Change, Continuity,

and Connectivity
North-Eastern Mediterranean
at the turn of the Bronze Age
and in the early Iron Age

Edited by
Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò
and Marek Węcowski

2018
Harrassowitz Verlag . Wiesbaden
Bis Band 60: Philippika. Marburger altertumskundliche Abhandlungen.
Published with the financial support of the Polish Ministry of Science and
Higher Education, within the frame of National Program for Development of
Humanities and the University of Warsaw.

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 Table of Contents
Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, Marek Węcowski
Change, Continuity, and Connectivity ............................................................................ 1

PART I:
Change, Continuity, and Connectivity - Regional Reassessments .............. 7
Piotr Taracha
Approaches to Mycenaean-Hittite Interconnections in the Late Bronze Age ................... 8
Rostislav Oreshko
Ahhiyawa - Danu(na). Aegean ethnic groups in the Eastern Mediterranean
in the Light of Old and New Hieroglyphic-Luwian Evidence.......................................... 23
Emanuel Pfoh
Socio-Political Changes and Continuities in the Levant (1300-900 BCE)........................ 57
Jeffrey P. Emanuel
Differentiating Naval Warfare and Piracy
in the Late Bronze–Early Iron Age Mediterranean: Possibility or Pipe Dream? ............... 68
Ann E. Killebrew
From “Global” to “Glocal”: Cultural Connectivity and Interactions between Cyprus
and the Southern Levant during the Transitional Late Bronze and Early Iron Ages ........ 81
Guy D. Middleton
‘I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more’: The Sea Peoples
and Aegean migration at the end of the Late Bronze Age ................................................ 95
Francisco J. Núñez
The impact of the Sea Peoples in Central Levant. A Revision. ......................................... 116
David Ben-Shlomo
Pottery and Terracottas in Philistia during the Early Iron Age:
Aspects of Change and Continuity .................................................................................. 141
Aren M. Maeir
The Philistines be upon thee, Samson (Jud. 16:20): Reassessing the Martial Nature
of the Philistines – Archaeological Evidence vs. Ideological Image? ................................. 158
Teresa Bürge and Peter M. Fischer
The Early Iron Age at Tell Abu al-Kharaz, Jordan Valley, and its Relations
to the Eastern Mediterranean: Trade, Migration, Hybridization, and Other Phenomena 169
VI Table of Contents

PART II:
Cross-Cultural Approaches........................................................................ 195
Jan Paul Crielaard
Hybrid go-betweens: the role of individuals with multiple identities
in cross-cultural contacts in the Late Bronze Age and Iron Age central
and eastern Mediterranean............................................................................................... 196
Sarah Murray
Imported Objects in the Aegean beyond Élite Interaction:
A Contextual Approach to Eastern Exotica on the Greek Mainland ................................ 221
Giorgos Bourogiannis
The Transmission of the Alphabet to the Aegean ............................................................. 235
Vicky Vlachou
New Images, Old Practices? An Imagery of Funerary Rituals and Cult
in the Aegean and the Eastern Mediterranean ................................................................. 258
S. Rebecca Martin
Eastern Mediterranean Feasts: What Do We Really Know About the Marzeah? ............. 294
Gunnel Ekroth
Holocaustic sacrifices in ancient Greek religion and the ritual relations to the Levant ..... 308

PART III:
Linguistic Approaches ............................................................................... 327
Dariusz R. Piwowarczyk
Chronology and dating of linguistic corpora ................................................................... 328
Rafał Rosół
Early Semitic Loanwords in Greek................................................................................... 334
Paola Dardano
Semitic influences in Anatolian languages ....................................................................... 345
Zsolt Simon
Anatolian influences on Greek ......................................................................................... 376
Wilfred G. E. Watson
Anatolian Influences in Semitic Languages...................................................................... 419
 Table of Contents VII

PART IV:
Scientific Perspectives ................................................................................ 443
Maciej Chyleński, Marcin Grynberg, Anna Juras
Late Bronze Age migrations in the Mediterranean.
Prospects for approaching the problem of Sea Peoples using ancient DNA ...................... 444
Argyro Nafplioti
Isotope ratio analysis as a tool for reconstructing past life-histories ................................. 451

List of Contributors ......................................................................................................... 466

