217
11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 218
and doorway(s). Emphasis along this room is on reversal, with slabs to the
left showing orderly placed Assyrian attackers while booty and captives are
led away on the slabs to the right. The city itself appears in an almost sym-
metrical disposition, set slightly off-centre in accordance with the general
movement of the scenario to the right. The compositional axis is stressed by
people leaving the gate tower following a zig-zag line alongside a famous
detail, which shows three naked enemies being impaled by a pair of Assyrian
soldiers. Once a visitor had entered the room and considered the sequence of
attack, onslaught and submission, following the trail of captives and booty
would lead him towards the Assyrian king, conspicuously enthroned in the
centre of the main short wall to the right and conveniently placed on eye-
level. To be sure, the layout of the Lachish sculptures owes much more to the
intentional mise en scène and investment of the architectural context, than to
real-life knowledge gathered by putative eyewitnesses at Lachish in 701 BCE.
The next stage in the shaping of the series would then be to define details.
Scaling does not seem to have been considered a major issue on the Lachish
sculptures: the scale of the protagonists is defined according to the require-
ments of compositional complexity (see Fig. 11.10). Micro-syntax and vocab-
ulary were conditioned by pictorial conventions more than anything else: one
may note that Assyrian soldiers usually operate in pairs, a compositional
device that emphasizes discipline and coordination and can easily be repli-
cated; too stereotyped rows may occasionally be broken up by slightly irreg-
ular features. A major purpose of the composition was to display the whole
spectrum of weaponry and stratagems that the Assyrian army could employ
in order to overwhelm its opponents. Movement and onslaught could be
translated by the sequential juxtaposition of marching, descending, kneeling,
or kneeling, rising and running. Finally, stock material would be used to fill
in compositional blanks (note, for instance, a pair of stone slingers turned
right on the bottom right-hand of slab 7, who do not have a recognizable
target).
It should be clear from this brief exercise in historical and artistic imagi-
nation that the constraints of pictorial conventions were considerable even
for such gifted artists as the Lachish sculptors. We should therefore abandon
any naive approach to these reliefs as windows to an ancient event. Rather,
they occur to us as a conspicuous example of what Baxandall has called ‘pat-
terned intentions’. This being said, I totally agree with Ussishkin when he
stresses the extraordinary wealth of valuable information about ancient
Israelite (rather, Judahite) history and society conveyed by these sculptures.
To my knowledge, no other document offers us a comparably differentiated
image of a complex Levantine society of the Iron Age, with members of the
elite and the state apparatus clearly distinguished from the general popula-
tion, military from civilians, men from women, children and babies taken care

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 219
of by their elder sister, mother or father according to gender and age, and so
on. All this, I think, should be regarded as essential evidence pertaining to the
social history of Judah in the late eighth and early seventh century BCE —
although we should not forget that our gaze follows the eyes, minds and chis-
els of Assyrian sculptors, whose gaze, as we have seen, was conditioned by
Assyrian, not Judahite, perceptions and conventions.
3.4. A place in history: rock reliefs at Nahr el-Kelb from Ramesses II to

Esarhaddon
It seems to be a huge step from such technical aspects of data-processing to

the much broader issues of historical consciousness and ideological framing,
but even the latter has its procedural logic which may partly be reconstructed
or ‘re-enacted’ by the critical historian. A single example must suffice again,
and it will be brief. Just south of Nahr el-Kelb, some 12 km north of modern
Beirut, a rocky promontory blocks the coastal road and for millennia it has
presented an important obstacle to armies moving north or south. Having
vanquished this narrow and difficult pass, a number of foreign rulers decided
to leave their mark, several of them in the form of monumental reliefs and
inscriptions. The oldest examples are three monuments going back to the
reign of Ramesses II (Fig. 11.12a), but six Assyrian royal rock stelae have
also survived.Two of them have a rectangular frame, the other four a rounded
top much like a royal stela. One of the latter is securely dated to the reign of
Esarhaddon (Fig. 11.12b), both by an inscription running over the king’s
mantle and on stylistic grounds. The date of the other five is disputed,
with suggestions ranging from Ashur-resh-ishi and Tiglath-pileser I, to
Ashurnasirpal, Shalmaneser III and Tiglath-pileser III down to Sennacherib
(see Börker-Klähn 1982, 211–12 nos. 211–16 for the details; and Shafer 1998,
295–98, 317–21).
Earlier scholars who suggested these datings would not conceive that one
sovereign could have commissioned a whole series of rock stelae at one loca-
tion. This assumption may be challenged, however, since such series are well
attested, for example for Sennacherib and Esarhaddon. Jutta Börker-Klähn
(1982, 212) has therefore suggested that all the round-topped stelae should be
attributed to Esarhaddon. We may add that at least three of them, among
which is the one which was definitely made by Esarhaddon’s sculptors, were
positioned close or next to the earlier Egyptian reliefs of Ramesses II. In a
recent study on the interaction of art and politics between Assyria and
Egypt in the seventh century BCE, Marian H. Feldman has qualified this
juxtaposition as ‘a visual dialogue between the Egyptian and Assyrian repre-
sentations’ (Feldman 2004, 143). Following Feldman, I would hypothesize

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 220
Figure 11.12a Rock sculptures and inscriptions at Nahr el-Kelb, modern Lebanon. Left:
Assyrian rock stela, possibly the reign of Esarhaddon (c. 670 BCE); right: Egyptian monument
dated to the reign of Ramesses II (after 1274 BCE; Weissbach 1922: 20 Abb. 5).
that the juxtaposition of the Assyrian and the Egyptian stelae should be
interpreted as a deliberate attempt by Assyrian artists to establish a formal
connection between the famed Egyptian power of the past and the newly
established Assyrian hegemony during the reign of Esarhaddon. By this pro-
cedure, the Assyrians ‘call attention to their position as both inheritors and
supplanters of the Egyptian tradition’ (Feldman 2004, 148). The most con-
spicuous date for such a programmatic situation would be the years between
Esarhaddon’s two campaigns to Egypt (671 and 669 BCE). It is well known
that the subjugation of Egypt by Esarhaddon was prepared, accompanied
and followed by a number of intense operations on the symbolical level,
ranging from prophetic legitimation to figurative policy, from monuments to
mass media (cf. Weisberg 1996; Uehlinger 1997, 316–20; Eph‘al 2005).

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 221
Figure 11.12b Assyrian rock stela and inscription at Nahr el-Kelb, the reign of Esarhaddon
(c. 670 BCE; Börker-Klähn 1982: no. 216).
The sculptures of Nahr el-Kelb provide a rare example of historical con-

sciousness being prompted by geography itself. At the same time, they hint at
the conscious interpretation and symbolic manipulation of a peculiar histor-
ical conjuncture by the ruling power. Clearly this is a spectacular case of

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 222
interaction between Fernand Braudel’s three levels of history, the longue

durée, social history and the history of events.19
CONCLUSION
Coming to an end and getting back once more at Burke’s Eyewitnessing, let
me quote some of his conclusions before presenting my own:
1. The good news for historians is that art [or, preferably, ‘visual documents’,
C.U.] can provide evidence for aspects of social reality which texts pass
over, at least in some places and times (. . .).
2. The bad news is that representational art is often less realistic than it
seems and distorts social reality rather than reflecting it, so that historians
who do not take account of the variety of the intentions of painters or
photographers (not to mention their patrons and clients) can be seriously
misled.
3. However, returning to the good news, the process of distortion is itself evi-
dence of phenomena that many historians want to study: mentalities, ide-
ologies and identities. The material or literal image is good evidence of the
mental or metaphorical ‘image’ of the self or of others. (Burke 2001, 30)
Art history has stressed the importance of viewers’ expectations and pre-
vious knowledge for their understanding of an image in terms of a ‘message’.
It is the eye of the beholder that organizes the visual field and makes sense of
it according to established rules of visual communication. The task of the
historian is to reconstruct the rules of communication on the basis of the pri-
mary data. Such rules may be better understood, and validated, when we con-
sider not only the finished product but the whole process from commissioning
to design and to the actual execution of a visual-rhetorical programme.
History-writing ever was and basically remains a matter of data-
processing. Historians more than other scholars should be aware of the many
difficulties inherent in the recording, storage, transmission and restitution of
historical data in ancient sources. In order to interpret ancient documents
correctly, we should always consider these difficulties in very practical terms,
regardless of whether we are dealing with texts or pictures.
To conclude, then, historians have always been children of their own time.
It is only natural that our expectations regarding the informative potential of
images should be influenced and may be biased by the use made of images of
all kinds in our contemporary societies. Among the paradigms en vogue
among present-day analysts of ancient Near Eastern monumental (and, we
19
On this and the Annales tradition in general, see Hans M. Barstad’s contribution to this
volume.

11 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:54 Page 223
may add, political) art, the notions of ‘propaganda’ versus ‘eyewitnessing’ are
widely used, as if they were self-explanatory but mutually exclusive. In my
own view, however, the monuments we study are neither exclusively docu-
mentary nor exclusively propagandistic in character, but both—or at least,
they attempt to be both, within the necessary constraints of the medium and
ancient data-processing procedures. I fully concur with Peter Burke (quoted
above in section 2.2) that such images should not be viewed as mere reflec-
tions of their time and place, but rather as extensions of the social contexts in
which they were commissioned and produced. Their visual discourses bear
witness to complex processes of public communication negotiating the ever-
precarious legitimacy of political power and the difficult, though necessary,
representation of its opponents.
It may well be that we are today going through a considerable epistemo-
logical revolution. New imaging technologies defy our handling of reality
itself, whether past or present. The ‘eyewitnessing qualities’ of photography
and film are progressively contested, to the extent that they are no more
received as undisputable evidence in court. To some extent, Big Brother is a
fantasy of the past. At the same time, virtual images allow for a new and
much more visual sensing of the past (no wonder, then, that the ways of
historiography are today supplemented by a new approach, called ‘virtual
history’, cf. Exum 2000). If handled with care, these new developments
may enhance critical insight into just how and to what extent images can be
manipulated—and in turn manipulate audiences—as easily as words and
texts. The challenge faced by critical historians is thus two-sided: that we
should take into account visual documents as an essential facet of historical
testimony seems obvious; at the same time, however, we must resist the temp-
tations of eyewitnessing, which images by their very nature always tend to
impose on us.
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Tefnin, R., 1979. ‘Image et histoire: réflexions sur l’usage documentaire de l’image
égyptienne’, Chronique d’Égypte 54, fasc. 108, 218–44.
——, 1981. ‘Image, écriture, récit: à propos des représentations de la Bataille de
Qadesh’, Göttinger Miszellen 47, 55–78.
——, 1984. ‘Discours et iconicité dans l’art égyptien’, Göttinger Miszellen 79, 55–71.
——, 1991. ‘Éléments pour une sémiologie de l’image égyptienne’, Chronique d’É-
gypte 66, fasc. 131–132, 60–88.
Tolkemitt, Brigitte, and R. Wohlfeil (eds), 1991. Historische Bildkunde: Probleme—
Wege — Beispiele (Zeitschrift für historische Forschung, Beiheft 12; Berlin).
Trachtenberg, A., 1985. ‘Albums of War: On Reading Civil War Photographs’,
Representations 9, 1–32.
Uehlinger, C., 1997. ‘Figurative Policy, Propaganda und Prophetie’, in J. A. Emerton
(ed.), Congress Volume, Cambridge 1995 (VTSup 66; Leiden), 297–349.
——, 2001. ‘Bildquellen und “Geschichte Israels”: grundsätzliche Überlegungen und
Fallbeispiele’, in C. Hardmeier (ed.), Steine—Bilder—Texte: Historische Evidenz
außerbiblischer und biblischer Quellen (Arbeiten zur Bibel und ihrer Geschichte 5;
Leipzig), 25–77.
——, 2002. ‘Hanun von Gaza und seine Gottheiten auf Orthostatenreliefs
Tiglatpilesers III.’, in U. Hübner and E. A. Knauf (eds), Kein Land für sich allein:
Studien zum Kulturkontakt in Kanaan, Israel/Palästina und Ebirnâri für Manfred
Weippert zum 65. Geburtstag (OBO 186; Fribourg and Göttingen), 94–127.
——, 2003. ‘Clio in a World of Pictures — Another Look at the Lachish Reliefs from
Sennacherib’s South-west Palace at Nineveh’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), ‘Shut Up Like
A Bird in a Cage’: The Invasion of Sennacherib in 701 BCE (European Seminar in
Historical Methodology, 4; JSOTSup 363; London), 221–305.
——, 2005a. ‘ “Medien” in der Lebenswelt des antiken Palästina?’, in C. Frevel (ed.),
Medien im antiken Palästina: Materielle Kommunikation und Medialität als Thema
der Palästinaarchäologie (FAT II/10; Tübingen), 31–61.
——, 2005b. ‘Was There a Cult Reform under King Josiah? The Case for a Well-
grounded Minimum’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Good Kings/Bad Kings: The Kingdom
of Judah in the Seventh Century (European Seminar in Historical Methodology, 5;
Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 393; London and New York),
279–316.
——, forthcoming a. ‘Merenptahs Israel: Schasu oder Kanaanäer? Eine Episode der
Frühgeschichte ‘Israels’ im Spiegel altägyptischer Text- und Bilddiskurse’.
——, forthcoming b. ‘Der Schwarze Obelisk: Bild, Text und Kontext’.
Ussishkin, D., 1980. ‘The “Lachish Reliefs” and the City of Lachish’, IEJ 30, 174–95.
——, 1982. The Conquest of Lachish by Sennacherib (Publications of the Institute of
Archaeology 6; Tel Aviv).
——, 1990. ‘The Assyrian Attack on Lachish: The Archaeological Evidence from the
Southwest Corner of the Site’, TA 17, 53–86.
——, 1996. ‘Excavations and Restoration Work at Tel Lachish 1985–1994: Third
Preliminary Report’, TA 23, 3–60.
Wäfler, M., 1975. Nicht-Assyrer neuassyrischer Darstellungen (AOAT 26; Kevelaer
and Neukirchen-Vluyn).
Weisberg, D. B., 1996. ‘Esarhaddon and Egypt: A Preliminary Investigation’,
Michmanim 9, 147–56.

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Weissbach, F. H., 1922. Die Denkmäler und Inschriften an der Mündung des Nahr el-
Kelb (Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft,
Heft 6; Berlin and Leipzig).
White, H., 1988. ‘Historiography and Historiophoty’, American Historical Review 93,
1193–99.
Winter, Irene J., 1981. ‘Royal Rhetoric and the Development of Historical Narrative
in Neo-Assyrian Reliefs’, Studies in Visual Communication 7/2, 2–38.
Wreszinski, W., 1923. Atlas zur altägyptischen Kulturgeschichte, Part II (Leipzig; repr.
Genève, 1988).
Yamada, Sh., 2000. The Construction of the Assyrian Empire: A Historical Study of
the Inscriptions of Shalmaneser III (859–824 BC) Relating to His Campaigns to the
West (CHANE 3; Leiden).
Yurco, F. J., 1986. ‘Merenptah’s Canaanite Campaign’, JARCE 23, 189–215.
——, 1990. ‘3,200-year-old Picture of Israelites Found in Egypt’, BAR 16/5, 20–38.
——, 1991. ‘Can You Name the Panel with the Israelites? Yurco’s Response’, BAR
17/6, 54–55, 61.
——, 1997. ‘Merenptah’s Canaanite Campaign and Israel’s Origins’, in E. S. Frerichs
and L. H. Lesko (eds), Exodus: The Egyptian Evidence (Winona Lake, IN), 27–55.

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12
Akkadian Sources of the Ninth Century
M. J. GELLER
SCHOLARS INTERESTED IN THE HISTORY OF ISRAEL often select for study rele-
vant passages from Akkadian historical inscriptions, annals and chronicles
referring to biblical events. This process has become more sophisticated of
late, particularly with the Texte aus der Umwelt der Alten Testaments series
and COS, in which much more of Akkadian and even Sumerian literature is
taken into account as directly or indirectly relevant to the Bible.
However, the ‘scriptures in context’ approach often pays less attention to
the nitty-gritty side of Assyriology, namely the everyday contracts, adminis-
trative documents, lists, letters, receipts and economic texts. There is a lot to
learn from such material, which comprises the bulk of the thousands of
Mesopotamian tablets. The second problem is that, in Mesopotamian terms,
Israel was Randgebiet, since the greatest centres of political power, institu-
tional structures, science, and even organized religion were concentrated in
Mesopotamia and Egypt. Biblical history could be described as the edge
looking towards the middle.
This contribution is intended to engage with the ninth century from an
Assyrian point of view, and the methodology to be employed is to look at the
Akkadian sources in their entirety, rather than selectively. Biblical scholars
tend to concentrate on those sections of the Kurkh and Black Obelisk
inscriptions that mention Ahab and Jehu and the regional struggles against
Assyria.1 The questions raised are valid, namely how solid or fragile was the
coalition of states fighting against the Assyrians, and at what point did the
coalition break down. Nevertheless, there is more in Akkadian inscriptions
relevant to the subject of the present volume.
1
See Kuan 1995. A somewhat broader and more comprehensive approach is taken by Yamada
2000. See also the contribution by K. L. Younger in the present volume.

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230 M. J. Geller
THE VOTIVE INSCRIPTIONS
Shalmaneser III (859–824) has bequeathed to us a fair number of monumen-

tal inscriptions describing the events of his long and busy reign, and he is the
first Assyrian king, of course, to mention Ahab and Jehu by name. We begin
with some rather ordinary and somewhat neglected texts, namely his many
bricks and votive inscriptions. A typical example reads as follows:
Shalmaneser the great king, mighty king, king of the universe, king of Assyria,
son of Assurnasirpal, great king, mighty king, king of the universe, king of
Assyria, son of Tukulti-Ninurta (who was) also king of the universe and king
of Assyria: construction of the ziggurat at Kalhu. (Grayson 1996, 168 n. 111)
The building of the ziggurat at Nimrud (ancient Kalhu) was no mean feat
of engineering, particularly when built from scratch; Egyptians had long
since stopped building pyramids. Shalmaneser conducted other major build-
ing works at Nimrud, such as the palace known as Fort Shalmaneser (Oates
and Oates 2001, 148). Shalmaneser’s votive inscriptions were found on glazed
bricks from the palace, with the inscription placed within ornate scenes dec-
orating the bricks. Numerous other examples of Shalmaneser’s brick inscrip-
tions are found on bricks and clay stones from Nineveh and Assur, where he
was involved in major building projects.
The votive inscriptions and clay cones of Shalmaneser’s father,
Ashurnasirpal, are also found at many sites in Nimrud, Nineveh, Assur,
and Balawat. Nimrud itself was re-founded by Ashurnasirpal, who claimed
to have built the Ninurta and Enlil temples de novo (Wiseman and Black
1996, 2), and in fact Ashurnasirpal built and restored no less than nine
temples in Nimrud alone, as well as restoring the Ishtar temple in Nineveh
and the Sin-Shamash temple in Assur (Oates and Oates 2001, 107). Here
is an example of an Ashurnasirpal brick inscription from Nineveh:
Assurnasirpal, appointed by Enlil, vice-regent of Assur, son of Tukulti-
Ninurta, appointed by Enlil, vice-regent of Assur, son of Adad-nirari,
appointed of Enlil, vice-regent of Assur, I completely rebuilt the temple of
Ishtar of Nineveh, my mistress, from top to bottom. (Grayson 1991, 381–2)
The question is, who paid for all this work?
THE ANNALS
Before attempting to answer this question, let us explore the background.

The general historical picture of Assyria at the beginning of the ninth cen-
tury BCE is well known both from general textbooks and specialist studies of

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AKKADIAN SOURCES OF THE NINTH CENTURY 231
the period. Assyria was slowly recovering at the beginning of the century
from 200 years of strife with emerging Aramaean tribes and city-states in the
West, and during this period Assyria was swamped by Aramaean migrations
(see Parpola and Neumann 1987). According to one fragmentary chronicle,
Assyria was captured by Aramaeans in around 1100 BCE and local Assyrians
fled to the mountains to save their lives.2 Finally, in the tenth century Assyria
began to make a comeback after a series of campaigns by King Ashur-dan in
the West, and later Ashurnasirpal was the first Assyrian king to reach the
Mediterranean after Tiglath-pileser I, some 250 years earlier.3 These military
successes were carried on by the even more militaristic Shalmaneser III,
whose campaigns brought him as far as the Levant and who even received
tribute from Egypt, presumably as a non-aggression deal. During his thirty-
five years on the throne Shalmaneser personally conducted no less than
twenty-six campaigns, and in his final years campaigns were conducted by his
trusted generals (see Liverani 2004).
Lambert (2004, 355) has argued for the relative historical reliability of
Assyrian royal inscriptions, despite their propagandistic tendencies in only
describing victories rather than defeats. The Assyrian king was supported by
a powerful warrior class who would have known if events were badly mis-
represented, considering the fact that Assyrian royal inscriptions were com-
posed during the ruler’s lifetime, and not later. The subjective style of the
historical inscriptions is problematical, but the historical value of the annals
nevertheless should not be underestimated.
To return to the question of who paid the bill, the short answer appears
to be conquest, specifically booty from warfare and tribute from neighbours.
Ashurnasirpal was the first of the Assyrian kings whose annals systematically
recorded the amounts of booty and tribute acquired in campaigns, and this
form of record was maintained assiduously by Shalmaneser III. The clear
impression that we get from the annals and votive inscriptions is that
Assyrian kings, in order to engage in massive architectural projects, con-
ducted military campaigns almost every year against their neighbours with
the expressed purpose of collecting booty, as well as possible corvee labour-
ers from conquered peoples being brought into Assyria. Tribute could
2
Grayson 1975, 189. See Lambert 2004, 353: ‘the Aramaeans flooded into Mesopotamia and
north Syria in a massive migration, disrupting everything’.
3
Lambert 1974, 107. The three predecessors of Ashurnasirpal and Shalmaneser managed to
reverse the two-century decline by launching campaigns against Aramaean neighbours. At the
turn of the ninth century, Ashurnasirpal’s grandfather Adad-nirari actively campaigned against
neighbours to the north and west of Assyria, and against Babylonia to the south, and he was
responsible for some building works in Assur and Nineveh and elsewhere (RIMA 2, 142).
However, neither the campaigns nor building works can match the scale of activities of
Ashurnasirpal and Shalmaneser.

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232 M. J. Geller
include gold and silver, precious animals, horses and mules (essential for the
military machine), and even furniture. One of Shalmaneser’s inscriptions,
from 839 BCE, his twentieth regnal year, recounts his first year, when
Shalmaneser washed his weapons in the Mediterranean. On three subsequent
campaigns Shalmaneser reports that he captured Til-Barsip and brought
Ahunu and many prisoners back to Assyria. During his sixth, eleventh, and
fourteenth years Shalmaneser fought against the Damascus coalition, which
included Beit Omri, of course, and in other years Shalmaneser marched into
Babylon and against Carchemish. What is unique in this document is the final
passage of the inscription:
The booty from the beginning of my sovereignty to my twentieth year: 110,610
prisoners, 82,600 killed, 9,920 horses and mules, 35,565 oxen, 19,690 donkeys,
and 184,755 sheep (RIMA 3, 55).
Shalmaneser ends by reporting his complete rebuilding—from top to bot-

tom—of the ancient wall of Assur. There is an obvious connection made
here between warfare, booty and buildings.
Somehow this wealth from booty gets converted into buildings. There is
something rather one-sided about this picture. A millennium earlier the
Assyrians had relied upon trade to create their wealth, having established
great commercial trading colonies in Anatolia. There is no record of such
trade links in the annals of Ashurnasirpal or Shalmaneser III. The court cor-
respondence of later Assyrian kings, particularly Sennacherib, Esarhaddon
and Ashurbanipal, provides information about commerce; but we have
nothing from the ninth century.
There are relatively few statements in the annals extolling Shalmaneser as
a just or even pious king, on the model of being a good shepherd to his
people, protecting the widow and the orphan, or insisting on justice in the
land, along the lines of Hammurabi’s inscriptions.4 Shalmaneser’s famous
Black Obelisk inscription opens with a catalogue of the major gods in the
Assyrian pantheon, who are mentioned because they are the ones who
‘increase the greatness of my kingship’ (mu8arbû 8arr u tija).5 So much for
piety. Shalmaneser continues by describing himself as:
king of all people, prince, vice-regent of Assur, mighty king, king of all four
quarters, sungod of all people, ruler of all lands, son of the exalted priest
4
See, for instance, the prologue to Hammurabi’s code, in Roth 1995, 76–77.
5
There are occasional inscriptions extolling Shalmeneser’s piety in the annals, but these expres-
sions turn out to be less than altruistic, since the gods are invoked in order to glorify
Shalmaneser, rather than the other way around, e.g. the statement that the great gods ‘magnify
my rule, my authority, and my sovereignty’ (b el uti ki 88uti u 8apir uti u8arbu), RIMA 3A.O.102.2:
4–5 (p. 13) [reference courtesy of S. Parpola].

12 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 233
Assurnasirpal who priesthood was pleasing to the gods and who subdued all
the lands at his feet, pure progeny of Tukulti-Ninurta who killed all his enemies
and annihilated them like a flood (RIMA 2, 64).
This inscription is neither addressed to the gods nor meant for the gods to
read. Anyone who can or does read this inscription, either at home or from
abroad, has a clear picture of the threatening power of an Assyrian king. The
remainder of the Black Obelisk gives details of every campaign, and the
legends accompanying the scenes show various peoples offering tribute. Jehu
himself is in good company, appearing together with Egyptians and
Babylonians. The reader is left in no doubt about the connection between
these statements, that the utilitarian purpose of these campaigns is to collect
booty and tribute, without any concessions being made to questions of
justice or ethics.
In some respects, the Assyrian military machine worked like a modern
Mafia protection racket.6 Close neighbours to Assyria would be annexed,
particularly if they had previously been conquered by Tiglath-pileser in what
constituted traditional Assyrian territory. Further afield, the Assyrians
demanded tribute and gifts as a means of warding off another visit of the
Assyrian army, with which the more distant neighbours would be threatened
on a regular basis.7 Hardly a year passed without the Assyrian military
machine being out in the field.
Various formulaic expressions in the annals refer to what happened to
conquered rulers. Whenever possible, the local ruler was killed or sent into
Assyria in exile. Although official propaganda could not refer to defeat nor
acknowledge a false victory, one solution was to explain that a local ruler was
confined to his city, while the rest of the region was plundered. The fact that
the local ruler was not killed was a tacit admission of defeat, since the ruler
could live to fight another day. A similar formulation was used with rulers
who escaped ‘in order to save his life’, either into mountains or by boat. This
formulation also hinted at something less than victory, since the ruler usually
survived and escaped punishment. If we had other independent accounts of
the same events, it would help us to read between the lines and to detect the
subtle differences between complete conquest and less than total victory in
the annals. Nevertheless, when all else fails rulers usually acceded to Assyria
6
Barbara Porter has written extensively on Assyrian propaganda directed at subjugated peoples,
particularly during the reign of Esarhaddon and other post-ninth-century rulers. See, for
instance, Porter 1993.
7
As Liverani (2004, 219) points out, there were two levels of control. Within the traditional
Assyrian boundaries, as already established by Tiglath-pileser I in the eleventh century BCE,
Assyria annexed states. Outside of these boundaries, e.g. across the Euphrates, a ‘tributary’
relationship was established.

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234 M. J. Geller
by offering maddattu or tribute. The message is clear: in the end, Assyria

always wins.
The facts in this scenario are neither complex nor much in doubt. The real
question is whether the reputations and stories about Ashurnasirpal and
Shalmaneser may have influenced the historiography of the period, even
among neighbouring peoples. In other words, conquest, booty, and tribute,
combined with an ambitious building programme, became the yardstick by
which a successful reign was measured, and hence, described. We can appre-
ciate that this message would have been reassuring to Assyrians back home,
having to support the heavy burdens of warfare and campaigns every year,
while at the same time seeing prestige building projects being erected in major
cities. The connection between war, booty and buildings was a way of ensur-
ing domestic support for the king. It is equally obvious that stone inscriptions
of Shalmaneser found outside of Assyria, carved on rocks at the source of
the Tigris or along the upper Euphrates (RIMA 3, 20–24), make no mention
of building works or elaborate upon the amounts of booty and tribute
garnered from the campaigns; for foreign consumption, these inscriptions
simply enumerate Shalmaneser’s successes in battle with his opponents.
We have little evidence for literary activity in ninth-century Assyria,
except for these annals and brick and votive inscriptions. We have a few iso-
lated literary or school texts from Assur from the period.8 The Ezida or
Nabû-temple archive in Nimrud appears to have been active only in the
eighth century, judging by archaeological finds (Wiseman and Black 1996, 4).
We should not therefore assume a priori that the monumental inscriptions on
statues, obelisks, and stelae were intended for the general public; the inscrip-
tions may have served as icons of power. In any case, the royal annals were
written in literary Babylonian rather than in Assyrian dialect, which was
unlikely to have been understood by the man in the street in Assur or
Nimrud; the difference between literary Babylonian would be comparable
today to differences between High and Low German, or Italian and Venetian
dialect. By the same logic, Shalmaneser’s foreign stelae may not have been
intended to be read by the local Aramaic or Phoenician or Luwian-speaking
public. Of course we cannot rule out the possibility that translations had
been rendered into Aramaic, on the model of Darius’ Behistun inscription,
which happened to turn up in Elephantine. If, on the other hand, the
Assyrian annals were not intended to be read, why write them in the first
place?
8
See Pedersén 1986, 18, 35, 38–39, and 55, an hemerology dating to Ashurnasirpal II.

12 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 235
ARCHIVES
Since we suffer from an almost complete lack of non-official documents in

the ninth century, such as legal documents, contracts, receipts, administrative
documents, not to mention literary texts, we are forced to rely almost exclu-
sively upon the official history of palace scribes, rather than on independent
records of merchants, traders, or even lower bureaucrats. Nor do we have any
way of determining whether Assyria’s wealth and economic power was based
primarily upon the results of warfare, or equally upon taxation, agriculture
and commerce. Although records from earlier and later periods, both Middle
Assyrian and Late Assyrian archives, are far from complete, they exist in suf-
ficient numbers to be able to form a reasonably accurate picture of the state
bureaucracy and commercial interests.9 We would dearly like to know how
exactly the income from booty and tribute was integrated into the local
economy of Assyria.
The lack of administrative tablets is puzzling, since we have a couple of
stelae from Shalmaneser’s officials who acted as provincial governors and
administrators (RIMA 3, 178–79, nos 2002–2003), key figures within the state
bureaucracy, who served as governors of foreign cities, such as Harran and
Balij, but not the local administrators of Assur or Nimrud.10 One might
argue that the relevant Assyrian archives of the home guard have either not
been found or been published.11 Archaeologists or looters could discover new
archives at any time. Although Nineveh itself does not become a major
capital until much later, under Sennacherib, we might expect to find ninth-
century archives in either Assur or Nimrud, and particularly in Assur, where
Middle Assyrian archives are well represented.
The only significant archival finds from ninth-century Assyria consist of
a few tablets from the site of Shibaniba (Tell Billa), situated 15 miles north-
east of Nineveh. Brick and votive inscriptions from the site date to the reigns
of Ashurnasirpal and Shalmaneser III (Finkelstein 1953, 114). A handful of
tablets can be dated to the period of Shalmaneser III,12 and although few in
number, the archive shows some unusual features. The archive consists of
administrative records from the public record office together with a few
9
Jakob 2003. Even late archives are not as well documented as we would like, since for example
1,300 legal texts from all over the Assyrian empire is not an enormous number.
10
Only a single document (legal document) has been found from Nimrud dating to Shal-
maneser’s reign (835 BCE); see Postgate 1973, 128, no. 100 [reference courtesy of Amélie Kuhrt].
11
A few Neo-Assyrian archival texts have been found from Shibaniba (Tell Billa), see Finkelstein
1953, esp. 137ff, and Radner 1997, 6, 297–98, 302.
12
Finkelstein 1953, 116, see especially no. 68, which can be dated to 830 BCE, and no. 77, dated
to 845 BCE, judging by the eponym Inurta-nadin-8umi; see Millard 1994, 111.

12 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 236
236 M. J. Geller
private contracts from family archives.13 These tablets may provide hints to
the military administration of the city, since several tablets list names of indi-
viduals who are enlisted for official duties in place of other individuals, and
Finkelstein suggests that ‘what is involved here is military service performed
by substitutes furnished at the expense of other citizens’ (1953, 118 and 138).
The same tablets also record numbers of horses and mules, which were essen-
tial for the Assyrian army. The point is that the tablets from Tell Billa may
illustrate the fact that the bulk of economic activity in a provincial centre in
Assyria was concentrated on matters related to the military, rather than on
other kinds of commercial activity.
This may explain something about the general lack of archives from
ninth-century Assyria. It is usually suggested that tablets tend to be found at
the end of a reign, because obsolete tablets tend to be discarded. Pedersén,
for instance, has noted that the Neo-Assyrian archives from Nimrud date
from Sargon II (721–05), before the move to a new capital, while another
archive dates from seventh century prior to destruction of the city.14
Finkelstein (1953, 120) points out that ‘administrative records, or those of a
public nature, usually carry the provision for the breaking of the tablet when
the specified orders had been complied with’. Although discarded tablets can
still be found by archaeologists, nevertheless the destruction of contracts may
partially explain the lack of archives from earlier periods, which could have
been discarded. A similar situation applies to private contracts. According to
Radner (1997, 52, 75, 77), contracts from private archives were also crushed
or destroyed after becoming obsolete, which might explain the existence of
many more tablets from private transactions from later in the Neo-Assyrian
period.15 However, is this necessarily the case? Legal documents often con-
tained a clause ensuring that at no time in the future would anyone make a
claim against the parties to the contract. In other words, private contracts
may take much longer to become obsolete, if ever, and one can therefore
legitimately ask why these documents first appear only in the eighth century.
13
Finkelstein 1953, 120. Text no. 68 (p. 137) is a private loan agreement, and see Radner 1997,
297–98; etc. Finkelstein argues that few tablets from Billa come from private archives, based on
the lack of witnesses at the end of the Billa tablets; lists of witnesses on tablets are characteris-
tic of private transactions. We agree with Finkelstein against Radner, since the lists of sheep and
goats (no. 70) and garments (no. 71) could easily belong to the public administration of the city.
14
Pedersén 1998, 144. As Simo Parpola has noted in a personal communication, ‘The scarcity of
cuneiform texts from ninth century Assyria has of course to be explained differently. It is simply
a matter of discarding useless things as time goes by. That’s why cuneiform tablets everywhere
tend to concentrate in a period of 2–3 generations before the destruction or abandonment of the
site.’
15
See Kwasman 1988, xxviii, pointing out, for instance, that there are no legal documents found
from Nineveh before the reign of Sennacherib.

12 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 237
It is likely that at some point ninth-century archives will be found in

Assyria, and the picture they provide will give us the information we are seek-
ing. In the meantime, we are free to speculate that perhaps the focus of eco-
nomic activity in the ninth century was mostly concerned with equipping the
Assyrian army and with the acquisition and distribution of booty. It is pos-
sible that such activities require less in the way of documentation than other
types of commercial transactions involving private individuals and private
ownership, or keeping track of public income and expenditure. At the same
time, it may also be worth speculating about the competence and size of the
Assyrian public administration in the ninth century, a relatively short time
after the chaos caused by Aramaic incursions into Assyria during the previ-
ous two centuries. There is a possibility that a reduced level of economic
activity, combined with the less fastidious attitude towards the distribution of
booty, may have resulted in a lower level of documentation and fewer
cuneiform archival sources.
However, this does not explain the similar archival situation in Syria.
Dur-Katlimmu, modern Sheikh Hamad, has offered up Assyrian archives
from both the Middle Assyrian period and from the Late Assyrian period,
from the seventh–sixth centuries BCE. No tablets have been found for the
intervening periods. We have good Middle Assyrian evidence from a dunnu, a
relatively insignificant Assyrian fortress in Syria, modern Sabi Abyad, with a
small but important archive giving clues about the bureaucratic administra-
tion of Syria in the Middle Assyrian period (Wiggermann 2000). Nothing
like this has been found for the ninth century. Other sites in Syria tell more or
less the same story, tablets from either earlier or later, but nothing from the
ninth century.
If tablets have not been found, what about cylinder seals? They are more
durable than tablets and are not necessarily restricted to archives in palaces
or temples, but could be found elsewhere on a tell. Here again, we have sur-
prisingly few seals that can be attributed to officials of Assurnasirpal.16
Shalmaneser seals are equally difficult to identify, except for one prominent
stamp seal with an inscription (Buchanan and Moorey 1988, 8 n. 61).
Furthermore, it appears that stamp seals were becoming more and more pop-
ular in this period among scribes, possibly because they could be used for
both tablets and for parchment or papyrus, that is, for sealing documents
written in Aramaic.17 By the eighth century, if not earlier, Assyrian-style
16
Moortgat 1940, 67, nos 525–600. As Parpola points out (2004, 11), ‘While men with non-
Akkadian names only sporadically appear in high state offices in the ninth century, they are
frequently encountered on all levels of administration in the late eighth and seventh centuries
BC.’
17
See Collon 1987, 77, on stamp seals used for alphabetic texts.

12 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 238
238 M. J. Geller
cylinder seals begin to appear with Aramaic inscriptions recording the names
of officials with Aramaic names (Tessier 1984, 40 n. 236), and, as Beatrice
Tessier points out, this information accords well with Assyrian reliefs from
the mid-eighth century, showing scribes writing with a brush on leather or
parchment, obviously writing in Aramaic. According to Pedersén 1998,
130–31, from the eighth century we find strong evidence for both the use of
wax writing boards (for Akkadian) and the use of Aramaic (including
Aramaic tablets) within Assyrian archives.
There is one ninth-century Akkadian inscription which is not typical of
any of those mentioned until now, namely the bilingual Akkadian-Aramaic
inscription from Tell Fekheriye in Syria, contemporary with Ashurnasirpal.18
What a great surprise to find an Akkadian-Aramaic bilingual from
Syria!19 What surprises us is not the Aramaic inscription, but the Akkadian
version. Why should it be in Akkadian?
There is no reason to assume that anyone across the Euphrates in the
ninth century would be using Akkadian for normal transactions. If
Aramaeans had archives at all, Aramaic would be the more logical language
of record, written on perishable material. The Tell Fekheriye bilingual
inscription serves as a hint to changing circumstances in the West, and the re-
emergence of Assyrian bureaucracy. We know from Shalmaneser’s earlier
inscriptions from the beginning of his reign that he ‘settled Assyrians in Syria
and found palaces’ (RIMA 3, 19, ll. 34–35, and l. 38). Shalmaneser restored
to his control cities on the Euphrates that had formerly been established by
Tiglath-pileser I, which the Aramaeans had taken away by force. For
instance, he settled Assyrians in Til-Barsip, now named Kar-Shalmaneser,
and built an elaborate palace. One would expect in Mesopotamia that all
such activity should have been recorded somewhere. The question is, could it
have been recorded in Aramaic? Might this explain the lack of archives? It is
worth speculating whether even within Assyria itself, much of the record-
keeping had been kept in Aramaic, considering the influx of Aramaeans into
Assyria during the previous centuries. Although Aramaic was widely recog-
nized as a lingua franca from the eighth century, the question arises as to
whether this process should not have already begun in the ninth century.
The absence of archival documents from the ninth century may be more
significant than accidental. From the present state of evidence, we might sur-
mise that ninth-century Assyrians were illiterate conquering hordes who had
18
RIMA 2, 389–92 (no. 2004). The Akkadian inscription has stylistic parallels with
Assurnasirpal’s inscriptions; see Abou-Assaf, Bordreuil and Millard 1982, 69–70.
19
According to his annals, Shalmanenser also had a stele erected in Ba’li-ra’si, a mountain near
Tyre, and for all we know this inscription could have been bilingual as well. See now Morrow
2005, esp. 207–10.

12 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 239
little time for record-keeping, but nevertheless were adept at building enter-
prises. On the other hand, Shalmaneser seems to know exactly how many
prisoners, horses, mules, oxen, donkeys, and sheep he captured during his first
twenty years on the road; someone must have been keeping count. Whoever
composed these extensive Assyrian annals expected someone to read them, if
only diplomats from foreign courts and a few Assyrian nobles. Even the
Assyrians may have expected these inscriptions to be translated into
Aramaic, as was the case in Tell Fekheriye.
The point is that Aramaic may have played a much larger role within the
emerging Assyrian empire in the ninth century than has been suspected until
now. The eleventh and tenth century incursions of Aramaeans into Assyria
proper, along with the emergence of powerful Aramaic cities in the West, may
have combined to weaken the internal Assyrian workings of the Assyrian
state, at least for a time. As the central administration became weak, and
more and more Aramaeans were moving into Assyria proper, the use of
Assyrian may actually have declined compared with earlier (Middle
Assyrian) periods. Akkadian (or rather Assyrian) arguably became more
widespread in later centuries in tandem with the growth in Assyrian bureau-
cracy.20 This may explain in part why the beginning of the first millennium is
so poorly attested in administrative and economic texts. Records, if they were
kept, may have been kept in forms other than on tablets.
Hence, we may simply be making the wrong inferences from our evidence,
or perhaps lack of evidence. The appearance of substantial Akkadian
archives in Assyria from the eighth century onwards may indicate an increase
in the use of Akkadian in the eighth century. In other words, one might infer
from this data that Aramaic was likely to have been crucially important in the
ninth century as a lingua franca,21 perhaps even in preference to Akkadian in
some instances. The evidence for the use of Aramaic in later archives from
the eighth century may only serve to show that Aramaic was still being used
in later periods, rather than being introduced as part of a bilingual innova-
tion. There may therefore have even been a reduced reliance upon Aramaic
from the eighth century, when Akkadian began to recapture its former
prominence from earlier periods. This scenario would offer us a very different
view of historical writing in the ninth century BCE.
It is also possible that, from the Assyrian point of view, the wars against
the Aramaeans of the West represented a Kulturkampf, as well as a land and
20
Simo Parpola [personal communication] suggests that ‘Akkadian and cuneiform came only
with Assyrian administration, and even then only as supplementary to Aramaic’.
21
See Parpola 2004, 9 (section 2.1). Parpola writes that ‘within a relatively short period of
time—already by the middle of the eighth century — Aramaic became established as a common
language (lingua franca) throughout the Empire’.

12 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 240
240 M. J. Geller
booty grab. The idea was to restore Assyria to its former glory by con-
quering the Aramaeans of the region, including Damascus, and integrating
their citizenry into the Assyrian empire (Parpola 2004, 13 n. 38). From the
Assyrian point of view, Ahab and Jehu were only significant as part of
the coalition of Damascus, the Aramaean capital of the region. Otherwise,
the Beit Omri had no special status in Assyrian eyes, apart from being just
another Aramaean tribe.
CONCLUSION
We conclude with one final speculation about Assyrian expansion and mili-
tarism: does it reflect the personal attitudes of brutal sociopath rulers or does
it reflect the Zeitgeist? The proclaimed state ideology of instituting ambitious
building programmes at the expense of one’s neighbours, paid for by military
adventure and the expansion of one’s boundaries, may have spread from
Assyria to the West, through Aramaic conduits. The biblical accounts of the
reigns of David and Solomon may partially reflect this same ideology. In
other words, the notion may have been that a world-class king or state needed
to build new cities and a new temple, which could only be financed through
military expansion, booty and tribute. Ninth-century Assyria may have pre-
sented itself as the model of statehood at that time, and a recipe for success
which other states and rulers might wish to emulate, albeit on a smaller
scale.22
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Abou-Assaf, A., P. Bordreuil, and A. R. Millard, 1982. La Statue de Tell Fekherye

(Paris).
Buchanan, B., and P. R. S. Moorey, 1988. Catalogue of Ancient Near Eastern Seals in
the Ashmolean Museum, III (Oxford).
Collon, D., 1987. First Impressions (London).
Finkelstein, J. J., 1953. ‘Cuneiform Texts from Tell Billa’, JCS 7, 109–76.
Grayson, A. K., 1975. Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles (Texts from Cuneiform
Sources V; Locust Valley, NY).
22
Because the present writer is not a specialist in Neo-Assyrian affairs, advice was sought and
generously received from Simo Parpola, who does not necessarily endorse all the opinions
expressed herein. Parpola comments that although Aramaic may have been extensively used in
Assyria under both Ashurnasirpal II and Shalmaneser III, ‘this possibility alone does not explain
the lack of cuneiform archives from central Assyria at that time’ [personal communication].

12 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 241
——, 1991. Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC I (1114–859 BC) (RIMA
2; Toronto).
——, 1996. Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC II (858–745 BC) (RIMA
3; Toronto).
Jakob, S., 2003. Mittelassyrische Verwaltung und Sozialstruktur Untersuchungen
(Leiden).
Kuan, J. K., 1995. Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions and Syria-Palestine (Hong
Kong).
Kwasman, T., 1988. Neo-Assyrian Legal Documents in the Kouyunjik Collection of the
British Museum (StPSM 14; Rome).
Lambert, W. G., 1974. ‘The Reigns of Assurnasirpal II and Shalmaneser III: An
Interpretation’, Iraq 36, 103–09.
——, 2004. ‘Mesopotamian Sources and Pre-exilic Israel’, in J. Day, In Search of
Pre-Exilic Israel (JSOTSup 406; London), 352–65.
Liverani, M., 2004. ‘Assyria in the Ninth Century’, in G. Frame (ed.), From the Upper
Sea to the Lower Sea: Studies on the History of Assyria and Babylonia in Honour
of A.K. Grayson (Leiden), 213–26.
Millard, A., 1994. The Eponyms of the Assyrian Empire (SAAS 2; Helsinki).
Moortgat, A., 1940. Vorderasiatische Rollsiegel (Berlin).
Morrow, W. S., 2005. ‘Cuneiform Literacy and Deuteronomic Composition’, BiOr 57,
204–13.
Oates, J., and D. Oates, 2001. Nimrud: An Assyrian Imperial City Revealed (London).
Parpola, S., 2004. ‘National and Ethnic Identity in the Assyrian Empire and Assyrian
Identity in Post-Empire Times’, JAAS 18.
——, and J. Neumann, 1987. ‘Climatic Change and the 11th–10th Century Eclipse of
Assyria and Babylonia’, JNES 46, 161–82.
Pedersén, O., 1986. Archives and Libraries in the City of Assur II (Uppsala).
——, 1998. Archives and Libraries in the Ancient Near East 1500–300 BC (Bethesda,
MD).
Porter, B., 1993. ‘Conquest or Kudurru’s? A Note on Peaceful Strategies of Assyrian
Government’, in M. E. Cohen et al. (eds.), The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern
Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo (Bethesda, MD), 194–97.
Postgate, J. N., 1973. The Governor’s Palace Archive (London).
Radner, K., 1997. Die Neuassyrischen Privatrechtsurkunden (SAAS 6; Helsinki).
Roth, M. T., 1995. Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor (Atlanta, GA).
Tessier, B., 1984. Ancient Near Eastern Cylinder Seals from the Marcopoli Collection
(Berkeley).
Wiggermann, F. A. M., 2000. ‘Agriculture in the Northern Balikh Valley: The Case of
Middle Assyrian Tell Sabi Abyad’, in R. M. Jas (ed.), Rainfall and Agriculture in
Northern Mesopotamia (Leiden), 171–31.
Wiseman, D. J., and J. Black, 1996. Literary Texts from the Temple of Nabû (CTN 4,
London).
Yamada, S., 2000. The Construction of the Assyrian Empire (Leiden).

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13
Neo-Assyrian and Israelite History in the

Ninth Century: The Role of
Shalmaneser III
K. LAWSON YOUNGER, Jr.
IN HISTORICAL STUDIES, ONE OF THE COMMON MODES of periodization is the

use of centuries. Like any type of periodization, this is intended to be flexi-
ble, since obviously every turn of century does not bring about a sudden and
radical change in material culture and/or trends in human thought and per-
spective. The greatest problem with any periodization—whether based on
archaeological periods, kingdoms, dynasties, ages, eras, Neo-Marxist cate-
gories (like pre-modern, modern, post-modern)—is generalization. This is
often manifested in an unavoidable tendency to emphasize continuity and
understate changes within periods, while at the same time emphasizing
changes and understating continuity between adjacent periods. In fact, peri-
ods are artificial concepts that can lead at times to seeing connections that do
not actually exist. They do not usually have neat beginnings and endings.
Nevertheless, periodization is necessary to historical analysis and the use of
centuries can prove functional in the process of imposing form on the past.
In using centuries as a periodization scheme, some modern historians have
resorted to the concepts of ‘long’ and ‘short’ centuries to better reflect the
periods and their substantive changes.
However, in the case of the history of Assyria,1 the ninth century does
not accurately reflect periodization, even if long or short century designations
are used. Typically, the ninth century has been understood as part of three
discernible, yet interconnected, periods, two of which overlap into other
centuries (the first with the previous tenth century and the third with the
following eighth century) (see e.g. Kuhrt 1995):
1 the period of recovery (Ashur-dan II–Tukulti-Ninurta II) (934–884):
50 years,
1
See M. Geller, ‘Akkadian Sources of the Ninth Century’ in this volume.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 244
244 K. Lawson Younger, Jr.
2 the early imperial period (Ashurnasirpal II–Shalmaneser III) (883–

824): 59 years,
3 the inner crisis and the period of autonomous rulers (Shamshi-Adad
V–Ashur-nirari V) (827–745): 82 years.2
Recently, M. Liverani (2004) has suggested a different periodization for
Assyrian history in the ninth century. While the two long and successful
reigns of Ashurnasirpal II (883–859) and Shalmaneser III (859–824) repre-
sent the first ‘peak’ in Neo-Assyrian history (i.e. period 2 above), there is a
definite contrast between the two. Ashurnasirpal II is ‘the end of a long
process of recovery of Assyria inside the “historical” borders (between the
Zagros and the Euphrates) already reached since the times of Tukulti-
Ninurta I;3 while Shalmaneser III marks the beginning of a quite different
process, the imperial conquest of wide lands beyond those borders’ (2004,
213). In his opinion, there are five areas in which there is greater discontinu-
ity than continuity between these two monarchs’ reigns: military campaigns,
enemy coalitions, extent of the empire, inner organization and subjugated
states. He concludes that Ashurnasirpal II’s reign is integrally tied to those of
the previous three kings,4 Ashur-dan II (934–912), Adad-nirari II (911–891),
and Tukulti-Ninurta II (890–884), so that ‘the entire period 934–859 features
as quite unitary in the political program in the military activities, and in their
literary recording’ (2004, 220).5
Shalmaneser’s political programme, however, was different and more ambi-
tious. Since the previous kings had successfully campaigned in a project of
2
Kuhrt (1995, 478–93) labels these periods: (1) The Development of Assyrian Strategy
(934–884), (2) Ashurnasirpal II and Shalmaneser III (883–824) and (3) Problems in Assyria
(823–745).
3
Postgate (1992, 257) notes: ‘The [early Neo-Assyrian] kings lovingly record the resettlement of
erstwhile Assyrians on erstwhile Assyrian land, and tell us in whose reign recaptured cities had
fallen to the Aramean intruders. The years when the Euphrates was the frontier to the west had
not been forgotten.’
4
Liverani 1992, 99. Before any westward expansion could be attempted, these Assyrian kings
spent a long time conquering and subduing again the northern territories and the Jezireh, areas
that the Middle Assyrian kings had colonized in the thirteeth century and then lost to the
Arameans. The Aramean penetrations had established new polities, but there were ‘pockets’ or
‘islands’ of Assyrians that managed to endure even in precarious circumstances. One of the
strategic outposts may have been Dur-Katlimmu (Tell Sheikh Hamad). See Kühne 1998, 282–84;
Liverani 1988, 81–98; but see Postgate 1992. In an important recent discovery, textual evidence
of a local ruler subordinate to Assyria c. 1100 has been obtained from Tell Taban (ancient
Tabete) and Tell Bderi (ancient Dur-A 88ur-ketti-le 8 er) on the middle Habur. See Pfälzner 1990,
63–79; Maul 1991; Ohnuma, Numoto and Okada 1999.
5
The ferocious, yet somewhat irregular, sorties of Ashurnasirpal II were followed by the well-
planned annual campaigns of his son Shalmaneser III (Tadmor 1975, 36). In fact, Ashurnasirpal
II campaigned more in his first five years of reign than he did in his remaining nineteen years
(Lambert 1974, 103–09).

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 245
NEO-ASSYRIAN AND ISRAELITE HISTORY 245
restoration inside of the perceived ‘traditional borders’ of Assyria,

Shalmaneser III was able to campaign outside these borders in an attempt to
expand Assyrian power (Liverani 2004, 215). This met with great success in
various directions—in northern and central Syria, in Babylonia, and on the
Iranian plateau.
Moreover, Liverani argues that just as there is an evident continuity from
Ashurnasirpal back to the last third of the tenth century, a similar continu-
ity can be traced forward from Shalmaneser to the entire eighth century, espe-
cially in the inner organization and administration of the empire. The inner
crisis and period of autonomous rulers (827–744) was, at least in part, gen-
erated by the very arrangement Shalmaneser had given to the inner structure
of the Assyrian state (2004, 217–20). Not until the advent of Tiglath-pileser
III almost a century later would the ambitions of the governors to pursue
independent politics and personal advantages be curtailed. Thus, Liverani
concludes, the difference between Ashurnasirpal II and Shalmaneser III
‘deserves to be underscored by a periodization that cuts through the 9th cen-
tury and sets a major division mark at the succession of the latter of the two
kings to the former’ (2004, 220).
Liverani’s essay is important in stressing the discontinuity between the
reigns of Ashurnasirpal II and Shalmaneser III. Nevertheless, it highlights
the inherent problems of periodization6 because it undercuts the significant
differences between Ashurnasirpal II and the previous three kings of the
early Neo-Assyrian period,7 as well as the substantial contrasts between
Shalmaneser III and the monarchs of the period of autonomous rulers.8
6
This can also be seen in the earlier transition from the Middle Assyrian period to the Neo-
Assyrian period. See the important study of Roaf 2001, who outlines the difficulties of continu-
ity and discontinuity between these periods.
7
Kuhrt (1995, 482) notes: ‘The reign of Tukulti-Ninurta II (890–884) is usually regarded, with
some justification, as rounding off this stage of Assyrian recovery.’ Three points can be noted: (1)
Ashurnasirpal II surpassed the earlier three kings politically and militarily in two ways: by getting
tribute and locating strongholds beyond the traditional borders of the empire (e.g. Dur-A88ur in
Zamua in the East, and Aribua in Patina in the West). (2) There is a very marked increase in doc-
umentation from his reign in contrast to previous kings, reflecting his energetic campaigns and
building efforts. The earliest known text written completely in Neo-Assyrian dates from his reign.
This is a text appointing the official Nergal-apil-kumuya to supervise the move of the royal court
from Assur to Kalju (Deller and Millard 1993; Kataja and Whiting 1995, nos 82–84). (3)
Ashurnasirpal II’s building activities at his new capital Kalju were crowned by the creation of his
pleasure gardens which included over forty varieties of trees and plants encountered on his cam-
paigns irrigated by the ‘Canal of Plenty’ (the Banquet Stela —RIMA 2, A.0.101.30, 36b–52).
None of the three previous kings had built on this scale and none created such a magnificent gar-
den. Not since the Middle Assyrian kings, Tiglath-pileser I (RIMA 2, A.0.87.1, vii.17–27) and
Ashur-bel-kala (RIMA 2, A.0.89.7, v.20–37), had the planting of gardens taken place.
8
From the perspective of the Levantine states, the time between Shalmaneser III and Tiglath-pileser
III was distinct in many respects. A most obvious difference is the power wielded by various high
officials, such as Shamshi-ilu (see Grayson 1994; 1999; Ikeda 1999; Dalley 2000; Kuan 2001).

