It is available online at https://doi.org/10.36253/979-12-215-0042-4.05

The King Tutḫaliya IV, the Eflatunpınar Monument, and the River of the Watery Abyss

Maria Elena Balza

Abstract: In recent years, several studies have focused on the interpretation and possible function of the so-called Hittite landscape monuments. For many of these monuments, a connection with the sphere of religion and cultic celebration has been suggested, especially taking into account the possible sanctity of their location, often connected to mountains, rocky outcrops, and water. The landscape monuments would in this sense represent a form of appropriation of the landscape by the Hittite king, the elites, or, in some cases, local rulers, and would play a specific role in the transmission of messages aimed at consolidating identity and/or spreading consensus. This contribution aims to provide further elements of discussion on the subject, and particularly on the use of landscape monuments as the scene of public events, through a (re)examination of some characteristics of the so-called sacred pool of Eflatunpınar, its possible connection with cult celebrations, and the identity of the ruler that sponsored its construction.

1. Introduction

As for the internal dynamics and issues of the Hittite monarchy in the late 13th century BC, the period of the reign of Tutḫaliya IV presents multiple aspects of interest. The first element to take into account concerning this king is that his personality seems to have been deeply conditioned by the doubts surrounding the legitimacy of his position.1 His ascent to the throne is in fact one of the consequences of the coup perpetrated by Ḫattušili III at the expense of Urḫi Teššub/Muršili III. The usurpation of Ḫattušili is not an exceptional event in itself – the Hittite monarchy had already experienced comparable episodes – but rather because of the actors involved and, by extension, the consequences thereafter. The conflict between Ḫattušili and his brother Muwatalli’s son, designated heir to the throne while his father was still alive,2 leads to a deep rift within the royal family and an inevitable clash between the partisans of the two opposing sides within the court.3

In the end, Ḫattušili emerges victorious from his confrontation with his nephew. It is in the aftermath of this clash that the new king must build his kingdom and legitimise his position on the throne.

Lacking political legitimisation, Ḫattušili thus found himself in need of creating almost a transcendent, divine legitimacy, as would be demonstrated by a text such as CTH 81, the so-called ‘Apology,’ and its narrative.4 However, Ḫattušili also used two opposing strategies of repression to secure his position: the confiscation of property from his opponents and the search for consensus through the granting of special privileges to his partisans.5 But the fragile balance achieved by Ḫattušili also seemed to rest on the conclusion of an agreement with the remaining members of Muwatalli’s family, in particular with Kurunt(y)a, one of Muwatalli’s sons, to whom Ḫattušili assigns the throne of Tarḫuntašša, the capital of his late brother.6 According to a hypothesis by Philo Houwink ten Cate (1992), which has actually been under discussion for three decades now,7 Ḫattušili, at least initially, would have even established that Kurunt(y)a would have succeeded him on the throne of Ḫattuša. His cousin Tutḫaliya, on the other hand, does not seem to have been initially destined to rule. At first, Ḫattušili had in fact appointed one of his sons named Nerikkaili as heir to the throne (cf. CTH 106).

That being the case, at least on the face of it, Tutḫaliya’s rise to the throne seems to be the result of a plot, or a power struggle, at court, orchestrated perhaps by the powerful queen, Puduḫepa. But this is difficult to establish in the absence of clear data. The fact remains that, starting from a certain moment in Ḫattušili’s reign, Tutḫaliya prevails over the previous presumptive heir (tuḫkanti), and that, after his father’s death, he is crowned king.8

Despite this, or, perhaps, precisely because of it, Tutḫaliya seems to have been haunted throughout his reign by a sense of insecurity which led him to multiply his efforts to secure the loyalty of his subjects and to protect his own descendants.9 To achieve his objective, it seems that he used two complementary instruments: the legal instrument of the oath of allegiance, to which he subjected the officials, the elites, and the people of Ḫatti;10 and the administrative and political instrument represented by the reorganisation of the cult institutions, with a supposed attempt to centralise the different cults of the country.11 This centralisation would, in fact, have led the king to establish closer control over the various districts making up his kingdom.

During the reign of this ruler, it also seems that a great impetus was given to the creation of monumental works. The reign of Tutḫaliya IV coincides, in fact, with the creation of monumental works in various places in Anatolia.

Why was there such a proliferation of monuments in this phase? Was this ruler multiplying his efforts to mobilise human and divine favour regarding his reign? And if so, why? Are these efforts related to the period of crisis, not only dynastic, but also – as it seems – economic that affected the Hittite monarchy during the second half of the 13th century BC?

