Hearing Power: Sound and Authority in the Ancient World

by Mary Harrsch © 2026

I was uploading closeup images I took of Shalmaneser III’s black obelisk to Wikimedia Commons and noticed this photograph with what looked like a court musician playing a cornu-like curved trumpet. I was curious whether the Romans had inherited this instrument from the Near East—or whether its resemblance was deceptive—prompting a deeper investigation into how sound functioned as authority across ancient empires.

Detail of a cast of the black obelisk of Assyrian king Shalmaneser III showing accompanying musicians and tribute bearers. I photographed this cast at the Institute of the Study of Ancient Cultures at the University of Chicago. The original is in the British Museum.

When we imagine ancient empires, we tend to picture monuments: towering walls, colossal statues, reliefs carved in stone. Yet power in the ancient world was not only something to be seen. It was also something to be heard. Long before amplification or mass literacy, rulers and states relied on sound—music, horns, trumpets, drums, and ritual noise—to make authority present, unavoidable, and legitimate.

Across ancient cultures, sound functioned as a technology of power. It marked sacred time, structured political ritual, summoned communities, and, eventually, commanded armies. Tracing how sound was used across imperial societies reveals not a single tradition but a series of distinct “acoustic regimes,” each reflecting a different conception of authority itself.

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Sound as Ritual Order in Mesopotamia

In the empires of Mesopotamia—Assyria and Babylonia above all—sound was inseparable from scenes of tribute, procession, or submission. Curved horns, long trumpets, lyres, and drums appear not as entertainment but as instruments of cosmic order. They framed events as ritually sanctioned and divinely approved. When foreign rulers bowed before the Assyrian king, as on the Black Obelisk of Shalmaneser III, music marked the moment as part of a universal order upheld by the gods. The king himself is often silent; sound belongs to the ritual space, not to the mechanics of command or the ruler’s voice.

Here, authority is not shouted or signaled tactically. It is performed—made audible as harmony, continuity, and inevitability.

The Assyrian Empire is rightly famous for its military effectiveness, yet its use of sound differed fundamentally from later Roman practice. In Assyria, sound framed power ritually and psychologically, while control of troops relied primarily on visual command, pre-arranged action, and hierarchical proximity, not real-time acoustic signaling.

Royal reliefs frequently depict musicians accompanying scenes of tribute, procession, and submission. Curved horns and long trumpets appear prominently, but their role was not to issue battlefield instructions. Instead, they marked events as ritually sanctioned and divinely approved. When foreign rulers bowed before the Assyrian king, as on the Black Obelisk of Shalmaneser III, music transformed the moment into a public enactment of cosmic order upheld by the gods. The king himself is silent; sound belongs to the ritual space, not to the mechanics of command.

On the battlefield, Assyrian armies were controlled less by signal than by preplanned choreography. Movements were ordered in advance and executed according to expectation rather than continuous adjustment. Infantry advanced, missile troops fired, and cavalry exploited success in sequences that were understood beforehand. Once engagement began, there is no evidence for a codified system of horn calls equivalent to Roman advance, halt, or regroup signals.

Instead, Assyrian command relied on visual authority. Officers were positioned close to their units, commands were delivered by voice and gesture, and royal standards and banners acted as focal points for alignment. Reliefs emphasize proximity, eye contact, and the physical presence of authority. This system worked effectively so long as formations remained coherent and commanders visible.

Even Assyria’s pioneering use of cavalry followed this logic. Cavalry units did not maneuver independently in response to signals but were introduced at recognizable phases of battle—screening, pursuit, or exploitation once the enemy line collapsed. Their deployment was triggered by visible conditions, not acoustic command.

Sound, when present, served other purposes: intimidation, ritual framing, and psychological dominance. Drums and horns amplified fear and authority, but they did not encode instruction. Authority was performed, not transmitted.

This model of warfare suited Assyria’s strategic aims. Assyrian battle sought shock, terror, and collapse rather than prolonged tactical maneuver. Control flowed downward from visible authority, not outward through an abstract system of signals. When the king or senior commanders were present, command was absolute; when they were absent, resilience was limited.

