The Epic of Anzû: One of Ancient Mesopotamia’s Coolest Action Scenes

Ancient Mesopotamia, Antiquity

It is probably safe to say that every human being – perhaps even any and all hominid! – appreciates a good story.1 We all like to be entertained, to be moved, to shudder with fear, and, when the mood is right, to take away points of view that are presented in the narrative which we can ponder with regard to our own life and the lives of those around us. And sometimes we see, read, or otherwise experience a story that is so good, that one cannot be anything else than in awe of the narrative excellence on display. The clever resolution to an intriguing battle of weapons, magic, and wits between one of the Mesopotamian gods and the fearsome Anzû bird, makes the ancient tale now known as the Epic of Anzû undoubtedly one such story.2

As with many stories from Mesopotamia – roughly modern Iraq and parts of Syria – that have survived the ravages of time through being written on durable clay tablets, there are many variations on this story that have come down to us in the present day. And especially with regard to the Anzû bird itself, this variation paints an interesting picture. While it occupies a benevolent role in some Sumerian tales, like Lugalbanda and the Anzû Bird, this mythical creature is presented as a trickster who has to be opposed in the aforementioned Akkadian Epic of Anzû. And it is, as you might expect, the latter story which gives us an action scene that would not have felt out of place in a modern book, motion picture, or television series.

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The Thunderbird and the God

The Anzû bird was a towering presence in the religions of Mesopotamia.3 And this is perhaps not even proverbial, as we deal here with an awesome thunderbird that personified meteorological forces and was able to create gusts and sandstorms with its wings. Its appearance matched that power, as this mythical bird is mostly described and depicted as an eagle with the head of a lion.4 The name Anzû, which is often read by modern scholars as Anzu(d) when the thunderbird appears in Sumerian texts, has no agreed upon etymology. But the meaning of the cuneiform signs that the Sumerians used to spell this name, IM.DUGUD, is instructive: heavy (storm) cloud.5 And this majestic creature rightfully figured in much narrative literature, as well as in art stretching back beyond the earliest surviving versions of these tales.6 Today, I will confine myself to two stories that feature the Anzû bird and which are specifically interesting because of their contrasts: these are the previously referenced Lugalbanda and the Anzû Bird and the Epic of Anzû. In these stories the Anzû bird is portrayed wildly differently with regard to its dealings with an array of (semi-)divine beings. Its characterization here ranges from being kind-hearted to displaying disquieting ambitions.

The former tale can be found in a four part story cycle that has been preserved in two poems in the Sumerian language from the beginning of the second millennium BCE, Lugalbanda in the Wilderness and The Return of Lugalbanda. As these modern designations might have already revealed, this story cycle centered on the deified king Lugalbanda of the city of Uruk, modern Warka in southern Iraq.7 A king who is coincidentally often viewed as the father of the legendary hero and, more importantly, regular visitor of Bildungblocks Gilgamesh.8 In the part of the second poem that is today known as Lugalbanda and the Anzû Bird, the titular king is stranded in a mysterious realm on the edge of the known world. There he finds a chick of the Anzû bird and treats it kindly. In return for this civility the Anzû Bird flies Lugalbanda with the utmost speed and convenience to his next adventure. Among other boons, it also blesses the arrows of Lugalbanda – the ultimate irony of which will become apparent shortly.9 Not only is the thunderbird benevolent to our protagonist, but it is also described as a guardian of natural environs, like mountains and rivers.10 A role which it received from the erstwhile head of the Mesopotamian pantheon, the great god Enlil. The Anzû bird appears in this story to be a godlike creature, for all intents and purposes, whose family wears curiously human adornments.11 But this wholesome portrayal was not universal throughout all depictions.