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 246
Similar problems arise in attempting a periodization of the history of the

kingdom of Israel in the ninth century. Like Assyrian history, Israelite his-
tory for this century clearly contains three discernible, yet interconnected,
periods, two of which overlap into other centuries (the first with the previous
tenth century and the third with the following eighth century):
1 the early period (from Jeroboam I to the accession of Omri) (c. 931/
928–885/882): 46 years,
2 the Omride period (from his accession to the usurpation of Jehu)
(c. 885/882–842/841): 44 to 41 years,
3 the Jehuite period (from Jehu’s usurpation to the death of Zechariah)
(c. 842/841–752/750): 91 to 90 years.9
Ashurnasirpal II ruled Assyria from near the beginning of Omri’s reign
and throughout much of Ahab’s. In his western campaign (dated c.
875–867—at the very end of Omri’s reign or the beginning of Ahab’s), he
received the tribute of the kings of Tyre, Sidon and Byblos (along with other
Phoenician city-states such as Arvad). While Israel did not pay tribute at this
time, there can be little doubt that the Omride dynasty became acutely aware
of the Assyrian threat to its security.
No matter how one understands the periodization of Neo-Assyrian his-
tory in the ninth century, the reign of Shalmaneser III (859–824 BCE) stands
out (Yamada 2002). And it is particularly interesting that his reign provides
the initial contact points between the two political entities: in 853 BCE fight-
ing a coalition of western kings at Qarqar that included Ahab, the Israelite;
and in 841 BCE extracting tribute from Jehu. Neither of these events is men-
tioned in the Bible, but is known only from Assyrian inscriptions. Thus
Shalmaneser’s reign serves as a bridge between the second and third periods
of Israelite history listed above. The remainder of this chapter will investigate
the place of Shalmaneser III within these histories. The fact is that, from 853
to the final conquest of Samaria in 720, the history of the Israelite kingdom
is inextricably bound to the history of Assyria (as too is the rest of the
Levant), and is profitably analysed in this light.
9
For examples of such periodization, see Campbell 1998; Ahlström 1993, 543–638.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 247
THE CAMPAIGN OF 853 AND THE BATTLE OF QARQAR
Shalmaneser III’s 853 campaign is reported in nine of his inscriptions.10 Far

and away the most detailed account is preserved in the Kurkh Monolith. This
large inscribed stone stela was discovered at Kurkh (ancient Tidu11) in 1861
by J. E. Taylor (along with another monolith belonging to Ashurnasirpal II).
The monolith of Shalmaneser is an annalistic text that dates the 853 cam-
paign by eponym;12 the other five annalistic texts date the campaign by reg-
nal year (i.e. Shalmaneser’s ‘sixth regnal year’). Since the text ends abruptly
with the last narrated event being the battle of Qarqar (853 BCE), scholars
date it from 853–852 BCE. It was apparently carved in great haste resulting in
numerous scribal errors (Tadmor 1961, 143–44). This is unfortunate, since the
stela contains the most detailed extant account of the battle of Qarqar.
Although the monolith was originally published in 1870 (Rawlinson and
Smith 1870, pls. 7–8), the recent edition of Grayson (RIMA 3, A.0.102.2) and
two recent collations (Fuchs 1998; Yamada 2000a) greatly facilitate its study.
The 853 campaign reads (cf. COS 2, 263–64):
Episode 1 (ii.78b–81a)
In the eponymy of Dayan-A 88ur, in the month of Iyyar, the fourteenth day, I
departed from Nineveh. I crossed the Tigris. I approached the cities of Giammu
on the River Balij. They were afraid of my lordly fearfulness (and) the splen-
dor of my fierce weapons; and with their own weapons they killed Giammu,
their master. I entered the cities of Sajlala13 and T il-8a-turaji. I took my gods
into his palaces; (and) celebrated the ta 8iltu-festival in his palaces. I opened his
treasury (and) saw his stored-away wealth. I carried off his possessions (and)
property. I brought (them) to my city, Assur.
10
Six texts are annals: the Kurkh Monolith (RIMA 3, A.0.102.2, ii.78b–102; Yamada: Annals 3;
COS 2.113A); the A 88ur Clay Tablets: (RIMA 3, A.0.102.6, ii.19b–33; Yamada: Annals 5; COS
2.113B); the Calaj Bulls (RIMA 3, A.0.102.8, 12⬘b–19⬘; Yamada: Annals 6; COS 2.113C); the
Marble Slab (RIMA 3, A.0.102.10, ii.13–25; Yamada: Annals 7; COS 2.113D); the Black Obelisk
(RIMA 3, A.0.102.14, 54b–66; Yamada: Annals 13; COS 2.113F); the Broken Statue from
Nimrud (RIMA 3, A.0.102.16, 28–38a; Yamada: Annals 14). Three texts are ‘Summary
Inscriptions’: the Fort Shalmaneser Stone Throne Base (RIMA 3, A.0.102.28, 29–34a; Yamada:
Summary Inscription 6); the Engraved Door Sill from Fort Shalmaneser (RIMA 3, A.0.102.30,
22–28a; Yamada: Summary Inscription 9); and the Assur Basalt Statue (RIMA 3, A.0.102.40,
i.14–24; Yamada: Summary Inscription 19; COS 2.113G).
11
Kurkh is probably ancient Tidu, not Tu 8jan; Tu 8jan is Ziyaret Tepe. See Kessler 1980,
117–21; Liverani 1992, 38–39; Parker 1998; Radner and Schachner 2001, 754–57. Contra
Lipiński 2002, 233–34.
12
This version is Recension A (Schramm 1973, 70–72, 87–90), while Yamada (2000a, 14) labels
it Annals 3.
13
Hallo (1964, 78) proposed that the city of Sajlala be identified with Tell Sahlan (about 20 km
south of Ain al Arus. Also see Yamada 2000a, 151; and Lipiński 2000, 128 n. 57.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 248
I departed from the city of Sajlala. I approached the city of Kar-Shalmaneser.
I crossed the Euphrates in its flood, again14 in rafts (made of inflated) goatskins.
⬍In⬎ the city of Ana-A 88ur-ut er-asbat, which is by the opposite bank of the
Euphrates on the River Sagura (and) which the people of the land of 9atti call
the city of Pitru, in (this city) I received the tribute of the kings on the opposite
bank of the Euphrates — Sangara, the Carchemishite, Kunda 8pu, the
Kummujite, Arame, (the man) of Bit-Agusi, Lalla, the Melidite, 9ayani,
(the man) of Bi t-Gabbari, Qalparuda, the Patinaean, (and) Qalparuda, the
Gurgumite: silver, gold, tin, bronze, (and) bronze bowls.
I departed from the Euphrates. I approached the city of Aleppo (9alman).
They were afraid to fight. They seized my feet. I received their tribute of silver
(and) gold. I made sacrifices before Hadad of Aleppo (9alman).
I departed from the city of Aleppo (9alman). I approached the cities of
Irjuleni, the Hamathite. I captured Adennu, Pargâ, (and) Arganâ, his royal
cities. I carried off captives, his valuables, (and) his palace possessions. I set fire
to his palaces.
I departed from the city of Arganâ. I approached the city of Qarqar.15 I razed,
destroyed and burned the city of Qarqar, his royal city.
(ii.90b–95a)
1,200 chariots, 1,200 cavalry, (and) 20,000 troops of Hadad-ezer (Adad-idri) of
Damascus; 700 chariots, 700 cavalry, (and) 10,000 troops of Irjuleni, the
Hamathite; 2,000 chariots, (and) 10,000 troops of Ahab, the Israelite (Sir’lāia);
500 troops of Byblos; 1,000 troops of Egypt; 10 chariots (and) 10,000 troops of
the land of Irqanatu (Irqata); 200 troops of Matinu-Ba‘al of the city of Arvad;
200 troops of the land of Usanatu (Usnu); 30 chariots (and) [ ],000 troops of
Adon-Ba‘al of the land of 1ianu (Siyannu); 1,000 camels of Gindibu’ of Arabia;
14
Yamada (1998, 92–94) argues that the phrase 8 a 8anût e8u means ‘another time, again’, not ‘for
a second time’.
15
Qarqar is usually identified with Tell Qarqur, though the identification has yet not been con-
firmed by excavations. See Dornemann 2000; 2003; Lipiński 2000, 264–66. Sader (1986; 1987,
223–25) identified Qarqar with the tell of Hama. But the letter of Marduk-apla-usur of ‘Anat to
Rudamu (Urtamis), king of Hamath, discovered in the excavations of Hama, ends with the invo-
cation: ‘May the city of Anat and the city of Hamath be strong’ (Parpola 1990). Moreover, the
epigraphic evidence, in particular the inscribed weights (i.e. the 8ql qrqr weight and the 8ql hmt,
8qly hmt and 8t 8ql hmt weights), argues against Sader’s identification (see Bordreuil 1993, no.
231; Lipiński 2000, 265). Therefore, Tell Hama cannot be Qarqar. Na’aman (1999) has suggested
that Qarqar should be identified with Tell Asharna. But see Liverani 1992, 76–77; Grayson 2001,
185–87 and Younger (forthcoming).

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 249
[ ] hundred16 troops of Ba’asa, (the man) of Bit-Rujubi, the Ammonite—these

12 kings he took as his allies.
(ii.95b–102)
They marched against me [to do] war and battle. With the supreme forces which
A 88ur, my lord, had given me (and) with the mighty weapons which the divine
standard,17 which goes before me, had granted me, I fought with them. I deci-
sively defeated them from the city of Qarqar to the city of Qilzau.18 I felled with
the sword 14,000 troops, their fighting men. Like Adad, I rained down upon
them a devastating flood. I spread out their corpses (and) I filled the plain. ⬍I
felled⬎ with the sword their extensive troops. I made their blood flow in the
wadis(?) [ ]. The field was too small for laying flat their bodies (lit. ‘their lives’);
the broad countryside had been consumed in burying them. I blocked the
Orontes River with their corpses as with a causeway. In the midst of this battle
I took away from them chariots, cavalry, (and) teams of horses.
The narrative structure of the 853 campaign in the Monolith (see Fig. 1)
contains five episodes built on the itinerary phrase: TA(i 8tu) URU(āl) X at-
tu-mu8 —‘I departed from X’ (ii.78b; ii.81b; ii.86b; ii.87b; and ii.89b).19 The
first three episodes (1–3) narrate Phase One of the campaign—the sub-
Phase One: Subjugation of Northern Syria – Non-fighting Phase (ii.78b–87a)

Episode 1 – The Killing of Giammu, Submission and Plunder of Balij
(ii.78b–81a)
Episode 2 – The Tribute of the Seven Kings of 9atti (ii.81b–86a)
Episode 3 – The Tribute of Aleppo (9alman) (ii.86b–87a)
Phase Two: Subjugation of Central Syria – Fighting Phase (ii.87b–102)
Episode 4 – The Capture, Plunder and Destruction of the Cities of Irjuleni of
Hamath (ii.87b–89a)
Episode 5 – The Battle of Qarqar (ii.89b–102)
Part 1 – Capture and Destruction of Qarqar (ii.89b–90a)
Part 2 – Enumeration of Alliance (ii.90b–95a)
Part 3 – Description of Battle and Results (ii.95b–102)
Figure 13.1 The Kurkh Monolith’s Structure of Shalmaneser III’s 853 Campaign.
16
Or [ ],000, if it is [L]IM instead of ME. See Yamada 2000a, 368.
17
Yamada (2000a, 368, 383) notes that RIMA 3, A.0.102.2, ii.96b should read: dÙRI.GAL. As
protective divine standard, Nergal accompanies the Assyrian army on campaigns. See Pongratz-
Leisten, Deller and Bleibtreu 1992.
18
For this possible reading of the toponym, see the discussion below and Younger (forthcoming).
19
For this clause as an excerpt from the itineraries, see Liverani 1988; 2004.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 250
jugation of northern Syria, and the last two episodes (4–5) relate Phase Two,
the subjugation of central Syria. Phase One sets the stage for Phase Two, nar-
rating the campaign in terms of the easiest (no fighting of the Assyrian army
is necessary to subdue northern Syria) to the most difficult (the Assyrian
army must capture and destroy cities and fight a twelve-king alliance in cen-
tral Syria). This order creates a literary effect, slowly increasing the tension
by progressing from the easy to the difficult. A similar narration is observable
in Sennacherib’s third campaign (Tadmor 1985; Younger 2003, 235–36). This
is good to keep in mind as one comes to the longer, climactic account of the
battle of Qarqar at the end of the narrative.
Thoughout the account, religious aspects are stressed: seven deities are
mentioned in the prologue (A88ur, Anu, Enlil, Ea, Sîn, 1 ama8, and I8tar,
i.1–4); Shalmaneser’s gods are taken into Giammu’s palaces for a celebration;
through sacrifices the support of Hadad of Aleppo (a major Syrian deity,20
also known to have been worshipped in the city of Assur [Menzel 1981, 128,
T 154 116]) is obtained; and in the battle of Qarqar, three deities (A88ur,
Nergal and Adad)21 ensure Assyrian victory. Since the iconography includes
a depiction of the Great King and various divine symbols, either independ-
ent of the figure of the king or engraved as components of his necklace, the
Neo-Assyrian royal stela portrayed ‘visible religion’ to its onlooker
(Holloway 2002, 68–69). In this regard, it is important to note the presence
on Shalmaneser’s necklace the depiction of the symbolic cross of
Ninurta/Nabû, which emphasizes the importance of this deity to the early
Neo-Assyrian kings (especially Ashurnasirpal II, Shalmaneser III and
Shamshi-Adad V). In fact, not only did Shalmaneser III build the ziggurat
for the temple of Ninurta in Kalju (RIMA 3:136, A.0.102.56, line 3b-11), but
the Kurkh Monolith contains important epithets of Ninurta in its opening
lines (i.11–12a).
Since the monolith was discovered at Kurkh, the stela falls into Morandi’s
class 1 (1988, 113–17), that is, stelae that were placed along the routes taken
by the Assyrian army on campaigns. Thus it is not surprising that the account
of year 853 in the monolith is the most detailed and propagandistic of all of
Shalmaneser’s inscriptions narrating the events of his sixth regnal year. This
is in complete agreement with the fact that, as J. Reade (1979b, 342) points
out, the royal stela was ‘the Assyrian equivalent of a political poster’.
20
In very recent excavations of the citadel of Aleppo, a series of large blocks with reliefs were
uncovered that were part of the temple of the famous god Hadad of Halab (modern
Aleppo). See Kohlmeyer 2000. Eleven blocks were published in this volume. Twenty-six have
been discovered as of 2004 (personal communication J. D. Hawkins).
21
Represented in the god army divisions A 88ur, Nergal and Adad. See provisionally Scurlock
1997, 497 n. 39.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 251
In episode 1, by simply marching to the Balij River, Shalmaneser

removed a pocket of insubordination in north Syria—specifically a group of
cities that were under the rule of an individual named Giammu. In order to
ward off a hopeless conflict, a pro-Assyrian opposition group in the country
killed Giammu22 and submitted to Shalmaneser without a fight. Shalmaneser
celebrated in the deceased king’s palaces and carried off his wealth.
In episode 2, Shalmaneser departed and marched to Til-Barsip, a city
that he had renamed after himself, Kar-Shalmaneser. Crossing the Euphrates,
he marched to the city of Pitru (biblical Pethor), another city that he had
renamed, Ana-A88ur-uter-asbat. Here he received the tribute of seven kings
of ‘the land of 9atti’ (see Table 13.1).
Table 13.1 The Seven Tributary Kings of Hatti (853 BCE) (Kurkh Monolith ii.82b–86a).
Ruler Nation Formulation

m
Sangara Carchemish sa-an-ga-ra URU gar-ga-mi 8-a-a
m
Kunda8pu Kummuj ku-un-da-á8-pi URU ku-mu-ja-a-a
m
Arame Bi t Agusi (Yajanu; Arpad) a-ra-me DUMU gu-si
m
Lalla Melid lal-li URU me-li-da-a-a
m
9ayani (Hayya) Bi t-Gabbari (Sam’al) ja-ia-ni DUMU ga-ba-ri
m
Qalparunda Patina (Unqi) qàl-pa-ru-da KUR pa-ti-na-a-a
m
Qalparunda Gurgum qàl-pa-ru-da KUR gúr-gu-ma-a-a
In episode 3, Shalmaneser advanced through the territory of Bit Agusi,

arriving at the city of Aleppo (9alman). He received that city’s tribute and
sacrificed to the important Syrian deity, Hadad of Aleppo. At this point, the
narrative has demonstrated the utter suzerainty of Shalmaneser III over
north Syria, especially the ease with which he has accomplished this.
In Phase Two, in episode 4, the Assyrian army fights for the first time dur-
ing the campaign, though it appears to easily capture, plunder and destroy
three of Irjuleni’s cities. The capture of the Hamathite cites of Pargâ, Adâ
(⫽Adennu) and Qarqar (along with the city of A8tammaku captured in the
848 campaign) are represented in the reliefs on Shalmaneser’s bronze gate
bands from Balawat (Imgur-Enlil).23
While in episode 2 Shalmaneser had, without a fight, received the tribute
of seven kings, in episode 5 he faces the greatest challenge to Assyrian
suzerainty—the twelve-king alliance, headed surprisingly not by Irjuleni, the
king of Hamath, whose land is being invaded, but by Hadad-ezer (Adad-idri)
of Aram-Damascus.24 The challenge is heightened by the enumeration of the
22
For a discussion of the variants concerning the death of Giammu, see Younger 2005.
23
See Marcus 1987; Reade 1979a, 66–68; Bär 1996, 113–30; and Hertel 2004.
24
For a possible reason for the organization of this coalition at this time, see Grayson 2004, 5.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 252
extent of participation, size and military hardware exhibited by the coalition

forces (see Table 13.2). The severity of the alliance’s defeat, graphically
described in great detail, reinforces the climactic message of the monolith:
since Shalmaneser III, on account of his armed forces and powerful deities,
exercises complete sovereignty over those who might oppose him, humble
submission (as with the seven kings in Phase One) is preferable to the utter
destruction suffered when he is opposed (as with the twelve kings in Phase
Two).
At this point, some observations on the other texts of Shalmaneser
III that narrate the 853 campaign should prove helpful. Two of the five
other annalistic texts (the Assur Clay Tablets [842 BCE] and the Calaj
Bulls [841 BCE]) contain all five episodes of the Kurkh Monolith,
although episodes 2, 4 and 5 are significantly truncated. In episode 5 (the
battle of Qarqar), these two ‘Annals’ change the number of dead for the
coalition forces from 14,000 to 25,000. They also add three sentences at
the end of the episode:
In order to save their lives they ran away.
I boarded ships (and)
I went out upon the sea.
None of the other texts (including the three ‘Summary Inscriptions ‘) has
any of these sentences at the end of episode 5, except the Assur Basalt
Statue (a Summary Inscription) which contains only the sentence: ‘In order
to save their lives they ran away.’ Thus, the last two sentences were added to
inscriptions composed over a decade after the battle.
The remaining three ‘Annals’ (the Marble Slab Inscription [839 BCE], the
Black Obelisk [828–827 BCE], and the Broken Statue from Nimrud [828–827
BCE]) narrate only episodes 1, 2, and 5, though these are shortened in similar
ways to these episodes in the Assur Clay Tablets and the Calaj Bulls. The
number of allied dead are 25,000 (Marble Slab), 20,500 (Black Obelisk), and
29,000 (Broken Statue from Nimrud).
The Summary Inscriptions (the Fort Shalmaneser Throne Base [846 BCE],
the Fort Shalmaneser Door Sill [844 BCE], and the Assur Basalt Statue [833
BCE]) narrate only episode 5 in truncated form. Since the first two of these
predate all of the annalistic texts, except, of course, the Kurkh Monolith, the
truncated form of episode 5 in these Summary Inscriptions probably served
as the base text for the truncated forms in the later Annals. Line ii.97b of the
monolith has been read ‘I decisively defeated them from the city of Qarqar to
the city of Gilzau (URU gíl-za-ú)’. The two Summary Inscriptions from Fort
Shalmaneser (the Throne Base and the Door Sill) read: ‘I decisively defeated
them from the city of Qarqar to the city of Dilziau (URU di-il-zi-a-ú)’. It is
possible that the monolith’s toponym should be read URU qil-za-ú and that

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:56 Page 253
the different spellings reflect the same place.25 Finally, the Assur Basalt Statue
credits Shalmaneser with slaying 29,000 allied troops, a reading that is
followed in the Broken Statue from Nimrud.
PROBLEMS
There are at least four remaining interpretive problems in reconstructing the

853 campaign. These include Shalmaneser’s claim to victory, the total of
twelve kings, the identification of the coalition partners, and the number of
chariots, cavalry and troops ascribed to the different coalition kings.
SHALMANESER III’s CLAIM TO VICTORY
From the detailed, gory narration of the Kurkh Monolith, it would certainly
seem that Shalmaneser III won a great victory at the battle of Qarqar in 853
BCE. A few scholars reserve the possibility of a real victory by Shalmaneser,
though the coalition remained intact and continued to offer resistance (e.g.
Grayson 1992, 742; Lambert 2004, 359). Y. Ideka (1984–85, 27–28) suggests
a draw that resulted in the retreat of the Assyrian army from the battlefield
to the Mediterranean coast, since Shalmaneser claims ‘I boarded ships (and)
I went out upon the sea’.26
However, while Shalmaneser may have captured the city of Qarqar along
with the other three cities listed in the Monolith and Balawat Bronzes, most
scholars believe that his claim to victory over the coalition in the ensuing bat-
tle of Qarqar was in reality an Assyrian defeat, since he returned in 849 (his
tenth year), 848 (his eleventh year) and 845 (his fourteenth year) to fight
against the same coalition with little greater success (Hawkins 1972–75, 67;
Dion 1995b, 482–89). The two rock face inscriptions at the source of the
Tigris refer to the ‘fourth time’ in which Shalmaneser faced this coalition
(RIMA 3, A.0.102.23 and A.0.102.24). Of course, there may have been some
limited successes: for example, in 848 he was apparently able to capture the
royal city of A8tammaku27 from the Hamathites and the city of Apar azu
25
For the q/d interchange in Neo-Assyrian spelling of an Aramaic toponym, see Millard 1980,
369; Weippert 1973, 46 n. 83; and Younger (forthcoming).
26
Grayson (2004, 6) states: ‘Assyria did not win a great victory on this occasion but neither did
she suffer a great defeat; the result was uncertain’.
27
For the identification of Tell Mastuma (modern Stumak) with A8tammaku, see Ikeda 1979,
79. For excavations at Tell Mastuma and its possible function as ‘a royal city of Hamath’, see
Wakita, Wada, and Nishiyama 2000, 555–56. The Iron Age settlement was about 10,000 square
metres in size (ibid., 538 n. 4).

13 Chapter 1548
254
15/8/07
Table 13.2 Coalition Members at the Battle of Qarqar 853 BCE (Kurkh Monolith ii.86b–102).
Ruler Nation Formulation Chariots Cavalry Soldiers Camels

md
10:57
1 Hadad-ezer (Adad-idri) Damascus I 1 KUR-’i-id-ri [8a KUR] AN 1 E-8ú 1,200 1,200 20,000
m
2 Irjul eni (Urjilina) Hamath ir-ju-le-e-ni KUR a-mat-a-a 700 700 10,000
m
3 Ahab Israel a-ja-ab-bu KUR sir-’a-la-a-a 2,000 10,000
4 Byblos KUR gu-⬍bal⬎-a-a 500

5 Egypt KUR mu-us-ra-a-a 1,000
Page 254
6 Irqanatu/Irqata/Arqa KUR ir-qa-⬍na⬎-ta-a-a 10 10,000

m
7 Matinu-Ba‘al Arvad ma-ti-nu-ba-’a-li URU ar-ma-da-a-a 200
8 Usanatu/Usnu KUR ú-sa-na-ta-a-a 200
m
9 Adon-Ba‘al 1ianu a-du-nu-ba-’a-li KUR 8i-a-na-a-a 30 [ ] ,000
m
10 Gindibu’ Arabia gi-in-di-bu-’u KUR ar-ba-a-a 1,000
m
11 ⫹ 12? Ba’asa Bi t Rehob? (⫹?) ba-’a-sa DUMU ru-ju-bi KUR a-ma-na-a-a [ ]00‡
Ammon [ ],000‡
Totals 3,940 1,900 53,000* 1,000
K. Lawson Younger, Jr.
69,900*
‡(Reading could be either ME or LIM (Yamada 2000a)

*minimum: 51,900 ⫹ [1],000 ⫹ [1]00 ⫽ 53,000
*maximum: 51,900 ⫹ [9],000 ⫹ [9],000 ⫽ 69,900
de Odorico (1995, 103–04) estimates 62,900 infantry (⫹ 3,940 chariots ⫹ 1,900 cavalry) ≈ 75,000 fighting men
If the 14,000 casualties figure is correct, then slightly less than 20% (actually 18.7%) of the coalition troops would have been killed during the battle.
13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 255
from Arpad,28 but the Assyrians never once claim to have conquered Hamath
or Damascus while this coalition remained intact. Since there was no further
advance into the territory of Hamath (Yamada 2000a, 163), there is signifi-
cant doubt about the kind of success claimed by Shalmaneser in the mono-
lith. That text does not narrate the pursuit of the enemy, extraction of tribute,
or capture and punishment of any of the coalition kings (Elat 1975, 26), all
typical motifs narrated after a victory. The literary structure as outlined
above also raises doubts about the success. In fact, if the coalition’s goal was
to halt the Assyrians’ southward advance and prevent their domination over
the West, this goal was achieved.
Another indication of Assyrian overall failure is the fact that opposition
to Assyria increased after the 853 campaign among some of the northern
states that had previously paid tribute. In both 849 and 848, even Carchemish
and Arpad fought against Assyria, and consequently the Assyrian army was
forced to reconquer cities and territories that on the eve of the battle of
Qarqar were submissive to Assyria.29 It is important to note that Sangara, the
Carchemishite, and Arame of Arpad (Bit-Agusi) were kings who paid tribute
in 853, but are still on the throne and fighting Assyria in 849 and 848.
According to two annalistic texts (the Assur Clay Tablets [842 BCE] and
the Calaj Bulls [841 BCE]), after the battle of Qarqar, Shalmaneser boarded
a ship and took a boat ride in the Mediterranean. While some scholars accept
Shalmaneser’s claim of maritime entertainment (e.g. Yamada 2000a, 163),
this event is missing in the earliest Assyrian record of the battle and its addi-
tion to the narrative is only found in these two annalistic texts dating from
over a decade later. And these are the texts that begin the pattern of inflation
of the number of allied dead from 14,000 in the monolith to 25,000, finally
culminating in the figure of 29,000 found in the Broken Statue from Nimrud
and the Assur Basalt Statue. Of course, even the 14,000 figure may be exag-
gerated. Thus some scholars (e.g. Galil 2002, 46) see Shalmaneser’s cruise as
a rhetorical device used to disguise the Assyrian army’s failure to gain its
objectives in this battle.30
Another indication of Shalmaneser’s failure, as W. W. Hallo has pointed
out, may be the total silence of the Bible. He puts it this way: ‘Had Ahab and
his allies really suffered the massive defeat which the Assyrian annalists
inflicted on them, an account of the battle would certainly have served the
28
See the Assur Clay Tablets (COS 2.113B, ii.68–iii.15).
29
Assur Clay Tablets, ii.55–iii.15; Calaj Bulls, 29⬘–41⬘; Marble Slab ii.51–iii.5. See n.10 above for
references.
30
It seems doubtful that one would go on a boat ride after being defeated in battle. Since the two
texts containing the claim date from 842 and 841, perhaps Shalmaneser sailed the sea after one
of the later Syrian campaigns (i.e. 848 or 845).

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 256
didactic purposes of the canonical Book of Kings’ (Hallo 1960, 40; and
Hallo and Simpson 1998, 127–30).
But by 841 BCE, the coalition had disintegrated, partly the result of the
repeated Assyrian campaigns, and partly the result of changes in ruler in two
of the most powerful states, Damascus (the usurpation of Hazael) and Israel
(the usurpation of Jehu).
THE TOTAL ‘TWELVE KINGS’
Another problem is the number of coalition forces. The Monolith (ii.95)

inscription states: ‘these twelve kings he took as his allies’ (12 MAN.ME1-ni
an-nu-ti a-na ÉRIN.TA9-ti-8ú il-qa-a), implying that Irjuleni was the one
who organized a coalition of twelve kings to assist him. Oddly, there are only
eleven members listed, not twelve; and Irjuleni is included in the eleven
(though not listed first, but second); and only the names of seven kings are
entered!
This has given rise to a number of different proposals. Grayson (RIMA 3,
A.0.102.23, note to ii.90–95) suggests that this is an erroneous addition since
only eleven kings are listed. Tadmor (1961, 144–45) concludes that this is one
of many scribal errors in the monolith: in this case, the name and country of
the twelfth participant were erroneously omitted. A number of scholars think
that the last entry ‘Ba’asa, (the man) of B i t-Rujubi, the Ammonite’ is really
a reference to two entities, Beth-Rehob and Ammon, and that the name of
the ruler of the Ammonites has been lost.31 Among those that hold this view,
there is disagreement on the identification of the last entity (is it Ammon or
Amanah? see discussion below). Finally, it is also possible that the Assyrian
scribes are simply rounding off the number to an even dozen, a conventional
number with symbolic significance (de Odorico 1995, 133–36).32 This last
option seems preferable.
Interestingly, one text of Shalmaneser III, carved along with a second
inscription into a rock face at the Tigris’ source, gives the number of the allied
enemies as ‘fifteen cities of the seashore’.33 Moreover, the locution found in
three of the Annalistic texts and one Summary Inscription is: ‘Hadad-ezer
(Adad-idri), the Damascene, (and) Irjuleni, the Hamathite, together with
31
Weidner suggested this (apud Michel 1947, 70 n. 13). Na’aman (1976, 98 n. 19) states: ‘It
should be noted that this combination of names does not appear elsewhere in the Assyrian
inscriptions, so Weidner’s proposal to complete the number of allies to 12 makes very good
sense.’ See also Kuan 1995, 32–34; Ikeda 1999, 278; Yamada 2000a, 160–61; Galil 2002, 42, 46.
32
Na’aman (1976, 98 n. 19) recognized this possibility.
33
Tigris Rock Face Inscription 2: RIMA 3, A.0.102.23, line 21. Grayson notes: ‘The numeral 15
is clear, according to Lehmann-Haupt, although one expects 12’ (RIMA 3, 95, n. 21).

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 257
twelve kings34 of the shore of the sea, trusted in their combined forces’, while
the formulation in two Summary Inscriptions is: ‘Hadad-ezer (Adad-idri),
the Damascene, (and) Irjuleni, the Hamathite, and twelve kings35 along the
seashore trusted in their combined forces’ (the emphasis is mine). All these
texts imply two major named kings plus twelve others, giving a total of four-
teen. Hence, it would seem that the number twelve is used in a figurative, con-
ventional way. It is noteworthy and, not fortuitous, that there are seven
named kings in this list of twelve (Hadad-ezer, Irjul eni, Ahab, Matinu-Ba‘al,
Adon-Ba‘al, Gindibu’ and Ba’asa)—a number that corresponds to the num-
ber of tributary kings listed earlier in the account of the 853 campaign
(episode 2). Of course, the number seven is also a conventional figure.
Finally, it is noteworthy that in various literary texts praising Ninurta or
describing his mythological combats, there occur lists of monsters defeated
by him. In the Sumerian myths, the victor who subdued the enemies is exclu-
sively Ninurta or Ningirsu, while in the Assyrian and Babylonian sources the
victor is sometimes identified as Marduk or Nabû.36 While their identities
were not fixed, their number appears to have been: namely, it is always eleven
(see Lambert 1986, 58; Annus 2002, 119–20). These monsters appear to have
been personifications of the enemies of the state, symbols of disorder, and
feature in royal inscriptions and iconography, rather like the Nine Bows in
Egyptian military propaganda. The divine victory over them was replicated
in the king’s victories over political enemies. Thus Assyrian royal ideology
interpreted politics as acts of creation in the sense of defeating chaos, stimu-
lating the politics of imperial expansion. It postulated war and chaos, not
war and peace as antithetical. Thus to Assyrians,
war was a kind of creatio continua. Assyrian rule over the world was expected
to be the only way for all nations to live in peace, concord and social justice—
the paradox of this ideology was that the vassal states’ payment of tribute to
the Assyrian state was an expression of their acknowledgment of a just world
order (Otto 1999, 7).
Therefore, could it be that the eleven political entities comprising the enemy
coalition listed in the monolith is a subtle literary allusion to this?
34
In the Annals (Assur Clay Tablets, Calaj Bulls, Marble Slab): a-di 12 MAN.ME 1-ni; in a
Summary Inscription (Assur Basalt Statue): a-di 12 mal-ki.ME 1.
35
Fort Shalmaneser Throne Base and Fort Shalmaneser Door Sill read: ù 12 MAN.ME1-ni.
36
Gudea Cylinder A xxv–xxvi, Lugale 128–34, Angim 51–63: listed in Annus 2002, 10.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 258
IDENTIFICATION OF THE COALITION PARTNERS
Interrelated to the question of the twelve kings is the issue of the identifica-
tion of the coalition partners (see Table 13.2 above). These identifications
give rise to the question of whether there is a discernible arrangement in the
presentation of the participants.
While the first participant seems straightforward, Hadad-ezer (lit. Adad-
idri) of Damascus (see Schwemer 1998, 46), there is, in fact, a problem. Since
Ahab, the Israelite, is mentioned in the monolith (third participant), it is evi-
dent that the two kings were contemporaries. However, the only king of
Damascus during the reign of Ahab that the Hebrew Bible mentions is Ben-
Hadad. In reconstructing the history of the period, two different possibilities
have been proposed. One option is to equate Hadad-ezer (Adad-idri) with
Ben-Hadad of 1 Kgs 20 and 22 (since an earlier Ben-Hadad is mentioned in
1 Kgs 15.18–20 in the days of Asa and Baasha, the Ben-Hadad of 1 Kgs 20
and 22 is often designated Ben-Hadad II by those following this option)
(Hallo 1960, 39–40; Wiseman 1972–75; Elat 1975, 30–31; Mitchell 1982, 479;
Ikeda 1999, 277; Rainey 2001, 140–49; Cogan 2001, 471; Galil 2002, 46–48;
Lambert 2004, 369 [Ben-Hadad I]). One fundamental problem is that the
name in the monolith, Adad-idri, does not equate with Ben-Hadad (other
than the theophoric element). Some (e.g. Mazar 1962, 101) have suggested
that the name, Ben-Hadad, may have been a dynastic title, but there is no
clear evidence to support this.
The second option, which has gained wide endorsement in recent years,
understands 1 Kgs 20 and 22 as reflecting a later political situation in the days
of Jehoram, Jehoahaz, or Jehoash (Jepsen 1941–45; Whitley 1952; Miller
1966; 1967a; 1967b; 1982; Pitard 1987, 114–25; 1992; 1994, 207–30; H.
Weippert 1988; Halpern and Vanderhooft 1991, 230–35; Kuan 1995, 36–38;
Dion 1997; Lipiński 2000). Consequently, Hadad-ezer (Adad-idri) should not
be equated with Ben-Hadad of 1 Kgs 20 and 22. According to this view, the
only Ben-Hadad (Aramaic: Bar-Hadad) known from extra-biblical sources is
Ben-Hadad/Bar-Hadad, the son of Hazael, who ruled over Damascus in the
early eighth century and who is mentioned in 2 Kgs 3.3, 24–25 and the
Zakkur Inscription. Thus in the stories that describe the Israelite wars with
Damascus in 1 Kgs 20 and 22 the name of Ahab has been erroneously
inserted by the biblical writer; and so these narratives really belong to
Jehoahaz (2 Kgs 13.10–25).
While the arguments concerning these two options are too complex to
enter into here, it should be pointed out that the second option may ulti-
mately create ‘more problems than it solves’ (Glatt 1993, 110 n. 135).
Lambert (1994, 52) correctly asserts: ‘the matter cannot be considered finally
settled’.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 259
The second participant is identified in the monolith as Irjuleni of

Hamath. This is none other than Urjilina of some of the hieroglyphic
Luwian inscriptions from Hama, an important king of the Neo-Hittite
dynasty that ruled over Hamath (c. 860–840 BCE).37 All nine of Shalmaneser’s
inscriptions that narrate the battle of Qarqar mention him, and, along with
Hadad-ezer, he forms the leadership for the united front against the Assyrian
king, not only in 853, but in 849, 848 and 845. After 845, the coalition disap-
pears and Hamath does not participate in resistance to Shalmaneser in 841
or 838–837 BCE.38
The third participant is Ahab, the Israelite. This is the only occurrence of
the term ‘Israelite’ in the Assyrian inscriptions.39 The first three participants
supply the largest number of troops, chariots and cavalry to the alliance.
The fourth participant poses a difficulty. The text of the Monolith reads:
KUR gu-a-a and many early translations understood this to be a variant
spelling of Que/Quwe, that is, Cilicia.40 However, in 1961, H. Tadmor argued
that it is improbable that gu-a-a is a variant spelling of the gentilic form on
phonetic grounds. He suggested the emendation: KUR Gu-⬍bal⬎-a-a, the
gentilic form for ‘Byblos’. It has also been argued that Que’s participation in
the coalition of central Syrian states was unlikely since neither Patina/Unqi
or Sam’al/Bit Gabbari were involved, making it difficult to supply troops
from Que to Qarqar (Yamada 2000a, 158).
Recently, some scholars have opted once again for understanding the
monolith’s KUR gu-a-a as Que/Quwe.41 In fact, G. Galil (2002, 42) has
recently argued that since only 500 troops were sent to the battle, it is possible
that they sailed from Que to the land of Hamath.
But none of these scholars has addressed the cuneiform spelling issue
raised by Tadmor. While it is possible to read the sign GU with the value QÙ,
Que/Quwe is not once spelled with this sign in any of Shalmaneser’s inscrip-
tions (Yamada 2000a, 157 n. 279).42 It is always spelled with the signs QU, or
37
Hawkins 2000, 400. The name Urjilina is Hurrian (Wilhelm 1998).
38
Irjul eni may be pictured lying on his couch within a city of Hamath on the Balawat gates. See
King 1915 plate 77; and Barnett 1963, 83.
39
The spelling of sir-’a-la-a-a may be the result of metathesis of the first two letters in the name
of Israel (ysr’l → syr’l) by the Assyrian scribe. See Lipiński 1979, 74 n. 77. Alternatively, it could
be simply an apheresis of the y. The spelling of the gentilic form of yisr a’el would have presented
the Neo-Assyrian scribe(s) with a challenge since toponyms starting with yi- were not commonly
encountered (ya- is more typical). Of course, the name of Israel occurs in the Mesha and Tel Dan
inscriptions. See A. Lemaire’s essay in this volume.
40
For example, see Oppenheim 1950 (ANET), 279; Wiseman 1958 (DOTT), 47; Garelli 1971.
41
Lipiński (2000, 303–04) suggests reading: KUR qù-a-a ‘Que’. See also Miller and Hayes 1986,
269.
42
But Byblos is spelled with the GU sign (see e.g. Black Obelisk, 104 and Broken Statue from
Nimrud, 162⬘).

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 260
QA. In fact, the gentilic form for Que/Quwe occurs in the monolith (i.54):
QU-Ú-A-A. There is not one instance throughout all the Neo-Assyrian texts of
Que/Quwe being spelled with the QÙ sign (Parpola 1970, 288–89). Therefore
it is highly unlikely that Que/Quwe is the entity involved in the battle of
Qarqar. Tadmor’s emendation (1961, 144–45) makes the best sense.43
The fifth participant was Egypt (KUR mu-u s-ra-a-a ‘Egyptian ‘). Egypt is
referred to in some other contexts in Shalmaneser’s inscriptions and it makes
good sense here (Tadmor 1961, 144–45; Borger TUAT 1/4, 361 n. 92a;
Kitchen 1986, 325; and Redford 1992, 339–40).44 It is interesting to remem-
ber that Osorkon II demonstrated ‘a lifetime preoccupation with affairs in
Asia’ (Redford 1992, 339), which the gifts of alabaster (presumably sent to
Ahab) discovered in excavations at Samaria illustrate (Reisner, et al. 1924,
fig. 205, 2, pl. 56g).
In a recent article, A. Lemaire suggests that there was a metathesis of the
first two signs so that the proper reading is KUR su-mu-ra-a-a —‘S umuraean’
(Lemaire 1993, 152*). Some other scholars have followed in this interpreta-
tion (Dion 1997, 164–65; Lipiński 2000, 303). While this is appealing, since it
yields another Phoenician coastal ally, it seems completely unnecessary (see
the objections of Na’aman 2002, 207 n. 29). Good sense of the text can be
made without it. Therefore, reading the text as is (KUR mu-u s-ra-a-a
‘Egyptian’) seems best.
The next four (participants 6–9) are all northern Phoenician coastal city-
states: Irqanatu/Irqata/Arqa, Arvad, Usanatu/Usnu, and 1ianu/Sianu. The
names of two kings are given: Matinu-Ba‘al of Arvad and Adon-Ba‘al of
1ianu/Sianu. The sequence of names follows a south to north order. The
identity of participant 10 is clear: Gindibu’ of Arabia (see Eph{al 1982,
75–77).
The last participant listed reads mba-’a-sa DUMU ru-ju-bi KUR a-ma-
na-a-a. The debate concerning this participant has centered primarily on the
word KUR A-ma-na-a-a. Commonly scholars have understood this to refer
to Ammon, the small Transjordanian state (Luckenbill 1926, 1, §611;
Oppenheim 1950, 279; Na’aman 1976, 98 n. 20; Millard 1992, 35). Some
scholars have understood the word to refer to Amanah, the Anti-Lebanon
43
Kuan 1995, 33. Fuchs 1998, col. 192 reads: KUR x-gu-a-a and he suggests possibly reading
the first sign as MA or Á1 . But see Yamada’s collation (2000a).
44
Some scholars have proposed a country named Mu sri located in Cilicia (Garelli 1971). For
Mu sri in the third register of the Black Obelisk, some scholars have proposed a location in
north-western Iran (e.g. Marcus 1987; the 2001 British Museum exhibit sign). While the two-
humped camel is a problem for an Egyptian location, note the other animals pictured: a rhino-
ceros, water buffalo, antelope, elephant, monkeys and apes. In addition, in the epigraph for this
register, the Akkadian words for ‘rhinocero’ and ‘antelope’ are Egyptian loan words: sad eya
‘rhinoceros’ and s usu ‘antelope’. See Deller 1983; CAD, S, 418.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 261
mountain range (cf. 2 Kgs 5.12Q, Song 4.8) (Cogan 1984, 255–59; Dion
1997, 176, 186; Na’aman 1995, 385–86; 2002, 204–05). Moreover, beside the
similarity of place-name, Forrer equated the patronym with Rehob, father
of Hadad-ezer, of Sobah, named in 2 Sam. 8.3, suggesting Rehob was the
dynastic name of the kings of Sobah (Forrer 1928, 328).
The spelling of KUR A-ma-na-a-a does not automatically point to
Ammon or Mt Amanah, since KUR can be the determinative for land or
mountain. The name Ba’asa is West Semitic (b‘8’) and is known from the name
of an Israelite king (1 Kgs 15.16). It is also found in Ammonite,45 as well as
in Punic (Benz 1972, 101). Consequently, it is impossible from this name to
identify the ruler’s ethnicity. But Mt Amanah is never attested as a state in
any other source; and here, in this context—compare the formulation of
the preceding allies (Table 13.2 above)—it is clearly a gentilic form which
points to a political entity. Therefore, it seems most probable that KUR
A-ma-na-a-a should be understood as ‘Ammonite’ (see Rendsburg 1991).
However, no other individual in the list has a double attribution (whether
one understands DUMU ru-j u-bi as a gentilic or a patronymic).46 Thus quite
a few scholars have followed Weidner’s suggestion that these are really two
entities: Beth-Rehob and Ammon (see n. 31).
THE NUMBER OF CHARIOTS, CAVALRY AND TROOPS ASCRIBED

TO THE DIFFERENT COALITION KINGS
There is debate over the accuracy of the numbers in this passage and espe-
cially the number of chariots attributed to Ahab. Some scholars argue that
this is an accurate number (e.g. Elat 1975, 29; Briquel-Chatonnet 1992,
80–81; Kuan 1995, 34–36). Some suggest that Ahab’s force may have included
auxiliaries from Jehoshaphat of Judah and from vassals such as Moab and
Edom (Malamat 1973, 144; Miller and Hayes 1986, 270). But other scholars
argue that the number 2,000 is an error for 200 (e.g. Na’aman 1976, 97–102;
Mitchell 1982, 479).
Regarding the number of infantry mustered by the coalition, M. de
Odorico (1995, 103–07) concludes that the scribe decided on what had to be
the approximate size of the Syro-Palestinian army (≈ 70,000) and multiplied
some numbers by ten until he got this value. It was the first three contingents
45
Hesbân Ostracon A1. See COS, 3.84 and CAI, 214–219. Lipiński does not note this evidence
in his discussion of the name (‘Ba’sa’, PNA 1/2, 275).
46
Interestingly, an epigraph on a bronze band from Imgur-Enlil (Balawat) reads: ‘Adinu, (the
man) of Bi t-Dakkuri, the Chaldean ‘ (ma-di-ni A mda-ku-ri KUR [kal]-da-a-a). See RIMA 3,
A.0.102.79.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 262
(i.e. Damascus, Hamath and Israel), as well as those referring to the camels
of the Arabs and to the troops of Arqa, that were all intentionally multiplied
by a factor of ten.
But two recent studies have argued for the basic accuracy of the numbers.
A thorough quantitative study of the Assyrian musters for war found by F.
M. Fales (2000, 52–53) primarily in the ‘Horse Lists’ has demonstrated that
the size of the Assyrian army at the battle of Qarqar was approximately
86,000 men (excluding all civilian and auxiliary personnel). Fales also
concludes that the numbers given for the coalition forces at Qarqar may, in
fact, reflect roughly accurate numbers.47 Contrasting the coalitions that
Shalmaneser III faced with those faced by Ashurnasirpal II, Liverani (2004,
215–16) concludes that ‘we can reasonably maintain that Shalmaneser had to
venture into Syria with armies of the size of 60,000 soldiers or more’ (about
three times the size of Ashurnasirpal’s army).
Regarding the number of casualties (see Millard 1991, 219; de Odorico
1995, 107; and Mayer 1995, 46–47), the monolith’s 14,000 appears to inflate
to 25,000 in the Assur Clay Tablets, the Calaj Bulls, and the Marble Slab, and
then to 29,000 in the Broken Statue from Nimrud and the Assur Basalt
Statue,48 unless these are ‘running totals’ of all of Shalmaneser’s campaigns.
Since 14,000 may already be an exaggeration, the other figures likely are. This
inflation of the casualties’ number is one of the items that point to the
Assyrian failure at Qarqar.
47
A ‘Horse List ‘ (TFS 103) from the reign of Sargon II constitutes a BE-qu muster, ‘a record of
all the horses and mules in the chariotry and some, if not all, of those in the cavalry, of the army
gathered by Sargon for one of the years of his Babylonian campaign’ (Dalley and Postgate 1984,
200). It gives totals for different musters (like that for Borsippa, lines iii.7–8) as well as a grand
total: ‘3,477 (horse and mules)’. In Shalmaneser’s Assur Clay Tablets (RIMA 3, A.0.102.6,
iv.47–48), he claims to have ‘hitched up teams of horses to 2,002 chariots and 5,542 cavalry for
the forces of my land’ (cp. RIMA 3, A.0.102.11, left edge ii.1–2a). In the Marble Slab (RIMA 3,
A.0.102.10, iv.34b–40a), Shalmaneser gives grand totals for his campaigns through his twentieth
year: ‘110,610 prisoners, 82,600 killed, 9,920 horses (and) mules, 35,565 oxen, 19,690 donkeys,
(and) 184,755 sheep — booty from the beginning of my reign up to my twentieth regnal year’.
48
The Black Obelisk reads 20 LIM 5 ME ‘20,500’, instead of the 20 LIM 5 LIM ‘25,000’ of the
other annalistic texts. Thus it can be treated as an error for 25,000.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 263
THE CAMPAIGN OF 841 BCE AND THE TRIBUTE OF JEHU
Shalmaneser III’s 841 campaign is preserved in five annalistic texts and two
Summary Inscriptions.49 The Marble Slab, even though it dates two years
later than the Cala j Bulls, preserves the fullest account. It reads:
Episode 1 (iii.45b–iv.4a)
In my eighteenth regnal year, I crossed the Euphrates for the sixteenth time.
Hazael of Damascus trusted in the massed might of his troops; and he mus-
tered his army in great number. He made Mt Saniru/Senir, a mountain peak,
which (lies) opposite Mt Lebanon, his fortress. I felled with the sword 16,020
troops, his fighting men. I took away from him 1,121 of his chariots, 470 of his
cavalry, together with his camp. In order to save his life he ran away. I pursued
after him. I confined him in Damascus, his royal city. I cut down his orchards.
I burned his shocks.
Episode 2 (iv.4b–7a)
I marched to the mountains of 9auranu. I razed, destroyed and burned cities
without number. I carried away their booty.
I marched to the mountains of Ba’li-ra’si at the side of the sea and opposite
Tyre. I erected a statue of my royalty there.
I received the tribute of Ba‘al-manzer, the Tyrian, and of Jehu (Ia-a-ú), (the
man) of Bit-9 umrî (Omri).
On my return, I went up on Mt Lebanon. I set up a stela of my royalty with the
stela of Tiglath-pileser (I), the great king who went before me.
The narrative structure of the campaign divides into two phases (see Fig.
13.2). The first phase is a fighting phase in which the primary enemy, Hazael,
and his land are subjugated. This phase is narrated in two parts: the defeat of
Hazael (episode 1) and the continuation and conclusion of the campaign in
the mountains of Hauran (episode 2). The second phase is a non-fighting
phase in which there are two instances in which a statue is set up on a
49
The annals are: the Calaj Bulls (RIMA 3 A.0.102.8, 1˝-27˝; Yamada Annals 6; COS 2.113C);
the Marble Slab (RIMA 3, A.0.102.10, iii.45b–iv.15a; Yamada: Annals 7; COS 2.113D); the
Kurbail Statue (RIMA 3, A.0.102.12, 21–30a; Yamada: Annals 9; COS 113E); the Black Obelisk
(RIMA 3, A.0.102.14, 97–99; Yamada: Annals 13; COS 2.113F); the Broken Statue from
Nimrud (RIMA 3, A.0.102.16, 122´-137´; Yamada: Annals 14). The two Summary Inscriptions
are: Walters Art Gallery Stela (RIMA 3, A.0.102.9, 1´-15´; Yamada: Summary Inscription 16);
and the Assur Basalt Statue (RIMA 3, A.0.102.40, i.14–35; Yamada: Summary Inscription 19;
COS 2.113G).

