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Long before Assyria annexed vast stretches of the Near East, its kings shaped the region through contracts. A network of oath-bound rulers formed the backbone of Assyria’s early imperial power. What later became one of history’s most formidable territorial empires began, surprisingly, as a diplomatic one, held together by agreements rather than governors.

In the ninth century BCE, Assyrian expansion moved outward from the Tigris Valley not through the wholesale takeover of foreign lands, but through a web of treaties. When an Assyrian king campaigned beyond his borders, he often chose not to dismantle local governments, but to bind their rulers through a sacred agreement. The local king would remain on his throne, keep his palace officials, and preserve internal autonomy. The state continued to function under its own laws and traditions.

What changed was its foreign policy. The ruler now recognized the Assyrian king as his superior and aligned himself with Assyria’s interests. The result was a form of imperial influence built not on direct rule but on managed sovereignty: kings ruled their own kingdoms, but in matters of diplomacy and war they were tethered to Assyria. The effect was a hegemonic order that allowed Assyria to expand its influence quickly and with remarkable efficiency.

Continue reading “Assyria, an empire of oaths”

For the last few weeks I’ve been writing extensively about the Assyrian Empire: the first state to dominate the entire Near East, the military colossus whose armies once conquered all lands between Egypt and Iran. We know its kings, its campaigns, its bureaucracy, and its monumental architecture. The stones of Nineveh and Nimrud still bear their names. And yet the man who destroyed Assyria — the one who besieged Assur, helped pull down Nineveh, and ended three centuries of imperial rule — remains almost invisible in the historical record. His name was Cyaxares.

Continue reading “Cyaxares, destroyer of Assyria”

When Psamtik I became ruler of Sais around 664 BCE, Egypt was a shadow of its former self. For half a century it had been ruled by the 25th Dynasty, kings from Kush who had briefly restored Egypt’s unity and power under rulers like Piye and Taharqa. Their expansion into the Levant, however, brought them into conflict with the rising empire of Assyria: a contest Egypt would ultimately lose.

Between 671 and 667 BCE, the Assyrian kings Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal invaded Egypt, captured Memphis, and forced Taharqa to retreat south. After their victory, the Assyrians withdrew most of their forces but left behind a network of loyal local princes to govern in their name. Among them was Necho I of Sais, the father of Psamtik.

Continue reading “Psamtik I of Egypt: from protégé to would-be savior”

Ancient Persia usually evokes images of the monumental palaces at Persepolis, the conquests of Cyrus the Great, and the legendary wars with Greece. The Achaemenid Empire is remembered as the world’s first superpower, a realm that stretched from Anatolia to India, commanding the cities along the Euphrates and the Tigris and the rich floodplains of the Nile.

It is mostly the western half of this empire that has captured the imagination of classical history. Yet beyond that well-lit world lay another half: vaster and far less known. At the eastern edge of the Iranian Plateau stretched an immense frontier where the empire bordered the steppes of Central Asia. Here lay the satrapies of Bactria, Margiana, and Sogdia: names that sound almost mythical today. To the Greeks they were remote and strange. To the Persians they were indispensable, though their voices barely echo in the surviving records.

The farther east we look, the closer we come to the origins of Iranian civilization. Long before Cyrus and Darius raised their palaces in the west, these frontier lands had already nurtured a vibrant civilization. One that may have forged the cultural and spiritual foundations of Iran itself. Archaeologists call it the Yaz culture.

Continue reading “The Yaz culture: cradle of Iranian civilization”

We all know the story. Or at least, we think we do. Once, the brightest of all the angels, Lucifer, grew proud. Unwilling to serve, he led a revolt in heaven, was cast down by God, and became Satan, ruler of hell. The proud light-bearer became the prince of darkness.

This story has echoed through the centuries as the archetype of hubris and humilitation. Its most famous telling is found in John Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667), where Lucifer — or Satan — is portrayed as a tragic, defiant hero, declaring:

“Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.”

Milton’s poetry fixed the myth in the Western imagination: the angelic rebel who fell from heaven through pride. Yet for all its influence, the story of Lucifer’s fall is not found anywhere in the Bible. It is the product of centuries of reinterpretation: an intricate fusion of Near Eastern mythology, Hebrew poetry, and early Christian theology.

Continue reading “Lucifer: from morning star to fallen angel”

The prophet Isaiah is often remembered for his fiery pleas for social justice, urging his people to “learn to do right, seek justice, defend the oppressed, take up the cause of the fatherless, and plead the case of the widow.” Yet he was no hermit crying out from the wilderness. He belonged to the very establishment he condemned. Educated, well connected, and likely linked to the royal court, Isaiah moved among Judah’s intellectual elite, but his prophetic calling was to confront that same elite with their own corruption. Speaking from within the corridors of power, he became the voice of those who had none, denouncing judges, lawmakers, and priests who exploited the poor and twisted justice into oppression.

He warned that Yahweh’s wrath would soon fall upon Judah, yet he never lost faith that Jerusalem and the House of David would endure. Isaiah’s theology held these two truths together: divine judgment is real, but it exists within a covenant that cannot be broken. He was, in short, both a prophet of doom and a guardian of hope, a moral realist in a collapsing world.

