Power in Miniature: Elite Identity in Early Dynastic Mesopotamia

 by Mary Harrsch © 2025

These striking pendants that I photographed at the Oriental Institute at the University of Chicago—crafted from lapis lazuli, silver, and carnelian—were found in a hoard at Tell Asmar (ancient Eshnunna) in the Diyala River Valley and date to the Early Dynastic Period (ca. 2900–2300 BCE). Though small in scale, they open a vivid window onto a world defined by competition, prestige, and long-distance connections.

These Early Dynastic pendants from Tell Asmar combine imported lapis lazuli with silver and carnelian, transforming personal adornment into a statement of power, protection, and elite status within a competitive world of Mesopotamian city-states (ca. 2900–2300 BCE). Photographed at the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

My research revealed Early Dynastic Mesopotamia was not yet a unified land, but a mosaic of independent city-states, each ruled by its own elite families and governed through a delicate balance of palace authority, temple institutions, and divine sanction. Eshnunna occupied a strategic position between southern Mesopotamia and the Iranian plateau, allowing its rulers and elites to control trade routes that brought rare materials—such as lapis lazuli from Afghanistan and carnelian from the east—into the city.

The animal-headed pendants seen here, including bulls and felines, were not merely decorative. In Early Dynastic visual culture, such imagery conveyed power, protection, fertility, and divine favor. Bulls evoked strength and abundance; predatory animals suggested authority and aggression—qualities essential for elites navigating a volatile political landscape marked by frequent rivalry and warfare between neighboring cities.

Personal adornment in this period functioned as a form of portable identity. Wearing precious imported materials signaled access to trade networks, high social rank, and proximity to religious or administrative power. That these objects were discovered together in a hoard suggests a moment of crisis—perhaps political upheaval or violent conflict—when valuables were concealed for safekeeping and never retrieved.

These pendants belong to the final centuries of the city-state system, just before the rise of large territorial empires such as that of Sargon of Akkad. They capture a moment when power in Mesopotamia was intensely local, highly competitive, and expressed through piety, warfare, and display—on the body as much as in monumental architecture.

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Violence Contained: Dogs and Cosmic Control in Ancient Mesopotamia

by Mary Harrsch © 2025

As a dog lover, this ceramic impression from ancient Iraq made me flinch. However, I learned this relief depicting two men restraining the leashes of two dogs locked in combat, especially from the Early Dynastic through Old Babylonian periods, was not what I had assumed, a depiction of animals fighting for entertainment.

Two men restrain fighting dogs in a symbolic scene emphasizing control over dangerous forces—a common metaphor in Mesopotamian art linked to protection, healing, and cosmic order rather than entertainment. Photographed at the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

My research revealed there is no evidence that organized dog fighting existed as a public spectacle in ancient Mesopotamia.

Instead, scenes like this belong to a long tradition of symbolic animal combat in Mesopotamian art. Dogs held a complex and powerful place in Mesopotamian belief systems. They were closely associated with healing deities—most notably the goddess Gula—and were understood as protective, liminal creatures capable of warding off illness and malevolent forces.

The key element here is not the dogs’ aggression, but the human control exerted over it. The men restraining the animals signal mastery over dangerous forces rather than indulgence in violence. In Mesopotamian visual language, such controlled conflict often functioned as a metaphor for maintaining cosmic and social order—chaos is present, but it is contained.

Rather than documenting an event, this image communicates an idea: power restrained, danger mastered, and balance preserved. It is a reminder that ancient art often speaks symbolically, not literally—and that animals in Mesopotamian imagery frequently serve as expressions of divine or protective force rather than subjects of entertainment.

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Manufacturing Power: Cavalry and the Assyrian State

 by Mary Harrsch © 2025

This small clay figurine of a horse and rider I photographed at the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago reflects one of the most consequential military innovations of the ancient Near East: the Assyrian transformation of horseback riding into an organized arm of state warfare.

This Assyrian clay figurine of a horse and rider reflects a major military transformation of the early first millennium BCE. The rider’s face was made using a mold, while the rest of the figure was hand modeled—an efficient method that allowed for mass production and visual standardization. Rather than portraying an individual, the figurine represents a role: the mounted soldier as part of a disciplined, state-controlled cavalry force. Found as a grave good, objects like this show how Assyria’s militarized identity extended beyond the battlefield into everyday beliefs about power, protection, and the afterlife. Photographed at the Oriental Institute, University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

My research revealed while earlier cultures knew how to ride horses, the Assyrians were the first to institutionalize cavalry as a permanent, tactically integrated component of their army. Beginning in the ninth and eighth centuries BCE, mounted troops were no longer occasional scouts or messengers but regular units supported by state-controlled breeding programs, training systems, and logistical networks. Horses became strategic assets, carefully counted, branded, and redistributed by the crown.

The way this figurine was made mirrors that political reality. The rider’s face was produced using a mold, while the rest of the figure was modeled by hand. This combination allowed for efficient mass production while preserving a basic human form. The result is not an individualized portrait, but a standardized type—the Assyrian rider as a role rather than a person. This reflects a military system that valued discipline, interchangeability, and bureaucratic control over heroic individuality.

This shift had profound political meaning. The Neo-Assyrian Empire defined itself through constant military readiness. Annual campaigns were expected of kings, and success in war was presented as proof of divine favor from the god Aššur. Cavalry offered speed, flexibility, and reach across difficult terrain—qualities essential for maintaining imperial control over vast territories.

These advantages fed directly into Assyrian royal ideology, which emphasized perpetual campaign readiness and divine mandate to impose order. The normalization of cavalry—reflected even in small grave figurines—signals how deeply this military transformation shaped Assyrian identity.