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 264
mountain and the extraction of tribute from two non-combatant kings,

Ba‘al-manzer of Tyre and Jehu of Bi t 9umrî. The receipt of the tribute from
the two kings (episode 4) is framed on either side by the erection of a statue
at a specific location on a mountain (episodes 3, 5). Most of the narration of
the 841 campaign in the slab is devoted to the description of the defeat of
Hazael. This gives the feeling that episodes 2–5 are somewhat anticlimactic.
Nevertheless, by framing the tribute of the two kings with the erections of the
two statues, Shalmaneser is able to depict effectively his sovereignty over the
entire region.
The Fighting Phase: Subjugation of Aram-Damascus (iii.45b–iv.7a)

Episode 1 – The Defeat of Hazael of Damascus (iii.45b–iv.4a)
Episode 2 – Continuation and Conclusion of the campaign in the Mountains of
Hauran (iv.4b–7a)
The Non-Fighting Phase: Setting Up of Stelae and Extraction of Tribute (iv.7b–15a)
Episode 3 – Erection of a Statue on the Mountain of Ba’ali-ra’si (opposite Tyre)
(iv.7b–10a)
Episode 4 – Receipt of Tribute from Ba‘al-manzer or Tyre and Jehu of Bit 9umrî
(iv.10b–12a)
Episode 5 – Erection of Statue on Mount Lebanon beside that of Tiglath-pileser
(I) (iv.12b–15a)
Figure 13.2 The Marble Slab’s Structure of Shalmaneser III’s 841 Campaign.
The Marble Slab and Broken Statue from Nimrud seem to follow the
same version (with five episodes); the Calaj Bulls and the Kurbail Statue give
a slightly different version (with only four episodes). The Black Obelisk gives
a significantly truncated version, but it also includes the relief and epigraph
detailing the precise tribute of Jehu of Bit 9umrî.
Regarding the Summary Inscriptions, the Walters Art Gallery stela is a
fragmentary description of the 841 campaign, much of which can only be
restored from parallels. The Assur Basalt Statue (COS 2.113G) contains a
brief passage describing the death of Hadad-ezer (Adad-idri), the usurpation
of Hazael, and a telescoped version of the campaign.
(i.25–ii.6)
Hadad-ezer (Adad-idri) passed away.50 Hazael, son of a nobody, took the
throne. He mustered his numerous troops; (and) he moved against me to do war
50
KUR-8ú e-mi-id / 8ad a8u emid. Lit. ‘he reached his mountain’. The phrase is simply a euphe-
mism for ‘to die’ and, in and of itself, does not specify whether the death was the result of natural
or unnatural causes.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 265
and battle. I fought with him. I decisively defeated him. I took away from him
his walled camp. In order to save his life he ran away. I pursued (him) as far as
Damascus, his royal city. I cut down his orchards.
Although the chronological context is not indicated, the account is obviously

tied to the 841 campaign. It clearly notes that Hazael was a usurper—this is
what the phrase ‘son of a nobody’ means in the Mesopotamian context
(Younger 2005). In 2 Kings 8.7–15, Hazael murders Ben-Hadad and seizes
the throne. While it is impossible to confirm the historicity of the murder, the
Assyrian text asserts that Hazael was not the legitimate heir to the throne of
Damascus. Thus sometime in 844 or 843 Hazael became king in Damascus.51
This certainly had a negative impact on the coalition that Hadad-ezer had
led from 853 to 845 BCE. As Yamada points out (2000a, 189–90), it is plausi-
ble that the allies had been bound to each other by an oath of loyalty, since
this was common practice in the ancient Near East. If so, it is plausible that
they would have been required to maintain loyalty to the royal family of
Hadad-ezer (Adad-idri) and to oppose any usurper. Thus with the change in
dynasty in Damascus, the new political situation would have caused the
disintegration of the coalition.
Shalmaneser’s inscriptions do not relate an encounter with Hamathite
troops during the 841 campaign, nor later in the campaign of 838–837.
Between 844 and 841, the relationship between Hamath and Assyria had
obviously changed. More than a century later, Sargon II claimed that his
predecessors had imposed tribute on Irjuleni (see the Borowski Stela,
Lambert 1981, 125; COS 2.118B; Hawkins 2004). But since Shalmaneser
himself never claimed this, some scholars feel that it is more likely that
Shalmaneser brought Hamath over to an Assyrian alliance by diplomatic
means, perhaps even some type of bilateral agreement with Assyria that
allowed Shalmaneser to pass through its territory (Astour 1971, 384; Green
1979, 36 n. 10; Yamada 2000a, 190 n. 387). One thing is sure: items from
Hamath are found at Kalj u (modern Nimrud), the capital city of Shalmaneser
III. For example, there is an ivory with the name of Hamath incised on it.52
In addition, sixteen burnt shell ornaments (that were perhaps clappers or cas-
tanets) have been discovered at Fort Shalmaneser (room T 10) (Barnett 1963,
82–84; Oates and Oates 2001, 181; Hawkins 2000, 410–11). Seven of these are
inscribed in hieroglyphic Luwian: ‘Urjilana, the king’ (Hawkins 2000, 411).
Excavations at Hama (ancient Hamath) have produced a similar shell
inscribed with the same name (with the same orthrography) (Riis and Buhl
51
Ikeda (1999, 291) suggests 844. Lipiński (1979, 76) and Lemaire (1991, 97) suggest 843.
52
Possibly dating to the ninth century on paleographic grounds (note esp. the mem). See Millard
1962, 42.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 266
1990, 213, 215, no. 800). Also found in the same room (T 10) were some
ivories, one of which belonged to Hazael (see below).53
Interestingly, an inscription of Irjuleni/Urjilina was discovered in the
Iraqi village of Hines (1 km from Bavian) about 70 km north of Kalju
(Nimrud). The inscription, reported in 1935 by T. Jacobsen (Frankfort and
Jacobsen 1935, 101–03, fig. 107 [photo]), is a duplicate of two other
Irjuleni/Urjilina building inscriptions found in Syria (Restan and Qal‘at el
Mudîq) (Hawkins 2000, 408–09). But the stone and incised style of the
inscription differ markedly from the basalt and relief script of its duplicates
and the other Hamath inscriptions (Hawkins 2000, 409). Because of these
differences, Hawkins speculates that it is a copy made in antiquity of an orig-
inal inscription taken to Assyria by Shalmaneser III, Irjuleni’s/Urjilina’s
contemporary, or Sargon II, the conqueror of Hamath.54 On the other hand,
Dion speculates that the reference in the Borowski Stela to Irjuleni’s final
submission to Sargon’s forefathers favours the reign of Shalmaneser for the
time when the Hines inscription was made (Dion 1995b, 487–88).
In his attack on Hazael, Shalmaneser apparently took the route through
the Beqa Valley between the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon Mountains. In
episode 1, he claims to have fought Hazael at ‘Mt Sanir, a mountain peak,
which (lies) opposite Mt Lebanon, his fortress’. Mt Sanir is the biblical Mt
Senir, which has been identified with the Anti-Lebanon range. He claims to
have killed 16,000/16,020 of Hazael’s troops and to have confined him in
Damascus.
In episode 2 of the Marble Slab, Shalmaneser continued the campaign,
moving southwards to plunder the towns in the Hauran, the modern Jebel ed-
Druz, which rises to the east of biblical Bashan. He states: ‘I razed, destroyed
and burned cities without number. I carried away their booty.’ This concludes
the fighting phase of Shalmaneser’s campaign.
Two pieces of booty from this campaign (or possibly from a later one
against Hazael in 838–837) have been discovered. One was an ivory found in
the excavations of room T 10 at Fort Shalmaneser incised with a fragmentary
inscription (Millard as cited in Mallowan 1966, 598; COS 2, 163):
[ mr]’n hz’l
[ our lor]d Hazael.
53
Barnett (1963, 81, 85) argued that all of the ivories and other objects from Hamath found in
the excavations at Fort Shalmaneser were were part of booty that Sargon II carried off after his
720 BCE campaign. A recent study on the Neo-Assyrian attitude towards the use of ivory may
explain the storage of ivories of this sort. See Herrmann and Millard 2003.
54
Hawkins 2000, 409. Landsberger (1948, 33 n. 66) went so far as to speculate that Irjule ni had
somehow penetrated deep into Assyria and had written this inscription commemorating this
event.

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The other piece is a small, black and white marble cylinder (1.5 ⫻ 4.1 cm)
discovered on the north-east side of the small ziggurat in Assur (i.e. the
Anu-Adad temple) (RIMA 3, 151; COS 2.113H). It was brought to Assur by
Shalmaneser as booty from Hazael, and was perhaps used as a foundation
deposit for the city wall. It has a short inscription, obviously incised after its
capture:
Booty from the temple of the god 1eru (Aram. 8hr) of the city of Malaja, a
royal city of Hazael of Damascus, which Shalmaneser, son of Ashurnasirpal,
king of Assyria, brought back inside the wall of the Inner City (Assur).
This cylinder, however, probably dates to Shalmaneser’s 838–837 campaign

rather than the 841 campaign, since Malaj a is mentioned in the Broken
Statue from Nimrud (RIMA 3, A.0.102.16, 152⬘-162⬘a). Yamada (2000b)
published P. Hulin’s hand copies of this text confirming this reading on
the statue. Moreover, ‘to Mala j i’ is the entry for year 838 in the Eponym
Chronicle (Millard 1994, 29).
In the next episode, Shalmaneser marched to the mountains of Ba’li-ra’si
at the side of the sea and opposite Tyre and erected a statue of himself there.
The identification of Ba’li-ra’si is debated. Three locations have been pro-
posed: (1) in the vicinity of the Nahr el-Kelb (Honigmann 1929; Wiseman
1958, 49); (2) Mt Carmel (Astour 1971, 384–85; Green 1979, 36) and (3) Ras
en-Naqura, the mountain demarcating the modern Lebanese-Israeli border
(Borger TUAT 1, 366 n. 21a; Dion 1997, 196–97; Yamada 2000a, 192). The
last option seems best in the light of the fact that the texts of the Marble Slab
and the Broken Statue from Nimrud read ‘opposite the land of Tyre’ (8a put
mat surri).
In his march from Hauran to Ba’li-ra’si, it is possible that Shalmaneser
crossed Israelite territory. Some scholars have attempted to understand the
enigmatic verse in the book of Hosea Hos. 10.14), ‘The ravaging of Beth-
arbel by Shalman on the day of battle’, as a reference to an attack on the
Israelite town by Shalmaneser III in connection with this campaign.55 It is
possible that this is a reminiscence of the town’s destruction, but it might date
from the 838 campaign.
In episode 4, Shalmaneser receives the tribute of Ba‘al-manzer of Tyre
and of Jehu of Bit 9umrî (Marble Slab and Broken Statue from Nimrud).
The Calaj Bulls and Kurbail Statue state this somewhat differently:
At that time, I received the tribute of the Tyrians and the Sidonians, and of
Jehu (man of) Bit-9umrî (Omri) (ma-da-tu 8á KUR sur-ra-a-a KUR si-du-na-
a-a 8á mia-ú-a DUMU mju-um-ri-i).
55
Beth-Arbel is identified with Irbid. See Aharoni 1979, 341; Astour 1971, 385.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 268
Some scholars (e.g. Yamada 2000a, 194) have concluded from the difference
in wording between the Marble Slab and these two other inscriptions that
Tyre and Sidon were unified under one ruler, i.e. Ba‘al-manzer of Tyre.56
There can be no doubt that the Assyrian cuneiform spelling ia-ú-a (the
Marble Slab mistakenly writes ia-a-ú) is an accurate reflection of the Hebrew
name of the Israelite King Jehu (s uh9) (Zadok 1997; Na’aman 1997;
Brinkman and Schwemer 2000; and Younger 2002, 207–18). The following
cuneiform sign DUMU (m ar) is used in this construction with mju-um-ri-i to
form a type of gentilic for a nation that the Assyrians have designated as a
b itu ‘house’.57 Postgate has noted that the b itu has principally a political
meaning, but also carries a geographical connotation. ‘The b itu is more than
a mere tribe, which might move at any time from one district to another, but
its association with a personal name brings home the fact that the political
and geographical entity is founded on a tribal system’ (Postgate 1974, 234).
It seems very likely that the battle of Ramoth-Gilead (where Jehoram of
Israel was wounded) and Jehu’s later coup d’état occurred between Tishri 842
and Nisan 841 BCE. Shalmaneser’s attack on Damascus and Jehu’s submis-
sion took place later in 841 BCE.
The Black Obelisk, the latest of all known obelisks, provides a visual of
Jehu’s tribute with an epigraph identifying the particulars.58 Sculpted from
black alabaster, the famous monument is 1.98 metres in height and contains
the longest account of Shalmaneser’s reign, stretching down to the king’s
thirty-first year. Discovered by A. H. Layard at Kalju (Nimrud) in 1846, the
text dates to 828–827 BCE. The top of the obelisk is formed in the shape of a
ziggurat, having four sides with five registers or tiers on each side containing
reliefs of the tribute being brought to the king (ANEP 120–21).59 This form
may reflect the special appeal which these temple towers appear to have had
for the Assyrians (Porada 1983, 16). While each register has an epigraph, the
main text is found above and below the five registers on all four sides.
56
However, see the formulation in the Black Obelisk 103b–04a (8á KUR sur-ra-a-a KUR si-du-
na-a-a KUR gu-bal-a-a). Cf. also lines 180b–83a.
57
Schneider (1995; 1996) has suggested that the phrase DUMU(m ar) mju-um-ri-i means ‘son
(descendant) of Omri’ and that Jehu was a descendant of the Omride dynasty, perhaps by a dif-
ferent branch than the ruling descendants of Ahab. But see the criticisms of Dion 1997, 231 n.
36. The Assyrians often denoted countries by the name of the founder of the ruling dynasty at
the time of their first acquaintance with it (e.g. ‘Bi t Baj iani, Bi t Agusi, Bi t 9umri’), regardless
of which dynasty was currently in power.
58
See Ch. Uehlinger’s essay in this volume. The known examples of obelisks date to the period
from Ashur-bel-kala to Shalmaneser III (Russell 2003, 4).
59
Register 4 contains an epigraph that identifies the tribute in the relief as that of Marduk-apla-
usur of Suhu. Interestingly, a letter from this ruler to the Hamathite king Rudamu/Uratamis, the
son of Irjuleni/Urjilina, was discovered in excavations at Hama. See Parpola 1990. See n. 15
above.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 269
All Assyrian obelisks have apparently been found in the vicinity of tem-
ples, suggesting that their function was to display to the gods the economic
success of the king—in pictures depicting the flow of wealth into the empire
and in text describing how this wealth was obtained (Russell 2003, 6). On the
other hand, their four-sided portrayals imply mobile viewers and a free-
standing setting, suggesting that they were also intended for a human
audience (ibid., 6).
On the front side, the second register contains the famous relief of Jehu
of Israel (or his envoy) paying his tribute to Shalmaneser. The first register
holds a scene of Sua, the ruler of Gilz anu, a land near Lake Urmia, paying
his tribute. Through parallelism of the portrayals of the tribute from these
two countries—the first being in the north-easternmost area of the empire
and the second being in the south-westernmost area—the obelisk creates a
pictorial merism stressing the gigantic extent of Shalmaneser’s Assyrian
empire (see Keel and Uehlinger 1994; Green 1979, 385; Porada 1983, 13–18;
and Lieberman 1985, 88). The epigraph (RIMA 3, A.0.102.88) reads:
I received the tribute of Jehu (Ia-ú-a) (the man) of Bit-9umrî: silver, gold, a
golden bowl, a golden goblet, golden cups, golden buckets, tin, a staff (jutartu)
of the king’s hand, (and) javelins(?).60
M. Elat (1975, 33–34) notes that Sua, king of Gilzanu, is pictured on the
obelisk giving Shalmaneser j u tarate/j utarte ‘staffs’. He argues for a distinc-
tion between j u taru/j u tartu and j a ttu, with the former being a symbol of pro-
tection or ownership of property, and the latter a symbol of royal authority
(i.e. a sceptre). Thus Jehu and Sua, in handing over the j u tartu to
Shalmaneser III, ‘wished to symbolize that their kingdoms had been handed
over to the protection of the king of Assyria’.61 This j u tartu-staff may be
pictured on the recently discovered alabaster vase from the Jezireh attributed
to Shalmaneser III (Abu Assaf 1992; Fortin 1999, 111; Heintz 2001, 473).
The vase pictures Shalmaneser and an unidentified king ‘shaking hands’, a
motif seen on Shalmaneser’s throne base from Fort Shalmaneser.62
CONCLUSION
In whatever scheme of periodization used for Neo-Assyrian history in the

ninth century, the reign of Shalmaneser III stands out. His rule had great
impact on most of the states of the Levant as the Assyrian empire expanded
60
In terms of the number of items delineated, Jehu ‘s tribute is the most (nine items).
61
See CAD 9 265 s.v. ju taru A.
62
For the theme of two kings ‘shaking hands’, see Reade 1979a, 69–70.

13 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 10:57 Page 270
beyond its traditional borders. Moreover, in the history of the Northern

Kingdom of Israel, Shalmaneser’s reign serves as a bridge between two
important periods, impacting the Omride and Jehuite periods through his
853 and 841 campaigns. This study has analysed these campaigns and inves-
tigated some of their problems. The resistance offered by Ahab in conjunc-
tion with the western alliance that fought Shalmaneser at Qarqar in 853 gave
way to the tribute gift of Jehu towards the conclusion of Shalmaneser’s 841
campaign. Ahab was a participant in ‘a grand alliance’ that was able to resist
Assyrian expansion; Jehu became an Assyrian paragon for the submissive
client king, helping to define the vastness of the Assyrian state at the end of
Shalmaneser’s reign. While many years would pass before the Assyrians
would accomplish the conquest of Israel, these initial contacts between
Shalmaneser III and Ahab and Jehu demonstrate the two options that the
Israelite monarchs would implement throughout the stormy relationship
with the ‘Great King(s) of Assyria’ until the fall of Samaria and the land’s
incorporation into the Assyrian provincial system.
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——, 1958. ‘Historical Records of Assyria and Babylonia’, in DOTT 47.
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Later Inscriptions of Shalmaneser III’, JCS 50, 87–94.
——, 2000a. The Construction of the Assyrian Empire. A Historical Study of the
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West (CHANE 3; Leiden, Boston and Köln).
——, 2000b. ‘Peter Hulin’s Hand Copies of Shalmaneser III’s Inscriptions’, Iraq 62,
65–87.
——, 2002. ‘Salmanu-a 8 ared’, PNA 3/1, 1071–78.
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Assyrian’, VT 52, 207–18.
——, 2003. ‘Assyrian Involvement in the Southern Levant at the End of the Eighth
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——, forthcoming. ‘Another Look at Some of the Toponyms in Shalmaneser III’s
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14
West Semitic Inscriptions and Ninth-

Century BCE Ancient Israel
ANDRÉ LEMAIRE
TOGETHER WITH MATERIAL ARCHAEOLOGY and the literary tradition of the

Hebrew Bible, epigraphy is one of the main sources for the history of ninth-
century BCE ancient Israel, and, although limited in number, West Semitic
inscriptions throw some light on the history of this period. We shall try, first,
to present a list of ninth-century West Semitic inscriptions and, second, to
appreciate the historical information they contain regarding the history of
ninth-century Israel.
A. NINTH-CENTURY BCE WEST SEMITIC INSCRIPTIONS
In presenting a list of ninth-century BCE West Semitic inscriptions concern-

ing ancient Israel, we naturally start with the Hebrew inscriptions; later on we
shall deal with inscriptions in the neighbouring southern Levant countries,
and we shall finish with Aramaic inscriptions from Upper Mesopotamia.
Thus we shall deal first with inscriptions in ‘Canaanite’ dialects, and then
examine inscriptions written in Aramaic dialects.
1. ‘Canaanite’ inscriptions
i. Hebrew inscriptions
The listing of the ninth-century Hebrew inscriptions would appear to be an
easy task since Renz’s handbook (1995, 40–66) presents them in chronological
order. Renz lists:
● five Arad ostraca (nos 76–79 and 81 ⫽ Aharoni 1981, 98–101)
● an inscribed jar-handle L’H’B, ‘Belonging to Ahab’, from Tell el-
Hamme on the border of the Beth-Shean Valley (c. 1974–1977)
(Gophna and Porat 1972, 214)

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280 André Lemaire
● about sixteen inscriptions from Kuntillet ‘Ajrud, 50 km south of

Qadesh Barnea, close to the Darb el-Ghazza (Meshel 1992)
● an incised inscription from Tell el-‘Or eme/Kinneret (Fritz 1990,
118),
● three ink inscriptions HM1, ‘five’, on jugs from Es-Semu‘/Eshtemoa,
15 km south of Hebron.
This makes a total of twenty-six short or fragmentary Hebrew inscriptions.
However, one has to take into account the fact that most of the dates of these
inscriptions are uncertain or very approximate.
The dating of the early Iron Age Arad strata is still much discussed
(Herzog 2002; Singer-Avitz 2002). From the point of view of palaeography,
ostraca 76 and 77 seem to be ninth-century, while the dating of the frag-
mentary ostraca 78, 79 (and 80) is very uncertain, and the traces of ostracon
81 are very difficult to interpret.
Furthermore the proposed dating of the Kuntillet ‘Ajrud inscriptions is
also uncertain, to say the least: Renz himself (1995, 51) hesitates between the
end of the ninth and the beginning of the eighth century, while I tried to
show, more than twenty years ago (1984a), that a palaeographic and histori-
cal analysis indicates a probable date in the second quarter of the eighth
century.
The dating and interpretation of the small incision from Tell el-
‘Oreme/Kinneret are also very uncertain since the straight tail of the letters is
more typical of Phoenician (or Ammonite) epigraphy than of Hebrew: one
could propose reading a Phoenician personal name, N‘NNR, the god ‘Na‘am
is light’, with transformation M⬎N by assimilation to the following N (cf. in
Phoenician B‘L HNN⬍B‘L HMN: PPG § 54b), the theonym ‘Na‘am’ being
already well attested in Phoenician (Benz 1972, 362).
Although approximate, the palaeographical dating of the three inscrip-
tions from Eshtemoa looks likely. However, in this case, one is tempted to add
the inscription LYHML incised on the shoulder of a decanter from Khirbet
el-Qôm (Dever 1969–70, 169–170; Renz 1995, 211–12).
To these seven or eight inscriptions known in 1995, we have now to add
two short inscriptions found by Ami Mazar at Tel Rehov:
● Inscription no. 2, read M‘[—]‘M, might be completed as M‘NR‘M,
‘Ma‘anra‘am’, a personal name containing the theonym ‘Ma‘an’
well attested in Palmyrene (Stark 1971, 34, 96), Nabatean (Negev
1991, 40–41) and North-Arabic (Harding 1971, 556) onomastics,
rather than M‘MS‘M, ‘from ‘Amas‘am’, M‘MR‘M, ‘from ‘Omri‘am’,
M‘NR‘M, ‘from Aner‘am’ or M‘BD[.]‘M (Mazar 2003, 176–77),
since we generally do not have the preposition MN, ‘from’, at the
beginning of a jar inscription.

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WEST SEMITIC INSCRIPTIONS 281
● Inscription no. 3 is probably to be read L 1QY NM 1, ‘to the cup-

bearer Nimshi/Nemesh’. Although the script seems to be Hebrew, it
is difficult to say precisely whether 1QY is a northern Hebrew word
(cf. 1QY in Ugaritic) or a kind of Aramaism (cf. 1QY) at Ein-Gev,
infra).
To sum up, ninth-century BCE Hebrew inscriptions are few in number
(around ten), very short or fragmentary, and contain mainly personal names.
ii. Moabite inscriptions

Although the Amman citadel inscription has been dated by F. M. Cross to
the ninth century (Cross 1969; Aufrecht 1989, 157; 2003, 139), this palaeo-
graphical dating seems too high (see the shapes of the letters T and K, as well
as the slight opening of the ‘), and so a date in the first half of the eighth cen-
tury seems more likely (Horn 1969, 4–8; Van der Kooij 1987, 111; Lemaire
1992, 213). Thus far, we have probably no ninth-century BCE Ammonite
inscription.
The situation is different in the kingdom of Moab, where we have at least
three more or less fragmentary monumental inscriptions:
1. The famous Mesha stele (Gibson 1971, 71–83; Smelik 2003).
2. The El-Kerak fragment (Reed and Winnett 1963; Gibson 1971,
83–84).
3. The small Dhîbân fragment (Murphy 1952).
Furthermore, in 1999, under the direction of P. M. M. Daviau, the excava-
tions of Khirbet el-Medeyineh found a new inscription on an octagonal
incense altar (Dion and Daviau 2000; Daviau and Steiner 2000). The editio
princeps proposed a preliminary dating c. 800 BCE but Routledge (2002) clar-
ified that the archaeological stratum was probably occupied between c. 800
and 600/550 BCE, and a preliminary palaeographical dating suggests a date
toward the middle or second half of the eight century.
Although the dating of seals is generally very approximate, two Moabite
seals could well be more or less contemporary with the Mesha stele, in the
second half of the ninth century or around 800:
● Seal L‘BDHWRN (WSS 1041).
● Seal LKM1’R (Deutsch and Heltzer 1997, 59–61).
There is apparently no Edomite or Philistian (Lemaire 2000) ninth-century
inscription.

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iii. Phoenician inscriptions

For the kingdoms of Tyre and Sidon, some of the inscribed funerary steles
might date from the end of the ninth century (Bordreuil 1982, 190–91; Sader
1992, 58–59) but this remains uncertain and most of them can be dated rather
from the eighth to the early sixth centuries BCE (Delavault and Lemaire 1979,
3–5; Teixidor 1982, 233–35; Sader 1991; 1992; 2004; Lemaire 2001; Cross
2002; Kamlah and Sader 2003, 158; Sader 2005). We have generally the same
problem with a few inscriptions on funerary jars (Bordreuil 1977a), while a
few inscribed shards from Hazor (Delavault and Lemaire 1979, 7–8; Naveh
1989, 347; Mazar 2003, 182; Sass 2005, 85–86) and Horbat Rosh Zayit (Gal
and Alexandre 2000, 133–34) could well date from the ninth century.
Further north, Byblos is famous for its tenth-century BCE royal inscrip-
tions. Their dating has been recently challenged by Benjamin Sass (2005): he
proposes dating them to the ninth century, or, more precisely, c. 850–750 BCE,
since they could be archaizing. Without discussing it in detail here, this new
tentative dating appears on the whole to be far-fetched and less likely than the
usual dating, even though the latter remains very approximate (Lemaire
forthcoming b). The last king of this series, Shipitbaal, can probably be dated
around 900 (Gibson 1982, 23–24) or 880 (KAI no. 7). A small jar inscription
comes from the same context (KAI no. 8; Gibson 1982, 24), while a frag-
mentary monumental and somehow problematic (cf. shapes of G, ’ and T)
inscription, said to be found 10 km south of Byblos, may be dated to the end
of the tenth (Bordreuil 1977a, 23–27) or to the ninth century BCE.
Still farther north, the famous Zencirli royal inscription of Kulamuwa,
king of Sam’al, is probably dated around 825 BCE (KAI no. 24; Gibson 1982,
30–39; Younger 2003).
Ninth-century Phoenician inscriptions are also attested in Cyprus, for
example:
1. A funerary inscription, now in the Nicosia museum (KAI 30; Masson
and Sznycer 1972, 13–20; Puech 1979, 19–26; Gibson 1982, 28–30).
2. An inscription incised on a bowl found in the Astarte temple of
Kition (Guzzo-Amadasi and Karageorghis 1977, 149–60; Puech 1976)
and dated probably to around 800 BCE.
Farther west, in the western Mediterranean, the famous Nora stele probably
dates from the ninth century BCE (KAI no. 46; Gibson 1982, 25–28; Cross
1987, 71).

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Aramaic inscriptions
Since the differences between the various Aramaic dialects are sometimes
clear but difficult to distinguish precisely, especially because of the paucity of
the inscriptions, it seems most practical to present these inscriptions within
their probable connection with the various Aramaean kingdoms.
i. Damascus
The famous fragments of the Tel Dan stele are clearly connected with the
kingdom of Damascus. They were found in 1993 and 1994 (Biran and Naveh
1993; 1995). After the publication of the fragments found in 1994, most of
the commentators on this much discussed inscription agreed that its anony-
mous author is none other than Hazael, the great Aramaean king of
Damascus. Several small inscriptions are also connected with this king:
● Two horse’s bronze forehead ornaments bearing the same inscrip-
tion—ZY NTN HDD LMR’N HZ’L MN ‘MQ B 1 NT ‘DH MR’N
NHR, ‘That which Hadad gave to our lord Hazael from ‘Umq in
the year that our lord crossed the river’. The first was found in the
Apollo temple of Eretria (Euboea), the second in the Heraion of
Samos (Kyrielis and Röllig 1988; Bron and Lemaire 1989; Eph‘al
and Naveh 1989).
● Two ivory inscriptions: the first was found at Arslan-Tash (KAI no.
232; Röllig 1974, 39, 48; Gibson 1975, 4–5; Puech 1981), the second,
very fragmentary, in Nimrud (Mallowan 1966, 598–99; Millard
2003), both locations in upper Mesopotamia.
To these short inscriptions on bronze or ivory, one may add three short
inscriptions incised on vases. The first was found in Ein-Gev: L1QY’),
‘Belonging to the cup-bearer(s)/wine butler(s)’ (Mazar 1964; Gibson 1975, 5),
the second at Tel Dan: LTB[H]Y’, ‘Belonging to the butchers’ (Avigad 1968;
Gibson 1975, 5), and the third in Tell Deir ‘Alla: L 1 ’WL, ‘Belonging to Shaul’
(Lemaire 1984b, 254–55).
ii. Hamath
There is a monumental royal inscription from the kingdom of Hamath, the
famous stele of ‘Zakkur, king of Hamath and Lu‘ash’ apparently found in
Afis. Its date is somehow disputed and A. R. Millard recently proposed ‘a
date shortly after 800 BCE’ (Millard 2003, 155) while Gibson thought of
‘780–775’. In fact, a precise date within the first half of the eighth century
cannot be established with certainty, but the ninth century seems to be
excluded. However, one may note that we have the mention of ‘Barhadad son

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284 André Lemaire
of Hazael, king of Aram’ (line 4) as head of the coalition and that the
beginning of his reign probably goes back to the end of the ninth century
BCE.
Besides this eighth-century inscription, the current excavations at Afis
found a very small fragment of another monumental inscription which may
mention the name HZ’L (personal communication of M. G. Amadasi); we
have to wait for its editio princeps to know whether it can be dated towards
the end of the ninth century BCE.
Furthermore, a few ivories from Nimrud, found in the same context as the
Hazael inscriptions (supra) and the Neo-Hittite inscription with the name
Urhilina—both kings contemporary with the Assyrian king Shalmaneser III
(858–824)—mention HMT, ‘Hamath’, and L‘1, ‘Lu‘ash’ (Millard 1962, 42;
Barnett 1963, 82; Röllig 1974, 47–48), as well as ZY HQRB and a few other
letters. These inscriptions could well date from the second half of the ninth
century.
iii. Beit-Gush (Arpad)

Around Aleppo, the Aramaean kingdom of Beit-Gush (Arpad) was an
important kingdom, especially in the second half of the ninth century (Dion
1997, 113–29). A few Aramaic inscriptions might date from this period. Such
a dating, however, remains generally uncertain.
This is especially the case with the famous Milqart stele found in Bureij,
near Aleppo. It presents a short dedicatory inscription (four lines, with one
letter on a fifth). As cautiously noted by W. T. Pitard (2003, 152), ‘the script
suggests that the stela dates to the second half of the ninth or early eighth
century’. Its author is called ‘Bar-Hadad . . . king of Aram’, who is now
mainly interpreted either as the Bar-Hadad son of Hazael, king of
Damascus from c. 805 onwards (Lemaire 1984c), or as an unknown king of
Beit-Gush (Arpad) (Pitard 1987, 144; 1988), eventually ‘son of ‘Attarsumki’,
king of Arpad in the late ninth century (Puech 1992; Lipiński 2000, 215).
Although tempting, this last interpretation remains rather speculative, how-
ever, since the reading of the second part of line 2 is uncertain, and it is
safer to wait for a clear attestation of this new king before adopting this
interpretation.
The syntagma BYT G 1, ‘Beit-Gush’, appears on an ivory pyxis from
Nimrud which could well date from the second half of the ninth century.
Unfortunately the syntagma is preceded by a lacuna of at least three letters,
and leads one to think either of a personal name, about which it is difficult
to be precise (Puech 1978), or, possibly more likely, the title MLK, ‘king’,
which gives the phrase LMLK BYT G 1 similar to the syntagma MLK BYT
DWD in the Tel Dan stele, lines 8’–9’.

14 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:05 Page 285
A few inscribed Aramaic seals could be connected with the kingdom of

Beit-Gush in the late ninth century, though this connection remains somewhat
uncertain or conjectural:
● The formula of the Aramaic scaraboid LHKL ‘BD ’BRM suggests
that ‘Abiram’ was the name of an Aramaean king (Bordreuil 1986,
78, no. 90; WSS no. 752) and it has been proposed furthermore that
this Abiram is to be identified with Arame/Adrame, king of Beit-
Gush at least circa 858–833 (Zadok 1984, 211–12; Bordreuil 1992,
253; Dion 1997, 115–16 n. 14).
● The formula of the Aramaic scaraboid LNR1’ ‘BD ‘TRSMK sug-
gests that ‘TRSMK is also a king (Bordreuil 1986, 76–77, no. 86;
WSS no. 753): he could well be identified with ‘Attarsumki king of
Arpad, either at the end of the ninth century (supra) or in the early
eighth century BCE (Lipiński 2000, 216).
● The Aramaic cylinder seal with the inscription HTM BRQ ‘BD
‘TR1MN is probably to be dated to the end of the ninth century
(Bordreuil 1986, 75–76, no. 85; Lipiński 2000, 608). R. Zadok (1984,
212) suggested that ‘TR1MN was king of Hamath and/or Lu‘ash
before Urhileni and Zakkur. However one could also think of a
priest of ‘Attarshamin in Beit-Gush where the royal name ‘TRSMK
(supra) seems to attest the importance of this god.
iv. The kingdom of Sam’al

Farther north, the Hadad and Panamuwa eighth-century inscriptions attest
the use of a local Aramaic dialect that can be called Samalian (KAI 214, 215;
Gibson 1975, 60–86; Dion 1974; Tropper 1993). This dialect seems already to
be attested in the small Kulamuwa inscription on a gold amulet case (Tropper
1993, 50–53; Lemaire 1990). Furthermore, although much damaged and
almost illegible, the Ordek Burnu stele (Tropper 1993, 6) could well also be
written in Samalian and dated to the second half of the ninth century BCE
(Lipiński 2000, 233–34).
v. Arslan-Tash/Hadattu
A fragmentary trilingual (hieroglyphic Luwian, Aramaic and Akkadian)
inscription was discovered on one of the gate lions of Arslan-Tash/Hadattu.
We are still waiting for the editio princeps of this inscription. Preliminary
information connects it with an eunuch of Shamshi-Adad V (823–811: Dion
1997, 97) or of the famous turtanu Shamshi-ilu (around 780?: Röllig 2000,
182–83).

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286 André Lemaire
The earlier excavations of F. Thureau-Dangin et al. (1931, 87–88) found

a very damaged monumental Aramaic inscription on the back of one of the
gate lions. It is possible to read there 1M1 to be completed either as 1M1 [’L],
‘Shamshi-(ilu)’ or, less probably, as 1M1[HDD], ‘Shamshi-Adad’.
This is just to remind us that the turtanu Shamshi-ilu who built Arslan-
Tash as his own city was in office from around 805/803 until 752 (Ikeda 1999,
281, 292–93) as a kind of Assyrian viceroy for the West.
vi. Gozan/Guzana (Beit Bahian)

From the Aramaean kingdom of Gozan/Guzana, around the spring of the
River Habur in Upper Mesopotamia, we now have two ninth-century Aramaic
inscriptions:
● The famous bilingual Assyro-Aramaic statue of King Hadadyis‘i
found at Tell Fekheriye (Abou Assaf et al. 1982; Millard 2003,
153–54; Schwiderski 2004, 194).
● The difficult-to-decipher ‘altar’ inscription from Tell Halaf
(Dankwarth and Müller 1988; Schwiderski 2004, 197).
(The Deir ‘Alla plaster inscriptions date to the first half of the eighth century
BCE, probably before the earthquake mentioned in Amos 1.1 (around
760–750: Lemaire 1991, 34–36) and seem too late to be mentioned here.
However, as underlined by A. R. Millard, ‘this inscription from Deir ‘Alla
probably represents a column of a scroll’ (Millard 1982, 149) and is a literary
text copied from such a scroll. That means that the original ‘SPR/Text/
Inscription/Book of Balaam son of Beor a seer of the gods’ was written
earlier: it may have been written in the ninth or, perhaps, even in the tenth
century BCE. This is probably the main reason why the Aramaic is typologic-
ally an archaic form of Aramaic (Lemaire 1991a, 48–49). So this inscription
probably reveals the existence of Aramaic literary scrolls in the ninth century
BCE, either because they were written during this century or because they
were originally written earlier.)
This quick overview of the ninth-century BCE West Semitic inscriptions
reveals that:
1. Alphabetic writing was probably used in all the kingdoms of the
Levant, at least in their capitals.
2. Literary manuscripts were in use, at least in Aramaic.
3. The number of inscriptions that have reached us today is limited.
4. It is generally difficult to date the inscriptions with precision since
palaeographical dating is always approximate, especially for this
period, and since the chronology and history of the Levant kingdoms
at this period are not well known or precise.

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5. So far, the attested inscriptions, especially the royal monumental

inscriptions, are mostly from the second half of the ninth century.
6. Without discussing here in detail the problem of bi- or trilingualism,
Aramaic inscriptions were often found in the same countries as hiero-
glyphic Luwian/Neo-Hittite (Hamath, Aleppo, Sam’al, etc.) (Hawkins
2000, 388–423) or Neo-Assyrian (Guzana) inscriptions. This multilin-
gualism was especially important in the northern Levant. Towards
800, at Carchemish, Yariris claimed to know four kinds of scripts and
twelve languages (Hawkins 1975, 150–52; 1979, 157–60; 2000, 130–33;
Greenfield 1991, 178–81).
B. EVIDENCE FOR NINTH-CENTURY BCE ANCIENT ISRAEL
Our quick overview has revealed the limits of ancient West Semitic epigraphy.
This is particularly true for Hebrew inscriptions. However, the few short and
fragmentary inscriptions that we know of for this period at least show that
writing was used and that inscriptions could be incised or written with ink.
So far, these inscriptions reveal mainly personal names. Only two of them will
be mentioned here:
● The name ’H’B, ‘Ahab’, which appears on the inscribed jar-handle
of Tell el-Hamme, is the same as that of the king of Israel, Ahab,
who reigned c. 874–853. The very approximate palaeographical
dating could fit this identification, but there is no patronym and no
title: this identification is only a possibility.
● The word 1QY, ‘cup-bearer’, which appears on inscription no. 3
from Tel Rehov, could indicate a function at the royal court; but
this possibility remains unsubstantiated. Furthermore, the personal
name NM1, ‘Nimshi/Nemesh’, of this inscription is similar to the
name of the father or grandfather of Jehu, king of Israel c. 841–814.
However, NM1 is also attested on earlier and later Israelite
inscriptions and any identification would be highly conjectural.
For ninth-century ancient Israel, the main West Semitic epigraphic source is
still probably the Mesha stele completed with the small fragments from El-
Kerak and Dhîbân. This famous inscription has been the object of many
studies and constitutes a classic example for any study of the relations
between West Semitic inscriptions and ancient Israel as well as of their his-
torical interest (Emerton 2002). I have already published elsewhere several
remarks on this inscription and on this problem (Lemaire 1987, 205–14;
1991b; forthcoming a) and would like only to underline here the main aspects.

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288 André Lemaire
The historical interpretation of the Mesha stele is fraught with a pri-

oris that have obscured its historical interpretation in the past because of
overhasty references to the Bible on two points: dating and wars.
● Because Mesha, king of Moab, is mentioned in 2 Kgs 1.1 and 2 Kgs
3 as a contemporary of Ahab and of his son Jehoram (Mykytiuk
2004, 95–108), many commentators have dated the stele to about the
middle of the ninth century, to c. 850 or 840 BCE.
● Because there are references to a Moabite-Israelite war in the stele
and in 2 Kgs 3, many commentators have assumed that this is the
same war.
A detailed analysis reveals that the war against Israel mentioned in the stele
cannot be the same as the war against Moab told in 2 Kgs 3 and that the
Mesha stele was probably engraved only after ‘a long and successful reign’
(Miller 1974, 18), leaving time for the victorious war against Israel and for the
construction of numerous buildings. To be more precise, the writing of the
stele describes the contemporary political situation of Israel as catastrophic:
Y1R’L.’BD.’BD.‘LM, ‘Israel perished utterly for ever.’ Such a sentence fits
the biblical description of the political situation of Israel during the reign the
king of Israel Jehoahaz (c. 814–803): ‘Moabite raiders used to invade the
Land. . . All through the reign of Jehoahaz, Hazael, king of Aram, oppressed
Israel. . . Hazael had left to Jehoahaz no armed force except fifty horsemen,
ten chariots, and ten thousand infantry; for the king of Aram had destroyed
them (’ibbed am) and made them like dust under foot’ (2 Kgs 13.20b, 22, 7).
Thus it appears that the stele was probably engraved late in the ninth century,
around 810 BCE.
Its text, however, throws light on most of the ninth-century history, and
perhaps also on some of the tenth century. In fact, Mesha himself explicitly
mentions the length of the reign of his father and predecessor probably called
Kemoshît/Kemoshyat: ‘thirty years’, apparently a round cipher, so that he
was probably king c. 885–855 BCE. Furthermore, the stele gives us a glimpse
at the earlier period in two phrases:
● Line 10: ‘And the men of Gad settled in the land of ‘Ataroth from
of old (M‘LM)’.
● Line 31, with the syntagma BT[D]WD, ‘Beth-David’, designating
the kingdom of Judah by the name of the founder of the reigning
dynasty as usual at this period (Lemaire 1994a; Mykytiuk 2004,
265–77).
Since this last reading has been questioned (Bordreuil 2001, 162–63), I
should like to emphasize here that it is based mainly on an examination of
the stele itself and of a small squeeze (no. 9) taken by Ch. Clermont-

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Ganneau before the restoration of the stele in the Louvre Museum and kept
now in the ‘Cabinet du Corpus’ (Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres,
Paris). B—WD was already read by Ch. Clermont-Ganneau (1875, 173;
1877, 107), and BT-WD, with the T remaining uncertain, by R. Dussaud
(1912, 5), D. Sidersky (1920, 11), and A. H. van Zyl (1960, Addendum I). It
is clear that there is only one letter between the uncertain T and the clear
W. As a rule, an epigrapher must always be very careful in proposing any
restoration. In this case, the restoration of a D is based mainly on two
considerations, and possibly on a third:
1. This restoration of a D fits exactly the context: BT [D]WD, in the
south, is parallel to Israel in the north of Moab. More precisely, BT
[D]WD as a subject of Y1B BH can be compared to ‘MRY (lines 7–8),
and MLK Y1R’L (lines 18–19).
2. Apparently, no other restoration makes any sense (there are only
twenty-two possibilities!).
3. Before the discovery of the Tel Dan inscription such a restoration of
a syntagma that was only attested in the Hebrew Bible could proba-
bly be criticized by some scholars as ‘bibliocentric’ or rejected as a
syntagma known only from late biblical texts. Now that this syn-
tagma is clearly attested in a contemporary Aramaic inscription, also
in parallel to Y1R’L, even this (not serious) objection cannot be
raised.
The fact that the men of Gad lived in the land of ‘Ataroth ‘from old/ever
(M‘LM)’ probably means ‘from a very long time’: there was probably no
memory of a different situation. Furthermore, here (lines 10–11), Gad is
apparently connected with the king of Israel, which probably means that it
was considered as an Israelite tribe, and the fact that, later on, Mesha killed
all the inhabitants of ‘Ataroth (lines 11–12) seems to confirm that. With A. F.
Rainey (1998, 244–45) and against Na’aman (2000, 87), I do not see any
reason why Gad should be Moabite in the inscription. Mesha’s insistence
upon the fact that the tribe of Gad was there for a long time and was slaugh-
tered probably indicates an aim to present himself as a great king destroying
his enemies and extending his territory beyond the earlier frontiers of his
kingdom.
This memorial stele is therefore a good example of an ancient presenta-
tion of the relations between Moab and Israel over a long period, more than
seventy-five years! This historical perspective or historiography reveals some
sense of history even if it is used as propaganda. Besides the numerous
phrases connected with Moab, Y1R’L appears no less than six times in the
stele (lines 5, 7, 10–11, 18, 26), Omri twice (lines 4–5, and 7; Mykytiuk 2004,

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290 André Lemaire
108–10), ‘Gad’ (line 10), YHWH (line 18) and ‘Beit-David’ (31) (Lemaire
1994a; Rainey 1998, 249–50; 2000, 117) once each.
From the Mesha stele, it appears that Omri was probably about contem-
porary with Kemoshît, Mesha’s father. This fact would fit the approximate
biblical chronology for Omri (c. 885–881–874) but does not allow us to spec-
ify it further. The phrase YMN RBN, ‘many days’, for the length of the
oppression of Moab by Omri, might well be an indication that this oppres-
sion began early in the reigns of Omri and Kemoshît, but it does not allow us
to fix the exact date precisely. The parallel use of ‘NY in Karatepe (KAI 26
A I, 18) in a political register confirms that it probably means here ‘to sub-
due’, with a probable reference to tribute. This submission of Kemoshît to
Omri is religiously interpreted and theologically justified by the anger of the
national god Kamosh. Unfortunately for us, the cause of this anger is not
specified, but this explanation reveals that religious interpretation of a nega-
tive or positive political situation was probably usual in the historiography of
this period.
Omri is again mentioned in lines 7–8, this time as having taken possession
of the land of Medeba. The nuance of the verb YR1 used in this context is
difficult to pinpoint: in Hebrew it has the general meaning of ‘taking posses-
sion’, but it may also be used in particular with the nuance ‘inheriting’; it
seems also possible to use it for taking possession with the sword (Ps. 44.4).
In the stele, the text is probably making a difference between the political sit-
uation of the land of ‘Ataroth that belonged to Gad from of old, and that of
the land of Medeba. The text does not specify explicitly whether the land of
Medeba was Israelite or not before Omri; however; the way Mesha dealt with
it is different from the treatment of the land of ‘Ataroth: it seems that Mesha
considered the population of Medeba to have been originally Moabite and
the previous action of Omri and his successors as an Israelite occupation to
have been for a limited time, ‘forty years’.
Line 6 explicitly mentions the succession of Omri by his son and the con-
tinuation of the submission of Moab during his reign. The name of this son
of Omri king of Israel is not stated but it fits well with the biblical and Neo-
Assyrian indications about Ahab son of Omri. It is possible that Mesha
avoided mentioning the name of this Israelite king as a kind of damnatio
memoriae since he had very bad memories of his own submission to Ahab.
This reconstruction implies that Mesha succeeded his father Kemoshît dur-
ing the reign of Ahab and that he had to pay him a tribute as mentioned in
2 Kgs 1.1; 3.4-5.
Furthermore, the anonymity of the references to the son of Omri might
explain the use of the anonymous phrase ‘king of Israel’ in lines 10–11, in
connection with the building of ‘Ataroth, and, in lines 18–19, in connection
with the building of Yahaz. However, this is conjectural. What seems clear is

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that the mention of these buildings is connected with the buildings of the
Omri dynasty.
At the beginning of line 7, Mesha specifies that he enjoyed the view of
Ahab and ‘his house’, which probably means, in this context, that he enjoyed
not only the death of Ahab but also the elimination of his descendants
(Jehu’s coup d’état, c. 841), certainly in Israel but perhaps also in Judah
(Jehoiada’s coup d’état, c. 835). One notes that the phrasing corresponds to
the well-known biblical syntagma ‘house of Ahab’ (2 Kgs 8.18, 27; 9.7, 8, 9;
10.10, 11, 30; 21.13). Contrary to Ishida’s view (Ishida 1975), this probably
means that the syntagma ‘house of Ahab’ is not typical of a Deuteronomistic
redaction but was already in use in the ninth century BCE.
Line 8 has generally been interpreted as indicating that the Israelite pos-
session of Medeba lasted only during half of the days of Omri’s sons, but this
interpretation is very difficult to fit with the following syntagma, ‘forty years’.
Furthermore this interpretation would imply that Omri settled in the land of
Medeba during the reign of his sons/descendants, that is, after his death,
which would be strange. Mittmann (2002, 33–36) has recently proposed
another, more satisfying philological interpretation, taking into account the
fact that generally, in the Mesha stele, YMY is to be understood ‘my days’.
Thus the sentence ‘WY1B.BH.YMH.WH1Y.YMY.BNH.’RB‘N.1T’ probably
means: ‘And he dwelt in it in his days, and (during) half of my days his sons:
forty years’. The submission of Moab to the dynasty of Omri for forty
years—despite the number forty being a rounded cipher—fits the length of
the Omri dynasty (c. 885/1–841). The phrase ‘half of my days’ could have
been more approximate and might be an allusion to the later ‘liberation’ of
the land of Medeba by Mesha during Jehu’s reign. In fact, it is likely that this
‘liberation’ did not occur immediately after Jehu’s coup d’état in 841 but a lit-
tle later, during Jehu’s reign, with the help of Hazael (2 Kgs 10.32–33) when
the Assyrian armies were far away, that is, at least after 838 (Lemaire 1991b,
102).
It is in this last context of the conquest of the Israelite Transjordanian
territories by Hazael that one may understand that Mesha could have been
victorious against Israel north of the Arnon. There is no mention, in the stele,
of any opposition of an Israelite army (Dearman 1989, 206); the resistance
of the people seems passive: they seek refuge in their fortified cities that
Mesha is able to seize within a few hours (see line 15 about Nebo: ‘from break
of dawn till noon’) while no fight is mentioned for the town of Yahaz that
could well have been previously abandoned by the Israelites. This style of war
is understandable if the Israelite army was busy fighting against Hazael of
Damascus in northern Transjordan. The alliance of Moab with the
Aramaean kingdom of Damascus against Israel in fact seems to be alluded
to in 2 Kgs 13.20b, 22, 7.

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292 André Lemaire
Although the bottom of the stele is apparently missing, line 31 begins

another part of the text dealing with a war against the kingdom of Judah des-
ignated by the syntagma BT DWD, ‘house of David’ (on this syntagma, see
supra and infra, about the Tel Dan inscription). What is left of lines 31–34
implies that the town of Horonain was part of the Judean kingdom in the
first part of Mesha’s reign and probably during the ninth century BCE. It was
only conquered during Mesha’s reign. Without any precision about the date
of this conquest, we can only guess that it was about at the same time as the
conquest of the Israelite territories north of the Arnon (supra), i.e. during the
reign of the king of Jerusalem Joash. However this is only a guess.
Finally, in the Mesha stela, we have
● Two allusions to the political situation before the dynasty of Omri
● Several explicit references to the power of the Omri dynasty
● Implicit references to the unsettled situation of Israel and Judah in
the late ninth century BCE, at the beginning of the Jehu dynasty in
Israel and during Joash’s reign in Judah up to c. 810 BCE.
Ninth-century Phoenician inscriptions do not seem to contain any explicit
information pertaining to Israel. They show only that Phoenician culture and
script were well known in the Levant and in the Mediterranean. Nor does the
lack of royal inscriptions from Tyre help us to understand the alliance of
Tyre and Israel during the Omri dynasty. The royal inscription of Kulamuwa
confirms the importance of the use of historiography as propaganda in royal
memorial inscriptions. Like Mesha, Kulamuwa presents the ‘success’ of his
reign in an historical perspective. While Mesha mentions as his predecessor
only his father, Kemoshît, Kulamuwa reminds us of the names of no less than
four previous kings: Gabbar, Banah, Hayya (his father), and Sha’il (his
brother). Unfortunately, he does not specify the length of their reigns, which
might have been quite short, especially the reign of his brother. We know only
that Hayya(n) is mentioned in the Neo-Assyrian annals of Shalmaneser III
in 858–853, while Gabbar might well have been the founder of the dynasty in
the early ninth century (Dion 1997, 106; Lipiński 2000, 238–39), which would
constitute a new reconstruction of a royal dynasty which lasted for almost a
whole century.
Among the Aramaic inscriptions, those of the kingdom of Damascus are
prominent for their connection with the kingdoms of Israel and Judah. We
have already mentioned the literary connection of the Aramaic book of the
seer Balaam, son of Beor, that probably directly influenced some Hebrew lit-
erature (see Num. 22–24) while the various Hazael inscriptions help us to
understand the importance of the empire of this Damascus king in the sec-
ond half of the ninth century: for a time the king apparently controlled all
the kingdoms of the Levant (Lemaire 1991b) and probably went so far as to

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cross the River Euphrates (rather than the Orontes referred to by Millard
2003, 162) as shown by the inscriptions from Samos and Eretria (Bron and
Lemaire 1989).
Moreover, the kings of Israel and Judah are explicitly mentioned in the
fragmentary Tel Dan inscription that has been much discussed (Kottsieper
1998; Na’aman 2000; Yamada 2000, 309–20; Galil 2001; Schniedewind and
Zuckerman 2001; Wesselius 2001; Athas 2003; Lamb 2004; Na’aman 2004;
Hagelia 2004). Immediately after the publication of the first fragment, I
already proposed that the author was Hazael, king of Damascus (Lemaire
1994). After the publication of the two smaller 1994 fragments (Na’aman
1999, 10), this historical interpretation has now generally been adopted. The
syntagma MLK Y1R’L is apparently mentioned twice in the known frag-
ments (lines 3’–4’ and 8’; cf. also lines 11’–12’: M]LK.‘L.Y1[R’L). The second
time (line 8’), it is preceded by the personal name of the king, probably
YW]RM.BR.[’H’B], ‘Jo]ram son [Ahab]’.
Two important events are connected with this king. First, ‘the king of
I[s]rael penetrated into my father’s land’, apparently after the death of the
previous king of Aram-Damascus. As it is presented in the stele, the war
started with an Israelite army offensive that penetrated into Aramaean terri-
tory. This partly fits the presentation of the Israelite-Aramaean war around
Ramoth-Gilead as presented in 1 Kgs 22.2–4, 29, 2 Kgs 8.2, 8; but, of course,
in the Hebrew presentation, ‘Ramoth-Gilead belongs to us’, that is to Israel!
When comparing the two texts referring to this war, besides the fact that they
agree that Israel took the offensive, one notes that each text specifies an
important aspect:
● The Tel Dan stele specifies that the opportunity to launch this attack
was connected with the death of the previous king of Damascus, a
classical difficult time for a kingdom (Lemaire 1998a, 5).
● The biblical tradition specifies that this war took place around
Ramoth-Gilead.
Secondly, the result of this war was the death of the kings of Israel and
Judah. Now, since the publication of the 1994 fragments, the interpretation
of BYT DWD as ‘house of David’ is generally accepted (Couturier 2001;
Ehrlich 2001; Mykytiuk 2004, 110–32). As in the Mesha stele, this syntagma
is clearly parallel to ‘Israel’ and refers to the kingdom of Jerusalem accord-
ing to the usual terminology of the Levant where a kingdom/dynasty is pre-
sented as the ‘house’ of the king considered as its founder, especially by
the choice of its capital. The steles of Mesha and Tel Dan do not allow us
to specify the exact date of David’s reign but, written by two kings who
were enemies of Israel, they reveal that ‘house of David’ was the accepted
terminology in the Levant to designate the kingdom of Jerusalem.