Within this framework, the monumental complexes constructed in extra-urban areas and connected to streams or spring water seem to me particularly noteworthy for decoding Tutḫaliya’s activity, as I will explain shortly.

2. Landscape monuments between water and stone

Before dealing with monuments dating to Tutḫaliya’s reign, it will be useful to return briefly to what has already been observed about the reliefs and the so-called landscape monuments of the Hittite period.

The first element to consider in relation to these monuments is that they are documented in Anatolia (within the Hittite state) only from the end of the 14th century BC, beginning with the reign of Muwatalli II; from this moment onwards, the Anatolian landscape began to be dotted by the presence of a series of figured, and often inscribed, monuments and rock reliefs.

Landscape rock reliefs and monumental works have been interpreted as boundary marks, even between different topographical areas within the Anatolian plateau; as propagandistic interventions into the landscape addressed to neighbouring countries; as symbols of the presence of the central power in the administered territory;12 and as places of power connected to one another to form a network in the context of the Anatolian landscape.13 In this sense, they would represent a form of appropriation of the landscape of a given territory, its traditions, and its cults by the Hittite king and the elites, or by local rulers.14

Leaving aside, for a moment, the question of the function of the Hittite landscape monuments, I would like to focus on a special characteristic of these works.

The monuments are often realised in places where two environmental features – the water and the stone – are present, often simultaneously. These natural elements are evidently able to provide these places with special attraction. The NA4ḫekur, NA4ḫuwasi, and É.NA4 are only a few of the stone structures mentioned in cuneiform texts, interpreted by many as monuments or architectural works with commemorative or funerary nature.15 Additionally, flowing waters and springs were considered to be places of great importance. On the ground of this, as it has already been noted in several studies, ‘the greater part of the landscape of Hittite Anatolia was in some sense sacred, in that the mountains, rivers and springs were so regarded (…).’ (Hawkins 2015: 1).16

The veneration of water, in particular, may be explained by the fact that water, whether it comes from the sky or is drawn from a spring, always carries life force; the same life force that disappears when a god abandons the material world, causing drought, famine, and death for both animals and human beings.17 To mention just one example of the importance and sanctity of spring waters, consider the so-called Quellgrotte, the ‘cave of the spring’, discovered at Ḫattuša, in the vicinity of Temple I, most likely dedicated to a chthonic deity.18 Springs, and water in general, can indeed also be linked to cavities, to the subsoil. Among these natural features, there is the well-known DKASKAL.KUR.19 This term, which seems to indicate a sacral or divine opening in the earth, occurs in different contexts: as a landmark in boundary descriptions (treaties); within lists of deities or topographical features (treaties and prayers); and as a recipient of offerings (rituals).20 Taking into account the available evidence, the most common translation for this term is ‘underground watercourse,’21 with possible reference to the seat of chthonic deities.22

Based on the above considerations, the fact that reliefs and other monumental works that seem to relate to power and its political discourse are often connected to mountains, rocky outcrops, and water is worthy of consideration.

According to some recent studies, Hittite elites would not have invested so many material and human resources in the realisation of these works if they could not have used them in their political rhetoric.23 And, if they were used as an element of this rhetoric, monumental works (reliefs and other urban and extra-urban architectural complexes) could then be seen as the scene of public events, thereby playing a specific role in the transmission of messages aimed at consolidating identity and/or spreading consensus.

Although the hypothesis that the landscape monuments or structures were places of public performances has not yet been investigated in depth, some textual references might suggest such an interpretation.24

With these considerations in mind, among the landscape monuments realised during the 13th century BC, and especially at the time of Tutḫaliya IV, I will put forward some considerations on the celebrations that might have taken place at the Eflatunpınar ‘sacred pool.’ This monument consists of a quadrangular pool, on the north side of which a large façade of orthostates rises, that appears as a perfect setting for public celebrations related to power and its needs to build and spread a shared identity. Although the monument does not bear Tutḫaliya’s signature, ‘the execution and the style point to the later Hittite Empire, 13th century BC, and an attribution to Tutḫaliya IV is not improbable’ (Hawkins 2015: 2).25 The following considerations may provide further support for the attribution of this monument to the reign of this king.

3. Tutḫaliya, the water, and the Hittite kingship

In a study from 1998, Marie-Claude Trémouille examined the role of Hittite rulers as curatores aquarum. In analysing the actions of Hittite kings for the management and distribution of water resources, Trémouille (1998: 192) also takes into consideration the structures realised for the collection of water. Based on the observation of the fact that the works constructed outside of the capital were probably built during the 13th century BC, the author concludes that the last generations of rulers of Ḫattuša were likely more sensitive to the problem of water supply.