In this sense, Assyrian power was ocular and hierarchical, not acoustic and systemic. Sound upheld cosmic order and royal legitimacy, but it did not manage complexity. That final transformation—sound as an autonomous instrument of command—would not occur until Rome.

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Egypt: Sound as Divine Presence and Status Change

In ancient Egypt, sound functioned less as command than as transformation. Music, noise, and trumpet blasts were believed to activate divine presence and sustain maat, the cosmic balance that ordered the universe. Instruments such as sistra, drums, and long trumpets were therefore not merely accompaniments to ritual and warfare; they were mechanisms through which a moment changed its status—from ordinary to sacred, from preparation to action, from action to completion.

A silver Egyptian trumpet found in the tomb of Tutankhamun. Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons contributor Suaudeau. Digitally enhanced.

Egyptian trumpets, attested visually in New Kingdom reliefs and materially in the famous silver and bronze examples from the tomb of Tutankhamun, were used to mark discrete phases of action rather than to direct tactics. A trumpet blast announced assembly, initiated movement or combat that had already been ordered verbally, marked transitions between phases of engagement, and signaled closure at victory or cessation. These were emphatic, limited signals—few in number, but heavy with meaning.

Crucially, the trumpet did not issue instructions. It ratified them. To hear the trumpet was to know that an action had entered a different ontological state: it was now sanctioned by the king and, through him, by the gods. In this sense, Egyptian military sound remained fundamentally ritual. Authority flowed downward—from deity to king to human actors—and sound served as audible proof that this transmission had occurred.

The design of Egyptian trumpets reinforces this role. Their narrow tonal range and construction favor short, piercing blasts rather than varied melodic signals. They were ideal instruments for marking beginnings, transitions, and ends—not for regulating complex maneuver in real time. Even in warfare, sound framed events rather than controlled them.

Thus, when an Egyptian trumpet sounded, it did not mean “advance,” “retreat,” or “reform ranks.” It meant something more absolute: the moment has changed. What followed was not commanded by sound but unfolded within the divinely authorized order that sound had just made present. Where Egyptian trumpets transformed the status of a moment by invoking divine sanction, in Rome sound was distilled to its primary essence and used to direct action instead.

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Threshold Sound in the Neo-Hittite and Levantine World

In the Neo-Hittite kingdoms of Anatolia and northern Syria, horns appear most often at liminal moments: enthronements, sacrifices, and processions. Sound here did not issue commands or summon communities but marked transitions of status—between sacred and profane, ruler and subject, ordinary time and ritual time. It framed kingship as a visible and audible performance, confirming dynastic legitimacy rather than enforcing obedience.

Neo-Hittite rulers governed small, unstable successor states after the collapse of the Hittite Empire (ca. 1200 BCE), where authority was local, fragile, and continuously negotiated. In this context, sound functioned as a compensatory technology of power, amplifying royal presence where coercive reach was limited.

Levantine traditions, especially those associated with the shofar (animal-horn trumpet), emphasized sound as a summons rather than a ritual display. The shofar called assemblies, announced divine presence, and bound communities to covenant. It did not glorify kings so much as remind the people of their obligations to law and deity. In Israel, kingship was derivative, not constitutive: the king ruled only insofar as he remained subject to YHWH’s law. Authority did not emanate from the king outward; it flowed from divine covenant downward and could be withdrawn.

My photograph of a historical reenactor depicting a Hebrew priest blowing a shofar. In the Iron Age Levant, horn blasts marked ritual transitions—sacred time, divine presence, or covenantal action—rather than serving as instruments of battlefield command.

This represents a fundamentally different acoustic politics—sound as communal accountability rather than imperial domination. In the Levantine world, authority was not projected outward from a monarch or empire but invoked through law and covenant, audibly binding a community to shared obligation rather than enforcing obedience through command.