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The king of Jerusalem is not explicitly presented as allied to the king

of Israel; however both kings are clearly associated by the mention of
their simultaneous deaths. This was not properly understood by the editio
princeps. At line 6’, Biran and Naveh (1995) read W’QTL.ML[KN.1B]
‘N.’SRY.’[LPY.R]KB.W’LPY.PR1, ‘and I slew [seve]nty kin[gs], who har-
nessed thou[sands of cha]riots and thousands of horsemen/horses’. But this
general and vague affirmation would be without parallel and does not seem
to be in place here, just before the explicit mention of the killing of two kings
mentioned by name. Instead of an indefinite plural, in such an inscription
one expects precise numbers, and grammatically MLKN and ’LPY can be
dual as well as plural. Furthermore, the traces read as ‘ayin in 1B]‘N could
also well be part of a pe and TQ]PN, ‘powerful’, read instead of 1B]‘N (cf.
the syntagma MLKYN TQPYN in Ezra 4.20). Therefore, the whole sentence
is probably to be understood as: ‘and I killed two power]ful kin[gs], who
harnessed two thou[sand cha]riots and two thousand horsemen’ (Lemaire
1998a, 8–10; partly Na’aman 2000, 100; Irvine 2001, 113). This interpretation
confirms the importance of chariotry and cavalry in the Israelite army
during the rule of the Omrides (Lemaire 1998b, 172–77).
About the killing of the two kings, one notes that, in the Tel Dan inscrip-
tion, Hazael claims to have killed both kings himself and this claim seems to
contradict the story of 2 Kgs 9.1–10, 28, where it is related that both kings
were killed by Jehu and his officers. Furthermore, the story of 1 Kgs 22 prob-
ably reflects a tradition where the king of Israel died at the end of the day’s
battle. How should one choose between the various versions of the killing of
the kings of Israel and Judah?
The Tel Dan inscription is apparently relatively close to the events it
describes. However, it is very probably later than the Black Obelisk (late 828
or 827: Grayson 2004 n. 24) that supposes that Jehu is still submitting to
Shalmaneser III, and not to Hazael! Engraved in the second part of Hazael’s
reign (c. 826–805/3), this stele probably dates at least fifteen years and maybe
more than thirty years after the events.
The story of Jehu’s coup d’état in 2 Kgs 9–10 is a literary tradition diffi-
cult to date. The final redaction of the Book of Kings is certainly posterior
to April 561 BCE (cf. 2 Kgs 25.27). However, this final redaction could have
made use of sources or earlier redactions (Lemaire 1986). The original func-
tion of the detailed original story seems to have been to justify the coup d’é-
tat of Jehu, who ‘stamped out the worship of Baal in Israel’ (2 Kgs 10.28),
being supported by prophets and by Jehonadab son of Rechab. Though
Irvine (2001) tried to push it back to the end of Jehu’s dynasty (c. 750), such
an original story was more likely to have been written very soon after the
events for use as political propaganda in justifying Jehu’s kingship.

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Thus, the original story of 2 Kgs 9–10 could well have been written
earlier than the text of the Tel Dan stele and close to the events; at least,
there is no a priori necessity to accept the interpretation proposed in the
royal inscription (against Na’aman 2000, 100–04; 2006; infra 414–15). Each
source has to be used critically.
Besides the relative dating of the two presentations, a way to solve this
problem is to try to understand which presentation of the facts may have
been at the origin of the other (or whether both presentations go back to a
third, diversely interpreted):
(a) If the Tel Dan presentation is original, it is difficult to understand why
the detailed story of 2 Kgs 9–10 attributed this killing of Joram to
Jehu, and of Ahaziah to his officers.
(b) If the detailed story of 2 Kgs 9–10 is original, then it seems possible
to understand that Hazael could claim to have killed both kings
himself more than fifteen years after the event:
1. The Tel Dan inscription is very brief about this killing and does
not go into details.
2. In the detailed story of 2 Kgs 9–10, Joram was seriously wounded
during the battle and so his death could be understood as the con-
sequence of his wounds (as was probably originally presented in
the story of 1 Kgs 22). In this context, it was natural for Hazael
to claim to have killed Joram of Israel, and the death of Ahaziah
of Judah could well be presented in the same way since it followed
the battle almost immediately.
3. It is clear that, for political propaganda purposes, Hazael was
interested in the claim to have killed ‘two powerful kings’ so that
people would understand that nobody is able to resist him (cf. the
parallel with the Rabshaqeh’s speech in 2 Kgs 18).
4. Finally, and more conjecturally, Jehu might have organized his
coup d’état at the instigation, with the complicity or with the sup-
port of Hazael. In this case, Hazael could rightfully claim to be
ultimately responsible for the killing of the two kings by Jehu
(Kottsieper 1998, 489). Whatever may have been the real relations
between Hazael and Jehu in 841, it is clear that, later on, at the
time of Tel Dan stele, Jehu was a kind of vassal of Hazael and
could be considered as a ‘servant’ of the king of Damascus, so
that the latter could claim to be ultimately responsible for the coup
d’état of Jehu, even though it was anachronistic.

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All these remarks show that the detailed story of 2 Kgs 9–10 could well be
closer to the original facts than the propagandist claim of Hazael in the Tel
Dan inscription.
Other parts of this inscription may also have some connection with the
history of Israel, although this remains at least partly conjectural because of
the fragmentary state of the inscription:
1. At line 1’, we should probably read the Aramaic verb GZR, ‘to cut’,
and, in such a royal inscription, one can think of the Aramaic syn-
tagma GZR ‘DY’, ‘to cut/conclude an adê/alliance/vassalage oath’.
This might have been a reference to the anti-Assyrian alliance between
the previous king of Damascus (Adad-idri/Hadad-ezer), the king of
Israel and other kings of the Levant (Pitard 1987, 121).
2. At the end of line 11’, it is possible to suggest the restoration of the
name of Jehu (YW’ or YHW’?) as the subject of M]LK.‘L.Y1[R’L
(Biran and Naveh 1995, 17).
3. In line 13’, ‘a siege upon/against (MSR.‘L)’ is probably mentioned. It
could well have been the siege mounted by Shalmaneser III against
Damascus in his eighteenth campaign (841), probably just after
Jehu’s coup d’état, as stated in the Assyrian annals: ‘I pursued after
him. I confined him in Damascus, his royal city’ (Younger 2003,
267–68).
Thus, although fragmentary, this inscription is highly important for under-
standing how much, during the second half of the ninth century, especially
between c. 826 and 805, Israel and Judah were under the political and cul-
tural influence of Damascus. It was the time of the so-called Aramaean wars
and of the so-called cycle of the prophet Elisha.
In fact, this Aramaean influence on the kingdom of Damascus seems to
have ceased quickly enough under Hazael’s son, Bar-Hadad, as shown by
the Afis stele of Zakkur, king of Hamath and Lu‘ash. Although dated to
the first half of the eighth century, it evokes the siege of the capital, Hazrik,
by a large coalition of sixteen Levantine kings, the leader of which was
clearly ‘Bar-Hadad, son of Hazael, king of Aram’ (line 4). This siege was
probably stopped by the campaign of the Assyrian king Adadnirari III
against Mansuate in 796 (Lipiński 2000, 310–11). The absence of Israel (and
Judah) among the members of this anti-Assyrian coalition probably means
that Israel was no longer a vassal of Damascus but that King Jehoash had
already won his independence from Bar-Hadad (cf. 1 Kgs 20.32, 34; 2 Kgs
13.25).
2 Kgs 13.5 seems to attribute the new independence of Israel to a ‘sav-
iour/deliverer (mo8i‘a)’. Commentators have proposed various identifica-
tions: Elisha (Gray 1970, 595), Jehoash of Israel, Jeroboam II (Briend 1981),

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or Adad-nirari III (Mazar 1986). One could also think of the turtanu
Shamshi-ilu, who began his very long career about this time and could have
been considered a friend of Israel because he wanted to contain Damascus.
According to this hypothesis, the Aramaic inscriptions of Arslan-
Tash/Hadattu (supra) could throw some light on the important role played by
Shamshi-ilu as a kind of Assyrian viceroy in the West, from the end of the
ninth century until c. 752 (Lemaire and Durand 1984, 38–43; Ikeda 1999;
Dalley 2000).
Finally, the Mesha and Tel Dan steles are the main West Semitic inscrip-
tions that help us understand the history of Israel and Judah during the ninth
century BCE. Both are examples of ninth-century West Semitic historiography
and both were written by enemies of Israel and Judah during the second half
of the century at a time when the political situation of the kingdoms of
Samaria and Jerusalem was catastrophic. This situation might well go
towards explaining why we do not have similar Hebrew steles from this
period.
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——, 1979. ‘Some Historical Problems of the Hieroglyphic Luwian Inscriptions’,
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Horn, S., 1969. ‘The Amman Citadel Inscription’, BASOR 193, 2–13.
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Ishida, T., 1975. ‘The House of Achab’, IEJ 25, 135–37.
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Kottsieper, I., 1998. ‘Die Inschrift von Tell Dan und die politischen Beziehungen zwis-
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Kyrielis, H., and W. Röllig, 1988. ‘Ein altorientalischer Pferdeschmuck aus dem
Heraion von Samos’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts,
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Lemaire, A., 1984a. ‘Date et origine des inscriptions hébraïques et phéniciennes de
Kuntillet ‘Ajrud’, SEL 1, 131–43.
——, 1984b. ‘Notes d’épigraphie nord-ouest sémitique’, Syria 61, 251–56.
——, 1984c. ‘La stèle araméenne de Bar-Hadad’, Orientalia 53, 337–49.
——, 1986. ‘Vers l’histoire de la rédaction des livres des Rois’, ZAW 98, 221–36 ⫽
‘Toward a Redactional History of the Book of Kings’, in G. N. Knoppers and
J. G. McConville (eds), Reconsidering Israel and Judah: Recent Studies on the
Deuteronomistic History (Winona Lake, IN, 2000), 446–61.
——, 1987. ‘Notes d’épigraphie nord-ouest sémitique’, Syria 64, 205–16.
——, 1989. ‘Les inscriptions araméennes de Hazaël’, RA 83, 35–44.
——, 1990. ‘SMR dans la petite inscription de Kilamuwa (Zencirli)’, Syria 67, 323–27.
——, 1991a. ‘Les inscriptions sur plâtre de Deir ‘Alla et leur signification historique
et culturelle’, in J. Hoftijzer and G. van der Kooij (eds), The Balaam Text from Deir
‘Alla Re-Evaluated (Leiden), 33–57.
——, 1991b. ‘La stèle de Mésha et l’histoire de l’ancien Israël’, in D. Garrone and
F. Israel (eds), Storia e tradizioni de Israele: Scritti in onore di J. Alberto Soggin
(Brescia), 143–69.
——, 1992. ‘Les territoires d’Ammon, Moab et Édom dans la deuxième moitié du IXe
s. avant notre ère’, Studies in the History and Archaeology of Jordan 4, 209–14.
——, 1993. ‘Joas de Samarie, Barhadad de Damas, Zakkur de Hamat: La Syrie-
Palestine vers 800 av. J.-C.’, in S. Ahituv and B.A. Levine (eds), Avraham Malamat
Volume (EI 24; Jerusalem), 148–57.
——, 1994a. ‘La dynastie davidique (BYT DWD) dans deux inscriptions ouest-
sémitiques du IXe s. av. J.-C.’, SEL 11, 17–19.
——, 1994b. ‘Épigraphie palestinienne: Nouveaux Documents I. Fragment de stèle
araméenne de Tell Dan (IXe s. av. J.-C.)’, Henoch 16, 87–93.
——, 1998a. ‘The Tel Dan Stela as a Piece of Royal Historiography’, JSOT 81, 3–14.
——, 1998b. ‘Chars et cavaliers dans l’ancien Israël’, Transeuphratène 15, 165–82.
——, 2000. ‘Phénicien et Philistien: paléographie et dialectologie’, in M. E. Aubet and
M. Barthélemy (eds), Actas del IV congresso internacional de estudios fenicios y
punicos (Cadiz), 243–49.
——, 2001. ‘Phoenician Funerary Stelae in the Hecht Museum Collection’,
Michmanim 15, 7–23.

14 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:05 Page 301
——, forthcoming a. ‘The Mesha Stele and the Omri Dynasty’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.),
Ahab Agonistes: The Rise and Fall of the Omri Dynasty.
——, forthcoming b. ‘La datation des rois de Byblos, Abibaal et Elibaal et les rela-
tions entre l’Egypte et le Levant au Xès. av. n. è.’, CRAI 2006.
——, and J.-M. Durand, 1984. Les inscriptions araméennes de Sfiré et l’Assyrie de
Shamshi-ilu (Hautes Études Orientales 20; Genève and Paris).
Lipiński, E., 2000. The Aramaeans: Their Ancient History, Culture and Religion (OLA
100; Leuven).
Mallowan, M. E. L., 1966. Nimrud and its Remains II (London).
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Mazar, A., 2003. ‘Three 10th–9th Century B.C.E. Inscriptions from Tel Rehov’, in
C. G. Den Hertog, U. Hübner and S. Münger (eds.), Saxa loquentur: Studien zur
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171–84.
Mazar, B., 1964. ‘Ein Gev Excavations in 1961’, IEJ 14, 1–49.
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41–51.
——, 1982. ‘In Praise of Ancient Scribes’, BA 45, 143–53.
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BASOR 125, 20–23.
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1200–539 B.C.E. (SBL Academia Biblica 12; Atlanta).
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47, 83–92.
——, 1999. ‘The Contribution of Royal Inscriptions for a Re-Evaluation of the Book
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——, 2000. ‘Three Notes on the Aramaic Inscription from Tel Dan’, IEJ 50, 92–104.
——, 2004. ‘Review of G. Athas, The Tel Dan Inscription, 2003’, RBL 10/2004, 4
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15
Method in the Application of Biblical

Source Material to Historical Writing
(with Particular Reference to the
Ninth Century BCE)
MARC ZVI BRETTLER
1. INTRODUCTION
IN THE FOLLOWING ESSAY, I WILL EVALUATE how we might use biblical texts
that may reflect events of the ninth pre-Christian century in order to recon-
struct select ‘real’ events of that century. It is impossible here to present a full
history of this period. Instead, using several examples, I will reflect on method,
namely the problems that these texts present to the modern historian of
ancient Israel, leaving to other essays in this volume issues of how compara-
tive ancient historiography, archaeology, and ancient non-biblical sources
bear on the Bible. To the extent possible, I will confine most of my remarks
to the biblical texts themselves, although it would be foolish totally to ignore
these other areas, since it is impossible to use internal evidence alone to
evaluate how the modern historian should use biblical texts.
Although the ninth century has been chosen as a point of focus because
there is a fair amount of textual and archaeological evidence from Israel and
elsewhere that may bear on this period, there is no special method for
approaching this particular century. The modern historian of ancient history
should approach the texts dealing with this period in the same way he or she
would approach earlier or later periods. The same types of questions need to
be asked, and the same type of analysis needs to be accomplished, no matter
what period is under consideration. The results of this analysis might be very
different, the biblical account found in one text or another may be more or
less accurate, but as modern historians of Israel looking at texts, the questions
are not determined by the century being reconstructed.
Different centuries may have different issues because there exist different
types of sources that bear on the reconstruction of history. For example,
unlike the eighth century, there are no classical prophets (preserved) from the

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306 Marc Zvi Brettler
ninth.1 Because of their nature, classical prophetic texts tend to exaggerate—

I would call their depiction of the world tabloid-like, perhaps even more like
the supermarket tabloids in the United States than those found in England.2
Furthermore, there is a broad consensus that the prophet’s original oracles are
often extremely difficult (if not impossible) to recover from the many, com-
plex layers of editorial additions and reworking.3 For these two reasons—the
exaggerated nature of the prophetic indictment and the complex process of
editing prophetic books—prophetic texts must be used with extreme caution
by the modern historian of antiquity.4 In a sense I feel fortunate that I do not
need to entertain such issues as whether or not the book of Amos suggests
that there was a widespread development of class conflict in the ninth century
(Houston 2004). There is a certain irony here—multiplying sources some-
times makes reconstructing history more rather than less complicated.5 To
paraphrase the words of Ecclesiastes 1.18: ‘To increase sources is to increase
heartache.’
Not everyone agrees that all periods should be treated the same way by
the modern historian of ancient Israel. For example, J. Alberto Soggin sug-
gested in a methodological article published a quarter of a century ago—
truly a different era in terms of our understanding of ancient biblical
history—that there is one ‘datum point, from which the modern historian
can start operating, inasmuch as an organic chronology can be attempted and
the sources become more and more reliable’ (Soggin 1978). His suggestion
that this point is ‘the first years of the tenth century B.C.’ (ibid., 51*) seems
almost quaint by current standards, but it is his general observation, con-
cerning the existence of a ‘datum point’ (such as the tenth or ninth century)
that deserves focus. He suggests, based on archaeological evidence, that the
biblical accounts of centuries preceding the tenth are too fraught with prob-
lems, and that these problems stop in the tenth century. Apart from the point
1
It remains unclear to me if this is because classical prophecy had not yet developed, or if texts
from the predecessors of Hosea and Amos from this period were not preserved. In fact, the
whole notion of classical prophecy is questioned by some; see e.g. Wilson 1984.
2
I am speaking in terms of sensationalism and historical accuracy, not literary skill.
3
Compare, for example, the differing results in terms of original Amos in Wolff 1977 and Hayes
1988. It is not surprising that some scholars, such as Ehud Ben Zvi, now choose simply to study
prophetic books, rather than attempting to reconstruct the layers of composition. In any case, a
very good argument can be made for the difficulty or impossibility of reconstructing the ipsis-
sima verba of any prophet; see esp. Greenberg 1977.
4
This change may be seen clearly by comparing any edition of John Bright’s A History of Israel
(1981) to more recent critical histories.
5
I am not saying that the reconstructions from multiple sources are less certain — they are just
more complicated. To my mind, the best example of this concerns the wide variety of sources of
different types that bear on the events of 701. It is possible, though extremely complicated, to see
how they might be used together in a constructive fashion. See Grabbe 2003.

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APPLICATION OF BIBLICAL SOURCE MATERIAL 307
that these facts concerning the tenth century may now be doubted, the prob-
lem is his basic assumption, that at some (magical?) point the biblical texts
get more user-friendly to the modern historian and stay that way. I see no rea-
son to believe that this is the case, or that in general texts from the ninth
century or the seventh century or the fifth century are automatically more
reliable than biblical texts that claim to recount the eleventh century.6
Instead, each text needs to be dealt with by the modern historian on a
case-by-case basis. I have begun to develop some of the questions that such
modern historians need to ask of biblical texts in my The Creation of History
in Ancient Israel (Brettler 1995) and elsewhere (Brettler 2003), but have not
tried to do so in a systematic fashion. I will attempt to do so in the following
section; I will then apply my observations to particular texts that may bear on
the ninth century.
2. EVALUATING BIBLICAL TEXTS AS A MODERN HISTORIAN OF

ISRAEL
The issues of reconstructing the history of ancient Israel are not unique, but
typify the problems that any scholar of pre-modern times has when attempt-
ing to reconstruct the past (Grabbe 1997; Barstad 1997)—the Bible is not a
privileged text that has its own rules for historical reconstruction. No pre-
modern sources were written by professional historians in our sense of the
word;7 most have strong religious and/or political biases. Modern historians
of ancient Israel should not act differently from modern historians of ancient
Mesopotamia, Egypt, or Greece—we must use sources very carefully, but
should not give up on the possibility of using sources, including literary
sources, to recreate ancient history.
When using these sources, the modern historian of any period has to
deal with the following issues to determine how a text might be used for
history:
1 What is the genre of the text under consideration? Is it a text that is
trying to recount the real past, or a text that is not trying to recount the
real past?
6
Until fairly recently, Ezra-Nehemiah was seen as relatively accurate, probably because it is a late
text, and parts of it look archival. Lately, scholars have begun to treat it like other books; see e.g.
Kraemer 1993.
7
Most scholars believe that modern historiography originated in the German universities of the
nineteenth century.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 308
2 If it is a text that is not trying to recount the ‘real’ past,8 is it

nevertheless useful for the modern historian trying to reconstruct the past?
3 If it is a text that is trying to recount the ‘real’ past, is it doing so in a
reliable fashion? To determine this, a standard set of questions, such as the
distance between the putative event and its retelling, the ideology of the per-
son writing the story, the manner in which a particular story is embedded in
a larger narrative, all need to be considered.
As is well known, it is often very difficult to determine the genre of
pre-modern texts (Roest and Vanstiphout 1999). In addition, a text often
partakes of several genres—it may be, for example, ‘poetry’ and ‘a lament of
the individual’. Thus, my definition of an historical text as ‘a narrative that
presents a past’ (Brettler 1999, 12; contrast Grabbe 2000) needs further refine-
ment for the modern historian of ancient Israel: this historian then needs to
ask what subgenre of this ‘narrative that presents a past’ this text belongs to.
Is it a narrative that is trying to present a real history, or is it a narrative that
is using traditions about the past for other purposes?
2.1 A modern analogy
A modern analogy might make this more clear. Many of the novels or mys-
teries by Len Deighton9 are set in the Cold War period and are thus narratives
that present a past, but they are clearly marked as ‘not history’—in fact, they
are found on the fiction shelves of libraries and bookshops. How should sim-
ilar biblical works that are set in the past be classified? (A more complex case
would be the very different type of ‘narrative that presents a past’—the book
Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan, in which the author Edmund Morris,
has inserted a non-existent character.)
In addition, are Deighton’s novels or their television serialization totally
useless for the modern historian interested in the Cold War? I would argue
that they are not. They might not be very helpful for understanding the exact
details of this war, but show great insight into how one individual (who rep-
resents a larger group) understood the stress of this period, and perceived the
manners in which spies work, perhaps, at points, confusing reality with imag-
8
In suggesting this possibility, I completely disagree with the recent claims of Barton 2004, 104:
‘I think that these writers were, in their own minds, genuinely chronicling the past. But whether
they got it right is entirely beyond our capabilities to decide.’
9
Deighton offers an especially helpful analogy since he has published both fiction and non-
fiction.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 309
ined fantasy or fear. Stated differently, we must not forget that all works that
depict a past are useful for the historian—in some cases they shed light on
the real period that they narrate, while in other cases, they shed light on the
period or ideology of the author who is writing them.
2.2 The analogy unpacked: some reasons why ancient Israel wrote narratives
that depict a past
Of course, when we come to the Bible, this problem becomes additionally

complicated because it is often so difficult to determine the genre of biblical
texts. Genres are not identified explicitly in the Bible: texts are not accompa-
nied by ‘fiction’ and ‘non-fiction’ labels.10 Matityahu Tsevat makes this point
quite clearly in ‘Israelite History and the Historian of the Historical Books
of the Old Testament’ (Brettler 1995, 153 n. 44) when he states: ‘the waters of
Noah are no less real than the waters of Shiloah’. The text of Genesis 6 is not
marked in an explicit fashion suggesting that it should be genrified differently
than 2 Kings. They both narrate a past. Neither has markers that say: ‘I am
not interested in narrating the real past, but instead am using a story set in
the past for a didactic goal.’ In that sense, classifying into genres these texts
about a past, and deciding whether or not their author believes that he is
recounting the real past, is terribly difficult, and often impossible. As I have
implied elsewhere (Brettler 1995, 138), there is no form-critical genre of the
historical text in the sense that a particular text is somehow marked as either
‘I am trying to tell the real truth’ or ‘I am telling the real truth’. The reason
for this is that there was little interest in the real truth, in historical veracity,
in pre-modern, including biblical history—such historians were much more
interested in their present (Brettler 1995, 137, and 173 n. 158; Brettler 2001).
As the historian Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi remarks in Zakhor:
The biblical appeal to remember thus has little to do with curiosity about the
past. Israel is told that it must be a kingdom of priests and a holy people;
nowhere is it suggested that it become a nation of historians. (Yerushalmi
1982, 10)
It is thus with good reason that we quote the famous nineteenth-century

expression of von Ranke, ‘wie es eigentlich gewesen ist’, and not some biblical
phrase, when we talk about the rise of modern historiography.11
10
I do believe that even though the terms ‘fiction’ and ‘non-fiction’ did not exist in ancient Israel,
the ancient Israelites could clearly think in these terms. A search for expressions related to
(‘it was not’) is quite instructive in this regard.
11
As has been pointed out, as used by von Ranke, this phrase does not exactly imply the possi-
bility of reconstructing accurate history of the past.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 310
But are there any texts that have some type of marker that suggests ‘I am
not interested in narrating the real past, but instead am using a story set in
the past for a didactic goal’? I believe that there are, though I am unsure if
they can be found in the sections of Kings that we will need to look at.
Nevertheless, from a methodological perspective they are worth examining.
In fact, I think that there are two types of texts to consider: texts that explic-
itly mark themselves as primarily didactic, and those that are marked as
symbolic. The texts from the first group will be from the Psalms, while Jonah,
Job, and Ruth will comprise the second group.
2.2.1 Didactic historical texts

Psalm 78, for example, is explicitly didactic, interested in showing why Judah
was chosen over the northern tribes. In the psalmist’s own words (78.67–71):12
(67) He rejected the clan of Joseph; He did not choose the tribe of Ephraim.
(68) He did choose the tribe of Judah, Mount Zion, which He loved. (69) He
built His Sanctuary like the heavens, like the earth that He established forever.
(70) He chose David, His servant, and took him from the sheepfolds. (71) He
brought him from minding the nursing ewes to tend His people Jacob, Israel,
His very own.
This explains why the psalm structures Israel’s past as God’s acts of deliver-
ance that Israel failed to recognize, rebelling against Him time after time, as
stated for instance in v. 32: ‘Nonetheless, they went on sinning and had no
faith in His wonders.’
In contrast, Psalm 136 is aimed at convincing the worshipper that
Yahweh is praiseworthy. It opens with ‘Praise the LORD; for He is good, His
steadfast love is eternal,’ closes with ‘Praise the God of heaven, His steadfast
love is eternal,’ and has the refrain ‘His steadfast love is eternal’ in every verse.
It is thus not surprising that it omits the ‘historical events’ of Israel’s rebel-
lion noted in Psalm 78—they would not fit into the pattern of the psalm.
Psalm 105 is similar: as its last verse indicates, its goal is ‘that they might keep
His laws and observe His teachings. Hallelujah’. Thus, it too offers positive
highlights of Israel’s past. In contrast, the very next psalm, 106, tells a very
different history because it has a very different objective. As its introduction
notes (vv. 7–8): ‘(7) Our forefathers in Egypt did not perceive Your wonders;
they did not remember Your abundant love, but rebelled at the sea, at the Sea
of Reeds. (8) Yet He saved them, as befits His name, to make known His
might.’ In other words, this psalm offers the history as a series of sins that
God remits, which leads inevitably to the conclusion, requesting further
12
This and other English quotations follow NJPS Tanakh.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 311
deliverance (v. 47):13 ‘Deliver us, O LORD our God, and gather us from
among the nations, to acclaim Your holy name, to glory in Your praise.’
Often these four psalms are characterized, or ‘genrified’, as ‘historical
psalms’ (Kraus 1989, 122, 308 on Pss. 78 and 105). To the extent that they
each depict a past, this is a reasonable label, but close examination indicates
that this label obscures more than it reveals. It hides the fact that they each
belong to a different genre as well; for example, it is quite clear that Psalm
136, is a communal thanksgiving liturgy (Gerstenberger 2001, 388). The label
‘historical psalm’ suggests that all such psalms have the same function, but as
we have seen, they do not—traditions about a past are ‘recalled’ for very dif-
ferent reasons. Quite significantly, as Yerushalmi notes, none of the psalms
ever seems to remember the past for its own sake.
This explains why, when we juxtapose the depiction of the ‘same event’ in
different psalms, the event is often depicted quite differently. For example,
each of the psalms noted above recounts the plagues in Egypt. Psalm 78
depicts seven plagues (vv. 43–51), beginning with blood and ending with the
death of the firstborn, while Psalm 105 depicts a different seven plagues (vv.
27–36), beginning with darkness and ending with the death of the firstborn
(Brettler forthcoming). Psalm 106.22 refers quite vaguely to ‘wondrous deeds
in the land of Ham, awesome deeds at the Sea of Reeds’, while 136.10 only
mentions a single plague: ‘Who struck Egypt through their first-born’. Thus,
the shaping of the tradition is determined by its author and his goals.
These psalms might be classified as ‘historical didactic psalms’, in other
words, as psalms that use pliable traditions about a past to teach something
about the present nature of Yahweh and his relationship with others. As
noted, this interest in the present is quite typical of pre-modern historical
writing, which uses traditions about the past to stake out a claim about the
present. Traditions about the past are often manipulated to illustrate the
point about the present, and should be used by the modern historian with
great caution.
There is no reason why this basic point, that the particular shaping or cre-
ation of traditions is determined by the author and his goals, should be
unique to the Psalms. In the entire Bible, the historical material is ‘like clay in
the hands of the potter’ (Jer. 18.6), and we would do well to consider how
original a craftsperson our historian is before we begin to use his traditions
to reconstruct history in a straightforward manner.
13
V. 48 is widely acknowledged as a secondary insertion, marking the division between the
fourth and fifth book of Psalms. See e.g. Wilson 1985, 182–86.

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2.2.2 Symbolic historical texts

By symbolic historical texts, I mean texts that contain clear hints that they are
not meant to depict the real past. The three biblical examples that are most
apparent are Job, Jonah, and Ruth (Funkenstein 1993, 57–70). The frame-
work of Job is so highly structured (Sarna 1957, reprinted in Sarna 2000,
411–24) that it hints that it is not recalling real history; Stephen Mitchell is in
a sense correct when he translates the book’s opening words ‘Once upon a
time, in the land of Uz’ (Mitchell 1987, 5). Even a talmudic source, most
likely picking up on the great improbabilities in the book, opines that ‘Job
never was and never existed, but is a parable’ (b. Baba Bathra 15a). Jonah also
contains significant hints that it is not narrating a real past, including Jonah
being swallowed alive by a big fish, and waiting three days to pray to Yahweh
concerning his grave situation (Simon 1999, xv–xxi). (How did he or the nar-
rator know that three days had passed? Did Jonah have a watch with a glow
in the dark date feature?) Similarly, the absurd names found in Ruth, espe-
cially Machlon and Chilion, are meant to suggest that what follows is not his-
tory (Zakovitch 1990, 47–48). Thus, there are sometimes explicit, strong hints
that what follows, even though it is a narrative that depicts a past, is not
intending to depict the real past.
Isolating these ‘hints’, however, is not at all straightforward. In much of
rabbinic and post-biblical literature, most of these three works are often
understood as depicting real events. 1 Chronicles 2.11–12 understands Boaz
as a real ancestor of David, and does not understand his name symbolically
as ‘the strong one’ (Nielsen 1997, 54). By the first century CE, at least one
Jewish group understood the Jonah story quite literally, as indicated by
Matthew 12.40. Thus, the isolation of what I called above ‘clear hints that
they are not meant to depict the real past’ is not a fully objective criterion.
3. DESCENT TO NIHILISM
The previous section should not be misconstrued to suggest that because we

have no form-critical markers that indicate of a particular biblical text either
‘I am trying to tell the real truth’ or ‘I am telling the real truth’, almost all
biblical texts about the past are useless for reconstructing history. Similarly,
just because all biblical historical texts are narrative, we need not assume that
they never accurately map the past. Thomas Thompson moves close to these
positions in The Mythic Past (Thompson 1999), where he treats most of the
Bible as myth. First of all, myth is a very slippery term that should be used
with great caution, and, at least as I understand it, is not the opposite of
history (Brettler 1995, 153 n. 44). Some biblical texts that narrate a past are

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 313
accurate, while others are not, and there is no easy way in most cases to
disentangle one type from the other. The putative presence of what is some-
times called ‘antiquarian interest’ (Halpern 1988) does not indicate that an
author was trying to portray the real past, nor does a seemingly fanciful or
highly stylized account of the past indicate that the author must be hinting
that he is not intending to narrate the real past. In the past, as in the present,
non-fiction can sometimes be stranger than fiction.
3.1 Reconstructing the ninth century using biblical evidence: preliminary

considerations
According to most chronologies, the primary texts that supposedly tell of the
events of the ninth century begin in the middle of 1 Kings 15 and conclude
in 2 Kings 13. (These texts have parallels in 2 Chronicles 13–24.) The chap-
ters in Kings are comprised of a wide variety of material, and thus it is
impossible for the modern historian of ancient Israel to consider them as a
single block.
3.2 The Deuteronomic historian(s) and the nature of the Deuteronom(ist)ic14

History (DtrH)
The issue of sources within the DtrH has, if anything, become a more con-
fusing issue over the last few decades. Until recently, it may have been possi-
ble to subsume most theories concerning the DtrH as either Nothian, that is
dealing with a single version of the history written in the Babylonian exile
(McKenzie and Graham 1994), or Crossian (or better perhaps Keunenean),
assuming a first version of the history during the reign of Josiah, and a sec-
ond version during the exile (Cross 1973, 274–89). At present, the situation is
much more complicated: several scholars have suggested a pre-Josianic,
Hezekian edition of the history,15 while others believe that there are a hand-
ful of revisions reflecting different interests, such as law or prophecy.16 Two
factors make matters worse. On the one hand, scholars such as Gary
Knoppers have begun to question the entire model of a DtrH that covers
Deuteronomy–Kings, suggesting that there is too much diversity in these
texts, and that Noth’s hypothesis has developed so many deep cracks that it
is broken (Römer 2000, esp. Knoppers 2000). On the other hand, I believe
14
For reasons that will become clear, this paper will not distinguish between the terms
Deuteronomic and Deuteronomistic.
15
See e.g. Helga Weippert and Baruch Halpern.
16
This position is associated with Rudolf Smend and the Göttingen school.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 314
that there are at least three cases where none of the standard models works,
and have coined the term ‘magnet texts’ for texts that keep absorbing, stage
after stage, new elements, even beyond the triple or quadruple redactions
often posited (Brettler 1993; 1995, 112–34; 1997). This is akin to the supple-
mentary hypothesis that was once current for the Hexateuch (Eissfeldt 1965,
163). I am now beginning to wonder if this model works only for a small
number of central texts in DtrH, or should be extended more broadly
(McKenzie 1991, 148–49; Lemaire 2000).
My uncertainty concerning these issues derives from the following prob-
lem: how do we define uniformity, and how much lack of uniformity can a
single source contain? This issue deserves serious further investigation, per-
haps by following up some of the studies in Tigay’s Empirical Models in
Biblical Criticism (Tigay 1985). To complicate matters, it is likely that not all
editors acted in the same manner: some were conservative, keeping ‘problem-
atic’ texts in their sources,17 while others (such as the Chronicler) very well
may have updated their sources for a variety of reasons. All these factors
combine to make it hazardous in most cases to discern with certainty what
larger block the smaller text is part of—one scholar may see it as part of an
exilic composition, another as Josianic, another as Hezekian, and still
another may not place it within any of these settings. It is thus very difficult
to know how distant most sources are from the putative events that they
describe, and how many stages of redaction these accounts went through.
This is an important issue, since there is a general presumption that the closer
a text is to the event that it depicts, the more accurate it is.
This principle, however, needs to be used with great caution. As we know
quite well from contemporary events, even eyewitnesses writing about an
event can get it wrong, or may decide to ‘spin’ it in a particular direction. In
addition, sometimes traditions are passed down conservatively, and some-
times they are passed down in a milieu that encouraged changes. At times
archival or other authentic early material is available to historians, and at
other times, it is not. Thus, although in general the more removed a source is
from the event it is depicting, the more problematic it might be as a reliable
source for recreating that event, each historical tradition needs to be looked
at separately.
17
For example, JE, D and P were edited together in a conservative manner, and the careful
reader will notice many clear contradictions in specific contexts, e.g. were land animals created
before or after man? Or was the blood plague all-encompassing, or did it affect only the Nile?
It is also striking that late editors of the DtrH did not remove ‘until this day’
notices that were no longer true; on these notices, see Geoghegan 2003.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 315
3.3 Other ninth-century textual sources
There may be other sources beyond Kings that need to be considered for
reconstructing the history of the ninth century. Even though it is most likely
a fourth-century work, it is possible that Chronicles in places preserves pre-
exilic traditions (Knoppers 2003, 118–23). However, from a methodological
perspective, deciding where old accurate traditions or sources are preserved
in Chronicles is no different from deciding when they are preserved in Kings.
For this reason, I will not engage texts in Chronicles other than noting:
(1) just because some of Chronicles is highly ideological does not mean that
it all is; and (2) if mechanisms of accurate transmission for ancient sources
may be shown, it is possible that the Chronicler may have, in some places,
incorporated older documents (that fit his ideology) that the DtrH may not
have had or used. (In making this determination, linguistic criteria would be
important [Young 2003], especially seeing if these putative early sources
embedded in the Chronicler have less Later Biblical Hebrew than texts that
we believe the Chronicler wrote.)
It is possible that the Pentateuch may also preserve some material written
in the ninth century (Emerton 2004, 123). If we believe that historical writers
are much more interested in their present than in the past that they are puta-
tively describing, then some of the pentateuchal sources, in part or whole,
may preserve evidence concerning the ninth century. However, at this point
the dating of the sources is such a debated issue (Nicholson 1998), that it
would not be prudent to include it among the material that might be ‘mined’
for the real history of the ninth century.
4. DETERMINING THAT A PARTICULAR TEXT IS RELIABLE
No biblical text may be determined to be reliable based on internal biblical

evidence alone. This principle, which is too often ignored, sounds dogmatic,
but is in line with general historiographical methods, which often demand
more than one piece of independent evidence before reconstructing an event.
When reconstructing biblical history, I call this ‘the Deuteronomy 17.6 prin-
ciple of reconstructing history’, in line with ‘A person shall be put to death
only on the testimony of two or more witnesses; he must not be put to death
on the testimony of a single witness.’ It is crucial that the evidence be inde-
pendent, especially in the case of the Bible, where one text might quote or
reuse another.18 In general historiography, we need to evaluate each of these
separate sources in terms of date and bias. With biblical texts, this is almost
18
The extent to which this process is present in the Bible was clarified by Fishbane (1985).

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 316
always impossible to do with certainty, or even with high probability.19

Verisimilitude proves absolutely nothing—authors of historical fiction, and
even of other types of fiction, often aim at verisimilitude, and make up prob-
able names and dates for the characters they create. I believe the positive
contribution of the Copenhagen School is that we no longer believe that bib-
lical traditions are true (minus divine causality) until disproven, as in John
Bright’s A History of Israel (Bright 1981) and other works from that period.
As I see it, there is nothing in the DtrH itself to suggest that its primary
interest was in recovering the real past. Rather, it seems to be a remarkably
theological and ideological document,20 a prose version of the Psalms we
examined above. I therefore now turn to specific cases where outside texts
suggest that a particular source or strand of the history that bears on the
ninth century should be seen as reliable.
4.1 (weyeter divrei)21
A formula beginning , followed by a king’s name, and then a

description of where these further events may be found, is attested twenty
times of the kings of the divided monarchy.22 Twelve of these nineteen are
totally stereotypical, offering the following formula, with minor variations:
royal name
23
The other events of (royal name)’s reign, and all his actions, are recorded in
the Annals of the Kings of Israel/Judah.
19
I thus disagree with Barr 2000, 101, when he speaks of ‘positive proof’ in relation to recon-
structing the history of ancient Israel. Often, in trying to answer historical questions, we are just
left with a ‘balance of probability’; see e.g. Dell 2004, 267; Williamson 2004; and Grabbe 1997,
183.
20
There continues to be significant debate on the exact theology and ideology (or theologies and
ideologies) of the DtrH. To some extent, this is because different scholars are discussing the the-
ology and ideology of different versions of the History, and, in any case, particular scholars see
particular texts in the history as central.
21
For a different treatment of these formulae, see Na’aman 1997, 155–58. I disagree with his argu-
ment because I do not see how the concluding formula for Ahab is based on the text of Kings.
22
It is found once of Solomon, in 1 Kgs 11.41, but this may be from a separate source; see Liver
1967.
23
1 Kgs 14.29; 15.7, 31; 16.14; 2 Kgs 1.18; 15.26, 31, 36; 16.19; 20.20; 21.25; 23.28; 24.5.

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The remaining seven read as follows:
The other events of Baasha’s reign and his actions and his exploits are
recorded in the Annals of the Kings of Israel.
The other events of Zimri’s reign, and the treason which he committed, are
recorded in the Annals of the Kings of Israel.
The other events of Omri’s reign, and his actions, and the exploits he
performed, are recorded in the Annals of the Kings of Israel.
The other events of Ahab’s reign, and all his actions—the ivory palace that
he built and all the towns that he fortified—are all recorded in the Annals of
the Kings of Israel.
As for the other events of Jehoshaphat’s reign and the valor he displayed in
battle, they are recorded in the Annals of the Kings of Judah.

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The other events of Hezekiah’s reign, and all his exploits, and how he made
the pool and the conduit and brought the water into the city, are recorded in
the Annals of the Kings of Judah.
The other events of Manasseh’s reign, and all his actions, and the sins he
committed, are recorded in the Annals of the Kings of Judah.
Each of these examples offers additional information beyond the basic for-
mula—this information is underlined above. Among these verses, 1 Kings
16.27 (concerning Omri’s might), 22.39 (concerning Ahab’s ivory construc-
tion) and 2 Kings 20.20 (concerning Hezekiah’s tunnel) is NOT information
found in Kings, and is believed by modern scholars to be true based on exter-
nal, archaeological evidence. Omri’s might is confirmed by both the Mesha
Inscription and various Mesopotamian inscriptions that refer to the
Northern Kingdom as bit j umria long after Omri’s death (ANET, 284–85 or
COS 2.297–98). Samarian royal ivories from the period of Ahab have been
unearthed (Liebowitz 1992, 586–87), and a variety of evidence points to the
construction of the Siloam tunnel during Hezekiah’s reign, even though
Hezekiah is not mentioned by name there.24 This makes it likely that the
material found in the notices is not summary material, but is
based on an independent accurate source. This would mean, in terms of the
ninth century, that the notices found concerning the ‘valor/exploits’, or more
likely the successful military activity of Baasha (1 Kgs 16.5), Zimri’s rebellion
(16.20), Jehoshaphat’s successful military activity (1 Kgs 22.46) are likely
correct, and are also independent of the Kings narrative. This does not
mean that specific details found concerning these events elsewhere in Kings
are also correct—those come from a different source, and need to be evalu-
ated separately. We must remember that biblical authors often ‘filled in the
gaps by logical inferences’ (Na’aman 1999b, 15).
24
On the attempt to redate this inscription, see the literature cited in Lemaire 2004, 378.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 319
For example, the notice in 1 Kings 16.20, concerning Zimri,

simply mentions ‘the treason which he committed’. In contrast, other material
about Zimri in Kings notes:
(12) Thus Zimri destroyed all the House of Baasha, in accordance with the
word that the LORD had spoken through the prophet Jehu . . . .
(15) During the twenty-seventh year of King Asa of Judah, Zimri reigned in
Tirzah for seven days. At the time, the troops were encamped at Gibbethon
of the Philistines. (16) When the troops who were encamped there learned
that Zimri had committed treason and had struck down the king, that very
day, in the camp, all Israel acclaimed the army commander Omri king over
Israel. (17) Omri and all Israel then withdrew from Gibbethon and laid siege
to Tirzah. (18) When Zimri saw that the town was taken, he went into the
citadel of the royal palace and burned down the royal palace over himself.
And so he died — ( 19) because of the sins which he committed and caused
Israel to commit, doing what was displeasing to the LORD and following
the ways of Jeroboam.
1 Kings 16.12 comes from a set of prophecy-fulfilment oracles, probably

written by one of the Deuteronomists (von Rad 1984, 205–21). It is thus sus-
pect for two reasons: it is much later than the event it describes,25 and since it
is part of a wider pattern found in the DtrH it is possible that this pattern was
imposed or created by the later historian (see the end of section 5.3, below).
Verses 15–18 are also suspect because they fit a pattern—a pattern dep-
recating the Northern kings by emphasizing how unstable their dynasties
were, specifically how inferior they are to the Davidic kings, who served more
or less uninterrupted for over half a millennium, and with whom Yahweh had
an eternal covenant. Thus, much of the description of the North is from this
Judean, David and Temple-centric perspective,26 and should be used only
with the greatest caution, if at all, by modern historians trying to reconstruct
Northern history.27 Stated differently, even though 1 Kings 16.15–18 agree
with (the independent) 1 Kings 16.20, and can easily be used to fill in that
laconic source, I would not do so. They are different sources, with differ-
ent purposes, and were probably written at different time-periods. It would
25
I do not mean to imply that early traditions are always correct; see e.g. Barton 2004, 105: ‘early
does not mean reliable, however’.
26
To my mind, the clearest indication of this is in 1 Kings 12.33, in the phrase
‘which he had contrived of his own mind’.
27
Readers may recognize the importance of this claim for the model of Albrecht Alt, concern-
ing the fundamental difference between Judean dynastic and Northern charismatic kingship.
This cannot be easily maintained, since the sources about Northern kingship are mostly Judean,
and quite biased.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 320
therefore be a mistake to see the brief notice in 16.20 as confirming the rest
of the material concerning Zimri.28
4.2 Record of temple income
More than two decades ago, John Van Seters suggested that an author of
Kings in some places had access to a ‘record of temple income’.29 The rele-
vant passages, all of which are quite similar (they all use a verb of taking
or giving, and all mention temple and palace treasure [ ]), are found
below:
and carried off the treasures of the House of the LORD and the treasures of
the royal palace. He carried off everything; he even carried off all the golden
shields that Solomon had made.
So Asa took all the silver and gold that remained in the treasuries of the
House of the LORD as well as the treasuries of the royal palace, and he
entrusted them to his officials. King Asa sent them to King Ben-Hadad son of
28
Again, just so I am not misunderstood, I am not saying that the longer account of Zimri is
wrong, just that I do not want to claim on historiographical grounds that it is accurate. In sum,
as the conclusions will make clear (see below, section 6), I view vv. 15–18 as ‘possible’.
29
Van Seters 1983, 301. There may be other indicators of still more archival material in our sec-
tion; see Tadmor and Cogan 1979, 493–4 concerning , ‘then’, and ‘at that time’.
Given how common both of these are in a variety of contexts, I am doubtful that every time
these are used they introduce archival material, and am unsure how to distinguish between their
use when they are quoting old material, or writing new material. Concerning archival material,
see also Grabbe 2000, 174.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:06 Page 321
Tabrimmon son of Hezion of Aram, who resided in Damascus, with this

message:
Thereupon King Joash of Judah took all the objects that had been conse-
crated by his fathers, Kings Jehoshaphat, Jehoram, and Ahaziah of Judah,
and by himself, and all the gold that there was in the treasuries of the Temple
of the LORD and in the royal palace, and he sent them to King Hazael of
Aram, who then turned back from his march on Jerusalem.
He carried off all the gold and silver and all the vessels that there were in the
House of the LORD and in the treasuries of the royal palace, as well as
hostages; and he returned to Samaria.
Ahaz took the gold and silver that were on hand in the House of the LORD
and in the treasuries of the royal palace and sent them as a gift to the king of
Assyria.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 322
Hezekiah gave him all the silver that was on hand in the House of the LORD
and in the treasuries of the palace.
He carried off from Jerusalem all the treasures of the House of the LORD and
the treasures of the royal palace; he stripped off all the golden decorations in
the Temple of the LORD—which King Solomon of Israel had made—as
the LORD had warned.
As Van Seters noted, 1 Kings 14.26, concerning the invasion of
Shishak/Shoshenq, and 2 Kings 18.15, concerning the tribute paid by
Hezekiah, are verified by external sources. In fact, the talents of gold men-
tioned in the Hezekiah source agree with Assyrian records (Cogan and
Tadmor 1988, 229). It is likely that all these treasury sources are related, and
were used by an historian, who had access to this treasury document.30
Assuming that they are primarily accounting records, recording why certain
funds were disbursed, there is good reason to believe that the incidental
historical information that they offer is accurate. (This follows a general prin-
ciple in reconstructing history, that incidental information, which is not the
main point that an author is trying to make [up], is usually more reliable than
the primary information, connected to the author’s likely goals.) This
suggests that the information found in 1 Kings 15.18 and the surrounding
section of the same source,31 and in 2 Kings 12.19, is probably accurate. If
1 Kings 15.17, concerning Baasha’s battle, is part of this same source,
we then have two independent indications of his military might—this, and
1 Kings 16.5, discussed above.
4.3 The kings of Judah and Israel
As various scholars have noted, different Mesopotamian sources mention

kings of Israel and Judah, usually in the context of the offering of tribute. All
the kings mentioned in these inscriptions, from Ahab in the ninth century
30
I have above followed Van Seters’s name for these sources. Others call it a Temple Chronicle,
but its nature as a chronicle is far from clear.
31
It is very difficult to determine the exact extent of any of these sources, namely where this
putative archival source begins and ends.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 323
through Manasseh of the seventh, are mentioned in Kings, and reign at

approximately the correct time and in the right order (Galil 1996, 153–53;
Lambert 2004, 357–58). This suggests that this section of the king lists for
Judah and Israel is probably correct. However, it is uncertain if the author or
editor of Kings used a single list from David or Solomon to Zedekiah or
Jehoiachin, and thus it may be prudent to say that the list of kings from the
ninth century on is probably accurate.32 However, as we will see in the next
section, this does not mean that all the chronological information associated
with each king in Kings is correct.
5. DETERMINING THAT A PARTICULAR TEXT IS UNRELIABLE
Determining that a particular text is unreliable may be easier than determin-

ing that it is reliable. As noted earlier, from a general historiographic per-
spective, only external reasons may suggest that a text is reliable, while both
internal and external reasons may be used to show that a text is problematic.
Both archaeological and textual evidence may indicate that biblical tradi-
tions are problematic. I do not know of any specific clear external evidence
that falsifies the biblical traditions concerning the ninth century. However, so
that this principle is clear, I will recall two examples, one pre-ninth century,
one post. It is quite clear by now that all the cities and towns that the Book
of Joshua claims were conquered were not indeed conquered in this period
(Dever 2003, 37–74, esp. 56–57). Individual cities might be debated by vari-
ous scholars, using claims that the city has not been definitively located, or
that evidence has eroded,33 but it is clear that the reconstructed archaeologi-
cal evidence for this period differs significantly in general and in detail from
Joshua. Concerning a later period, it is certain that the events that according
to 2 Kings 20 transpired approximately in 701 (see v. 1, ‘In those days’) could
not have happened then (Cogan and Tadmor 1988, 228, 254), and there is, I
believe, a growing consensus that the two-campaign theory used to explain
certain redundancies in 2 Kings 18–19 is extremely unlikely, based on the
information we now have concerning the campaigns of Sennacherib (Cogan
and Tadmor 1988, 246–51; Grabbe 2003). The Assyrian and Babylonian
32
There is one quite plausible exception: it is uncertain if there were two separate Jehorams for
Judah and Israel; see Miller and Hayes 1986, 280–82. Another two problems pointed out by A.
Graeme Auld in his response to my paper, are that according to its final form, Judah and Israel
both have the same number of kings, a fact that certainly raises suspicions about the patterning
of the list, and that according to the DtrH, there were two evil kings named Jeroboam (see sec-
tion 5.3, below).
33
This explanation is often used to explain why there are not extensive LB or early Iron remains
at Jericho.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 324
records that disconfirm or falsify the Bible may not be accurate in every
detail, but it is certain that the chronological outline that they offer is correct.
There are clear cases where external evidence, to varying degrees, suggests
that a biblical account should not be used to reconstruct the historical events
that it purports to narrate—it may reflect the period of its author, and not at
all the period that it is purporting to narrate.
In other cases, there is contradictory internal evidence that suggests that
two sources cannot both be correct. One such case was adduced above, con-
cerning the contradictory traditions in Psalms and Exodus concerning the
number of plagues. In such cases, the basic tools of the historian need to be
used to see which, if any, of the contradictory sources is more likely. Thus, the
modern historian of ancient Israel might decide that the short account in
2 Samuel 21.19, that Elhanan killed Goliath the Gittite, is more plausible
than the long, folkloristic account in 1 Samuel 17 that David did.34 That same
modern historian might note that 1 Samuel 17 seems to know 2 Samuel
21.19,35 and thus, rather than saying that there are two independent sources
about Goliath, so he probably existed,36 should observe that there is really
only one independent source, and should ask: is it likely that Goliath the
Gittite giant did exist?
Thus, one way of falsifying a biblical story is by showing that it is like
1 Samuel 17, namely a story that disagrees with another biblical story, and is
the less likely of the two (or more) stories to be true. But as noted above (sec-
tion 2), even in cases where there is no contradictory internal evidence that a
tradition should be doubted, its nature or genre may suggest that it is unlikely
to be true. The following section will illustrate various cases where these prin-
ciples of disconfirmation may be applied to texts now found in 1 Kings 15–
2 Kings 13.
5.1 Synchronic chronological notices
No part of the biblical account of the ninth century looks more accurate
than the ubiquitous synchronic chronological notices that connect the years
that Judean and Northern kings reigned. Yet, even a cursory glance at
1 Kings 16.15–29 brings to the surface quite a few problems (Miller 1976, 1–3).
If Zimri only reigned for seven days, and began to reign during the twenty-
seventh year of King Asa (v. 15), how did his successor, Omri, begin to reign
34
The suggestion that David was a throne-name of Elhanan is apologetically motivated, and
unconvincing; see McCarter 1984, 450.
35
The use of the very rare phrase , as well as the verb in these two accounts is
very suggestive.
36
See the Deuteronomy 17.6 principle, discussed above.

