The Curse of Akkad - The Fall of an Empire

The Curse of Akkad by D. W. Draffin Over four thousand years ago in ancient Mesopotamia, the glories of the past were not looked back on with favor by all. What most likely began as an oral narrative before the Ur III period in 2047 BCE was immortalized in clay tablets by those who had no love for the memory of the city-state of Akkad and one of its most illustrious kings, Naram-Sin. The Curse of Agade or The Curse of Akkad is a moralistic, cautionary tale on the dangers of defying the gods. In the tradition of Sumerian Nauru literature, which is an extensive tradition of work that spans millennia, the 281 lines of this story are considered one of the prime examples of the form. Nauru literature nearly always features a historical king interacting with the gods, the tales told in such a way as to be lessons on how to be pious and live the right way. For ages, the Curse of Akkad was taken as historical truth, even up until the early 20th century. But further discoveries have led modern Sumerian anthropologists and archaeologists to see it as a myth. Naram-Sin was not the cause of the destruction of the great city-state at the hands of the Gutians. Its collapse occurred generations after his reign. The tale itself most likely appeared hundreds of years later still, in an attempt by their descendants to make sense of the fall of Akkad in their cosmology. It is a grim tale, sadistic even. Those who told this tale had no love for the ancient people of Akkad and its king. The Curse of Akkad. Enlil, first among the gods, laid waste to the cities who displeased him. First, as if his scowl was a knife and the great city of Kis a sacrificial bull, he had emptied it and scattered its people. Likewise, he had taken away the wisdom of and laid waste to Unuk, as if it was another sacrificial bull. Then Enlil, in his wisdom, gave all their lands from the far south all the way to the highlands to Sargon, king of Akkad. Only then did holy Inanna the goddess establish her sanctuary in Akkad. It was known far and wide as a center for women and their needs. In Ulmak did Inanna set her throne. Inanna set about caring for Akkad as if she was a young bride in the new house that her groom had built. She worked tirelessly to nurture the city of Akkad and tended it like a flower. Inanna ensured that the city's warehouses remained stocked, that the construction of new dwellings housed all who needed them, that splendid foods would feed its citizens, that they would drink the most splendid beverages, that those celebrating holidays bathed joyously in the courtyards, and that people would throng all the places of celebration, that new friends would be made over meals, that foreigners would sail past like birds in the sky, that the old marhakai rituals of grief would once again be re-entered onto tribute rolls, that all manner of exotic animals such as monkeys, mighty elephants, and water buffalo would crowd the public squares, and horses, mountain ibexes, and alam sheep would jostle passersby. Inanna showered great gifts upon Akkad. In the storehouses where they kept their emmer wheat, she replaced the sheaves with solid gold. In the storehouses for white emmer, she replaced the wheat with silver. Within its granaries and silos she filled them with copper, tin, and blocks of lapis lazuli, sealing them from outside for protection. But she also granted the people great gifts. Inanna bestowed upon the old women of Akkad her wisdom and the gift of giving counsel. To the old men she gave the gift of eloquence. The young women of Akkad were endowed with the gift of entertaining, and the young men the gift of strength in war. To the children and babes she gifted pure joy, and she filled the city with music. The nursemaids who cared for the children of the generals played them lullabies on their stringed Within the city walls, tighi drums were beaten. Outside the walls it was the song of flutes and percussion of the zamzam. Even in its harbors, the ships and docks were filled with gladness. Surrounding the city-state in all directions, their foreign neighbors were at peace, the tranquility radiating from Akkad shining on them all. Naramsingh, the shepherd of Akkad, son of Manistushu, grandson of Sargon the Great, arose each day with the sun and sat upon his holy throne, looking out over his great city. The outer walls rose as high as a mountain and reached the heavens. The mighty Tigris River flowed through the holy gates that Inanna herself had opened, bringing upon their barges all the riches of Sumer upstream. From the highlands, the rural Martu people, who knew nothing of farming, brought gifts of fierce and spirited bulls and their cows, as well as fine goat kids. The Maluhans of the faraway Blacklands bring to him their exotic wares and treasures from the wider world. Akkad's sister-cities of Elam and Subir loaded themselves with goods for her as if they were pack-asses, and the city ran as it should, with each of the governors, temple administrators and generals, and the accountants of the Guedina supplying their offerings each month and on the new year with sober regularity. So much wealth flowed into Akkad that the city gates themselves groaned with exhaustion. The temples of Inanna