Minister of fair words

Esteemed history enthusiast, Tamamizu Monogatari (and other medieval Japanese literature) purveyor, biggest Ninshubur fan not counting Rim-Sin of Larsa

[yamayuandadu]

My articles and reference posts

A master post of recommended sources for the study of my interests can be found here. If possible, consult it before sending any research-oriented questions.

Ancient Mesopotamia and its neighbors:

Women, goddesses and writing in ancient Mesopotamia

Ninshubur, Inanna’s Sukkal: Just a Servant or Something More?

Ishkur, Baal, and others: a guide to the weather gods of Mesopotamia and ancient Syria

The most important deity you’ve never heard of: the 3000 years long history of Nanaya

Nonconformity, ambiguity, fluidity and misinterpretation: on the gender of Inanna (and a few others)

Ninshubur(s), Ilabrat, Papsukkal and the gala: another inquiry into ambiguity and fluidity of gender of Mesopotamian deities

Oldest or greatest? Gilgamesh before, in and after the epic(s)

Pride Month special 2025: shifts in gender, shifts in character. A Mesopotamian deity triple feature

Sisterhood in context: a reassessment of Inanna’s Descent

“Shamash is my mother”? In search of female solar deities in the “cuneiform world”

Dressing Inanna up: an iconographic investigation

Cats, chariots and cracking skulls: an Ashtart primer

Sackers of cities, head choppers and manly kings: once more about Anat

various trivia which do not warrant full articles can be found in the Mesopotamian miscellanea, Ugaritic miscellanea, Anatolian miscellanea etc. tags

Also make sure to check out the Monthly Wikipedia repair roundup (formerly Weekly Wikipedia repair roundup) tag.

Miscellaneous antiquities:

Christmas special: Santa and his helpers. Divine living fossils in Greek sources

Hecate, Melinoe, “Ereschigal”: when a name becomes the ship of Theseus?

WLW - Women-Loving Wizard(esse)s? Lesbian love spells from Roman Egypt

“Men the tyrant”: a forgotten lunar god in Greco-Roman sources

Why does Isis appear in the Orphic Hymns? The Greco-Roman career of an Egyptian goddess

Japanese religions and art:

Tamamizu Monogatari, a unique love story

The fabrication of a storm god: Susanoo, Taishakuten (Indra) and their histories

Tenshō Daijin: the many guises of medieval Amaterasu part 1 and part 2

Shikigami and onmyōdō through history: truth, fiction and everything in between

From Shinoda Myōjin to Sakaki no Mae: the history of Kuzunoha (and a few others)

Various trivia which do not warrant full articles can be found in the Japanese miscellanea and genpeiposting tags.

Chinese religions and art:

“Nine-headed hermit”: the early history of Zhong Kui (and his sister)

From Yu Xuanji to Gyo Genki and back again

A wlw (women-loving wu) in the Han court? Chu Fu and Chen Jiao between fact and fiction

Megaten and mythology:

A Megaten apocalypse: the sad case of Inanna

A case of twice-mistaken identity: on “Asherah” in Strange Journey

Tribulations of a “tomboy goddess”, or why you should care about Anat

From Cybele to Mem Aleph: the secret origins of Strange Journey

Scavenging a scavenger, or why Megaten should do more with (the) Morrigan

Touhou and mythology:

This series isn’t coming back. An archive can be found here.

[yamayuandadu]

while ultimately it has to be stressed that mesopotamians generally didn't give deities animal body parts (with some niche serpentine exceptions), catgirl inanna would probably be more true to primary sources than the recurring modern idea of giving her bird legs is

[yamayuandadu]

What are some interesting interactions between pre islamic arabian mythology and mesopotamian mythology?

I guess the answer depends on how you define “pre-Islamic Arabian”.

It should be noted that different categories of sources pertaining to pre-Islamic Arabia cannot be necessarily treated as a part of one coherent whole (Peter Alpass, The Religious Life of Nabataea, p. 32). Accordingly, this response will be divided into sections roughly corresponding to agreed upon cultural spheres - Dilmun (Bahrain), northern Arabia, the late antique Syrian cities (Hatra and Palmyra, mostly) and southern Arabia (which had very little to do with Mesopotamia).

Dilmun

The best documented cases of Mesopotamian engagement with Arabian deities are Inzak and Meskilak from Dilmun, ie. Bahrain (plus Failaka and a part of the coast). Long ago I wrote their wiki articles, which should still be more or less up to date, so if you want to know their history in detail simply check those out. As far as specific curiosities go, both already appear in the long poetic composition inscribed on the cylinders of Gudea (Dietz O. Edzard, Gudea and his Dynasty, p. 78):

It’s still debated if the varying Mesopotamian spellings of their names - like those in the passage above -  are to be taken as attempts at providing them with Sumerian etymologies (ex. Jean-Jacques Glassner, Dilmun, Magan and Meluhha: Some Observations on Language, Toponymy, Anthroponymy and Theonymy, p. 241), or if their names are actually Sumerian in the first place (ex. Piotr Steinkeller, The Birth of Elam in History, p. 198). In the Old Babylonian period, one particular variant of Meskilak’s name - Ninsikila -  might’ve contributed to my favorite case of a deity’s gender shifting, the transformation of Lisin’s spouse - also named Nisikila -  from a god into a goddess (Julia M. Asher-Greve, Joan G. Westenholz, Goddesses in Context: On Divine Powers, Roles, Relationships and Gender in Mesopotamian Textual and Visual Sources, p. 103). In roughly the same period, both Inzak and Meskilak got to appear in a number of Mesopotamian myths, too. For example, here’s a passage from Enki and the World Order mentioning the latter (Jerrold S. Cooper, Enki and the World Order. A Sumerian Myth, p. 39):

She’s actually the very first deity appointed by Enki to rule over a region or activity, which might reflect the importance of trade with Dilmun (ibidem, p. 160). It seems that, at least in Mesopotamian imagination, Meskilak had some special connection with him in general, since she also appears in association with him in Enki and Ninmah (ibidem, p. 135). Coincidentally(?), Inzak was associated with Enki in some capacity in Dilmun (Khaled Nashef, The Deities of Dilmun, pp. 345-346) and, perhaps unexpectedly, in Susa in Elam (Wouter Henkelman, The Other Gods Who Are: Studies in Elamite-Iranian Acculturation Based on the Persepolis Fortification Texts, p. 307). In sources from the first millennium BCE, Inzak was also associated with Nabu; in one case his name is used as a cryptographic spelling of Nabu’s (Wilfred G. Lambert, Processions to the Akītu House, p. 62). This association might be related to a bizarre attestation of Inzak from the syncretic hymn to Nanaya from the first millennium BCE, in which he and Meskilak are apparently treated as one and the same; while “visiting” Dilmun Nanaya instead claims the identity of an otherwise unknown goddess, Šuluḫḫītum (Manfred Krebernik, Šuluḫḫītum in RlA vol. 13, p. 288). No strong evidence exists in favor or against viewing her as a genuine Dilmunite deity. Zarpanit’s alleged Dilmunite counterpart, Laḫamun, is in a similar situation too (The Deities…, pp. 348-347). In the incantation series Šurpu, both Inzak and Meskilak appear in a sequence of apparently marine-themed deities, with Lugala’abba (“king of the sea”), Lugalidda (“king of the river”) and the Mesopotamian god of the Persian Gulf, Laguda (Manfred Krebernik, Meskilak, Mesikila, Ninsikila in RlA vol. 8, p. 94). The rest of the response is more meandering and offers less direct evidence, so it is to be found under the cut.

Northern Arabia and its inhabitants in Mesopotamian sources

The term “Arab” (Arbāyû in Akkadian) first appears in Mesopotamian sources in the ninth century BCE, courtesy of Shalmaneser III (Paul-Alain Beaulieu, Arameans, Chaldeans and Arabs in Late Babylonian Sources, p. 47). It should be noted it was seemingly used to refer to many different groups - some only encountered as foreign enemies, some resettled by Mesopotamian rulers in one corner of the empire or another, and some who presumably migrated to Mesopotamia on own accord (ibidem, p. 52). A major early reference to Arabian deities occurs in an inscription of Esarhaddon (Shana Zaia, State-Sponsored Sacrilege: “Godnapping” and Omission in Neo-Assyrian Inscriptions, p. 34):

Most of the deities mentioned are known from other sources, with the exception of Abirillu (Reettakaisa S. Salo, Fremde Götter - eigene Götter: Zu den neuassyrischen Götterbeschreibungen, p. 232). There are also three attested instances in which Esarhaddon “deported” statues of Arabian deities himself, but no individual names are listed in any of those cases. It’s known at least once Atar-samayin was involved, since his return is mentioned by Ashurbanipal. It seems that individual names were only used to refer to return of statues, not their “deportation”; possibly showing awareness of them was understood as a display of both piety and compassion. It doesn’t seem the omission of theonyms simply reflected unawareness of them, even if the deities didn’t belong to the Assyrian pantheon (ibidem, pp. 35-36). In the Neo-Babylonian Mesopotamian rulers started a series of campaigns against various groups which can be presumed to be Arabian in the Transjordan, as well as military incursions into the north of Arabia proper (Arameans…, p. 47). This culminated in Nabonidus’ campaign and his resulting temporary residence in Tayma (ibidem, p. 48). This city is actually first mentioned in Mesopotamian sources in the eighth century BCE, but not really in a context which has anything to do with religion (The Religious…, p. 121). Similarly, Nabonidus’ conquest of it - and other Arabian cities - probably reflected a need to control trade routes, not any religious concerns (Juan M. Tebes, Southern Levant and Northern Arabia in the Iron Age, p. 275).

Nabonidus’ inscriptions from Tayma mention Marduk, Zarpanit, Nabu, Tashmetu and Nanaya, but none of them appear in the city in any other context (Peter Alpass, The Religious Life of Nabataea, p. 124). A fragmentary stela dated to his reign found in the same city shows symbols of Sin, Shamash and Ishtar, as do many other artifacts from his reign (Southern…, p. 279). Nabonidus apparently employed a number of locals, as attested in inscriptions written in the local Taymanitic script (ibidem, pp. 279-280). I personally wouldn’t rule out that they might’ve adopted the deities of their boss, but no evidence for that exists, as far as I’m aware.

An example of a dedication to Salm from Tayma (wikimedia commons). The only local deities known are Salm, Asima and Sangila, who seem to have Aramaic names, and likely were introduced in the Neo-Assyrian period through contacts with Arameans residing in Syria (ibidem, pp. 280-281). Despite the aforementioned phenomena, there’s no evidence for large-scale migration of any remotely Arabian peoples into Mesopotamia even as late as in Nabonidus’ times. However, by the early Achaemenid period there was a “town of the Arabs” (ālu ša Arbāyê) in the proximity of Nippur. Other similar settlements are attested through the fifth century BCE too. Similar evidence exists for occasional founding of Phoenician (Ṣurru, near Babylon) and Judean (Āl-Yahūdu, also near Babylon) settlements. However, once again, it seems the presence of these groups had a limited scope and didn’t meaningfully impact Mesopotamia at large (Arameans…, p. 48-49). 

The only later cuneiform evidence for the presence of people from Arabia in Mesopotamia are late astronomical diaries, which mention military incursions into the area around Borsippa (which was plundered) and Babylon between 125 and 119 BCE. Further less successful ones took place in 112 BCE and then 106 BCE. Paul-Alain Beaulieu argues that those events might be an early stage of a process which eventually lead to the founding of Al-Hira and the rise of the Lakhmid kingdom in lower Mesopotamia under the Sasanians (ibidem, p. 49-50). However, the only possible religious impact was that similar raids might’ve contributed to the decline of at least some of the remaining Mesopotamian temples, which were unlikely to be rebuilt under Persian or Greek rule. In contrast with earlier dynasties, they generally had no ideological reason for doing so; their authority didn’t require pious devotion to Mesopotamian deities (Lucinda Dirven, Religious Continuity and Change in Parthian Mesopotamia: A Note on the Survival of Babylonian Traditions, p. 13-14).

Arabian influences in Palmyra, Hatra and their surroundings

A degree of influence from Arabia in the sphere of religion is generally accepted to be present in cities like Hatra, Edessa, Palmyra and Dura-Europos in Syria in the late first millennium BCE and first centuries CE, even though the core of their culture was Syro-Mesopotamian (Lucinda Dirven, Horned Deities of Hatra. Meaning and Origin of a Hybrid Phenomenon, pp. 243-244).

The study of Palmyrene religion is troublesome due to lack of any ritual or theological sources or myths (Ted Kaizer, The Religious Life of Palmyra: A Study of the Social Patterns of Worship in the Roman Period, p. 165). It probably makes the most sense to describe the situation as both Mesopotamian and (north) Arabian deities being introduced into a pantheon that was fundamentally Palmyrene, rather than as a direct interaction between Mesopotamian and Arabian tradition. It needs to also be stressed that on top of that, there were deities introduced from other areas - most notably Phoenician Baalshamin (ibidem, pp. 56-58). 

It’s probably most relevant to your question that a deity named Shamash shared a temple with Allat, whose Arabian credentials are without doubt. Javier Teixidor argued that he was an Arabian deity (The Pantheon of Palmyra, p. 64). However, Ted Kaizer in a more recent reassessment of the same material points out that the Palmyrene Shamash is clearly masculine - while the evidence from Arabia points to the identically named solar deity being feminine over there (The Religious…, p. 57). It has been proposed that Shamash and Allat formed a triad of sorts with a further deity, Rahim, but this is far from certain. All that’s clear is that in a single specific case they jointly received “ six columns of a portico with ith its entablature and roofing”; Shamash and Rahim might also both be included among “gods who stay with [Allat]” (ibidem, p. 107). Rahim’s name means “the merciful one” (ibidem, pp. 84-85), and he might be an epithet which developed into a distinct deity (The Pantheon…, p. 63). I will note that Kaizer’s vague attempt at linking Allat with Mesopotamian Allatum (The Religious…, p. 57 fn. 102) seems to be mistaken - the latter’s name is an Akkadianized spelling of Hurrian Allani, and occurs either as an independent underworld goddess or a byname of Ereshkigal. As far as I’m aware Allat had nothing to do with the underworld, Ereshkigal, let alone the Hurrians (who didn’t even exist as a culture anymore at this point).

In Hatra, both Mesopotamian and Arabian deities occur in theophoric names (Enrico Marcato, Personal Names in the Aramaic Inscriptions of Hatra, p. 12). The latter reflect north Arabian tradition, with Nabataean and especially Safaitic names used for comparison (ibidem, pp. 14-15). There are cases where an evidently linguistically Ancient North Arabian element is coupled with a Mesopotamian theonym (for example Nabu, Nanaya or Shamash), for what it’s worth, presumably reflecting a close association between semi-nomadic groups in the orbit of the city and the urban populace (ibidem, pp. 165-167). The Bani Taym-Nay group built a shrine of Nanaya in the city, too (ibidem, pp. 133-134). It doesn’t seem Hatra provides any examples of the opposite phenomenon, though - Allat appears only in the expected sort of names, for instance (ibidem, p. 167). In addition to her, Hubal, Uzza and Ma’an are attested (ibidem, p. 165). This being said, it has been suggested that some association existed between Allat and Nergal in Hatra. In a few cases, in Hellenized art a Heracles-like figure or a bearded god with a dagger and snake is shown in the company of an Athena-like goddess; Nergal’s association with Heracles in Hatra is well documented, and Athena was the interpretatio graeca of Allat. It could be that this was simply a result of reception of Greek artistic motifs - Athena helping a hero, to be specific - but it has also been proposed that Allat was Nergal’s spouse or mother in the local tradition of Hatra, or that some other hitherto unknown connection existed (Lucina Dirven, A Goddess with Dogs from Hatra, p. 152). The Hatrene theonym Iššarbēl is sometimes argued to be derived from Arabic ‘ašar, “joy”, though it’s more commonly held to be a contracted late form of Ishtar of Arbela instead (Lutz Greisiger, Šarbēl: Göttin, Priester, Märtyrer – einige Probleme der spätantiken Religionsgeschichte Nordmesopotamiens, pp. 132-134).

South Arabia

There’s virtually nothing to say about any distinctly South Arabian deities in the discussed context. The region was largely a “self-contained cultural area” (Norbert Nebes, Early Saba and its Neighbors, p. 299) Most deities worshiped in south Arabia have no clear parallels anywhere else (ibidem, p. 334). Occasionally questionable attempts were made in the past to link specific ones with Mesopotamian deities - for instance, Thamudic s(y)n with Sin. However, as pointed out by Manfred Krebernik in the 1990s already, that appears to be a completely unrelated solar god, Sayin (Mondgott A. I. In Mesopotamien in RlA vol. 8, p. 362). Arguably it makes more sense to discuss southern Arabia alongside Ethiopia than Mesopotamia, especially in the context of religious interactions. Sabeans in particular were actually present in the horn of Africa; in the seventh century BCE they constructed a temple of their head god Almaqah in Yeha, only some 30 km away from Aksum (Early Saba…, p. 350). Other members of their pantheon, like Attar, Hawbas, Wadd, ḏat Ḥamyim and ḏat Ba‘dan are attested in Ethiopia too, sometimes alongside enigmatic presumably local deities whose names are uncertain (ibidem, p. 353). For what it’s worth, the  kingdom of Saba is mentioned a few times in Neo-Assyrian sources too, which probably reflects the existence of a Sabean trading post somewhere further north in Arabia. Tiglath-pileser III lists Sabeans among groups which brought him tribute, and claims that none of his predecessors knew of their existence due to how distant their kingdom is (ibidem, pp. 308-309). It has been proposed that the southern lunar god Wadd (“friendship” or “love”) occurs in a dedication from Palmyra, but this is far from certain (The Religious…, p. 222, fn. 37).

[yudaiart]

I drew the goddess Nanaya, based on a design by my client. A commission request via Skeb. Thank you!

https://skeb.jp/@yudai_hachino/works/5

[yamayuandadu]

Sackers of cities, head choppers and manly kings: once more about Anat

The cover artwork was drawn for me by Yacmo Tsuji; yes, this is the same image as in the Ashtart article. It’s pulling double duty - it’s meant to be Anat and Ashtart if that wasn’t clear.

I already wrote an Anat article a while ago (in retrospect the SMT section was not needed). For various reasons I didn’t feel entirely satisfied with it, though, and planned to eventually go back to her. Work on the recent longer Ashtart piece finally provided an excuse.

This time, I’ll specifically focus on a number of assumptions about Anat made by Peggy L. Day, often credited with revolutionizing the study of her. My central argument is that Day’s Anat isn’t quite as radical a departure from earlier erroneous assumptions as sometimes claimed, and that this is a considerable problem. In particular, I’d like to show that turning Anat from a “fertility” goddess into a “mistress of animals” - at least the way Day did it - doesn’t really make much of a difference, and that it continues to obscure her actual character. To illustrate my points, I’ll investigate the bilingual inscription from Cyprus where Athena serves as the interpretatio graeca of Anat (as well as Athena's other associations with foreign goddesses, and her occasional androgyny); Anat’s place in god lists; the context of the term btlt and its semantic equivalents in Akkadian; Anat’s coexistence with other war goddesses in Ugarit, Egypt and Suhu; and the context of hunting and warfare both to the west and east of Ugarit in the late bronze age. Last but not least, I’ll point to a study which - in my opinion - is a better basis for understanding Anat’s character than any of Day’s. More under the cut.