 Change, Continuity, and Connectivity

Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, Marek Węcowski

The present collective volume stems from an interdisciplinary project funded by the Polish
Ministry of Science and Higher Education, within the frame of the National Programme
for the Development of the Humanities (research grant no. 12H 12 0193 81). It incorporates the
main results of three international workshops held in Warsaw between 2014 and 2016 with
several papers specifically written for this book. The broadly defined aim of this volume –
combining the import of archaeological, historical, linguistic, and scientific studies in the
field – is to offer a multidisciplinary reassessment of the relationships between the Aegean
and the Levant ca. 1300-900 BCE (and slightly beyond), i.e. in the period when a series of de-
cisive historical transformations in the North-Eastern Mediterranean took place reshaping
the historical and cultural fates of this region.
Traditionally, this period of cultural contacts has been conceived of teleologically, in
which an ex Oriente lux interpretive pattern was the key to understanding archaic and classi-
cal Greek culture – a mono-directional or at best diffusionist view of intercultural relations.
More recently, the pendulum of scholarly interest seems to have swung in the opposite di-
rection, focusing, on the one hand, on modes of adoption and adaptation, and less on sheer
transmission, of diverse cultural phenomena. On the other hand, hypothetical Aegean “in-
fluences” on Levantine cultures seem to have come to the fore, going far beyond the simple
study of the geography, or “ethnography” of migrations, including the most famous case of
the so-called Sea Peoples of the Late Bronze Age.
The title of this volume shows its intention to study the North-Eastern Mediterranean at
the turn of the Bronze Age and in the Early Iron Age as a hub of supra-local connectivity by
tracing – on a general historical level and in almost each particular essay – textual and ar-
chaeological evidence of both change and continuity. To some extent at least, it may be much
easier to observe discontinuities and novelties in the broadly defined field of cultural history.
However, for a historical period of unquestionable crisis marked by political, social, and no
doubt economic upheavals on an unprecedented scale in the North-Eastern Mediterranean,
continuities and connectivities may be no less striking to a contemporary student. To find
the balance between the two perspectives may perhaps be seen as the main challenge of the
historical studies of this period.
It is not our intention to present an authoritative and fully up-to-date version of the histo-
rical phenomena and processes involved, but rather to contribute to a fresh scholarly debate
by juxtaposing informed but nonetheless often opposed points of view. As will be clear to
every reader of this volume, the authors’ methods and general approaches differ considerab-
ly. Most importantly, whereas the historical implications of some of the essays are presented
in a refreshingly optimistic manner, striving for a new understanding of some general cultu-
ral phenomena or of regional histories, other essays are soberly minimalistic regarding the
feasibility of drawing firm conclusions with the current state of research. It is good to keep
in mind that both maximalist and minimalist approaches may be equally valid.
2 Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, Marek Węcowski

The first and central part of the book (“Change, Continuity, and Connectivity – Regional
Reassessments”) contains a series of essays arranged in a broadly geographical and chrono-
logical order, from Hittite–Mycenaean relations in the north, through Asia Minor, Cyprus,
Cilicia, Syria, and the Levant, up to the Jordan Valley. This section has a double nature as
it includes both general essays and case-studies. The case-studies are drawn from specific
archaeological sites and their implications and focus on several particularly important pro-
blems of regional history.
In this section, Piotr Taracha offers an introduction to the study of a fundamental his-
torical problem of Hittite–Mycenaean interconnections in the Late Bronze Age, a starting
point of the story to be followed in this book, dealing both with archaeological evidence for
cultural links between the Mycenaean world and western Anatolia, and with the “Ahhiyawa
problem” in a number of Hittite texts. This is a sensible reassessment of local political in-
teractions in a liminal zone of western Anatolia – one of the crucial peripheral regions
within the geographical scope of this book – having recourse to diverse archaeological,
historical, and anthropological analyses. Later in the same section, Rostislav Oreshko tack-
les the crucial but debatable issue of the (conceivable) Aegean ethnic names in the eastern
Mediterranean in his study of Ahhiyawa, Danu(na), combining his primarily linguistic ap-
proach with archaeological and historical considerations. This essay offers a meticulous
study of old and new Hieroglyphic-Luwian evidence on the issue and may be conveniently
compared to the general linguistic essays assembled in Part Three of this volume. Next, in
his methodologically rich essay, Emanuel Pfoh studies socio-political changes and conti-
nuities in the Levant between 1300 and 900 BCE, addressing, first, particular factors in the
twelfth century BCE transition relevant to socio-politics, but ultimately advocating for a
longue durée view of the historical phenomena involved. Pfoh’s main intention is to chal-
lenge the scholarly consensus that “a key change in socio-political structures occurred [in
this period], marking a transition from territorial polities to ‘national’ or ethnic polities” (p.
64). Instead, he observes “the fundamental permanence, after the twelfth century crisis, of
hierarchical territorial structures based on kinship and patronage in the Levant” (p. 64). In
a refreshingly provocative paper that invites further discussion, Jeffrey P. Emanuel tackles
the difficulty of differentiating between regular naval warfare and piracy in the Late Bronze
and the Early Iron Age Mediterranean. On a more general level, this issue is an example of
the larger historical and methodological problem of studying non-state, asymmetrical, or
guerrilla warfare typical of the periods of deep transition and change. As such, this paper
discusses one of the crucial historical factors influencing the fates of the North-Eastern
Mediterranean in the period under scrutiny in this volume. Ann E. Killebrew deals with
the interactions and interconnections between Cyprus and the southern Levant during the
Early Iron Age. Challenging the traditional view of the the last two centuries of the second
millennium BCE as “a period of societal breakdown following the disintegration of the great
Late Bronze Age empires”, Killebrew has recourse to the results of recent excavations in
the southern Levant and on Cyprus as well as to extensive provenience studies of ceramics
and metals. The emerging picture is one of decentralized but regionally-connected polities
 Change, Continuity, and Connectivity 3