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in the thirty-first year of King Asa (v. 23)? If Omri became king in the thirty-
first year of Asa and reigned for twelve years (v. 23), how is it possible that
his son, Ahab, began to reign in the thirty-eighth year of Asa (v. 29)?
There are three possible types of solution to this problem. One school (see
esp. Thiele 1983) suggests that there were extensive co-regencies that help the
numbers fit. Another school (see esp. Shenkel 1968) suggests that the numer-
als in the MT are incorrect, and may be corrected on the basis of numbers in
some manuscripts of the LXX, which are more consistent. A third group
treats the numbers in MT seriously, and concludes that it is not prudent to
construct an exact chronology of this period.
I believe that this third position is correct. This is not because I treat bib-
lical evidence as the ‘underdog’ (Frendo 2004, 41) to be doubted unless strong
evidence proving it is brought. Rather, I believe that all historians need to
weigh various possible options (Fischer 1970, 3), and I believe that this third
option is more likely than the other two.37
The Bible does note a small number of co-regencies, and co-regencies are
well attested in the ancient Near Eastern world (Thiele 1983, 219). Yet, the
high number of co-regencies that these scholars have posited is much higher
than would be expected and is otherwise attested. Statistics are misleading,
since phenomena such as co-regencies may occur in clumps rather than in an
even distribution. It is striking, however, that several co-regencies are men-
tioned explicitly in the Bible—why, then, are all the other co-regencies that
scholars posit not mentioned? Thus, resolving the chronological problems by
assuming extensive co-regencies is problematic.
A complete analysis of alternate chronological systems found in the LXX
is a very complex and technical issue. It is noteworthy, however, that there are
very good reasons to believe that the LXX chronology is secondary to that of
MT, and should not be used for reconstructing the chronology of the divided
monarchy (Gooding 1970, Na’aman 1999a). In fact, to the extent that some
LXX chronologies are more consistent than MT, they may have harmonized,
and MT is to be preferred as a type of lectio difficilior (Tov 2001, 302–05). On
the other hand, lectio difficilior should not always be preferred, especially
when it is believed to be an erroneous (or impossible) reading, created by a
scribe who simply made a mistake (Albrektson 1981). Given all the com-
plexities involved in text-critical decisions in general, and in this set of text-
critical decisions in particular, it is not prudent to favour the more logical and
possibly harmonistic LXX versions over MT.
37
I began to develop different models for discussing the probability of various biblical accounts
in Brettler 1995, 143. Such models are routinely used in non-biblical history-writing; see e.g.
Shafer 1969, 128–31.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 326
On the other hand, it is not clear where and how these chronologies were
created (Cogan 2001, 100–01). Even scholars as conservative as Albright
suggested that they were not taken from archival material, and were some-
times later creations (Galil 1996, 4–5). There is no evidence that they are
ancient and accurate. In fact, if we take the Mesha stele which talks about
forty years as the extent of Omri’s reign and half of his son’s, Ahab, we have
a serious problem: according to 1 Kings 16.23, Omri reigned for twelve years,
and according to v. 28, Ahab reigned for twenty-two years, for a total of
thirty-four years. It is thus impossible for Omri’s ⫹ half of Ahab’s years to
total 40!38
It is very tempting to want to create an exact chronology for the biblical
period. Unfortunately, a certain, or even a likely chronology for the ninth
century cannot be recreated because of a combination of issues, and we must
just get used to living with these uncertainties.
5.2 1 Kings 18
How much of the famous chapter concerning the competition between Elijah
and the prophets of Baal on Mt Carmel reflects the history of ninth-century
Israel? Should we take the narrative at face value, perhaps removing the
supernatural fire,39 and assume that it reflects a real battle between a real
Elijah and real prophets of the Baal during the reign of Ahab (Hermann
1981, 270)? Alternatively, do we assume that the story is of no value for
reconstructing the period of Ahab, and perhaps even conclude that an indi-
vidual named Elijah did not exist in the ninth century at all?40 What evidence
might we adduce concerning the historical veracity of this story?
It is clear that the story as we now have it was not written in ninth-century
northern Israel. Unlike some of the Elisha stories, it is not in Northern
Hebrew.41 It shows signs of being late (Rofé 1996, 280). Some scholars believe
that the incorporation of much of this prophetic material in the middle of
Kings is a late development (McKenzie 1991), further facilitating the possi-
bility that this is a late story. In fact, this narrative has been influenced by Dtr.
Its climactic conclusion is Israel’s realization that Yahweh is God, as stated
twice in v. 39:
38
For various suggestions about this discrepancy, see Dearman 1989, 164–67.
39
Some have suggested that Elijah used naphtha instead of water; see Gray 1970, 401.
40
There are many intermediate positions as well; see e.g. White 1997.
41
Burney 1903, 208–09; for a contrary view that finds some signs of Northern Hebrew in this
passage, see Rendsburg 2002, esp. 52–55.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 327
, ‘The LORD alone is God, The LORD

alone is God!’ This phrase, which expresses radical monotheism,42 has the
following distribution:
It has been clearly demonstrated to you that the LORD alone is God; there is
none beside Him.
Know therefore this day and keep in mind that the LORD alone is God in
heaven above and on earth below; there is no other.
to the end that all the peoples of the earth may know that the LORD alone is
God, there is no other.
When they saw this, all the people flung themselves on their faces and cried
out: ‘The LORD alone is God, The LORD alone is God!’
He prayed to Him, and He granted his prayer, heard his plea, and returned
him to Jerusalem to his kingdom. Then Manasseh knew that the LORD alone
was God.
42
I have borrowed this term from Frymer-Kensky 1992.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 328
Deuteronomy 4 is usually understood as exilic Deuteronomistic (Brettler

2000, 33–50), as is this section of 1 Kings 8 (Brettler 1993). 2 Chr. 33.13 is
non-synoptic, and most likely from the Chronicler (probably fourth-century).
Thus, there are good reasons to believe that the Elijah on Mt Carmel story in
its current form is significantly later than the ninth century. This alone sug-
gests that it should be used by the modern historian of ancient Israel only
with the greatest caution, if at all. After all, the main point that the story is
constructed to illustrate, that , ‘The LORD alone is God’, is
anachronistic.
The genre also suggests that it is highly problematic to use this story to
recreate history. The genre is debated, with suggestions including ‘prophetic
legend’, ‘sanctuary legend’, ‘supplicatory power story’, ‘decision narrative’,
and ‘Yahweh story with instructional tendencies’ (Long 1984, 194). All these
putative genres are interested in highlighting the power of the prophet and/or
Yahweh, and thus are suspect in the manner in which these events are
depicted. This would especially be the case if prophetic groups originated and
circulated them (ibid., 195). These groups would not have been interested in
getting the setting right or accurately depicting the characters.
There is additional evidence that suggests that the chapter is problematic
from an historical perspective. It depicts Ahab as an arch-Baalist and com-
plete anti-Yahwist. Most scholars believe, however, that even the Northern
kings who were sympathetic to Baal were polytheistic, and thus would not
have persecuted those who ‘were members of’ the Yahweh-alone party (Smith
1981), if such a party indeed existed at this time-period. In fact, internal bib-
lical evidence suggests that at least two of Ahab’s children had Yahwistic
names: Ahaziah (1 Kgs 22.50) and J(eh)oram (2 Kgs 3.1; 9.29). This contrasts
sharply with the anti-Yahweh depiction of Ahab in 2 Kings 18.
The idea that this chapter is problematic for the modern historian is not
new; Cogan, for example, opens his general treatment of the material by not-
ing: ‘The legendary accounts concerning Elijah’s activities are not the most
desirable source upon which to base a history of the reign of Ahab’ (Cogan
2001, 446). Yet, some scholars continue to find some sort of historical kernel
in it. For example, Rofé suggests that
the traditions preserved in these stories are not altogether spurious. . .. At the
root of the present stories stood older ones, now lost. Due to the popularity of
Elijah, stories about him were retold by each new generation so that only the
later accounts were incorporated in the book of Kings. (Rofé 1996, 281)
He seems to take parts of the outline of the story as historical, as he notes:

The introduction of the Tyrian Baal into Israel during the Omride dynasty
(882–842 B.C.) is a historical fact; it was brought about by the marriage of
Ahab, son of Omri, to the Tyrian princess Jezebel. From its center in Samaria

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 329
Baal worship spread out to the provincial towns, given impetus by the syn-
cretistic concept of the Lord to whom the name of Baal and his attributes had
been applied from old. In declaring a drought, Elijah challenged Baal in his
very quality as a fertility god.
But does 1 Kings 18, in its long tradition of transmission and reformula-
tion,43 retain any historical facts?
The questions about the historicity of 1 Kings 18 may be generalized, since
several reasons could be offered for omitting Elijah completely from a scien-
tific history of ancient Israel:44 (1) he only appears in the prophetic stories, a
genre that is suspect in terms of its veracity given why these stories were writ-
ten and how they were likely transmitted; (2) his name is suspicious45 as a dou-
bly theophoric name: Yahweh is God (in fact the name of the other ‘good
guy’ in 1 Kings 18, Obadiah, is also suspicious as symbolic); (3) earlier I
referred to the Deuteronomy 17.6 principle, which requires more than one wit-
ness before we claim that an event is probable—there is really only a single
long witness, the Elijah stories, in Kings.46 Given these factors, I would omit
Elijah if I were writing a history of the ninth century. (The issue of why Elijah
was created and particular aspects of his personality as depicted in Kings
would, however, be significant in the discussion of [a] later period[s].)
5.3 Anti-feminism and other patterning
Those involved in the composition of Kings were, like many (elite) Israelites,
quite conservative and patriarchal (Bird 1997, 13 n. 1). For these authors, the
legitimate king was a male47 Israelite (Deut 17.15b) descended from David.
Thus, the reign of Athaliah was problematic because she was female, and the
sources concerning Jezebel are problematic because at their base stands a
powerful female non-Israelite queen with tremendous influence over her
43
Scholars continue to debate whether or not this chapter is composite; see e.g. Cogan 2001,
445–46.
44
When this idea was presented at the symposium out of which the present volume developed,
several participants objected very strongly. I believe that they were motivated by the important
place that Elijah plays in Jewish and Christian consciousness.
45
This cannot be an absolute criterion; there have been real figures in modern history whose
names fit their professions. For example, one of Ronald Reagan’s press secretaries was truly
named Larry Speakes.
46
I thus fundamentally disagree from a methodological standpoint with the statement in Miller
and Hayes 1986, 273: ‘Nevertheless, while none of these sources can be regarded as entirely
objective witnesses to the religious scene during the Omride period, together they point unmis-
takably to a serious Yahweh-Baal conflict which apparently surfaced during Ahab’s reign and
contributed to the eventual downfall of the dynasty.’
47
In fact, the word is never used for the Israelite or Judean queen in the DtrH.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 330
husband. Thus, the narratives about these two women are didactic, used to
reflect and to reinforce48 the ancient Israelite idea that women should not rise
above a glass ceiling. Sometimes didactic stories are based on real events, but
more often, they are constructed, even if they do use familiar characters.49
The Athaliah story in 2 Kings 1150 is constructed to show what happens
when women take over the Davidic throne: they attempt to kill all others
who may have a claim, even their own children (v. 1). The editor of the unit
highlights her reign as illegitimate by excluding the typical introductory
and conclusion formula (Frymer-Kensky 2002, 88). Her improper role as a
woman ‘king’ is highlighted by noting that of her successor (2 Kgs 11.19)
‘And he ascended the royal throne’,where (trans-
lated as ‘royal’) is clearly gendered as male, and might even be translated as
‘he ascended the king’s throne’. Nothing is recorded of her deeds for the six
years that she reigned. 2 Chronicles 24.7 is reading the intention of the Kings
narrative correctly when it calls her ‘the wicked Athaliah’. We must not fol-
low in the path of the Chronicler when we attempt, as modern (non-Dtr and
non-Chr) historians to reconstruct her reign. In fact, given the prominence
of the 6–7 pattern in the Bible,51 it is quite possible or even likely that the
chronology that the chapter depicts of six bad years with terrible Athaliah at
the helm, followed climactically by an ideal, exceptional seventh year that
ended her rule, should be seen as typological.
The depiction of Jezebel is even worse. Even her name is changed, so that
the epithet zebul, ‘exalted’, becomes transformed to zebel, ‘dung’ (Yee 1992,
848). It is likely that this is not the only aspect of her life that was trans-
formed. We have already seen her presence in the historically problematic
1 Kings 18. She also plays a significant role in 1 Kings 21, where she convinces
Ahab to expropriate the vineyard of Naboth. The whole chapter is structured
in such a manner as to blame her, and to absolve Ahab (see esp. vv. 27–29).
Ahab is ultimately forgiven; in fact, as the text states explicitly (v. 25), the only
reason he was so wicked is that his wife sweet-talked him into the crime (‘at
the instigation of his wife Jezebel’). She is depicted as the ultimate foreign
woman of Proverbs, who smooth-talks men, ultimately leading them to
Death (see e.g. Prov. 7.21–23). For her brazen activities, mischaracterized as
48
This is the language of the new historicism, which deserves to play a larger role in biblical stud-
ies than it has done.
49
For example, the well-known story of George Washington cutting down a cherry tree — who,
when confronted by his father, supposedly said ‘I cannot tell a lie’ — was fabricated in 1806 by
Parson Weems for a fictional account of Washington’s life.
50
Some scholars believe that this story is composite, claiming that Athaliah dies twice (vv. 16 and
20); it is possible, however, that in v. 20 should be read as a pluperfect.
51
This pattern is most visible in the P creation story, but cf. Job 5.19 and Prov 6.16.

15 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 331
‘whoring’ and ‘witchcraft’ (2 Kgs 9.22), she ultimately is not even be buried
whole (2 Kgs 9.33–37), a terrible disgrace from the biblical perspective.
Frymer-Kensky is correct in characterizing Jezebel as ‘the very embodi-
ment of Evil’ and ‘Deuteronomy’s Worst Nightmare’ (Frymer-Kensky 2002,
214, 209). That is how she is constructed, as a warning of what happens when
women attain power, and a particular caution of the dangers of a particular
foreign woman, whose depiction might be generalized. Given the strong
Tendenz seen in all the depictions of her in the Bible, from her name, to her
activities in 1 Kings 18 and 22, to her death, it is not prudent to use any
biblical material that describes her as a reliable source for the ninth century.
This section specifically deals with the biblical patterns concerning
women, but should remind modern historians of ancient Israel to be cautious
when any narrative fits a pattern. It is unusual for real events to happen in
patterns, though this sometimes is the case—for example, a George W. Bush
did follow soon after a George H. Bush.52 In fact, it is easy to imagine a bib-
lical scholar looking at these two Bush accounts, and claiming that they are
variants of each other, and that they were assigned to different times to show
the periodicity of history. However, it is much more common for us, as
humans, to find or to create patterns in events.53 As such, modern historians
of antiquity should be suspicious of patterns of all sorts. For example, we
should be wary of material contained in the prophetic fulfilment narrative
that characterizes the entire DtrH (von Rad 1984), or reforms of two kings
(Hezekiah and Josiah) that sound very similar, or temple repair accounts that
are very alike (2 Kgs 12 and 22). Sometimes events as they actually transpire
do repeat or are patterned, and later historical figures may model their
behaviour after earlier individuals, but much more often, authors create these
patterns. For this reason, such patterned comparisons must be used with
great caution when reconstructing history. The existence of patterning in bib-
lical texts does not by itself prove that an account is false, but should raise
significant caution for the modern historian reconstructing antiquity.
6. WHERE DOES ALL THIS LEAVE US?
I earlier emphasized the importance of evaluating each text separately: we

cannot speak of the historical utility of Kings as a whole (see also Na’aman
1999b). In discerning the usefulness of a particular text, biblical scholars
must use the methods that are common among modern historians who want
52
Another obvious example is the defeat of Germany in both World War I and World War II.
53
See e.g. Bebbington 1990, 21, ‘Where history has taken the place of myth, people have nor-
mally attributed the same type of pattern to the past.’

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to recreate the past.54 The past, and certainly the distant past, is never fully
recoverable (Southgate 1996, 124–25). An important first step for recovering
the ninth century in Judah and Israel is seeing which of the many biblical
sources that could bear on the ninth century actually do so; this is what I tried
to do above with some sample material that purports to recount this era.
It would certainly be possible to evaluate much more of the material
found in 1 Kings 15–2 Kings 13 using the criteria developed above. I am cer-
tain that this would uncover more material that is probably reliable, and
more material that is probably unreliable. Yet I believe that this process
would leave the (vast?) majority of (non-prophetic) material as neither fal-
sified nor verified, namely as no more and no less than ‘possible’. So what
are we to do?
Until such a time as additional evidence is discovered or developed,
these texts will remain ‘possibly historically accurate’—no more and no less.
How we use these many ‘possible’ texts to reconstruct history may depend
as much on our temperament—how trusting we are, especially of religious
traditions.55 Most pre-modern historians do not reconstruct history based
on the ‘possible’; they use the probable, likely, and certain. As biblical schol-
ars we would be wise to do the same. This means that histories of ancient
Israel should either be much shorter—if they decide to include only the
very likely and certain, or much longer—if they include the possible
through the certain, and indicate why each event is assigned a particular
probability.56 By temperament, I am a cautious minimalist, and favour the
former option; in the words of the Proverbs 10.19: ‘Where there is much
talking, there is no lack of transgressing; but he who curbs his tongue [or
pen!] shows sense.’
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Albrektson, B., 1981. ‘Difficilior Lectio Probabilior—A Rule of Textual Criticism

and its Use in OT Studies’, OTS 21, 5–18.
Barr, J., 2000. History and Ideology in the Old Testament: Biblical Studies at the End
of a Millennium (Oxford).
Barstad, H. M., 1997. ‘History and the Hebrew Bible’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Can a
‘History of Israel’ be Written? (JSOTSup 245; Sheffield), 37–64.
54
Alternatively, they can join those who are sceptical about the possibility and value of recreat-
ing the past; see e.g. Southgate 1996.
55
I do not believe, however, that this is only a religious issue; in his chapter in this volume, T. P.
Wiseman writes of ‘classicists’ will to believe’.
56
In terms of using probability in reconstructing history, note Fischer 1970, 63, that ‘all infer-
ences from empirical evidence are probabilistic’.

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Barton, J., 2004. ‘Dating the ‘Succession Narrative’, in J. Day (ed.), In Search of
Pre-Exilic Israel (JSOTSup 406; London), 95–106.
Bebbington, D., 1990. Patterns in History: A Christian Perspective on Historical
Thought (Leicester).
Bird, P. A., 1997. Missing Persons and Mistaken Identities: Women and Gender in
Ancient Israel (OBT; Minneapolis).
Brettler, M. Z., 1993. ‘Interpretation and Prayer: Notes on the Composition of 1
Kings 8.15–53’, in M. Brettler and M. Fishbane (eds), Minhah le-Nahum
(JSOTSup 154; Sheffield), 17–35.
——, 1995. The Creation of History in Ancient Israel (London).
——, 1997. ‘The Composition of 1 Samuel 1–2’, JBL 116, 601–12.
——, 2000. ‘A ‘Literary Sermon’ in Deuteronomy 4’, in S. Olyan (ed.), ‘A Wise and
Discerning Mind’: Essays in Honor of Burke O. Long (Atlanta, GA), 33–50.
——, 2001. ‘Memory in Ancient Israel’, in M. A. Signer (ed.), Memory and History in
Christianity and Judaism (Notre Dame), 1–17.
——, 2003. ‘The Copenhagen School: The Historiographical Issues’, Association for
Jewish Studies Review 27, 1–21.
——, forthcoming. ‘The Poet as Historian: The Plague Tradition in Ps. 105’, in the
Stephen Geller Festschrift (Winona Lake, IL).
Bright, J., 1981. A History of Israel (Philadelphia).
Burney, C. F., 1903. Notes on the Hebrew Text of the Books of Kings (Oxford).
Cogan, M., 2001. I Kings (AB; New York).
——and H. Tadmor, 1988. II Kings (AB; New York).
Cross, F. M., 1973. Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the
Religion of Israel (Cambridge).
Dearman, J. A., 1989. ‘Historical Reconstruction and the Mesha Inscription’, in J. A.
Dearman (ed.), Studies in the Mesha Inscription and Moab (Atlanta, GA), 155–210.
Dell, K. J., 2004. ‘How Much Wisdom Literature has its Roots in the Pre-exilic
Period?’, in J. Day (ed.), In Search of Pre-Exilic Israel (JSOTSup 406; London),
251–71.
Dever, W. G., 2003. Who Were the Early Israelites and Where Did They Come From?
(Grand Rapids, MI).
Eissfeldt, O., 1965. The Old Testament: An Introduction (New York).
Emerton, J. A., 2004. ‘The Date of the Jahwist’, in J. Day (ed.), In Search of Pre-Exilic
Israel (JSOTSup 406; London), 107–29.
Fischer, D. H., 1970. Historians’ Fallacies: Toward a Logic of Historical Thought (New
York).
Fishbane, M., 1985. Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford).
Frendo, A. J., 2004. ‘Back to Basics: A Holistic Approach to the Problem of the
Emergence of Ancient Israel’, in J. Day (ed.), In Search of Pre-exilic Israel
(JSOTSup 406; London), 41–64.
Frymer-Kensky, T., 1992. In The Wake of the Goddesses: Women, Culture, and the
Biblical Transformation of Pagan Myth (New York).
——, 2002. Reading the Women of the Bible: A New Interpretation of their Stories
(New York).
Funkenstein, A., 1993. Perceptions of Jewish History (Berkeley).
Galil, G., 1996. The Chronology of the Kings of Israel and Judah (Leiden).

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Geoghegan, J., 2003. ‘“Until this Day” and the Pre-exilic Redaction of the
Deuteronomistic History’, JBL 122, 201–27.
Gerstenberger, E. S., 2001. Psalms, Part 2, and Lamentations (FOTL 15; Grand
Rapids, MI).
Gooding, D. W., 1970. Review of Shenkel 1968, JTS ns 21, 118–31.
Grabbe, L. L., 1997. ‘Are Historians of Ancient Palestine Fellow Creatures—Or
Different Animals?’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Can a ‘History of Israel’ be Written?
(JSOTSup 245; Sheffield), 19–36.
——, 2000. ‘Who Were the First Real Historians? On the Origins of Critical
Historiography’, in L. L. Grabbe (ed.), Did Moses Speak Attic? Jewish
Historiography and Scripture in the Hellenistic Period (JSOTSup 317; Sheffield),
156–81.
——, (ed.), 2003. ‘Like a Bird in a Cage’: The Invasion of Sennacherib in 701 BCE
(JSOTSup 363; Sheffield).
Gray, J., 1970. I and II Kings (OTL; Philadelphia, PA).
Greenberg, M., 1977. ‘The Use of the Ancient Versions for Understanding the
Hebrew Text: A Sampling from Ezek II ,1–III,11’, VTSup 29, 131–48.
Halpern, B., 1988. The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History (San
Francisco).
Hayes, J. H., 1988. Amos the Eighth-Century Prophet (Nashville, TN).
Hermann, S., 1981. A History of Israel in Old Testament Times (London).
Houston, W., 2004. ‘Was There a Social Crisis in the Eighth Century?’, in J. Day (ed.)
In Search of Pre-Exilic Israel (JSOTSup 406; London), 130–49.
Knoppers, G. N., 2000. ‘Is There a Future for the Deuteronomistic History?’, in
T. Römer (ed.), The Future of the Deuteronomistic History (BETL 147; Leuven),
119–34.
——, 2003. I Chronicles 1–9 (AB; New York).
Kraemer, D., 1993. ‘On the Relationship of the Books of Ezra and Nehemiah’, JSOT
59, 73–92.
Kraus, H.-J., 1989. Psalms 60–150 (Minneapolis, MN).
Lambert, W. G., 2004. ‘Mesopotamian Sources and Pre-exilic Israel’ , in J. Day (ed.),
In Search of Pre-Exilic Israel (JSOTSup 406; London), 352–65.
Lemaire, A., 2000. ‘Toward a Redactional History of the Book of Kings’, in G. N.
Knoppers and J. G. McConville (eds), Reconsidering Israel and Judah: Recent
Studies on the Deuteronomistic History (Winona Lake, IN), 446–61.
——, 2004. ‘Hebrew and West Semitic Inscriptions and Pre-exilic Israel’, in J. Day
(ed.), In Search of Pre-Exilic Israel (JSOTSup 406; London), 366–85.
Liebowitz, H. A., 1992. ‘Ivory’, ABD 3.584–87.
Liver, J., 1967. ‘The Book of the Acts of Solomon’, Biblica 48, 75–101.
Long, B. O., 1984. 1 Kings (FOTL; Grand Rapids, MI).
McCarter, P. K. Jr., 1984. II Samuel (AB; Garden City, NY).
McKenzie, S. L., 1991. The Trouble with Kings: The Composition of the Book of Kings
in the Deuteronomistic History (VTSup 42; Leiden).
McKenzie, S. L. and M. P. Graham (eds), 1994. The History of Israel’s Traditions: The
Heritage of Martin Noth (JSOTSup182; Sheffield).
Miller, J. M., 1976. The Old Testament and the Historian (Philadelphia, PA).

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——and J. H. Hayes, 1986. A History of Ancient Israel and Judah (Philadelphia, PA).
Mitchell, S., 1987. The Book of Job (San Francisco, CA).
Na’aman, N., 1997. ‘Prophetic Stories as Sources for the Histories of Jehoshaphat
and the Omrides’, Biblica 78, 153–73.
——, 1999a. ‘On the Antiquity of the Regnal Years in the Book of Kings’, TZ 55,
44–46.
——, 1999b. ‘The Contribution of Royal Inscriptions for a Re-evaluation of the Book
Nicholson, E., 1998. The Pentateuch in the Twentieth Century: The Legacy of Julius
Wellhausen (Oxford).
Nielsen, K., 1997. Ruth (OTL; Louisville, KY).
Rendsburg, G. A., 2002. Israelian Hebrew in the Book of Kings (Bathesda).
Roest, B. and H. L. J. Vanstiphout (eds), 1999. Aspects of Genre and Type in Pre-Modern
Literary Culture (Groningen).
Rofé, A., 1996. ‘Elijah’, in P. J. Achtemeier (ed.), The Harper Collins Bible Dictionary,
(San Francisco, CA) 280–81.
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Sarna, N. M., 1957. ‘Epic Substratum in the Prose of Job’, JBL 76, 13–25.
——, 2000. Studies in Biblical Interpretation (Philadelphia, PA).
Shafer, R. J., 1969. A Guide to Historical Method (Homewood, IL).
Shenkel, J. D., 1968. Chronology and Recensional Development in the Greek Text of
Kings (HSM 1; Cambridge).
Simon, U., 1999. Jonah (JPS Bible Commentary; Philadelphia, PA).
Smith, M., 1981. Palestinian Parties and Politics that Shaped the Old Testament (New
York).
Soggin, J. A., 1978. ‘The History of Ancient Israel: A Study in Some Questions of
Method’, EI 14 (H. L. Ginsburg Volume; Jerusalem), 44*–51*.
Southgate, B., 1996. History: What and Why? Ancient, Modern, and Postmodern
Perspectives (London).
Tadmor, H. and M. Cogan, 1979. ‘Ahaz and Tiglath-pileser in the Book of Kings:
Historiographic Considerations’, Biblica 60, 491–508.
Thiele, E. R., 1983. The Mysterious Numbers of the Hebrew Kings (new rev. edn;
Grand Rapids, MI).
Thompson, T. L., 1999. The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel
(New York).
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Tov, E., 2001. Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible (2nd rev. edn; Minneapolis, MN).
Origins of Biblical History (New Haven, CT).
von Rad, G., 1984. ‘The Deuteronomic Theology of History in I and II Kings’, in
G. von Rad, The Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays (London), 205–21.
White, M. C., 1997. The Elijah Legends and Jehu’s Coup (BJS 311; Atlanta, GA).
Williamson, H. G. M., 2004. ‘In Search of the Pre-Exilic Isaiah’, in J. Day (ed.), In
Search of Pre-Exilic Israel (JSOTSup 406; London), 181–206.
Wilson, G. H., 1985. The Editing of the Hebrew Psalter (SBLDS 76; Chico).
Wilson, R. R., 1984. Prophecy and Society in Ancient Israel (Philadelphia, PA).

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Wolff, H. W., 1977. Joel and Amos (Hermeneia; Philadelphia, PA).

Yee, G. A., 1992. ‘Jezebel’, in ABD, 3.848–49.
Yerushalmi, Y. H., 1982. Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Seattle, WA).
Young, I. (ed.), 2003. Biblical Hebrew: Studies in Chronology and Typology (JSOTSup
369; London).
Zakovitch, Y., 1990. Ruth (Mikra Leyisrael; Tel Aviv) [Hebrew].

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16
Reading Kings on the Divided Monarchy:

What Sort of Narrative?
GRAEME AULD
MARC BRETTLER REPEATEDLY DIRECTS OUR ATTENTION very helpfully to the

complex issue of genre. Modern readers find it very difficult to recognize tex-
tual clues, which ancient readers may have detected more readily. When deal-
ing with larger and more complex biblical books, there is the further question
of how to relate genre decisions about discrete subsets of the text to decisions
about the nature of the whole text. Brettler sensibly notes that the texts most
relevant to an historian of Israel and Judah in the ninth century BCE are to
be found within 1 Kings 15 to 2 Kings 13. To say that these chapters are a
subset of a larger text simply states the obvious; yet just which ‘whole text’
they are part of is a contentious issue. A ‘Deuteronomistic History’
(Deuteronomy–2 Kings) and a ‘Primary History’ (Genesis–2 Kings) are both
defended as answers, and both similarly opposed. However, for our purposes,
this larger question may be sidestepped; for many on both sides of these
debates do recognize Samuel–Kings as a relatively discrete element within
such larger ‘wholes’; and some consider that these ‘books’ constitute a (once)
independent narrative. For heuristic purposes, I shall take Samuel–Kings as
the larger context of which 1 Kings 15–2 Kings 13 is a part. Rather than
explore further the theoretical issue (to which in any case Brettler has pro-
vided several references), I prefer the practical option of drawing out some
implications of points he has made in his paper.
In his preliminary remarks on method, he discusses some psalms, includ-
ing 78, as examples of didactic narrative; and the books of Jonah, Job, and
Ruth as instances of symbolic narrative.1 Some readers, both ancient and
modern, may have read some or all of these texts rather literally. Yet many of
us will readily agree with Brettler that sensible readers in all periods will have
paid more attention to the values explored in these texts than to the ‘happened-
ness’ of what they narrate. None of these texts is part of the so-called
1
Compare H. M. Barstad (in this volume, p. 33): ‘Ruth is, together with Esther and Jonah, the
most fictitious book in the Bible.’

16 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 338
338 Graeme Auld
primary history or Deuteronomistic History. But there are several similari-

ties, and arguably significant links, between each of them and 1 Samuel, links
that cluster in the opening chapters of that ‘book’.
1. Psalm 78 does not mention the divine ark by name, but refers to it (v. 61)
as God’s ‘strength’ (‘oz) and ‘glory’ or ‘beauty’ (tip’eret), just as the open-
ing chapters of 1 Samuel use words related to kabôd (‘glory’) to refer not
only to the ark but to Eli and much more besides.
2. The books of Jonah and 1 Samuel are among the few biblical books which
use ‘Hebrew’ as a gentilic: Jonah describes himself as such (1.9); and
Jonathan (1 Sam. 14.8–11) plays on the same self-description. The narra-
tives of both Jonah (2.3–10) and Hannah (1 Sam. 2.1–10) include a sung
prayer. And the key opening term of Jonah’s prayer (‘distress’, sarâ) is
equally prominent in Hannah’s story (1 Sam. 1.6, LXX). Both Hannah and
Jonah ‘pray’, ‘vow a vow’, and relate themselves to Yahweh’s ‘temple’
(hêkal) — and the long and diverse book of Isaiah is the only other biblical
book to contain all three expressions.
3. Early in the story of Hannah (1 Sam. 1.4), we find the same story-telling
phrase as is prominent in the framework tale of Job (1.6, 13; 2.1): ‘Now
there came a day’ (wayehî hayyôm).
4. There are as many distinctive links with Ruth as with Jonah: the gentilic
‘Ephrathite’ (Ruth 1.2 // 1 Sam. 1.1); ‘more to you than seven/ten sons’ (4.15
// 1.8); ‘bitter’ (1.20 // 1.10); ‘find favour in someone’s eyes’ (2.2, 10, 13 //
1.18). Both Ruth (2.13) and Hannah (1 Sam. 1.18) describe themselves as
8iphâ. Ruth 2.14 and 1 Sam. 14.38 are the only two biblical passages to link
‘approach’ (naga8) with the relatively rare adverb ‘hither’ (halôm). Then, sig-
nificantly I think, ‘chance’ (miqreh) plays a biblical role outside the late
book Qohelet (x7) only in Ruth 2.3 and in 1 Sam. 6.9 and 20.26.
Plotting the direction in which such literary allusions may be working is

extremely risky; and so the sample links sketched above attempt to demon-
strate simply this. If we are to follow Brettler in holding that Psalm 78, the
framework narrative of Job, and the books of Jonah and Ruth are examples
of narrative in which the modern historian should not expect to find congen-
ial evidence about the past which they report, then we should add 1 Samuel—
and especially its earlier chapters—to such a list. He draws attention to the
use of significant names by the teller of Ruth’s story; and Hannah (hnh) is
precisely the one who finds favour (hn) at the opening of 1 Samuel. If
1 Samuel–2 Kings is a sensibly marked larger context, what implication for
reading that ‘whole’ should we draw from such an assessment of its intro-
duction? Might it signal that the purpose of the following whole is didactic,
or that (much of) what follows is symbolic (to use Brettler’s terms)?
Alternatively, may we safely, in terms of genre at least, bracket off the earlier
chapters of Samuel as a series of parable-like introductions to the more
matter-of-fact history that follows in the remainder of Samuel–Kings?

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READING KINGS ON THE DIVIDED MONARCHY 339
When it comes to educating our expectations of the royal narratives

that follow, it surprises me that more attention has not been paid to the
apparent patterning of the lists of kings of Judah and Israel which,
though not presented as lists, can be (re-)assembled from the books of
Kings. While drawing attention to a number of chronological problems,
Brettler urges us to have confidence—at least reasonable confidence
(p. 323)—in the reliability of the biblical king-lists (at least from the ninth
century). Of course some of the kings are mentioned in Assyrian records
of the time. However, what dents my confidence is the overall patterning.
In each case, the last reported king of Judah, as of Israel, is the twentieth
after David.
1 Solomon
2 Rehoboam 2 Jeroboam
3 Abijah/m 3 Nadab
4 Asa 4 Baasha
5 Jehoshaphat 5 Elah
6 Jehoram 6 Zimri
7 Ahaziah 7 Omri
8 Joash 8 Ahab
9 Amaziah 9 Ahaziah
10 Azariah/Uzziah 10 J[eh]oram
11 Jotham 11 Jehu
12 Ahaz 12 Jehoahaz
13 Hezekiah 13 J[eh]oash
14 Manasseh 14 Jeroboam
15 Amon 15 Zechariah
16 Josiah 16 Shallum
17 Jehoahaz 17 Menachem
18 Jehoiakim 18 Pekahiah
19 Jehoiachin 19 Pekah
20 Zedekiah 20 Hoshea
All the above could of course have represented simple fact—and Brettler
reminds us usefully of several strange historical coincidences. And had
Solomon had exactly nineteen successors in each of Judah and Israel, we
might expect that those in Judah, each normally succeeding his father, would
have reigned cumulatively for a longer period than those in Israel, where there
had been several revolts and changes of dynasty. Alternatively, the same total
of kings reported as reigning in south and north could have represented a
small nudging of the facts towards a pattern.2 And the early chapters of
Genesis, with their ten generations from Adam to Noah and ten more from
2
In private discussion, M. J. Geller has suggested to me that in Assyrian records such adjustment
was familiar.

16 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 340
340 Graeme Auld
Shem to Abraham, do demonstrate that at least some biblical authors were

interested in decimal patterns in genealogies. And yet, should it not alert the
suspicions of the historian to find in the books of Kings, whose didacticism
shares so much with Jeremiah and Psalm 78—all of them texts that seek to
demonstrate that Judah should have learned from the example of Israel—not
just that there was the same total of kings in each kingdom, but that there
was one particularly wicked royal woman in each kingdom who wielded bale-
ful influence (Jezebel and Athaliah)—and that this ‘queen’ appeared at the
same point in each line, after the seventh successor to David? What is the
most economical explanation of such patterning?
1 Solomon
2 Rehoboam 2 Jeroboam
3 Abijah/m 3 Nadab
4 Asa 4 Baasha
5 Jehoshaphat 5 Elah
6 Jehoram 6 Zimri
7 Ahaziah 7 Omri
ATHALIAH 8 JEZEBEL
8 Joash ⫹ Ahab
9 Amaziah 9 Ahaziah
10 Azariah/Uzziah 10 J[eh]oram
11 Jotham 11 Jehu
12 Ahaz 12 Jehoahaz
13 Hezekiah 13 J[eh]oash
14 Manasseh 14 Jeroboam
15 Amon 15 Zechariah
16 Josiah 16 Shallum
17 Jehoahaz 17 Menachem
18 Jehoiakim 18 Pekahiah
19 Jehoiachin 19 Pekah
20 Zedekiah 20 Hoshea
The biblical books of Samuel–Kings on the one side and Chronicles on

the other share a large part of their content—the so-called synoptic materi-
als. Since the work of de Wette at the beginning of the nineteenth century, it
has been generally held that the account in Chronicles of the Davidic line in
Jerusalem was derived from the synchronised account in Samuel–Kings of
the monarchies of the Davidides in Judah and of their rivals in northern
Israel. In more recent decades, one modification of this view has been widely
held by students of Chronicles: that it was not precisely from the books of
Samuel and Kings as we know them (in the traditional Hebrew text) that
some other authors adopted and adapted this shared material. A large num-
ber of scholars agree with at least the minimal version of this position: that

16 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 341
the author of Chronicles, as also a later Jewish historian of the first century
CE (Josephus), worked from a version of Samuel and Kings closer to the
Hebrew fragments found by the Dead Sea and the versions in the older Greek
and Latin Bibles than to the standard Masoretic Text. A smaller number of
scholars have advanced beyond this actual manuscript evidence and devel-
oped hypotheses that it was from a still earlier edition of the books of Samuel
and Kings (or of the Deuteronomistic History) that the Chronicler worked.
My own comparisons of these texts have led me to question the wisdom
of simply adjusting and emending what has been the consensus view since de
Wette.3 A schematic presentation of this usual view of the composition of
Kings is that a record of the kings of Judah (J), going back ultimately to the
archives in Jerusalem, was first synchronized with a similar record of the
kings of Israel (I), based on the archives of the Northern Kingdom, and next
given theological interpretation (T) from perspectives similar to those found
in Deuteronomy. The Chronicler then reworked some of J, removed I alto-
gether, and adjusted T in terms of his own perspectives. My alternative model
is that the record of the kings of Judah (J), much as we find in Kings, had
already been given theological interpretation (T) prior to the writing of Kings
or Chronicles. These synoptic materials can be represented by J⫹T. The
author of Kings inserted I and developed T, so producing J⫹I⫹TKgs. The
author of Chronicles reworked J, and developed T, so producing JChr⫹TChr.
In this model, neither the author of Kings nor the author of Chronicles
had revised their source material (J⫹T) as radically as the consensus view
supposes of the Chronicler.
This alternative model encourages more critical historical scrutiny of the
material about the northern kings (I). Supposing that no material emanating
from the royal archives in Samaria had been available to him, what would an
exilic or post-exilic writer of Samuel–Kings have known, or been able to
deduce, about the kings of northern Israel? The first and most important
point to remember is that half the names after Solomon on which he provides
information (strictly, nine out of nineteen) are in fact already mentioned
within the J-material on the kings of David’s line. Much of the structure of
the synchronistic presentation in Kings of the neighbouring monarchies
could have been derived from the reports emanating from Jerusalem about
joint or opposed actions by the kings of Judah and Israel. These reports
(within J) are preserved almost identically in Kings and Chronicles: the
author of Chronicles, who is widely held to have deleted from his supposed
source (the Books of Kings), the reports of Israel’s kings, in fact left this
material intact. In this respect, I am happy to agree with Nadav Na’aman (in
3
See in particular Kings without Privilege (Edinburgh 1994) and Samuel at the Threshold
(Aldershot 2004).

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342 Graeme Auld
this volume, p. 406) when he derives from the Judaean record (J) on Asa
(1 Kgs 15.13–24) some of the information on Baasha within 1 Kings 15.25–
16.7 (I). Indeed, if some of the material on Baasha had to be drawn from J, I
wonder whether it is wise of Na’aman to suppose that the source of the infor-
mation on Nadab before Baasha or Elah his successor was any early source.
Two of Brettler’s observations also happen to converge with my alterna-
tive model: one relates to J[udaean] and the other to T[heological] materials.
He reviews (p. 324) some of the evidence that suggests that the longer and
more famous account of the slaying of the Philistine giant Goliath by David
(1 Samuel 17) was derived in part from the short note in 2 Samuel 21.19. He
does not add that Chronicles, which includes no version corresponding to
1 Samuel 17, does have a short note in 1 Chronicles 20.5, which is closely
related to 2 Samuel 21.19. I would argue that the original version of these
short notes in 2 Samuel 21 and 1 Chronicles 20 had been part of the (synop-
tic) J-material, and was incorporated differently into Samuel–Kings and
Chronicles. Then he discusses (pp. 326–29) the date of the religious claim
‘The Lord alone is God’ (yhwh hû’ ha’elohîm), noting that its biblical distri-
bution is Deuteronomy 4.35, 39; 1 Kings 8.60; 18.39; 2 Chronicles 33.13. I
agree with him that Deuteronomy 4 comprises some of the latest material in
that book; and that 2 Chronicles 33.13, being non-synoptic, will derive from
the Chronicler himself. But I would want to be more even-handed, and note
that all of 1 Kings 18 and of 1 Kings 8.50b–61 (with the possible exception
of a few words in v. 54) are also non-synoptic; and deduce that three late-
biblical authors/editors had added one and the same recently formulated reli-
gious claim to the texts with which they were working (Deuteronomy, Kings
and Chronicles). The Chronicler had suppressed neither the story of Elijah
nor ten verses from Solomon’s prayer; for these did not form part of the text
he inherited. Viewed from another perspective, the Chronicler was no less
ready to add a freshly minted formula to his text than the so-called
‘Deuteronomist’, whose hand is detected in Deuteronomy 4 and 1 Kings 8.60
and 18.39. The authors of Kings and Chronicles developed in markedly dif-
ferent ways the synoptic material they shared; but they also lived in the same
world—it should not surprise us if they independently built into their narra-
tives at different points some shared current formulations.
This model of the composition of the Books of Kings—a primary record
of Jerusalem’s kings, including theological evaluation, secondarily enhanced
with a record of the northern kings—helps to explain why the two king-lists
share the same pattern. The presentation of David and his twenty successors
in Jerusalem in the synoptic material (J) may already have been schematic.
However, whether schematic or not, that presentation served as the model for
the reconstruction of northern Israel’s king-list. There is no doubting the
existence of such a kingdom and series of royal houses: (a) at least six of

16 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:07 Page 343
Samaria’s kings are mentioned in Assyrian inscriptions; (b) nine of

Solomon’s northern successors feature in the story of Judah. But there is
every reason to doubt many elements of the very schematic presentation of it
in the books of Kings. If I was not only added to J⫹T some time after the
fall of the Davidic house in Jerusalem but even patterned on the basis of J,
then it may no longer be safe to suppose that its information was derived in
any helpful sense from archives once in Samaria, the northern Israel capital:
that city had been destroyed at least some 150 years earlier. The story of
Israel is presented in Kings as one from which Judah should have learned; yet
it was from an earlier story of Judah that its patterning of Israel’s kings and
some key information about them was drawn.

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17
Social History of Ancient Israel
RAINER ALBERTZ
DURING THE NINETEENTH AND EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURIES, biblical schol-

ars (such as Julius Wellhausen, Albrecht Alt and Martin Noth) tended to deal
with only some elements of ancient Israelite social history as part of their his-
torical investigation (exceptions to this were Louis Wallis [1907] and Antonin
Causse [1937]). The historical approach to the Bible with explicit reference to
the social sciences (including sociology, cultural anthropology, archaeology,
economics, social psychology and political science) became popular among
biblical scholars and archaeologists during the 1970s, often induced by social
turmoil in several countries.1 Since then, one might have expected that the
new social-historical approach—in spite of its somewhat ‘revolutionary’ ori-
gins—would by now be fully established in Old Testament research, and gen-
erally acknowledged by the scholarly community. But this is not the case. One
may observe that representatives of the new approach were twice allowed to
demonstrate the usefulness of sociology in Old Testament studies during
IOSOT congresses—firstly John W. Rogerson in Salamanca 1983, followed
by Christa Schäfer-Lichtenberger in Oslo 1998.2 One may also refer to the
fact that about forty well-known scholars worldwide pursue social-historical
research on ancient Israel of some kind, but there is still no consensus on the
methodology of this kind of research and—in spite of all useful, but limited
results—a comprehensive ‘Social History of Ancient Israel’ has not yet been
written.3 Nearly ten years ago Charles E. Carter, who tried to collect the most
important articles containing social-scientific approaches to the Hebrew
Bible in one textbook, characterized this kind of research as ‘a discipline in
transition’ (1996, 3). He still felt obliged to defend it against the suspicion of
eclecticism, modernistic anachronism, determinism and reductionism, which
1
Cf. in Germany e.g. Schottroff and Stegemann 1979; much more balanced were the early social-
historical approaches in Great Britain, cf. Rogerson 1978 and Mayes 1989.
2
Cf. Rogerson 1985 and Schäfer-Lichtenberger 2000. She is more optimistic with regard to a
possible agreement about the use of sociological concepts and procedures (179).
3
As far as I know, there exists only a short overview from Gottwald (1992, 82–87) and a series
of broad outlines in my History of Israelite Religion (Albertz 1994); recently, a comprehensive,
though still introductory, survey has appeared (Kessler 2006).

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348 Rainer Albertz
would distort our understanding of the biblical world (cf. fundamentally

Herion 1986; partly Lemche 1990), especially concerning its religious dimen-
sion (Carter 1996, 23–28). During the last decade, interest in social-historical
questions has faded. Thus, some self-critical and thorough reflections are
required.
1. CRITIQUE AND METHODOLOGY
An outward sign of the still unsettled state of the discipline can be observed
in the fact that there is no broad, open debate about the best solutions
between scholars in North America and those in Europe, especially in
Germany. The thick textbook of Carter and Meyers (1996) includes prima-
rily Americans and only a few Europeans (Andrew Mayes, Nils Peter Lemche
and Keith Whitelam), but none of the German scholars who are contribu-
ting to social-historical research (such as Willy Schottroff, Frank Crüsemann,
Rainer Kessler, Christa Schäfer-Lichtenberger or the present author) is
taken into account; they are even disregarded in Carter’s introduction to the
history of the young discipline (1996).4 The situation was not quite as bad
in Germany. There was some discussion about the concepts of Norman
Gottwald (1981), James Flanagan (1981), Frank Frick (1985), and Robert
Coote (Coote and Whitelam 1986) and other Americans; but as much as
many agree with their critiques raised against former historical assumptions
concerning pre-state Israel and the emergence of statehood, no one accepted
any of their societal models in their entirety. In his summarizing article on the
‘Sociology of Ancient Israel’ for the Anchor Bible Dictionary (1992),
Gottwald ignored the social-historical scholarship of Germany completely.5
One can speculate on the reason for this unusual phenomenon. It is hard
to believe that scholars on both sides of the Atlantic who were engaged in
social-historical work could have had serious language problems. Admittedly,
there is growing alienation between American and German biblical scholars,
which is regrettable and which we should try to overcome. But as much as
scholars interested in social-historical work still constitute a minority among
biblical scholarship, they should have built up closer connections in order
to present a stronger defence of their interest. Instead, they mutually dispute
4
In his detailed article there is no German scholar mentioned at all after Martin Noth (Carter
1996, 17).
5
In his bibliography (1992, 89), astonishingly enough, Gottwald mentioned (apart from
Bernhard Lang, who did only some minor work on social history) just the older scholar M. Lurje
(1927), who tried to adapt Marxist theory to the ancient Israelite society; not by chance, this
scholar is totally forgotten in Germany.

17 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:08 Page 349
SOCIAL HISTORY OF ANCIENT ISRAEL 349
the appropriateness of the sociological models they use, or they retreat to the
consent of their own little schools and ignore the others. Therefore, in my
view, it is the choice of a specific sociological or anthropological model devel-
oped by a more or less famous sociologist or anthropologist and its adap-
tation to the Israelite society of a certain period, which—because of the
inclusion of personal views and the sparseness of data—cannot fully be con-
trolled, that makes the discussion between different scholars and schools
more difficult.
In view of these problems, I would like to make four methodological
remarks. First, it should be remembered that the choice of a sociological
model is a matter of usefulness, and not a matter of confession. Models are
just heuristic tools for a better understanding (cf. Malina 1982, 233–37;
Carter 1996, 8–13). Whether one chooses a structural functionalist model
(e.g. Émile Durkheim, Karl Marx, Talcott Parsons or Niklas Luhmann) or
an actor- or conflict-theoretical model (Norbert Elias, Lewis A. Coser or Ralf
Dahrendorf) depends on what one wants to describe. The structural func-
tionalist models, which conceptualize society as an equilibrium of several
subsystems with different functions—such as adaptation to the physical envi-
ronment, under the economic subsystem, goal attainment of its members
and groups, under the political subsystem, integration of their social roles,
under the legal subsystem, and maintenance of cultural patterns, under the
cultural and religious institutions according to the model of Talcott Parsons
(1966)—are useful for describing how a given society works at a certain stage.
Structural functionalist models presuppose that every society is relatively per-
sistent and stable. Therefore they are relatively inappropriate for explaining
rapid historical changes; they can only take notions of societal changes of
moyenne or longue durée, for example by a growing differentiation of the
subsystems or by changing the means or the modes of production.
However, far closer to the most variable historical reality are the actor- or
conflict-theoretical models, which perceive society as an ongoing competi-
tion, dispute and conflict between various groups, including individuals, who
hold different goals and interests. According to Lewis Coser (1956), conflicts
can help to adapt social relations more properly, and they can also tear up
social relations; but even in this dysfunctional operation they may have
important innovative effects. So society is always in a state of change. What
maintains the social system is not consensus, as in the structural functional-
ist models, but constraint (cf. Malina 1982, 235). If one wants to analyse
more closely the history of ancient Israelite society in shorter periods, and if
there is enough data about inner-societal groups available, the actor- or
conflict-theoretical model will often be the first choice. I made use of it with
some success while constructing the history of Israelite religion as ‘an ongo-
ing discussion between various Israelite groupings about the way in which

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350 Rainer Albertz
particular historical developments are to be interpreted in the light of God and

what is to be done, according to God’s will, in the face of these challenges’
(Albertz 1994, 12). By adopting such a choice, however, structural function-
alist models are not excluded. They are useful for placing a given dispute or
conflict in the proper type of society and its substructures. So, in contrast to
the methodical view that one has to decide in favour of one sociological
model (Carter 1996, 24–25), I would plead for a continuous alternation of
perspectives between an actor- or conflict-theoretical and a structural func-
tionalist model, because they both have their restrictions. Not by chance,
Max Weber used elements of both kinds of models in his seminal work on
ancient Judaism (1921).6
Second, among the structural functionalist models one should choose
those that permit a plurality of variables between the functions of the differ-
ent subsystems. Even pre-industrial societies like that of ancient Israel had a
considerably complex structure; so it would be highly inappropriate to sup-
pose that only one subsystem, be it economic or cultural-religious, would
have had a formative influence on all the others. With regard to an ancient
Near Eastern society like Israel’s, where religion—as we know—did not
constitute a clearly separated sector as is the case for almost all industrial
societies, but penetrated all other subsystems, it would not be wise to choose
just a structural functionalist model, which not only tends to reduce religion
to its social functions but also tries to explain its nature by the physical,
economic and material realities (Durkheim, Marx, Luhmann).
In this regard it must be seen as a kind of tragedy that one of the most
learned and sophisticated scholars who has promoted the social-historical
approach in America, Norman K. Gottwald, chose only the Marxist model
of societal development many years ago (1981), which claims that the mode
of production (that is, the material forces of production plus the social rela-
tions of production within the economic-political subsystem) determines all
other subsystems of the society, including the cultural-religious or ideologi-
cal (1992, 82). Even after the collapse of communist states, Gottwald still felt
obligated to this extreme mono-causal model with its inherent materialist
perspective on religion. But whether his description of Israel’s societal devel-
opment using this model—starting from a communitarian (pre-state period)
mode of production, and moving further to a native tributary (monarchic
period), foreign tributary (Persian and Hellenistic period), and slave-based
mode of production (Roman period)7 having been opposed again and
again by surviving ‘communitarian forces’ or ‘elements’ (1992, 83–86)—pro-
6
Cf. the similar judgement of Carter 1996, 10.
7
Gottwald only slightly modified the scheme of historical materialism, by labelling the classless
society ‘communitarian’ and the ‘Asiatic mode of production’ ‘tributary’.

17 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:08 Page 351
vides a sufficient picture of Israel’s social and religious history must be

severely questioned.8
In contrast to Gottwald’s approach, which provides an obviously one-
sided point of view, I would plead for an open structural functionalist model
(cf. Schäfer-Lichtenberger 2000, 183–84), to overcome the alternative
between the materialist and idealist perspective. This model should be able to
demonstrate, how, on the one hand, a certain religion, its beliefs, rites and
cultic performances, influenced social structures and institutions, and how,
on the other hand, certain social conditions, such as economic needs and
societal changes influenced religious symbols, speeches and actions. Likewise,
such an interaction between the cultural-religious and the other societal sub-
systems should not be seen in a narrow causal and deterministic sense, but as
mutually influential, including a sample of variations, since members of a
society have the potential to act or react differently in a given situation.9
Third, as most sociological models were designed to describe and analyse
modern industrial societies, they should be chosen according to whether they
can easily be adapted to an ancient pre-industrial society such as Israel’s.
Niklas Luhmann’s system theory, which presupposes the complex and partly
independent subsystems of the modern industrial and bureaucratic society, is
surely less useful than Robert Bellah’s typology of societies according to their
degree of differentiation (1964). And Luhmann’s theory is less useful than the
typology of Gerhard and Jean Lenski relating to subsistence technologies
and strategies (1982). The Lenskis try to draw their sociological theories from
anthropological material relating to earlier stages of the history of mankind.
They distinguish hunting and gathering societies, simple and advanced hor-
ticultural societies, simple and advanced agrarian societies, simple and
advanced herding societies, fishing societies, maritime societies and industrial
societies (1982, 82ff). According to them, Israel first belonged to a simple and
then to an advanced agrarian society, and, inhabiting an ecologically mar-
ginal area, also adopted a herding subsistence strategy. Simple agrarian soci-
ety is defined by the use of copper and bronze tools, and advanced society by
the use of iron tools and weapons. According to Bellah (1964), Israel pro-
gressed from the category of ‘archaic religion’ to that of ‘historic religion’.
While the former is characterized by a monistic worldview, an elaborated
world of gods, and an established priesthood and sacrificial cult, the latter is
8
While Walter Brueggemann has praised Gottwald’s magisterial work The Tribes of Yahweh
(1981), comparing it to Wellhausen’s Prolegomena and Albright’s Stone Age to Christianity ‘in
significance, potential and authority’ (1980, 443), Gary A. Herion criticized it as a piece of
‘ideological historiography’ (1986, 254).
9
Cf. the differences Mayes (1988, 265–69) pointed out between Gottwald and Max Weber in this
respect.