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Greece: Sound and Civic Coordination

In the Greek world, sound began to move away from ritual toward coordination. The salpinx (a straight trumpet) was used to regulate movement in battle and maintain rhythm among hoplite ranks. One of the greatest dangers in hoplite warfare was loss of formation. If men advanced too quickly, the line stretched and broke; too slowly, and cohesion faltered under missile fire. So, the salpinx helped regulate tempo, not direction. Trumpet blasts signaled when to begin the advance. Sustained or repeated sounds helped maintain a steady pace. The goal was not speed, but unity.

Greek red-figured kylix depicting a warrior sounding a salpinx courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Hoplite combat depended on mass and pressure. Shields overlapped, and each man’s movement affected the next. Sound helped create a shared rhythmic framework, a sense of collective timing, and psychological reassurance that the line was moving as one body.

In some contexts, the salpinx worked in tandem with aulos players, whose double-pipes provided a steady rhythm. This is famously attested at Sparta, where advancing to music was a mark of discipline, not theatricality. The sound did not instruct individuals what to do—it helped them do the same thing together.

Like Egyptian trumpets (though in a more civic, secular register), the salpinx also marked phase changes from standstill to advance, from advance to engagement and possibly from engagement to withdrawal (though evidence here is thin)

There is no clear evidence for distinct calls for wheeling, flanking, or reforming or independent acoustic control once hand-to-hand combat began. Once shields met, sound largely yielded to proximity and instinct.

Greek armies were composed of citizen-soldiers, not professionals embedded in a rigid hierarchy. Authority was shared, not absolute. So the salpinx reflected this. It coordinated equals rather than commanding subordinates. It assumed prior agreement and training and reinforced civic order rather than imposing control.

Greek soundscapes were therefore civic, not imperial. Authority emerged from shared participation rather than imposed command.

This changed dramatically with the military innovations of Philip II of Macedon. The Macedonian army was a professional instrument with a complex, combined-arms structure. It relied on precise, timed movements between its core components: the legendary Macedonian phalanx (using the long sarissa), elite heavy infantry (hypaspists), and shock cavalry (the Companion Cavalry). Wheeling, flanking, reforming, and synchronized charges between infantry and cavalry were not occasional events but the essence of its tactical superiority. The salpinx (and likely other instruments like horns) had to evolve beyond signaling simple phase changes (advance/engage) to conveying specific tactical orders. Distinct calls for these complex manoeuvres became a necessity.

The Macedonian king was an absolute commander (basileus and autokrator), not a first among equals. The army was a hierarchical, professional institution. Sound, therefore, became a tool of imposed control and instantaneous obedience from a central authority. It commanded subordinates within a chain of command, rather than coordinating peers who had debated the plan in assembly. The acoustic signal’s authority was top-down, reflecting the new imperial, rather than civic, structure of power.

The Companion Cavalry was the hammer to the phalanx’s anvil. Cavalry actions require rapid exploitation of opportunities, sudden changes in direction, and coordinated strikes with infantry. Once engaged, cavalry cannot maintain a static line like hoplites. Therefore, sound had to retain its utility during combat. Trumpet calls would be essential to recall, redirect, or rally cavalry units mid-melee.

While explicit musical notation for Macedonian calls doesn’t survive, the historical accounts of their battles are replete with references to pre-arranged trumpet signals initiating complex actions. Arrian’s history of Alexander, for instance, depends on the assumption that readers understand signals were used to coordinate simultaneous attacks across vast battlefields. The salpinx itself may have been supplemented or modified, and Hellenistic art later shows examples of curved horns (keras), which might indicate a desire for a different, perhaps more penetrating, tone for battlefield control.

The Macedonian military revolution, pioneered by Philip II, demanded a new acoustic regime. Sound was no longer primarily a rhythmic framework for a collective body of citizens, but a system of precise, imperative commands for a professional, hierarchical, and combined-arms machine. The trumpet's blast evolved from a metronome for shared movement into a tool of dynamic, centralized control, enabling the complex tactics that built an empire. This shift mirrors the broader political transition from the participatory polis to the imperial monarchy, where authority was indeed imposed from the top, and the battlefield soundscape reflected this new, imperial order.

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Rome: Sound Becomes Command

Rome marks a decisive transformation. With the Roman Republic and Empire, sound ceased to be primarily ritual or symbolic and became directive.