In some of the Akkadian stories, for example, the Anzû bird displays more antagonistic characteristics.12 The tale that interests us here most is the Epic of Anzû, which has primarily been preserved in two versions, that are available to us in several incomplete copies.13 The oldest version was written in the Old-Babylonian dialect of the Akkadian language and is known from rather fragmentary manuscripts that were written in the first half of the second millennium BCE. In this version the god Ningirsu opposes the Anzû bird. Then there is the more complete version in the literary dialect of the Akkadian language that we call Standard-Babylonian and which first appeared towards the end of the second millennium BCE. In this version it is the god Ninurta that has been saddled with the duty to fight mythical creatures.14 That it is specifically those two deities who play musical chairs within these epics, is perfectly explainable. Because these two warrior gods, the former Sumerian and the latter Akkadian, were already equated or even merged from a pretty early point in the history of ancient Mesopotamia.15 And to tidy things up, at the end of the Standard-Babylonian version of the Epic of Anzû, the god Ninurta earns the very name of Ningirsu!16 As such, it is no surprise that in our various sources, which include texts as well as artworks, both gods seem to exhibit an implacable enmity towards the Anzû bird.17 But why did they have to fight the Anzû bird? And what bold be it entertaining strategies did they eventually apply to this intimidating task?

Victory through Cunning

The modern designation of our tale as the ‘Epic of Anzû’, as Amar Annus wryly notes, is rather curious.18 As the Anzû bird is not the main character, that would be the respective gods. The Standard-Babylonian version of the Epic of Anzû even opens with praise for the god Ninurta, which would not have looked out of place on a LinkedIn-profile.19 But like with many modern classics, it is the bad guy – so to speak – who takes center stage.

At the start of the epic, the world has not yet been fully formed. The god Ea implores the aforementioned head of the pantheon Enlil to offer employment to the Anzû bird, apparently in a ploy to undermine the position of the more senior god.20 From his new position, the Anzû bird watches how Enlil gives the gods their respective tasks and more generally exercises his kingship of the universe. Coveting such authority and the adjacent trappings for itself, the Anzû bird waits until Enlil takes a bath and makes off with the magical tablet that holds the power to decree the destiny of all things.21 This is, as you can imagine, a disaster. Enlil tries to recruit a god to retrieve the tablet, but he is repeatedly turned down. Eventually it is, depending on the version, Ningirsu or Ninurta who is enticed. Coincidentally it is Ea who convinces the respective gods’ mother to call upon the warrior god, so he can be given this task.22 And so Ningursa or Ninurta, again depending on the version, marches to the lair of the Anzû bird. Which brings us to the memorable action scene that I promised at the outset.

The turn of events that constitutes this scene is present in both the Old-Babylonian and Standard-Babylonian version.23 Though I will rely more on the latter, as it is more elaborate. The battle against the Anzû bird proves difficult from the outset. Because it is now in possession of the tablet that determines the destiny of all things, the mighty thunderbird can simply decree Ninurta’s weapons harmless. So the Anzû bird orders the arrows of Ninurta to be send back to the thicket from which they were cut and the wood of his bow to return to the forest where it came from. He also banishes the sinews which constitute the bow string back to the bodies of the sheep and the feathers on the arrow shafts are to be restored to the birds.

l. II.61: The shaft did not approach Anzu but returned!
l. II.62: Anzu cried out against it:
l. II.63: ,,Shaft that has come, go back to your thicket.
l. II.64: Frame of the bow to your forests.
l. II.65: Bowstring to the sheep’s sinews, feather to the birds: go back!”
l. II.66: Because he held the tablet of destinies of the gods in his hand,
l. II.67: the bowstring brought forth arrows, they did not approach his body.24

Out of options, and in a fashion that contemporary heroes from both page and screen would approve, Ninurta turns to a trusty gadget. He uses his deified weapon Šarur, who is also his staunch advisor, to communicate with Ea.25 The latter god once again proves himself crafty and, through Šarur, gives Ninurta detailed instructions to turn the tablet of destinies against the Anzû bird. The important thing is that he has to strike at the pinions of the thunderbird.26