on Cyprus and the coastal Levant that survived and even flourished after the collapse of
established socio-economic structures. Guy D. Middleton discusses the “Sea Peoples” and
Aegean migrations at the end of the Late Bronze Age, arguing against “the ‘migrationist’
characterisation of the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age eastern Mediterranean – spe-
cifically the idea of a Mycenaean or Aegean migration to the southern Levant which saw
the introduction of novel locally-produced Aegean cultural features” (p. 95). In yet another
revisionist paper, Francisco J. Núñez offers an overview of the impact of the “Sea Peoples”
in the central Levant and the socio-political and cultural repercussions for urban environ-
ments and explains the reasons for this particular situation, which are to be found, as he
argues, in the fact that the gravitation point of the entire issue of the Sea Peoples in the
Levant should be sought in events and circumstances that occurred in its northern part.
Namely, “the issue in its entirety seems to have been a north to south phenomenon in which
the battle [somewhere north of the Chekka cape, in north Lebanon] between Ramesses III
and those foreign peoples changed the course of events and led to a new situation” (p. 128).
In an archaeological case-study, David Ben-Shlomo presents various aspects of change and
continuity when studying pottery and terracottas in Philistia during the Early Iron Age. He
observes a peculiar duality in the material culture of this region. Southern Levantine pottery
and terracottas show clear signs of Aegean and Cypriote imigration as well as continuity of
Canaanite traditions. He concludes that:
[T]he traditional view seeing the Philistine phenomenon as representing a group of people arri-
ving from the west [...] to Philistia during the beginning of the 12th century BCE, and bringing
various aspects of their material culture with them, can be maintained. Yet, the effect of this
phenomenon on the local political scene of the southern Levant may have been more gradual
and complex“ (p. 150)

In the same section, Aren M. Maeir presents a reassessment of “Philistine” material cul-
ture by reconsidering the extant archaeological evidence from sites thought to be Philistine,
and relevant Egyptian iconography, and compares both to Biblical accounts of Philistines.
He argues for a strongly ideological import of “early Israelite/Judahite foundation stories”.
Teresa Bürge and Peter M. Fischer deal with regional and interregional contacts (trade, mi-
gration, hybridization etc.) between the Jordan valley and the eastern Mediterranean in the
light of the Early Iron Age strata of the site of Tell Abu al-Kharaz. To round-off Part One
of our volume, it may be instructive to quote some of the conclusions of this well-balanced
paper (p. 179):
[…] it is clear that the settlers of early Iron Age Tell Abu al-Kharaz were influenced by the
transformations in the 12th century BCE. Limited migration of individuals or families, which
arrived from the Eastern Mediterranean through the Jezreel Valley, is suggested. These mig-
rants mingled with the local population most likely by intermarriage, which explains the amal-
gamation of local and foreign traits in the material culture of many Phase IX contexts at Tell
Abu al-Kharaz. This migration process might have lasted years, decades or even generations.
Therefore, it is problematic to refer to these migrants as ‘Sea Peoples’, as the immigrants to Tell
Abu al-Kharaz had already experienced cultural changes on their way to Transjordan due to the
time lapse from their arrival at the Mediterranean littoral until they finally settled at Tell Abu
al-Kharaz. However, these descendants, who represent one of the outcomes of the ‘Sea Peoples
Phenomenon’, contributed to a rich, flourishing, well-organized and multi-cultural society at
early Iron Age Tell Abu al-Kharaz.
4 Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, Marek Węcowski