The Roman army of the 4th century was transitioning from the hoplite phalanx to the manipular system. This new, more flexible formation required better command-and-control. However, contemporary evidence for a sophisticated Roman horn system is lacking. The tuba likely existed in a simple form for basic calls, but the iconic cornu—and the decentralized, hierarchical command system it represented—appears to be a later development.

The crucial catalyst was the Roman encounter with the sophisticated Hellenistic army of Pyrrhus of Epirus (280-275 BCE). In the subsequent decades of the 3rd century BCE, the Romans systematically developed their own tripartite system of brass instruments (cornu, tuba, bucina), embedding cornicines within centuries to provide the granular control their legionary structure required. Thus, the fully realized Roman military soundscape was less a spontaneous evolution than a deliberate institutional innovation, born of necessity and refined through direct exposure to the advanced 'acoustic technology' of their Hellenistic adversaries.

Cornicen on the Ludovisi sarcophagus in the Palazzo Altermps courtesy of Wikimedia Commons contributor Paolo Villa.

Cornicen depicted on Trajan's Column courtesy of Wikimedia Commons contributor Gaius Cornelius.

Roman mosaic depicting a cornicen from Nennig Germany courtesy of Wikimedia Commons contributor Villanueva.

Zliten mosaic depicting Roman musicians playing a tuba (straight trumpet) and buccinae. 1st - 3rd century CE.

Instruments such as the cornu and tuba were standardized, their signals codified, their players integrated into the military hierarchy. The cornicen was not a musician but a specialist whose sound carried legal authority. His signals ordered movement, attack, retreat—often independent of spoken command.

It is thought these Roman instruments were derived from Etruscan horns. Etruscan use of curved bronze horns emerged within a soundscape heavily influenced by Greek musical practice, particularly in banqueting and processional contexts. Yet the horn itself was not a Greek instrument. Its presence reflects Etruscan receptivity to Near Eastern concepts of sound as prestige acoustics, transmitted through Mediterranean trade especially with Phoenicians and Cypriot metalworkers. The result was a hybrid acoustic culture—Greek in ensemble, Near Eastern in symbolism, and Etruscan in ritual intent for divination, liminality, and spectacle— which Rome later transformed into a system of military command.

Rome inherited the Etruscan hybrid then stripped away ritual ambiguity and divinatory framing retaining the practical loudness, reach, and command potential. Rome inherited the form and prestige of the curved bronze horn from Etruscan ceremonial practice, but fundamentally altered its function.

The Roman cornu was redesigned for repeated use in the field: it was standardized in shape and pitch, cast in heavy bronze, and equipped with a reinforcing crossbar (crux) that rested against the player’s body to stabilize the instrument during prolonged sounding. These structural changes transformed the horn from a ritual marker of authority into a durable instrument of command. In Roman hands, sound no longer framed power symbolically; it executed it, issuing orders that regulated movement, timing, and collective action across the battlefield. Developing the instruments, establishing a signal code, training specialist tubicines and cornicines for each century, and integrating calls into camp routine represents a major institutional investment. The mid-to-late 3rd century BCE (after the Pyrrhic War but before the Punic Wars) is the most plausible period for this system to have been developed and standardized.

With the introduction of the cornu, Rome assigned its players to the class of principales within a century. The cornicen received double pay (duplicarius) and assigned to a centurion, although if his centurion fell in battle, he performed the commands of the optio, tribune, or other command officer. Cornu signals included marking advance and halt, coordinating movement between units, signaling formation changes, transmitting retreat or regrouping orders and maintaining temporal rhythm during maneuver. In contrast, tubae (straight trumpets) were used to distinguish camp duties and provide general signals while encamped, and buccinae were used to announce watches and provide night signals.

A cornicen did not persuade, exhort, or explain. His sound compelled action because it was embedded in a shared system of discipline and training. This marks a sharp break from Near Eastern and Etruscan practice, where horns framed authority symbolically. In Rome, sound was authority, temporarily delegated to a specialist.

