Some really old stuff to start the week. Ancient bricks may seem boring, but there is more to them than mud and straw.
A short thread with a plot twist at the end about these building blocks of life in ancient Mesopotamia from my book, Between Two River.
Bricks in ancient Mesopotamia were sometimes stamped with cuneiform signs using an ancient precursor to a printing press.
A mould with a cuneiform inscription on it, including the name of the king behind construction work, was pressed into wet mud bricks to save time and effort
People weren’t the only ones to stamp mud bricks with the names of their kings and other details.
Bricks were left to dry in the sun, leaving them vulnerable to the paw prints of passing animals, including dogs.
Some jokes and humour on clay tablets from ancient Mesopotamia to brighten your day.
It's hard to know what would have made people laugh so long ago, but literature, folktales, and proverbs are full of examples of what we find pretty funny.
This story where a Babylonian jester makes up fake, gross menus to parody an elaborate feast.
Ingredients include dog poop, donkey butts, and the very specific egg of a goose from a chicken coop on a sand bed.
This folktale features three thirsty friends who can’t decide how to use their ox, cow, or wagon to get water.
The king turns to a wise woman to solve the problem, and in the end, they all lose because no one was willing to risk anything to retrieve the water.
If it looks like there are two different fonts on this clay tablet from ancient Babylon, that’s because there are.
In December 603 BCE, a young scribe named Balāṭa made a faithful copy of a far more ancient inscription of Sîn-Kashid who had ruled Uruk over 1,000 years earlier.
The top part of this tablet is an inscription in the Sumerian language, dead for centuries by the time Balāṭa the junior scribe made this copy of it.
The signs are larger and reflect an older “font”. Was he copying from an original that was over 1,000 years old to him?
Cuneiform gets more streamlined or stylised in later eras.
In the bottom part of this tablet, Balāṭa “signs” the copy and gives a date equivalent to December 3, 603 BCE during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar II.
He uses the contemporary cuneiform “font” (and Akkadian language)
How to make glass in ancient Assyria. First, you grind your ingredients separately, which can include certain stones, roasted carnelian-coloured seashells, “white plant”, and salicornia ashes. Then “You mix them together” and place them in a cold kiln with four openings
“You burn a good, smokeless fire. You remove the (glass) as soon as it (begins to) turn white. You cool it off and grind it down.” Several stages in the production of glass, as described in a broken clay tablet from the Library of Ashurbanipal.
Making glass in ancient Assyria was not easy. You had to repeat several stages of grinding, mixing, heating, cooling. At times, you had wait till the mixture glowed white, red, or yellow before the next step.
“When (the glass) glows yellow, you stir it once in your direction”
I am often moved by how cuneiform tablets give glimpses into the lives of everyday people.
One of my favourites is of a physician name Rabâ-sha-Marduk who lived in the 1200s BCE. This medical therapy for headaches ("seizing of the temple") is signed by him
A receipt for "high quality dates...for his sacrifice" names a healer or physician named Rabâ-sha-Marduk.
The tablet is tiny and covered in fingerprints. It feels like a rushed, messy record of a transaction, but one that leaves behind a name of someone we know did medicine
But what happened to the Babylonian physician named Rabâ-sha-Marduk who wrote medical therapies and bought dates?
He ended up working in the Hittite Empire. Around the same time, there were rumours among Babylonian royalty of a physician dying in the employ of the Hittite kings
In this ancient Assyrian letter, astronomers complain they can’t do their jobs or teach astronomy “because of the ilku-duty”, a type of taxation in the form of labour.
Astronomers in ancient Assyria were sometimes exempt from performing the “ilku”, or tax in the form of labour, and that wasn’t always a good thing.
Those excused from state-mandated labour to carry on their scholarship in service of the king sometimes faced violence.
“at this very moment, I build a storeroom in the Review Palace with my brothers, and the townspeople…have killed my farmer and harass me”, writes Nabû-iqīsha from the city of Borsippa.
People were angry enough at this astronomer for the tax exemption that they killed someone.