The reason for this attitude should perhaps be sought in a water shortage situation, which resulted in the famine that seems to have struck Anatolia during the second half of the 13th century BC. This situation seems to have been testified in some contemporary texts, which seem to document a dramatic situation.26

This difficult phase, characterised by a severe shortage of grain, would have taken place in the period between the reigns of Ḫattušili III and Šuppiluliuma II, so also during the time of Tutḫaliya IV. Although famine years were not rare in Anatolia, it seems that the situation during the reigns of these rulers was quite severe.27

The occurrence of these specific environmental conditions in Anatolia could perhaps help to provide an explanation for the special relationship that seemed to exist between Tutḫaliya IV and water-related structures, a relationship that emerges from the available archaeological documentation. The remains of at least three facilities linked to stream water and dating to the reign of Tutḫaliya IV can, in fact, be interpreted as actual works aimed at regimenting waters. These are the man-made structures of Yalburt yaylası, a rectangular shaped pool, the large stone block of Karakuyu, belonging to a dam, and the rectangular stone block of Köylütolu yayla also originally belonging to a dam. In addition to these works, as mentioned just above, there are at least two other structures that can be attributed to the same chronological phase, the Alacahöyük/Gölpınar dam and Eflatunpınar pool.28

Among these structures, in what follows I would like to focus on the monument constructed at Eflatunpınar.

The spring Eflatunpınar lies in the Beyşehir district, west of Konya, 6 km north-east of Beyşehir Lake, wherein a series of springs gush forth and produce a stream flowing into Beyşehir Lake. This perennial water source is embedded in an artificial complex, composed of a stone monument or façade, on the edge of an artificial pool. This pool is made up of large stone blocks and was originally decorated with statues in the round and reliefs placed along its perimeter. But the most spectacular part of the whole architectural ensemble is represented by the façade – made of large stone blocks, and entirely covered with reliefs – which is located on the north side of the pool. In the centre of the scene, there are two seated figures (a male and a female), each of them surmounted by the representation of a winged sun. These two main figures are surrounded by hybrid beings whose function is to carry the wings of the two suns, as well as the wings of an even larger winged sun which covers, as in the Hittite royal aedicula, the entire representation. Above the larger upper winged sun, another one of presumably the same length is missing. At the bottom of the scene, under the feet of the two seated figures, there are – although they are only partially visible – five other figures, probably mountain-gods. Three of these figures are characterised by the presence of openings in their bodies, through which the water of the spring was supposed to flow, thus creating a rather spectacular theatrical effect.

With regard to the possible interpretation of this iconography, the two seated figures, placed in the centre of the scene, have been interpreted in different ways. Even though according to Jutta Börker-Klähn (1993) this iconography would have been a propaganda-motivated depiction of the Hittite royal couple (Ḫattušili and Puduḫepa), most interpretations see at the centre of the scene a pair of gods. In particular, in this couple, it has been proposed to recognise the proto-Hattian solar couple, the Storm-god and the Sun-goddess of Arinna, or the Sun-god of the Sky and the Sun-goddess of the Earth.29

The scene that unfolds before the eyes of the audience could be interpreted as a cosmological representation of the world, with the sun at the top, the earth with its mountains and springs at the bottom, and the gods in the middle that function as a link between the different elements that constitute the world.30 The representation of the winged sun, however, also recalls Hittite kingship. On the one hand, the winged sun represents one of the symbols of Hittite royalty at least since the 14th century BC, when it became one of the recurrent elements of royal aediculae. On the other hand, a link between the Hittite king and the Sun is also suggested by cuneiform sources and, in particular, by the expression DUTU-ŠI, ‘my sun,’ used at least since the end of the 15th century BC.31

In addition to this interpretation, according to Ömür Harmanşah (2014, 2015), Eflatunpınar could be seen as an attempt to reproduce the appearance of a mountain spring, gushing out of the natural stone, at a place that is far from the mountains, in the middle of a valley. Eflatunpınar would therefore be a mimetic work that recreates a mountain spring with two of its essential characteristics. On the one hand, the building material of the blocks that make up the monument is the same volcanic stone of the mountains of the Anatolian plateau; on the other hand, the water from the spring is channelled to gush out of the holes dug in the statues that decorate the basin, just as it would have been in a real mountain spring.32

It seems quite clear, therefore, that the monument is most likely connected with the sanctity of the spring and might recall the divine openings on the earth capable of connecting the world of humans with the world beyond.