Although no ancient source records a cornicen independently issuing commands after the death of a centurion, Roman military organization presupposed such continuity. As a ranked specialist attached to the century rather than to an individual officer, the cornicen transmitted orders on behalf of the command structure itself, ensuring that acoustic authority survived the loss of any single commander. It is entirely plausible, though, that a cornicen continued a previously ordered signal, sounded rally or regroup calls, and helped reconstitute order until an officer asserted control. This is where Rome truly departs from Assyria or Etruria where sound was tied to ritual presence and authority collapses when the central figure is absent.

In this sense, Rome created one of the earliest fully modern soundscapes of power.

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Listening to Empire

Returning to ancient images—such as musicians carved on Assyrian monuments—it is tempting to project later traditions backward. A curved horn may resemble a Roman cornu, but its function belongs to a different world. To ancient viewers, its sound would not have meant “advance” or “retreat,” but “the king is present,” “the ritual has begun,” “the gods approve.”

Empire was not only built in stone. It was built in sound.

To understand ancient power, we must learn not only how to look—but how to listen. 

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Substitute Servants and Osirian Labor: Transformations in Egyptian Funerary Practice

 by Mary Harrsch © 2026

Early Egyptian funerary practice underwent one of its most striking transformations between the Early Dynastic Period and the Middle Kingdom. During the First Dynasty (ca. 3100–2900 BCE), some royal burials—most famously at Abydos—were accompanied by actual retainer sacrifice, with dozens or even hundreds of individuals interred simultaneously to accompany the king into the afterlife. This practice ends abruptly at the close of Dynasty 1, coinciding with a subtle but significant ideological shift in the conception of kingship.

Archaeological and textual evidence suggests that kingship came to be framed less as absolute personal divinity with exclusive access to the realm of the gods, and more as the pharaoh serving as a focal point of ritual authority and performance, maintaining cosmic order on behalf of his subject peoples.

By the early Second Dynasty, beginning with the reign of Hotepsekhemwy (“The Two Powers Are Reconciled”), human sacrifice disappears entirely from Egyptian mortuary practice. Although no decree or theological statement survives, the archaeological record is unambiguous: subsidiary burials cease, and new funerary strategies take their place. Hotepsekhemwy’s reign appears to mark a period of political stabilization after dynastic conflict, and his emphasis on reconciliation and administrative continuity aligns closely with this fundamental shift away from ritual violence.

In the Old Kingdom (Dynasties 3–6), elite tombs instead feature servant statues and relief scenes depicting food production, craft labor, and estate management. These figures—like these from the Fifth Dynasty tomb of the courtier Nykauinpu at Giza—were not substitutes for the deceased, nor remnants of sacrificial ideology. Rather, they reflect a worldview in which representation itself was efficacious: images, names, and rituals sustained the ka and ensured perpetual abundance within the tomb as an eternal estate.

Limestone Servant Statue of a potter from Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

Limestone Servant Statue of a potter from Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

Limestone Servant Statue of man using blowpipe from Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

Limestone Servant Statues of dwarves playing harps from Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

Limestone Statue of children playing Leap Frogfrom Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu depicting a musician Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

Limestone Servant Statue of a female miller pouring grain onto the grinding stone from a jar from Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

Limestone Harpist Statue from Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

Limestone Servant Statue from Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu depicting a butcher Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

Limestone Servant Statue Khenu, son of Nikauinpu stirring pot over fire, from Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

Limestone Servant Statue of a woman using a sieve, from Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

Limestone Servant Statue of a man stoking a stove from Old Kingdom tomb of courtier Nykauinpu Dynasty 5 2477 BCE Giza Egypt. Photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures (formerly the Oriental Institute), University of Chicago by Mary Harrsch.

A second transformation occurs much later, during the late Old Kingdom–Middle Kingdom transition, with the appearance of mummiform ushabti figures. These are conceptually distinct from earlier servant statues. Ushabti are identity-bearing proxies, inscribed with the deceased’s name and tasked with answering labor calls in the Osirian afterlife. Their form reflects growing identification of the dead with Osiris, while their standardized, text-driven function mirrors the increasing bureaucratization of the afterlife, now imagined as a realm of compulsory agricultural labor rather than effortless abundance.