An overview of Day’s proposals

Peggy L. Day presented her proposal for a reassessment of Anat’s character in two articles, Why is Anat a Warrior and Hunter (1991) and Anat: Ugarit's "Mistress of Animals" (1992). Some additions were later provided in Anat’s entry in the Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible (1995; a revised 2nd edition, which I’ll be using here, was published in 1999). First things first, Day has to be applauded for consistently opposing Anat’s characterization as a “fertility goddess” (Why is…, pp. 141-142). Sadly, that’s probably the only thing I can fully agree with her on. She can only conceive of Anat as engaging in masculine pursuits - namely warfare and hunting - because she’s an “adolescent” and thus “not fully a woman”.The evidence presented is limited to the use of the epithet btlt - “virgin” according to Day - to refer to her, though (Anat: Ugarit’s…, p. 183).

Virginity seems to be a feature which shapes Day’s ideas about Anat’s relations with other deities in all locations and time periods; she, for instance, argues that  the status of both goddesses as “non-sexually active. non-reproductive” is behind the identification between Anat and Athena in a bilingual dedication from Cyprus (Anat in DDD, p. 39). Further, she seeks to reinvent Anat as a nature-loving “mistress of animals” in order to - once again primarily relying on supposed virginity - cast her as a counterpart of Artemis (Anat: Ugarit’s…, p. 190). Note this is not actually an attested equivalence. The focus on comparisons with Greek deities is rather peculiar given the general absence of references to other warlike deities who appear alongside Anat in sources from the same sites. Through the rest of the article, I will try to juxtapose each of Day’s proposals with other sources in order to demonstrate why I don’t personally think she actually advanced the study of Anat all that far beyond the fertility paradigm.

Sacker of cities: Anat, Athena and beyond

A drawing of the bilingual inscription from Cyprus (wikimedia commons). Let’s start with the bilingual inscription from Cyprus. Its interpretation poses some problems. It’s agreed that Anat appears in it with an epithet, but it’s not clear if it is to be restored as ‘Z ḤYM, “force of life” or M‘Z ḤYM, “refuge of living creatures”. In either case, no parallel is available from anywhere else. It might be a title made up on the spot, meant to resemble Athena’s relatively common cult epithet soteira - the Greek version features Athena Soteira Nike - “Athena, the savior, of victory” (Robert Parker, Greek Gods Abroad: Names, Natures, and Transformations, p. 198-199). Calques of Greek epithets which are otherwise unattested in the other language are not unheard of in bilingual inscriptions (Livio Warbinek, Federico Giusfredi, Maliya, Malija, Malis, Athena. From Kizzuwatna to the Aegean: Borrowings, Translations, or Syncretisms?, p. 144). The identification with Athena is generally assumed to depend on the shared warlike qualities of the two goddesses (Rüdiger Schmitt, Mistress of Horses, Lady of the Chariot: The Warrior Aspect of Astarte, p. 219). Sometimes a vague phonetic similarity between the names is considered a secondary factor (Greek Gods…, p. 199). As far as I can tell, virginity was never brought up by anyone but Day. The only possible source identifying Anat with Athena from outside Cyprus is Philo of Byblos’ Phoenician History (Albert I. Baumgartner, The Phoenician History of Philo of Byblos: a Commentary, p. 193). However, Philo never specifies which - if any - Phoenician deity he had in mind when he referred to Athena - he only calls her by this Greek name (ibidem, p. 39). And a number of her characteristics reflect Greek tradition - she is explicitly linked with Attica, and she’s seemingly portrayed as a goddess of craftsmanship since she provides advice pertaining to the smithing of weapons (ibidem, p. 193-194). The only real indication that she’s not necessarily Athena is that she’s identified as a daughter of Kronos, ie. El (ibidem, p. 192). Her identity should remain up for debate for now, in any case. With no further applicable evidence pertaining to Anat available, let’s look at other cases of interpretatio graeca of Athena instead to see if any provide a precedent for Day’s proposal. Obviously, Athena’s best attested and most influential association was the pairing with Roman Minerva. However, it can’t be used as a case study here since the individual characteristics of Minera prior to the development of her interpretatio graeca are pretty much impossible to reconstruct (Fritz Graf, Athena and Minerva: Two Faces of One Goddess?, p. 139). It therefore can't be established what similarities lead to their closeness.

A first millennium BCE statuette of Neith (wikimedia commons).

Luckily, Athena’s next perhaps best documented association, with Egyptian Neith, is a very different case. It seems to be the only one where virginity (or rather - lack of a partner) has been singled out as a possible factor by researchers. However, it would hardly be the only one - Neith’s association with weaving and warfare and her androgyny are important points of comparison too (Alexandra von Lieven, Translating Gods, Interpreting Gods. On the Mechanisms Behind the Interpretatio Graeca of Egyptian Gods, p. 67). Additionally, Athens and Neith’s cult center Sais were effectively viewed as sister cities in the Hellenistic period (Jan Quaegebeur, Willy Clarysse, Beatrijs van Maele, Athêna, Nêith and Thoêris in Greek Documents, p. 218).

Some context needs to be provided for the characterization of Athena as androgynous. This is not merely speculative, but rather a phenomenon attested directly in a number of primary sources. Most notably, the Orphic Hymns call her “female and male at the same time”. Even if the phrase is purely metaphorical, in contrast with similar descriptions of, say, the primordial deity Protogonus in the same text corpus or of Selene (who possibly changes gender as moon phases shift) and Hecate (who’s equated with Hermes) in the magical papyri, it’s clear it underscores a masculine attitude related to her military role (Ljubla M. Bortolani, Magical Hymns from Roman Egypt. A Study of Greek and Egyptian Traditions of Divinity, p. 259). The Orphic Hymns are hardly isolated; an epigram from the Greek Anthology calls Athena androthea (ἀνδροθέα), “manly goddess”, while Proclus refers to her as arsenothumos (ἀρσενόθυμος), “man-minded” (Daniel Malamis, The Orphic Hymns. Poetry and Genre, with a Critical Text and Translation, p. 300).

Athena on an Attic plate from the last sixth century BCE (wikimedia commons).

Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones additionally argues that her appearance in art, especially before Perciles’ times, is often meant to read as almost masculine, with multiple layers of clothes making her appear larger and implicitly offering a degree of protection, as contemporary men’s fashion choices often did too (Sexy Athena: the Dress and Erotic Representation of a Virgin War-Goddess, p. 242).

Going back to Neith, as a curiosity it’s worth noting the identification between her and Athena meant the latter could be portrayed as the mother of the god Tutu, as attested especially in Aphroditopolis (ibidem, p. 219). Tutu usually didn’t have a father, save for two instances where he is referred to as a son of Re; overall his association with Neith reflects her position as a creator deity in Egyptian theology (Olaf E. Kaper,The Egyptian god Tutu: A Study of the Sphinx-god and Master of Demons with a Corpus of Monuments, p. 105-106).

A statue of Taweret from Amarna (wikimedia commons). Athena could also sometimes serve as as the interpretatio graeca of Thueris, ie. Taweret, but it’s unclear what the deciding factor was in this case - certainly not similar iconography given Taweret’s distinctly hippo-like appearance (Greek Gods…, p. 47).

Rishti on a Kushan coin (wikimedia commons). On the other side of the Hellenistic world, Rishto (Avestan Arštāt) appears in Athena’s guise on the coins of Kushan emperor Kanishka and in later Kushano-Sasanian art from Bactria, complete with a gorgoneion. It’s pretty clear the identification was rooted in a shared association with justice - in Rishto’s case that function is encoded in her very name (Michael Shenkar, Intangible Spirits and Graven Images: The Iconography of Deities in the Pre-Islamic Iranian World, p. 87-89).

Moving west, Plutarch in Life of Artaxerxes conjectures (his words, not mine!) that Anahita is Athena, explicitly because both were warlike (Greek Gods…, p. 49). Granted, this seems to be non-standard - most of the time Anahita’s interpretatio graeca was Artemis, specifically Artemis Persike (ibidem, p. 85). Cappadocian Ma, another firmly warlike goddess, could also be identified with Athena - but also Artemis, Semele and Enyo, to be entirely fair (Greek Gods…, p. 86). Elsewhere in Anatolia, specifically in Lydia, the shared militaristic role likely led to the development of an association between Athena and goddess Maliya. The latter’s epithet Eiryupama, “who overcame the enemy”, and the former’s Ptoliporthos, “who sacks cities”, might’ve been viewed as similar enough to warrant comparisons. In addition, the cultural prestige of Athena might have appealed to Lycian rulers in an increasingly hellenized environment (Eric A. Raimond, Hellenization and Lycian Cults During the Achaemenid Period, p. 154). Shared associations with carpentry and horses are sometimes cited as further possible connecting points. However, this doesn’t mean that the respective character of the two goddesses fully overlapped, and Maliya in fact doesn’t share some of Athena’s primary roles, such as an association with wisdom (Maliya, Malija…, p. 148). Last but not least, the inconsistent identification between Athena and the northern Arabian goddess Allat - a phenomenon best attested in Palmyra - is presumed to reflect a protective or militant role of the latter (Ted Kaizer, The Religious Life of Palmyra, p. 105). A unique dedication to “the virgin Allat” (lbtlt' 'It) is presumed to be a calque from the Greek phrase Athena Parthenos - a common cult epithet - and is unlikely to reflect a hitherto unattested aspect of her character (ibidem, pp. 106-107).

All around, the evidence pertaining to Athena lines up with the modern consensus view about interpretatio graeca (and romana): there was no single, consistent reason behind identifying one deity with another, nor was the totality of their respective characters necessarily taken into account. It could be one or more functions, relative prominence in the pantheon, relation to another deity, or even just phonetic similarity (Greek Gods…, p. 47). This being said, her belligerent side appears to be the most common point of comparison with other deities. While this is ultimately beyond the scope of an investigation of Athena, it needs to be pointed out there that there’s a pretty major case where a deity’s virginity was disregarded completely as a factor - in Syria and Mesopotamia, Artemis served as the interpretatio graeca of Nanaya, perhaps the least virginal deity imaginable (Stephanie L. Budin, Artemis, pp. 4-5). It has been noted that Artemis’ status as a parthenos seemingly has no bearing on her (not entirely consistent) identification with Egyptian Bastet, either, unless Herodotus assumed that the fact she had no spouse meant she was a virgin (Translating Gods…, pp. 64-65).

Head chopper: Anat in god lists

The oldest example is also the most recently discovered one - it wasn’t known to researchers yet at the time Day’s articles were published, so it cannot be held against her that she didn’t consult it, obviously. It’s a rather unique text - one of the very few known Amorite-Akkadian bilingual lexical lists (Andrew R. George, Manfred Krebernik, Two Remarkable Vocabularies: Amorite-Akkadian Bilinguals!, p. 119). Its dating is not entirely certain, but the ductus would point to the Old Babylonian period, possibly specifically the times of Rim-Sin I of Larsa and Hammurabi of Babylon - around 1800 BCE (ibidem, p, 113).

The list seems to collect deities at home in northern Syria, across the middle Euphrates and in upper Mesopotamia -  from Ugarit in the west, through Ebla, Aleppo, Tuttul, Terqa to Mari, with a single entry possibly originating in the area of Emutbalum near Der in the east. In other words, it is pretty clearly an Amorite “pantheon” of sorts, though hardly a complete one (ibidem, p. 138-139). 

A typical Old Babylonian depiction of Ishtar (wikimedia commons). Somewhat unexpectedly, Anat is apparently presented as an Amorite counterpart of Ishtar here (ibidem, p. 119) - with Ashtart nowhere in sight, as far as I can tell. Granted, no solar deity is present in the list, and no form of the weather god’s name is present either. It could be that the compiler - doubtlessly a native speaker of Akkadian, not Amorite - was focused on collecting names which sounded particularly unfamiliar (ibidem, p. 148-149).

This being said, a possible parallel to this entry was known earlier already. It occurs in the Hittite myth of Elkunirša, presumed to be a translation or adaptation of a composition which originated somewhere in Canaan (Timothy D. Leonard, Ištar in Ḫatti: The Disambiguation of Šavoška and Associated Deities in Hittite Scribal Practice, p. 126) or - in my opinion more plausibly - somewhere in northern Syria, probably on the upper or middle Euphrates (Ilya Yakubovich, The West Semitic God El in Anatolian Hieroglyphic Transmission, p. 385). One of the myth’s protagonists is designated by the logogram IŠTAR, and she might be either Anat or Ashtart, with the former regarded as more likely (Aren M. Wilson-Wright, Athtart: The Transmission and Transformation of a Goddess in the Late Bronze Age, p. 96). Given that Anat is overall well attested across northern Syria, and rare on the coast with the exception of Ugarit (Mark S. Smith, The Ugaritic Baal Cycle. Volume I. Introduction with Text, Translations and Commentary of KTU 1.1-1.2, p. 311), I’d argue the possibility the text originates in the north only makes it more plausible.

Ironically, Day argues Ishtar cannot be used as a point of comparison for Anat (Anat: Ugarit’s…, p. 182). While obviously differences have to be taken into account, I don’t think this argument holds up as a whole given the aforementioned primary source. Ishtar aside, the next source relevant to this discussion is the trilingual version of the Weidner god list from Ugarit, Anat appears in both the Ugaritic and Hurrian columns as herself - but the corresponding entry from the Mesopotamian original is the god Saĝkud (Aaron Tugendhaft, Gods on Clay: Ancient Near Eastern Scholarly Practices and the History of Religions, p. 176). A major caveat applies to the discussion of this list. It largely doesn’t reflect cultic reality; some entries were created ad hoc just to make every column complete, like the goddess Ašte Kumurbineve, “wife of Kumarbi”. Some are puns with no deeper theological value - Baal’s counterpart is the minor goddess Imzuanna simply because her name contains the sign im, “storm”. Aya was turned into Ea and equated with the craftsman god Kothar apparently just to avoid implying Shapash was in a lesbian relationship with her masculine Mesopotamian counterpart’s wife (ibidem, p. 177-182). However, I think equating Anat with Saĝkud arguably has a sound rationale behind it. As far as we know, he was most likely a warrior god (Wilfred G. Lambert, Ryan D. Winters, An = Anum and Related Lists, p. 96). His name might mean something like “head chopper” (Manfred Krebernik, Saĝkud in RlA vol. 11, p. 529). If we accept the possibility that gender isn’t necessarily all that defines a deity’s character, it’s easy to see how the decision to make him the counterpart of Anat came to be, given her undeniably similar conduct in Ugaritic literature. She even chops off heads herself, after all (Mark S. Smith, Wayne T. Pitard, The Ugaritic Baal Cycle. Volume II. Introduction with Text, Translations and Commentary of KTU 1.3-1.4., p. 70):

It’s also worth noting that Saĝkud appears in the Weidner god list among gods regarded as Ninurta-like, like Ningirsu and Mes-sanga-Unug (Saĝkud…, p. 529-530). 

Drawing of a relief frequently assumed to be a Neo-Assyrian depiction of Ninurta (wikimedia commons).

This is particularly intriguing given that Anat herself might have also been regarded as comparable to Ninurta, despite the difference in gender - to the point that his name was likely used as a logogram to write hers in the west. For example, the same king of Siyannu near Ugarit is seemingly referred to as both Abdi-Anati and Abdi-NIN.URTA. Presumably the shared association with war and hunting was the leading factor for this identification, perhaps coupled with misinterpreting the nin in Ninurta’s name as a feminine element (Nadav Na’aman, On Gods and Scribal Traditions in the Amarna Letters, p. 254). Note that this is not a niche theory - it’s well established enough to be presented without any reservations in Ninurta’s entry in the Reallexikon der Assyriologie und vorderasiatischen Archäologie (Michael P. Streck, Ninurta/Ninĝirsu A. I. In Mesopotamien in RlA vol. 9, p. 519). I think it still warrants further academic inquiries - it would be interesting to see an in depth comparison of Anat’s famous boast in the Baal Cycle with Ninurta’s lists of defeated enemies from Mesopotamian classics, for instance.

There’s one more attestation of Anat in a Mesopotamian god list, also. In An = Anum, “Anatum” is listed among the numerous alternate names of Amurru’s spouse Ashratum. Granted, the entire section seems to be essentially a wastebasket for western theonyms (An = Anum…, p. 26).

Needless to say, Ishtar, Ninurta, mr. “head-chopper” and their peers are not exactly virgin goddesses. Most of them aren’t even goddesses in the first place. In other words, the evidence doesn’t point to virginity being a factor in the development of equivalencies between Anat and other deities, whether in Ugarit or further east.

Is a btlt really a virgin?

The next matter to address is the meaning of the epithet btlt. Today most authors actually reject the formerly popular translation “virgin”. Instead it is generally assumed that the term more abstractly designed a woman as young, desirable, healthy, or some combination of the above. This led to the shift towards translations such as “maiden” or even “girl” (Aicha Rahmouni, Divine Epithets in the Ugaritic Alphabetic Texts, p. 138-139). There’s also a proposal that the defining trait of a btlt was only being unmarried, and that the term primarily referred to mature women, not adolescents (Dennis Pardee, Ugaritic Proper Nouns, p. 465). Yet another interpretation is that a btlt was a woman who didn’t have children, or specifically sons, though it doesn’t have a strong basis in primary sources (Divine Epithets…, p. 139).

Once again, there’s also an important caveat to take into account. The term btlt occurs in the Ugaritic text corpus virtually exclusively as an epithet of Anat, not in any other context. Any interpretation of it ultimately depends on an author’s views on Anat’s character, and on cognates in other languages (Neal H. Walls, The Goddess Anat in Ugaritic Myth, p. 78-79).

The Akkadian cognate batūltu is particularly often employed for comparative purposes (Divine Epithets…, p. 140). The recent Etymological Dictionary of Akkadian offers the translations “maiden” and “young girl” - and, similarly, “young man” for the masculine batūlu (Leonid Kogan, Manfred Krebernik et al., Etymological Dictionary of Akkadian Volume 1/1: Roots Beginning with P and B. Preface, Introduction and Dictionary, p. 508). It’s generally agreed that the meaning was relatively vague, and that the term could refer to any woman perceived as youthful or nubile, regardless of her marital status or sexual experience. A direct association with virginity is only attested in a highly specific legal context, namely in Middle Assyrian laws and Neo-Babylonian marriage contracts (Divine Epithets…, p. 140). In general everyday usage it had a considerably less specific meaning (Marten Stol, Women in the Ancient Near East, p. 13). 

A particular curiosity is that at least in the Neo-Babylonian period batūltu could function as a given name. Other terms assumed to have similar meaning, like Ṣaḫirtu (“young woman”) occur as personal names as well. It is presumed that they can be classified among names meant to express a wish for a child to develop positive traits, like Ṭābatu (“good”), Kāribtu (“one who prays”), Emuqtu (“clever”), Etellitu (“princess”) and so on (Laura Cousin, Yoko Watai, Onomastics of Women in Babylonia in the First Millennium BC, p. 9-10). I think it’s safe to assume in this context it would be the abstract quality of youthfulness that’s seen as desirable. 