1. III.10: He [Ninurta] took a sword behind his arrows
1. III.11: and cut of his wings, detached right and left.
l. lIII.12: When he [the Anzû bird] saw his feathers, it brought out the utterance of his mouth.
l. III.13: When he cried, ,,Feathers to feathers!” the arrow found him.
l. III.14: The arrow passed through his heart.
l. III.15: As for the wings and feathers, he made the arrow pass through them.
l. III.16: The arrow cut through the heart and the lungs.27

Indeed, when the Anzû bird orders its feathers to return to it and so restore its wings, the arrows that the thunderbird previously decreed disassembled appear in the place they were meant to go – the chest of the mythical creature. Because the arrows, as you might have guessed by now, were partly made of feathers! In a very real sense, the Anzû bird ultimately kills itself through the power of the artefact he had stolen.28 And this makes its blessing for another hero’s arrows in our Sumerian story so tragically ironic. With his foe now defeated, Ninurta takes possession of the tablet of destinies. But he only returns it to the other gods, when they award him with a more prominent place within the pantheon.29 It is during this exaltation that the god receives his new titles, including the aforementioned name Ningirsu and, in a moment of serendipity with regard to our current journey through these ancient stories, the name Lugalbanda!30

Interpretations of the Two Anzû tales

Thus it was through communication and cunning that Ninurta defeated the fearsome thunderbird and restored the burgeoning world order. And it is that world order which is often said to provide the deeper meaning of this contest between a god and a mythical creature. Alan Lenzi, for example, notes that some of the most important themes here concern political ideology.31 Because both versions of the Epic of Anzû emphasize the importance of kingship as well as justify the use of violence – be it delayed – against those who would threaten the status quo.32 If we move beyond such political justifications we find interpretations like the one furthered by Anna Perdibon, who convincingly argues that the disparate characterization of the Anzû bird in Sumerian tales like Lugalbanda and the Anzû Bird and the Akkadian Epic of Anzû “points to historical changes and developments between the Sumerian and Akkadian mythical and religious frameworks.”33 Which is interesting, as questions regarding the extent to which there were once separate Sumerian and Akkadian cultures – at least as far as they can be discerned through our sources – are still very much debated within Assyriology.34 What’s more, studying the trajectory of these stories throughout antiquity may show us in addition that different views of the world, its inhabitants, and the supernatural might have continued to exist side by side within broadly the same culture.35

In addition to these more abstract interpretations, we can also view the Epic of Anzû as providing those who read or heard it with explanations for why the experience of everyday life in the world of antiquity was the way it was. The opening section of the Standard-Babylonian version of the Epic of Anzû, for example, narrates the primordial origins of the two most important rivers of ancient Mesopotamia: the Euphrates and the Tigris.36 And the veneration of the gods, including the prominence of Ninurta in Mesopotamian religion, is naturally also scaffolded.37 As stories have done throughout the ages, the tales about the Anzû bird were part of humans making sense of and giving meaning to the world around them.38

Conclusion: The Accessibility of Stories

Now you are probably thinking: this is so cool, for the lack of a better word, why have I never heard about these stories? Because the reasons for which some ancient tales and texts, but not others, are dispersed throughout popular culture when they resurface – be it through the renewed interest in old manuscripts that have been copied for many centuries, the reporting on eras spanning oral traditions, or the rediscovery of clay tablets and other documents from archeological findings – are often erratic and somewhat unpredictable. The initial popularity of the Epic of Gilgamesh, for example, can in part be connected to the curiosity about the flood story therein. As at the time of the epic’s first translation, scholars had a keen interest in connecting ancient texts to the bible, which rather famously also contains a flood story.39 But why one clay tablet with a complaint about a defective copper delivery and the adjacent rude treatment of an employee took the worldwide web by storm, while other, roughly similar texts – even from that very same find place! – remain unnoticed, continues to baffle me.40 My outlook in these matters remains optimistic, though. I believe very strongly that every ancient tale shall eventually get its moment in the proverbial sun – even those without action scenes!