Osiris emerges in the archaeological and textual record as a central figure in Egyptian funerary thought by the late Old Kingdom, though his origins likely date to Upper Egypt in the late Predynastic period (Naqada II–III, ca. 3300–3100 BCE) as a local funerary and fertility deity. Initially, Osiris appears as a god associated with death, regeneration, and the Nile’s cyclical fertility, serving as a symbolic guarantor of continuity for elite burials rather than a universal afterlife authority.

By the Old Kingdom (Dynasties 5–6), Osiris is increasingly invoked in the Pyramid Texts as the resurrected king and divine model for royal rebirth, marking a subtle but important shift: the afterlife is no longer merely an eternal estate, but a realm where the deceased could participate in cosmic renewal and alignment with divine order.

The Middle Kingdom (ca. 2050–1650 BCE) sees Osiris’s role expand dramatically. No longer reserved for kings, he becomes the principal deity of the dead, and non-royal individuals are increasingly integrated into the afterlife through identification with him. Coffin Texts and associated funerary spells provide a structured and bureaucratic vision of the afterlife, with labor, offerings, and judgment codified under Osiris’s oversight. Ushabti figures, inscribed with the deceased’s name and titles, act as identity-bearing proxies, able to perform labor in the Osirian realm, reflecting a theology in which mummiform figures and textual spells substitute for the direct action of the deceased.

By the New Kingdom, Osiris is fully established as the universal judge, protector, and exemplar of resurrection, guiding all “justified dead” and providing a model of eternal life that is both moral and ritualized. Across this trajectory, Osiris transforms from a local funerary deity into the central axis of Egyptian afterlife ideology, shaping both elite and non-elite conceptions of death, resurrection, and moral accountability.

The replacement of Old Kingdom servant statuary with mummiform ushabti figures reflects a fundamental redefinition of the Egyptian afterlife, rather than a simple evolution of form. In the Old Kingdom, the tomb was conceived as an eternal estate, with the deceased occupying the role of household lord sustained by a stable offering cult. Servant statues and relief scenes depict discrete, specialized tasks—grinding grain, brewing beer, managing livestock—not as substitutes for the tomb owner, but as ontologically distinct agents whose represented labor ensured perpetual abundance. Labor in this system was implicit and unproblematic, embedded within a cosmology of continuity rather than obligation.

By the late Old Kingdom and into the Middle Kingdom, however, the afterlife was increasingly reconceptualized as an Osirian realm, in which the deceased joined a collective of “justified” dead subject to compulsory agricultural labor. In this framework, labor was no longer invisible; the deceased could be called upon to perform it personally. Ushabti figures emerge in response to this anxiety—not to generate abundance, but to deflect labor obligations away from the deceased.

This conceptual shift is reinforced by profound theological, textual, and administrative changes. The mummiform shape of ushabti is closely tied to Osirian theology, as Osiris himself embodied death, wrapping, and restoration, serving as the prototype for all justified dead.

As non-royal individuals increasingly identified with Osiris in the Middle Kingdom, the substitute figure likewise took on a mummiform body capable of standing in place of the deceased. This enabled a critical transformation in identity: whereas Old Kingdom servant figures “worked for” the tomb owner, ushabti explicitly became the tomb owner, bearing their name, titles, and autobiographical voice, and declaring “If I am called….” This identity transfer coincided with the textualization and bureaucratization of the afterlife, visible in the proliferation of Coffin Texts and spell-based guarantees that imagined the next world in administrative terms—fields, canals, quotas, and overseers.

Ushabti, standardized, countable, and commandable, were ideally suited to this procedural cosmos, unlike the bespoke and task-specific servant statues of earlier periods. Secondary but significant factors further facilitated the transition: ushabti were cheaper, smaller, and mass-producible, making afterlife protection accessible to a broader segment of society, while the decline of Old Kingdom tomb cults during the First Intermediate Period undermined reliance on priests and perpetual offerings. In this context, ushabti functioned as self-contained insurance, activated by inscription alone, ensuring the deceased’s protection in an increasingly uncertain social and ritual landscape.