Including a mounted figure in a burial may have expressed loyalty to the state, a desire for protection in the afterlife, or identification with Assyria’s most powerful institution: its army.

In miniature form, this object echoes the same message proclaimed in monumental palace reliefs. Assyrian power rested not only on violence, but on organization, repetition, and the normalization of military identity as a foundation of social and cosmic order.

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Shimmering Spirits of an Emerging Empire: Goldwork from the Rise of the Achaemenids

 by Mary Harrsch ©2025

I photographed this extraordinary gold pendant—now in the collections of the Princeton University Art Museum but on loan to The Field Museum in Chicago—and was immediately struck by its intricate, world of animals and sacred symbols. The pendant's surface is alive with detail: a radiant bird spreads its wings at the top, while two powerful goats rear up on either side of a stylized tree of life. Even the lower register is packed with sinuous forms, ending in delicate dangling leaf-like elements that would have shimmered with every movement.

Gold pendant with goats, bird, and apotropaic mask, late 7th to early 6th century, Western Iran (?), Princeton University Art Museum. Photographed by the author.

Dated to the late 7th–early 6th century BCE, this piece has no recorded find spot, but its imagery speaks volumes. The pairing of a sacred tree with flanking goats is a deeply rooted symbol in Western Iranian and early Achaemenid art, appearing on seals, metalwork, and elite ornaments from the region during the rise of the Persian Empire. The bird above—part guardian, part emblem of divine presence—echoes motifs used by artisans working in the orbit of Median and early Achaemenid courts.

The Tree of Life and Master of Animals motifs, which would later become powerful symbols of Achaemenid imperial authority, are not Persian inventions but inheritances from far older civilizations.

The Tree of Life, first appearing in Mesopotamian art of the 4th millennium BCE during the Uruk period, symbolized fertility, eternal life, and a cosmic link between heaven and earth, often depicted with flanking animals.

The Master of Animals motif, with a probable Neolithic precursor at Çatalhöyük around 6000 BCE, was standardized in Mesopotamia as a heroic figure subduing beasts, representing the triumph of order over chaos and elite dominion over nature.

The Achaemenid Empire (c. 550–330 BCE) masterfully adopted and adapted these ancient, widespread symbols. They reinterpreted the Tree of Life, frequently using the date palm or cedar, to signify royal power and divine favor bestowed upon the king. Simultaneously, they depicted their monarchs in the classic "Master" pose on seals and reliefs, visually asserting the Persian king's role as the central, divinely-sanctioned controller of all worldly forces, thus embedding their new dynasty within a timeless, Near Eastern tradition of sacred kingship.

At the bottom of the pendant, a frontal, mask-like face gazes outward. Its large staring eyes and flowing tendrils give it a Medusa-like presence, but it does not depict a Greek Gorgon Instead, it belongs to a shared ancient Near Eastern tradition of apotropaic masks. These guardian visages were meant to ward off danger—functionally much like the gorgoneia of Greek art—even though they arose from different mythologies.

The pendant's breathtaking craftsmanship displays the inclusion of fine granulation and beaded filigree, tiny gold spheres and wires arranged with astonishing precision. It reflects a technical mastery typical of luxury workshops active in western Iran during this transitional era, just as Achaemenid visual language was beginning to crystallize.

Although its original owner remains unknown, this pendant captures the spirit of a developing cosmology—where sacred creatures, royal symbols, protective spirits, and shimmering gold announced status, belief, and connection to emerging imperial power.

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Jewels at the Edge of Empire: An Egyptian Goddess from the Land of Canaan

 by Mary Harrsch © 2025

I'm still working on images of exhibits I photographed in 2009 at The Field Museum in Chicago, IL in preparation for uploading them to Wikimedia Commons and came across these images of this stunning necklace of carnelian and gold from Deir el-Balah, dated to the 13th century BCE, featuring a small gold pendant of the goddess Hathor.

Deir el-Balah lies on the southern Levantine coast, in what is now Gaza. During the Late Bronze Age it sat along the great Via Maris, the land route that connected Egypt with Canaan, Syria, and the broader Near East. By the 13th century BCE, this stretch of coastline had become an important Egyptian outpost—part military installation, part administrative center, and part hub for the movement of goods and officials across the empire.

My research revealed excavations at the site uncovered unmistakable signs of Egyptian presence: Ramesside-style anthropoid coffins, Egyptian pottery, faience amulets, scarabs, and architecture built in Egyptian fashion. Yet these objects weren’t simply imported—they were part of a cultural blend, produced and used by a local population living under Egyptian rule but still deeply connected to Canaanite traditions.

Carnelian and gold were elite materials associated with prestige, diplomacy, and official status. The fiery red-orange beads were almost certainly made from carnelian quarried in Egypt’s Eastern Desert, the primary source used by New Kingdom artisans. Their smooth but slightly irregular shapes are characteristic of Egyptian beadmaking, where each piece was individually ground, drilled, and polished rather than mass-produced. This style contrasts with the highly standardized, heat-treated carnelian beads traded from the Indus Valley in earlier centuries.

The presence of Hathor is also especially telling. As the goddess of music, beauty, fertility, and safe journeys, Hathor was a traveler’s protectress and a familiar divine presence in Egypt’s frontier zones. Her image appears everywhere Egyptians moved—across Sinai, down into Nubia, and along the Levantine coast.

So this necklace represents a snapshot of life in a borderland where Egyptian administrators, soldiers, merchants, and local Canaanite communities interacted daily. Its materials, craftsmanship, and iconography reflect a world where political power, religious symbolism, and cultural exchange flowed freely along the edges of pharaoh's domain.

This piece was loaned to The Field Museum by The Israel Museum in Jerusalem.

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