And blogs such as these, I hope, will help to bring a larger audience to specifically all those fascinating stories from ancient Mesopotamia that are finally accessible again in the modern day. And the fact that anyone can nowadays easily read translations of texts like Lugalbanda and the Anzû bird and the Epic of Anzû when they will inevitably become popular again, is in large part thanks to the decades long efforts of a lot of dedicated scholars, many of which I have cited above. So when the inevitable action film about the Anzû bird is made, I would expect that they won’t be forgotten – both in acknowledgements and renumeration!

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References

  1. April Nowell, Growing Up in the Ice Age: Fossil and Archaeological Evidence of the Lived Lives of Plio-Pleistocene Children (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2021), p. 107; Michelle Scalise Sugiyama, “Oral Storytelling as Evidence of Pedagogy in Forager Societies”, Frontiers in Psychology 2017, 8 (471), p. 9.
  2. Alan Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature: Contexts and Content (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2019), p. 89-90.
  3. Jeremy A. Black & Anthony Green, Gods, Demons, and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia: An Illustrated Dictionary (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1992), 107-108. For an overview of the tales wherein the Anzû bird appears, see: Gwendolyn Leick, A Dictionary of Ancient Near Eastern Mythology (London New York: Routledge, 1998), p. 9-10.
  4. Selena Wisnom, Weapons of Words: Intertextual Competition in Babylonian Poetry – A Study of Anzū, Enūma eliš, and Erra and Išum (Leiden: Brill, 2020), p. 33; Anthony Green, “Ancient Mesopotamian Religious Iconography”, in: Jack M. Sasson (ed.), Civilizations of the Ancient Near East (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1995), p. 1851-1852. This appearance might have represented its meteorological powers. As storms may appear to roar like lions, for example, see: Chicako Watanabe, “Composite Animals in Mesopotamia as Cultural Symbols”, in: Silvana di Paolo (ed.), Composite Artefacts in the Ancient Near East: Exhibiting an Imaginative Materiality, Showing a Genealogical Nature (Oxford: Archeopress, 2018), p. 33-34.
  5. Herman L.J. Vanstiphout, Epics of Sumerian Kings: The Matter of Aratta, edited by Jerrold S. Cooper (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), p. 18, note 33. Two remarks are necessary here: often the word is followed by a sign indicating that we deal here with a bird – 𒄷, read as MUŠEN – and a regular variation on the Sumerian spelling of this name is IM.MI, see: Bendt Alster, “Contributions to the Sumerian Lexicon”, Revue d’Assyriologie et d’Archéologie Orientale 1991, 85 (1), p. 1-2; Rykle Borger, Mesopotamisches Zeichenlexikon (Münster: Ugarit Verlag, 2003), p. 179, 184. Though my confident statements here paper over a large amount of uncertainty regarding the actual name of the Anzû bird in various periods in antiquity. An uncertainty that is the subject of much scholarly debate. One complicating factor is the way in which these names were written in the original cuneiform script. Especially how one assesses the cuneiform sign DIĜIR, 𒀭, is relevant here. This sign could denote the word for ‘god’ in both Akkadian and Sumerian, signal the divinity of the name or word it preceded, and spell the syllables /an/ and /il/, see: Borger, Mesopotamisches Zeichenlexikon, p. 49-50; Andreas Fuls, “Classifying Undeciphered Writing Systems”, Historische Sprachforschung/Historical Linguistics 2015, 128 (1), p. 43; Catherine Mittenmayer, Altbabylonische Zeichenliste der Sumerisch-Literarischen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck, Ruprecht, 2006), p. 5-6; Christopher Woods, “The Emergence of Cuneiform Writing”, in: Rebecca Hasselbach-Andee (ed.), A Companion to Ancient Near Eastern Languages (Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons, 2020), p. 35-36. It is defensible that the presence of this sign before the Sumerian