Now, based on what has been noted above concerning the possibility that monumental works constructed in proximity of stone and (underground) water were used by Hittite elites as elements of their political and identity rhetoric, one may wonder whether Eflatunpınar could be interpreted as a place of political or religious performances. And, if so, one may also wonder what kind of celebrations could have been held at this specific location. Regarding this possibility, it has been suggested that ‘this sacred pool was an important station for the pilgrimage of the Great king during cultic festivals’ (Erbil, Mouton 2012: 70). And this hypothesis may find some confirmation in the presence of a settlement dating back to the 2nd millennium BC in the vicinity of Eflatunpınar.33

Taking all of these clues into consideration, below, I will formulate a more precise hypothesis about the celebrations that might have taken place at the source of Eflatunpınar.

As a working hypothesis, considering (1) the presence and centrality of water, which seems to flow from underground through the monument itself, (2) the presence of the winged sun, also interpreted as a recurring symbol of power connected to Hittite kingship, (3) the divine seated figures, and (4) the situation of the Hittite monarchy in the 13th century BC, I would like to suggest a link between the monument and a feast related to the celebration of Hittite kingship and to its relation to water. In this context, the water would be fundamental not only for its cultic and purifying characteristics, but also for its reviving power for agriculture.

In particular, I am wondering if it could be possible to establish a connection between Eflatunpınar and a celebration like the one that is mentioned in, and thus linked to, the so-called Illuyanka myth (CTH 321).

The Illuyanka myth has been preserved in some copies dating to the empire period, but is probably based on an ancient model.34 The mythical tale itself is preceded by an introduction, which mentions the name of the author of the text and the celebration to which the myth is linked, which is the feast of purulli. The myth follows this preamble, reported in two distinct versions, but that both narrate how the Storm-god of the Sky, after having been initially defeated by the Serpent (MUŠilluyanka-, MUŠelliyanku-), eventually manages to defeat him definitively with the help of the goddess Inara and of a man called Ḫupašiya (first version), or with the help of the son that he (the Storm-god) had generated with the daughter of a poor man (second version).

The reasons for the fight between the Storm-god and the Serpent are not made explicit. However, given the nature and characteristics of the protagonists of the tale, according to Franca Pecchioli Daddi, the fight between the two would seem related to the struggle for the control of water, as it is necessary for agriculture. According to the author, the Storm-god would control rainwater, while the Serpent would control the groundwater (Pecchioli Daddi, Polvani 1990: 41).35

The Illuyanka myth is very interesting from different points of view and, precisely for this reason, this text has rightly been the focus of several studies.36 However, for the purpose of this contribution, I would like to limit myself to some observations on the first version of the myth and on the assumption of the existence of a connection between the myth (first version) and the purulli festival.

As already mentioned, in the first version of the myth the Storm-god manages to defeat the Serpent after the intervention of Inara and the mortal Ḫupašiya. After that, the myth tells the story of Ḫupašiya, for whom Inara builds a house on the rock. Here, Ḫupašiya lives isolated from his wife and children, and is forbidden to look out the window. But Ḫupašiya does not respect the will of the goddess, and once he sees his wife and children again he begs Inara to let him go home. At this point, after a bad preserved passage, Inara entrusts the Hittite king with the custody of her home and the control of the underground waters. In commemoration of this event, the purulli festival is established (Pecchioli Daddi, Polvani 1990: 51-52).37

Purulli was probably a festival of Hattian origin, celebrated perhaps in the spring, when (or: so that)38 the land prospers and thrives.39 It also seems that purulli ‘has a very special position in the cultic calendar of the Hittites and stands in close connection to the Hittite kingship’ (Klinger 2009: 99).40 This connection seems to be grounded in the fact that, as mentioned above, the purulli festival seems to have been established as a result of the events narrated in the Illuyanka myth,41 and especially of the actions of Inara for the benefit of the king.42 For this reason, according to Pecchioli Daddi, the mythical tale that opens with the choice of Ḫupašiya and closes with the attribution of the control of the river of the watery abyss – that is the underground water so necessary for agriculture – to the Hittite king could be considered as a symbolic representation of the establishment of the Hittite kingship.43

Now, taking into consideration both the archaeological evidence and the textual data available to us, is it possible to hypothesise that the purulli festival, or another festival related to the celebration of both the Hittite monarchy (a royal cult?) and its privileged relationship with water, was held at the source of Eflatunpinar?

Before trying to answer this question, there is, however, one aspect that seems inconsistent with this interpretation. Central-north Anatolia, far from the south-western location of Eflatunpınar, seems to be the setting of both of the mythological tales of Illuyanka and the purulli festival.