were stuffed to overflowing. With so much bounty, the delighted goddess could do nothing but prepare the ground for another temple. The greatest temple in the city of Akkad was the mountain home of Enlil, father among the gods. He alone did not look with favor upon Naramsin and the greatness of Akkad, and his displeasure descended like a cloud upon the city. The music fell silent. The citizens of Akkad trembled in fear. Even the goddess Inanna in Ulmak could not deny a rising terror, and she fled, abandoning the sanctuary of Akkad and removing her protection from the women of the city. All her gifts she took back, tearing the strength and courage off Akkad's soldiers like she pulled a badge of honor from them, leaving them defenseless. Ancient enemies roused themselves, smelling weakness, and attacked. And then all the other gods turned their backs on Akkad. Ninurta of Nippur, god of farming and war, took back his own gifts from Naramsin. The royal crown and the jewels of kingship, the royal emblem, and the throne on which Naramsin sat—all these were removed to his Ekumeka temple. Utu, god of the sun and true speech, took away the eloquence of Akkad's citizens. Enki took away their wisdom. Then the father of the gods, Anu, cursed the city with words that Then Enki grasped the holy pole that moored the ocean of this world to the heavens of the gods. He tore it from its anchor, leaving Akkad without gods. In their final rejection of the city, Inanna took from them all their weapons. And just like that, the might and glory of Akkad flickered out, as if it had been the brief life of an inconsequential carp swimming in deep, unseen waters. Yet it was not unseen. All their neighbors watched, and what had been friendship and tranquility now became violence and greed. They saw this mighty elephant bull stumble and lay its neck upon the ground while they trumpeted in triumph at its misfortune. Akkad had been a fearsome dragon of war, but now it could hardly lift its head from the ground. They fell on the city, all its neighbors, and took from them life and all honor. Naramsin could not sleep. He dreamed what he knew to be a true vision, that Enlil would not rest until Akkad was destroyed. No longer would he allow it to be tranquil. Its future would be nothing but ruins. Their future was cursed. Quakes would crack the foundations of their temples. The treasures of Akkad would be scattered across the world. Naramsin awoke in terror, unable to put the vision into words, unable to share what he had seen. Instead, he went into his private temple alone with a goat kid and sacrificed it, so he could perform ecstasy on its entrails and divine his fortune. But the doom issuing from the Aekur did not end. The king knew what the divination held. He emerged from his temple in the clothes of mourning. From his chariot, he removed its outer pin and covered it in reed mats for storage. No longer would it be pulled in procession or battle. He tore the reed canopy from his ceremonial barge and gave what was left of his royal paraphernalia to any who wanted it. He wandered the land in grief for seven years, his face buried in his hands. And yet, in this whole time that the dream haunted him, he was unable to put its vision into words. He did not speak of it aloud to anyone. Finally, Naramsin decided to build a new temple. He prepared the ground and sacrificed a goat kid so that all would be auspicious. Yet the ecstasy failed and the omens remained silent regarding the new temple. A second time, Naramsin tried, sacrificing another kid. But the ecstasy failed a second time. Now Naramsin reached his limit. He could no longer bear the curse of the gods. He decided he would fight it and win by force what Enlil had taken from him. By now his armies were dispersed, so the king set about gathering them again and training them for a great battle. But like a wrestler in the great courtyard, he did not reach for his opponent's neck, but for the great Ekur itself. He was no longer a priest in a fine giguna garment. He was an athlete ready to wrestle in the dirt who cast aside his ceremonial garb as if it was only worth thirty shekels. It was time to defy the gods. Like a bandit lord plundering his own city, Naramsin had his soldiers lift ladders to the walls of the Ekur to breach it. He attacked it as though it were a ship to be sunk. He attacked it as though it were a mountain to break, as if it contained precious lapis lazuli to be mined, to dig so deeply it would crack open. Then the temple of Enlil would fall as Akkad had fallen. It, too, would lie prostrate in the mud like a city inundated by Ekur, god of storms. As if the great temple were a cedar forest, Naramsin had great axes of bronze cast. Double-bladed Agasilag axes were sharpened to be used against it. They dug at its roots with spades and dug the temple out all the way down to the bedrock. In his fury, Naramsin demolished the walls and buildings of Ekur until nothing was left of it and it stretched before him like the carcass of a dead soldier, its neck exposed. Seeing this, the kingdoms surrounding Akkad who wished to attack pulled back in fear. Yet Naramsin was not done. He tore out the drainpipes of Ekur so that all the rain could return to the heavens. He tore off