Continue reading “Isaiah’s take on Assyrian imperialism”

Across the shores of the ancient Mediterranean, a quiet revolution once took place. From the ninth century BCE onward, the Phoenicians of Tyre, Sidon, and Byblos began to establish new towns and trading enclaves far from home. They built their first stations on Cyprus, then along the coasts of North Africa, Sicily, and Spain. Each outpost — from Kition on Cyprus to Gadir (modern Cádiz) on the Atlantic — was both a port and a cultural bridgehead. Here, Phoenician merchants exchanged goods and ideas with local peoples. Over time, these settlements evolved into enduring centers of mixed identity, culminating in the rise of Carthage, itself the offspring of Tyre.

The Greeks soon followed. From the Aegean and Ionian coasts, settlers from cities such as Miletus, Corinth, and Megara founded colonies across the central and western Mediterranean, from Syracuse and Tarentum in Italy to Cyrene in Libya and Sinope on the Black Sea. These were purposefully founded communities: civic offshoots of their mother cities, tied to them by language and religion, yet politically independent. Each became an island of Hellenic life in a foreign landscape: a place where Greek temples rose beside indigenous shrines and where local artisans copied Greek styles as much as Greeks borrowed from them. Together, these settlements spread not only trade but also a shared visual language and worldview.

While these maritime peoples expanded westward, another power was transforming the lands between the Mediterranean and the Zagros Mountains. The Assyrian kings, ruling from cities like Kalhu (Nimrud), Dur-Šarrukin (Khorsabad), and Nineveh, were not seafarers but empire-builders on land. Through conquest and administration they linked the highlands of Iran with the plains of Syria and the shores of the Mediterranean. Yet their control depended not only on armies, but on settlements: enclaves established to channel goods, monitor borders, and assert imperial presence. The Assyrians called them karû, a word meaning “harbor” or “quay,” which came to designate trading quarters and frontier outposts under royal supervision.

Continue reading “Was Assyria a colonial empire?”

In western Iran, the Zagros Mountains stretch for about 1,500 km, forming a rugged barrier between the Mesopotamian Plain and the Iranian Highland. The landscape is harsh: steep ridges, narrow passes, deep valleys, and many peaks over 4,000 m. Seasonal snow and floodwaters further influence how people move and settle.

From early times, small and scattered communities lived here. Some farmed the valleys, others moved livestock between seasonal pastures. The terrain favored fortified settlements, and local chiefs who could gather armed followers or escape into the hills often held more practical power than distant kings. In this setting a ruler’s grip on power was never secure. Success depended on keeping subordinate chiefs loyal, controlling trade and movement routes, and managing the influence of stronger neighbours.

When empires such as Assyria and Urartu pressed into the region in the late 8th century BCE, smaller kingdoms faced a stark choice: resist (and risk destruction), or submit (and accept outside oversight). But submission did not always mean the end of authority. With the right strategy, it could help preserve it under imperial protection.

One of the most adept rulers in this context was Ullusunu of Mannaea. He shifted between Urartian and Assyrian support at key moments to secure and stabilize his rule. In doing so, he transformed the Zagros’ instability from a liability into an asset.

Continue reading “Ullusunu of Mannaea: king-broker between Assyria and Urartu”

In 853 BCE, on the plains near Qarqar, the armies of Assyria met a coalition of kings unlike anything seen before in the Near East. Shalmaneser III, king of Assyria, boasted that he faced twelve rulers united against him: Ben-Hadad of Damascus, Irhuleni of Hamath, Ahab of Israel, and a string of Phoenician, Transjordanian, and even Arabian allies. The Assyrian king, true to form, claimed a sweeping victory: rivers dammed with corpses, tens of thousands cut down. Yet Damascus and Hamath survived, Israel endured, and Shalmaneser was forced to return again and again in later years to campaign in the west.

The contradiction is striking: if Assyria truly triumphed at Qarqar, why did the Levant remain independent for decades afterward? The answer lies not only in the battle itself, but in the long-drawn conflict over the Levantine trade system. The battle of Qarqar was no accident, nor a desperate last stand. It was a clash between two ambitious projects: Assyria’s bid to extend its authority over the western trade routes and the Levantine states’ determination to keep that system in their own hands.

Continue reading “Qarqar (853 BCE): a battle for the Levantine trade system”

Imagine opening your inbox to find a message from the Assyrian king Sargon II (r. 722–705 BCE) himself. It begins reassuringly — “I am well, Assyria is well: you can be glad” — but quickly turns into a barrage of instructions: how to reply to Phrygia’s king, how to handle a rival vassal’s land-grab, how to manage a succession dispute, even how to stage the symbolic humiliation of local rulers. It was just another day at the office. For Aššur-šarru-uṣur, the Assyrian governor of Que — a former kingdom on the Cilician plain, now reduced to provincial status — diplomacy, intelligence, and administration were part of the same job description.

A letter like this is not only a fascinating glimpse into daily imperial business; it is also a crash course in how the Assyrian Empire managed its fragile seams. To appreciate it fully, we need to look at the wider historical and geopolitical context.

Continue reading “An Assyrian governor’s inbox”