Moving from the regionally-oriented and chronologically more focused studies of our Part
One, the second part (“Cross-Cultural Approaches”) offers some broader cultural perspec-
tives on the historical period studied in this book. Not inappropriately, it is hoped, some of
the essays included in this section go well beyond the chronological scope of the volume to
study far-reaching historical and cultural consequences of some of the phenomena involved.
Some others study notoriously debatable and methodologically demanding historical issu-
es originating from historical comparisons between the two geographical extremes of the
North-Eastern Mediterranean, the Aegean and the Levant.
Jan Paul Crielaard studies the role of individuals with multiple identities depen-
dent on cross-cultural contacts in the Late Bronze Age and Iron Age central and eastern
Mediterranean, comparing them “to other individuals attested in the archaeological and
textual records who seem to have possessed comparable positions in intercultural or trans-
cultural situations of increasing interconnectivity” and thus highlighting “the possible role
of [such] individuals in culture contacts” (p. 196) and exploring the phenomenon of cultural
hybrids. Sarah Murray deals with eastern exotica on the Greek mainland in their immediate
context with a view to go beyond their traditional, and elite-oriented archaeological inter-
pretations. She argues that the largely ritual contexts and functions of many 13th through
10th century exotica may instead be indicative of “a variety of mechanisms, not only [… of]
economic or political exchange systems associated with the élite, but also […] of the move-
ments of humbler individuals, or in conjunction with non-local supernatural beliefs”. Thus,
“imported exotica in the early Greek world may in some cases have served to provide indi-
viduals with an unseen superstitious or supernatural advantage rather than a socio-political
one” (p. 228). In the same section, Giorgos Bourogiannis – by offering a lucid overview
of the relevant material – deals with the problem of the transmission of the alphabet to the
Aegean with a view to answer fundamental questions of “how, when and where the adoption
of the alphabet by the Greeks took place” (p. 236). Vicky Vlachou discusses the imagery of
funerary rituals and cult practices in the Aegean and the eastern Mediterranean, arguing that
“despite the strong influence of Egyptian and Near Eastern beliefs, Aegean funerary icono-
graphy embodies regional traditions and beliefs”. At the same time, the author stresses the
workings of “the varying symbolic meanings that these images seem to adopt during each
period, and the importance that is placed on the different parts of the rituals in order to better
serve the needs and aspirations of the communities that are undergoing significant shifts and
transformations of their own” (p. 272). In her essay, S. Rebecca Martin asks what we really
know about the Levantine institution of the marzeah, a type of feast often associated with,
or even studied as a model of, the Greek aristocratic banquet, or symposion. As far as the
similarities, and hence conceivable historical links, between the Levantine and the Aegean
commensal practices go, she argues that “the symposion and marzeah were only as much
alike as any elite occasion that involved wine drinking” and therefore scholars “must seek
the symposion’s origin stories elsewhere” and not, simplistically, in Levantine social practi-
ce (p. 303). This section of the book concludes with Gunnel Ekroth’s essay on holocaustic
sacrifices, rituals where an entire animal was put into the fire, in ancient Greek religion
and on their conceivable links to Levantine rituals. The author combines here archaeologi-
cal, zooarchaeological, and written evidence for holocaustic sacrifices in the Greek Early
Iron Age and historical periods (ca. 900-100 BC). After an exhaustive overview of the rele-
vant Greek material and a sober discussion of possible contact between the Aegean and the
 Change, Continuity, and Connectivity 5

Levantine practitioners of holocaustic rituals, Ekroth’s concluding remarks, as in the case of

the previous Part One, may be quoted to conclude this section of the volume as well (p. 322):
The similarities between the Greek burnt animal sacrifice, holocausts as well as thysiai, and
the practices in the Levant are fascinating, but also pose methodological challenges. Are we to
focus on the likenesses or the differences? We are clearly facing ritual actions, which in many
ways are similar but which also diverge as to the execution and to the purposes and meanings.
A holocaust of a bull in the temple at Jerusalem was undoubtedly something different from the
holocaust of a piglet to a local Greek hero. And could there be a greater distinction in the per-
ceptions of the divine, between the Greek gods, anthropomorphic in the full sense of the word,
the almighty God of the Hebrew Bible? Even so, they were both really fond of sweet-smelling
fatty smoke.

Part Three (“Linguistic Approaches”), much more systematic in its presentation of relevant
material than the two previous ones, covers the field of interactions between the Levantine,
Anatolian, and Aegean languages. The evidence of the interaction of Aegean and Levantine
languages recognizable in the linguistic material of historical periods should in principle
be one way of assessing the interaction of populations in the northeastern and eastern part
of the Mediterranean. Such an approach is naturally not free of methodological pitfalls that
must be taken into consideration when the results of linguistic analyses are used by non-
specialists to support or disprove historical and archaeological generalisations regarding the
Late Bronze and the Early Iron Age history of the North-Eastern Mediterranean.
In this section, Dariusz R. Piwowarczyk discusses the methods of dating the linguistic
developments pertaining to the languages involved in the cultural transfers studied in this
volume. In general, when studying such linguistic phenomena, one can a priori speak of a
“triangle” of mutual linguistic relationships whose “angles” would be formed by Greek,
Anatolian, and Semitic languages. Within this framework, Rafał Rosłół deals with Semitic
influences in Greek, Paola Dardano with Semitic influences in Anatolian languages, Zsolt
Simon with Anatolian influences in Greek, and Wilfred G.E. Watson with Anatolian influ-
ences in Semitic languages.
Besides presenting a polyphonic, and not smoothed or artificially consistent, version of
Aegean-Levantine interconnectivity, the main novelty of this book is a fourth and final set
of essays discussing new scientific approaches that transcend traditional multidisciplina-
ry debates concerning the conflicting attitudes and, at times, conflicting methodologies of
archaeology, history, and linguistic studies. Scientific studies can be groundbreaking, but
their conclusions are sometimes ambiguous or difficult for non-specialists to understand.
Scholars lacking the requisite methodological skills and field experience are sometimes pro-
ne to misunderstanding and misapplying technical studies.
Therefore, in the final Part Four of the volume (“Scientific Perspectives”), Maciej
Chyleński, Marcin Grynberg, and Anna Juras present some prospects for approaching the
problem of Late Bronze Age migrations in the Mediterranean, using ancient DNA. In the
same section, Argyro Nafplioti tackles the hotly debated issue of using isotope ratio analysis
as a tool for reconstructing past life histories.