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352 Rainer Albertz
represented by a dualistic worldview, a transcendent symbol system, religious

acts involving rejection of the world (with the aim of securing salvation in the
next world), and differentiated religious collectives. Of course, one can always
ask whether such cross-cultural typologies fit all details of the historical phe-
nomenon of Israelite society and religion. At any rate, they can be easily
adapted, and can help to evaluate and to classify the historical data, in order
to discover the common background of the specific elements of Israelite
development.
Fourth, in my view, there is an urgent need to clarify for what purpose
sociological models can be used in an historical context, and how their rela-
tionship to exegetical and historical data should be defined methodologically.
One can make the conspicuous observation that several English-speaking
scholars, such as Frick (1985) or Coote and Whitelam (1986), are able to
develop their social-historical theses with regard to ancient Israel almost
without referring to any textual sources, be they biblical or extra-biblical (cf.
the critique of Lemche [1990, 285]), while European and especially German
scholarship is normally strongly based on text work.10
This noticeable difference calls for careful reflection. Being aware that
there is currently no empirical data of statistical significance available from
the society of ancient Israel (nor will there ever be), we cannot use a socio-
logical model for the purpose of predicting certain events. A sociological
model employed in an historical context can only have a heuristic value for a
better understanding of events, social relations, and behaviour, which are
otherwise verified by historical sources. On its basis alone, one can never pos-
tulate that a specific event or development must have taken place because it
should have happened according to the sociological theory. In the best case,
information coming from a cross-cultural anthropological model can fill the
gaps between historically verifiable data with some degree of plausibility. In
contrast, a sociological or anthropological model can always be falsified by
exegetical and historical data.
Thus, any endeavour to reconstruct a societal development according to
a sociological or anthropological model without using as much historical
data as possible, be it from textual, iconographic or archaeological sources, is
very risky. Sociological models will never reach the degree of unambiguity
that is a distinguishing feature of scientific models. Therefore, a model that is
not permanently tested against data can be misleading. Also, it can happen
that an inappropriate model is chosen, as we will see in the case of the model
10
In his magisterial work Gottwald (1981) refers to many biblical and non-biblical texts, but his
sociological theory is predominant. His article, the ‘Sociology of ancient Israel’ (ADB 1992)
includes in nine pages only two biblical references! For his method see Gottwald 1993.

17 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:08 Page 353
of chiefdom, which Flanagan (1981), Frick (1985) and Hermann Niemann

(1993) took over from Elmar Service (1975).
In order to find an appropriate model and to test it thoroughly against all
available exegetical and historical data, I would like to plead for a careful bal-
ance between sociological theory and anthropological knowledge on the one
side, and exegetical and historical investigation on the other. Any scholar
who wants to discover the social history of ancient Israel should be equally
adept in both fields.
In order to make an appropriate balance, Robert R. Wilson proposed in
1984 a suitable procedure for the social-historical investigation of ancient
Israel, and I would suggest that this is still valid (1984, 30–53). According to
him the social-historical research of a certain problem, for example the struc-
ture of Israel’s pre-state society, should start with an investigation of the
biblical and archaeological evidence in order to elaborate the historical
framework, for which a sociological model and some comparative anthro-
pological information are needed. The result would be the conclusion that
the social structure of pre-monarchic Israel was based on real or fictitious
kinship.
This first exegetical and historical step provides criteria for Wilson’s sec-
ond step, ‘the choice of an anthropological approach’, which also includes
the sociological model. The most appropriate sociological-anthropological
approach should be chosen, in the given case the lineage systems in recent
non-state societies. In a third step, the anthropological evidence should be
studied in detail; because of the large number of societies that may be com-
pared, some generalizations about the nature of lineages, their growth and
their disintegration can be made. On the basis of the anthropological evi-
dence a new hypothesis to a specific problem can be formulated in a fourth
step. According to Wilson, this sociological hypothesis must be critically
tested, in a fifth step, against the historical data elaborated for ancient Israel.
This stage can often make new exegetical, archaeological and anthropologi-
cal investigations necessary, before the final social historical hypothesis for
ancient Israel can be formulated (sixth step).
In my view, the methodical circle of historical and sociological investiga-
tions proposed by Wilson is exemplary. It can help to select and to adapt the
appropriate sociological model and recent anthropological data with regard
to the world of ancient Israel in a proper and more reflected manner. I would
only like to add the suggestion that not only should the sociological approach
be professional, but also the biblical approach should have the sophistica-
tion of contemporary exegesis. Interestingly enough, such a committed social
historian as Wilson is fully aware of the limits of the anthropological
approach:

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354 Rainer Albertz
The modern material does not supply a comprehensive sociological description

which can then be used to reconstruct ancient Israelite society. . . careless use of
contemporary evidence may obscure the unique features in the societies being
studied. Rather, at most anthropological work can help to elaborate and
interpret ancient evidence and may contribute to the coherence of a historical
reconstruction. Modern evidence cannot prove the truth or falsity of a recon-
struction. That task can be accomplished only by testing the reconstruction
against the available ancient data (1984, 53).
2. RESULTS WITH PARTICULAR REFERENCE TO THE NINTH

CENTURY BCE
If one agrees with Gottwald in his summarizing article, the social-historical

research method with regard to ancient Israel has provided results in pre-
dominantly two fields, ‘on the tribal origins of Israel11 and on the formation
of the Israelite state’12 and ‘on the prophetic and apocalyptic phases of the
Hebrew Bible’13 (1992, 81; similarly Carter 1996, 17–23). But this seems to be
a rather narrow American perspective; even in the social-historical research
of the early 1990s, the scope of social-historical research was much wider;
today it embraces nearly all phases of Israelite history.14 In particular we can
distinguish three levels on which social-historical research has produced con-
siderable results: first on the level of Israelite history, including religious his-
tory (cf. Albertz 1994, etc.); second on the level of literature, exploring its
forms, emergence, functions and history (cf. Gerstenberger 1980; Gottwald
1985; Crüsemann 1992; Davies 1994; etc.); and third on the level of
hermeneutics, analysing the social location and the interests of the interpreter
and the social functions of different approaches in exegesis (cf. Gerstenberger
and Schoenborn 1999; Schottroff 1999; Kessler and Loos 2000; Crüsemann
2003; etc.). Answering the general topic of this book I would like to focus on
the first level.
11
See the most important studies of Noth (1930), Mendenhall (1962), Sigrist (1967), Malamat
(1973), Crüsemann (1978, 194–207), Wilson (1977), Gottwald (1981), Schäfer-Lichtenberger
(1983), Lemche (1985), Thiel (1985), Stager (1985), Finkelstein (1988), and Sigrist and Neu
(1989).
12
See the studies of Crüsemann (1978), Flanagan (1981), Frick (1985), Coote and Whitelam
(1986), Finkelstein (1989), Neu (1992), Niemann (1993), Schäfer-Lichtenberger (1996), and
Sigrist and Neu (1997).
13
See the studies of Hanson (1979), and Wilson (1979; 1980).
14
Here I can give only a few examples; for the later monarchic period cf. Kippenberg 1977,
Crüsemann 1983; Rüterswörden 1985; 1987; and Kessler 1992; 1994; for the exilic period cf.
Smith 1989; Albertz 2003a; for the Persian period cf. Kippenberg 1978, Schottroff 1983;
Crüsemann 1985; Talmon 1985 and Albertz 1981; 2003c.

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2.1. Social historical perspectives on the early monarchy in Israel and Judah
up to the ninth century
While the biblical sources focus the transition from a tribal league to monar-
chy on the names of Saul, David, and Solomon in the tenth century, modern
scholars such as David W. Jamieson-Drake (1991, 138–39), Ernst Axel Knauf
(1991, 39; 1994, 121; 2001, 288), Niemann (1993, 282), Israel Finkelstein and
Neil Asher Silverman (2001, 159), and others, draw their conclusions from
historical, archaeological, sociological and anthropological investigations
that suggest Israel’s rise to statehood cannot have taken place in the Northern
state before the ninth, and in the Southern state before the eighth century.
This may be a wise opinion under the present conditions, where the relia-
bility of the sources for the tenth century is heavily questioned. In a social-
historical perspective the problem still remains, however, whether such a
thesis fits any sociological or anthropological model, and whether the social
organization preceding statehood can be properly classified.
At first glance, it seems that Niemann (1993, 7 and 282) found a useful
solution: having pointed out that the means of central rule were rather lim-
ited and still dependent on tribal authorities during the tenth and the early
ninth century, Niemann classified the early Israelite monarchy as a chiefdom,
regarding it as an intermediate form of social organization between an egal-
itarian tribal society and a state (1993, 7). In this connection he explicitly
referred to the model of Service (1975), Flanagan (1981) and Frick (1985).
It should be remembered that Flanagan and Frick applied the chiefdom
model only to Saul and the early time of David; and in this restricted appli-
cation, I supported it (Albertz 1994, 109). In contrast, Niemann wanted to
apply it to the Israelite and Judaean monarchy up to the ninth or eighth cen-
tury in order to fill the gap until the late rise of full statehood. But is such a
widened application possible?
Rainer Neu (1992, 282) demonstrated that Service’s thesis, which claims
that an emergence of states is generally preceded by an emergence of chief-
doms, is not generally true. It is developed mainly from the insular societies
in the Pacific, which differ widely from those in ancient Palestine. Schäfer-
Lichtenberger (1996, 88–89), and recently Kessler (2003, 122–29), have con-
vincingly shown that Service’s model is only valid for primary states in an
isolated environment. Israel, however, was not isolated, but surrounded by
many considerably older primary and secondary states, which had already
developed the institution of monarchy centuries before. So Israel’s monarchy
clearly belongs to the type of secondary states, which emerge normally with-
out an intermediate chiefdom. Thus it has become questionable whether one
can apply Service’s model at all. And it becomes much more questionable

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356 Rainer Albertz
whether Israel could have persisted in a stage of chiefdom for centuries—as

Niemann imagined—even though it was surrounded by monarchic states.15
Of course, to use a modern term like ‘state’ for classifying the political
organization of an ancient society is always difficult. Niemann’s assessment
that Israel’s early monarchy was not a state has to do with his definition of
statehood, to which belong, among other things, a monopoly of legitimate
violence and a threefold stratification of the ruler, the ruled people and an
intermediate upper class (1993, 7 n. 34). But the appropriateness of such a
sociological model, which is orientated towards a modern state (cf. Max Weber
1972, 815–68), is very questionable. Schäfer-Lichtenberger has reminded us
that Weber (leaving aside the model of the modern state, which he defined as
a bureaucratic institution) has described the model of the ‘patrimonial state’
(1972 [originally 1921], 580–624), which is much more appropriate for state-
like organizations of the pre-modern era. This model was further modified by
Henri Claessen and Peter Skalník (1978), who conceptualized the model of
the ‘early state’ on empirical data from twenty pre-modern societies all over
the world. Claessen and Skalník pointed out that one can distinguish
between three stages of the early state: the inchoate early state, the typical
early state and the transitional early state.
To give just a few details:
The inchoate early state is found where kinship, family, and community ties still
dominate relations on the political field; where full-time specialists are rare . . .
The typical early state exists where kinship ties are counterbalanced by territor-
ial ones; . . . where non-kin officials and title holders begin to play a leading role
in government administration. . . The transitional early state is found where the
administrative apparatus is dominated by appointed officials; where kinship
influences are only marginal aspects of government . . . (Claessen and Skalník
1978, 23)
This corresponds exactly to what Niemann has pointed out for the early
Israelite monarchy, which he classified as a chiefdom; the importance of kin-
ship ties for the government at the beginning, which were gradually pushed
into the background, can be nicely parallelled by the development which
Claessen and Skalník conceptualized for the early state.16
15
Knauf (1994, 125–32; 142–45) wants us to believe that Ammon and Moab did not become
states before the ninth century, and Edom not before the eighth century, against the biblical
sources (1 Sam. 22.3–4; 2 Sam. 10.1–5; 12.26, 31; 1 Kgs 11.14–22 etc.). But his view that King
Mesha founded the Moabite state is questioned by his admission that the king’s stela presup-
poses some kind of annals, according to him a secure sign of statehood (126). That the Edomite
state was probably much older is shown by the fortified copper mine from the twelfth and
eleventh century recently found in Khirbet en-Nahas.
16
Cf. the similar model of ‘archaic states’ developed by Feinman and Marcus 1998.

17 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:08 Page 357
Moreover, Schäfer-Lichtenberger was able to demonstrate in detail that

the information given in the accounts of Saul, David and Solomon perfectly
correspond to the seven criteria Weber and Claessen and Skalník have named
for the patrimonial or the early state.17 According to her, David’s state—evi-
denced in the biblical texts—varies between the inchoate and the transitional
early state (1996, 105). The high degree of correspondence is remarkable,
since Claessen and Skalník did not include ancient Israel in their sample of
states, and were not influenced by the biblical picture. Of course, the model
cannot verify the historicity of all biblical details. On the contrary, one may
ask whether those elements which refer to the transitional early state accord-
ing to Schäfer-Lichtenberger, that is to say the biblical data concerning
population size, territory, political independence and ideology, include ideal-
istic exaggerations and retrojections. However, the anthropological model
demonstrates that the basic data of societal development the biblical sources
show would have been possible. In any case, from a sociological point of view,
there is no obstacle to, but rather strong support for, classifying Israelite
society of the tenth century as an early state.
This is not the place to discuss the historical problems of the tenth cen-
tury. I will only briefly refer to one biblical and one epigraphic piece of evi-
dence, which can support the appropriateness of the sociological model: in
the Hebrew Bible Saul and David are not given the title ro’sh, which was used
for example for Jephtah (Judg. 11.8–9, 11), but melek (1 Sam. 18.6; 26.17; 2
Sam. 2.4; 16.4, etc.), as for all later kings. This coherent terminology is
remarkable and calls for an explanation on the part of those denying an early
emergence of statehood.18 The Dan inscription from the ninth century veri-
fies that David was seen as the founder of a dynasty; and the political organ-
ization founded by David is already called a bayit, which in the preserved
context probably means a ‘state’ (cf. Isa. 8.14). If it is likely that Hazael called
the Southern state of Judah beyt-dawid as the Assyrians called the Northern
state of Israel bit humri,19 then it is highly probable that he regarded it as a
state already in the ninth century or even earlier.20
If Saul and David had already founded a state, what happened in the
ninth century? Axel Knauf derives from the Assyrian expression bit humri the
17
These are (1) population size, (2) territory, (3) centralized government, (4) political independ-
ence, (5) stratification, (6) productivity of surplus and tribute, (7) common ideology and concepts
of legitimacy; cf. Claessen and Skalník 1978, 21 and Schäfer-Lichtenberger 1996, 94–105.
18
According to Knauf (1994, 126) the term melek cannot mean ‘king’. He refers to New
Aramaic, where melek can denote just a village mayor. But he fails to give clear biblical evidence.
19
As in the Assyrian inscriptions of Adadnirari III, Tiglath-pileser III and Sargon II.
20
The remains of a monumental building recently found in the City of David above the ‘stepped
stone structure’ will perhaps verify that a state emerged in Jerusalem long before the eighth cen-
tury, as alleged by the ‘minimalists’.

17 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:08 Page 358
358 Rainer Albertz
conclusion that Omri was the founder of the Northern state (1994, 121). This
is—at first glance—a reasonable argument; probably the Assyrians saw it
that way. But, according to the biblical source, Omri, who usurped the throne
during a civil war in 881 BCE, was only an active founder of a new dynasty,
not a state founder. Knauf did not deny that there existed some kind of state
before Omri, since he admitted that the introduction of annals must already
have taken place under Jeroboam I (926–906), as he regarded administrative
language as a criterion for statehood (1994, 121–22 and 129). So the biblical
record, corrected and complemented by the archaeological and epigraphic
evidence, that the Northern state had a revolutionary start and then declined
because of its internal destabilization and external isolation, before the
Omrides could reorganize it and lead it to its first political, military and cul-
tural climax, offers a plausible view, which also gives an adequate explanation
for the Assyrian terminology.
According to the model of the early state, this reorganization led to a new
phase of statehood: founding a new capital of his own, Samaria, Omri
strengthened the independence of the central government against the influence
of tribal authorities. Overcoming international isolation, he integrated his
state into a system of alliances with Phoenicia, Judah and Aram-Damascus.
The most prominent expression of his active diplomacy was the marriage of
his son Ahab with Jezebel, a princess from Sidon (Timm 1982, 224–31).
Alongside this development, in reinforcing the military infrastructure and
the building programme for the capital and the fortresses (Megiddo, Hazor,
Jezreel), Omri and his son Ahab increased the social stratification of
Israelite society. The ordinary people had to carry the burden of taxes and
forced labour, whereas the growing upper class of state officials, officers and
merchants reaped the profits. They became holders of large estates, which
produced the surplus necessary for the expansion of state activities. In
2 Kings 4.1 we hear for the first time that small landowners came under eco-
nomic pressure from the expanding upper class; so the social conflict of the
eighth century was foreshadowed. The king’s increasing demand to expand
royal territory caused open social conflict, as can be seen in the Naboth story
(1 Kgs 21.1–20a): peasants who demonstrated against the king’s demand
were eliminated, even by judicial murder; and the local authorities and aris-
tocrats (horim; cf. vv. 8, 11) worked as the king’s handymen. So the king’s
power was mediated by the upper class to the people. Thus, there are several
indications of a major social change within the Northern state during the
ninth century.
According to Claessen and Skalník ‘the development of the mature class
society’ can be seen as typical of the ‘full-blown’ or ‘mature state’ (1978, 28).
Kessler has investigated the state and society of Judah from the eighth to the
early sixth century (1992). He has pointed out that the late Judean state was

17 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:08 Page 359
a class society, but had no neutral position for either class; on the contrary,
the upper class was closely allied with the state, making its profit with it and
trying to influence its politics, while it was promoting its own economic inter-
ests and oppressing the lower class (1992, 159–60; cf. Isa. 10.2). In my view,
Israelite society of the ninth century had not yet reached the stage of the
‘full-blown state’, but it had clearly entered the transitional stage of the early
state in that direction. According to Claessen and Skalník, this stage is char-
acterized among the features already mentioned above by the existence of
‘prerequisites for the emergence of private property in the means of produc-
tion, for a market economy and for the development of overtly antagonistic
classes’ (Claessen and Skalník 1978, 23). If this social-historical classification
is correct, the idea that in Israel the monarchy should have started with the
transitional stage of the early state, without passing the inchoate and the typ-
ical early state, must not be totally excluded, but nevertheless seems very
unusual.
2.2. Social historical perspectives on the religious and political struggles of

the ninth century
Apart from a proper social-historical evaluation of political development in

the ninth century, I would like to deal finally with its main religio-historical
problem. According to the biblical tradition, during this century the first strug-
gles for a more exclusive veneration of Yahweh took place in the Northern
state. It is reported that King Ahab built a temple for the Phoenician Baal in
his capital Samaria in order to allow his wife Jezebel to venerate her native
god (1 Kgs 16.32). This provoked strong protest from the prophets Elijah (1
Kgs 17–19; 2 Kgs 1) and Elisha, which ended in the cruel annihilation of the
Omride dynasty and the destruction of the Baal temple during the Jehu rev-
olution (2 Kgs 9–10). However, the conflict which overshadows the whole
biblical record of King Ahab and his sons still remains difficult to under-
stand. Archaeological and textual evidence create an awareness that there
was no exclusive Yahwism before the ninth century in Israel;21 thus it cannot
be adequately explained why the Omride diplomatic syncretism, which was
21
Cf. the inscriptions of Kuntillet ‘Ajrud and Khirbet el-Qôm, which verify along with the
masses of Asherah figurines found especially in Judah, the veneration of the goddess Asherah
from the ninth to the seventh centuries. It was continued by the worship of the Queen of Heaven
in the seventh and sixth centuries (Jer. 7.18: 44.15–19). According to recent exegetical analysis,
none of the prohibitions on worshipping gods other than Yahweh (Exod. 22.19; 23.13; Deut.
5.6; 6.4–5) can be dated before the late eighth century; only the date of Exod. 34.11–16 is still
disputed, and can probably be dated later. The prophet Hosea seems to know none of them.

17 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:08 Page 360
360 Rainer Albertz
fully accepted in the polytheistic world everywhere else, could have been so
heavily opposed in the first place.
Can the social-historical approach contribute anything to a better under-
standing of that conflict? Since there is no external evidence, a short evalua-
tion of the biblical material is of crucial importance. Following the recent
redaction-critical investigation by Susanne Otto (2001, 115–248) it can be
stated that the exilic DtrH included from the Elijah/Elisha stories only the
Naboth story (1 Kgs 21.1–20a), a shorter edition of the Ahaziah story (2 Kgs
1.2, 5–8, 17aa) and the Jehu story (2 Kgs 9.1–10.25*); not yet included was
the so called ‘drought composition’ from the late exilic period (1 Kgs 17–18),
which already reflects the Jehu revolution from the perspective of later
monotheism, and also the exilic ‘war stories’ (1 Kgs 20; 22; 2 Kgs 3;
6.24–7.17) and the ‘Elisha biography’ from the eighth century (1 Kgs
19.19–21; 2.1–6.23*; 13.14–21), which were included even later.22 The Naboth
and the Ahaziah stories were written before the destruction of the Northern
Kingdom, probably in the second part of the eighth century. The Jehu
story comes from the court of Jeroboam II (786–746); it tries to justify the
bloody start of the Nimshide dynasty and was probably written in the first
part of the eighth century. Although extremely biased against the Omrides, it
is the most reliable source for the religious conflict. Its minor contradictions
vis-à-vis the Dan inscription can be reconciled.23
According to these oldest sources, the religious conflict was focused on
the Baal temple in Samaria (2 Kgs 10.15–25), the public symbol of diplo-
matic syncretism and good relations with the Phoenician neighbour created
by Omri and Ahab. The conflict was expanded by other kinds of syncretistic
practices, such as Ahaziah’s obtaining oracles from Baal-zebub of Ekron (2
Kgs 1*). Furthermore, the religious conflict was supplemented by a social
conflict regarding the expansion of royal land in which Ahab and Jezebel
were involved (1 Kgs 21). As in two of the stories the hatred was directed
especially against Jezebel (21.7–15; 2 Kgs 9.22), Ahab’s Phoenician wife
22
More exactly, DtrH consisted of 1 Kgs 16.29–33; 21.1–29; 22.39–40; 22.52–2 Kgs 1.2, 5–8,
17aa, 18; 3.1–3; 8.16–29; 9.1–10.36.
23
While according to the biblical story Jehu killed Joram, the king of Israel, and Ahaziah, the
king of Judah (2 Kgs 9.23–4, 27), in the Dan inscription (lines 7–8) — if properly restored — the
Aramaean king Hazael claims to have committed the murder. The contradiction can be recon-
ciled by the assumption that Hazael and Jehu were allied during the coup d’état against the
Omrides, and this can be supported by the fact that the prophet Elisha not only provided Jehu
with the religious legitimation for the revolution, but was also involved in the enthronement of
Hazael (2 Kgs 8.7–15). While Hazael claimed to have been the leading figure in the coup d’état,
probably exaggerating his role, the Nimshides concealed his participation in order to legitimize
their revolution. They could not admit that they could owe their reign to the Aramaeans, who
meanwhile had become the worst enemy of Israel; cf. I. Kottsieper 1998, 488–95.

17 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:08 Page 361
and later queen mother seems to have been regarded as the cause of all the
trouble.
As far as can be seen from the oldest biblical tradition, the prophets
(mainly Elijah and Elisha) played a major role in the conflict against the
Omride kings. An anonymous prophet accused Ahab of the murder of
Naboth (2 Kgs 9.25–6), and so did Elijah (1 Kgs 21.19). Elijah accused
Ahaziah because of his consulting Baal-zebub (2 Kgs 1.5–8). And Elisha sent
one of his pupils to the front in order to secretly anoint the officer Jehu as
counter-king (2 Kgs 10.1–6, 10b), providing him with the religious legitima-
tion for overthrowing King Joram and all the Omride dynasty. As this last
example demonstrates, the prophets cooperated with other social groups.24
Such fundamental prophetic opposition during the ninth century against
the ruling king is a new phenomenon in Israel’s history. In the tenth century
the prophets we hear about were ecstatic groups with no visible social func-
tion (1 Sam. 10.5–6, 10–12; 19.18–24), or court prophets like Nathan and
Gad employed by the state, who predominantly functioned to stabilize the
institution of monarchy (2 Sam. 7; 1 Kgs 1). Such prophets in the service of
the kings are also mentioned later (1 Kgs 22). Only during the ninth century
did individual prophets and prophetic groups with no ties to institutions
emerge alongside these. Such prophets had largely detached themselves from
ties of kinship and profession (1 Kgs 19.19–21) in order to earn their living
as itinerant miraculous healers, exorcists, or oracle givers (1 Kgs 17.10–16; 2
Kgs 4.1–7; 4.8–17; 5). This phenomenon is connected with the economic
development of the ninth century: on the one hand it presupposes relatively
widespread social prosperity created by Omride policy, which made it possi-
ble for the population to ask for the services of these prophets and pay them;
while on the other hand it was a reaction to increasing social stratification,
since the prophetic groups seem to have been recruited above all from a lower
class which was either without means or had been impoverished (2 Kgs 4.1).
The group around Elisha sometimes suffered great poverty (4.38–44; 6.1–7),
although Elisha himself had been a prosperous farmer (1 Kgs 19.19) and also
had good contacts with members of the upper class (2 Kgs 4.8ff; 5) and with
certain kings (6.24–7.20; 13.14–19).
Thus the non-institutional prophets and prophetic groups of the ninth
century simultaneously profited from the economic prosperity that resulted
from Omride policy, and became a focus for the victims of this development.
Because of their economic independence and their position as social out-
siders, these prophets were able to become critical of the system. And because
of their close contacts with the victims of Omride economic development,
24
Cf. also the group of Rechabites at 2 Kgs 10.15–16, who supported Jehu.

17 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:08 Page 362
362 Rainer Albertz
the prophets could easily become the mouthpiece for the opposition to
Omride policy.
Having this societal location of the ninth-century prophets in mind, it is
easier to understand the prophets’ opposition to Omride diplomatic syn-
cretism. It has already been pointed out that this kind of syncretism was part
of the new royal policy of integrating the Northern Kingdom into a system
of alliances with its neighbours and of developing its military and civil
administration, which increased the social stratification of Israelite society. In
such a climate of deep social change, the Yahweh–Baal syncretism became a
symbol for the modern societal, economic and cultural development, which
was promoted by those who became the winners and rejected by those who
became the victims.
It is highly improbable that Ahab wanted to abolish or reduce the cult of
Yahweh in favour of Baal. As far as we can see, he promoted an official dithe-
ism (1 Kgs 18.21), where Yahweh remained the national god, but was to be
accompanied by Baal, the god of his Phoenician allies. Perhaps the king also
hoped that the inclusion of this old Syro-Palestinian weather god into
Israelite state religion could improve the state’s agriculture and the growth of
its economy. However, in the eyes of the social victims and the conservative
opponents of these societal changes, the religious policy of the Omride
dynasty appeared to be directed by the king’s coming under the bad influence
of his foreign wife and being ready to sell off Israel’s religious identity.
Thus, in my view, it was the coincidence of social conflict and manifest
foreign religious import that provoked conservative circles to oppose the offi-
cial Yahweh–Baal syncretism of the Omride dynasty. Not by chance, the
spokesmen of these circles, Elijah and Elisha, came from the eastern periph-
ery of the Northern state, where probably a less developed form of Israelite
society and Yahweh–religion still persisted. Here Yahweh’s personal relation-
ship to the people and his original unique position was probably remembered
in a more lively manner than in the capital.25 Against this background the
prophets Elijah and Elisha, who experienced the impoverishment of the tra-
ditional small landowners in their own environment, made Yahweh a symbol
for opposing the king’s social and religious policy. The opposition against all
that was regarded as injustice and foreign infiltration could therefore be
understood as a fight for Yahweh alone.
In the Jehu revolution initiated by Elisha, the fight for Yahweh alone
showed for the first time the intolerant and cruel consequences of the Israelite
25
Both Yahweh’s personal structured relationship to a large group and his original solitary posi-
tion without any wife and children are in my view prerequisites in the early religion of Israel,
which made the later development to monolatry and monotheism possible; cf. Albertz 2003b,
367–69.

17 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:08 Page 363
religion: Jezebel was brutally murdered, the Omride dynasty was annihilated
and the diplomatic syncretism between Yahweh and Baal was violently dis-
solved. But the victory of the radical opposition had a high price: the
Northern state went into a new political isolation. Jehu was forced to submit
to the Assyrians in order to get their support against his neighbours, as we
can see on the Black Obelisk of Shalmanesar III. However, Israel was left in
the hands of the Aramaeans without any protection during the next half cen-
tury. Thus, the first state-led monolatric attempt led to a disaster in foreign
policy.
Therefore, in my view, it was a very specific political, social, and religious
historical constellation during the ninth century BCE, when Israel experi-
enced the transition from an ‘early’ to a ‘mature state’, which pushed Israel’s
religious development in the direction of monolatry and monotheism.
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Schottroff, W. 1983. ‘Arbeit und sozialer Konflikt im nachexilischen Juda’, in L. and
W. Schottroff (eds), Mitarbeiter der Schöfung: Bibel und Arbeitswelt (München),
104–48.
——, F. Crüsemann and R. Kessler (eds), 1999. Gerechtigkeit Lernen: Beiträge zur
biblischen Sozialgeschichte (ThB 94; Gütersloh).
——, and L. Schottroff (eds), 1983. Mitarbeiter der Schöpfung: Bibel und Arbeitswelt
(München)
——, and W. Stegemann (eds), 1979. Der Gott der kleinen Leute: Sozialgeschichtliche
Bibelauslegungen, I: Altes Testament (München and Berlin).
Service, E. R., 1975. The Origins of State and Civilization (New York).
Smith, D. L., 1989. The Religion of the Landless: The Social Context of the Babylonian
Exile (Bloomington, IN).
Sigrist, C., 1967. Die regulierte Anarchie: Untersuchungen zum Fehlen und zur
Entstehung politischer Herrschaft in segmentären Gesellschaften Afrikas (Olten-
Freiburg).
——, and R. Neu, 1989. Ethnologische Texte zum Alten Testament, 1: Vor- und
Frühgeschichte Israels (Neukirchen-Vluyn).
——, 1997. Ethnologische Texte zum Alten Testament, 2: Die Entstehung des
Königtums (Neukirchen-Vluyn).
Stager, L. E., 1985. ‘The Archaeology of the Family in Ancient Israel’, BASOR 260,
1–35.
Talmon, S., 1985. ‘Jüdische Sektenbildung in der Frühzeit der Periode des Zweiten
Tempels’, in W. Schluchter (ed.), Max Webers Sicht des antiken Christentums:
Interpretation und Kritik (Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Wissenschaft 548; Frankfurt
am Main), 233–80 ⫽ ‘The Emergence of Jewish Sectarianism in the Early Second
Temple Period’, in idem, King, Cult and Calendar in Ancient Israel: Collected
Studies (Jerusalem, 1986), 165–201.
Thiel, W., 1985. Die soziale Entwicklung Israels in vorstaatlicher Zeit, 2nd edn
(Neukirchen-Vluyn).
——, P. Mommer and S. Pottmann (eds), 2000. Gelebte Geschichte: Studien zur
Sozialgeschichte und zur frühen prophetischen Geschichtsdeutung (Neukirchen-
Vluyn).
Timm, S., 1982. Die Dynastie Omri: Quellen und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Israels
im 9. Jahrhundert vor Christus (FRLANT 124; Göttingen).
Wallis, L., 1907. Sociological Study of the Bible (Chicago).
Weber, M., 1921. Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie, III: Das antike
Judentum (Tübingen).
——, 1972. Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriss der verstehenden Soziologie, 5th edn
(Tübingen).
Wilson, R. R., 1977. Genealogy and History in the Biblical World (New Haven).
——, 1979. ‘Prophecy and Ecstasy: A Reexamination’, JBL 98, 321–27 ⫽ Carter and
Meyers (1996), 404–22.
——, 1980. Prophecy and Society in Ancient Israel (Philadelphia).
——, 1984. Sociological Approaches to the Old Testament (Philadelphia).

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18
Law in the Ninth Century: Jehoshaphat’s

‘Judicial Reform’
BERNARD S. JACKSON
INTRODUCTION: SEEKING LAW IN THE NINTH CENTURY
THE CHRONICLER ATTRIBUTES TO JEHOSHAPHAT OF JUDAH (874–850 BCE) the

appointment of royal judges in all the fortified cities of his kingdom, and the
establishment of a central court in Jerusalem (2 Chron. 19.5–11). The his-
toricity of this account (to which there is no parallel in the Deuteronomic his-
tory) has been continually debated since the time of Wellhausen (who argued
that the Chronicler here projects back a reform that dates to the Josianic
period, seeking to give an aetiological explanation of Jehoshaphat’s name).1
The latter was entirely sceptical, but a reaction set in following the influential
article of Albright in 1950 (most of which is concerned with the historicity of
the Chronicler in general, and with providing comparative support from an
Egyptian source, the fourteenth decree of Haremhab2).3 While the historicity
1
Wellhausen, 1878, 197. See, however, Weinfeld 1977, 66f. For the most recent evaluation of the
Chronicler’s relationship to his sources, see Kalimi (2005); on his treatment of Jehoshaphat, in
particular, see Strübind 1991, 103–98. I am indebted to Sarah Pearce for making available to me
a revised version of the relevant sections (61–75, 207–21) of her unpublished 1995 Oxford doc-
toral thesis, which inter alia provides the fullest review of earlier arguments regarding histor-
icity, and is currently being prepared for publication, under the provisional title: Words of
Moses: Studies in the Reception of Deuteronomy in the Second Temple Period.
2
Albright (1950, 82) argues: ‘The tremendous influence exerted by Egypt on the civilization of
Palestine and Phoenicia is familiar to every archaeologist, no matter to which period he turns. It
would, accordingly, be passing strange if there were no observable influence from Egyptian quar-
ters on the administration of justice in Palestine, especially under the monarchy.’ Such an argu-
ment, for influence from a chronologically remote source (cf. Whitelam 1979, 204), ignores the
vast differences between Egypt and ancient Israel in the strength of central power. The closeness
of the parallel has also been criticized, e.g. by Whitelam 1979, 203–05; Rofé 2002, 112. We may
note, particularly, that Haremhab is said explicitly to have ‘put before them rules and ordi-
nances’, a claim conspicuously absent in 2 Chron. 19.
3
Despite maintaining the historicity of the account of the Chronicler, Albright (1950, 71) does
accept that there were two successive redactions, and that the text ‘bears unmistakable indications
of the Chronicler’s hand, both in the language and in the religious point of view’ (1950, 75).

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 370
370 Bernard S. Jackson
of the basics of the account4 is now taken to be the dominant view,5 a new
case6 for viewing it as entirely reflective of the ideology of the Chronicler was
advanced in 1994 by Gary Knoppers.7
Given that the Chronicler wrote some 400 years after the events here
described,8 it may not appear unreasonable to seek to assess the source by ref-
erence to what we think we know about law in the ninth century, rather than
treat it as direct evidence for the earlier period. Unfortunately, we have few
other sources describing the operation of the legal system in that period; the
(mis-)trial of Naboth under Ahab (in the North) is our only ‘datable’
control.9
In these circumstances, scholars have tended to have recourse to theo-
logical, linguistic and literary criteria.10 Stylistically, there is much in the
4
Thus, Whitelam 1979, 185–206; Williamson 1982, 288f.; Wilson 1983a, 60f.; Dillard 1987,
147f.; Japhet 1993, 772f. (and at 73f. against the view that Jehoshaphat’s reform reflects the system
of the Sanhedrin); Crüsemann 1996, 90f.
5
For reviews of the literature, see Dillard 1987, 147f.; Knoppers 1994, 59f.; Pearce, supra n. 1.
6
See Japhet 1993, 771 for a summary of earlier arguments against historicity, including the dat-
ing of the distinction between priests and Levites and the position of the chief priest as the ‘high-
est legal authority’ (but he derives his authority from the king, and is parallel to the nagid of the
house of Judah). See also Levinson 1997, 126 n. 73. Rofé 2002, 111, notes (but does not adopt)
the argument that Deuteronomy reflects the situation that came about after the king executed the
reform, since otherwise the narrative might be expected to claim that Jehoshaphat was carrying
out a written, pentateuchal law. Aliter Pearce, maintaining that the use of Deut. 16.18–20 may
be seen in the details of the king’s reported activity in setting up judges in the fortified cities, and
in the admonitions which he addresses to his newly appointed judges, the narrative being
designed to illustrate the king’s piety as one who observes the words of Moses as they appear in
Deuteronomy.
7
Arguing from the literary structure of the overall story of Jehoshaphat as presented by the
Chronicler, his language and particular theology. Less convincing are Knoppers’s arguments
regarding the relations between the various sources on judicial organization (he takes the
Chronicler to reflect the Exodus 18 and Deuteronomy 16/17 traditions and to provide an exege-
sis of them, as does Pearce 1995; for a different account of the interrelationships, see Jackson
1995, 1806–26) and the history of ideas of the role of divine justice. In particular, Knoppers,
though rightly stressing the different literary and substantive functions of the actions ascribed
to Jehoshaphat in 2 Chron. 17 and 19 (1994, 62f., 67), does not address the question why there
should be no reference to a written source of law in the judicial reform. If the account reflects
(only) the aspirations of the post-exilic polity, this is rather surprising. Nor is it clear, on
Knoppers’s account, why Jehoshaphat should have been chosen for such treatment.
8
Albright (1950, 72) dates the first edition of the work between 425 and 405 BCE. He takes the
author to have been Ezra.
9
On the difficulties of accepting the historicity of the story, in relation to the account of
Naboth’s death in 2 Kgs 9.25–26, the location of Ahab’s palace and other considerations, see
Williamson 1991, 84–89. On the dating of the story, see also Rofé 1988.
10
Japhet (1993, 771) notes the strong parallel structure, according to which the appointment is
first recorded (vv. 5 for the local judges, 8 for the central judges), followed by Jehoshaphat’s
admonition, commenting that this is taken so seriously that some of the reform measures are
included in verse 11 as part of the exhortation of Jehoshaphat.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 371
LAW IN THE NINTH CENTURY 371
account characteristic of the Chronicler’s language.11 On the other hand,

there are also deviations from his normal style, such as to suggest that he
was using an external source, however much he may have adapted it.12 There
are also thematic and substantive affinities (as well as differences13) with
pentateuchal sources describing the organization of the legal system: some
have seen them as sources for the Chronicler,14 while others have taken the
Jehoshaphat tradition as representing a recollection of a genuine, earlier
stage in the development of the legal system.15
The methodological problems are thus complex. Though the Chronicler
may well have been influenced by Deuteronomic law for his presentation, it
is far from clear that all the deviations from his normal style are attributa-
ble to that source. We cannot exclude the possibility that he used a different
source, with affinities to the Deuteronomist, or indeed a combination of
sources. Nor do arguments like that of Knoppers, showing the coherence of
his presentation with his own theological and ideological concerns, exclude
11
See Japhet 1993, 777 on vv. 9–10: ‘fear of the Lord, in faithfulness and with your whole heart’;
on kohen harosh (the Chronicler’s routine designation, rather than kohen gadol used in other
post-exilic sources) see Williamson 1982, 291; Dillard 1987, 146 n. 11.a; Japhet 1993, 771; Pearce
1995; on the description of the land from south to north, rather than vice versa, see Williamson
1982, 287f.; Knoppers 1994, 70; on the expression ‘God of their fathers’, see Japhet 1993, 774;
on the tendency to praise Jehoshaphat, see Japhet 1993, 771f.
12
On the listing of the Levites before the priests, contrary to the practice of the Chronicler (but
found also in 17.7–9: see section 4 below), see Williamson 1982, 288; Dillard 1987, 147. On the
use of riv terminology and ‘your brothers’ (2 Chron. 19.10), see Pearce 1995.
13
Among the differences are the manner of appointment of the local judiciary (central appoint-
ment in 2 Chron. 19.8, cf. Exod. 18.21, 25; local nomination in Deut. 1.13, 15 and Deut. 16.18;
see also Levinson 1997, 117), and the personnel who may be so appointed (the use of ‘Levitical
priests’ and a shofet in Deut. 17.9, as against Levites, priests and family heads in 2 Chron. 19.8).
See further Williamson 1982, 288f.; Japhet 1993, 773–78; Rofé 2002, 114 (viewing the Chronicles
account as attempting to harmonize exegetical difficulties in the earlier sources). We may note
also the fact that the provisions for the ‘first instance’ (local) judges are in Deuteronomy sepa-
rated from those relating to the central court. This may well reflect an historical development.
Both Deut. 1.9–17 (despite its relationship to Exod. 18) and Exod. 23.1–8 are concerned only
with ‘first instance’ (local) adjudication. Conversely, we may infer that both the judge and the
priest in Deut. 17.8–13 are royal appointees (as also in the Jehoshaphat version). On the history
of scholarship on this matter, and an ingenious explanation of the separation as designed to rein-
force by literary means Deuteronomy’s secularization of the local courts by transferring all ‘cul-
tic’ jurisdiction (the use of special ‘divine procedures’) from the local to the central sanctuary, see
Levinson 1997, 98–143.
14
Williamson 1982, 289 (as to the parenetic material); Dillard 1987, 147; Pearce 1995; see also
Japhet 1993, 771. Knoppers (1994, 72f., 77) argues against the view that Exod. 18 was written
as an aetiology of Jehoshaphat’s reform, given the differences between them. I agree, but it does
not follow from this that the Jehoshaphat tradition does not itself represent an earlier stage in
thinking regarding judicial organization than the account in Exodus.
15
Knoppers (1994, 59f.) lists Boecker, Macholz, Mayes, Myers, Phillips, Whitelam, Williamson
(as to the frame of vv. 5, 8. and 11a) and Wilson (who argues at 1983b, 246 from the place of a
‘secular’ judge in the central court) as endorsing this view. See Rofé 2002, 111, supra n. 6.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 372
the possibility of historicity. Every historian has his or her own concerns, or
‘spin’. The question remains: what is s/he spinning? Our assessment of the
possibility of historicity must not only take account of the coherence of the
account with both the historical conditions of the writer and his/her objec-
tives, but must also address the issue of anachronism: a coherent but
anachronistic account may be judged fictional; a coherent but non-
anachronistic account may be judged to exemplify the creative art of the
historian. In this chapter, I seek to address the issue of anachronism from
the standpoint of the history of biblical law, and ask whether the Chronicler
paints a picture coherent with law as it is likely to have functioned in the
ninth century.
The problem, however, does not commence in the ninth century. Almost
universally, 2 Chron. 19.4–11 is taken to be a ‘judicial reform’, which assumes
the existence of a preceding judicial system. This, most commonly, is taken to
have been ‘tribal’,16 and is often associated, problematically,17 with ‘the eld-
ers’.18 The role of Jehoshaphat is therefore seen as a measure of centraliza-
tion of the legal system, though other motivations19—such as the rooting out
16
Thus Williamson (1982, 289) derives from the work of Phillips, Whitelam, Macholz and
Mayes the view that ‘the tradition of tribally-based systems of justice must have given way at
some stage to the more central and royally appointed institutions outlined here, and various texts
in the eighth-century prophets, such as Isa. 1.21–26; 3.2; Mic. 3.1–2, 9–11, suggest that this was
before their time’.
17
Wilson (1983b, 236f.) sees the characteristics of adjudication by elders in lineage societies as
consensus and compromise, but he claims at 237f. to find pre-monarchical evidence for their
activity in sources some of which (Achan in Josh. 6–7) make no mention of elders. In fact, the
only text attributing a legal function to them in pre-monarchic times is Ruth 4.2, 4, 9, 11. But
their role there is hardly judicial: Boaz himself collects ten of them together, in order to witness
his transaction with the next of kin.
18
Albright 1950, 75: ‘That the administration of civil justice was transferred long before the
Exile from the “elders” to royally appointed judges may be taken as certain, since there are innu-
merable historical parallels.’ In n. 57 he cites Canaanite and Phoenician parallels for the role of
elders (Tyre, Amarna) though accepting that the ‘elders of an Israelite town were much less
important’! Cf. Dillard 1987, 148: some centralization of judicial authority must be presumed
during Israel’s transition from a tribal confederacy to the centralized monarchy; Williamson
1982, 289f.: ‘The heads of families of Israel will have stood in continuity with the older judicial
system of elders.’ See also Wilson 1983b, 234 on the relationship of elders (heads of extended
families) to the lineage system.
19
The relationship to the religious reform suggested in 2 Chron. 19.4 is not clear. The suggestion
of Pearce (1995), that the king brings about repentance by putting into practice what Moses
commanded for the administration of justice, namely the laws of Deut. 16.18–20 and 17.8–13,
only serves to illustrate the difficulty. Japhet (1993, 774) observes that in the time of Jehoshaphat
(unlike that of Hezekiah and Josiah) there was really no need for such radical measures.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 373
of corruption20 or the introduction of cultic personnel21—are sometimes

proposed.
Not only is such a preceding legal system assumed to have existed;
assumptions are also made about its manner of operation. The judges are
often taken to have had access to a code of laws, in written form, and to have
had the task of applying those laws.22 The widespread existence of ‘codes’ in
the ancient Near East of the preceding millennium often reinforces the use of
this model to interpret the biblical data, notwithstanding the fact that the use
of such codes by judges in courts even there remains singularly devoid of evi-
dence.23 A final aspect of this tacit developmental model relates to its legiti-
mation: the Chronicler has imposed a strong version of divine legitimation
on an historical event which originally was simply an emanation of royal
power, and thus (more or less) primarily ‘secular’.24
20
Whitelam (1979, 196) sees the reform as designed to counter corruption in the former local
judiciary; for Dillard (1987, 148f.) it is corruption in an already centralized judiciary, arguing
from the list of officials in 1 Chron. 23–27.
21
Thus Albright (1950, 76) supposed that at first the crown intervened in local affairs to the
extent of selecting magistrates from among the ‘elders’; when this system failed to work satis-
factorily, Jehoshaphat designated local dignitaries as royally appointed judges. He saw the true
significance of the reform as the prominence given to the Levites and priests.
22
Thus, Williamson 1982, 282: ‘it is likely that there was a law code in Judah as in most ancient
near eastern monarchies’, citing Yeivin 1953 (see n. 29, infra). But the latter commences from the
assumption that David already found in Jerusalem the institutions of an old Canaanite city-state
(149), and that ‘every organised state . . . must have a legal code . . . and in the ancient world such
a code was all comprising . . . (it) stated how he was required to behave . . . every moment of his
life’ (!). For the later development of ‘code’-based adjudication, see Ezra 7.25; Jackson 2000,
141–43.
23
For a review of current views on the functions of the ‘codes’, see Jackson 2006a, §2.6.
24
Knoppers (1994, 61f.) takes the account to reflect the royal ideology of the Chronicler himself,
who portrays Jehoshaphat in ideal terms, as extending the political and military structures estab-
lished by his predecessors and as further defining the role of the Davidic king in administering
the kingdom (as contrasted with the Deuteronomic History, which makes no reference to the
judicial reform: see Whitelam 1979, 187f.; Japhet 1989, 432ff., 510–11; 1993, 774 ). But this royal
success story was not viewed by the Chronicler in purely secular terms: ‘The Chronicler is a
monarchist. The royal accumulation of wives, horses, and wealth may be taboo in Deuteronomy
(17.14–20), but many wives, large families, large armies, and tremendous wealth signify royal suc-
cess and divine blessing in Chronicles’ (Knoppers 1994, 79f.). Others, too, have noted the more
restrained view of the royal role found in Deuteronomy (and Pearce views this as part of the evi-
dence for the Chronicler’s dependence on D). Thus Wilson (1983b, 246) notes that the king plays
no role in Deuteronomy’s system, and that it is not even clear that the judges are royally
appointed (a point of distinction from the Jehoshaphat narrative). Levinson (1997, 126, 138, 141)
sees Deut. 17.8–13 as implying a ‘striking suppression’ of the ideology of divinely-inspired royal
justice; Deuteronomy seeks to ‘create a fully independent judiciary that is equally free of royal
control’. He takes Deut. 17.14–20 (the Deuteronomic law of the king) to reflect the ‘eclipse of
royal judicial authority’ (1997, 138) in that ‘not a word is said about his traditional judicial func-
tion’ (1997, 141), while Deut. 17.8–13 ignores the judicial role of the king. We may grant, with
Levinson, that Deut. 17.14–20 is hardly a manifesto of the royal prerogative (‘reduced to a mere

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 374
Many of these assumptions require reconsideration. The existence of

anything resembling a ‘legal system’ in the ‘tribal’ (pre-monarchic) age is
highly doubtful. Self-help was the order of the day, as is graphically illus-
trated in the final chapters of the Book of Judges, where a local breach of
hospitality rapidly escalated into a tribal war.25 Crüsemann agrees that
‘acephalous’ societies, such as that depicted in the period of the ‘Judges’, do
not have a regular legal system: the narratives depicting dispute resolution in
the pre-monarchic period provide a picture of law based upon self-help and
negotiation: they lack any ‘mediation figure. They never mention the possibil-
ity of neutral settlement or intervention by a third party.’26 It is only with the
coming of the monarchy that a central power is able to establish legal insti-
tutions: the elders sitting at the gate are viewed by Crüsemann as part of this
new apparatus established by the king.27 Indeed, he takes the Mishpatim of
Exodus 21.1–22.16, the earliest collection of legal rules in the Pentateuch,28
to have been the ‘code’29 of the central court in Jerusalem.30
While I find myself in basic sympathy with the account Crüsemann gives
of law in the ‘acephalous’ period of biblical history, it seems unlikely that there
would have been so sudden and complete a transition,31 under the monarchy,
to a situation in which the ‘state, having a monopoly in power, would control
titular figurehead of the state, more restricted than potent, more otiose than exercising real mil-
itary, judicial, executive, and cultic function’: 1997, 141), but it does still insist that the king is
chosen by God (Deut. 17.15). Is the (modern?) notion of a ‘fully independent judiciary’ really
compatible with that?
25
Cf. Wilson 1983b, 239 on the story as illustrating the weaknesses of the lineage form of social
organization. Wilson 1983b, 238f. comments on the role here of a ‘lineage of elders’. But they
are not zekenim: see Judg. 20.1–2, where tribal leaders meet in an edah.
26
1996, 73; aliter Otto (1993) reviewing Crüsemann 1992.
27
In fact, there is no trace of the elders either in the Mishpatim or in any of the sources relating
to the establishment of the local judiciary. We may note, however, their use by Ahab in story of
the judicial framing of Naboth (1 Kgs 21. 8, 11; see n. 9, supra). Yet even here, they do not act
alone, but rather along with the local ‘nobles’ (hahorim). Nor is their function purely judicial:
they also proclaim a fast for the day of the trial (v. 12).
28
Despite Van Seters 2003. See Jackson 2005, 86–98.
29
Yeivin (1953, 153–55, 164) also argued that Jehoshaphat introduced a code of law — in his
view, the (already compiled) Deuteronomic code!
30
And, for Crüsemann, the object of Isaiah’s attack in 10.1–4: see 1996, 165–68. See also Osumi
1991, 145. Against the view of Crüsemann and Osumi that the casuistic laws of the Mishpatim
could have provided an adequate source for that court, see Wagner 2002, 241; on Crüsemann’s
dating and setting of these laws, see Fitzpatrick-McKinley 1999, 36–38.
31
Cf. Wilson 1983b, 240: ‘Israel did not make an abrupt transition from lineage organization to
kingship.’ He cites also Flanagan 1981, on the role of chiefs in this transition. See also his com-
ments on David’s arbitrary ‘judicial decisions’ (Nathan’s parable, Amnon, Absalom) at 1983a,
243 as suggesting that some judicial authority still resided in the lineages (David acting as lineage
chief rather than through ‘an efficient central court system’).