the upper lintel which graced all the land with ornamentation. From the temple's gate, known as the gate from which grain is never diverted, the king diverted the grain to his own storehouses and the people of the surrounding land starved. He struck the temple's gate of well-being with a pickaxe and destroyed all that was peaceful with his neighbors. So much earth did he deposit on the temple's ruin that he could have filled lakes. He could have covered the entire landscape. Now the secret chambers were broken into and anyone could see the bedchamber which had never before seen daylight. The common people could open the holy treasure chest of the gods. The Lahama deities of the great pilasters who held up the temple's roof were punished as though they had committed sacrilege and thrown into a great fire. Naramsin committed it all to the fire. Cedar, cypress, juniper, and boxwood—even the holy giguna garments of the priests. Like a vandal he gathered all the gold into containers he had brought and all the silver filled his leather bags. He removed all the copper from the temple and filled his ships with it as if they were transporting grain. He directed his silversmiths to work the fine metals and reshape them into designs of his own. Jewelers took the precious stones of the gods and set them in these new designs. The copper was put to use, the smiths beating it into sheets. They brought their largest ships to the temple and they carried all its possessions away. And with the removal of these all sense and wisdom was also removed from Akkad. As the ships departed, the piers shook, and with them went all the intelligence of Akkad. Oh, how would mighty Enlil respond to the destruction of his beloved temple! How would the god, whose very form is the roaring storm that subjugates the land, who is the deluge who cannot be stopped—how would this god respond to the vile blasphemy of Naram-Sin? Toward the Gubin mountains the god lifted his gaze, seeing there the savages that occupied its heights. These mountains are vast and contain countless of these savages known as the Gutians. They are not as other men. They do not look civilized, nor do they act civilized. They are an unbridled people, wild and bloodthirsty, with cunning minds but the hungry instincts of dogs and the clever faces of monkeys. Down from the mountains they swept like an endless flock of birds, spurred on by the wrath of Enlil. They reached for everything they could grasp as they raced across the plain, stripping it bare. Neither animal nor human escaped their clutches. Messengers no longer traveled on the highways, couriers no longer traveled in their boats along the rivers. Descending on the pastures of Akkad the Gutians drove the goats from their folds and forced the goat herds to remove them from the land. They drove the cows from the pens and forced the cow herds to remove them. Prisons were emptied and convicts manned the walls, bandits patrolled the highways. The city's main gates had been thrown down into the mud. From the walls of their own cities the neighbors of Akkad cried bitterly to see it. The city had collapsed and its citizens reverted to growing their own food in their own gardens, as if living the rudimentary lives of our ancestors before cities were built and founded. Tracts of land were cleared within the city walls but regardless of how carefully they cultivated the crops, the land yielded no grain. The flooded channels yielded no fish. The orchards, though well tended and irrigated, yielded neither syrup nor wine. Heavy clouds hung over the land but they did not release any rain. Even the healing makgurum plant did not grow. In those desperate days one shekel would only buy you a half liter of oil or grain or a mina kilo of wool. One shekel would only get you a ban measure of a liter and a half of fish. These were the prices all across the city. Starvation gripped Akkad. People climbed onto their roofs and died up there. People died in their houses and were not buried. People clawed and flailed at themselves mad with hunger. By the Ki-ur temple of Enlil, giant packs of starving wild dogs had taken over. If two men or fewer ventured into their territory they were torn apart and eaten. Then the dogs grew even more numerous and daring and even three men could not survive their attacks. People attacked each other with their last gasps, breaking noses and smashing heads, leaving bodies bleeding in the streets. To be honest was to be beset by jackals. To be a hero only meant your body would be tossed onto the hero pile. And even the traitors died, their blood sheeting over the corpses of honest men. Enlil was not done with Akkad. He chose to rebuild his great temples of the ruined city as modest sanctuaries made of reeds. Their storehouses were modest as well, but they drew the survivors to them. The old women and old men with the chief lamentation singer stood at the horizon with their seven Balaj drums, with their Ub, Mez and Lilis drums. They sang and beat the drums and their lament carried across the land to Enlil, who heard it like one of Ikur's storms on the horizon for seven days and seven nights. He heard the old women crying unrestrained, alas for Akkad. The old men crying unrestrained, alas for its people. The