On a semantic level, there’s a further Akkadian parallel to Ugaritic btlt to consider, ardatu (Divine Epithets…, p. 133). What, if any, difference existed between an ardatu and a batūltu is unclear. One proposal is that both referred to relatively rigid age groups, and that ardatu was a young woman slightly older than a batūltu. Others instead argue that they are virtually synonymous, and the primary difference between them is the genre of texts in which they commonly occur, with batūltu favored in legal context, and ardatu in literary compositions (Gioele Zisa, The Loss of Male Sexual Desire in Ancient Mesopotamia: Nīš Libbi Therapies, p. 131). It’s sensible to assume that it referred to youthfulness in the abstract, and in different contexts could designate both teen girls and older women (Divine Epithets…, p. 270).

Perhaps most importantly from the perspective of evaluating the implications of Anat being a btlt, ardatu occurs as an epithet of deities, for example Ishtar (Divine Epithets…, p. 141). The entity Ṣaltu - an antagonistic clay simulacrum of Ishtar who she faces in the composition Agušaya -  is referred to as an ardatu, too (ibidem, p. 133). Discussing ardatu also requires bringing up the Sumerian term kisikil (KI.SIKIL), which was both its semantic equivalent and a logogram used to write it. It similarly functioned as a title of deities - for instance, Inanna is fairly regularly addressed as a kisikil in love poetry (The Loss…, p. 131-132). It’s not only attested in a romantic context, though. In Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Nether World Inanna is introduced as a kisikil seemingly just to parallel the term kisikil lilla, a type of supernatural creature. The latter is mentioned in the preceding line, which reveals she is among the unwanted supernatural “visitors” who made a tree Inanna planted their home (Alhena Gadotti, ‘Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld’ and the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle, p. 256-257).

Going back to Anat herself, it’s important to stress that only in Ugarit she’s frequently a btlt.

Shamash-resh-usur, a governor of Suhu, in the company of Ishtar, Adad and a third deity, presumed to be Anat (wikimedia commons). In Suhu in upper Mesopotamia - where her namesake main cult center, as well as the only temple dedicated to her I’m aware of, were located - Anat wasn’t referred to as a batūltu. According to the local ruler Ninurta-kudurri-usur she was, instead, “the perfect lady, most exalted of the goddesses, most powerful of the goddesses, greatest of the Igīgū gods, august lady whose godhead is splendid, splendid lady whose grandeur is not equalled that of any of the other goddesses, one who grasps hand of the weak” etc. (Rulers of…, p. 317). In Egypt, titles applied to Anat were fairly generic - “lady of the sky” is one of the most common epithets of goddesses in general. Meanwhile, “mistress of all the gods”appears to be a feminine counterpart of Amun’s common title reflecting his position as the head of the official pantheon and royal deity. Similarly, “lady of truth” is a feminine counterpart of a common masculine epithet (Keiko Tazawa, Syro-Palestinian Deities in New Kingdom Egypt, p. 132-133; note I have some reservations about the conclusions from this monograph, it’s a good source of raw data though). A remarkable overlap with Ashtart’s Egyptian titles has to be noted (ibidem, p. 134).

To sum up, it seems that epithets pointing to youthfulness were necessarily tied to virginity, especially in the case of deities; hard to think of a more obvious example than Ishtar. I think it’s safe to conclude this almost definitely holds true for Anat, too. It’s ultimately not that implausible to assume Ugaritic btlt was a term used similarly in everyday life as Akkadian batūltu. However, Anat was primarily a deity. Just like in the case of Mesopotamian goddesses, calling her a btlt does not automatically mean she’d be characterized by the same traits as every single woman ever called btlt in any context (Divine Epithets…, p. 140-141). Her youthfulness is abstract. It’s not really an argument in favor or against seeing virginity as some integral part of her character.  On top of that, judging from non-Ugaritic evidence it doesn’t seem like highlighting Anat’s supposed virginity or youthfulness was a prerequisite for recognizing her as a warlike deity. Neither Mesopotamian nor Egyptian evidence points into that direction.

Is Anat unique?

The next matter I’d like to discuss is another Day largely ignored - Anat rarely, if ever, appears as the only warlike goddess in a given local pantheon. Most notably, for unclear reasons, Ugaritic Ashtart is missing from Day’s publications about Anat as a point of comparison. This is rather puzzling - she’s consistently described as a hunter. Examples include a myth dealing with El’s drunkness, and two compositions focused on her own endeavors, (Dennis Pardee, Preliminary Presentation of a New Ugaritic Song to ‘Aṯtartu (RIH 98/02), p. 35). While as I already noted, btlt is pretty much never used as anything but an epithet of Anat in the entire Ugaritic corpus (Epithets in…, p. 137), there's actually one exception: an isolated instance of Ashtart being referred to as a btlt in a fragmentary myth portraying her as a huntress. Granted, it might be the result of Anat’s standard epithet being applied to her colleague entirely because they were closely associated (ibidem, p. 132-133). Otherwise it doesn’t seem to be a prerequisite for portraying her as a warrior or huntress - in Ugarit or elsewhere.

Ignoring Ashtart is par for the course, to be fair. As recently remarked by Theodore J. Lewis, she “has either been minimized to the point of boredom or eroticized to the point of orgy” in scholarship (Athtartu’s Incantations and the Use of Divine Names as Weapons, p. 225). When it comes to the studies focused on Anat, Day isn’t even the worst when it comes to treatment of Ashtart. That title, in my opinion, can only go to Neal H. Walls. He boldly proclaims that Anat is held to be an “erotic” goddess because of conflation with Ashtart  - without questioning the attribution of such traits to the latter (The Goddess…, p. 112-113). Ashtart’s character is not discussed beyond that at all, actually, under the pretense that necessary information is lacking (ibidem, p. 110). For the deity arguably most similar to Anat, and paired with her multiple times both in Ugarit and elsewhere (specifically in Egypt), she certainly doesn’t enjoy much spotlight in his monograph - she is only mentioned 17 times. This makes the fact one of the only major examples is focused on juxtaposing “chaste” Anat with supposedly “erotic” Ashtart - instead of comparing their actually attested traits - all the more puzzling. It is perhaps a bit too much to claim that Walls is attempting to present Anat as a Madonna and Ashtart as a whore in accordance with the infamous paradigm of female roles, but this certainly isn’t far from that. Granted, his work is rife with questionable assumptions about deities who aren’t Anat in general. For instance, he uncritically accepts the interpretation of Pidray, Tallay and Arsay as Baal’s wives (ibidem, p. 117-122). And let’s not even go into trying to evaluate Ugaritic evidence by writing what I can only describe as highly questionable Enkidu fanfiction (ibidem, p. 125).

It should be noted that despite Day ignoring Ashtart and Walls simply perpetuating the most outlandish misconceptions, there are also studies which attempt to address the fact she and Anat evidently shared a similar niche in northern Syria and beyond. For instance, Izak Cornelius points out Anat’s warlike role cannot be discussed in isolation, since both in Ugarit and in Egyptian sources she shared it with Ashtart (The Many Faces of the Goddess: The Iconography of the Syro-Palestinian Goddesses Anat, Astarte, Qedeshet, and Asherah c. 1500-1000 BCE, p. 17).

Aren M. Wilson-Wright juxtaposes the portrayal of Anat in the Baal Cycle and ritual texts from Emar dealing with “Ashtart of battle”. One interesting detail is that a cultic specialist in the service of the latter was tasked with performing a ritual bath of her statue - a possible parallel with Anat having to bathe herself after slaughtering the enemy army in the Baal Cycle (Athtart…, p. 90). Furthermore, comparisons have been drawn between a short composition from Ugarit focused on Ashtart and Anat’s boastful speech - both seem to deal with the respective goddess vanquishing supernatural enemies connected in some way with El (ibidem, p. 130).

Ilona Zsolnay places Anat in broader context and compares her warlike character with both Ashtart as well as multiple Mesopotamian goddesses, including Ishtar, Annunitum and Ninisina (Do Divine Structures of Gender Mirror Mortal Structures of Gender?, p. 114). 

A Mesopotamian medicine goddess - in all due likeness not specifically Ninisina, though - on a kudurru, inscribed boundary stone (wikimedia commons).

Ninisina in particular seems to present a huge obstacle for Day’s interpretation of Anat as warlike only because she’s a young virgin  - she is portrayed both as an adventurous warlike goddess and as a mother. In the same hymn, at that (Jeremy Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer, p. 254).

Ultimately acknowledging that Anat wasn’t one of a kind and that even in Ugarit - let alone in Suhu, or any other areas where she was present - more than one warlike goddess existed makes the proposal that virginity was a prerequisite for association with masculine spheres of activity quite hard to defend, even without taking other already discussed evidence into account. Why Artemis is brought up as a point of comparison instead of deities from the same areas, often worshiped side by side with Anat, is a bit perplexing to me, though as I’ll explain later I have my suspicions.

The context of hunting

What makes the quest for parallels with Artemis all the more puzzling is that ample evidence for the social context of hunting in the late bronze age is available from… virtually all over the “cuneiform world”, really. And, long story short, it’s hard to reconcile with Day’s image of Anat as a goddess invested in taking care of nature on top of that.

A Neo-Assyrian relief depicting Ashurbanipal during a lion hunt (wikimedia commons). In the late second millennium BCE, from Hittite Anatolia, through inland Syria, all the way up to the Middle Assyrian Empire hunting was a prominent element of royal ideology (Beate Pongratz-Leisten, Religion and Ideology in Assyria, p. 244). The royal hunt was a symbolic representation of a struggle against chaos, and was understood as akin to warfare (ibidem, p. 246). These comparisons are particularly common in the inscriptions of Tiglath-Pileser I, who apparently saw hunting unusual animals as a vital aspect of military exploits in far off lands (ibidem, p. 250-251). In Assyria, the kings made connections between their own military and hunting exploits and the mythical deeds of Ninurta - in particular his battles with monsters described in Angim, Lugal-e or the epic of Anzu. Just as Ninurta fought to defend the order of the cosmos established by his father Enlil, the king’s deeds were meant to establish order against chaos in his domain (ibidem, p. 260-261). Nothing points to hunting being tied to a concern for the well-being of animals - if anything, regular animals can be elevated to the rank of malevolent monsters from a mythical time. 

Of course, we have no analogous evidence about royal ideology from Ugarit so far. But the context in which Anat talks about monsters she has defeated in the Baal Cycle shows a number of similarities. The boasts are preceded by a battle against mundane, seemingly human enemies (Baal Cycle vol. 2, p. 70):

Furthermore, Anat assumes she will have to lend her skills against any enemies threatening Baal’s position (ibidem, p. 72):

Ugarit was located in between three areas where this ideological value of hunting is documented roughly in the same period when the Baal Cycle was composed, so it’s hard to escape the question if the ideological value of Anat’s hunts was similar to those of Ninurta, the Middle Assyrian rulers and their royal contemporaries in the west, across inland Syria and eastern Anatolia. The fact that next to Susa and Hattusa Ugarit is one of the non-Mesopotamian sites where the internalization of ideas from Mesopotamian literature is best attested certainly doesn’t help with shaking off this impression (Royal Ideology…, p. 31). Needless to say, this would speak against any of Anat’s activities having any degree of care for nature behind them.

Excursus: an Aegean image from Ugarit

The Aegean pyxis lid from Ugarit (wikimedia commons). A final matter which has to be addressed here is the identification of a work of art - an ivory pyxis lid, to be specific - found in Ugarit. This is one of those objects which have suffered much more than they deserve. It’s regularly misidentified on shoddy sites as just about anything the author can think of, but most commonly as a nebulous “fertility goddess” of one sort of another.

On top of that, crude, ill-informed reproductions can be found in the weirdest places. For reasons that elude me, in many of the imitations the goats - their beards are clearly visible (Izak Cornelius, The Many Faces of the Goddess: The Iconography of the Syro-Palestinian Goddesses Anat, Astarte, Qedeshet, and Asherah c. 1500-1000 BCE, p. 79).- get turned into horses. Day, based on her interpretation of Anat as a “mistress of animals”, suggested that the figure depicted in it can only be her (Anat: Ugarit’s…, p. 188). The art historian Andrea Sinclair dedicated a great blog post to this topic a few years ago; instead of retreading everything she said, I’ll limit myself to the basics here. It’s not clear where this specific work originates. It’likely of local manufacture, and as such is often argued to represent a local goddess as well, though no identification is accepted universally (The Many…, pp. 33-34). However, it’s sometimes classified as a genuine Mycenaean work instead (ex. Fritz Blakolmer, Linear B Deities in Mycenaean Imagery?, p. 134).

Impression of a seal from Chania (via Linear B…, p. 134, fig. 23; reproduced here for educational purposes only). The closest parallels are actually seals from Neopalatial Crete, like the example above, which similarly show a presumed goddess feeding plants to a goat. Identification with the Mycenaean “mistress of grain” (si-to-po-ti-ni-ja) has been proposed, but can hardly be considered confirmed (iIbidem, p. 134). Whether the discussed pyxis lid was made far away or by a local craftsman, something that has to be taken into account is that it might not depict a goddess at all, as pointed out by Sinclair. Ultimately, there’s no real reason to see it specifically as Anat.

Conclusions

After analyzing all of the information discussed in this article, I arrived to the conclusion Day’s studies are an example of a problem Jo Ann Hackett pointed out in the 1980s - just another attempt at boiling a goddess down to aspects a given author considers appropriately feminine and nonthreatening (Can a Sexist Model Liberate Us? Ancient near Eastern "Fertility" Goddesses, p. 75).

Day ostensibly references Hackett (ex. Anat: Ugarit’s…, p. 181 fn. 2 and passim); but ultimately she seems to be primarily concerned with making Anat more conventionally feminine. She focuses on supposed virginity and adolescence. Warfare hardly figures in her interpretation of Anat. She is largely limited to biological aspects of femininity. Additionally it’s difficult not to consider the possibility that Artemis was brought up in order to find a haphazard way to make Anat appear both more feminine and more firmly a virgin through dubious comparative evidence. The insistence on using Greek parallels - especially flimsy ones like that -  while discarding Mesopotamian ones is quite puzzling, given that Anat is obviously not attested anywhere in Greece, but her main, namesake cult center was in Mesopotamia.

Furthermore, as noted by Claus Ambos, attribution of the role as “mistress of animals” is also a hallmark of studies proclaiming various goddesses, often from completely unrelated cultures, as interchangeable, and ultimately as “mother goddesses”. He cites examples of studies focused on Nanaya, Ishtar and Anahita, which he rightly characterizes as “naive and uncritical” (Nanaja ­- Eine Ikonographische Studie zur Darstellung Einer Altorientalischen Göttin in Hellenistisch­parthischer Zeit, p. 256). I don’t think Day’s studies are anywhere near as bad, to be fair - but I do think it’s a less severe example of trying to force a goddess into this modern archetype to make her more conventionally feminine.

Of course, the fact Day’s conclusions leave a lot to be desired doesn’t mean the questions she decided to ask aren’t valid. However, I believe a better explanation of Anat’s masculine pursuits has been provided by Zsolnay. As she argues, while deities could be defined by gender roles in the way humans were, like those of a mourning sister or stern paterfamilias, they didn’t necessarily have to. A deity’s character could be primarily defined by factors other than their gender - the phenomena they were meant to embody, political developments, and more. At the end of the day, the divinity of a goddess is enough to explain why she would be playing a masculine role (Do Divine…, p. 116). What phenomenon did Anat embody? Day herself pointed out her name very likely is a cognate of the Arabic word ‘anwat, “force” or “violence” (Anat in DDD, p. 36). Does her belligerent character really require a reason other than the fact her name seems to point to embodying violence in the abstract? I personally don’t think so. And, on top of that, I don’t think obsessing over whether Anat had sex offscreen or not - something that has no bearing on her primary roles either way - really moves the paradigm past the times of “fertility goddesses” and the like. In contrast, accepting that the character of individual deities could be shaped by individual circumstances - often entirely unrelated to their gender - does offer numerous new thrilling possibilities for the field. What Anat’s case proves is that deities need to be studied in context - but it has to be the context in which they were actually found. Not the context in which an author wishes to see them. Of course, studies which manage that are not uncommon by any means. A great recent example is Maciej M. Münnich’s The God Resheph in the Ancient Near East. Sadly, a similar study of Anat is still lacking.

[yamayuandadu]

Was there ever a extra source/other information about Gozu Tennoh's wife, Harisaijo? The wiki sometimes lists her being connected to not just Kushinadahime, but also Zennyo Ryuo and Longnü, also as "the third daughter of the dragon king" + "a woman who reached Buddhahood". I'd like to know more about her (if there's more info outside of the wikis)

What’s already on the wiki is pretty solid - the articles the info is centered in atm were largely written by well-prepared, credible contributors that I can also personally vouch for on top of that. This being said, there’s indeed more. Due to length the rest of the response can be found under the cut.

Fabio Rambelli classifies Harisaijo as an onmyōdo deity in origin, and states she started to be worshiped in the Muromachi period (Buddhist Materiality. A Cultural History of Objects in Japanese Buddhism, p. 230). This dating seems to be off; Bernard Faure has more recently stated that she was already known in the tenth century (Rage and Ravage, p. 124).

Harisaijo’s status as a daughter of a dragon king is one of the most consistent features of different versions of the myth (ibidem, p. 111). In the Hoki Naiden, her father is specified to be Sagara (ibidem, p. 113). According to the fourteenth century compendium Shintō Shū (神道集), she’s his second daughter. Her older sister is the wife of Daijizaiten, and they have three further younger sisters: the wife of the “king of Mt. Sumeru” (presumably Taishakuten), the wife of Enma, and the dragon girl from the Lotus Sutra (Buddhist…, p. 316).

Given her genealogy, it shouldn’t be surprising that she came to be connected with the belief that a spring located at the grounds of the Gion shrine - the Shōshō-i - can be used to communicate with the dragon palace. During celebrations palanquin used to carry a depiction of her had to stop over it; she received the alternate name Shōshōi-dono (少将井殿) in reference to this custom (Rage…, p. 127). The marriage to Gozu Tennō is likewise a near constant (ibidem, p. 111). In the Hoki Naiden, Gozu Tennō can’t find a wife because of his appearance - he’s described as literally bull-headed and as similar to a yaksha. A bird sent by the “heavenly emperor” (I’d assume Taishakuten is meant but don’t quote me on that) tells him about Harisaijo, which in turn motivates him to embark on his journey. In this version, they end up spending 37 years in the dragon palace together before traveling back to Japan (ibidem, p. 113).

Harisaijo also played her usual role in a version transmitted by blind monks associated with Mt. Hiei, which is otherwise notable for featuring a three way equation between Tenkeisei (天刑星; you might know him from the Extermination of Evil paintings), Shōki (ie. Zhong Kui) and Gozu Tennō; Tenkeisei - who’s an astral deity - descends to earth as “king Shōki” in it, and then turns into Gozu Tennō to marry Harisaijo and to become the king of chimi mōryō (魑魅魍魎), a term which in this context means something like “all demons” (Rage…, p. 132). The three way equation shows up in the Hoki Naiden, too (ibidem, p. 104)

A depiction of Gozu Tennō, Harisaijo and their children (Gerald Gromer, A Year in Seventeenth Century Kyoto: Edo-Period Writings on Annual Ceremonies, Festivals, and Customs, p. 305; reproduced here for educational purposes only). Depictions of Harisaijo are hardly uncommon. Based on accompanying descriptions of some of them, she could be identified with Toshitoku (歳徳), the “year deity” (Rage…, p. 121-122). A version of the standard narrative which simply uses the name Toshitoku instead of Harisaijo is preserved in the Nenjū Chōhōki (年中重宝記) from 1694, also (A Year…, p. 304).