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 375
law’32—and through a law code, at that. In fact, actual cases of adjudication

by ‘secular’ authorities other than the king are conspicuously lacking in the
narrative sources,33 nor is the early monarchy a period for which archaeology
suggests such cultural influence from the ancient Near East as might have gen-
erated the introduction of a law code.34 Moreover, comparative evidence (e.g.
the notion of the ‘king’s peace’ in England35) suggests a more gradual evolu-
tion of central power, as the conception of royal interests itself expands.36 As
Frick observes: ‘Central amongst such characteristics [of chiefdomship] is the
fact that pre-existing socio-political units are not abolished by the traditional
state, which instead bases its structure on them.’37
32
Crüsemann 1996, 76. Against this attribution of legislative normativity to the Mishpatim, see
also Rothenbusch 2001, 267.
33
A list of fifteen ‘legal proceedings in biblical times’ (down to and including Susanna) is pro-
vided in Falk 2001, 57. The only one which in fact involves adjudication by ‘secular’ authorities
other than the king is the very last, the tale of Susanna (preserved inter alia in the LXX, and
assigned to the Apocrypha). Of the others, the first (Laban v. Jacob, Gen. 31.25–55) is a case of
non-institutional dispute resolution; five (Achan in Josh. 7 and four of the cases of desert adju-
dication, discussed in Jackson 2006a, §13.5.3) result in divine decisions, arrived at explicitly or
impliedly by oracular means; five are royal decisions: Saul on Ahimelekh (1 Sam. 22.6–23);
David on the Woman of Tekoah (2 Sam. 14.4–11); Solomon’s judgment (1 Kgs 3.16–28);
Hezekiah on Micah (Jer. 26.18); Jehoiakim on Uriah b. Shemaiah (Jer. 26.20–23); two are indi-
rect royal decisions: Jezebel on Naboth (1 Kgs 21.1–16, on which see n. 9, supra); Jehoiakim on
Jeremiah (Jer. 26.1–24), as attested by the king’s direct intervention when the prophecies form-
ing the basis of the charge in Jer. 26 are found in a sefer infiltrated into the Temple: see Jer. 36;
Jackson 2000, 130f. The remaining case is that of ‘Boaz at the town gate (Ruth 4.1–12)’, but this
is settled by agreement.
34
An issue recently debated in the context of the dating of the Covenant Code. Van Seters argues
that there is no evidence of the continuation of the cuneiform scribal tradition into the Iron Age
in the Levant— though he does accept (at 2003, 40f.) that there was a restoration of cultural con-
tact between the Levant and Mesopotamia from the mid-eighth century BCE. Wright dates the
Covenant Code around 710 BCE (2003, 50f.), and argues for a channel of transmission via ‘exten-
sive cultural contacts with the Neo-Assyrian Empire’ (2003, 52 and 58–67). For a review of cul-
tural contacts from the 2nd millennium, see Rothenbusch 2000, 481–513, arguing for the oral
survival of Mesopotamian legal traditions in Phoenician culture. See further Jackson 2006a,
§1.3.
35
In an Internet article, Benson notes the origins of the concept in the ‘peace’ of each Anglo-
Saxon freeman’s house, and observes: ‘Initially, the king’s peace simply referred to the peace of the
king’s house, but as royal power expanded, kings declared that their peace extended to places
where they travelled, then to churches, monasteries, highways, and bridges. Eventually, it would be
“possible for royal officers such as sheriffs to proclaim the king’s peace wherever suitable” (Lyon
1980, 42). The expansion in the king’s peace produced increases in royal revenue but it was not
appreciated by most freemen, as payments went to the king rather than to actual victims.’ See fur-
ther Maitland 1931, 108–10; O’Brien 1999, 73–84; Harding 2002, 26–30, 69–87, the latter stress-
ing the interaction of royal and church roles in maintenance of the peace in medieval Europe.
36
See also Rogerson 1986, 21, 23 on Crüsemann 1978.
37
Frick 1985, 76. Crüsemann, by contrast, sees such segmentary organization as survived the
transition to monarchy as responsible for opposition to monarchy. Cf. Rogerson 1986, 23. See
also Wilson 1983a, 96.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 376
In fact, the Mishpatim (if indeed any part of it was written down by that
period38) makes no mention of judges,39 and appears to be formulations of
customary law designed precisely to avoid the need for third-party adjudica-
tion.40 Unlike some parts of the ancient Near East, ancient Israelite society
was weakly institutionalized.41 Regular law courts, applying written rules
(and thus assuming the presence of literate personnel42), backed by state
enforcement, was a matter for the future.43 How, then, might a king address
the problems of institutional weakness which he had inherited? This is the
framework, I would suggest, in which to assess the contribution which
Jehoshaphat’s measures might have made to law in the ninth century.44
2. JEHOSHAPHAT’S LOCAL COURTS
These measures are divided into two parts.45 First, local courts46 are insti-
tuted in the ‘fortified cities’.47 The personnel appear to be ‘secular’ (perhaps
military48)—‘judges’49 (shoftim), rather than the Levites and priests who
joined the ‘heads of the fathers of the houses’ in the central court in
Jerusalem. Yet, despite this, these judges are charged with applying a form of
‘charismatic’ judgment: there is no hint that they are given written laws to
apply; rather, they are told that God is ‘with them’ in giving judgment (v. 6,
38
On the complicated issue of the redactional history of the collection, and the possibility of the
circulation of ‘intermediate collections’, see Jackson 2006a, ch. 14.
39
On pelilim in Exod. 21.22, see Jackson 2006a, §6.3, and §13.3, more generally, on the case for
viewing traces of institutional adjudication as later additions.
40
Argued at length in Jackson 2006a; see esp. §§1.4 and 13.2. See also Jackson 2006b.
41
Cf. Wilson 1983b, 234f. on the absence of central authority figures in lineage judicial
proceedings.
42
Unlikely before the eighth century. See further Jackson 2006a, §§2.4–6. Whitelam 1979, 196
sees Jehoshaphat’s measures as designed to use the army as a form of law-enforcement authority.
43
Cf. Wilson 1983b, 235 on the role of negotiation in lineage systems.
44
This is not the place to revisit general questions regarding the nature of the state during the
united monarchy. Suffice to note that no measures of judicial organization are attributed to
either David or Solomon.
45
Reflected in literary structure as well as substance: see Japhet, supra n. 10.
46
Wilson (1983b, 244) observes: ‘It is not clear whether these justices were supposed to hear all
local cases or whether they heard only those cases referred from the village courts.’ But where is
the evidence for ‘village courts’?
47
On the jurisdiction of the judges in the fortified cities, see Whitelam, 1979, 195f.; Williamson
1982, 288. Japhet (1993, 773) notes that intense activity around the fortified cities is not attributed
by Chronicles to any other Judaean king. See further n. 68, infra.
48
Whitelam 1979, 192–94, arguing from their location in the fortified cities, and comparing
Exod. 18.21, 25.
49
On adjudication by royal judges, see further Jackson 1998, 247–54.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 377
‘immakhem bidvar mishpat).50 In other words, they are told to apply their
intuitions of justice, and are assured that such intuitions will be divinely
inspired:
4 Jehoshaphat dwelt at Jerusalem; and he went out again among the people,
from Beer-sheba to the hill country of Ephraim, and brought them back to
the LORD, the God of their fathers.
5 He appointed judges in the land in all the fortified cities of Judah (bekhol
‘arei yehudah habetsurot), city by city,
6 and said to the judges, ‘Consider what you do, for you judge not for man
but for the LORD; he is with you in giving judgment.
7 Now then, let the fear of the LORD be upon you; take heed what you do,
for there is no perversion of justice with the LORD our God, or partiality,
or taking bribes.’ (RSV)
The Hebrew Bible strongly suggests that the earliest forms of judicial dispute
resolution were viewed by its authors as relying upon intuitions of justice
(often conceived as divinely inspired) against a background of custom, rather
than the analysis of linguistically formulated rules.51 The various sources
which talk about the establishment of the judicial system52 give very little
indication that first instance judges were expected to use written sources.53
Rather, they urge that the judges avoid partiality54 and corruption and ‘do
justice’.55 But what was the source of such justice? The version attributed to
Jehoshaphat is the most explicit in suggesting that the judges were regarded
as the recipients of divine inspiration. Such inspiration is attributed also to
the king when rendering judgment: ‘Inspired decisions (kesem, divination)
50
Japhet (1993, 749) notes the stylistic repetition of ‘immahem in 2 Chron. 17.8, 9. Knoppers
(1994, 78f.) views 2 Chron. 19.6 as reflecting the Chronicler’s particular theology of reciprocity
in human-divine relations and compares 2 Chron. 15.2, in the speech of King Azariah to King
Asa: ‘Yahweh is with you when you are with him. If you seek him, you will find him; but, if you
abandon him, he will abandon you.’ But there is no hint of this reciprocity in 2 Chron. 19.6.
Knoppers supports his view at 79 by reference to v. 11: ‘Be strong and act. And may (Yahweh)
be with the good.’ He comments: ‘Hence, in stressing the axis between human action and divine
action, Jehoshaphat’s advice exemplifies a major tenet of the Chronicler’s theology.’ However
this may be, the argument for a ‘charismatic’ form of adjudication is supported by Prov. 16.10
and 1 Kgs 3.16–28, noted immediately below.
51
Jackson 1995, 1764f.; 1998, 247–54; 2006, §1.4.
52
Exod. 18.13–26, Deut. 1.16–17, 16.18–20, 2 Chron. 19.4–7.
53
Jackson 1990, 244–48; 2000, 118–21. Cf. Patrick 1985, 191, 193–98 on the lack of reference to
written sources in the narratives of adjudication.
54
Pearce (1995) relates this to both Moses’s words to his first judges (thus comparing
Jehoshaphat’s role to that of Moses) and to Deut. 10.17 (God as impartial judge). That divine
justice here serves as a model for human justice is an interesting suggestion (see further Jackson
2006b, sections II and III), and perhaps strengthens the argument that the first instance judges
here exercise a ‘charismatic’ jurisdiction.
55
See Jackson 2006a, §§13.3, 13.5.1.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 378
are on the lips of a king; his mouth does not sin in judgment’ (Prov. 16.10).
Solomon’s judgment (1 Kgs 3.16–28) is presented as an example of just such
a process. The narrator concludes with the observation: ‘And all Israel heard
of the judgment which the king had rendered; and they stood in awe of the
king, because they perceived that the wisdom of God was in him, to render
justice.’
The claim here is not merely that the adjudication is on behalf of God,56
but that—failing perversity or corruption—even such ‘first instance’ adjudi-
cation mediates divine decisions: ve‘immakhem bidvar mishpat.57 Pearce sees
this as the language of the Chronicler, comparing 1 Chron. 28.20, where
David tells Solomon that ‘the Lord God . . . is with you (‘immakh)’. But it is
not exclusively the language of the Chronicler: in Exod. 4.12, God promises
that he will put words into Moses’s mouth: ‘and I will be with your mouth
and teach you what you shall speak’ (ve’anokhi ’ehyeh ‘im piykha vehoreytikha
’asher tedaber). This latter clearly connotes the most direct form of divine
inspiration, and this concept, if not necessarily the language, is coherent with
other accounts of judicial activity in the early monarchy.
Jehoshaphat does not refer his judges to any textual source for the rules
they are to apply.58 That they will be informed by prevailing custom is no
doubt assumed, but their knowledge of such custom, and whether/how it
should be applied in the instant case, is here taken to be a matter of divine
inspiration. This, then, is a form of ‘charismatic’ rather than ‘rational’
adjudication,59 despite the absence of any suggestion that the judges must
56
Thus Williamson (1982, 289) sees 2 Chron. 19.6 as based largely on Deut 1.17: ‘In Israel it was
believed that all judgments should be ultimately under God’s direction. This is not, however, at
all the same thing as saying that they were unable to distinguish between sacral and secular cases.
There is thus no tension between this verse and vv. 8 and 11.’
57
Dillard (1987, 149) comes close to this in arguing for a conception of judges as ‘the agents of
Yahweh who was present at their decisions’. Similarly, Japhet (1993, 775) sees the implication as
that ‘the Lord is both the source and the authority of the law; it is to him that the human mag-
istrate is responsible, as human deputy of the supreme judge of the universe. The king’s exhor-
tation, ‘let the fear of the Lord be upon you’, reflects this sober responsibility: the presence of
the Lord makes every legal judgment a religious act, to be observed with proper awe of the divine
presence.’ But the very name Jehoshaphat makes a stronger claim: ‘God judges’.
58
A separate tradition (see below, section 4), 2 Chron. 17.7–9, records that Jehoshaphat sent out
officers with a written text of the torah, to perform a didactic function.
59
Cf. Fishbane 1985, 236 for the use of Weberian categories. Otto (2003, 225) contests this posi-
tion: ‘Daß die Richter ein erbcharismatisches Amt innegehabt haben und vom Geist Gottes
inspiriert gewesen sein sollen entbehrt jeder Grundlage.’ However, the charismatic claim is based
on this passage, and its hereditary nature on the story of Samuel’s sons: ‘When Samuel became
old, he made his sons judges over Israel . . . Yet his sons did not walk in his ways, but turned aside
after gain; they took bribes and perverted justice’ (1 Sam. 8.1, 3). Such claims, being a form of
delegation, naturally depend upon the status of the person making the appointment
(Jehoshaphat, Samuel).

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 379
be priests or Levites, in order to fulfil this role.60 A different (oracular)

form of first instance divine adjudication is depicted in Exod. 18.15 as a
superseded stage in the history of the legal system: the people come to
Moses to inquire of God (lidrosh ’elohim).61 The fact that the king’s dele-
gates62 are to exercise such a ‘charismatic’ form of adjudication merely
reflects the nature of the (charismatic) judicial authority attributed to the
(anointed) king himself, in the form of divine wisdom/inspiration.63 And of
course, the legitimation of the (anointed) king is itself conceived in reli-
gious terms.64 This divine legitimation may reasonably be correlated with a
factual situation of weak institutionalization.
Very similar is the Deuteronomic conception of the judicial role.
According to Deut. 16.18–20:
You shall appoint judges and officers in all your towns which the LORD your
God gives you, according to your tribes; and they shall judge the people with
righteous judgment. You shall not pervert justice; you shall not show partiality;
and you shall not take a bribe, for a bribe blinds the eyes of the wise and sub-
verts the cause of the righteous. Justice, and only justice, you shall follow, that
you may live and inherit the land which the LORD your God gives you.
The Deuteronomic version of ‘Jethro’s’ reform similarly stresses the applica-

tion of a general conception of justice and the avoidance of partiality/cor-
ruption.65 Again, there is no mention of recourse to a written text, but
60
Aliter Weinfeld (1977, 65 n. 1), who contrasts the seventy elders of Num. 11.11–30, who
‘representing the holy nation had to be provided with divine prophetic qualities, while the
judge-officers needed abilities of lay character’.
61
See also Jackson 1995, 1820; 2006a, §13.5.1. Moses continues (Exod. 18.16): ‘when they have
a dispute, they come to me and I decide (veshafatti) between a man and his neighbour, and I
make them know the statutes (huqei) of God and his decisions (torotav)’. This sits rather awk-
wardly with the previous verse, if it is taken to imply a rational model, judicial determination by
Moses on the basis of established laws (which, according to the narrative, had not yet been
given). Rather, the passage may be taken as a further indication that it was thought possible even
for a shofet to use oracular means of decision making. We may relate this recollection of first-
instance oracular adjudication to narratives of early royal recourse to such means: see Whitelam
1979, 197 on 1 Sam. 14 and 2 Sam 21.
62
Crüsemann (1996, 92) takes them to be officials of the royal administration and army as well
as the elders of the larger families.
63
2 Sam. 14.20; 1 Kgs 3.16–28; Prov. 16.10; Prov. 25.2; Jackson 1995, 1764. See further Jackson
2006a, §13.5.
64
Cf. Flanagan 1981, 66: ‘In short, religion was used by both [Saul and David] to legitimate their
authority and to help maintain social control.’ Wilson 1983b, 247 misses the point in noting that
Jehoshaphat himself plays no role in the legal system nor does he claim to be its guarantor;
rather, the judges are responsible to God. He contrasts this with ancient Near Eastern sources
where the king boasts of the just system he has created.
65
Cf. Exod. 23.8. Weinfeld (1973, 67) has noted a parallel in Hittite instructions to border com-
manders to judge honestly cases brought before them. Border commanders, like judges in
garrison cities, will have had little access to written sources, even if these were available centrally.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 380
Jehoshaphat’s invocation of divine guidance (ve‘immakhem bidvar mishpat)

may also be implied in Deut. 1.16–17:
And I charged your judges at that time, ‘Hear the cases between your brethren,
and judge righteously between a man and his brother or the alien that is with
him. You shall not be partial in judgment; you shall hear the small and the great
alike; you shall not be afraid of the face of man, for the judgment is God’s (ki
hamishpat le’lohim hu’66); and the case that is too hard for you, you shall bring
to me, and I will hear it.’
There is no statement in this account of the ‘range’ of this local jurisdiction.

This is something which has to be inferred, contextually. Jurisdiction is deter-
mined by a variety of factors: interest, power and ideology. We may usefully
compare the medieval English notion of the ‘king’s peace’—defined origi-
nally in terms of the king’s personal interests, and his capacity to secure those
interests by force.67 In this context, the fact that Jehoshaphat appointed
judges only in the ‘fortified’ cities (by contrast to the norms in Deuteronomy)
has sometimes been seen as significant: the terminology is different from that
in Deut. 16.18 (bekhol she‘arekha, ‘in all your gates’), which may well repre-
sent an expansion of the jurisdiction here attributed to Jehoshaphat.68 We
may compare the one piece of legislation ascribed to David—his booty law.69
At the same time, we may ask whether the king had any real interest in the
66
Weinfeld (1977, 67 n. 10) compares this rather with ki lo la’adam tishpetu ki la’yhwh in 2
Chron. 19.6.
67
Cf. supra, at n. 35. Whitelam (1979, 206) sees Jehoshaphat’s measures as an attempt to extend
royal jurisdiction, by means of delegation, from the jurisdiction previously exercised personally.
68
See Knierim, 1961, 162–67. This view is rejected by Pearce 1995, on the grounds that the
Chronicler never uses ‘gates’ to refer to towns or cities (with the exception of 2 Chron. 6.28,
which reproduces 1 Kgs 8.37), and thus replaces D’s terminology with his own. This would
indeed explain the choice of noun (‘city’ rather than ‘gate’), but not the added specification ‘for-
tified’. She seeks to neutralize the latter by noting that the Jerusalem court receives unresolved
disputes from people ‘who live in their cities (be‘areyhem)’ (2 Chron. 19.10). But this is clearly to
be read in context; there was no need to repeat ‘fortified’. Pearce argues also from the sending of
the ‘teaching mission’ to ‘all the cities of Judah’ (2 Chron. 17) that ‘fortified cities’ were not,
according to the Chronicler’s own account, the only cities where Jehoshaphat established royal
authority. But no judicial activity is attributed to the ‘teaching mission’. Nor does the claim that
Jehoshaphat had ‘great stores in the cities of Judah’ (2 Chron. 17.13) add to the case that the
Chronicler attributed a more widespread judicial activity to Jehoshaphat, inspired by the
Deuteronomic model. A different argument is advanced by Crüsemann 1996, 92, who takes ‘for-
tified cities’ to be a reference to justice at the city gate, arguing from archaeological evidence that
the cities of the monarchic period were generally fortified: ‘An unfortified city was a village not
a city.’ See also Reviv 1989, 67f., noting that in several excavations at archaeological sites in
Israel, benches have been found near city gates.
69
1 Sam. 30.22–25; see further Jackson 2006a, §14.3.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 381
determination of disputes between citizens generally,70 or whether his inter-

est was focused on matters which, if unresolved, might lead to disorder
threatening royal power.71
At the same time, we may ask whether ‘intuitions of justice’ were really
required in order to resolve the generality of everyday disputes. If the
Mishpatim really were formulations of customary law designed to avoid the
need for third-party adjudication, why now establish courts in order to apply
them? Much later normative sources assume that the enforcement agencies
even in relation to so serious a matter as homicide remained largely in ‘pri-
vate’ (family) hands.72 The role of the judges of Jehoshaphat is thus unlikely
to have been to provide general enforcement powers to back up these hitherto
‘self-executing’ customary laws.
The answer to this question may be derived from the narrative of the
case presented to David by the ‘wise woman’ of Tekoa, recruited by Joab to
put to David a fictitious case of fratricide in her family.73 David agrees to
intervene only when the woman urges the king to apply a measure of divine
justice (v. 11): ‘Pray let the king invoke the LORD your God, that the
avenger of blood slay no more, and my son be not destroyed.’ As for why
this case is depicted as attracting such adjudication, three factors appear to
be involved: (a) the status of the suppliant as a widow; (b) the special divine
interest here involved: the allocation of a portion of the promised land; (c)
the fact that this is hardly a typical case of homicide such as might be
evoked by the biblical wisdom-laws: homicide does not typically result in
the total extinction of the deceased’s immediate family! It is just such nar-
rative dissonance—distance from the narratives socially understood as typ-
ical and evoked by the language of the laws—that generates ‘difficult’ cases,
70
Solomonic interests are sometimes ascribed to the formulation of the law of altar asylum in
Exod. 21.13–14, on the basis of the narratives of Adonijah (1 Kgs 1.50–53) and Joab (1 Kgs
2.28–34). See further Jackson 2006a, §4.5. If so, the royal interest is not in homicide generally,
but in political murders affecting the dynasty.
71
Wilson 1983b, 241f. lists the following sources suggesting that the king exercised first instance
jurisdiction: Saul’s trial of Jonathan: 1 Sam. 14.24–46; Saul’s trial of the priests of Nob: 1 Sam.
22.6–23; the king taking direct action in cases of crimes against the crown: 2 Sam. 1.1–16,
4.1–12, 19.16–43, 21.1–14; 1 Kgs 2.19–46 (see also Whitelam 1979, 188, arguing for the king’s
original reluctance to delegate jurisdiction). But whether these narratives claim that the king
acted ‘judicially’ in these narratives is often doubtful. Wilson sees the development in the reign
of David of an ideology of royal responsibility for maintaining justice and equal access to it of
all citizens, citing Nathan’s parable: 2 Sam. 12.1–6, the woman of Tekoah and Solomon’s judg-
ment. But this ancient Near Eastern tradition (cf. Fensham 1962), directed towards protection
of classes with no other protector, itself served the ideological interests of the king. See also
Levinson 1997, 140f.
72
See the role of the go’el haddam in Deut. 19.6, 10, 12, Num. 35.12, 19, 21, 24, 25, 27, as
discussed in Jackson 2006a, §4.4.
73
2 Sam. 14, discussed further in Jackson 2006a, §§1.4.2, 4.5.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 382
rather than the application of linguistic analysis to a canonical set of

words.74
David agrees in effect to view the issue contextually, as the woman had
argued: her status as a widow did not give her a right to a remedy (even if it
did give her a right to a hearing), nor here is it suggested that the decision cre-
ates any precedent.75 The king’s judgment takes the same form as that which
was expected of the judges of Jehoshaphat: the woman compliments David:
‘The word of my lord the king will set me at rest; for my lord the king is like
the angel of God to discern good and evil. The LORD your God be with
you!’76 It is wisdom-law in action: the family stands on the paradigm,77 but
the king judges that the case of the widow, taken as a whole, is too distant for
justice to be done by application of that paradigm.78 And the plea of the
woman, as Camp has observed,79 makes rhetorical use of metaphors which
may well have been proverbial: ‘Thus they would quench my coal which is
left’ (v. 7)80 and later: ‘We must all die, we are like water spilt on the ground,
which cannot be gathered up again’ (v. 14).
74
The theoretical basis of this position is discussed in Jackson 1996, 237–45. Niditch (1997, 19f.)
points to the themes the story has in common with that of Cain and Abel, and comments that
‘the field, the open spaces, are places traditionally where subversion can take place, where social
mores can be overturned’. Thus, it is the imagery and social understanding of narrative that is
transmitted, rather than the specific words of an earlier source — whether oral or written. On the
relationship to the Cain and Abel story, see further Lyke 1997.
75
Cf. Whitelam 1979, 131, against Hoftijzer 1970, 421. Precedent is a particular, institutionalized
form of analogy; the latter can be used with rhetorical force without being ‘binding’ in any
institutional sense.
76
2 Sam. 14.17. Whitelam (1979, 135) rightly observes that this ‘would seem to reflect the theo-
retical basis of the Israelite king’s judicial functions; i.e. he was the earthly representative of
Yahweh and so his judicial pronouncements must have been divinely inspired.’
77
Lyke (1997, 84) points out that fratricide occurs in actuality only in Genesis 4, the present
parable, and the murder of Amnon by Absalom (which the parable is designed to illuminate). He
notes, however, that the possibility is also contemplated by other unfavoured brothers: Esau can-
not wait till Isaac dies so that he can kill Jacob; Joseph’s brothers essentially accomplish their
murder by sending him off to Egypt.
78
Contra, Whitelam 1979, 134: ‘The need to avenge the victim’s blood could hardly be affected
by the fact that the murderer was the last surviving heir to his father’s estate’, though at 255 n.
23 he takes the view that divine law could be set aside by the king if the mitigating circumstances
were political considerations. But it is precisely the same kind of (theological) consideration
(regarding rights in the promised land) which prompted the overriding of the previous rule on
intestate succession in the case of the daughters of Zelophehad.
79
Camp 1981, 16, 20, viewing v. 14 as falling into the category of ‘identificational proverb’ that
Scott saw as characteristic of folk wisdom not only in the ancient Near East but also in the clas-
sical world and modern Europe. She compares Prov. 17.14: ‘The beginning of strife is like letting
out water.’
80
Hoftijzer (1970, 422) cites Akkadian parallels.

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3. JEHOSHAPHAT’S CENTRAL COURT
The second part of Jehoshaphat’s measures relates to the creation of a cen-

tral court (2 Chron. 19.8–11). Members of the educated elite are appointed
to be judges in Jerusalem. RSV renders it:
8 Moreover in Jerusalem Jehoshaphat appointed certain Levites and priests
and heads of families of Israel, to give judgment for the LORD and to
decide disputed cases (lemishpat yhwh uleriv). They had their seat at
Jerusalem.
9 And he charged them: ‘Thus you shall do in the fear of the LORD, in
faithfulness, and with your whole heart:
10 whenever a case comes to you from your brethren who live in their cities,
concerning bloodshed, law or commandment, statutes or ordinances (beyn
dam ledam beyn torah lemistvah lehuqim ulemishpatim), then you shall
instruct them (vehizhartem ’otam), that they may not incur guilt before the
LORD and wrath may not come upon you and your brethren. Thus you
shall do, and you will not incur guilt.
11 And behold, Amariah81 the chief priest (kohen harosh) is over you in all
matters of the LORD (lekhol devar yhwh); and Zebadiah the son of
Ishmael, the governor (hannagid) of the house of Judah, in all the king’s
matters (lekhol devar hammelekh); and the Levites will serve you as officers.
Deal courageously, and may the LORD be with the upright! (yehiy yhwh
‘im hattov).’
However, this prompts substantial questions regarding the jurisdiction

and procedures of this court, and the methodological problem of disentan-
gling the Chronicler’s own views and historical context from the reminiscence
preserved in his source is particularly acute.
The Jerusalem court is sometimes taken to have served as a court of
appeals.82 But nowhere in the Bible83 do we encounter such an appellate func-
tion. What we do encounter is (in modern legal terminology) ‘referral’ from
81
Japhet (1993, 778f.) notes that Amariah as a ‘chief priest’ in the time of Jehoshaphat is not
mentioned elsewhere, but the name is very common among the priests (cf. 1 Chron. 6.7, 11, 52
[MT 5.33, 37; 6.37]; Ezra 7.3; Neh. 11.4; 12.2, 13, etc.), and is probably connected with the house
of Immer, known from the end of the monarchy and the beginning of the Second Temple (Jer.
20.1; Ezra 2.37, etc.). Pearce 1995 compares the identification of two individuals, a priest and a
lay person, with hakkohen and hashofet in Deut. 17.12, and, more tentatively, their naming in 2
Chron. with the sequence of the Deuteronomic passage.
82
Williamson 1982, 287, 290: ‘the court in Jerusalem served as a court of appeal for disputed and
capital cases referred to them from the provincial courts of v. 5. This is plainly stated in v. 10.’
Cf. Japhet 1993, 773. Aliter, Wilson 1983b, 245.
83
Or indeed in later Jewish tradition, until the establishment in the modern State of Israel of a
Rabbinical Court of Appeals.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 384
the local courts,84 when the latter judge the case to be too ‘difficult’ (Deut.
17.8) or ‘heavy’ (Exod. 18.18). Such referrals do not imply that the local court
has already made a decision against which one of the parties now seeks to
appeal. It is noticeable that the present account is vague regarding the
grounds on which the local court chooses to refer the case. That in itself
might be a sign of an early stage of institutionalization: there are as yet no
clearly stated rules governing the situation: the local court refers when it
thinks it appropriate to do so.
Some scholars have maintained that the central court acted also as a court
of first instance for the inhabitants of Jerusalem. The phrase at the end of v.
8, (literally, as pointed in the MT, wayyashubu, ‘and they
returned (to) Jerusalem’), poses problems.85 The RSV, quoted above, repoints
(wayyeshebu), though this itself raises difficulties.86 Albright adopted the
reading of the LXX and Vulgate in replacing , thus rendering
as ‘for religious cases and (to decide) controver-
sies involving the inhabitants of Jerusalem’.87 It may seem odd that the same
court, so very differently composed from the local courts in the cities, should
exercise first instance as well as referral jurisdiction.88 However, a first
instance jurisdiction, using the cultic (oracular) procedure, is indeed attrib-
uted to Moses in Exod. 18.13–15, though he resiles from it on the advice of
Jethro. The LXX textual tradition may thus preserve a reminiscence of an
early institution.
The subject matter of the court’s jurisdiction is also problematic, the
expressions used in neither v. 8 (lemishpat yhwh uleriv) nor v. 10 (beyn dam
ledam beyn torah lemistvah lehuqim ulemishpatim) being transparent. Do
they refer to subject matter, procedures or ‘sources of law’? Taken in isola-
tion, mishpat yhwh might be understood as procedural: cases requiring
84
Cf. Whitelam 1979, 200.
85
See particularly Williamson 1982, 290f.; Japhet 1993, 776f. Pearce (1995) treats it as a hiphil,
‘and they (i.e. the court) made Jerusalem return’, in effect understanding this phrase in the con-
text of the language describing the religious reform of v. 4 (the Jerusalem court assisting in or
indeed implementing Jehoshaphat’s mission).
86
It generates a translation which is tautologous, given the fact that the court is already stated,
at the beginning of the verse, to have been created in Jerusalem. Dillard 1987, 149 adopts the
same repointing, but translates: ‘they lived in Jerusalem’, arguing that whereas the priests and
Levites ordinarily lived outside the city and served in Jerusalem on rotation, these cultic person-
nel and the family leaders appointed to the Jerusalem court would reside in the city on a more
permanent basis.
87
1950, 74, cf. Williamson 1982, 290; Japhet 1993, 773.
88
Cf. Whitelam 1979, 199f., 205f. Indeed, Dillard (1987, 149) comments that this would seem
contrary to the equity and fairness prompting the reform itself (presumably on the grounds that
some at least of the heads of families could not have been impartial), and speculates that there
was also an unmentioned lower court in Jerusalem. On the exercise by the king of an
Ortsgerichtsbarkeit in Jerusalem, see Niehr 1987, 72–76.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 385
divine judgment, and torah lemistvah lehuqim ulemishpatim might be taken

to refer to different sources of law89 (such as ‘the Mishpatim’ of Exod.
21.1ff.90). Yet the comparable statement in Deut. 17.8, which also com-
mences beyn dam ledam91 but continues with beyn din ledin uveyn nega‘
lenega‘,92 suggests that we are dealing here with subject-matter and lemish-
pat yhwh has been taken (in parallel with devar yhwh in v. 11) as referring to
cultic as against interpersonal matters.93 But it is possible that even dam
89
Thus, Japhet (1993, 777f.) takes the phrase to require discernment ‘not between different legal
cases, but between different kinds of written law, the terms . . . being assumed to represent dif-
ferent categories of commandments.’ Of course, they might represent different categories of
commandments without assuming a written form.
90
Recalling the view of Crüsemann, supra at n. 30. Crüsemann (1996, 94) takes beyn torah
lemitsvah lehukim ulemishpatim to refer to cases of ‘clashes of norms’ (‘Normenkollision’, fol-
lowing Macholz 1972, 327; cf. Osumi 1991, 143, 145). This is highly unlikely. The cases are
referred to the central court from the local courts. The notion of Normenkollision presupposes a
literate, professionalized judiciary, the existence of which, particularly at the local level, is highly
doubtful.
91
Different views are taken of the force here of beyn. Does it reflect (both here and in Deut. 17.8)
the contest between the two parties (cf. Exod. 22.10, where the shepherd’s oath is said to be beyn
sheneyhem), as maintained by Crüsemann (1996, 94, 97), who takes the Jerusalem high court to have
exercised jurisdiction over all homicide cases arising under Exod. 21.13? However, later sources
contemplate that such adjudication as was required to determine asylum in the city of refuge
be undertaken locally: Deut. 19.12, Num. 35.24–25; cf. Levinson 1997, 124, 128. Or should we
read it, with Japhet (1993, 777f.), as connoting a decision on differences ‘between one kind of
homicide and another’? The latter, involving issues of law rather than fact, might appear more
suitable for a central court. Indeed, the need for adjudication appears itself to commence with
non-paradigm cases, as in the case of the woman of Tekoa: see the argument supra, at 381–82.
92
Conversely, Osumi 1991, 142f. reads beyn din ledin in the light of 2 Chron. 19.10 as meaning
beyn torah lemitsvah (cf. Crüsemann 1996, 97). That hardly seems likely in semantic terms, and
still begs the question of the meaning of beyn torah lemitsvah in this context. For a review of the
usage of these terms, see Liedke 1971, 187–200. Osumi suggests that these phrases refer particu-
larly to the Mishpatim’s rules regarding property loss (as distinct from mercantile law: 1991,
144), commencing in Exod. 21.33 — even while conceding that they are general enough to refer
to the entirety of the rules of the Mishpatim (or, we may add, to any other source, written or
unwritten, of teaching as to required behaviour). This leads, moreover, to complications in his
account of the relations between the local courts and that in Jerusalem. He appears to take the
view that the ‘property’ cases can be heard by the local courts, which presumably refer them to
Jerusalem only in cases of difficulty (specifically, ‘clashes of norms’: n. 90, supra); as to homicide
cases he argues that if they are known to the local court, the Mishpatim explain to the local judge
the scope of the Jerusalem court’s responsibilities. And if they are not known to the local court
. . .?
93
Thus Williamson 1982, 287: ‘to act as a court of appeal in civil cases . . . and to deal with dis-
putes relating more particularly to the cult’. Pearce (1995) notes that the terminology employed
is not typical of Chronicles, the only direct parallel being Jer. 8.7 (MT): ‘Even the stork in the
heavens knows her times; and the turtledove, swallow, and crane keep the time of their coming;
but my people know not the ordinance of the LORD (mishpat Yahweh)’ (RSV). Pearce takes it
there to have ‘a general meaning associated with ‘the law of the Lord’ which appears in the
following verse’. But the parallel with the times of the natural order suggests that the phrase here
refers to Israel’s appointed cultic times.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 386
ledam is present because of its cultic implications.94 Of course, such exege-

sis of the terminology assists us in determining the scope of the court’s
activity only if we can assume that the terminology itself is taken from a
source authentically seeking to describe Jehoshaphat’s measures. The very
fact that it has close parallels to terminology found in other contexts
renders this doubtful.
Even so, we must consider whether it is possible to extract anything his-
torically reliable as regards procedure and sources, not least in the light of the
distinction drawn in v. 11 between the presidency of the court in devar yhwh
and devar hammelekh. But this is not necessarily to be taken as denoting ‘sec-
ular’ v. ‘religious’ benches and procedures. The personnel of the court is
hardly secular, notwithstanding the participation of the rashei ha’avot.
Rather, we have here a distinction between cases which affect the interests of
the king95 on the one hand, the temple on the other.96 The idea of any ‘sepa-
ration of powers’, with a priestly court (or chamber) determining priestly
matters by priestly means side by side with a ‘secular’ court determining sec-
ular (or, at least, royal) matters by secular means97 seems both unlikely and
unnecessary: the Levites98 and priests appear to sit in both ‘secular’ and ‘reli-
94
Hagedorn (2003) has recently argued from the combination of dam ledam with nega‘ lenega‘
in Deut. 17.8 (the latter term occurring also in Deut. 21.5, where a corpse is discovered but the
killer is unknown) that there is a cultic aspect to this jurisdiction, designed to avoid pollution
after bloodshed: the suppliants would receive at the central sanctuary instructions on how to rid
themselves of the pollution.
95
Narrowly understood: see Alt 1989, 101 n. 46. Boecker (1980, 22) notes of the ancient Near
East: ‘Legal proceedings were inaugurated by the king or his officers only when royal interests
were directly concerned.’ See also Reviv 1989, 92.
96
Japhet (1993, 773) sees the distinction as attested by earlier sources, citing the division between
‘the treasures of the house of the Lord’ and the ‘treasures of the king’s house’ (1 Kgs 14.26;
15.18, etc.); cf. Dillard 1987, 149f., noting that the tension between the interests of the crown and
the temple, particularly in the control of revenues, was common in the ancient Near East.
97
As, e.g., Crüsemann 1996, 94–96; Osumi (1991, 141), maintaining that devar hammelekh will
have been determined on the basis of precedent, as against devar yhwh, determined on the basis
of ordeal or oath, as in Exod. 22.7ff. The NEB ‘to administer the law of the Lord and to arbi-
trate in law suits’ offers a far more specific interpretation of the judicial function than the
Hebrew (lemishpat yhwh uleriv) justifies.
98
According to v. 11, they simply served as court officers, shotrim (cf. Wilson 1983b, 245), a role
assigned to them only in Chronicles (cf. 1 Chron. 23.4; 26.29; 2 Chron. 34.13: Japhet 1993, 774,
776, 779), while in v. 8 they appear as judges, and indeed are listed (uncharacteristically for the
Chronicler) before the priests (see n. 12, supra). Pearce (1995) argues that the Chronicler identi-
fies the officers of Deut. 16.18 with the Levites of Deut. 17.9 and therefore transfers them from
the local courts to the Jerusalem judiciary. She concedes that there is a difficulty in reading such
an exegetical concern into v. 11, since the shotrim of Deut 16.18 function in the local courts, not
centrally, and prefers to rely upon the role of the shotrim in Deut. 1.15, as interpreted by the
LXX, where they (‘heads of tribes’, we may note) function as officers not for the tribes but for
the judges (whom Moses proceeds to appoint, or at least to charge, in v. 16). But there is no cen-
tral court mentioned in Deut 1.16–17 either. We are still left, moreover, with the internal tension

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 387
gious’ cases99 and we are not to exclude their use of ‘sacral devices’ in the for-
mer as well as the latter.100 The king in the monarchy is ultimately responsi-
ble for the cult101 and derives his legitimacy from it. The use of ‘rational’
(text-based102) adjudication, even in ‘secular’ matters, is not evidenced before
Ezra103 (though anticipated for the ‘new Jerusalem’ by Ezekiel104)—and that,
too, can hardly be regarded as a ‘secular’ process, given the divine status of
the text. If the mode of adjudication even for the local courts in non-cultic
matters is charismatic, deriving from divine inspiration, are we really to revert
to a secular form of adjudication when such matters are referred to
Jerusalem?105 The conclusion must surely be that v. 11 connotes no more than
regarding the role of the Levites, as between 2 Chron. 8 and 11. Pearce makes a strong case for
both the priestly differentiation between priests and Levites (following Haran 1978, 63) and the
attribution to the latter of the role of ‘officers’ (1 Chr. 23.4; 26.29; 2 Chr. 19.11; 34.13) as a dis-
tinctive characteristic of Chronicles. Other aspects of v. 11, in particular, may well represent pos-
texilic concerns (infra, at n. 107).
99
Cf. Albright 1950, 76; Wagner 2002, 240. Japhet (1993, 776) is less sure. Aliter, Crüsemann
1996, 95.
100
This, for Whitelam (1979, 205), is the reason for their presence on the court. See further
n. 105, infra.
101
As is evident from the reforms of Hezekiah (2 Kgs 18.4) and Josiah (2 Kgs 22–23; Jackson
2006a, §14.5.4). Whitelam (1979, 189) rightly cites in this context the relations between the tem-
ple priesthood and the sarei yehudah in the trial of Jeremiah (Jer. 26). Indeed, Levinson (1997,
95f.) argues that the Deuteronomistic history here revokes Deuteronomy’s own denial of ‘any
connection between king and cult’, in that it presents the first centralized Passover as com-
manded by Josiah, who thus appears as ‘the royal patron of the cult’, commenting that ‘Zion co-
opts Sinai’. On the other hand, the narrative provides no evidence of the king’s interest in
matters of civil law.
102
Despite the attempt of Albright (1950, 74) to read textual interpretation into ben dam . . .
ulemishpatim, translating it ‘whether they are cases of homicide or whether they are (civil cases)
involving the judicial interpretation of decrees, ordinances and laws’.
103
Ezra 7.25: ‘And you, Ezra, according to the wisdom of your God which is in your hand,
appoint magistrates and judges who may judge all the people in the province Beyond the River,
all such as know the laws of your God; and those who do not know them, you shall teach’, com-
bined with the interpretive/didactic activity in Neh. 8.7–8; see further Jackson 2000, 141–43.
Rofé 2002, 113 takes the (supposed) use of canonical written sources in Jehoshaphat’s court as
an argument against the historicity of the account, an example of ‘nomistic history’.
104
Ezek. 44.23–24: ‘And they [the priests] shall teach my people the difference between the holy
and the common, and cause them to discern between the unclean and the clean: And in a con-
troversy they act as judges; ve‘al riv hemah ya‘amdu lishpat and they shall judge it according to
my judgments; bemishpatai vishpetuhu and they shall keep my laws and my statutes in all my
appointed times; and they shall sanctify my sabbaths.’
105
There is in fact a terminological parallel between vv. 6 and 11: in the latter, the judges of the
central court are told that God will be ‘with’ (‘im) the good judges, just as the local judges are
told in v. 6 that God will be ‘with you’ (‘immakhem). The procedures of the higher court else-
where also use divine means: in Exod. 18.19, Moses is to bring the heavy cases to God; the pro-
cedure in Deut. 17.9, using darash in the context of a (similarly) mixed court of Levitical priests
and a shofet, appears to be an oracular consultation. Despite the clearly oracular use of darash
in Exod. 18.15, Fishbane (1985, 245) maintains that it is used of ‘rational legal investigation’ in

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 388
a divided presidency.106 It has been widely regarded as reflecting post-exilic

conditions.107 The titles of the presiding officers encapsulate the problem:
kohen harosh is a late title,108 albeit one which may evoke the earlier associa-
tion of the tribal rosh with judicial functions,109 while the nagid of the House
of Judah appears to belong to the period of the monarchy,110 if not earlier.111
The whole passage has a pronounced theological tone: the judges must
act in a God-fearing way in order to avoid (personal) guilt; their role is to
‘instruct’ (RSV) or ‘warn’ (NEB). The addressee is not mentioned. ‘Instruct’
suggests that it is the local court which originally referred the case, and this
may be supported by Knoppers’s observation112 that the only other text
where zahar is found with a double accusative is Exod. 18.20, where Jethro
counsels Moses to appoint delegate judges and ‘and you shall teach them the
statutes and the decisions (vehizharta ’ethem ’et hahuqim ve’et hatorot), and
make them know the way in which they must walk and what they must do’.
However, the local court is unlikely to have been the addressee: would the
Deut. 17.9 and elsewhere in Deuteronomy. But in this passage, the context strongly suggests a
survival of the earlier connotations. See also its use in 2 Kgs 22.13, 18, of Josiah’s consultation
of the prophetess Huldah regarding the status of the law-book found in the Temple.
106
Despite the roles of the nagid and kohen harosh, the collectivity of judges appointed in v. 8 is
still being addressed here in v. 11 (‘aleykhem). Cf. Albright 1950, 76: ‘It has been thought that
different courts were set up in Jerusalem to decide religious and civil cases, but the text says noth-
ing of the kind . . . in religious matters the chief priest acted as “foreman,” while in civil cases
the titular head of the tribe of Judah took his place.’
107
Dillard (1987, 149f.) notes the same tension between crown and cult in 2 Chron. 24, cf. 1 Chron.
26.30, 32, and relates it to foreign political domination in the Second Commonwealth period. Cf.
Whitelam 1979, 202f.; Wilson 1983b, 247; Japhet 1993, 771; Knoppers 1994, 75f.; Pearce 1995.
There is also a tension between vv. 8 and 11 regarding the role of the Levites: see n. 98, supra.
108
See Bartlett 1969, 4–7.
109
See n. 11, supra. Whitelam 1979, 270 n. 28, however, regards it, like nagid, as an ‘archaism’ to
legitimate institutions of the time of the Chronicler.
110
The complete title appears only here. Crüsemann (1996, 95) takes hannagid as evoking ‘some-
thing like the elders of Judah’. Flanagan 1981, 67f. considers its relationship to melekh and sees
it as representing the chiefly role of Saul and David. See also Japhet 1993, 779. Aliter, Knoppers
(1994, 75) noting that nagid is used for a variety of different positions in Chronicles, and appears
twice as often in Chronicles as in any other in any other biblical book. Pearce 1995 tentatively
compares the governmental structure in Haggai (1.12–15) and Zechariah, where a member of the
Davidic line (Zerubbabel) is found alongside a priestly figure (Joshua), following Coggins 1976,
218–19.
111
For Albright (1950, 76), ‘the titular head of the tribe of Judah’. Similarly, Japhet (1993, 777)
notes that ‘the heads of fathers’ houses’ (v. 8), while a favourite term of the Chronicler, may rep-
resent relatively early arrangements, going back to the legal authority of tribal leaders. Cf.
Dillard 1987, 147.
112
1994, 76f. Pearce (1995) takes this to represent ‘the key link with Jehoshaphat’s speech in
which he urges his judges to ‘instruct’ the people’. But there is a very significant difference: in
Exod. 18.20 the hukim and mishpatim are the direct object of the verb, suggesting far more
clearly than in 2 Chron. 19.10 (beyn torah lemitsvah lehukim ulemishpatim) that the judges are to
act on the basis of known collections of divine law.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 389
case (riv) really have ‘come’ (yavo’) to Jerusalem without the litigants, and if
the litigants were already there, would the Jerusalem court not have made an
immediate decision? One may understand the alternative procedure in a more
modern context: the central court ‘instructs’ the local court not only for the
instant case, but also to provide a precedent for the future. But this hardly fits
the circumstances of the ninth century.113
That is not to say that adoption of the NEB rendering, ‘warn’ (scil., the
‘guilty’ party114), is more authentic for the period of Jehoshaphat. Indeed,
Japhet relates the warning to:
. . . one of the major tenets of the Chronicler’s concepts of law and justice:115
. . . Culpability is incurred only for wilful transgression, and the distinction is
made through the provision of ‘warning’. Since many people are unaware of
their acts, or do not understand their meaning, a primary obligation is to warn
them. This warning may lead either to repentance, if the individual warned
turns away from error, or — if he nevertheless persists wilfully in wrongdoing—
to a state of ‘guilt’ and ‘wrath’. The primary obligation of the judges is that of
‘warning’; by fulfilling it, ‘guilt and ‘wrath’ may be averted, and they themselves
will be free of guilt . . .
If this is a correct reading of verse 10, it is a remarkable anticipation of

the rabbinic institution of hatra’ah, according to which an accused person
could not be convicted unless the witnesses had warned him in advance of
the (halakhic) consequences of his action, and he had accepted those
consequences.116
4. THE ‘TEACHING MISSION’
A further tradition (2 Chron. 17.7–9) attributes to Jehoshaphat a ‘teaching

mission’, based on a written text:
7 In the third year of his reign he sent his princes (sarav), Ben-hail, Obadi’ah,
113
The suggestion of Crüsemann (1996, 97), following Macholz (1972, 335), that the central
court merely announced the facts of the case and/or gave instructions, the legal process then
reverting back to the lower level, is both impractical and anachronistic. Cf. Whitelam 1979, 200f.;
Levinson 1997, 129, arguing that the litigants, not the local judges, are to come to Jerusalem for
the decision.
114
Aliter Albright (1950, 74), who takes the role of the court as being: ‘(do not limit yourself to
legal action, but) warn them in order that they (scil., the local court) may not incur guilt . . .’.
Such an anti-legalist ideology fits ill with Albright’s assumption of textual interpretation as the
role of the Jerusalem court (supra, n. 102).
115
1993, 778, citing her earlier study, 1989, 184–91, on reproof as a prerequisite for punishment
in Qumranic and rabbinic literature.
116
Schiffman 1983, 89–109, cited also by Japhet, ibid.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 390
Zechari’ah, Nethan’el, and Micai’ah, to teach in the cities of Judah

(lelammed be‘arey yehudah);
8 and with them the Levites, Shemai’ah, Nethani’ah, Zebadi’ah, As’ahel,
Shemi’ramoth, Jehon’athan, Adoni’jah, Tobi’jah, and Tobadoni’jah; and
with these Levites, the priests Eli’shama and Jeho’ram.
9 And they taught in Judah, having the book of the law of the LORD with
them (vayelamdu biyehudah ve‘immahem sefer torah yhwh); they went about
through all the cities of Judah and taught among the people.
This passage is kept separate from that relating to the instruction of judges,
which contains no reference to a sefer, but require the judges only to act justly
and avoid corruption. A similar disjunction (though with less literary sepa-
ration) occurs in Deuteronomy, where the law of the central court is followed
by that of the king, who is required to read from a written copy of the law
‘all the days of his life, that he may learn to fear the LORD his God, by keep-
ing all the words of this law and these statutes, and doing them’ (17.19).117
Several scholars see the ‘teaching mission’ and the ‘judicial reform’ as closely
related,118 but there are obvious and important substantive differences
between them,119 so that their historicity falls to be assessed separately.
The ‘teaching mission’, as performed by royal officers,120 is often claimed
to be unique in biblical terms.121 Weinfeld, however, has pointed to a parallel
in the Sargon inscriptions from Assyria: ‘to teach them (the natives of
Assyria) the teaching of fearing God and king, I sent officers and over-
seers’.122 The implication of 2 Chron. 17.7–9 is that the teaching was by oral
proclamation. The officers and Levites did not leave the text with their audi-
117
Dillard (1987, 134) suggests that the object of the teaching mission is to portray Jehoshaphat
in the light of the ideal king of Deut. 17.18–20. Cf. Pearce 1995. Aliter, Japhet 1993, 749, noting
that in Deuteronomy the King appears ‘more as a recipient than as a “dispenser” of the teaching.’
118
Thus, Yeivin (1953, 154) viewed the judicial reorganization as based on the ‘Book of the Law
of the Lord’. Albright 1950, 82, speaks of the teaching mission as ‘a misunderstood doublet of
the tradition of judicial reform’. Dillard (1987, 134) observes: ‘nothing precludes understanding
the text as it presents itself, as essentially different stages in Jehoshaphat’s reform.’ At 148, he
takes the vayyashov (‘again’) of 2 Chron. 19.4 to allude to the earlier teaching mission. See also
Whitelam 1979, 191f.; Williamson 1982, 282; Watts 1999, 21.
119
Cf. Knoppers 1994, 61, 62f., 67 [against Myers]: the teaching mission comprises one compo-
nent of a larger set of martial, political, and cultic endeavours, while the initiatives of 2 Chron.
19 are directed toward a single goal: revamping the administration of justice in Judah. See also
Williamson 1982, 282f.; Jackson 2006a, §14.5.4.
120
Watts (1999, 21) describes it as a ‘royal commission’.
121
Williamson 1982, 280; Wilson 1983b, 246f.; Knoppers 1994, 64.
122
Weinfeld 1972, 163 and n. 3, stressing that the ‘instruction’ here was not purely academic in
nature; rather, the officials had to see to it that the people implemented the instructions, which
were guaranteed by a pledge or oath (1973, 70f.). For discussion, see further Paul 1969, 74f. (who
proposed a different interpretation of Sargon’s measure: infra, n. 132); Welch 1990, 118;
Greenberg 1995, 24; Jackson 2000, 135 n. 64. Japhet 1993, 749 overlooks Weinfeld’s suggestion,
but proposes Ezra 7.25 as a parallel: on this, see at n. 134, infra.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 391
ence for private (or organized, local) study. This fits the circumstances of the
ninth century better than that of the fifth: given the low incidence of literacy,
this is how things had to be. There is little evidence for any general knowledge
of writing in Judah prior to the eighth century.123
On the other hand, Hosea 4.6124 is sometimes cited as evidence that cultic
personnel were involved in orally communicated teaching as early as the
eighth century,125 though the role of the priest in this passage is not explicitly
that of teaching. More significant is the repeated antithesis in Deut. 17.10–11
of mishpat and torah. Clearly, this central court was conceived to generate
both a decision on the issue presented to it126 and (further) teaching.127
This is exactly what occurs in several of the narratives of desert adjudi-
cation where Moses seeks an oracular answer to difficult cases.128 The central
court here is acting like Moses.129 The oracle is a form of revelation of the
divine will; it is not to be constrained by what is strictly relevant to the
case in hand. But the uniqueness of 2 Chron. 17 in entrusting the didactic
function to itinerant regius professors130 remains.
123
On the definitional issues regarding literacy, see Warner 1980, 81f.; Haran 1988, 83; Niditch
1997, 39–41, 58. Both Haran and Warner argue against the inference of widespread literacy on
the basis of the presence of the alphabet. Jamieson-Drake (1991, 156f.) argues against using the
Gezer calendar as evidence that tenth-century children there were being taught to read and write.
Niditch 1997, 58, concludes: ‘the vast majority of texts and letters are pragmatic and brief — mil-
itary, military-commercial, or commercial in nature. Writing for such purposes appears to be
much more common in the second half of the monarchy than in the first.’ Early general literacy
is sometimes inferred from Judg. 8.13–14: ‘Then Gideon the son of Jo’ash returned from the bat-
tle by the ascent of Heres. And he caught a young man of Succoth, and questioned him; and he
wrote down for him the officials and elders of Succoth, seventy-seven men.’ But we need to know
about the youth’s background and training; what he is writing is a list, a common early function
of writing which need not imply literacy in the full sense. There is a strong consensus, however,
that the eighth century saw a strong increase in literacy (Isa. 29.11–12). But general literacy can-
not be claimed before the late seventh century: Deut. 6.9, 11.20, 24.1; Jer. 36.29, 32, though the
significance of these sources is also debated. See further Jackson 2006a, §2.4.
124
‘My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge; because you have rejected knowledge, I reject
you from being a priest to me. And since you have forgotten the law of your God, I also will
forget your children.’
125
Williamson 1982, 282f.; Dillard 1987, 134.
126
Mishpat is closely associated in this passage with davar, which, as Levinson 1997, 129 n. 80
observes, here has a technical legal force. Cf. Jackson 1972, 241f., stressing its association with
oracular decision-making.
127
A parallel may be found in a royal decision preserved in an Old Babylonian letter, cited by
Rothenbusch 2001, 260f., where the case concerned the liability of a naditum for the private debts
of his father (Z 34–42); the royal answer goes beyond debts (hubullum) and deals also with
possible liability for the ilkum of the father.
128
Discussed in Jackson 2006a, §13.5.3.
129
Cf. Crüsemann 1996, 97, on different grounds.
130
Japhet (1993, 748f., 774) describes the teachers as ‘wandering professors’ (at 750), and suggests
that it may represent a literary imitation of Samuel, acting as an ‘itinerant judge’ (1 Sam. 7.16).
But the latter does not ascribe didactic functions to Samuel.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 392
For this and other reasons, the tradition of the teaching mission tends to
be regarded as unhistorical, reflecting post-exilic thought131 and circum-
stances.132 Indeed, Japhet sees Ezra 7.25 as ‘an astonishing parallel to
Jehoshaphat’s activity—the introduction of a judicial reform (19.4ff.), juxta-
posed with an organized policy of ‘teaching the law of the Lord’.133 However,
the teaching in Ezra 7.25 is not of the people as a whole, but rather of the
judges,134 and Ezra 7.25 implies that the judges are to adjudicate on the basis
of a canonical text. As with the judicial reform, the language points in dif-
ferent directions: on the one hand, the Chronicler regularly puts the priests
before the Levites, contrary to the formulation in verse 8;135 on the other, the
law book is described as sefer torat yhwh, an expression136 found in only one
other passage,137 the Chronicler’s account of Josiah’s reform (2 Chron.
34.14), where it replaces sefer habberit in the original.138 As for the nature and
content of the book, we have no direct evidence,139 and the referent of the
phrase may well have differed at different stages of the tradition’s history (if
any).140 There is no indication that the concern was the teaching of civil laws;
a cultic purpose for the activity fits better the Chronicler’s overall account of
Jehoshaphat’s reign.141
131
Thus, Crenshaw 1995, 247 on the movement from parental education in Deuteronomy to state
sponsorship here (aliter, Dillard, supra n. 117); Japhet 1993, 748f. on the function of the Levites
as teachers of the law; Knoppers 1994, 67; Greenberg 1995, 18 and 23 n. 13.
132
Wilson (1983b, 247f.) suggests that new, partly Persian, law was being promulgated, and
relates this to the devar hammelekh in 2 Chron. 19.11. Cf. Paul (1969, 74f.), who regards Sargon’s
measure (supra, at n. 122) as one of ‘forced Assyrianization and religious homogenization’, being
directed towards foreign settlers in the newly founded capital, and compares Jehoshaphat’s
teaching mission.
133
Japhet 1993, 749. Cf. Otto 2003, 228.
134
In contrast to Neh. 8, where there are separate sessions for the people as a whole (vv. 7–8) and
the rashei ha’avot (v. 13). Moreover, the idea of a public reading is clearer from the ritual of
Josiah’s reform (2 Kgs 23.1–3) than the teaching of Jehoshaphat’s officers in 2 Chron. 17.
135
Williamson 1982, 283.
136
Other than in the form sefer torat yhwh eloheyhem in Neh. 9.3.
137
Cf. Crenshaw 1995, 247.
138
2 Chron. 34.14, though throughout ch. 22 (vv. 8, 11) it is described simply as sefer hattorah or
hassefer.
139
Cf. Dillard 1987, 134. Japhet (1993, 748) notes Deut. 28.61, Josh. 1.8; 2 Kgs 14.6; Neh. 8.8,
etc. For views on the identification of the book, see Whitelam 1979, 212; Watts 1999, 21 n. 16.
140
Whatever its original referent, the Chronicler’s audience may well have been intended to
understand it as the Pentateuch: Williamson 1982, 282.
141
Whitelam 1979, 212; Williamson 1982, 282.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 393
5. CONCLUSION
This chapter has argued that the problem of Jehoshaphat’s reform cannot be
addressed in exclusively literary, linguistic or theological terms. This is not to
diminish the interest of determining the provenance of the Chronicler’s lan-
guage and ideas. We may indeed identify his ‘spin’ in expressions like ‘God of
their fathers’, and in much of the theological content of the admonitions. But
even late expressions like kohen harosh may carry connotations of the earlier
forms from which they are derived. Though the Chronicler’s presentation has
important elements in common with Deuteronomy, the latter is clearly not
the only source of his language.142 And where we do encounter language
common to Deut. 17.8 (beyn dam ledam) and Exod. 18.20 (vehizharta ’ethem
’et hahuqim ve’et hatorot), we may well suspect that these sources are being
used to amplify a separate historical source, or orally transmitted recollec-
tion, which was less explicit. The same may be true for other details, such as
the precise composition of the central court.
It is not easy to see why a narrative about Jehoshaphat might have been
invented simply to justify institutions of the Chronicler’s own time, or even
(with Knoppers) an ideological statement of what they ought to be. So we
revert to the question of anachronism: once we strip away the apparent
expansions, does that which remains—that which the Chronicler is spin-
ning—appear anachronistic? Put differently, with what historical period, if
any, does it appear coherent? To answer such questions, we must add to our
criteria those of institutional history. In particular, is it likely that
Jehoshaphat created something like the ‘theological’ judicial system here
described, or did he establish a more ‘secular’ legal system, which later writers
(not least, some think, the Chronicler himself), theologized?
I argue elsewhere (Jackson 2006b) that such ‘secular’ law as we may iden-
tify with the origins of the Mishpatim was weakly institutionalized, and that
it was precisely through its later association with divine justice that stronger
forms of institutionalization ultimately emerged. This may be traced in both
the processes of adjudication and the growth of jurisdiction. It was effected
through the adoption of a ‘monistic’ model of divine justice,143 encapsulated
in the Deuteronomic claim (1.17) ki mishpat le’lohim hu’, that justice is all or
142
This emerges even from Pearce’s analysis (1995), which incorporates reliance upon the
accounts in both Deut. 1 and Exod. 18 of Moses’s activity in this sphere.
143
See further Jackson 2004, contrasting the (dominant) ‘dualistic’ model of divine justice that
dominates contemporary scholarship — the view that there are separate spheres of human law
and divine justice, the latter intervening in the former only where something goes wrong.