*
6 Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, Marek Węcowski

The Editors of the volume can only hope that this book will find its way not only to the
specialists interested in the historical period between ca. 1300 and 900 BCE, but also to the
scholars grappling with methodological and theoretical problems involved in studying vari-
ous aspects of pre-modern archaeology and cultural history.
 Differentiating Naval Warfare and Piracy
in the Late Bronze–Early Iron Age Mediterranean:
Possibility or Pipe Dream?

Jeffrey P. Emanuel

The difference between warfare and piracy, particularly when it comes to naval conflict in
the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age Eastern Mediterranean, has been in need of theoretical
attention for some time. While both terms are frequently used, the acts themselves remain
imprecisely delineated. This paper endeavors to begin the process of exploring to just what
degree that is possible.1

Introduction
Documentary evidence from the end of the Bronze Age in the Eastern Mediterranean is
spectacular in its portrayal of a chaotic time of transition, with textual references to events
that modern scholars have vividly interpreted as lightning–fast attacks by enemy ships that
appear from nowhere, pillage and set fire to cities, and quickly disappear, leaving behind
only ruin and, in the cases where survivors remained to feel it, fear. These texts and in-
scriptions are complemented by the famous sea battle depiction from Medinet Habu, whose
painted original must have been striking to behold, as well as by fragments of pictorial
pottery from the Greek mainland and western Anatolia showing ships of warriors facing off
in combat on the high seas.
How much of this is an accurate reflection of the events of this time, and how much is
the result of modern interpretation being projected onto a time three millennia before our
own? To be sure, modern conditions and sociopolitical theory have frequently colored our
interpretation of times before our own.2 The significance of these individual data points
can certainly be overstated, and each has been imputed with its own share of significance
at different times in the past. Further, while the collapse of the great Late Bronze Age
civilizations certainly attests to significant changes in the delicate balance of the Eastern
Mediterranean world at this time, a certain level of low–intensity conflict seems to have
been a constant throughout the Late Bronze Age.
Rather than amphibious combat being a new phenomenon, the established powers had
experience dealing with these threats. In spite of this, a combination of internal and ex-
ternal factors in the late 13th and early 12th centuries combined to make seaborne attacks
more effective than they had been in the past, and polities more vulnerable to them. These
included the rapid spread of improvements in maritime technology, with the development

1 The subject is particularly timely in light of the recent flurry of pirate–related scholarship, particularly
with regard to the end of the Bronze Age (see, e.g., Hitchcock, Maeir 2014: 624–640; 2016; forthcoming
A; forthcoming B), as well as recent studies dealing with the ‘Galley Subculture,’ or a charismatical-
ly–led society built around galleys, rowing crews, and their captains (e.g. Wedde 2005: 29–38; Tartaron
2005: 132–133; Emanuel, forthcoming).
2 See, e.g., Silberman 1998: 268–275.
 Differentiating Naval Warfare and Piracy 69

of the oared galley, brailed sailing rig, crow’s nest, and rower’s gallery covered with partial
decking. These also included an increase in the scale of ship–based hostilities, which was
likely part–cause and part–result of the displacement of people in the years surrounding the
Late Bronze Age collapse.

Warfare or Piracy?
But what, of the events we see, should be considered warfare, and what piracy? How do we
define each of these? On the surface, it seems like it should be simple; after all, in war, ar-
mies meet each other in a series of battles for the purpose of serving a larger strategic goal.
This sounds good, but it doesn’t take more than a few moments’ thought to recognize that
this is a simplistic approach. Nonstate actors, irregulars, declared and undeclared conflicts,
and a wide variation in the size and complexity of combatants and the organizations they
represent all serve to compound this issue. Add to this the geopolitical and military realities
of a world before the Westphalian state, before the Geneva conventions and law of armed
conflict, and before the advent of professional standing armies – all of which, in the grand
scheme, are ultra–recent developments – and we may begin to appreciate the complexity of
the question, and the multiplicity of possible answers, each as potentially correct as the last.
Shifting ever so slightly to differentiation between pirates and soldiers, who, in this peri-
od three millennia prior to our current laws of war, and at a time when texts like the Hebrew
Bible speak approvingly of treating conquered cities to the ḥērem, can be considered what
we might call a “lawful combatant,” and who a “pirate”?
While these may seem like they should be simple questions, they are, in reality, very dif-
ficult, having been debated for centuries and more without satisfactory resolution. My hope
with this paper is to begin the process of teasing out an answer – or, at very least, to leave
the discussion a bit less cloudy.