As for other identifications, the association with Kannon - specifically Jūichimen Kannon - is mentioned in the Shintō Shū, which describes her as the honji of Harisaijo (Rage…, p. 115). However, in the Bukkyō Gyōji Saijiki her honji is instead Monju (Buddhist…, p. 316). I don’t think the identification with Kushinada required anything other than Gozu Tennō being identified with Susanoo. Sources where Harisaijo isn’t Gozu Tennō’s (current) wife are not numerous, but I nonetheless found some. In Gozu Tennō Shimawatari Saimon (牛頭天王島渡り祭文) - a version of Gozu Tennō’s origin myth in which he kills the historical Buddha on the way back to Japan -  it seems that Harisajo is the name of his mother, not wife (Rage…, p. 107-108). Granted, in different passages from the same source she also appears among his siblings (Mark Teeuwen, Saimon Recitations: Two Examples from Oku Mikawa, p. 55; on a funny side note, two of the others names listed are Hyakki and Yagyō - ie. the “night parade of a hundred demons” broken up into two personal names). A tradition apparently extant in the eleventh century, documented in the diary of the courtier Kujō Michiie (九条道家; note he lived almost 200 years later), had Harisajo as Gozu Tennō’s ex, and Jadokkeshin (蛇毒気神) as his present spouse. However, medieval like Hoki Naiden and Tengeshō Saimon generally put Jadokkeshin among their children, either as one of the standard eight or as an awkward addition to the group; there’s also a tradition which makes her a manifestation of Gozu Tennō, though, documented in the Shintō Shū (Rage…, p. 128).

An entirely different tradition is preserved in the Edo compendium Nenchū Gyōji Taisei (年中行事大成) from 1806, which states that in “local folklore” Harisaijo was recognized as the deity of Awashima (ie. Awashima Myōjin). She married Sumiyoshi at the age of sixteen, but then they divorced because she was ill. Reportedly this made her study similar obstacles in marriage and fashion puppets representing couples, which in turn became the foundation of hinamatsuri. The compiler considers this account to be of dubious quality and points to Sukunahikona being enshrined in Awashima (Buddhist…, p. 229). It should be noted the criticism is probably biased and comes from a nativist-adjacent perspective - Awashima Myōjin was actually commonly identified as a female figure through the middle ages, either as the deified form of the legendary empress Jingū (initially introduced to the tradition of Awashima to be portrayed as worshiper of Sukunahikona) or as an attendant of Amaterasu. The marriage with Sumiyoshi goes back to this network of traditions. It seems that the identification with Harisaijo was very late, though - there are no mentions in it in sources from the 1770s yet - and it probably never attained official status. It probably depended on a play on words, given the role needles had in local tradition of Awashima and the reinterpretation of her name to reflect a connection with needles (ibidem, p. 230-231). However, it’s also possible medieval portrayals of Jingū as a daughter of Sagara (including at least one instance where she’s the second oldest of his daughters like Harisaijo) were a factor. Note also that, funnily enough, Sumiyoshi could be portrayed as a manifestation of this version of Jingū (ibidem, p. 316).

[yamayuandadu]

Something that caught my attention during work on the recent Ashtart primer is the generally accepted reference to Yam in Philo of Byblos’ Phoenician History (Albert I. Baumgartner, The Phoenician History of Philo of Byblos: a Commentary, p. 207). At one point he brings up Pontos, who is portrayed as a surprisingly  successful opponent of Demarous, presumably the weather god (ibidem, p. 196). This is rather interesting since minor figures were very rarely used in interpretatio graeca (Robert R. Parker, Greek Gods Abroad: Names, Natures and Transformations, p. 50). Philo seemed to be relatively well acquainted with Greek sources dealing with Pontos, as it’s hard to imagine making him a son of Nereus wasn’t based on the tradition having the latter as a son of Pontos; it’s anyone’s guess who he meant by that, though. Possibly some hitherto lost local tradition was involved (The Phoenician…, p. 207-208). It should be noted that to date no other Phoenician attestations of Yam have emerged; Philo’s Pontos remains isolated (Herbert Niehr, Yammu in RlA vol. 15, p. 143-144). In theory there’s a Phoenician god whose interpretatio graeca was Poseidon, but he’s clearly not the same - Philo explicitly has him as a distinct deity from Pontos. He doesn’t appear in any bilingual sources, so his native identity remains unknown (Aaron J. Brody, “Each Man Cries Out to His God”: the Specialized Religion of Canaanite and Phoenician Seafarers, p. 23). He might’ve been a local Baal from Berytus, concerned with maritime rather than celestial matters, and thus, from a Greek point of view, a decent match for the sea god par excellence (Greek Gods…, p. 95). 

[yamayuandadu]

Cats, chariots and cracking skulls: an Ashtart primer

The cover illustration was drawn for me by Yacmo Tsuji - please check their work out. Some deities have very questionable luck. Even if well attested - not just in offering lists and theophoric names, but even in myths - they struggle with gaining recognition in the present. Ashtart is one such example; plagued by unwarranted conflations, questionable past scholarship, and lack of attention. This article is a brief overview of the three main text corpora dealing with her (Ugarit, Emar and Egypt, with small additions from elsewhere). Some information about other deities with cognate names will be provided as well. The material from Ugarit includes a survey of myths featuring Ashtart - from the (relatively) famous Baal Cycle to obscure and fragmentary compositions (including one which compares her to a large cat); a brief overview of her associations with other major deities (specifically Anat and Baal); as well as a critical evaluation of a bizarre proposal regarding her love life. As far as Emar is concerned, due to lack of myths I’ll instead look at the three most major of the seventeen (!) hypostases of Ashtart attested in this city. Some space is also dedicated to her unique priestess, the maš’artu, who was possibly responsible for ritually securing victory in battle by communicating with her via a supernatural hotline. Finally, the section dealing with Egypt will explain how a goddess hailing from northern Syria found herself so far from her original home, why Egyptians adopted her, and how motifs from myths about her were transformed in this new context. An upcoming article, Sackers of cities, head choppers and manly kings: once more about Anat, can be considered a supplement, but you can read each of them on their own too.

Ashtart or Astarte? A note on romanization and melting goddesses into slurry

Before I’ll begin properly, I feel obliged to once again reiterate my stance on the romanization of Ashtart's name. I’m not a fan of using Astarte (Άσταρτη) as the default. While sometimes used to refer to material from Ugarit and other bronze age sites (ex. Izak Cornelius, The Many Faces of the Goddess: The Iconography of the Syro-Palestinian Goddesses Anat, Astarte, Qedeshet, and Asherah c. 1500-1000 BCE, p. 93), this name is specifically a Hellenized spelling of a Phoenician theonym (Aren M. Wilson-Wright, Athtart: The Transmission and Transformation of a Goddess in the Late Bronze Age, p. 146). Very little material discussed in this article is Phoenician. And virtually none of it has anything to do with Greek reception of Phoenician (or any other) material. I will therefore stick to referring to the discussed deity as Ashtart - a romanization closer to the spelling of her name in the text corpora I’ll discuss in the late bronze age.

A major issue with the use of the romanization “Astarte” is that it often leads to both unintended misconceptions and fully intentional unwarranted conflations. Evidence from different cultures and time periods is lumped together without concern to create a composite deity - an unchanging goddess who’s somehow identical in Ugarit in the late bronze age, in Phoenicia in the last centuries BCE, and in many other places and times. She’s also, somehow, interchangeable with numerous others, from biblical asherah pole and Carthaginian Tanith (Athtart…, p. 6-7) to Isis, Aphrodite and Mesopotamian Ishtar (ibidem, p. 9). This ignoble tradition goes back directly to James G. Frazer and his Golden Bough, though in the case of Ashtart it’s also impossible to downplay the role of the Bible scholar W. F. Albright and his students like Frank Moore Cross (ibidem, p. 4-6). The goal is always the same, though - presenting goddesses as interchangeable is meant to boil them into a slurry, some sort of poorly defined “feminine principle” with no individual traits. Nebulous associations with “fertility” and sexuality are used to fill in the blanks (Jo Ann Hackett, Can a Sexist Model Liberate Us? Ancient near Eastern "Fertility" Goddesses, p. 75). Ashtart in particular has suffered badly from his misconception in past scholarship (Rüdiger Schmitt, Mistress of Horses, Lady of the Chariot: The Warrior Aspect of Astarte, p. 213-214). This article is my own small attempt at countering this problem.

A peculiar star? On Ashtart’s name

Ashtart’s name has a considerable number of cognates. Across the various languages from the Semitic family, four categories pretty clearly going back to the same root are attested: feminine theonyms with the expected feminine suffix -t (like the name of the discussed goddess); feminine theonyms lacking this suffix (like Ishtar in Akkadian); masculine theonyms (like the Ugaritic god Attar); and a number of ordinary grammatically feminine nouns referring to heaven or stars (Athtart…, p. 16-17). The last category is attested only in languages spoken in Ethiopia and Eritrea - Ge’ez, Amharic and Tigre (ibidem, p. 18-19). Wilson-Wright argues that this might reflect the original meaning of the word, relying on the fact an astral role is directly attested for some - but not all - deities with cognate names (ibidem, p. 21). While this is not an unconvincing etymology, some caution might be necessary, though. For instance, it’s regularly claimed that Ashtart was an astral deity. However, this argument depends entirely on her name being a cognate of Mespotamian Ishtar, whose astral qualifications are undeniable. For her “relative” direct evidence is actually lacking, though. If she was viewed as astral in the main areas where she was worshiped - like in Ugarit and Emar, which the bulk of this article will be dedicated to - it was clearly an aspect of her character of little importance (Mark S. Smith, ‛Athtart in Late Bronze Age Syrian Texts, p. 37). It should also be noted that this etymology of Ashtart’s name and its cognates is part of a broader proposal courtesy of Wilson-Wright. She argues the original root - which has an awkward number of consonants by the standards of Semitic languages - was actually a borrowing from another language family, specifically the (now extinct) Anatolian branch of Indo-European. The Hittite word for a star, ḫasterza, would thus be a distant cognate too (Athtart…, p. 23-24). 

Appealing as this idea might be at first glance, a huge dose of caution is necessary, though. Timothy D. Leonard in an evaluation of Wilson-Wright’s work notes that the root originating in a loanword would explain many of the phonetic problems not accounted for in earlier proposals. However, at the same time would require contact between speakers of Semitic and Anatolian languages to happen much earlier than first attested (effectively before the former split!). Furthermore, it’s not clear what cultural rationale there would be for borrowing an astronomical term which already had an equivalent, just to use it in a way not attested for it in any of the Anatolian languages (Ištar in Ḫatti: The Disambiguation of Šavoška and Associated Deities in Hittite Scribal Practice, p. 40-41).

Wilson-Wright suggests that the earliest theonym derived from this root was feminine but didn’t actually have a feminine suffix, while Ashtart’s name was an attempt at “fixing” this issue. Possibly it happened more than once, even; on linguistic grounds it can be assumed that it occurred separately in Ugarit and in Phoenicia, for instance. The related masculine theonyms would similarly be a secondary development, unrelated to Ashtart herself (Athtart…, p. 19). For instance, it’s safe to assume the existence of a male god with a clearly cognate name in southern Arabia in the first millennium BCE was an entirely unrelated development, and that his name arose independently from the same root (ibidem, p. 20).

In some cases, cognates of the name without the feminine suffix can be a subject of debate - for example, a deity worshiped in Ebla in the third millennium BCE whose name was usually written as Ašdar been variously interpreted as Ashtart, Attar (Mark S. Smith, The Ugaritic Baal Cycle. Volume I. Introduction with Text, Translations and Commentary of KTU 1.1-1.2, p. 240-241) or a deity ultimately closest to Mesopotamian Ishtar (Inanna), even if not identical with her (Alfonso Archi, Išḫara and Aštar at Ebla: Some Definitions, p. 15-16). As a side note, I feel obliged to point out that contrary to a persistent misconception popular in certain circles online, no form of the name has anything to do with the biblical asherah pole or any theonyms phonetically related to it. The resemblance is entirely down to romanization; Ashtart’s name starts with an ayin, not an aleph (Steve A. Wiggins, A Reassessment of Asherah With Further Considerations of the Goddess, p. 57). 

“A mighty panther is Ashtart”: the Ugaritic texts

The ruins of Ugarit in 2008 (wikimedia commons). With abstract linguistic considerations now out of the way, it’s time to look at the text corpora Ashtart is best attested in, starting with Ugarit (modern Ras Shamra), located in northern Syria, on the Mediterranean coast. The bulk of the texts from this city have been written in a unique alphabetic script derived from cuneiform, which was in use for some 80 years immediately before the destruction of the city in 1185 BCE (Athtart…, p. 121). Standard syllabic cuneiform is attested in the city earlier as well, though it was never used for, say, writing down local myths, in contrast with the new script (ibidem, p. 125). Two versions of the same text - a list of offerings - indicate that Ishtar’s name was used to represent Ashtart when writing in standard syllabic cuneiform. However, the spelling of the name in the alphabetic script - 'ṯtrt - leaves no ambiguity; Ashtart was clearly the deity meant (ibidem, p. 113).

While it’s clear Ashtart was a goddess of some importance in Ugarit, there’s a degree of discrepancy between her placement in different genres of texts. In offering lists she doesn’t seem all that important, relatively speaking. On the other hand, in a more politically charged context, like in official letters, she occupies an elevated position. The most prominent example, sent to an unidentified Ugaritic king by an official residing in Alashiya (Cyprus) lists her in the second place, right after Baal and before Anat and “eternal sun” (ie. Shapash) - in other words, at the very top of the divine hierarchy (‛Athtart…, p. 41-43).

The texts discovered so far provide little solid information about the temple(s) and clergy of Ashtart. It’s possible a temple or shrine dedicated to her was located in the royal palace. There’s also a single reference to a “kunaḫi house” belonging to her, similarly presumed to fulfill a religious role. As for clergy, there are isolated references to “singers” and “servants” of Ashtart, but nothing more solid (‛Athtart…, p. 38-39).

Seated figure of an unidentified goddess from Ugarit (wikimedia commons). It’s also known that at least one cult statue of Ashtart existed in the city - references to preparation of clothing for it are known (ibidem, p. 39). However, no figures in Ugaritic art have been conclusively identified as Ashtart. At most seated female figures might give us a vague idea how she would’ve been depicted. In absence of identifying labels caution is necessary, though (Athtart…, p. 114).

The Ugaritic texts associate Ashtart with three spheres of influence: warfare, hunting, and magic (Mistress of…, p. 216-217). Strictly speaking, the label “magico-medical” might be more apt for the third role (Athtart…, p. 27). Additionally she might have also fulfilled other, less significant functions - for instance, a single reference to the existence of a wadi associated with her in the proximity of the city might hint at an association with fishing or shipping (ibidem, p. 139). 

Ashtart's association with hunting is most likely reflected in the epithet šd, likely “of the field” or “of the steppe”, in the relevant passage  (‛Athtart…, p. 39-40). It might have originally arisen as an attempt at giving her a title similar to ṣēri, applied regularly to a deity designated by the logogram Ishtar - presumably Shaushka - in Hittite treaties and rituals (Athtart…, p. 114). A second notable title of Ashtart attested in the Ugaritic corpus is ḫr (‛Athtart…, p. 40). Based on texts written in Akkadian, it is to be vocalized as ḫurri, but its precise meaning remains uncertain (Athtart…, p. 107). Two most common explanations are “Hurrian” and “hole” or “grotto”. The former is overall more plausible, but somewhat awkwardly the cult of Ashtart - whether designed as ḫurri or not - shows no meaningful Hurrian influence in Ugarit (ibidem, p. 118-119). There’s only one possible exception - a bilingual ritual which refers to offerings made to Ashtart in Ugaritic, and then switches to Hurrian, with Shaushka, accompanied by the handmaidens Ninatta and Kulitta, the moon god Kusuh and the enigmatic god Nupatik, taking the central stage (ibidem, p. 120).

From the Baal Cycle to fragmentary hymns

One of the tablets of the Baal Cycle (wikimedia commons). Even otherwise rigorous authors at times claim that Ashtart plays no major role in Ugaritic mythology (ex. Mistress of…, p. 224). While it’s true that she lags behind Baal and Anat in this regard, I think this is incorrect. Hopefully the amount of material in this section will convince you too. Most of the time, discussion of Ugaritic mythology has to start with the Baal Cycle, and this case is no different. It seems before appearing in person, Ashtart is referenced in it in a curse in an unclear context - possibly it’s a part of a message from Baal to Yam (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 264-265). The formula is pretty memorable - “May Horon break your head, Ashtart name of Baal, your skull”; it occurs in the Epic of Keret (or Kirta) as well (Athtart…, p. 133). It’s presumed that it had similar emotional valence to the contemporary phrase “go to hell”. Invoking Horon in it is not surprising - at least in Ugarit he was the god of incantations par excellence, capable of banishing any foe to parts unknown. Meanwhile, Ashtart might be invoked simply due to her belligerent character (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 278). As far as the surviving fragments go, Ashtart makes her proper debut a bit later. After Yam’s messengers make a series of demands to the divine assembly, Baal loses his temper and tries to attack them, which is prevented by an intervention of Ashtart and Anat (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 268):

The fact that even the two goddesses portrayed as Baal’s most stalwart allies elsewhere actively prevent him from acting might be meant to illustrate that he’s at his lowest point. Yam is triumphant and making extraordinary demands, and no one is willing to back him up (ibidem, p. 311-312). Baal’s fortunes eventually reverse. Just as El - the head of the assembly - has previously declared his fate is to be Yam’s captive, after an actual confrontation takes place he gains the upper hand and Ashtart proclaims a similar fate for Yam (ibidem, p. 357).

During the battle Ashtart intervenes from the sidelines, apparently rebuking Baal for unclear reasons. Perhaps she thinks Baal isn’t going far enough, and that she urges him to capitalize on his advantage to finish him off (Theodore J. Lewis, ʿAthtartu’s Incantations and the Use of Divine Names as Weapons, p. 209-210). While this is an isolated minority opinion, I found Theodore J. Lewis' proposal that “rebuke” is a mistranslation and Ashtart might be using an apotropaic formula to help Baal interesting, as well (ibidem, p. 216-218).

The scene as a whole is important for understanding the position of Baal in the cycle and his relationships with other deities. With Yam defeated, Baal can assume kingship, but his position will remain precarious. And, most importantly, it was not attained alone. The help of Ashtart, as well as the craftsman god Kothar-wa-Khasis (who provided Baal with weapons and possibly cheered on him alongside Ashtart), were vital for his success (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 361).

Ashtart and Anat are also portrayed cooperating in a myth dealing with El suffering from hangover after overindulging during a feast. They are first portrayed serving meat during the event itself, and later embark on a hunt to acquire ingredients for a cure for El. It seems the composition was an etiological explanation of the origins of a real remedy for hangover used in Ugarit, complete with an instruction on how to prepare it (Athtart…, p. 137). A myth dealing with Ashtart’s role as a huntress is also known, though it’s quite fragmentary. She apparently embarks on an expedition to the steppe land, hunts unspecified game with a spear, and then serves the meat to El and the moon god Yarikh. The rest of the composition might describe an encounter between Ashtart and Baal, which may or may not be sexual in character, though this is highly speculative (Athtart…, p. 135-137).