spelling IM.DUGUD alludes to the divinity of this mythical thunderbird. Though one can also argue that the sign DIĜIR should be read here as the syllable /an/ and that these signs should be considered as spelling something together. Then we would have the sign readings AN, IM, and DUGUD which spell the Sumerian word an.im.dugud – or an.im.mi, if we deal with AN, IM, and MI. The Akkadian writing of the creature’s name, which mostly combines the sign DIĜIR with cuneiform signs that spell variations of the syllable ‘zu(m)’ depending on the relevant case-ending, presents us with even more problems. Does it simply spell the expected ‘Anzû(m)’? Or should we read DIĜIR here as the sign signaling divinity plus the syllable ‘zu(m)’, which would mean something like ‘heavenly eagle’? Experts still disagree on most of these matters and perhaps it is wisest to conclude that there were multiple readings, see: Alster, “Contributions to the Sumerian Lexicon”, p. 1-5; Thorkild Jacobsen, “God or Worshipper”, in: Albert Leonard jr. & Bruce Beyer Williams, Essays in Ancient Civilization Presented to Helene J. Kantor (Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago 1989), p. 129, note 18. For the clarity of this blog I resign myself to the consensus as described by Vanstiphout, see: Vanstiphout, Epics of Sumerian Kings, p. 18, note 33.
  6. Black & Green, Gods, Demons, and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia, p. 107-108.
  7. Vanstiphout, Epics of Sumerian Kings, p. 97. On the hypothesized (semi-)divinity of Lugalbanda, see: Claus Wilcke, “Lugalbanda”, in: Erich Ebeling et al (eds.), Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie – Band 7: Libanuksabas – Medizin (Berlin: The Gruyter, 1990), p. 117-132. In this Sumerian story, the city is of course called by its Sumerian name, that being Unug. But as the Akkadian name Uruk is more well-known, with the Classical Hebrew Erech coming in a close second, I have stuck with Uruk to avoid unnecessary confusion, see: Ibidem, p. 1. As an interesting aside, Johannes Haubold obliquely compares this story cycle to the Homeric Hymns, which we discussed some time ago, see: Johannes Haubold, Greece and Mesopotamia: Dialogues in Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), p. 57.
  8. Black & Green, Gods, Demons, and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia, p. 123.
  9. Leick, A Dictionary of Ancient Near Eastern Mythology, p. 112.
  10. Anna Perdibon, Mountains and Trees, Rivers and Springs: Animistic Beliefs and Practices in Ancient Mesopotamian Religion (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2019), p. 175-176. These are not the only natural environments that are associated with the Anzû bird. In the prelude to the fable Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld, the Anzû bird nests in a sacred Ḫalub-tree, see: Black & Green, Gods, Demons, and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia, p. 107-108.
  11. Perdibon, Mountains and Trees, Rivers and Springs, p. 176.
  12. Wisnom, Weapons of Words, p. 65.
  13. Stephanie Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation, the Flood, Gilgamesh, and Others (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), p. 203.
  14. Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 88; Benjamin Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (Bethesda: CDL Press, 2005), p. 555-556. Though the dating of the Old-Babylonian version can be debated, see: Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 88, note 44.
  15. Wisnom, Weapons of Words, p. 35, 43-44; Leick, A Dictionary of Ancient Near Eastern Mythology, p. 131. See in general: Amar Annus, The god Ninurta in the Mythology and Royal Ideology of Ancient Mesopotamia (Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Corpus Project, 2002).
  16. Epic of Anzu, tablet III, line 128; supra note 15.
  17. Wisnom, Weapons of Words, p. 36.