In more detail, geographical references contained in the myth does not refer to the area south of the Kızılırmak river. On the contrary, the author of the myth, Kella, is a LÚGUDU12 priest of the city of Nerik, and ‘place-names like Kiškilušša, Ziggaratta, Nerik, Kastama, and Tanipiya tie the action to familiar terrain to the north of Hattusa’ (Hoffner 1998: 10). Similarly, the purulli festival appears to have been celebrated in Arinna, Ḫakmiš, Ḫattuša, Nerik, Utrūna, and Zippalanda (CHD P: 392; Taracha 2009: 136 with n. 799 and 800). Thus, again, in locations lying in central-north Anatolia.

This notwithstanding, it cannot be excluded that the purulli festival could have taken place in other areas of Anatolia as well. In fact, in relation to the possible location of the purulli festival, Jörg Klinger advanced the idea (grounded especially on a passage of the Annals of Muršili II), that ‘maybe the purullyas-festival is more a typical form of a ceremony or a special kind of sacrifice’ (Klinger 2009: 99-100), that is a festival or rite for different gods, which can be executed in different locations. Sources mention indeed not only several sites hosting the performance of the purulli festival, but also several deities as recipients of the rites, such as Lelwani, Telipinu, and the Storm-gods of Ḫatti, of Zippalanda, and of Nerik (CHD P: 392).

Other important considerations on the subject were expressed by Amir Gilan in a paper focusing on the interpretation of CTH 321. In particular, Gilan (2013: 108) observed that ‘the function of the first Illuyanka story is clearly given at the end of the narrative (…). It explains why the first (“foremost,” “original”) Purulli festival was celebrated in Kiškiluša or in Nerik. The audience of the text is not the congregation celebrating the festival but the recipients of the text in Ḫattuša, whom Kella seeks to inform about the meaning and history of a specific Purulli festival, originating in Kiškiluša and celebrated probably in Nerik. (…) With his etiology of the Purulli festival in Kiškiluša, Kella tries therefore, to “sell” the importance of this specific cult foundation to the authorities in Ḫattuša.’ In other words, according to Gilan, the mythological tale of Illuyanka (first version) seeks to explain the foundation of a royal cult in Kiškiluša; the place in which, in the first version of the Illuyanka myth, the goddess Inara put ‘her house [as well as the river] of the watery abyss [into] the hand of the king.’44 And, in order to do so, the author of the text establishes a link between the Illuyanka myth, the royal cult institution he is describing, and the first purulli festival.

Grounded on the above considerations, one may put forward the hypothesis that the same narrative structure of the mythological tales contained in CTH 321 could be adapted to other geographical and local contexts.45 Based on this suggestion, it does not seem impossible to me to imagine that there was a version of the Illuyanka myth more related to the southwestern geographical environment, and thus closer to the audience of the ceremony that could have taken place at Eflatunpınar.

If this were the case, the complex iconography of the façade of Eflatunpınar, characterised by the presence of the two seated gods (the Storm-god of the Sky and the Sun-goddess of Arinna on their thrones?), the mountain-gods through which the fresh water of the underground spring gushes, and the winged sun, with its double connotation as a symbol of divinity and symbol of kingship, could indeed contribute to support this hypothesis.

The façade could represent, from an iconographic point of view, the situation following the defeat of the Serpent, with the Storm-god and the Sun-goddess at the centre of the scene as if they presided over the return of the correct order of things, and as if they supervised the flow of underground water so important for human, animal, and vegetal life. The role of kingship in this ideological construction – something that the intended audience would have known – would have been to protect and manage the river of the watery abyss for the wellbeing of the land of Ḫatti.

And, if this hypothesis turns out to be well-founded, then one might have an additional clue for attributing the monument of Eflatunpınar to Tuthaliya IV, a king who was deeply involved in strengthening and protecting kingship (and his dynastic line) and in building water facilities.46 Through the construction of works for the collection and control of groundwater, the Hittite king perhaps aimed, at the same time, to reaffirm the role of the sovereign as an intermediary between the divine and human spheres, and to alleviate the damage caused by drought and famine that gripped the country. In the king’s mind, perhaps, this goal could be indeed achieved through a strategy based on divine aid and human skills.

Within this framework, water basins like that of Eflatunpınar, or even that of Yalburt yaylası, could have been places wherein the gods could be invoked to (re)occupy their place and restore or guarantee the correct order of things.47 But, at the same time, Hittite water basins could serve as places where, through great works of engineering, humans tried to prevent underground springs from drying up definitively, drought and death from taking over the land, and the passage between the world of human beings and gods from being closed off. These basins were, in short, tangible proof that, in the end, water would return and revitalise nature and human beings, as in the eternal battle between the Storm-god and his enemy. By creating vast water basins, the kings of Ḫattuša were thus providing villagers, nomads, herds, and the gods with a reserve of pure, living water whose function was to help combat the drought and famine caused by the disappearance, and sometimes by the wrath, of the gods.