Last but not least, a further text focused on Ashtart has been discovered relatively recently - in 1998 - in nearby Ras Ibn Hani (Dennis Pardee, Preliminary Presentation of a New Ugaritic Song to ‘Aṯtartu (RIH 98/02), p. 27). Much remains unclear, but it’s evident that she is described in it as a huntress armed with a bow, which is in line with her portrayal in the two myths already discussed earlier. It is possible that it contains a similar list of vanquished enemies as Anat’s famous speech about monsters from the Baal Cycle (ibidem, p. 35-37). Ashtart’s adversary seems to be a creature referred to as “whelp of El”, who can be reasonably assumed to be a similar being as the “bitch of El” and “calf of El” listed among Anat’s conquests (Athtart…, p. 130). It seems Ashtart is also metaphorically described in feline terms, which would offer a neat parallel to her Mesopotamian “relative” Ishtar, whose association with big cats is well documented (Preliminary Presentation…, p. 33-35):

Ashtart, Baal and Anat: allies with benefits?

As you probably already noticed, Ashtart appears alongside Anat in two separate cases discussed in the previous section. Those aren’t the only examples. This recurring association is quite easy to explain, given the distinctly belligerent character of both goddesses (Mistress of…, p. 215). The two seem the most closely connected in anti-snakebite incantations, which you might remember from my article about Shapash and Shamash. There - and only there - they are jointly referred to as Anat-wa-Ashtart, ie. “Anat & Ashtart”. The pair is invoked from Inbubu  (‛Athtart…, p. 40). This location is exclusively attested in mythological context, and might not be a real place  (Athtart…, p. 139). The very same incantation also separately invokes Ashtart on her own, from Mari (‛Athtart…, p. 40).

Since Inbubu is a location otherwise only associated with Anat, it’s occasionally proposed she and Ashtart are effectively merged into a single deity in the aforementioned text (‛Athtart…, p. 40). However, this is a considerable overinterpretation of the available evidence (Athtart…, p. 140). Ashtart and Anat clearly aren’t interchangeable in the Ugaritic texts (or elsewhere) - it’s possible that even individual hypostases of Ashtart weren’t (Athtart…, p. 141).

What is true is that in addition to their similar character, in all due likeness, Ashtart’s and Anat’s iconography was similar (The Many…, p. 5). It’s pretty much a given that people in antiquity could tell them apart, though - just like a modern catholic will often be able to tell apart saints based on minor details. In absence of accompanying inscriptions, this can be very difficult for researchers today, though (ibidem, p. 6). Similarity in iconography cannot be held as evidence for conflation - in the end it’s comparable to iconographic similarities between Baal and Resheph (ibidem, p. 100). In particular, the proposal that they merged into Atargatis known from classical sources from across Syria is baseless on both theological and linguistic grounds, and is a relic of antiquated attempts at proving every goddess is actually but an aspect of an underlying all encompassing greater whole (Athtart…, p. 140-141). 

It’s evident that Ashtart was also associated in some way with Baal, though she is never addressed as his spouse or sister (Mistress of…, p. 216). It’s safe to say she was regarded as his ally, as evident in the Baal Cycle (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 281). Much remains unclear, though. A particular mystery is one of Ashtart’s epithets, which designates her as the šm of Baal. It’s generally accepted that this term literally means “name”, but it’s far from clear what exactly it entails in this context (Athtartu’s Incantations…, p. 208-209). A meaning alongside the lines “alter ego of Baal” has been proposed (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 278). However, implicitly interpreting Ashtart as a hypostasis of Baal is obviously implausible (Athtart…, p. 134). 

It’s also unclear if the relationship between Baal and Ashtart was ever imagined as romantic and/or sexual. The evidence is unclear at best. For instance, as already noted the myth focused on Ashtart’s hunt might also allude to an encounter of some sort between her and Baal, and someone’s “desire” for someone or something is mentioned, but the passage is simply too fragmentary to determine what’s going on with absolute certainty (‛Athtart…, p. 59-60). 

I personally find Daniel Schwemer’s evaluation the most convincing: it’s fairly plausible that individual texts might hint at sexual encounters between Ashtart and Baal, as well as Anat and Baal, but it’s clear that none of them were envisioned as married. It can be also safely assumed that Ashtart was not regarded as the mother of the group of goddesses labeled as Baal’s daughters; she’s only ever an ally who may or may not have other dealings with Baal as well (The Storm-Gods of the Ancient Near East: Summary, Synthesis, Recent Studies: Part II, p. 13-14). I suppose one could refer to this interpretation as “allies with benefits”.

“Ishtarat” and Yam: a goddess that never was and her impact on Ashtart

There’s technically a third proposed close relationship between Ashtart and another deity which continues to pop up in scholarship. It has much more shaky foundations, though. To understand where it came from we need to go further back in time, and a bit further to the east. 

At an uncertain point before the Sargonic period (ie. before 2350 BCE or so), a certain Ikun-Shamagan became the king of Mari, a city located close to the border between Iraq and Syria. It’s unknown how long he remained on the throne, and even his placement in the sequence of Mariote rulers is up for debate (Douglas R. Frayne, The Presargonic Period (2700-2350 BC), p. 317). One of Ikun-Shamagan’s courtiers, a cupbearer named Shu-Weda, dedicated a vessel for the sake of his employer to a pair of deities: Id (“river”) and a goddess who, as it was assumed for a long while, was named Ishtarat or something along those lines. It’s formulaic and not very informative (ibidem, p. 318):

The reading “Ashtarat” or “Ishtarat”, and the resulting assumption Ashtart is the deity meant, goes back to Georges Dossin. However, it should be pointed out he actually read the name not as Ashtart or even as Ishtarat, but as Gishtarat (Manfred Krebernik, Einiger Frühdynastischer Inschriften aus Mari, p. 165). This in turn reflects his perplexing proposal that the theonym Ishtar was a Sumerian compound, a combination of giš and dar, which he translated as “penetrated sex”. Needless to say, to call this implausible would be an understatement (Athtart…, p. 23; Ištar in…, p. 39-40). It’s not even a correct translation - giš dar would actually mean “cut tree” (ibidem, p. 40)... “Ishtarat’s” foundations were therefore always quite shaky.

This issue was first pointed out in 1984 by Manfred Krebernik (of Reallexikon der Assyriologie fame). His reexamination of the text revealed that a misreading was otherwise unknown theonym, ba-sur-ra-at (Zur Lesung…, p. 165). In 2011, his arguments were expanded upon by Gianni Marchesi and Nicolò Marchetti, who similarly concluded Bassurat is the more likely reading, and etymologized her name as a derivative of the root bsr, “to announce (good news)”. This would mean it can be translated as something along the lines of “annunciation”, a fairly believable theonym (Royal Statuary of Early Dynastic Mesopotamia, p. 228). Dominique Charpin in a review of their work concluded that Krebernik’s reading can now safely be assumed to be correct. In other words, the career of Ishtarat is over.

In theory, this section of the article could end here - there’s no Ashtart in the inscription.

Sadly, it’s not quite as simple. Some time before Krebernik’s paper, Wilfred G. Lambert offered his own treatment of “Ishtarat”. He concluded that the name cannot be a simple variant of Ishtar, and tentatively proposed identification with “Ashtart of Mari”, though not without reservations (The Pantheon of Mari, p. 76; page numbers follow the reprint from Ancient Mesopotamian Religion and Mythology. Selected Essays).

A fresco from Mari showing Ishtar (right) with king Zimri-Lim and an intercessory minor deity (wikimedia commons).

It should be noted that while an “Ashtart of Mari” is indeed attested in Ugarit - she already came up in this article - Wilson-Wright argues that it’s possible that she was actually a goddess who arose in this city, not an import from Mari. In the Old Babylonian period, king Zimri-Lim of Mari visited Ugarit. Wilson-Wright speculates that he and his entourage might’ve compared Ishtar - who is well attested in Mari - with the goddess they encountered in Ugarit, leading the locals to create an “Ashtart of Mari” entirely based on their idea of Mariote culture. Of course, this is all speculation (Athtart…, p. 140). I personally find it quite convincing, though - gods reflecting a culture’s idea about how the deity of another culture would be like, such as Amurru, were fairly common in the “cuneiform world”.

Putting that aside, Lambert assumed that “Ishtarat” and the river god were a couple, though the only evidence he provided is that one is feminine and the other masculine, and that they occur next to each other (The Pantheon…, p. 75). This supposed spousal connection, as he argued, can be extended into a new way to interpret the plot of an Egyptian composition conventionally referred to as the Astarte Papyrus (more on it later), and most importantly to the Baal Cycle (ibidem, p. 76-77). Neither of those compositions feature a deified river; however, Lambert argued that the sea god Yam played a similar role due to his recurring Ugaritic title “judge Nahar”, ie. “judge River”, which he took for an allusion to river ordeal (ibidem, p. 77). However, river ordeal is not attested in Ugarit. It’s therefore quite unlikely that this title was anything but a way to highlight Yam’s mastery over water (Herbert Niehr, Yammu in RlA vol. 15, p. 143).

As far as I can tell, the reception of Lambert’s interpretation has been mixed at best. For instance, Mark S. Smith in the 1990s described the evidence mustered as “minimal” (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 24). Despite that, Noga Ayali-Darshan attempted to not just confirm it, but even expand its scope, in 2010 (‘The Bride of the Sea’: The Traditions about Astarte and Yamm in the Ancient Near East, p. 19). In addition to accepting the premise of Lambert’s article uncritically, she argues that Ashtart is an “erotic” goddess (sic) and therefore it only makes sense to associate her with Yam and to presume a lost scene in the Baal Cycle dealt with his seduction by her since “sea dwelling creatures (...) are associated with lust and sexuality” (ibidem, p. 23; no specific source is provided for this assertion). In addition to relying on an interpretation of Ashtart’s character which, to put it lightly, has little to do with the primary sources (Mistress of…, p. 214), Ayali-Darshan’s article is riddled with other factual errors. For instance, she incorrectly states that the masculine gender of the river deity is something unique to Mari and distinct from (lower) Mesopotamian tradition in order to make the dubious identification with Yam more plausible (Bride of…, p. 26). However, as argued by Lambert (The Pantheon…, p. 75) and more recently by Marchesi and Marchetti, most likely the dedication invokes the consistently masculine divine representation of river ordeal, well attested across Mesopotamia, not just in Mari (Royal Statuary…, p. 228). The treatment of supplementary material from other text corpora poses other similar problems, as will be demonstrated later.

While ultimately the fact neither Ashtart nor Yam appear in the dedication should be enough to abandon the quest for a love story starring them, it also has to be stressed that a single dedication which doesn’t specify the relationship between invoked deities should never be used as the sole evidence for an alleged relationship in the first place. Yam receives offerings with Baal in one of the Ugaritic ritual texts (Dennis Pardee, Ritual and Cult at Ugarit, p. 20-21) - should we assume they too were a couple?

Jokes aside, Steve A. Wiggins’ warning remains timeless: one should be cautious about taking rudimentary associations like that, lest they are ready to make similarly bold claims about the reasons behind dedicating contemporary churches to two saints at once (A Reassessment…, p. 101). 

Last but not least, note that there’s a distinct possibility that lacking a partner was actually seen as Yam’s distinctive characteristic in Ugarit. In the Baal Cycle, after Shapash announces his elevation to kingship, someone complains that a god who lacks a wife is unfit to rule. Depending on restoration, this might be Shapash rebuking Attar, who would like to become king in Yam’s place - but it might also be Attar grumbling that Yam is unfit because he’s single. The passage is too damaged to determine which of these two is the speaker, sadly, but neither option can be easily ruled out (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 258).

“Ashtart of battle”: ritual texts from Emar

Tell Meskene in 1998 (wikimedia commons).

The city of Emar (Tell Meskene), located near Aleppo, is already attested in sources from Ebla, around 2400 BCE, and later on in the Old Babylonian Mari corpus. However, most of the texts discovered during excavations are considerably later. They have been written mostly between 1310 and 1187 BCE. It seems that for most of its history Emar was part trading emporium, part agricultural village, with a city council of sorts rather than a hereditary king in charge. A local dynasty of rulers only arose around 1400 BCE. Less than a century later the Hittite Empire under Muršili II conquered Emar and turned it into a frontier military outpost. The local dynasty was deposed, and a new one subordinate to the Hittite viceroy residing in Carchemish was installed. However, the Hittite administration seemingly didn’t replace local religious officials, with the “diviner of the gods of Emar” enjoying particular prestige and autonomy (Athtart…, p. 73-75).

What’s most important for Ashtart is that it has been argued that the evidence pertaining to her found in Emar is complementary with the Ugaritic texts. While Ugarit provided more literary texts, Emariote finds are almost entirely ritual in character (‛Athtart…, p. 34).

It’s indisputable that Ashtart was a prominent goddess in Emar (‛Athtart…, p. 44). No less than 17 hypostases of her are attested (Athtart…, p. 72). Rather surprisingly, no study of Ashtart before the 2010s took the material from this city into account, though (‛Athtart…, p. 33).

Very few sources from Emar refer to Ashtart using phonetic spellings of her name. Most of the time, she is represented by a logogram - either the “Akkadogram” Ishtar or “Sumerogram” Inanna. That in at least in some cases Ashtart is meant is confirmed by sporadic use of phonetic aš-tar-ti which alternates with both logograms. The phonetic spelling is also common in theophoric names. However, in some cases a different goddess (or multiple goddesses) might be hiding behind the logograms; a degree of caution is necessary (Athtart…, p. 77-78). One exception might be the goddess Aštar-ṣarba, “poplar Ashtar”, who was seemingly a relic going all the way back to the times of Ebla. Her name contains an archaic Akkadian cognate of Ashtart’s (ibidem, p. 84-85). Ashtart’s role as a divine huntress was well known in Emar, as evidenced by references to the “hunt of Ashtart” (ṣadu ša Aštart). It has to be pointed out hunting was not necessary for subsistence in Emar in the late second millennium BCE. However, the hunt of Ashtart could be a ritualized echo of her original role in a less urbanized environment (ibidem, p. 87). It’s not clear what the hunt entailed, though. It might’ve simply been an actual hunt meant to honor a goddess fond of such endeavors. A more speculative interpretation also exists: the “hunt” is metaphorical, and might reflect a hitherto unknown myth in which Ashtart ends up lost in some way or another, and has to be recovered, similarly to Ugaritic Baal in the Baal Cycle (Athtart…, p. 83). The latter option is less likely in the light of the portrayal of Ashtart as a huntress in other text corpora, though (ibidem, p. 87).

The warlike role is well documented, too. As a matter of fact, the single best attested form of Ashtart in Emar is “Ashtart of battle” (Aštart ša tāḫāzi). She occurs under this title in numerous ritual texts. She also had her own cultic personnel, including a high-ranking priestess, the maš’artu. This position was held for life, with a new priestess only appointed if the previous one died or was too sick to continue upholding her religious duties (ibidem, p. 89). While there’s no consensus about the origins of the term maš’artu, it might be a cognate of Akkadian ša’āru, “to conquer” or “to be victorious”. If so, we might be dealing with a title along the lines of “priestess of military success”. It’s worth noting it’s possible that the maš’artu took part in military campaigns herself, likely to guarantee Ashtart’s support for Emariote troops, which lends further support to this interpretation (ibidem, p. 91-93). Among her duties was bathing the statue of Ashtart - possibly to symbolically purify the goddess after she took part in warfare. Comparisons with Anat bathing herself after slaughtering enemies in the Baal Cycle have been made (ibidem, p. 90). A further hypostasis which warrants some discussion is Ashtart ša abi. This byname sparked a number of interpretations (ibidem, p. 100-101). She most notably appears in a list of offerings for a festival known as zukru. She’s paired with a god whose name is suspiciously similar to Yam’s in it (Daniel E. Fleming, The Installation of Baal’s High Priestess At Emar: A Window on Ancient Syrian Religion, p. 300). The presence of Yam next to this specific form of Ashtart led to the rise of a proposal ša abi was a marine epithet related to the sumerogram A.AB.BA, “sea”, though this is far from being the consensus position today. As far as I can tell, this has been first questioned by Daniel E. Fleming in 1992. He suggested that it might instead be a reference to either the abi - a type of offering pit which originated in Hurrian tradition - or to the word ab(u), “father”, metaphorically used to refer to ancestors. Either option could reflect an association with ancestor worship - possibly something alongside the Ugaritic concept of ilib, divine ancestors. Quite importantly, the rites dedicated to Ashtart ša abi took place in the month Abû, which was seemingly a time of funerary rites (ibidem, p. 300-301). Fleming later pointed out that while the discussed epithet occurs at Emar multiple times, Yam is absent from all the other texts it is attested in (Time at Emar: The Cultic Calendar and the Rituals from the Diviner’s Archive, p. 187).

For what it’s worth, in the most recent treatment of the zukru I’m aware of, John T. Thames translates the discussed title as “of the abi” (The Politics of Ritual Change. The zukru Festival in the Political History of Late Bronze Age Emar, p. 100). He doesn’t discuss it further, but it’s pretty clear he likewise doesn’t see it as a reference to any bodies of water. 

While other authors generally depend on evidence from Emar itself to evaluate the epithet, Ayali-Darshan - who sees it as supporting evidence for Ashtart and Yam being regarded as a couple - asserts that it is actually to be found in lower Mesopotamia too. She states that her “Astarte of the sea” hides behind epithets of Mesopotamian Ishtar containing terms referring to the sea (The Bride…, p. 25).

However, these are actually completely irrelevant to her argument. All of them are designations of a hypostasis of Ishtar associated with the Sealand - the southernmost section of the Euphrates and the coast of the Persian Gulf. This region was called (māt) tâmti in Akkadian and (KUR) A.AB.BA in Sumerian. The English translation “Sealand” is literal (Odette Boivin, The First Dynasty of the Sealand in Mesopotamia, p. 22-23). The existence of an “Ishtar of the Sealand” is hardly surprising considering she was an important goddess for the rulers of this area. This is well demonstrated by her appearance in the royal epic of Gulkishar (ibidem, p. 30). This is sadly not the time or place for dissecting Gulkishar’s career and the accuracy of the epic starring him in detail; I feel obliged to let you know that his regnal name means “raider of the totality” (ibidem, p. 39). In other words, it’s a moderately successful attempt at coining a name which would mean, more or less, “conqueror of the world”.

Going back to Emar, it's pretty clear that most authors are fairly sure that there was no marine hypostasis of Ashtart in the local pantheon. Even if the precise meaning of her epithet under discussion is up for debate, it seems likely it had something to do with ancestor worship instead. In any case, any connection with Yam can be safely ruled out.

Ashtart and the weather god of Emar

The better established and less baseless debate about Ashtart’s love life has its Emariote reflection, too. It has been argued that, for instance, the popularity of the theophoric names Zū-Ba’la and Zū-Aštarti coupled with absence of similar names invoking other deities proves the two were viewed as a couple. However, as soberly noted by Wilson-Wright, the names indicate little beyond the two being comparably popular among Emar’s populace. The fact Baal’s lead priestess, the entu, was appointed ceremonially in a similar way to the mašartu also doesn’t say much about Baal and Ashtart themselves (Athtart…, p. 94-95).