Scholars have long debated whether external influences—particularly from Mesopotamia, where elite burials at Ur (ca. 2600 BCE) including retainer deaths had ceased—played a role in shaping Egyptian change. However, current consensus favors internal development. Egypt’s long-standing trade relationships with the Levant, Sinai, and Nubia show continuity rather than sudden ideological importation, and no foreign model explains either the early abandonment of sacrifice or the later rise of ushabti. Instead, these shifts reflect Egypt’s own evolving concepts of kingship, magic, labor, and the afterlife.

Taken together, these transformations reveal a culture that rarely framed change as moral reform or prohibition. Egyptian solutions were pragmatic and metaphysical rather than polemical: practices ended not because they were condemned, but because they became unnecessary. Across millennia, Egyptian funerary innovation reveals a culture creatively rethinking life, death, and what it means to endure beyond the grave.

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From Ritual Wheels to War Machines: The Rise of Chariots from Tell Agrab to Kadesh

by Mary Harrsch © 2026

This reproduction of a model wheeled vehicle from Tell Agrab that I photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures at the University of Chicago is dated to around 2600 BCE. My research revealed while often described loosely as an early “chariot,” its form and archaeological context strongly indicate that it represents a ceremonial or symbolic conveyance rather than a functional military vehicle.

Model of a ceremonial wheeled vehicle from Tell Agrab (c. 2600 BCE), that I photographed at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures, University of Chicago. This Early Dynastic model reflects symbolic elite and ritual use, foreshadowing the rise of militarized chariots in the Near East.

The model depicts a solid-wheeled vehicle drawn by multiple non-equids, likely onagers or equid hybrids. Such vehicles could carry loads or serve in ritual and ceremonial contexts, but they were too heavy and slow for battlefield maneuvering. Moreover, controlling multiple powerful animals—especially for rapid maneuvers or coordinated tactics—would have been extremely difficult, even if the vehicle was lightly loaded.

Instead, as such vehicles were adapted to military use, two-horse teams predominated. Horses could sustain rapid charges and long-distance movement, whereas onagers and hybrids were slower and more temperamental. Coordinated chariot tactics, like flanking or retreating under pressure, required animals responsive to reins and voice commands.

Even in much later periods, such as Roman antiquity, professional charioteers were required to manage a four-horse quadriga usually on carefully prepared tracks. That this Early Dynastic model shows a single driver controlling several powerful non-equid animals suggests a focus on ritualized display, procession, or elite symbolism associated with divine movement, royal ideology, and controlled ceremonial motion, rather than practical transport or warfare. There is no evidence from Egypt, Hittite, Mitanni, or Mesopotamian sources that onagers, donkeys, or equid hybrids were used in actual combat.

The true technological revolution that made chariots militarily viable—the spoked wheel—did not originate in Mesopotamia. It first appeared among the Sintashta Culture (c. 2100–1800 BCE) located in the southern Urals and northern Kazakhstan, on the Eurasian stepp in the late third to early second millennium BCE, where lighter vehicles, improved traction, and increasingly sophisticated horse control were developed to meet the demands of long-distance mobility and open landscapes.

From the steppe, these innovations spread southward through cultural exchange rather than direct conquest, reaching Hurrian populations in northern Mesopotamia and Syria. Initially adopted as elite or prestige conveyances, spoked-wheel vehicles became fully militarized under the kingdom of Mitanni. During this period, horse training was formalized, chariot crews professionalized, and chariot warfare integrated into state military strategy.

In its earliest military applications, the Mitanni kingdom deployed spoked-wheel chariots primarily against neighboring Hurrian-speaking city-states in the upper Tigris–Euphrates region. These polities relied largely on infantry formations and heavy ox-drawn wagons, which were slow, cumbersome, and poorly suited to open-field maneuvering. Mitanni chariots, by contrast, were light, fast, and crewed by trained teams of drivers and archers, providing a decisive tactical advantage. In engagements across the fertile river valleys and rolling plains of northern Mesopotamia, the mobility of these vehicles allowed Mitanni forces to outflank infantry lines, strike quickly, and withdraw before local forces could respond effectively.