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1 See Pecchioli Daddi 2006. On the reign of Tutḫaliya IV see Taş 2008. On this phase of the Hittite monarchy, see also, e.g., Giorgieri, Mora 1996 and 2010.

2 The Nişantepe archive contains the impressions of two seals of Urḫi-Teššub bearing the titles tuḫkanti and Prince (see Herbordt 2005: 204-205; Hawkins 2011: 95). See also Cammarosano 2009 on the hypothesis of a coregency between Urḫi-Teššub and his father Muwatalli.

3 On the intrigues and conspiracies at Ḫattuša’s court, see Giorgieri 2008. Likely, not only Ḫattušili, who controlled the north of the country and the city of Ḫattuša, but also Urḫi-Teššub, who came to the throne as Muršili (III), could count on supporters and partisans. In fact, the large number of bullae sealed with the impression of the seals of Muršili III found at Nişantepe seems to suggest that this king was very active in administrative operations. It could be inferred that Muršili had assigned goods and privileges to individuals of high rank in order to obtain their support in the war against his uncle (cf., e.g., Klengel 1999: 229). This would have resulted in a major rift among members of the ruling class.

4 For the edition of Ḫattušili’s ‘Apology’, see Otten 1981. On Ḫattušili’s political strategies, in addition to Pecchioli Daddi 2006, and Taş 2008, see also, among other studies, Imparati 1995; van den Hout 1995: 1107-1120; Giorgieri, Mora 1996: 37-51, and 2010; Klengel 1999: 235-271; Singer 2001, 2002 and 2009.

5 On Ḫattušili’s decrees regulating relations with a range of religious institutions, see Mora, Balza 2010, with references therein; see also Balza 2022, with references.

6 See Pecchioli Daddi 2006: 118, with references therein; see also Singer 2001 and 2002. On the transfer of the Hittite capital from Ḫattuša to Tarḫuntašša, the religious implications, and the ideological consequences of this decision, see Singer 2006; Taracha 2007.

7 See Houwink ten Cate 1992: 239-240, 259-270.

8 See, e.g., Imparati 1995; van den Hout 1998-2001; Bryce 2005: 272-273.

9 One of the most delicate problems of this troubled period of late Hittite history concerns the alleged coup d’état of Kurunt(y)a of Tarḫuntašša, who is said to have succeeded in overthrowing Tutḫaliya and becoming king of Ḫatti for a short time, before his cousin returned to power. Although this hypothesis may be supported by some textual and iconographical evidence, for the time being there does not seem to be substantial evidence that such a coup actually took place. For an overview on this controversial period, see Giorgieri, Mora 2010: 143-144 with n. 46-48.

10 See Miller 2013: 273 ff.

11 On the organization of Hittite local cults in the 13th century BC, see Hazenbos 2003; Cammarosano 2018. Several inventory texts that are attributed to Tutḫaliya have been interpreted as a clue that this king had promoted a large-scale cult reorganization. Consider, however, that cult inventories seem equally documented at the time of other rulers (cf. Cammarosano 2012).

12 On these aspects, see Giorgieri, Mora 1996: 72, 76-77, 81; Payne 2008; Seeher 2009; de Martino 2010; Glatz 2009; Glatz, Plourde 2011; Simon 2012; de Martino 2020.

13 On this topic, see Harmanşah 2014 and 2015; Ullmann 2010. Some interesting considerations can already be found in Gordon 1967.

14 See also the considerations of Glatz 2009; Glatz, Plourde 2011; Osborne 2017.

15 For a recent examination of some of the stone structures mentioned in Hittite texts, see Mora et al. 2017; see, also, Mora, Balza 2010; Balza, Mora 2011 for some general considerations on the subject.

16 On the sanctity of Hittite landscape see, among recent works, Erbil, Mouton 2012; Beckman 2013; Harmanşah 2014 and 2015, with references to previous literature; Archi 2015; Hawkins 2015; Payne 2018.