While as I said before I think it’s sensible to assume the Ugaritic material reflects some sort of relationship between Baal and Ashtart, it has to be stressed that it cannot be used to prove this was also the case in Emar. The Emariote weather god was a wholly separate entity; he wasn’t even consistently referred to as Baal, most likely. The city was the westernmost limit of the spread of this convention, but in different linguistic contexts the same weather god could be referred to as Teshub or Addu (Adad). Similarly, his relationships with other deities might’ve reflected Mesopotamian and Hurrian tradition more closely (The Storm-Gods…, p. 14). Ultimately the only firm evidence for the existence of some association between Ashtart and the weather god in Emar are the references to “Ashtart of the temple of Baal” (INANNA É IŠKUR-ma). While this clearly implies that a hypostasis of her was worshiped in a temple of Baal or at least was associated with it in some other way, it provides no hints for how the relationship between the two deities was envisioned. Therefore, while it cannot be fully ruled out that they were perceived as a couple, it might also be that they were viewed as siblings or simply as allies (Athtart…, p. 97-98).

Hebat (right) and Teshub on a Hurro-Hittite relief from Yazılıkaya (wikimedia commons). Daniel Schemer points out that a further obstacle for interpreting the weather god and Ashtart as a couple is the presence of Hebat in the local pantheon. He argues that she is more likely to be his spouse, in line with both inland Syrian and Hurrian tradition. He speculates that the relationship between him and Ashtart might have accordingly resembled that between Teshub and Shaushka in Hurrian mythology. An arrangement in which Hebat played the role of an official spouse and Ashtart that of a mistress in theory cannot be excluded - local pantheons with a similar structure are well known from the first millennium BCE - but there’s no actual evidence for such an interpretation from Emar itself (The Storm-Gods…, p. 14).

“Angry and raging goddess”: Egyptian sources

A stela of Ramses II showing him in the company of Ashtart (right), with the Seth animal depicted above them (Louvre).

Ashtart first appears in Egyptian sources in the fifteenth century BCE (the New Kingdom period), with the earliest examples dated to the reign of either Thutmose III or Amenhotep II. That’s actually slightly earlier than the oldest surviving texts mentioning her from either Ugarit or Emar - even though she was not a deity native to Egypt (Athtart…, p. 27). Ashtart’s introduction roughly coincided with the “debuts” of a few other foreign deities in the Egyptian pantheon: Baal, Resheph, Horon and Anat. It has been proposed that they were either transmitted by prisoners of war who brought their deities with them, or through deliberate royal policy of the pharaohs (ibidem, p. 28). It’s quite possible that both theories are correct at once. There probably was no single event resulting in the transmission of Ashtart (or the other deities) to Egypt, but rather multiple separate introductions spread over a period of time (ibidem, p. 31). A common assumption is that one of the main reasons behind the embrace of Ashtart was the lack of a native deity who could be linked with war chariots, or more broadly with the use of horses in warfare (Athtart…, p. 29). The earliest Egyptian references to Ashtart pretty much uniformly associate her with the training of chariot horses for the elite of ancient Egyptian society - an activity in terms of prestige comparable to car racing today (Athtart…, p. 37). It therefore should come as no surprise that even Amenhotep II himself boasted that he got to work in the royal stables as a youth. He supposedly became an extraordinary horse trainer. Such was his skill that, as he claims, Ashtart and Resheph rejoiced when they saw him in action (ibidem, p. 38). 

However, it has to be stressed both horses and chariots were already well known in Egypt by then - the oldest evidence comes from the seventeenth century BCE, and they became a mainstay of Egyptian military after Ahmose I expelled the Hyksos in the sixteenth  (Athtart…, p. 37-38).

Furthermore, as pointed out by Dennis Pardee, the equestrian association is missing from Ugaritic compositions dealing with Ashtart’s belligerent side (Preliminary Presentation…, p. 35). An isolated reference to a “horse of Ashtart” has only been identified in what’s most likely an account of an oracular dream (Mistress of…, p. 216). However, even if it reflects an otherwise unattested equestrian aspect of her character at Ugarit, it’s not clear if it was entirely comparable to her association with horses in Egypt (Athtart…, p. 141).

Ashtart as a horse archer on an Egyptian stela (wikimedia commons). As a reflection of her primary role, Ashtart could be depicted on horseback in Egypt. In most cases there’s no sign of a saddle, with only reins used; the only exceptions presently known are two depictions showing her in a side-saddle (The Many…, p. 77-78). In a few cases she’s riding in a chariot instead (ibidem, p. 40). While textual sources every now and then link Anat with horses and chariots too, so far no certain evidence that this was reflected in iconography is known, making identification of unlabeled examples as Ashtart rather than Anat more sound (ibidem, p. 42). However, caution is necessary - ultimately not every figure on horseback is a deity, let alone specifically Ashtart (ibidem, p. 40). On the other hand, it has to be taken into account that even though consistently referred to as a goddess, she could sometimes appear somewhat androgynous in Egyptian art (Christiane Zivie-Coche, Foreign Deities in Egypt in the UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology, p. 6). It probably comes as no surprise that Ashtart was also typically depicted armed. The weapons are not very consistent, though - axes, maces, spears and shields are all attested in art. She was also uniquely depicted with a bow. Furthemore, in some cases generic typical divine attributes such as the was sceptre or the ankh show up too (The Many…, p. 75-76). While well documented, Ashtart’s belligerence wasn’t her only trait in Egypt. Some of the titles she acquired - like “mistress of all the gods” or “mistress of the two lands” - are feminine forms of titles of major gods such as Amun, or originate in the titulature of Egyptian royalty. Presumably they’re meant to show her close association with royal power. Likewise, this role is probably reflected in Ramses II’s decision to name two of his sons in her honor (Keiko Tazawa, Syro-Palestinian Deities in New Kingdom Egypt, p. 134). #6 bore the name Ashtarthirwonmef, “Ashtart is on his right side”, and #26 - Meryashtart, “beloved of Ashtart” (ibidem, p. 95).

“Hurrian Ashtart” or Shaushka?

The stela of Rom (Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek; reproduced here for educational purposes only, original source is a dead link).

At least one of Ashtart’s epithets used in Egypt - ḫꜢrw - indicates that she was probably introduced from somewhere outside the stretch of Levantine coast under direct Egyptian control, possibly from some more distant locale in inland Syria. It’s even possible that the enigmatic Ashtart ḫurri best known from Ugarit was the deity transferred (Athtart…, p. 66). 

The oldest known reference of Ashtart ḫꜢrw is generally assumed to be the votive stela of a certain Ram, otherwise notable for the unusually realistic portrait of the dedicant. He’s shown with a deformed right leg (possibly a result of undergoing polio), and he’s using a walking stick. In the accompanying inscription in hieratic he asks Ashtart for happiness and “a beautiful burial in the western desert of Memphis” (Athtart…, p. 62-63).

Putting Ram’s personal struggles aside, the byname of Ashtart he included in his dedication is pretty clearly a loanword which goes back to the already mentioned term ḫurri, ie. “Hurrian”. As Hurrian was commonly spoken across Syria in the second half of the second millennium BCE, in Egypt this label came to designate the region as a whole. Therefore, most translators assume from Egyptian perspective Ashtart ḫꜢrw would be “Syrian Ashtart” rather than “Hurrian Ashtart” (ibidem, p. 65). 

Ram and his family were likely foreigners, so for him she could instead be an “Ashtart from back home”, if you will. Not everyone who worshiped her in Egypt was a foreigner, though - another dedication comes from Ptahankh, a priest of Ptah (ibidem, p. 66).

Shaushka (right) with Ninatta and Kulitta on a relief from Yazılıkaya (wikimedia commons). It should be noted that despite the Hurrian-adjacent aspect of Ashtart’s career in Egypt, her Hurrian credentials are sometimes a bit exaggerated in scholarship. To be specific, there’s an erroneous view that her introduction had something to do with a statue sent to Amenhotep III by his father-in-law, king Tushratta of Mittanni, the preeminent Hurrian state. In theory, the accompanying letter - which is written in Akkadian (the language of international diplomacy at the time) - does use a logogram which could stand for Ashtart, namely INANNA. However, Tushratta specifies that the deity the statue represents comes from Nineveh. Therefore, it’s pretty clear that Shaushka - the tutelary deity of this city at the time - is meant. And on top of that, multiple Egyptian attestations of Ashtart predate Amenhotep III’s reign. Part of the confusion stems from inconsistent rendering of the logogram in translations, resulting in  “Ishtar of Nineveh” instead of “Shaushka of Nineveh”; neither is incorrect, but elsewhere Tushratta spelled Shaushka’s name phonetically. However, even that doesn’t justify the jump from Ishtar to Ashtart. Especially since Egyptian transcriptions of Akkadian theophoric names invoking Ishtar imply she was not seen as identical with Ashtart (Athtart…, p. 29-30).

Two dads and old friends: Ashtart and other deities

A late statue of Ptah (wikimedia commons). After her introduction to Egypt, possibly as early as during the reign of Amenhotep II, Ashtart came to be regarded as a daughter of Ptah (Athtart…, p. 66). On a stela from Memphis, they are even depicted together (The Many…, p. 26). It’s possible that at least in Memphis Ashtart was believed to intercede with her father on behalf of petitioners (Athtart…, p. 65).

Mark S. Smith proposes that the Egyptian tradition about Ashtart’s parentage might’ve been an adaptation of a tradition portraying her as a daughter of El (‛Athtart…, p. 66). For what it’s worth, it has been suggested that an association between El and Ptah is implied in an inscription from Serabit el-Khadim, though the former is not directly mentioned (Mark S. Smith, Wayne T. Pitard, The Ugaritic Baal cycle. Volume II. Introduction with Text, Translations and Commentary of KTU 1.3-1.4., p. 555). I think caution is required, though. Ultimately providing Ashtart with an Egyptian parent might’ve simply been a way to integrate her better into the pantheon, with no direct predecessor tradition from elsewhere (Athtart…, p. 97).

A different Egyptian genealogy of Ashtart is known from the Contendings of Horus and Seth, where both Ashtart and Anat are daughters of Ra (The Many…, p. 85-86). This might be a local tradition from Thebes, since a colophon indicates this famous composition originates there (Athtart…, p. 57-58). Ashtart and Anat play no major role in it, though - they’re merely mentioned in passing by Neith, who is one of the judges in the eponymous contendings. She rules in favor of Horus, but instructs Ennead to give Seth a compensation prize, including Re’s daughters Anat and Ashtart (William Kelly Simpson et al., The Literature of Ancient Egypt, p. 93-94; all page numbers follow the 3rd edition).

As you can probably tell, the passage above indicates the pairing with Anat wasn’t limited to Ugarit. It’s curiously actually more common in Egyptian sources, if anything. It occurs particularly often in incantations against snakebite and crocodiles. It’s clear that they represent the same tradition as the already discussed Ugaritic incantation against snakebite, but the direction of the transfer is unclear - it might be that Egyptians received Ashtart and her bff prepackaged with information about this area of expertise and sample incantations, but it actually cannot be ruled out the pairing of the two in this role was an Egyptian invention then imported to Ugarit, either (Athtart…, p. 68). It should be noted that in contrast with the passage from the Contendings of Horus and Seth, in most cases the two aren’t explicitly identified as sisters (Foreign Deities…, p. 6).

Baal-like Seth or Seth-like Baal (left) receiving offerings on a stela of Ramses II (wikimedia commons).

The association with Seth is a more complex issue. The passage from the Contendings of Horus and Seth appears to portray both Ashtart and Anat as his prospective brides, though this view is not universally accepted. The interpretation ultimately depends on the evaluation of the nature of the connection between Ashtart and Baal in other text corpora (‛Athtart…, p. 60). This might sound bizarre at first glance, but bear in mind that in the New Kingdom period, Seth was partially amalgamated with Baal (or vice versa). There are cases where Baal’s name was written with the Seth animal sign as a determinative of sorts, but also depictions of Seth as a Baal-like “foreign” god, with a normal human face. There seemingly were two different phenomena at play - Seth acquiring traits of Baal to better represent his control over foreign lands, and Baal acquiring some traits of Seth to better integrate him into the Egyptian pantheon. The latter is particularly well documented in Memphis (Foreign Deities…, p. 5). Coincidentally so is the recognition of some sort of connection between him and Ashtart (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 279).

Fighting the sea (again)

The surviving fragments of the Astarte Papyrus (wikimedia commons). A further major source presumably reflecting the perception of the relationship between Ashtart and Baal and/or Seth in Egypt is a composition usually referred to as the Astarte Papyrus or Astarte and the Sea. The title is somewhat of a misnomer, though - Ashtart doesn’t exactly take the center stage (Athtart…, p. 55).

The sole fragmentary copy dates to either the eighteenth or nineteenth dynasty (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 34). A composition date during the reign of Amenhotep II has been proposed, but isn’t universally accepted (Athtart…, p. 55). It’s pretty clear that the Astarte Papyrus shares a number of similarities with the Yam section of the Baal Cycle - most notably a conflict which involves Yam demanding tribute from other gods, and the involvement of Ashtart (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 23). It’s sometimes argued that it was directly derived from the Baal Cycle itself, though influences from other works have been proposed as well (The Literature…, p. 108). Possibly the large community of foreigners living in Memphis had a role in its transmission, though it remains unclear just how much constitutes an Egyptian innovation. One major difference is that Ashtart actually plays a somewhat different role than in Ugarit (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 25).

A figure of Renenutet from the first millennium BCE (wikimedia commons). While due to fragmentary preservation full plot cannot be restored, parts of it can be reconstructed with reasonable certainty. The gods - specifically the Ennead - are seemingly threatened by Yam, and decide to deliver tribute to him. Initially Renenutet is selected, and brings Yam a selection of precious stones. Something’s evidently not working as intended, though, since after a lacuna she suggests tasking Ashtart - addressed as daughter of Ptah - with it next. She is less than thrilled - she actually breaks down in tears upon hearing the request. However, she does as instructed… just to hear even more demands. Yam demands increasingly precious objects, including a necklace belonging to Nut and Geb’s signet ring. It’s revealed that if Yam’s request is not fulfilled, he’ll cover the world with his waters. At this point Seth enters the scene, but the rest of the composition is lost (The Literature…, p. 109-111). Presumably the now lost ending was centered on Yam’s defeat at the hands of Seth. This is confirmed by a number of medical incantations, which allude to Seth and/or Baal vanquishing him (The Bride…, p. 20). It seems no further interactions between Yam and Ashtart occur, though (‛Athtart…, p. 67). If this assumption is correct, the Egyptian version doesn’t offer a parallel to her involvement in the battle itself.

As in the case of the Baal Cycle and the material from Emar, Ayali-Darshan likewise attempted to prove that the narrative has romantic undertones. She argues that Yam desires Ashtart by the time the meeting between them ends (The Bride…, p. 20). However, Smith points out the fact that Yam  seemingly refers to Ashtart as “angry and raging goddess” doesn’t exactly imply any deeper connection between the two. The lists of Yam’s demands may or may not include someone’s daughter, but that’s far from clear (‛Athtart…, p. 67). Ayali-Darshan supplements the Astarte Papyrus with a second composition, the Tale of the Two Brothers (aka Papyrus d’Orbiney). She argues that the fact Yam appears to desire the wife of the main character, Bata, can be considered further evidence (The Bride…, p. 21). Note that Bata’s wife is not Ashtart, nor even a goddess, but rather a nameless woman created as a companion for him by Khnum at Ra’s request (The Literature…, p. 85-86). As soberly noted by both Smith (‛Athtart…, p. 67) and Wilson-Wright, this is quite a perplexing attempt - once again, the Tale of the Two Brothers at no point mentions Ashtart (Athtart…, p. 101 fn. 139). At most you could perhaps use it to argue that, at least in Egyptian literature, Yam was more or less consistently portrayed as lecherous, I suppose. 

From Ashtart to Astarte?

While Ugarit and Emar both ceased to be after the bronze age collapse, in Egypt Ashtart lingered on well into the Roman period (Mistress of…, p. 223). A text from the Ptolemaic period confirms she retained her old responsibilities - she is still the “mistress of horses, lady of the chariot” in it (ibidem, p. 222).

For completeness’ sake it’s also worth noting Ashtart appears in a theophoric name from Alalakh roughly contemporary with the Ugaritic material (‛Athtart…, p. 34). This is quite notable since this city shows multiple similarities with Ugarit, including in the religious sphere (Mary E. Buck, The Amorite Dynasty of Ugarit: Historical Implications of Linguistic and Archaeological Parallels, p. 261). For instance, it’s the only known location outside Ugarit where Shapash was definitely known (ibidem, p. 263-264). It’s also the single site most similar to Ugarit as far as the archaeological data goes (ibidem, p. 259). However, as far as I’m aware no notable references to Ashtart have emerged from it so far.

There’s some evidence that in some cases Egyptian Ashtart was imported to levantine sites (Athtart…, p. 68-69). However, overall comparatively little is known about the pantheon(s) of coastal areas further south than Ugarit (like the kingdom of Amurru) and it cannot be automatically assumed that the area was culturally homogeneous, or similar to Ugarit (The Many…, p. 18).

A possile Phoenician depiction of enthroned Astarte from Cyprus (wikimedia commons). It’s sometimes argued that the Phoenician goddess known to Greeks as Astarte, worshiped in cities like Sidon or Tyre in the first millennium BCE,  evolved from the one known from bronze age sources discussed in this article and they are to be considered one and the same (ex. Mistress of…, p. 224), I personally lean towards the view that we should be speaking of multiple goddesses whose names happen to go back to the same root, though (Athtart…, p. 146). Even similarly named goddesses, at the end of the day, are not necessarily identical, though. The burden of proof should be on those who seek to prove that every single similarly named deity is part of a greater whole - though sadly that is still far from being the standard (ibidem, p. 9). Few things demonstrate the need for caution better than the fact a cognate of Ashtart’s name, as already discussed earlier, is attested as the name of an ostensibly male deity in Sabaic - a language spoken historically in the south of the Arabian peninsula; very obviously this god had little to do with her (ibidem, p. 13). In the case of Phoenician Astarte, the most important factor for making a distinction is her character, in my opinion. She was never depicted as armed, though, and only appears in association with warfare in a treaty between king Baal of Tyre and Esarhaddon of the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Most likely she was primarily regarded as a generally benevolent figure, closely tied to royalty (Mistress of…, p. 217-218). A number of attested cases of interpretatio graeca and romana also speak against any more significant martial role - Astarte is identified with Aphrodite, Hera and a number of other goddesses depending on location, but never with Athena or any other warlike deity (ibidem, p. 219). On the other hand, she was clearly associated with seafaring (Athtart…, p. 149). Hopefully future studies, instead of necessarily assuming deities with cognate names were identical, will attempt to untangle the history of Phoenician Astarte. The textual record from her major cult centers is at best imperfect, but surely Wilson-Wright is right that it’s ripe for similar approaches as those currently applied to bronze age sources from Ugarit or Emar (ibidem, p. 146).