18 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 394
essentially divine, even when it is administered through human hands.144

However, the forms of divine justice themselves have a history. Not only does
the ‘charismatic’ adjudication, exemplified in 2 Chron. 19.6, ve‘immakhem
bidvar mishpat), appear to precede reliance on a revealed text (the nearest
approach to which, in the pentateuchal sources, is Exod. 18.20, though even
that is not explicit regarding the written form). We may wonder whether the
endorsement of such a charismatic jurisdiction in the ‘fortified cities’ is really
compatible with the Deuteronomic centralization of the cult. As for the oper-
ation of the central court, while its personnel represents cultic as well as lay
(originally tribal?) leadership, its procedure too is described in charismatic
terms (2 Chron. 19.11), though recourse by the priesthood to the more insti-
tutionalized form of divine justice represented by the oracle is not to be
excluded. The king may not play any direct role in its proceedings, but it acts
under his authority, and his interests are explicitly recognized, in the present
account through the notion of a divided presidency.
Recourse to divine justice is not necessarily to be regarded as a transfor-
mation of secular to theological legitimation. This form of the ‘divine right
of kings’ may well have been required by the king to buttress his authority.
And in this context, the king’s appropriation of the wisdom tradition, as seen
in the tradition of the teaching mission (whether or not it goes back to
Jehoshaphat), may be viewed in a similar light. In short, while many of the
details may not be derived from an historically reliable account of
Jehoshaphat’s reform, the basic claim that he sought to establish a judicial
system based on charismatic and perhaps institutional forms of divine jus-
tice, fits well with the circumstances of the ninth century, and represents a
transitional step from tribally based self-help towards the centrally organized
form of rational adjudication which had developed by the Chronicler’s
own day.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Albright, W. F., 1950. ‘The judicial reform of Jehoshaphat’, in S. Lieberman (ed.),

Alexander Marx Jubilee Volume (New York), 51–82.
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Religion (Oxford, 1966; repr. Sheffield, 1989), 81–132 (orig. German edn: Die
Ursprünge des israelitischen Rechts [Leipzig, 1934]).
Bartlett, J. R., 1969. ‘The use of the word a6sq as a title in the Old Testament’, VT 19,
1–10.
144
Aliter, for example, Williamson (1982, 289), who views 2 Chron. 19.6 as based largely on Deut
1.17: ‘In Israel it was believed that all judgments should be ultimately under God’s direction’
(emphasis added).

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Boecker, H. J., 1980. Law and the Administration of Justice in the Old Testament and
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Camp, C. V., 1981. ‘The Wise Women of 2 Samuel: A Role Model for Women in Early
Israel’, CBQ 43, 14–29.
Coggins, R., 1976. The First and Second Books of the Chronicles (Cambridge).
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——, 1992. Die Tora. Theologie und Sozialgeschichte des alttestamentlichen Gesetzes
(München).
——, 1996. The Torah. Theology and Social History of Old Testament Law (ET Allan
W. Mahnke; Edinburgh).
Dillard, R. B., 1987. 2 Chronicles (Waco, TX).
Falk, Z. W., 2001. Hebrew Law in Biblical Times (Provo; reprint of Jerusalem, 1964).
Fensham, F. C., 1962. ‘Widow, orphan and the poor in ancient Near Eastern legal and
wisdom literature’, JNES 21, 129–39.
Fishbane, M., 1985. Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford).
Fitzpatrick-McKinley, A., 1999. The Transformation of Torah from Scribal Advice to
Law (Sheffield).
Flanagan, J. W., 1981. ‘Chiefs in Israel’, JSOT 20, 47–73.
Frick, F. S., 1985. The Formation of the State in Ancient Israel (Sheffield).
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538–56.
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(Oxford).
——, 2006b. ‘Human Law and Divine Justice in the Methodological Maze of the
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Japhet, S., 1989. The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and its Place in Biblical
Thought (Frankfurt, Bern and New York).
——, 1993. I and II Chronicles: A Commentary (London).
Kalimi, I., 2005. The Reshaping of Ancient Israelite History in Chronicles (Winona
Lake, IN).
Knierim, R., 1961. ‘Exodus 18 und die Neuordnung der mosaischen Gerichtsbarkeit’,
ZAW 73, 146–71.
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JBL 113, 59–80.
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Lyon, B., 1980. A Constitutional and Legal History of Medieval England (2nd edn;
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(London).
Niehr, H., 1987. Rechtsprechung in Israel: Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der
Gerichtsorganisation im alten Testament (Stuttgart).
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Confessor (Philadelphia).
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(Göttingen).
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——, 2003. ‘Semiotik des biblischen Rechts’, ZAR 9, 220–37.
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Jewish Writings after Deuteronomy and before the Mishnah (dissertation, Oxford).
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38, 89–104.

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——, 2002. ‘The Organisation of the Judiciary in Deuteronomy’, in Deuteronomy.

Issues and Interpretation (London and New York; rev. version of Hebrew orig. in
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21,2–11.18–22,16) (Münster).
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Schiffman, L., 1983. Sectarian Law in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Courts, Testimony and the
Penal Code (Chico, CA).
Strübind, K., 1991. Tradition als Interpretation in der Chronik (Berlin).
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Covenant Code (Oxford).
Wagner, V., 2002. ‘Ein Indiz für die praktische Verwendung der kasuistischen
Rechtssammlungen des Pentateuchs im Rechtsleben’, ZAR 8, 211–41.
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——, 1977. ‘Judge and Officer in Ancient Israel and the Ancient Near East’, IOS 7,
65–88.
Welch, J. W., 1990. ‘Reflections on Postulates: Power and Ancient Laws—A Response
to Moshe Greenberg’, in E. B. Firmage, B. G. Weiss and J. W. Welch (eds), Religion
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Whitelam, K., 1979. The Just King: Monarchical Judicial Authority in Ancient Israel
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Williamson, H. G. M., 1982. 1 and 2 Chronicles (Grand Rapids, MI).
——, 1991. ‘Jezreel in the Biblical Texts’, Tel Aviv 18, 72–89.
Wilson, R. R., 1983a. ‘Enforcing the Covenant: The Mechanisms of Judicial
Authority in Early Israel’, in H. B. Huffmon et al. (eds), The Quest for the
Kingdom of God: Studies in Honour of G.E. Mendenhall (Winona Lake, IN),
59–75.
——, 1983b. ‘Israel’s Judicial System in the Preexilic Period’, JQR 74/2, 229–48.
Wright, D. P., 2003. ‘The Laws of Hammurabi as a Source for the Covenant
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19
The Northern Kingdom in the Late

Tenth–Ninth Centuries BCE
NADAV NA’AMAN
THE SOURCES AVAILABLE TO THE AUTHOR OF THE BOOKS OF

KINGS
A MAJOR PROBLEM IN THE DISCUSSION OF THE KINGDOM OF ISRAEL in the late

tenth–ninth centuries is the evaluation of the Books of Kings as a source
for historical reconstruction. In addition to Kings, there are some late
tenth–ninth century Egyptian, Assyrian, Aramaic and Moabite royal inscrip-
tions that refer to various events in the history of the kingdom. However, the
number and scope of these inscriptions are limited, and on their basis plus
the archaeological data alone we would be unable to draw even a schematic
history. Moreover, when discussed in isolation, the contribution of the royal
inscriptions turns out to be minimal, but when set against the biblical
account they fill some gaps in the history and help us to evaluate the authen-
ticity of other closely related descriptions. Therefore it is necessary to estab-
lish to what extent we can trust the Books of Kings for the historical
reconstruction.1
It is accepted today by almost all scholars that the early edition of the
Books of Kings was written either in the late monarchical, or in the early
exilic period. Hence, there is a gap of about two to three hundred years
between the recounted events of the late tenth–ninth century and the time
when the history was written. In view of this enormous gap, the study
must shift to the sources available to the author of Kings (for my earlier
discussions of the problem of sources and composition in the Books of
Kings, see Na’aman 2002a, 77–102; 2003, 1321–46; 2004, 245–54; 2005,
105–20; 2006, 129–52).
1
An enormous amount of literature has been written on each subject discussed in this chapter,
and listing full references would be too long. To avoid this, I have decided to add notes only
where they are absolutely essential. In some cases I cite the latest work, where readers can find
lists of the older literature on the subject.

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 400
400 Nadav Na’aman
The main tool for researching the sources is the above-mentioned royal
inscriptions. They do not illuminate most of the biblical descriptions, but the
corpus of royal inscriptions that refers directly to the histories of the king-
doms of Israel and Judah may be used as a sample against which to check the
historicity of the Books of Kings (Na’aman 1999, 3–17). Their analysis indi-
cates that the author had some written sources on which he based his history
of the late tenth–ninth centuries. It also shows that the source material avail-
able for the history of Judah was richer than that for Israel. For example, the
Books of Kings make no mention of a payment of tribute to foreign rulers
by the kings of Israel in the ninth–early eighth centuries, although the royal
inscriptions mention the payments they paid to Assyrian kings. But payments
of tribute or ‘presents’ by Judahite kings to foreign rulers are well attested
(1 Kgs 14.26; 15.18–19; 2 Kgs 12.19; 14.14).2
The number of sources originating in the Northern Kingdom and avail-
able to the author was limited, and included some kind of an early chronicle
and prophetic stories. The former must have combined material extracted
from early sources (such as a king-list with notes on the changes of dynas-
ties). It must have included the names of kings, their years and dynasties,
details of the rebellions and the overthrow of dynasties, and sporadic events
relating to some Israelite kings, (such as building operations and the wars
with the Arameans). Details concerning the relations between the kings of
Judah and Israel were probably extracted from Judahite sources. The other
sources about the Northern Kingdom were prophetic stories. These stories
were written after a long period of oral transmission, are novelistic in char-
acter and tend to magnify the figure of the man of God and his deeds.
Although some of these stories retain memories of the time of the Omride
and Jehuite dynasties, they also include elements that are far removed from
the historical reality.
Finally, an overall analysis of the Books of Kings leads me to conclude
that the author made an effort to assemble all the sources available to him
and used them in writing his work. The space here does not allow me to intro-
duce the evidence for this conclusion, but the historical reconstruction below
takes it into account (Na’aman 1997a, 155–58, 172; 2002a, 117–20.
2
For the suggestion that the author of the Books of Kings drew most of his sources from the
temple library of Jerusalem, see Na’aman 1996, 180–82; 2002a, 68–77; 2006, 129–34.

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 401
THE NORTHERN KINGDOM 401
THE POINT OF DEPARTURE FOR THE HISTORICAL

RECONSTRUCTION
The reconstruction of the early history of the Northern Kingdom must begin
by tackling a major problem: that of the historicity of the United Monarchy.
This broad subject is debated among archaeologists, historians and biblical
scholars and there is no way of bridging the gap between the so-called
‘minimalists’ and ‘maximalists’. It is not my intention to go into a detailed
discussion and I merely express my opinion on this fundamental issue.
Excavations and surveys conducted in the territories of Israel and Judah
indicate that the two kingdoms developed along the same lines as other king-
doms in the Syro-Palestinian region. The rise of prosperous urban centres
and a hierarchical system of settlements, as well as of a royal court and exten-
sive commercial and administrative activity, was gradual and lasted a long
time. The slow development of the state and its institutions is in marked con-
trast to the biblical history of the emergence of the United Monarchy. In that
account, monarchy, with all its institutional, administrative and economic
components, had reached completion by the reign of Solomon, about two
generations after the emergence of the monarchy. Monumental buildings
were erected, long-distance trade developed and luxury items piled into the
treasury of the kingdom. It goes without saying that the Israelite kingdom
could not have developed so rapidly into the stage that sociologists call a
‘grown state’, and that the picture drawn in the Bible cannot be sustained.
Hence, the biblical representation of the United Monarchy can serve neither
as a basis for the history of the tenth century, nor as a point of departure for
reconstructing the history of the kingdom of Israel in the late tenth–ninth
centuries. I accept the notion of a United Monarchy and the authenticity of
the named kings, but assume that it was a transition between local leadership
of a tribal society to the foundation of two neighbouring kingdoms in the
late tenth century BCE.
Since the biblical account cannot supply the point of departure for the
discussion, we must turn to the archaeological data. The emergence of the
kingdoms of Israel and Judah may be described as the expansion of highland
territorial entities to the surrounding lowlands (Finkelstein and Na’aman
2005, 172–93). The phenomenon is well known in different periods in the his-
tory of the Levant, namely Lab’ayu, the ruler of Shechem, and ‘Abdi-Ashirta
and Aziru, the rulers of Amurru, in the Amarna period; the Hasmonaean
state in the Hellenistic period; Fakhr ad-Din in the mountains of Lebanon
and Dahir al-‘Umar in the Galilee in the Ottoman period (Abu Husayn 1985;
Cohen 1973, 7–18). Its roots lie in the rise of large territorial entities in the
highlands, bigger in territory—but not necessarily population—than the
city-states of the lowlands. Some attempts at expansion by highland leaders

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 402
402 Nadav Na’aman
failed, whereas others succeeded. The evidence for success is found in

destruction layers in the lowland cities and the initial process of change in
their material culture. In other words, archaeology is the key to establishing
the date and stages of expansion. Unfortunately, the dating of the archaeo-
logical strata formerly attributed to the tenth century is debated among
archaeologists and there is as yet no consensus, although the gap between the
higher and lower chronologies is gradually narrowing. This is mainly the
result of dates obtained by the radiocarbon method, which fit the low
chronology better than the higher (Gilboa and Sharon 2001; 2003; Mazar
and Carmi 2001; Bruins, van der Plicht and Mazar 2003; Finkelstein and
Piasetzky 2003a; 2003b; Gilboa, Sharon and Zorn 2004; Boaretto, Jull,
Gilboa and Sharon 2005). The archaeological dates that I use are therefore
closer to the former than to the latter.
For the first half of the tenth century the northern valleys still featured
the late-Canaanite material culture and were probably organized in a city-
state system (Finkelstein 2003a, 75–83; 2003b, 189–95; 2005, 15–22; Ben-Tor
2003, 50–54). To date the spread of highland tribes to the northern valleys we
must date the transition from the late-Canaanite phase to the next one, of a
very different material culture assemblage that characterized the Israelite
monarchy of the ninth–eighth centuries. The key to the dating is the parallel
between the pottery assemblages attributed to Shishak’s campaign in south
Palestine (Arad XII, Tel Masos II–I, the Negev Highland settlements) and
the post-Megiddo VI horizon in the north (Mazar and Carmi 2001, 1333–42;
Finkelstein 2002, 117–22; 2004, 181–88 [esp. p. 186]; Herzog and Singer-Avitz
2004, 209–44 [esp. p. 231], with earlier literature). Attributing the wave of
destruction of the Iron I cities (Megiddo VIA, Yoqne’am XVII, Taanach IB,
Beth-Shean Upper VI and Chinnereth V) to a series of raids from the north-
ern highlands is a better explanation of the archaeological data than ascrib-
ing it to the campaign of Pharaoh Shishak. It fits the assumption that
Shishak established a victory stele in the inhabited city of Megiddo Stratum
VB rather than the ruined city of Stratum VIA. We may conclude that the
expansion of the Northern Kingdom into the Jezreel and Beth-Shean valleys
took place in the second half of the tenth century BCE. This fits the conven-
tional date of the emergence of the Northern Kingdom in the late tenth
century BCE.
The earliest Iron IIA strata in the valleys (Megiddo VB, Yokneam XV,
Taanach IIA and Tel Rehov V), which are contemporaneous with Shishak’s
campaign, represent the first stage of the establishment of the Northern
Kingdom. These strata are characterized by modest buildings and material
culture with no evidence yet of monumental architecture. The second stage
of this development features the rise of monumental architecture and
administrative centres, and may safely be dated to the Omrides (Megiddo

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 403
VA–IVB, the Jezreel compound, Yoqne’am XIV, Taanach IIB and Tel Rehov
IV). This phase can also be detected at Gezer (Stratum VIII), in the kingdom’s
south-western border.
More complicated is the problem of dating the strata in north Palestine.
The pottery of Hazor X–IX is contemporaneous with that of Megiddo
VA–IVB (for the debate on the chronology of Hazor, see Zarzeki-Peleg 1997,
258–88; Ben-Tor and Ben-Ami 1998, 1–37; Finkelstein 1999, 55–70; 2000a,
240–44; Ben-Tor 2000, 9–15). Some architectural features of Hazor X resem-
ble Omride architecture, but other elements differ (e.g. massive casemate
walls with no ashlars in the construction) (Finkelstein 2000b, 117–18). Since
each stratum of Hazor X–IX is divided into two phases, I prefer dating the
building of Stratum X to the late tenth–early ninth century. The fortification
of Hazor is probably due to the efforts of the early Israelite kings to control
the north, in their struggle with the emerging Aramean kingdom(s) east of
the Jordan. The excavations at Tel Dan failed to yield conclusive dates for the
monumental architecture elements uncovered there (fortification, gate and
the platform erected for the temple).
THE GROWTH AND ESTABLISHMENT OF THE KINGDOM OF

ISRAEL
The pattern of growth of the Northern Kingdom has probably many things
in common with the expansion of the kingdom of Shechem in the Amarna
period (fourteenth century BCE). The course of action was a combination of
military moves and diplomacy. The initial stage must have been the consoli-
dation of power in the hill country, probably by forming coalition(s) among
the tribal groups living there. The next stage included the forming of a
coalition with local powers, as a way of gaining political and military power,
pressing hard on the neighbouring city-states, and combining forces with the
allies for decisive battles. An important stage in the growth of the Northern
Kingdom is probably reflected in the Song of Deborah. The song, and its
interpretation in the story, describes a coalition of Canaanite city-states
assembled for battle ‘in Taanach by the Waters of Megiddo’, and defeated in
the plain by a coalition of highland tribes. The commander of the Canaanite
coalition, Sisera, came probably from the Sea Peoples, which may indicate the
participation of the Philistines in the effort to block the expansion of the
highland tribes (Singer 1994, 319–21). The battle near Mt Gilboa, which is
also commemorated by a song and narrative, may reflect another stage in the
struggle between the highland tribes and the Canaanite city-states, supported
by the Philistines. Be that as it may, the weakened city-states were unable to
resist the growing power of the inhabitants of the hill country, and even the

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404 Nadav Na’aman
intervention of the Philistine city-states did not rescue them. Though details
are missing because of the antiquity of the events, the end result is clear: the
city-states in the north were conquered and destroyed, or subjugated, and the
way was open for further expansion. The strong city of Ekron (Stratum IV)
might also have been destroyed in the course of the struggle between the
Philistines and the highland tribes. The process of conquest and gradual
expansion could have lasted a few generations from the mid-tenth until the
early ninth centuries. It ended with the emergence of the Northern Kingdom
as a dominant power in Palestine under the Omrides, in the first half of the
ninth century BCE.
The expansion over all the areas of the future kingdom of Israel must
have included an early stage in which a network of Israelite centres linked by
communication routes was established. Neighbouring sites were later con-
quered, or subdued, and the centres of government gradually transformed to
nuclei of districts.3 Thus, the conquest of large territories in the lowlands and
north Palestine was only the first step, which ended when the ‘network
kingdom’ expanded and became a territorial state. Creating a permanent
set of borders, the development of urbanism, economy and commerce,
forming an administrative apparatus and installing an official cult, took a few
generations. I therefore suggest that the historical role of the early kings of
Israel was the gradual expansion of the kingdom and the early stages of its
consolidation.
What might have been the role of Shishak’s campaign in the emergence of
the Northern Kingdom? I have already suggested that the expansion of the
highland tribes to the nearby lowlands antedated Shishak’s campaign. The
campaign was mainly conducted in the lowlands, avoiding the difficulties
and dangers involved in widescale operations in the central hill country. The
despoiled territories (namely, the coast, the northern Shephelah, the northern
plains and the central Jordan Valley) are mostly the same as the areas that
were of primary concern to the Egyptians in the time of the New Kingdom,
when Egypt ruled Canaan. All the places are located outside Philistia, indi-
cating that Shishak avoided plundering the Philistine kingdoms. Hence we
may assume that the campaign was intended to rescue the Philistines and
their allies, the Canaanite city-states in the lowlands. Whether or not Shishak
planned to re-establish the Egyptian empire in Asia, there is no evidence that
he made any attempt to establish permanent rule in the ravaged territories.
He soon retreated, and neither he nor his successors returned to the area.
3
For a similar paradigm for the growth of the Assyrian empire, see Liverani 1988, 81–98; 1992,
103–32; Kühne 1995, 69–79; for criticism, see Postgate 1991, 255–57.

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 405
Thus the campaign was no more than a large-scale razzia, and its impact on
the history of the Northern Kingdom must have been minimal.4
THE EARLY DYNASTIES OF THE NORTHERN KINGDOM
From the reigns of Jeroboam and Rehoboam on, the years of each king in
the kingdoms of Israel and Judah are accurately enumerated. The reigns of
the kings of the United Monarchy, on the other hand, are either missing
(Saul) or ascribed round numbers (David and Solomon). It is evident that
Jeroboam and Rehoboam opened the king-lists available to the author, and
that the period of the United Monarchy was not included in the list of kings,
and the years of earlier kings were artificially assigned by the late authors.
This indicates the age of trustworthy sources used by the author for writing
the history of the two kingdoms, and fits well with the reference to the cam-
paign of Shishak in Rehoboam’s fifth year (1 Kgs 14.25), which is confirmed
by his topographical inscription.
From the time of Adad-nirari III in the late ninth century onwards the
Assyrians called the kingdom of Israel by the name B it 9umri, referring to
Omri as the founder of the kingdom. It reflects the Assyrian practice of call-
ing kingdoms by the name of the dynasty’s founder at the time of their first
encounter with it. However, the designation does not indicate that Omri was
the historical founder of the kingdom. Thus, for example, the Assyrians
called Damascus by the name B it 9azaili, referring to Hazael as the king-
dom’s founder, although other kings (notably Adad-idri) antedated him on
the throne of Damascus. Establishing the emergence and growth of the
kingdom must rest on different foundations.
The author of the Books of Kings consistently portrayed Jeroboam I as
founder of the official cult in Israel, and I tend to accept this, though cer-
tainly not on the scale attributed to him by this late author. The discovery of
an Iron I metal figurine of a bull in an open cult place in the northern high-
lands of Samaria lends support to the tradition that Jeroboam made calves
and erected them in his cult centres. Also, the accounts of Jeroboam’s seat in
Shechem, his building of Penuel (1 Kgs 12.25), possibly as a cult centre for
the Gilead, parallel to the establishment of a cult centre at Bethel (and pos-
sibly at Dan, although the inclusion of Dan in Jeroboam’s building opera-
tions might be anachronistic), and the transfer of the seat of the ruling
dynasty to Tirzah by Baasha, were probably derived from ancient sources.
4
For a similar evaluation of Shishak’s campaign, see Redford 1973, 3–17 (esp. p. 11). For a dif-
ferent evaluation of the campaign, see Finkelstein 2002; 2005, 19–22. For a recent detailed dis-
cussion, see Wilson 2001, with earlier literature.

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406 Nadav Na’aman
The accounts that Nadab and Elah, kings of Israel, were murdered when
the Israelite army besieged Gibbethon was probably derived from an ancient
Israelite chronicle, or an extensive king-list, which included remarks on the
changing of dynasties in the kingdom. Gibbethon, today Ras Abu Hamid,
about five kms north-west of Gezer, lies near the southern border of Israel
with Philistia (for the identification of Gibbethon, see Schmitt 1980, 107–9;
Na’aman 1986, 107–8 n. 49). The siege of a Philistine city indicates the
attempt of the kings of Israel to take advantage of the destruction of Ekron
and expand their territory into north Philistia.
The story of the pressure that Baasha put on Jerusalem, Asa’s appeal to
Aram, and the king of Aram’s attack on Israel, was probably derived from
‘the book of the chronicles of the kings of Judah’, which rests on an ancient
Judahite chronicle. Some missing details in the chronicle, such as the name of
the Aramean king and the list of cities he conquered, were probably filled in
by the author of Kings and may be inaccurate, but the essence of the episode
rests on an ancient source, and should be integrated into the historical recon-
struction. Other wars and conquests, as well as building operations, must
have taken place in these years, but since they were not recorded, they were
forgotten, and the later author was unable to include them in his work.
THE OMRIDE DYNASTY
With the Omrides the historical reconstruction rests on a more solid ground.
A cross-reference of the archaeological and documentary evidence reveals
that the Northern Kingdom extended its territory, stabilized its boundaries
and reached the stage that sociologists call a ‘grown state’. The southern
border of the Northern Kingdom ran south of the important cult centre of
Bethel. Gezer was the main centre on the kingdom’s south-western boundary.
Dor was the main Israelite port on the Mediterranean coast. Mount Carmel
marked the border between Tyre and Israel. Hazor was the Israelite centre of
government in the north, and a few highland strongholds (at Har Adir and
Tel Harashim) were built to control the wooded, sparsely inhabited region of
Upper Galilee, facing the territory of Tyre in the west (Finkelstein 2000b,
124–25; Ben Ami 2004, 194–208). The fortified farmhouse of Horvat Rosh
Zayit was probably located near the south-eastern Tyrian border with the
kingdom of Israel (Gal and Alexandre 2000). Tel Dan was a major cultic and
administrative centre near the northernmost border of the kingdom, and the
erection of Hazael’s victory stele in the place clearly indicates its importance.
In the east the border ran along the Jordan up to the Sea of Galilee.
Ramoth-gilead, probably located at er-Ramta in the north-eastern Gilead,
south of the Yarmuk River, must have been the main Israelite stronghold on

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 407
its north-eastern border with Aram (for the identification, see Knauf 2001,
33–36). In southern Transjordan, Israel controlled the Mishor of northern
Moab and established forts at ‘Ataroth and Jahaz, on the western and eastern
flanks of its front with Moab.
We may conclude that the Northern Kingdom dominated the central hill
country up to the area of Bethel, the Ayalon Valley, the Sharon coastal plain
up to Mount Carmel, probably much of the mountainous Galilee, the Huleh
Valley, the territory west of the Jordan and the Sea of Galilee, the Gilead and
northern Moab. The result was a diverse, multicultural state, which was ruled
from the highlands, with major administrative centres in key areas of the
lowlands: Gezer in the Ayalon Valley, Dor on the coast, Megiddo and Jezreel
in the northern plains, Hazor and Dan in the Huleh Valley, Ramoth-gilead
in northern Gilead, Penuel and Mahanaim in central Gilead, Medeba in
northern Moab and possibly Jericho on the main road leading to the Mishor.
Of all the building projects of the Omrides I will mention only the foun-
dation of the new capital at Samaria as the seat of the dynasty and for eco-
nomic and administration activities, and that of Jezreel as the kingdom’s
military headquarters. In the following generations the new capital steadily
grew, becoming the permanent seat of all future kings of Israel. Evidence of
its prominence and prestige as early as the beginning of the eighth century is
the designation ‘the Samarian’ for Joash (Yu’asu), son of Jehoahaz, by Adad-
nirari III (Grayson 1996, 211, line 8, with earlier literature), and the name
‘Yahweh of Samaria’ for the god of the Northern Kingdom in an inscription
from Kuntillet ‘Ajrud (Renz 1995, 59–61, with earlier literature on pp. 47–48).
The city of Jezreel, on the other hand, functioned for only a short time
and was destroyed, probably by Hazael in the course of his conquest of the
Northern Kingdom, and remained uninhabited (Na’aman 1997b, 125–27;
Finkelstein 1999, 60–61; 2004, 185; Mazar 1999, 40–42; Bruins, Plicht and
Mazar 2003, 315–18; Coldstream and Mazar 2003, 43–44). It is mentioned in
two prophetic stories of Elijah and Ahab (l Kgs 18.45, 46; 21.1, 23) and in the
detailed story of Jehu’s rebellion (2 Kgs 8.29; 9.10, 15, 16, 17, 30, 36, 37; 10.1,
11), but is absent from the story cycles of Elisha and other prophetic stories
that are dated to the time of the dynasty of Jehu (see below). The place of
Jezreel in the prophetic narratives that refer to Ahab and Joram corresponds
well to the results of the excavation conducted at the site. It demonstrates the
survival of some authentic memories from the time of the Omrides in these
stories. The oral narratives underlying these stories must have taken their
initial shape at a time when the memory of Jezreel’s importance in the king-
dom was still very much alive, otherwise its historical place would have been
forgotten and replaced by another city.
Assyrian, Moabite and Aramaic royal inscriptions indicate that under the
Omrides Israel became one of the leading powers in the Syro-Palestinian

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408 Nadav Na’aman
arena. It conquered and held the territory of Moab for two generations,
invaded an Aramean territory in an effort to expand its area,5 and partici-
pated in the alliance that successfully fought Shalmaneser III, king of
Assyria. Although Israel is mentioned only in the inscription that describes
in detail Shalmaneser’s sixth year campaign (853 BCE), it certainly partici-
pated in all four battles waged between Shalmaneser and the coalition of
twelve kingdoms headed by Adad-idri (Hadad-ezer) of Damascus in the years
853–845 (Yamada 2000). The success of the ‘southern alliance’ in barring the
invading Assyrian army shows its military strength and cohesion. In the bat-
tle of Qarqar, Israel appears as one of the three main powers that made up
the alliance, accounting for the largest number of chariots for battle. In esti-
mating its military strength we must set aside the exact number of chariots
and troops, which is greatly exaggerated for many members of the coalition,
and examine the relative number of infantry and cavalry of the participants
in the battle. The comparison shows how powerful Israel was in the mid-
ninth century, a conclusion supported by the Tel Dan Aramaic inscription, in
which Hazael claimed that he killed powerful kings ‘who harnessed a
thou[sand] chariots and thousands of chariot horses’ (Biran and Naveh 1995,
13, lines 6–7; Lemaire 1998, 4, lines 6–7, 8–10).
The Omrides participation in the alliance that fought Assyria and the
conquest of Moab by Omri are not mentioned in the Books of Kings. This is
because of the antiquity of the events and the small number of sources of
North Israelite origin available to the author. Other wars attributed to kings
of the dynasty of Omri are described in the Books of Kings, but in the form
of narratives rather than chronicle-like accounts. Two prophetic stories that
describe wars with the Arameans are included in the history of Ahab; the
Elisha story cycle and the narratives describing the campaign against Moab
and the war with Aram are included in the history of Joram, the son of Ahab.
Much ink has been spilled in analysing the text and literary unity of these
stories and establishing their date and historicity. It is commonly accepted
today that the story of 1 Kings 20, that narrates two wars conducted against
Ben-Hadad, the king of Aram, relates to events of the time of the Jehuite
dynasty. The story cycle of Elisha was also erroneously inserted into the his-
tory of Joram, and should be assigned to the history of the Jehu dynasty.
Moreover, many scholars support the assumption that the four battle stories
(1 Kgs 20; 22.1–38; 2 Kgs 3.4–27; 6.24–7.20), as well as the Elisha stories,
5
In the opening lines of the Tel Dan stele, Hazael, king of Aram, says that ‘the king of I[s]rael
penetrated into my father’s land’. See Biran and Naveh 1995, 13, lines 3–4; Lemaire 1998, 4, lines
3–4, 5–6.

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 409
were inserted into the Books of Kings by a post-deuteronomistic editor.6

However, the majority of these narratives were written earlier than the com-
position of the Books of Kings, and even if inserted at a later stage, their con-
tribution to the history of the Northern Kingdom must be carefully
examined, each story in its own right.
Contrary to the commonly accepted view that the narrative of Ahab’s
death in battle (1 Kgs 22) is legendary, and that the king died peacefully
(‘slept with his ancestors’, as related in 1 Kgs 22.40), I believe that the kernel
of the story is historical and preserves an authentic memory of the king’s
unusual death (Na’aman 1997a, 162–71). According to the prophetic story of
1 Kings 22, Ahab was killed by an Aramaic arrow in the war waged at
Ramoth-gilead. We may ask why, if Ahab died peacefully, would anyone at a
later time invent a story about his death in battle? All biblical references to
Ahab indicate how negative the impression he left was in the historical mem-
ory.7 The story of his death is exceptional and stands in marked contradic-
tion to the way he is portrayed in all other biblical accounts. Moreover, Ahab
is presented in the story as devotee of Yahweh (vv. 6–8, 10–12), in marked
contrast to his negative evaluation in the historiography (1 Kgs 16.28–33;
21.25–26; 2 Kgs 8.18, 27; 21.3, 13) and his sinful depiction in all other
prophetic stories. His leading role and determination in the story is in marked
contrast to his depiction as a weak, indecisive ruler (contrary to his auda-
cious and determined wife) in the other prophetic stories (1 Kgs 18.17–20, 40;
19.1–2; 20.1–9; 21.1–16, 27–29). Finally, verse 38 (‘And they washed the char-
iot by the pool of Samaria, and the dogs licked up his blood, and the harlots
washed themselves in it, according to the word of the Lord which he had spo-
ken’) indicates how difficult it was for the editor to fit the story of Ahab’s
death into the history of the king. There are good reasons, therefore, to
believe that the narrative of 1 Kings 22 preserves memories of the participa-
tion of Ahab and Jehoshaphat in a battle, and Ahab’s death by an enemy
arrow.
We may further note that the author of the Books of Kings attributed a
peaceful death (‘slept with his ancestors’) to every king about whom his
sources did not describe an unnatural death. The attribution was based on a
negative inference and the author had no written source about the kings of
Judah and Israel who died a natural death. Assuming that the story in chap-
ter 22 was inserted in a post-deuteronomistic stage, it may be suggested that
6
For the inclusion of the prophetic stories in the Books of Kings, see e.g., Hölscher 1923,
184–86; Miller 1966, 449–51; Schmitt, 1972; Würthwein 1984, 205, 496–98, 502–03; Stipp 1987;
McKenzie 1991, 90–98; Otto 2001, with earlier literature; 2003, 487–508.
7
In addition to the prophetic stories, see 1 Kgs 16.28–33; 21.25–26; 2 Kgs 8.18, 27; 21.3, 13; Mic.
6.16.

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410 Nadav Na’aman
Ahab was killed in battle but the event—like so many other events of that
early period—was unknown to the author of Kings, so he attributed to the
king a peaceful death (Na’aman 1997a, 158–71).8
In light of these considerations, I would suggest a daring hypothesis: that
Ahab was killed at Qarqar by an Assyrian arrow, and that in the course of a
long oral tradition the story of the battle was shifted from the Assyrians to
the Arameans, the closer neighbour and best-known enemies of Israel in the
ninth century. The biblical chronology of the Omrides fits my hypothesis
exactly. Ahaziah, son of Ahab, reigned for two years (1 Kgs 22.52), and his
brother, Joram, reigned twelve years (2 Kgs 3.1). Counting backward from
Joram’s death at about 842/41 to Ahaziah’s ascent of the throne after Ahab’s
death, we arrive at exactly 853, the date of the battle of Qarqar. Accepting
this suggestion also solves the problem of Israel’s apparent change of sides
vis-à-vis the Arameans in the last year of Ahab, even though the two king-
doms were allies and had together fought against the invading Assyrians in
the years 853–845 BCE.
Ahab’s unexpected death in battle with the Assyrians in a far-away land
must have raised serious theological questions in Israel, similar to the ques-
tions that arose after the death of Sargon II on the battlefield in Anatolia
(705 BCE) (Tadmor, Landsberger and Parpola 1989, 3–51; Frahm 1999,
78–90). Sennacherib, the son of Sargon, searched by extispicy the sin of
Sargon in order to discover why he had been killed in battle and left unburied
in a distant land (Tadmor, Landsberger and Parpola 1989, 10–11, lines 7–20).
A similar search for the reason for Ahab’s unexpected death must have taken
place in Israel, and the story in chapter 22 is the literary answer to this ques-
tion. According to common ancient Near Eastern practice, a second query
(piqittu) that should repeat the results of the first was sometimes required to
confirm its authenticity (Kitz 2003, 25–27, with earlier literature). In the
prophetic story, Micaiah’s prophecy fills the role of a second query, and indi-
cates that the divine answer obtained in the first query was false. Ahab’s belief
that he can manipulate the prophecy by using the ritual of substitution (see
below) led him to disregard the prophecy and proceed for battle, in which he
was killed by an Aramean arrow.
The author combined the decision to proceed to battle with the ancient
Near Eastern motif of the so-called ‘substitute king’ (8ar puji) (Na’aman
8
I have contested the assumption of a post-deuteronomistic date at which the story of Ahab’s
death in battle was inserted into the Books of Kings, and tried to show that the story was known
to the author of Kings when he composed his work. According to the Books of Kings, the
Israelite kings who died violent deaths were left unburied, unlike Ahab who was buried in
Samaria (v. 37). Either the author of Kings made Ahab an exception, and did not include his
brave death in battle among the other violent deaths, or he made a mistake and erroneously
appended the statement to his reign (v. 40).

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 411
1997a, 165).9 Ahab’s disguise before battle and Jehoshaphat’s dressing in his
royal armour (v. 30) marks the exchange of roles between the two kings.
Jehoshaphat, in the role of a substitute king, was attacked, and just before the
ritual proceeded in its natural course was miraculously saved (vv. 32–33). As
a result of Jehoshaphat’s escape, the prophecy of doom threatened once
again the ‘real king’ (i.e. Ahab) and was fulfilled when he was struck by a
stray arrow and died (vv. 34–35). As noted above, Ahab is presented in the
story as a devotee of Yahweh who failed to perceive that true prophecy can-
not be manipulated, and his refusal to heed the words of Micaiah, Yahweh’s
true prophet, cost him his life.
According to the narrative, Ahab was brought from the battlefield and
buried in his capital, Samaria (v. 37). This is contrary to all other kings of
Israel who, according to the Books of Kings, died violent deaths and were left
unburied (Nadab, Elah, Joram, Zimri, Zechariah, Shallum, Pekahiah and
Pekah).10 Sennacherib’s search for the sin of Sargon shows the religious grav-
ity of the situation of a king who died on the battlefield and was left
unburied, and how important it was to appease by rituals the spirit of the
dead, who might otherwise harm the living (Tadmor, Landsberger and
Parpola 1989, 28–29, 33–35, 45–49; Frahm 1999, 74–80). The emphasis on
the burial of Ahab in Samaria must be interpreted against this background.
The author deliberately states that Ahab was properly buried and his spirit
appeased. The emphasis on the proper burial is similar to that of the author
of Kings, who emphasized that the three kings of Judah who were killed far
away from their capital (Ahaziah, Amaziah and Josiah) were brought to
Jerusalem and buried there.
In summary, although many details in the story are legendary, the core of
the story is historical and may fill a gap in the history of the Omrides. It
may teach us a lesson that caution is advisable before deciding that a certain
ninth-century prophetic story is entirely deprived of historical reality.
Ahab’s death in battle, and the unexpected death of his son Ahaziah soon
after, could well have been perceived in Moab as indications of Israel’s weak-
ness, and as an opportunity to shake off its domination. Moreover, at least
part of Israel’s armed force must have been pinned down by the wars against
Assyria in the kingdom of Hamath in central Syria, and unable to help sup-
press the revolt. Finally, the participation of the Israelite and Judahite troops
9
For the Mesopotamian idea of a ‘substitute king’ (8ar puji) and its classical and Arabian par-
allels, see Parpola 1983, XXII–XXXII, with earlier literature; Bottéro 1992, 138–55. For the
Hittite ritual, see Kümmel 1967.
10
The author showed bias with regard to the burial of the kings of Israel and Judah. In Israel,
no one took care to properly bury the kings who were killed in the course of rebellions, whereas
in Judah he emphasized that even those kings who were assassinated (Ahaziah, Joash, Amaziah,
Amon, Josiah) were given a proper burial with their ancestors in the City of David.

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 412
412 Nadav Na’aman
in the campaign against Moab suggests that it took place in the time of the
Omrides. I am therefore inclined to accept the biblical statement that Mesha’s
rebellion broke out soon after Ahab’s death, and date its onset to the time
after Ahaziah’s passing. Such a date puts the narrative of 2 Kings 3 in a clear
and coherent historical context.
When the rebellion broke out, Joram set out to suppress it. The expedi-
tion probably advanced from the south, perhaps intending to surprise Moab,
and was led by the allied kings of Israel and Judah. The first stages of the
campaign must have been successful, but Joram failed to achieve his main
goal of re-subjugating Moab and forcing it to resume paying tribute, and had
to retreat to his kingdom.
Making alliances with its neighbours and taking part in the coalition
against Assyria must have been the essence of the Omrides’ foreign policy.
Alliance cemented by marriage between the two royal houses was a well-
known practice in the ancient Near East, and Israel’s relations with Phoenicia
and Judah were also sealed by marriage. Josephus, following Menander of
Ephesos, mentions ‘Ithobal, priest of Astarte, who lived forty-eight years and
reigned thirty-two. He was succeeded by his son Balezer, who lived forty-five
years and reigned six’ (Contra Apion I, 123–24). Balezer is probably a cor-
rupted form of Bale⬍ba⬎zer and should be identified with the Ba‘al-
manzer whom Shalmaneser mentioned as king of Tyre in 841 BCE (Lipiński
1970, 59–62). His predecessor, Ithobal, is doubtless Ethbaal, king of the
Sidonians, the father of Jezebel, who gave his daughter in marriage to Ahab
(l Kgs 16.31; see Ant. VIII, 316–18). Athaliah, the daughter of either Omri or
Ahab, was given in marriage to Jehoram son of Jehoshaphat (2 Kgs 8.18, 26)
(Lipiński 1970, 59–65; Liver 1953, 113–20; Albright 1955, 1–9; Katzenstein
1973, 116–19, 129–34; Green 1983, 373–97; Briquel-Chatonnet 1992, 102–07).
In the time of the Omrides, Judah was still a small, sparsely inhabited
highland kingdom that gradually developed its own urban centres, adminis-
tration and economy. Israel was much larger in area, more urbanized and
thickly populated, more developed in its economy and commerce, militarily
much stronger, and therefore dictated the relations between the two allied
kingdoms. The participation by the kings of Judah in campaigns initiated by
the kings of Israel is known only from this period, and demonstrates the pri-
macy of the kings of Israel in the relations. The statement attributed to
Jehoshaphat, ‘I am as you are, my people as your people, my horses as your
horses’ (1 Kgs 22.4; 2 Kgs 3.7), reflects the outlook of author(s) of the two
narratives, rather than the historical reality. It is difficult to estimate the
extent of the Israelite involvement in the internal affairs of its southern
neighbour, but, unlike some scholars, I would not go so far as to assume that
Israel dominated Judah, and that Jehoshaphat was Ahab’s vassal (Miller and
Hayes 1986, 275–80). The alliance and cooperation of the two neighbouring

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 413
kingdoms was useful to both, and although Israel was the leading power, it
was in their mutual interest to keep it up.
The issue of the cultic policy of the Omrides is not clear enough, because
of the antiquity of the related events and the kind of sources available to
research. A few local cult places were discovered in archaeological excava-
tions in strata that can safely be ascribed to the Omrides (Megiddo VA–IVB,
Taanach, Tel ‘Amal). They were probably destroyed by Hazael, king of
Aram, and unrestored in the late ninth–early eighth century BCE (Na’aman
2002b, 595–97). Yahweh was no doubt the national god of Israel and sanc-
tuaries were built to him at Bethel and Dan, and elsewhere.11 The ostensible
conflict of Yahwism versus Baalism described in the Bible, and adopted by
many scholars, is artificial and reflects the theological presentation of the
deuteronomistic authors in the seventh–sixth centuries. The so-called
Baalism was coined by these authors in order to better define what was
prohibited by the new reforming movement of the seventh century. It goes
without saying that the new norms were alien to the reality of the ninth
century BCE.
The Baal cult mentioned in the opening verses of the Omrides and in
the prophetic stories probably referred to the building of a cult centre for
Melqart, the national god of Tyre, at Samaria, the kingdom’s new capital. We
may assume that it was introduced by the Tyrian princess and her retinue.
The building of cult places for foreign princesses was probably normative in
polytheistic ancient Near Eastern society, which had no difficulty in adopting
foreign gods to the local pantheons. Whether opposition against the cult of
Melqart had already begun under the Omrides is hard to tell, although new
cult practices might have provoked opposition in the conservative society of
the hill country in the ninth century. In my opinion, the denigration of the
Tyrian Ba‘al was initiated and fostered by the Jehu dynasty, which sought to
justify Jehu’s massacre of the former royal house and his usurpation of the
throne. Polemic narratives that presented the Omrides in an utterly negative
light probably took their initial shape under the Jehuites, but it is not clear
when the stories received their fixed written form.
JEHU’S REBELLION AND THE END OF THE OMRIDES
It is not easy to explain the fall of the successful dynasty of Omri. Obviously,
many details are missing because of the paucity of sources. Thus, for example,
the social condition in the country is unknown, and it is difficult to estimate
11
It is evident that the two sons of Ahab were given Yahwistic names, Ahaziah and Joram, his
sister (or daughter) was called Athaliah and her son was named Ahaziah.

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 414
414 Nadav Na’aman
the impact of the extensive building operations and the growth of economic
activity on the population in different regions of the kingdom. Often, when
one sector prospers and accumulates wealth, the other sectors pay the price.
The extent of mobilization of the free population for wars and building activ-
ity is not known, nor do we know the strength of the opposition to the cult
introduced by the Tyrian queen to the capital city of Samaria. We have
already noted that in the multicultural nature of the state and the differences
between its regions, the degree of internal integration in the kingdom in the
mid-ninth century remains unknown. Given the many unknown variables of
the puzzle, different scenarios may be drawn for the fall of the Omrides.
Hence, all the historical pictures drawn by scholars must be treated with
caution.
The immediate cause for the change of power was the ascent of Hazael to
the throne of Aram Damascus. Following the death of Adad-idri, the leader
of the ‘southern alliance’, and the rise of Hazael, ‘the son of nobody’, to
power in Damascus in about 843/842 BCE, the alliance which had successfully
fought off the Assyrians between 853 and 845 fell apart. Irjuleni, king of
Hamath, and Joram, king of Israel, Adad-idri’s chief allies, refused to coop-
erate with the new ruler, a refusal that led to an armed struggle between
Damascus and Israel. Hazael attacked Joram in an effort to force him to join
his forces against the invading Assyrians, and in his inscription he claims to
have killed Joram and his ally, Ahaziah, and devastated their countries.
Contrary to the claim of the Tel Dan Aramaic inscription, the prophetic
story of 2 Kings 9 states that it was Jehu who killed the two kings near the
city of Jezreel. Some scholars have tried to harmonize the two contrasting
sources by suggesting that Jehu did kill the two kings, as related in 2 Kings 9,
but since he had acted as Hazael’s ally, the latter claimed credit for the act
(Halpern 1996, 47 n. 10; Schniedewind 1996, 82–85; Lemaire 1998, 10–11; see
Yamada 1995, 618–22). However, in 841 BCE, when Shalmaneser led a cam-
paign to southern Syria, possibly prompted by news of the collapse of the
alliance, he was confronted by Damascus alone. Having triumphed over
Damascus, the Assyrian ruler reached the border of Israel and received trib-
ute from Jehu, ‘son of Omri’. It is evident that in the course of the Assyrian
campaign Hazael and Jehu had conflicting policies vis-à-vis Assyria.
Moreover, after the Assyrian withdrawal, Hazael conquered the kingdom of
Israel and subjugated it to his yoke. The chain of events clearly indicates that
Hazael and Jehu were rival kings, contradicting the assumption that Jehu had
acted as Hazael’s ally.
I have already expressed the opinion that the data of Hazael’s inscription
are preferable to the highly literary prophetic story in 2 Kings 9 (Na’aman
2000, 100–04). A possible scenario for the chain of events is that, following
the death of the kings of Israel and Judah in the battle against Hazael, Jehu

19 Chapter 1548 15/8/07 11:09 Page 415
revolted, massacred the descendants of the Omrides and their supporters in

Jezreel and Samaria, and seized the throne. When the Assyrian army arrived
in the region, Jehu refused to join Hazael and preferred to surrender and pay
tribute to the ruler of the distant power.
In examining the policy of Jehu it becomes clear that he systematically
reversed the policy of the Omrides. In place of an alliance with Israel’s neigh-
bours (Aram, Tyre and Judah) and participation in the coalition that tried to
stop the invading Assyrians, he surrendered to the latter and took steps that
impaired his relations with his neighbours. Among these steps were the mur-
der of Jezebel and her court and the abolition of the Tyrian cult she had
introduced, thus distancing himself from the kingdom of Tyre. By killing
members of the royal house of Jerusalem he cut the ties with Judah. His pol-
icy was probably pursued by all the kings of his dynasty. Israel would soon
be subjugated by Aram, and lose not only the Moabite territories conquered
by Omri, but some other territories in Transjordan and north Palestine. With
Jehu a new era began in the history of Israel, but describing it in detail goes
beyond the scope of this chapter.12
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Contents

H G M Williamson Preface; List of Abbreviations xiii-xx

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narrative is quite extensive it is still incorporated in books which all agree

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Setting the Scene: A Brief Outline of

WHERE SHOULD ONE BEGIN A SHORT HISTORY OF HISTORIES OF ANCIENT

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interesting side-light on Prideaux’s Connection is that when Handel’s libret-

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A BRIEF OUTLINE OF HISTORIES OF ISRAEL 5

It will come as no surprise to those familiar with my work that I move

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In modern terms, de Wette’s views on Old Testament history were deci-

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A BRIEF OUTLINE OF HISTORIES OF ISRAEL 7

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more widespread battles with Canaanites in Palestine led to the situation

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A BRIEF OUTLINE OF HISTORIES OF ISRAEL 9

Stade’s answer to the origin of Israel was in anthropological terms. The

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A BRIEF OUTLINE OF HISTORIES OF ISRAEL 11

‘primitive’ peoples ascribed personality to forces of nature, and constructed

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A BRIEF OUTLINE OF HISTORIES OF ISRAEL 13

state and empire in which Israel’s historical traditions began to be written

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Setting the Scene: A Response to

SETTING THE SCENE

JOHN ROGERSON’S REVIEW OF THE STUDY OF ISRAELITE HISTORY from

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A RESPONSE TO JOHN ROGERSON 17

THE SHAPE OF ISRAELITE HISTORY

It is understandable that early scholars, such as Prideaux and Shuckford, who

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It is clear from a survey of scholarship that such grand-scale teleological

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A RESPONSE TO JOHN ROGERSON 19

tion in such narratives being as preparation for the emergence of Christianity.

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ESCAPING THE CONCEPTUAL LOCK?

In setting the scene, it is important to understand the network of assump-

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A RESPONSE TO JOHN ROGERSON 21

1600–1850 (2003) or Roy Porter’s Enlightenment: Britain and the Creation of

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of history-writing comparable with other fields of historical studies: whether

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A RESPONSE TO JOHN ROGERSON 23

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The History of Ancient Israel: What

THE ANNALES TRADITIONS

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le monde méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe II (1990).4 Corresponding to

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