lamentation singer crying, alas for the Ikur. The young women tore their hair. The young men sharpened their blades. Enlil looked upon the people and was comforted by the familiar demonstrations of grief. He was reminded of his own divine ancestors performing a ritual lament in the vast and awe-inspiring Holy Mount, gathered around the god Enlil's knees like they were his children. Because of this, the god withdrew to his chamber in solitude, where he might lie in contemplation, fasting and clearing his mind. The other great gods agreed at this time that Enlil needed support and relief from his hot temper. Suen, Enki, Inanna, Ninurta, Ikur, Utu, Nuska, and Nisaba gathered to shower his fiery heart with cool waters. But they did not seek any end to his retribution. They prayed to him, Enlil, the city of Akkad destroyed your own little city of Ikur, down to the bedrock. Let their city be treated as yours was. Those who tore your priests' giguna vestments should be brought down as Nippur was. Fill every well in Akkad with their heads. Turn them all against each other so that no one can find their friends and brother does not recognize brother. The maidens hiding in the women's places should be murdered. Let the old men weep for their slain wives. May the pigeons on the windowsills groan in pain and the songbirds lie stunned in their nests. May the whole city be as terrified as a trembling pigeon. Then Suen, Enki, Inanna, Ninurta, Ikur, Utu, Nuska, and Nisaba joined all the great gods in beholding the ruin of Akkad. Their voices united in the greatest curse they knew. Akkad, like a lion you pounced on peaceful Akkur. It is as if you had pounced on Enlil himself. Cry Akkad. May your holy walls to their highest point echo with your wails. May your finest giguna crumble into dust. May your pilasters of the standing Lahama deity guardians swoon and fall to the ground like young fools drunk on wine. May the very clay beneath your feet be returned to the holy Abzu ocean. There Enki awaits in his underwater domain to curse the clay of Akkad. May your grain turn back on itself and return to its furrow, cursed by Azeen. May your timber return to the forest where Ninilduma will curse it. May he who slaughters your cattle turn on his wife and slaughter her instead. May the sheep butcher take the knife to his own child. May the streets flood and clear the desperate poor. May your prostitute in her despair hang herself at the entrance of her brothel. May your pregnant Hyrodul temple servants and cult prostitutes miscarry their children. May your gold be bought for the price of silver. May your silver be bought for the price of pyrite. And may your copper be bought for the price of lead. Akkad, may your strong man lose his strength so that he cannot load his goods on the acids and command them. Rather, you will find him on his back in idleness all day. May all this make the city die of hunger. May all your spoiled citizens who only ate the finest foods now be reduced to eating grass. May the man chew the tar off his roof. May he gnaw at the leather hinges of the main door of his own father's house. May sorrow and depression fill all the halls of your palace, which had been built only for joy. Now may the evil desert wind howl through its windows, the sound of the silent place howling in Akkad without end. All manner of curse shall be upon Akkad. May foxes run from their unclean trash heaps and wipe themselves along the fences of your fattening pens to disease the animals within. May the ukuku, the bird of depression, make its nest in your main gates of the land, in your city that used to remain awake all night in joy, dancing to the tigi drums that could never rest because of your joy. Now know only the sacred bowls of Nana as they bellow like those who are lost in the desert, at the heart of the silent place. Neglect shall curse you everywhere. May the grass grow long on your canal bank towpaths. May the long grasses of the morning rituals grow on the highways and keep the wagons from moving. May wild rams and vipers guard your mountain passes and allow none to enter nor leave. And may your towpaths build up with sediment. In your fields of grass and grain may nothing grow but the cursed reeds of lamentation. Akkad, where before the tigress brought fresh water to you, now the river will only carry foul and brackish water to you. If anyone decides, I too will defy the gods and live here in Akkad, they will be cursed and never allowed any pleasure or rest in this place. Decreed by the god of justice, Utu, on that very day, the curse of the great gods came to be. On the canal bank towpaths, the grasses indeed grew long. On the highways, the grasses grew long enough to choke the wagons where they stood, and on the towpaths, sediment did build up. Wild rams and vipers did guard the mountain passes and none could come or go. On the wide plains that fed Akkad, the grains and grasses withered away and were replaced by the brittle reeds of lamentation. The waters of all the rivers flowed brackish and undrinkable. When a man thought to defy the gods and decide to dwell in Akkad, once he arrived there, he was haunted by its curse. And could not find any comfort or rest there. Inanna be praised for the destruction of Akkad.