Background: A Tour of the Evidence

In order to properly understand the role of these changes at the end of the Bronze Age, it
will be beneficial to first review the evidence for this constant state of sea–based conflict,
considering the brief increases in intensity and corresponding lulls in light of some specific
actions – and, in the case of some Ugaritic and Hittite texts, some less specific allusions to
action – taken in response to these ongoing threats.
Documentary evidence from XVIII dynasty sources suggest that both Egypt and Cyprus
in particular were regular targets of seaborne raiders, probably by multiple aggressors. Some
of these were identified with the geographic region of Lycia by the king of Alašiya, whose
letter to the Egyptian pharaoh (Amarna letter EA 38) simultaneously declares his own in-
nocence with regard to the charge of sanctioning raids on Egypt, and denounces the “men
of Lukki” whom, he claims, wage annual campaigns against his own territory.3 Meanwhile,
an Egyptian inscription commissioned by Amenhotep son of Hapu, dating to the reign of
Amenhotep III, refers to establishing defenses “at the heads of the river–mouths,” likely a
measure taken against maritime raiders.4 After the date of this inscription, but still a full
century prior to the vividly depicted battles of Ramesses III’s reign, Ramesses II claimed
in the Aswan stele of his second year to have “destroyed” [ fḫ; also ‘captured’] the warriors

3 Moran 1992: 111.

4 Breasted 1906–7: §916; Helck 1979: 133.
70 Jeffrey P. Emanuel

of the Great Green (Sea),” so that Lower Egypt can “spend the night sleeping peacefully.”5
In a separate inscription on the Tanis II rhetorical stele, Ramesses mentions the defeat and
conscription of seaborne Sherden warriors “whom none could ever fight against, who came
bold–[hearted], in warships from the midst of the Sea, those whom none could withstand.”6
This is frequently assumed to have been the same battle as that referenced in the Aswan
stele,7 although there is no clear evidence that this is the case. The aggressor is not named in
the Aswan inscription, and the frequency with which the coasts of Egypt seem to have been
raided during this period certainly leaves open the possibility that this text refers to a dif-
ferent adversary. Likewise, the likely “mixed multitude” nature of these raiders, discussed
further below, suggests that even references to the same “groups” might not refer to the
people from the same point of origin, nor to people with a single cohesive identity.8
Based on its absence from extant written accounts, the defeat of this “bold–hearted”
enemy seems to have coincided with a temporary dissipation of the maritime threat to Egypt,
which seems to have lasted for the remainder of Ramesses II’s reign. The defeat and capture
of the Sherden and the raiders mentioned in the Aswan stele may have contributed to this, as
may the series of forts Ramesses II established, beginning in the Delta and concluding 300
kilometers west on the North African coast.
While these fortresses likely served multiple purposes, one seems likely to have been de-
fense of the desert coast and the fertile Nile Delta from sea raiders, from restless eastward–
looking Libyans, or from a combination of both. This seems particularly true for Zawiyet
Umm el–Rakham, an “isolated military outpost reared against a backdrop of near total
emptiness” located at the western edge of the Egyptian frontier.9 This fortress sat a scant 20
km west of Marsa Matruh, the small, lagooned site that may have served as a revictualing
station for mariners, and may have been the southwesternmost known point on the Late
Bronze Age maritime trading circuit, or perhaps even have been a base for pirates, much as
the coastal waters of Crete, Cilicia, Cyprus, and elsewhere were at times.1 0 Effective as they
may have been for the duration of his lengthy reign, Ramesses II’s line of fortresses does not
appear to have survived beyond his death in 1213 BCE. As these defenses went out of use,
as if on cue, sea raiders, and those we associate with them, arose once again in Pharaonic
records, this time in the accounts of Merneptah and, ultimately, those of Ramesses III.
Now, we go outside Egypt. Frequently–cited texts from Hatti and Ugarit of likely 13th
and early 12th century date may either demonstrate the devolution of the Late Bronze Age
Mediterranean system, or provide further evidence for continuous conflict between mariti-
me raiders and coastal polities (as well as larger powers who owned an interest in the latter).
Two texts from Ugarit, RSL 1 and RS 20.238, are both particularly relevant and often treated
as companion letters. In the former, the sender – likely either the king of Alašiya or the king
of Karkemiš – admonishes King ‘Ammurapi of Ugarit to prepare the city against a rapid-
ly–approaching seaborne enemy: “If indeed they have spotted [enemy] ships,” he writes,

5 de Rougé 1877: §253.8; Kitchen 1996: 182.