17 On the importance and the role of water and water structure in Hittite cult, see Erbil, Mouton 2012.

18 See Hawkins 1998: 288. For a reappraisal on the Quellgrotte, see Mora 2016 with references therein.

19 Among these natural or artificial openings in the ground, it is also possible to mention the ḫateššar, a term indicating the place wherein an angry deity could hide when he decided to disappear from the world. In the Illuyanka myth (first version) the goddess Inara ‘called the serpent up from its hole (Hittite ḫatteššar), (saying) “I’m preparing a feast. Come eat and drink.” The serpent and [his offspring] came up, and they ate and drunk. Now they do not want to go back down into their hole (Hittite ḫatteššar) again.’ (Hoffner 1998: 12). In another mythological text that narrates the disappearance of the Storm-god of Nerik, the story begins with the Storm-god who gets angry and retires into a cavity, or pit, referred to as a ḫatteššar (Hoffner, 1998: 22 ff.). In a similar way, in a fragmentary text describing a festival in honour of chthonic deities (CTH 645), a ḫatteššar is the ground cavity through which the connection with these deities is established. In all these instances the word is used to denote a special cavity in the ground. This term has usually been also identified as a sort of hole or pit in the ground in which offerings could be thrown (Green 2003: 140 with references therein).

20 See Gordon 1967; Otten 1980; Otten 1988: 33 f.; Hawkins 1995: 44 f.

21 See Gordon1967: 75 ff., on the different meanings of the two separated signs. See also the translation proposed by Hawkins 2000: 293: ‘“karstic slot, pot-hole”, conceived also as an entrance to the underworld.’ About the term, see also Ullmann 2010: 235-136.

22 See Archi 2007: 186-187; Harmanşah 2015: 45. Hawkins 1995: 44 f. noted a ‘one-for-one’ correspondence between the DKASKAL.KUR in the cuneiform documents and the hieroglyphic (DEUS) VIA+TERRA (translated ‘divine earth-road’) in the SÜDBURG inscription. On this subject, see also Erbil, Mouton 2012: 57 ff., who discuss the equivalence between the hieroglyphic and the cuneiform term and suggest that possibly ‘the Südburg complex would symbolize a natural underground watercourse.’ In more detail, the two scholars suggest that the shape of the sign (DEUS) VIA+TERRA might evoke the idea of a tunnel leading to a cave where an underground watercourse could flow.

23 For an overview see, e.g., Balza 2020 with references to previous literature.

24 Consider, e.g., the Bronze Tablet with the prohibition, addressed to Kurunt(y)a, to approach the NA4ḫekur of his father Muwatalli II; the texts that speak of the festivals that took place in the É.NA4 with the consequent accumulation of people and offerings; the description of the KI.LAM festival, with the procession to the NA4ḫuwasi of the Storm-god.

25 As for an analysis and interpretation of the monument, see Kohlmeyer 1983: 34-43; Rossner 1988: 67-74, n. 6; Emre 2002: 222, 228, 230; Bachmann, Özenir 2004; Ehringhaus 2005: 50-57.

26 See Klengel 1974; Otten 1977: 31; Emre 1993: 15 and n. 89-90; Divon 2008. See, however, de Martino 2018: 28-31, for a different interpretation of the available sources.

27 Concerning the last phase of Hittite history, four texts coming from Ḫattuša seem in fact to suggest a situation of food shortage in Ḫatti: CTH 126, 163, 176, 294. It is interesting to note that especially in CTH 163 there is a reference to three men from the Egyptian ‘administration of water-drawing’ who would be sent in Anatolia. It could possibly be that they were experts sent to assist the Hittite personnel who were to oversee the water (for irrigation?). For a recent review of these texts see, however, de Martino 2018: 29-31; Miller 2020.

28 On these structures, see Ehringhaus 2005: 37 ff.

29 See respectively Bittel 1953: 4-5; Börker-Klähn, Börker 1975: 34 ff.; Kohlmeyer 1983: 42-43.

30 For the possible interpretations of the monument, see Bittel 1953; Orthmann 1964; Kohlmeyer 1983; Ehringhaus 2005: 50 ff.; Erbil, Mouton 2012; Bachmann 2017.

31 See especially Erbil, Mouton 2012: 70 with references, who also suggested that, in addition to the fact that the winged sun is represented at least three times on the façade, ‘the deities figuring on the monument seem to be the tutelary gods of the Hittite king himself.’

32 See Harmanşah 2015: 79. On the possibility that the Eflatunpınar monument was connected to the Fasıllar monument, see lastly Varlik et al. 2016.

33 See, e.g., Özenir 2001: 540.

34 On the Illuyanka myth, see, among many studies, Beckman 1982; Pecchioli Daddi, Polvani 1990; Haas 2006: 97-103; Hoffner 1998 and 2007; Katz 1998; Rizza 2006; Gilan 2013; Rieken et al. (eds), hethiter.net/: CTH 321 (INTR 2010-11-23).