  18. Amar Annus, The Standard Babylonian Epic of Anzu: Introduction, Cuneiform Text, Transliteration, Score, Glossary, Indices And Sign List (Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2001), p. ix. As was customary in Mesopotamia, the text used to be designated through referencing its first phrase, that being bin šar dadmē. This sentence concerns the god opposing the Anzû bird and means ‘son of the king of habitations’, see: Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 88, note 43.
  19. Wisnom, Weapons of Words, p. 64-65; Annus, The Standard Babylonian Epic of Anzu, p. x.
  20. Foster, Before the Muses, p. 555. For Ea’s machinations, see in general: Samuel Kramer, “Enki and his Inferiority Complex”, Orientalia 1970, 39 (1), p. 103-110.
  21. Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 89. For the tablet of destinies, see: Foster, Before the Muses, p. 445, note 2; Jack Lawson, The Concept of Fate in Ancient Mesopotamia of the First Millennium: Toward an Understanding of Šīmtu (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1994), p. 19-25.
  22. The mother, variously known as Mami and Belet-ili, receives a new title in order to flatter her, see: Foster, Before the Muses, p. 558, 367; Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 91.
  23. For a commentary on the relevant passages of the Old-Babylonian version, see: Michael P. Streck, “Notes on the Old Babylonian Epics of Anzu and Etana”, Journal of the American Oriental Society 2009, 129 (3), p. 483.
  24. For this translation, see: Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 90.
  25. On the many adventures in ancient Mesopotamian narrative literature involving Šarur, see: Wisnom, Weapons of Words, p, 40-42; Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 90, note 55.
  26. For more details on Ninurta’s second attempt, see: Leick, A Dictionary of Ancient Near Eastern Mythology, p. 10.
  27. For this translation, see: Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 90. On the death of the Anzû bird in general, see: Benjamin Studevent-Hickman, “Language, Speech, and the Death of Anzu”, in: Jeffrey Stackert, Barbara Nevling Porter & David P. Wright (eds.), Gazing on the Deep: Ancient Near Eastern and Other Studies in Honor of Tzvi Abusch (Bethesda: CDL Press, 2010), p. 273-292.
  28. Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 90; Studevent-Hickman, “Language, Speech, and the Death of Anzu”, 290-291.
  29. Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 91; Annus, The Standard Babylonian Epic of Anzu, p. xiii.
  30. Epic of Anzu, tablet III, line 147. See also: Wisnom, Weapons of Words, p. 44.
  31. Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 91.
  32. Ibidem. See also: Annus, The Standard Babylonian Epic of Anzu, p. xi, xiv.
  33. Perdibon, Mountains and Trees, Rivers and Springs, p. 176.
  34. Jerrold Cooper, “Sumerian Literature and Sumerian Identity”, in: Kim Ryholt & Gojko Barjamovic (eds.), Problems of Canonicity and Identity Formation in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2016), p. 1-14; Henri Limet, “Ethnicity”, in: Daniel C. Snell (ed.), A Companion to the Ancient Near East (Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), p. 370-371.
  35. Perdibon, Mountains and Trees, Rivers and Springs, p. 176.
  36. Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 91; Foster, Before the Muses, p. 555.
  37. Wisnom, Weapons of Words, p. 64; Lenzi, An Introduction to Akkadian Literature, p. 91.
  38. Christopher Schliephake, The Environmental Humanities and the Ancient World: Questions and Perspectives (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), p. 18-19.
  39. Louise Pryke, Gilgamesh (Abingdon: Routledge, 2019), p. 190-192. But there are also other connections to the world of the Bible that go beyond the flood story, see: Ibidem, p. 192-197.
  40. Amanda Podany, Weavers, Scribes, and Kings: A New History of the Ancient Near East (New York: Oxford University Press, 2022), p. 1-2, 10; Ernst Arbouw, “Eén Ster in Spijkerschrift”, deVolkskrant 19 October 2024, Boeken en Wetenschap, p. 23. For examples of such similar texts, see: Wilhelmus Leemans, Foreign Trade in the Old Babylonian Period: As Revealed by Texts from Southern Mesopotamia (Leiden: Brill, 1960), p. 48-54.