6 Kitchen 1996: 120.
7 See, e.g., Cline, O’Connor 2012: 186.
8 Hitchcock, Maeir 2014; 2016.
9 White, White 1996: 29.
10 Bietak 2015: 29–42.
 Differentiating Naval Warfare and Piracy 71

“make yourself as strong as possible. [...] Surround your towns with walls; bring troops and
chariotry inside. [Then] wait at full strength for the enemy.”1 1
The second text, a letter from ‘Ammurapi to the king of Alašiya, has traditionally been
seen as a response to RSL 1, although this is obviously not the case if the latter was sent
from Karkemiš. ‘Ammurapi writes that “the ships of the enemy have been coming. They
have been setting fire to my cities and have done harm to the land. Doesn’t my father know
that all of my infantry and [chariotry] are stationed in Hatti, and that all of my ships are
stationed in the land of Lukka?” He concludes with a report and a plea: “Now the seven
ships of the enemy which have been coming have done harm to us. Now if other ships of
the enemy turn up, send me a report somehow(?) so that I will know.”1 2 Also relevant is a
report sent from the prefect of Alašiya to ‘Ammurapi, which states that “(the) twenty enemy
ships – even before they would reach the mountain (shore) – have not stayed around but have
quickly moved on, and where they have pitched camp we do not know.”1 3 These numbers
presented no small threat: depending on their size, the seven ships listen in RS 20.238 may
have contained up to 350 rowers (and, therefore, potential warriors), while the twenty ships
mentioned in RS 20.18 may have collectively contained as many as one thousand if each was
a fifty–oared pentekontor.1 4
Traditional assumptions aside, the relationship between these texts is difficult to discern,
as is their meaning. They clearly speak of a threat, particularly from the sea, and of circum-
stances which seem to have prevented Ugarit from mounting a proper defense of its borders,
but they also raise several questions. In particular, why were Ammurapi’s ships “stationed
in the land of Lukka” instead of at their home port at this time of need? Two other texts, RS
94.2530 and RS 94.2523 (= Ahhiyawa Text 27A and AhT 27B)1 5 describe a mission to Lukka
on behalf of Hatti, to deliver a shipment of metal ingots to “the (Ah)hiyawans.” Does this,
or a similar undertaking, explain their absence from Ugarit at this critical time, as Itamar
Singer once suggested?1 6 If so, this seems to have been an extraordinarily poorly–timed
expedition, particularly because it evidently removed the entire Ugaritic fleet from its home
port and thereby abandoned the defense of their coastal waters.
The idea that it would have taken every serviceable ship at ‘Ammurapi’s disposal to
carry out this venture is difficult to accept, particularly in light of the key role the Ugaritic
fleet seems to have played in Ḫatti’s maritime strategy, such as it was – a fact recognized
in Karkemiš, as evidenced by RS 34.138, a letter instructing the queen of Ugarit that she
may not send her ships to places more distant than Byblos and Sidon on the Phoenician
coast.1 7 What, then, can help us make sense of this situation? It is admittedly speculative,
but perhaps Ugarit maintained a number of combat–capable vessels, much smaller than its
merchant fleet, which carried the dual charge of defending the coastal waters against pirates
and invaders and escorting shipments of particular value or import to foreign ports. Singer
discounted this possibility, instead arguing that “Ugarit did not possess a separate military
fleet... [r]ather, some of the commercial ships were used in times of war for the transpor-

11 Hoftijzer, Van Soldt 1998: 343–344; Singer 2011: 117, n. 394.

12 Hoftijzer, Van Soldt 1998: 343.
13 Hoftijzer, Van Soldt 1998: 343.
14 Emanuel 2014: 21–56.
15 Beckman, Bryce, Cline 2011.
16 Singer 2006: 250.
17 Singer 2000: 22.
72 Jeffrey P. Emanuel