35 See also, e.g., Macqueen 1959: 174, according to whom the battle between the Storm-god and the Serpent would indeed be interpreted as a battle between the forces that provide water to humanity, embodied by the Storm-god, and the forces that want to deprive it of water, embodied by the Serpent. The struggle between the opposing forces would then be a struggle between life and death, between drought and abundance.

36 See Gilan 2013 for an overview on the most important studies on this text.

37 See the translation of Pecchioli Daddi (Pecchioli Daddi, Polvani 1990: 51-52): ‘(15’) Inara [ritornò?] nella città di Kiškil[ušša] per porre [nella] mano del re la sua casa [e il fiume] delle acque abissali – motivo per cui celebriamo la prima festa del purulli – e la mano [del re terrà la casa] (20’) di Inara e il fi[ume] delle acque abissali.’

38 For this reading, see Pecchioli Daddi, Polvani 1990: 50.

39 Cf. Taracha 2009: 136 n. 796 with references to the works of Haas 1970: 43 ff.; 1988; 1994: 696 ff.; Popko 1995; Hoffner 2007: 122, 130 ff.

40 Consider, however, that these assumed ties have been questioned in some studies (cf. Gilan 2013).

41 On the hypothesis that the Illuyanka myth was performed during the ceremony, see Taracha 2009: 137 n. 802 (with previous literature); see also Gilan 2013: 104-105 (with references).

42 Consider, in connection to this assumption, also the role of Inara as tutelary deity of Ḫattuša (see Hoffner 2007: 126-128; on Inara, see Taracha 2009: 42-43, with references).

43 See Pecchioli Daddi, Polvani 1990: 43: ‘La vicenda mitica che si apre con la scelta di Ḫupašiya e si chiude con l’attribuzione del controllo delle acque al sovrano ittita, può, a mio avviso, essere letta come la rappresentazione simbolica dell’istituzione della regalità ittita. Ḫupašiya (…) viene meno ai suoi compiti commettendo un peccato e diventando impuro (…). A questo punto Inara consegna la sua casa e il controllo delle acque sotterranee all’unico uomo legittimato alla regalità, il sovrano ittita appunto.’ See however Gilan 2013: 107-108.

44 See the translation of the final section of the first version of the myth offered by Gilan 2013: 107: ‘Inara [went] to Kiškil[ušša] and put her house [as well as the river] of the watery abyss [into] the hand of the king. Because of that (or since then) we are celebrating the first Purulli festival – May the hand of the [king . . . the house] of Inara as well as the river of the watery abyss.’ Compare this translation with that proposed by Pecchioli Daddi 1990: 51-52 (see above n. 37).

45 Consider also that in a contribution devoted to the analysis of some features of the mythological texts of Hattian origin, C. Mora (1979: 374-375), taking up and expanding on a suggestion of H.G. Güterbock (1978: 248), put forward the hypothesis that there could have been many versions of myths of Hattian origin, and that these versions could have been different from one to the other according to locations. In this sense, it is perhaps possible that there was a kind of canvas for these ‘tales of the gods,’ which were susceptible to variations, both in form and content. The frequent mention of different cities or rivers in these myths could be linked, according to Mora (1979: 375), to this aspect.

46 Consider also that the geographical location of the monument, right in the area overlooking the region of Tarḫuntašša, could represent an additional clue for the attribution of this work to Tuthaliya IV, especially if one takes into account the conflicting relations between the two regions in the late 13th century BC (see the considerations by Erbil 2019).

47 In this regard, another aspect of interest should be mentioned. According to Pecchioli Daddi, Polvani 1990: 47, the loss of prestige and power on the part of the Storm-god – at the beginning of the Illuyanka tale – allows us to trace this myth to the motif of the disappearance of the god. In fact, just like in mythological texts that tell of the disappearance of a god, the Storm-god, whose power has been diminished by his defeat in the confrontation with the Serpent, is no longer able to bestow the rain that is necessary for agropastoral activities. The duties of the Storm-god are then fulfilled by Mount Zali(ya)nu, which provides the necessary water; the rain in the first version and spring water in the second version. Therefore, it seems that, due to the weakness of the Storm-god, the festival of purulli is celebrated precisely to ensure that the country will prosper even without the protection of its main deity. The king, to whom Inara has entrusted control of the groundwaters, and the other deities mentioned in the two versions of the myth are the ones charged with providing for the well-being of the country and its inhabitants in the absence of the Storm-god. (See however Hoffner 2007, on the fact that the Illuyanka myths does not share any elements with the myths of the disappearance of a god).