Rather than seeking outright destruction, the Mitanni often used chariot forces to enforce vassalage, extract tribute, and assert dominance over Hurrian elites, establishing political and military hegemony without necessarily obliterating local communities. Over time, the prominence of Mitanni chariots prompted some Hurrian city-states to experiment with similar vehicles, gradually militarizing their own transport technologies in response to the threat. This early period demonstrates that, for the Mitanni, the chariot was as much a tool of political control and prestige as a weapon of war, establishing patterns of elite dominance that would later influence the broader Near Eastern world.

Once Mitanni demonstrated the strategic effectiveness of chariot forces, neighboring powers—including the Hittites, Egyptians, and Mesopotamian states—were compelled to respond. In Egypt, exposure to the Hyksos’ spoked-wheel chariots during the Second Intermediate Period had already introduced the technology, but the Egyptians initially used chariots primarily for prestige, reconnaissance, and elite display rather than fully militarized operations. Observing Mitanni and later Hittite successes, Egypt accelerated the systematization of chariot training, crew organization, and battlefield integration, transforming chariotry from a symbol of status into a decisive military instrument. Across the eastern Mediterranean and Near East, chariotry was adopted not merely for its technological sophistication but as a strategic necessity, becoming a central feature of Late Bronze Age warfare, diplomacy, and elite identity.

Beyond the well-known battles of Megiddo and Kadesh, chariots played a decisive role in numerous campaigns across the Levant during the Late Bronze Age. Egyptian forces first encountered the tactical potential of chariots during the early 18th Dynasty campaigns against Hurrian-aligned or Mitanni-influenced polities in southern Syria and northern Canaan (c. 1550–1500 BCE). These light, fast vehicles outmaneuvered infantry formations and cumbersome ox-drawn wagons, serving both for reconnaissance, raiding, and intimidation as well as for establishing Egyptian authority over vassal states.

Following this, Egyptian armies deployed chariots against Canaanite city-states in the Beth-Shan region (c. 15th–14th century BCE), where infantry-heavy polities and fortified settlements relied on slow-moving wagons. The mobility of chariots enabled rapid strikes against multiple targets, compelling tribute and reinforcing Egyptian control over strategic northern routes.

By the mid-14th century BCE, campaigns against Amurru and Aleppo further showcased the offensive potential of chariots. Elite chariot crews executed rapid strikes, encircled cities, and enforced vassalage across dispersed fortified settlements, foreshadowing the larger, more famous battles to come.

Throughout the Late Bronze Age, chariots were also widely used by Hittite, Mitanni, and Egyptian forces in smaller-scale raids and skirmishes, projecting power across trade routes, supporting allied city-states, and intimidating rivals. In these operations, chariots provided speed, maneuverability, and shock force that allowed relatively small, elite units to dominate infantry-heavy armies. Their repeated success in both raids and pitched battles established the chariot as a decisive instrument of warfare, culminating in iconic engagements like Megiddo and Kadesh while shaping political and military dynamics across the Levant.

Viewed in a long-term perspective, the development of the chariot illustrates a gradual transformation from symbolic conveyance to battlefield instrument. The Early Dynastic model from Tell Agrab reflects an initial phase in which wheeled vehicles were primarily ritualized, ceremonial, and emblematic of elite or divine authority, rather than functional weapons. Centuries later, the Mitanni kingdom harnessed the spoked-wheel chariot to establish military dominance over neighboring Hurrian city-states, exploiting mobility and trained crews to outmatch infantry and heavy ox-drawn wagons. Observing this success, the Hittites and Assyrians adopted and adapted chariotry, integrating it into professional armies with coordinated tactics and standardized crews. The Egyptians, although exposed to chariots in the Levant as early as the early 16th century BCE, initially used them for prestige, reconnaissance, and elite display; only in the mid-14th century BCE, confronted with Hittite chariot forces, did Egypt fully systematize chariot training and integrate it into battlefield strategy. Across these cultures, the chariot evolved from a symbol of control and status into a transformative tool of warfare, reshaping the political, military, and cultural landscapes of the Near East and eastern Mediterranean.

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