Conclusions

As this article has hopefully demonstrated, the sources from Ugarit, Emar and Egypt paint a fairly coherent image of Ashtart, contrary to some opinions in older (and sometimes current) scholarship -  Theodore J. Lewis notes that in less than rigorous publications she “has either been minimized to the point of boredom or eroticized to the point of orgy” (Athtartu’s Incantations…, p. 225). Sometimes both approaches coexist - in at least one case I’m aware of, claims that her character is poorly defined are made specifically to defend her mischaracterization as an erotic or “fertile” goddess (Neal H. Walls, The Goddess Anat in Ugaritic Myth, p. 110-113). However, it’s pretty clear that Ashtart’s character was fairly well defined, and had little to do with sexuality (let alone some more abstract “fertility”). Despite the distance between the discussed areas, the same elements recur - she was associated with warfare, hunting and certain types of incantations, especially against snakebite; she is an ally or otherwise an associate of Baal (or at another similar god); with the exception of Emar, the evidence for her association with Anat is consistent too. The same goes for her hostility towards Yam. The periodically reemerging claims that their relationship was romantic instead ultimately rest on shaky foundations and abandoned readings. I don’t want to be rude, but the entire attempt at resurrecting this proposal seems to resemble a certain genre of contemporary romance fiction. Of course, the fact that it can be soundly rejected that there was anything but hostility going on between Ashtart and Yam doesn’t automatically answer the question of either deity’s relationship status - it ought to remain open. Perhaps Yam did have a spouse in Emar, for all we know. Hopefully the future will bring more in depth studies of Ashtart which don’t treat her simply as an extension of another deity; I believe the material is both abundant enough and thrilling enough to warrant much more than was already written about her. I personally think inquiries into Ashtart’s association with primarily masculine spheres of activity could be particularly interesting - similar studies of Anat and Mesopotamian Ishtar already exist, surely it would make sense for her to be next.

[yamayuandadu]

I didn't really anticipate Morohoshi drawing the Hi Izuru Tokoro no Tenshi version of prince Shotoku for a Yamgishi tribute volume

Funnily enough it's not even the first time

[blackcatbone]

i'm always saying this

[yamayuandadu]

Schedule for the foreseeable future (next 3 months or so): -Cats, chariots and cracking skulls: an Ashtart primer (title subject to change) -Head choppers, sackers of cities and manly kings, or "Why is Anat a warrior and hunter" indeed - a supplement for the article above and my earlier slightly megaten-flavored Anat article from last year -From Ebla, with love: the real history of the most fake-sounding Mesopotamian goddess (title subject to change) -Biblically inaccurate angels: the early history of divine messengers (Michaelmas release, for thematic reasons) -there is other stuff in the pipeline, some of which has been previewed before

[yamayuandadu]

I saw your post on susanoo and how he isnt a storm god, what would you say he is a 'god of' specifically? at least before all the conflations like that with mara and such.

I’m personally leaning towards the stance that “god of x” monikers might be too reductive in most cases, and that seeking some primal “original” version of a deity is innately less interesting than viewing them in more tangible context in a specific period or location. The “original” character of Susanoo has been a subject of scholarly inquiries since at least the early nineteenth century. As remarked by Jonathan Stockdale, it almost feels like in scholarship his defining feature is his malleability to reinterpretation (Origin Myths: Susano-o, Orikuchi Shinobu, And The Imagination Of Exile In Early Japan, p. 237). Personally I lean towards Bernard Faure’s view that the most prominent feature of Susanoo in the early sources - not just Kojiki and Shoki - is his association with transgressions and the resulting ambivalence of his portrayals. For instance, in the Kogo Shūi (古語拾遺) by Inbe no Ironari (斎部広成), completed in 807, his actions from classical mythology are cast as an archetypal example of transgressions which require the performance of purification rituals (Rage and Ravage, p. 153). He is, at the core, the quintessential araburugami - a raging, unruly god acting out of hubris more so than malice; even when he takes the role of a hero or a divine ruler of Izumo, he’s still potentially prone excesses (ibidem, p. 156). The numerous medieval roles, both positive and negative, and the extensive network of other figures he came to be associated with, are all downstream from that.

[yamayuandadu]

Mind if i ask a general japanese mythology question?. I've noticed Outside of izanami and izanagi. I've noticed there is very little content about Yomi itself, not really much describing what it is, the inhabitants and such. Is there any more content relating to yomi in japanese? Most of the content that talks about any 'afterlife' don't seem to relate to Yomi at all, closer to general buddhist conceptions. Nor is there any real attempt to conflate buddhist concepts with yomi as far as i can see

Yomi, whether under its basic name or as Ne no Kuni, hardly appears outside the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki narratives people generally know this term from, that’s true. It’s assumed that it formed a part of a vertically arranged vision of the universe, with Takamagahara on top, Japan in the middle, and Yomi/Ne no Kuni on the very bottom. This coexisted in a different cosmology, one arranged horizontally, with Japan separated by the sea from Kara (ie. the Asian continent) and Tokoyo, the “eternal land” (Fabio Rambelli, The Sea in the History of Japanese Religions, p. XVI). It has been argued that the latter might be slightly more recent and a result of Daoist influence (Saitō Hideki, Orikuchi Shinobu and the Sea as Religious Topos: Marebito and Musubi no Kami, p. 169). On the other hand, it’s also possible that it’s the underground Yomi that’s a product of Chinese influence, with the land of the dead originally believed to be located in the mountains, as hinted at in some poems from the Man’yōshū (David Weiss, The God Susanoo and Korea in Japan’s Cultural Memory. Ancient Myths and Modern Empire, p. 98). There are also some disagreements if Yomi and Ne no Kuni are the same place (as generally accepted), or if it the latter was a distinct otherworldly area (ibidem, p. 193). A number of toponyms presumably hinting at beliefs pertaining to location of Yomi can be found in the Izumo no Kuni Fudoki (出雲国風土記), including Yomi no Shima (夜見嶋; “island of Yomi”), Yomi no Saka (黄泉之坂; “slope of Yomi”), and Yomi no Ana (黄泉之穴; “Cavern of Yomi”). That’s broadly speaking in line with the location of the place where Izanagi escaped from Yomi in the Kojiki, directly identified as “Iuyazaka (伊賦夜坂) in Izumo”. It might be that this was an idea which developed in the imperial court and was later accepted in Izumo, though, rather than a local belief from this area (ibidem, p. 100-101). This being said, it’s generally accepted that the Chinese-style vision of Buddhist hell first entered Japan in the sixth century through Korea, with preexisting beliefs - including Yomi - being gradually folded into it. By the ninth century, the Buddhist afterlife was well established (Caroline Hirasawa, The Inflatable, Collapsible Kingdom of Retribution. A Primer on Japanese Hell Imagery and Imagination, p. 5). In other words, this is a process which started before the earliest relevant sources were compiled. While as far as I can tell it’s rare, Yomi does appear occasionally in a Buddhist context.

The explicitly Buddhist Scripture on Jizō and the Ten Kings (地蔵十王経, Jizō Jūō Kyō), composed at some point between 1000 and 1300 or so and based on the earlier Chinese Scripture on the Ten Kings (十王經, Shiwang Jing), refers to the city in which Yama (Enma) renders his judgments as Yomi (Stephen F. Teiser, The Scripture on the Ten Kings and the Making of Purgatory in Medieval Chinese Buddhism, p. 60-61).

The fifteenth century author Ichijō Kaneyoshi (一条兼良) covers Yomi and its most famous inhabitants briefly in his a commentary on the Nihon Shoki, the Nihon Shoki Sanso (日本書紀纂疏). The passage is an attempt at explaining different elements of the Nihon Shoki mythological narrative as representations of Buddhist realms of rebirth: the plain of high heaven represents… well, heaven, the conflict between Amaterasu and Susanoo the Asura, the dragon palace under the sea the animal realm, the yomotsu-shikome are hungry ghosts (preta/gaki), and ne no kuni (ie. Yomi, as established above) is hell (Matthieu A. J. Felt, Rewriting the Past: Reception and Commentary of Nihon Shoki, Japan’s First Official History, p. 150-151). One of the otogizōshi versions of a legend about the Kamakura warrior Asaina Saburō Yoshihide (朝比奈三郎義秀) finding himself in hell uses the compound meido yomi (冥途黄泉) to refer to its location, in place of jigoku or “six paths to rebirth” (六道の辻) found in other variants (Sugiyama Kazuya, Asaina’s “Wrecking of Hell”: Exploring the Formation of a Literary Character, p. 691). Additionally, it has been argued an allusion to Yomi might be present in the Honchō Shinsen-den (本朝神仙伝; "Accounts of Japanese Immortals"), compiled by Ōe no Masafusa at some point before 1109. One of the collected tales relays that the early tenth century monk Nichizō (日蔵) was meant to go to the “land of yellow springs” (a Chinese term for the land of the dead; the signs used to write it were borrowed for the conventional writing of Yomi) after death, but attained immortality and disappeared instead (Christoph Kleine, Livia Kohn, Daoist Immortality and Buddhist Holiness: a Study and Translation of the Honchō shinsen-den, p. 182; in a footnote the authors argue Yomi might be the intended Japanese reading for 黃泉 here, as in other sources). Most of the leading figures of kokugaku weighed on Yomi as well, but that was largely a new tradition meant to counter both Buddhist and neo-confucian visions of life after death or lack thereof. Yomi was not really expanded upon significantly by any of them; Motoori Norinaga simply argued it was a place where all of the dead went, and that it was full of impurity (Satō Hiroo, The Emergence of Shinkoku (Land of the Gods) Ideology in Japan, p. 43-44). He considered it the domain of a kami he referred to as Magatsuhi (禍津日), who he considered the source of all impurity. His contemporary Ban Nobutomo (伴信友) developed those ideas further, and argued that impurity leaves Yomi through a sea vortex; like a number of other similar thinkers, he located it in the depths (Fabio Rambelli, Sea Theologies: Elements for a Conceptualization of Maritime Religiosity in Japan, p. 185). Another big shot of the kokugaku movement, Hirata Atsutane, wasn’t all that concerned with Yomi because he instead developed the idea that the dead remain in Japan under the auspices of Okuninushi (John Breen, Mark Teeuwen, A New History of Shinto, p. 63; for a more detailed overview see Brene’s Shinto in History, p. 304-316). He only saw it as a destination for impurity, not souls of the dead, and placed it on the moon (Kanazawa Hideyuki, The Topology of Boundaries, p. 11). A further new take on Yomi can be found in the nationalist (even more so than kokugaku) writings of a certain Abe Tatsunosuke (阿部辰之助; active in the 1920s), who claimed Yomi is Korea; this was one example a broader pattern of portraying it as a backwards, unnerving place which could only benefit from being conquered by Japan. The particularly extreme portrayal of Korea as a “dead” country can also be found in the writings of Nitobe Inazō (新渡戸稲造; 1862-1933), complete with similar comparisons to locations from Kojiki (The God…, p. 166-168).

[yamayuandadu]

What was Gilgamesh relationship with the Mesopotamia Gods like? Did he receive he any blessings from them? Are there any stories of him working with them or fighting along side them? Which Gods were most favored to him and which of them did he value the most?

Overall for a supposed Early Dynastic king Gilgamesh is portrayed as surprisingly distant from gods and the religious scene at large. In particular, despite being the king of Uruk, he’s never shown partaking in any way in the cult of Inanna, in contrast with both historical rulers of this city and its fellow mythical king Enmerkar. He comes across as almost secular in his concerns. He’s usually not even hailed as a temple builder, as kings generally were (Piotr Steinkeller, The Reluctant En of Inana - or the Persona of Gilgameš in the Perspective of Babylonian Political Philosophy, p. 153-154).

This being said, the Old Babylonian version of the Epic of Gilgamesh establishes Shamash and Lugalbanda as his personal tutelary gods, and Gilgamesh is portrayed making a libation for them on the way to the cedar forest (Andrew R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts, p. 94). In the standard epic, he has the horns of the slain bull of heaven made into rhyta meant for Lugalbanda (ibidem, p. 476-477). Lugalbanda appears elsewhere as his father (or at least stepfather) instead, due to his status as Ninsun’s husband; this is most explicit in Gilgamesh and Humbaba and in Death of Gilgamesh. It’s really Ninsun herself who is more often mentioned in association with Gilgamesh, though (ibidem, p. 106-107). In the standard epic Ninsun most notably interprets his dreams foretelling the coming of Enkidu (ibidem, p. 452). The association between Gilgamesh and Shamash is further developed, too. An early example is already present in Gilgamesh and Humbaba (version A), where Enkidu tells him to seek Utu’s help before they embark on the journey (ibidem, p. 9). This plot element recurs in the Old Babylonian epic; in the standard version it’s Ninsun who asks Shamash to bless and protect Gilgamesh during his expedition, though, in recognition of his status as his divine protector. Interestingly, she also suggests Shamash inspired Gilgamesh’s thirst for adventures in far off lands (ibidem, p. 459-460). Shamash obliges, and during the battle with Humbaba sends 13 winds which blind him and hold him in place, which helps Gilgamesh (ibidem, p. 468). I think that’s the closest to a story where a god directly fights alongside Gilgamesh. While this seems to be overlooked in many publications aimed at general audiences, Siduri (the alewife) is actually a goddess, so I suppose you can argue the advice she gives Gilgamesh counts as a blessing (ibidem, p. 148-149). In the Death of Gilgamesh, Enlil appears to elderly Gilgamesh to reassure him that even though he’ll die like a normal mortal, a favorable fate awaits him in the underworld. This passage is perhaps most famous for being the oldest possible evidence for the perception of Gilgamesh and Enkidu as lovers, and the latter is listed among people Enlil says are waiting for him in the land of the dead (ibidem, p. 141-142). Of course, the relationship between Gilgamesh and Enlil is very different in Gilgamesh and Humbaba (version A), where Enlil is furious at Gilgamesh for killing the guardian of the cedar forest (ibidem, p. 10). The latter tradition is preserved in the standard epic too - to placate Enlil, Gilgamesh and Enkidu have a door for his temple fashioned from the cedars. However, he’s not impressed and alongside Anu and Ea decides to punish Gilgamesh and Enkidu, while Shamash tries to unsuccesfully intervene on their behind (ibidem, p. 478). A number of texts provide vague information about connections between Gilgamesh and various underworld deities, though none are really elaborated upon. The Song of the Hoe/Poem of the Mattock calls him “Nergal’s little brother”, presumably as a metaphorical nod to his own role in the underworld (ibidem, p. 107-108). In Death of Gilgamesh and in a number of laments and miscellaneous ritual texts he seemingly has some special connection to Dumuzi and Ningishzida when it comes to the underworld, and the three function as a group in this context, but the precise importance of this phenomenon is unclear (ibidem, p. 128). His association with Shamash also occurs in this context, with an exorcistic prayer preserving a tradition he was delegated to his post in the underworld by the sun god (ibidem, p. 134-135).

The Hittite adaptation of the epic gives Gilgamesh a new backstory, and portrays him as a creation of Ea, the Anatolian Sun God of Heaven and the (main) Hittite storm god (Gary Beckman, The Hittite Gilgamesh, p. 5). As far as I know he doesn’t interact with them or invoke them in any meaningful capacity, though. Curiously, even though one of his creators is the counterpart of Shamash elsewhere, the Hittite version actually doesn’t have him helping Gilgamesh during his confrontation with Humbaba (ibidem, p. 8). While this is beyond the scope of the ask, it’s worth noting the Hittite version also adds a new hostile relationship between Gilgamesh as a god - at one point he encounters the personified sea (presumably Hurrian Kiashe, since his attendant Impaluri is present in a fragment), who after a lacuna curses him (ibidem, p. 9). The Hurrian version is too poorly presented to say much about the relationship between Gilgamesh and any gods in it, though the surviving scraps indicate Shimige replaces Shamash(/Utu) and Shaushka Ishtar(/Inanna). Furthermore, the weather god and head of the Hurrian pantheon, Teshub, is evidently mentioned multiple times, which has no parallel in any Mesopotamian version or in the Hittite scraps (ibidem, p. 23). It’s virtually impossible to speculate about his role, though. To sum up: across all of the available sources, the gods who seem to be the closest to Gilgamesh are probably his parents - Ninsun and Lugalbanda - as well as Shamash.

[yamayuandadu]

A wlw (women-loving wu) in the Han court? Chu Fu and Chen Jiao between fact and fiction

Empress Chen Jiao (wikimedia commons).

As related in chronicles documenting the reign of emperor Wu of Han, empress Chen Jiao employed a female ritual specialist (wu) - a certain Chu Fu - in an attempt to triumph over her rival Wei Zifu. Supposedly in addition to employing her full mastery of the forbidden art of gu, Chu Fu also convinced the empress to treat her as if she were her new spouse. How trustworthy is this account? What, if any, information about the perception of wlw in Han dynasty (or later) China might it convey? Is calling it the oldest reference to a lesbian relationship in Chinese sources warranted? And what’s gu, anyway? Answers to all of those questions - and more - await under the cut.

This article is the second part of my fashionably late pride month special for this year; you can find the first part, From Yu Xuanji to Gyo Genki and back again, here.

Introduction: an empress and her wu

The account of Chen Jiao’s (陳嬌) affair with Chu Fu (楚服) is often described as the oldest reference to a relationship between women in the entire Chinese textual record (Liang Shi, Mirror Rubbing: A Critical Genealogy of Pre-Modern Chinese Female Same-Sex Eroticism, p. 751).

The events supposedly unfolded during the reign of Emperor Wu of Han (武帝; 141-87 BCE). Very early on in his career, a marriage was arranged between him and Chen Jiao. However, the couple failed to produce an heir. The emperor’s elder sister, the princess of Pingyang (平陽公主) came up with a solution - she arranged a banquet where Wu was introduced to multiple prospective concubines. A certain Wei Zifu (衛子夫) caught his attention. Over the course of the next few years, she gave birth to three daughters and a son, crown prince Ju (據). Meanwhile, still childless Chen Jiao lost the emperor’s favor, and the marriage was falling apart. She was seemingly still hoping that providing Wu with an heir would let her regain her status, though. She initially sought medical help, but eventually turned to a more esoteric sort of specialist, the female wu (女巫) Chu Fu. And from there on, things kept escalating (Laurie Venters, Leftover Peaches: Female Homoeroticism During the Western Han Dynasty, p. 6-7):

Alas, once the news about Chen Jiao’s scheme reached the emperor, he ordered an investigation. The empress was found guilty of utilizing wugu (巫蠱) to gain back her former position and harm Wei Zifu. Subsequently her collaborators - around three hundred people total, including Chu Fu - were executed. Chen Jiao herself was “merely” forced to “retire” from her official position and leave the palace, though (ibidem, p. 8).

Wu, gu, and wugu

A pair of figures from the state of Chu from the fourth or third century BCE, regularly labeled as “shamans” online (wikimedia commons).

Before delving into the part of the account you’re probably here for, I need to provide additional context for the terms applied to Chu Fu and her arts.

The term wu (巫) is variously translated in English as either “shaman” (Li Guo, Writing Gender in Early Modern Chinese Women's Tanci Fiction, p. 77)/“shamaness” (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8; as seen above), or “witch” (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 751) in discussions of the Chu Fu episode. In scholarship it’s generally argued that wu were “mediums” or “shamans” (imprecise as those terms can be), though as stressed by Barend J. ter Haar none of the early sources point into that direction. In those dating to the Han period, it’s often not even clear if wu is a neutral or derogatory label (The Fear of Witchcraft and Witches in Imperial China: Figurines, Familiars and Demons, p. 27-28). Later on, especially in twentieth century sources, it usually functions as a term which is both pejorative (much in the way “witch” often is in English) and imprecise. In secondary sources it can essentially designate “any religious activity of expertise” which is not clearly Buddhist, Daoist or Confucian, and simultaneously cannot be easily explained as “popular beliefs” and has nothing to do with secret societies (ibidem, p. 33). 

A classic European depiction of a witch from the fifteenth century (wikimedia commons). A key difference between wu and witch is that at the end of the day the wu is always actually a ritual specialist, even if an unorthodox and not necessarily universally respected one; while the European witch is largely a figment of imagination (ibidem, p. 420). It’s likely that wu was often used as a stand-in for many strictly local terms, some of which weren’t preserved in writing (ibidem, p. 36). It’s clear many existed in various periods. For instance, ter Haar’s brief survey of local gazetteers from the nineteenth century revealed terms such as jingyan (淨眼, “pure eyes”) and guanwang (關亡; uncertain meaning) in Baoshan County near Shanghai; ang i (尪姨, “divine lady”) in the south of Fujian; mingyan (明眼; “owner of clear eyes”) in Shandong; or zouwuchangzhe (走無常者; metaphorically “underworld messenger”) in Henan and Hebei (ibidem, p. 28-29).

A nine-tailed fox on a Qing period illustration (wikimedia commons). As for gu (蠱), it first occurs in Shang oracle bone inscriptions, but in a context which is unhelpful at best (ibidem, p. 252). You might be familiar with it from the description of the nine-tailed fox in the Shanhaijing (西山經), which similarly says little about it - other than that eating the meat of this animal is an antidote to it (Richard Strassberger, A Chinese Bestiary: Strange Creatures from the Guideways Through Mountains and Seas, p. 88). Multiple other creatures from the same work are said to ward off gu in one way or another, including the xibian (谿邊; ibidem, p. 99) and the sanzugui (三足龟; ibidem, p. 158). Whatever its original meaning, ultimately gu came to be used first and foremost as a nebulous term for “fears and accusations of harmful ritual”. It’s quite likely that much like wu, it was often a shorthand for numerous strictly local terms of varying precise meaning (The Fear…, p. 36). However,  it was particularly commonly defined as the result of putting multiple venomous or poisonous small animals into a container and waiting until only one remains. Note they’re not necessarily meant to be insects; this is a misconception based on the mistranslation of the term chong (蟲) used in this context. It has no precise taxonomical meaning and in addition to various invertebrates it can also refer to snakes, as well as various other similar animals (ibidem, p. 36-37). A famous early account of this belief can be found in the compilation Suishu (隋書, “Documents of the Sui”), completed in 636 (ibidem, p. 253-254):

Another similar definition can be found in the medical treatise Zhubing Yuanhou Lun (諸病源候論; “Discussion of the Causes and Symptoms of All Illnesses”), attributed to the physician Zhao Yuanfang (巢元方) and presented to the imperial court in 610 (ibidem, p. 255):

However, in later periods in medical context gu instead referred to pain in the belly and conditions which could be linked with it, like diarrhea. It doesn’t designate a specific affliction, just a class of symptoms (ibidem, p. 38). The medical meaning likely developed based on beliefs of people who thought they were struck by the supernatural gu. The pain likely resulted from stress-related problems or from common issues like stomach disorders or parasites in those cases (ibidem, p. 427). Both of the discussed terms - wu and gu - could be combined into the compound wugu (巫蠱), which functioned essentially as an equivalent of English “witchcraft” in legal context and in accounts of courtly plots. However, it was otherwise relatively rarely used in the past, and only became a common term in contemporary scholarship as a handy umbrella term (ibidem, p. 38). Last but not least, a further term used in accounts of the Chen Jiao case is meidao (媚道), literally “way of seduction”, presumably to be understood specifically as something alongside the lines of “love magic”, given the empress’ objectives (ibidem, p. 191).

What did Chu Fu do?

Megan Huang as Chu Fu in the tv drama The Virtuous Queen of Han (screencap from an official yt upload of episode 24; reproduced here for educational purposes only).

With Chu Fu’s professional qualifications now more or less clear, it’s time to go back to her supposed affair with Chen Jiao.

The most reliable accounts of emperor Wu’s reign are generally agreed to be Shiji (史記, “Records of the Grand Scribe”) by Sima Qian (司馬遷; ca. 145-87 BCE) and Hanshu (漢書; “Book of Han”) by Ban Gu (班固; 32-92). Both mention Chen Jiao’s scheme and the enlistment of a suspect helper, but neither implies any romantic or sexual involvement between the two women (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8-9).

The allegation that Chu Fu and Chen Jiao were a couple actually only appears in the Han Xiaowu Gushi (漢孝武故事; “Tales of Han Emperor Wu”), which is both less reliable and significantly later. It was most likely only composed in the Six Dynasties period (220-589), and pretty late on at that. It also contains many very obviously fictional additions. On top of that, only one surviving copy - a manuscript called Hanfenlou (涵芬樓) - describes the supposed affair in any greater detail. It’s not impossible that this is down to chance preservation, to be fair. At the same time, it’s hard to prove the supposed tryst with Chu Fu was anything but a fabrication added many centuries after the events involving Chen Jiao have unfolded (Leftover Peaches…, p. 9). In other words, it's probably historical fiction.

Interestingly, Sima Qian actually leaves Chen Jiao’s co-conspirator nameless; she is first referred to as Chu Fu in Ban Gu’s work. The name is fairly unusual (The Fear…, p. 190). It has been proposed that it might be a nod to her crossdressing - fu (服) can be translated as “raiment” (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8). However, another possibility is that 楚服 is a typo, and it’s actually supposed to be homophonous 楚婦 - “a woman from Chu”. As remarked by ter Haar, this area was commonly associated with “dubious ritual techniques”, making it a suitable place for a suspicious ritual specialist to hail from (The Fear…, p. 190-191). I wonder if the addition of crossdressing to her repertoire wasn’t actually an attempt at rationalizing Ban Gu’s spelling of her name, if so.

Figure of a musician in a jieze headwear (wikimedia commons).

Official in a pingshanze headwear on a tomb painting (wikimedia commons).

For clarity, the crossdressing is not just a matter of interpretation - the belt and the cap or head wrap (幘, ze) Chu Fu donned were both perceived as firmly masculine (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8). For what it’s worth, Chu Fu’s presentation has actually been indirectly compared to contemporary butch lesbian fashion in at least one paper (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 767). It’s additionally assumed the reference to Chu Fu and Chen Jiao loving each other “as if they were a husband and wife” reflect the masculine presentation of the former. This description might simply indicate that the relationship was meant to be understood as a parody of heterosexual marriage arrangements by the intended audience. However, Laurie Venters also suggests that it might hint at the use of sex toys (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8). It’s generally agreed that a number of phallic grave goods from the Han period were sex toys, with one variety evidently meant to be fastened around the waist. However, whether any of them would actually be used by women on their own as opposed to in voyeuristic spectacles obviously cannot be easily determined. Therefore, even though Venters’ is probably right to argue that “their utilisation within homosexual partnerships is not unthinkable”, once again caution is necessary. As she stresses herself, it’s important to “differentiate between sex acts forcibly undertaken and those genuinely desired” in this context (ibidem, p. 18-19). Venters further speculates that from Chen Jiao’s perspective sex with a crossdressing ritual specialist might’ve been a form of sexually charged exorcism interconnected with the rest of the latter’s activities in the court. Possibly Chen Jiao was hoping to remove supernatural obstacles preventing her from getting pregnant this way (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8). Fascinating as this possibility sounds, until more evidence emerges it probably should remain speculative, though. Next to Chu Fu’s presentation, her death is probably the most discussed part of the story. It is sometimes argued that her  execution can be considered “the first case of persecution of female homosexuals in Chinese history” (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 751). However, as pointed out by Venters, this is most likely an incorrect interpretation of the events. The description of the execution matches legal prescriptions for dealing with users of gu and other nefarious ritual techniques; Chu Fu was therefore apparently executed for witchcraft rather than for an illicit relationship (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8). Her fate is similar in the earlier accounts of the events, too (The Fear…, p. 190-191) - which, as already stressed, don’t make her involvement with Chen Jiao into a romance.

Even though Chen Jiao’s alleged affair with Chu Fu is frequently discussed in scholarship, both in Chinese and English, and it’s not hard to find discussions of it online either, as far as I’m aware it didn’t really become a mainstay of later works of fiction focused on Chen Jiao or more broadly on emperor Wu’s court. For what it’s worth, Chu Fu appears in the 2014 TV drama The Virtuous Queen of Han (大汉贤后卫子夫), portrayed by Megan Hwang. However, as far as I can tell she doesn’t crossdress. let alone have an affair with Chen Jiao (if that happens at some point in the show and I simply missed it in online coverage - mea culpa for overlooking it). As a matter of fact, it seems the show turns her straight, which as far as I can tell has no precedent in historical sources. I’d be interested to learn if any more niche media stayed closer to the narrative; there’s definitely no shortage of Chinese social media posts discussing it, at least.

Love between women in historical Chinese sources

Even if the historicity of Chu Fu - or at least crossdressing Chu Fu interested in women (Chen Jiao in all due likeness did work with suspect ritual specialists) - is ultimately dubious given the character of Xiaowu Gushi, the tale is still pretty valuable as a source in the broader context of study of relationships between women in China. Even if ultimately every single detail is a fabrication, it still provides some information about attitudes towards them at the time of its composition (Leftover Peaches…, p. 9).

It needs to be pointed out that the very idea of a lesbian relationship in the Han court is not entirely implausible. Strictly speaking, prior to the early twentieth century Chinese lacked a direct equivalent of the term “lesbian” (ibidem, p. 3). However, a possible euphemism for relationships between women - duishi (對食) - is already attested in the Han period. It can be translated as “paired eating”, which may or may not be an euphemism for cunnilingus. It occurs in the Hanshu, where it’s used to describe the relationship between two female “state slaves” (官婢, guanbi), Cao Gong (曹宮) and Dao Fang (道房). The events took place around 12 BCE, during the reign of emperor Cheng (成帝). The later writer Ying Shao (應劭; ca. 144-204) outright defined duishi as a term for “women behaving as husband and wife with one another” and stated that such relationships could involve “intense mutual jealousy” (ibidem, p. 10-11).

Despite this evidence, some caution is necessary regarding duishi. Not all attestations of the term have romantic or sexual implications, and sometimes it refers to people simply sharing a meal. Furthermore, in a single later work - the Mingshi (明史; “History of the Ming”) it’s used to describe an affair between a woman and an eunuch - specifically between Tianqi Emperor’s wet nurse Madam Ke (客氏) and a certain Wei Chao (魏朝). It’s therefore not impossible that it was a general sexual euphemism which could be also applied to heterosexual relationships, rather than exclusively those between women (ibidem, p. 11-12). Given the gap in attestations, I wonder if its semantic range might have changed between periods, though? Ying Shao doesn’t seem to have any doubts about its meaning, after all. Entirely for completeness sake, it’s worth noting that other euphemisms for relationships between women are attested as well, for example “grinding bean curd” (磨豆腐, mo doufu) and “grinding the mirror” (磨鏡子, mo jingzi). However, they’re quite rare and restricted to late imperial times, with no earlier precedents (ibidem, p. 5). They reflect a pattern attested in numerous other languages: historical (and at times modern) terms referring to women pursuing relationships with other women, or for sexual activity between women, tend to allude to rubbing or grinding in one way or another, in reference to non-penetrative sex (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 769).

A seventeenth century illustration of an anecdote about emperor Ai of Han (劉欣) and his partner Dong Xiao (董賢), the origin of one of the most widespread historical euphemisms for gay relationships (wikimedia commons). It sadly doesn’t seem that a category of flowery euphemisms similar to those referring to relationships between men, which often invoked specific historical romances, ever developed in the case of women. There’s no wlw answer to the likes of fentao (分桃, “shared peach”) or duanxiu (斷袖, “cut sleeve”), tragically (ibidem, p. 769). 

Despite the existence of the aforementioned relatively blunt euphemisms,  in most cases relationships between women were simply described in terms used for heterosexual couples, though, as in the case of Chen Jiao and Chu Fu (Leftover Peaches…, p. 4-5). Another example like that can be found in the Jinshi (金史, “History of the Jin”), which mentions that emperor Wanyan Liang’s (完顔亮; 1122-1161) royal concubine Alihu (阿里虎) and her maid Shengge (勝哥) slept together “like husband and wife” (ibidem, p. 13). However, this might only reflect male perception of relationships between women (ibidem, p. 766-767). Liang Shi argues that this phenomenon reflects the “inability of a literary imagination to conceive any female homosexual relationships outside the mode of heterosexuality” (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 755-756). 

In some cases it’s virtually impossible to argue with this evaluation. One example is an adaptation of the account of Alihu’s affair with Sehngge written by the Ming writer Feng Menglong (冯梦龙), published his 1627 anthology Xingshi Hengyan (醒世恆言, “Common Words that Awaken the World”) The author went out of his way to describe Shengge’s appearance as masculine (to the point other characters assume she’s a man in disguise), and the entire relationship as a proxy for a heterosexual one. The Ming period also provides some examples of voyeuristic erotica in which women turn to having sex with maids using strap-ons in absence of male partners, with the act itself presented as an unsatisfying prelude to heterosexual intercourse; it’s hard to argue this is anything but a male fantasy (ibidem, p. 753-754). Liang Shi assumes that Two Women Who Died Together (二女同死, Ernü tongsi), a short story from the Qing period anthology Mingzai Xiaoshi (明齋小識) might be a closer match for the reality of relationships between women. The nameless protagonists grow gradually closer, spenting time with each other at every opportunity, and eventually commit suicide together (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 756-757). He argues that while unique, the story might be closer to the doubtlessly numerous actual relationships between women which must’ve occurred through Chinese history without leaving any other traces in literature, in contrast with the prevailing descriptions of faux-heterosexual setups. It’s not impossible the latter were modeled on historical affairs, but as he argues they spread largely through literature rather than experience (ibidem, p. 758). Liang Shi argues that the limited interest in writing about relationships between women outside of contexts pertaining to male interests reflects a broader pattern indicating they were universally frowned upon or even persecuted (ibidem, p. 758-759). This might be a bit too radical of an evaluation, though. Other authors argue that while in most periods relationships between women were generally frowned upon, they were necessarily openly condemned. In contrast with heterosexual affairs they posed no threat to legitimate patrilineal descent, which might explain the lack of interest in writing about them. It might very well be that they were more common than textual sources would indicate, and simply for one reason or another were not described (Leftover Peaches…, p. 6). There’s no evidence for a blanket ban on relationships between women in any period in which they are documented (ibidem, p. 12-13).

Of course, it has to be stressed that Liang Shi is right thatsome past scholarship presented the past as more liberal than in reality when it comes to relationships between women. In the west a major example was the Dutch sinologist Robert van Gulik back in the 1960s (ibidem, p. 6). In the end a difficult obstacle to overcome is that there is pretty much no literature written by women attracted to women (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 753). All of the available accounts come from texts written by men (ibidem, p. 767) - Yu Xuanji’s poem discussed in my previous article would be the only exception, if we are to count it. And given that her style of writing about heterosexual love was unconventional, it’s up for debate if it would necessarily be any more representative when it comes to describing love between women. As unsatisfying as it is to admit, unless by some miracle new evidence emerges, few definite statements can be made other than that relationships between women pretty clearly existed in every documented period in history. So, even if the specific case which prompted me to write this article is almost definitely fictional, and it’s up for debate if Chu Fu’s portrayal is some sort of ancient counterpart of butch fashion or only product of limited imagination, it doesn’t mean that a wlw (women-loving wu) engaging in affairs with women and performing suspect rituals in Han court is an unrealistic pitch.

[yamayuandadu]

Do we know anything about Apaliunas besides his mention in the Alaksandu treaty?

Well, the name itself is definitely a hapax (Ian Rutherford, Hittite Texts and Greek Religion: Contact, Interaction, and Comparison, p. 109). An alleged second attestation in a Luwian inscription on an altar from Emir-Gazi turned out to be a misreading, and was abandoned by the 1960s already (ibidem, p. 110). The passage in which Apaliuna (the -s is a case ending) occurs in is not exactly informative, beyond establishing we’re dealing with a deity from the pantheon of Wilusa (Gary Beckman, Hittite Diplomatic Texts, p. 87):

There are no other Hittite or adjacent sources dealing with its religion, though  (Hittite Texts…, p. 109). Due to obvious phonetic similarity, it’s generally agreed today that the name is closely related to that of Apollo (ibidem, p. 8). Doubts are occasionally voiced, though, since it’s not entirely clear if the name is preserved fully - if it's a theonym, it should be preceded by the cuneiform sign dingir, but the traces don’t match it. A possible solution is that the full spelling was (dingir) a-ap-pa-li-u-na, with only ap-pa-li-u-na left undamaged. The doubts might be an overabundance of caution, in any case. Needless to say, the generally accepted identification of Wilusa with Homeric Troy works in favor of Apaliuna’s identity as Apollo, too (ibidem, p. 110).

A further problem is that it’s unclear which way Apollo was transferred (ibidem, p. 8). Proponents of eastern origin suggest he might’ve been a Luwian deity (with his name perhaps  derived from the term appal, “trap”) or that he originated in some unidentified Anatolian substrate culture (ibidem, p. 111). However, Apollo’s absence from pre-Greek pantheons of Lycia and Lydia works against these proposals (ibidem. p. 112). It seems more plausible that he was a Mycenaean deity brought to Anatolia by Greeks, possibly in the fourteenth century BCE or even earlier (ibidem, p. 113). This proposal obviously warrants some caution, since Apollo himself is missing from known Mycenaean texts. However, the closely related Payawon occurs at Knossos, and the epithet Smintheus might date back to this period too. His absence might therefore be down to chance preservation (ibidem, p. 111). There’s also one more theonym which might be related to Apollo’s name in a Hittite source, namely Apaluwa, who occurs in a plague ritual (CTH 424.5 = KBo 22.125) alongside their (the text has no indication of this deity’s gender) daughter Lapana (ibidem, p. 109). The focus on plague and a reference to city gates would fit Apollo’s characteristics. While the text doesn’t specify its point of origin, it’s also potentially significant that many other plague rituals were said to originate in Arzawa, an area in the west where Mycenaean culture would definitely hold some sway (ibidem, p. 111-112). Possibly Apollo spread across western Anatolia from Millawanda (classical Miletus), which had a considerable Mycenaean presence (ibidem, p. 113). A dynastic marriage with the ruling family of Assuwa might have helped, too; this might also explain the existence of the Mycenaean goddess Potniya Aswiya, possibly "lady of Assuwa", at Pylos (ibidem, p. 118-119). There’s actually much more said about the first of deities seemingly associated with Alaksandu’s city in the treaty, the “storm god of the army”, who is well attested in Luwian sources and might have lived on as the Lydian god Qλdãns (Ilya Yakubovich, The Lydian god Qλdãns, p. 253-254). The attestations of Zeus Stratios (“Zeus of the army”) from Bithynia, Caria, Pontus, Paphlagonia and Athens might represent survival via interpretatio graeca, too (Hittite Texts…, p. 109).

[yamayuandadu]

I feel obliged to point out as an addendum of sorts to the new article that Yu Xuanji’s life and work are weirdly glamorized in the wikipedia article Women in Taoism, which describes her as if she was already famous and accomplished in life and as if she had much more freedom than in reality. This is the second time when I see an author whose work is marked by a sense of alienation and whose contributions were only reassessed long after her death falsely presented this way on said site (I’ve seen this done with Kamo no Yasunori no musume before), and I can’t fathom what’s the rationale. It should be noted this has nothing to do with scholarship - as a matter of fact, in a recent overview of Xuanji’s life and work Jinhua Jia stresses that “her freedom and privilege should not be exaggerated” (Gender, Power, and Talent: the Journey of Daoist Priestesses in Tang China, p. 172).