tation of troops and for fighting the enemy.”1 8 However, as we have seen, piratical activity
was a significant threat at this time, and individual merchants and polities alike may have
attempted to mitigate this threat in part by placing armed individuals on heavily–laden mer-
chant ships, as suggested by the Syrian, Aegean, and possibly Balkan or Italic weapons and
armor on the Ulu Burun vessel.1 9 Could it be possible that vessels carrying precious cargo
were also provided with combat–equipped escorts? If this were the case, then ‘Ammurapi’s
declaration that “all of my ships are stationed in the land of Lukka [and] haven’t arrived
back yet” may mean that this critical, albeit notional, subset of the Ugaritic fleet was, most
inopportunely, away on such an escort mission when the enemy ships were wreaking havoc
on the city and its surrounding territory.2 0
The companion complaint that Ugarit’s infantry and chariotry were “stationed in Hatti”
may be related to events taking place elsewhere in northwestern Syria at this time, as well.
Two texts, RS 16.402 and RS 34.143, address the king of Ugarit’s unwillingness to send
troops to the aid of the Hittite viceroy in Karkemiš, who was responsible for overseeing the
vassal state of Ugarit on behalf of the Hittite king. The viceroy was evidently dealing with
an enemy that had established what Singer referred to as a “bridgehead” in in Mukiš.2 1 In
the Ugaritic letter RS 16.402, a representative informs the queen that the enemy is in Mukiš,
while RS 34.143, the king of Karkemiš accuses the king of Ugarit of misrepresenting the
location of his army, which is evidently supposed to be aiding the combat effort in Mukiš,
but is positioned in the northern city of Apšuna instead. Mukiš consisted of the ‘Amuq plain
and its surrounding areas, with its major center at Alalakh. Could the enemy movement
in Mukiš recorded in RS 16.402 and RS 34.143 be connected to the arrival in the ‘Amuq of
the intrusive people (or peoples) with Cypro–Aegean affinities who would ultimately settle
Tell Ta‘yinat and the surrounding area and establish the polity of Palistin?2 2 We should note
again that this is not confirmed by text or archaeology, but rather is one possible conclusion
that could be drawn from a synthesis of the available evidence. Alternatively – or, perhaps,
also – it is possible that this overland movement through Mukiš is related to the seaborne
threats noted in RS 20.18 and RS 20.238, and that it should therefore be seen as the land
component of a combined land and sea assault. This would be a similar situation to that de-
scribed by the Hittite king Šuppiluliuma II (KBo XII 38), who claimed that he met “ships of
Alašiya [...] in the sea three times for battle.” He continues, “and I smote them; and I seized
the ships and set fire to them in the sea. But when I arrived on dry land(?), the enemies from
Alašiya came in multitude against me for battle [...].”2 3
Based on the Medinet Habu inscriptions and this Hittite claim to having fought three sea
battles and a land battle against the “enemies from Alašiya,” the tactic of parallel land and
sea assaults seems to have been the modus operandi of at least some groups at this time –
perhaps one or more of those we associate with the ‘Sea Peoples.’ Whatever the reason for
Ugarit’s dire defensive situation, the seven ships of RS 20.238 seem to have been sufficient
to cause significant damage to the lands under his control. We cannot be certain where the-
se texts fit in Ugarit’s late history, nor if they are representative of anything other than the

18 Singer 2011: 66–67.

19 Pulak 1998: 207–208; Yasur–Landau 2010: 44; Sauvage 2012: 171, 290.
20 But cf. Singer 2011: 65–66.
21 Singer 2011: 119–121.
22 Harrison 2009: 174-189; Janeway 2017: 121–123; Emanuel 2015.
23 Güterbock 1967: 78.
 Differentiating Naval Warfare and Piracy 73

standard threats a wealthy coastal polity had to endure from the sea simply as what we might
call “the price of doing business.” However, as noted above, the destruction and permanent
abandonment of the site attests to the fact that something did eventually change in the early
12th century, and that Ugarit finally met an aggressor whose attacks it could neither fend off
nor recover from.

Warfare or Piracy, Once Again

So what in this documentary evidence should be seen as piracy, and what as warfare? The
issue is one of theory and terminology – the Scylla and Charybdis, if you will, of any clear
argument and historiographical reconstruction.
The term “piracy” is consistently used to describe sea attacks of almost any kind, from
state–sponsored to private, while it has been prominently argued that, in the Bronze Age,
there was no distinction to be made between this and warfare.2 4 In the “War and Piracy
at Sea” chapter of his seminal work Seagoing Ships and Seamanship in the Bronze Age
Levant, Shelley Wachsmann seems to regard the difference as hinging on the involvement
or absence of a state (in the form of troops or vessels), even if that involvement is one–sided.
For example, he classifies the Egyptian defeat of Sherden “in the midst of the sea” that is
recounted in Tanis II, and the three sea battles against the “enemies of Alashiya” mentioned
in the Hittite text KBo XII 38, as warfare.2 5 Raids, on the other hand – perhaps conducted by
these same enemies – are classified as piracy.2 6
While acts of war and of piracy can be placed into these categories, the distinction bet-
ween them can be difficult to negotiate. If, for example, a fleet of nonstate actors – for
example a half–dozen ships of Lukka, or Sherden, or Odysseus’ fictional Aegean raiders –
were to conduct a successful raid on the Egyptian coast, striking quickly, gathering plunder,
and escaping to open water, then that would, under this system, be classified as piracy (and,
in my view, rightly so). However, if something went awry on that raid, and the aggressors
were unfortunate enough to come into contact with Egyptian troops, either while ashore
(as described in Odyssey XIV 258–268),2 7 while afloat but still in sight of land (as in the
Medinet Habu relief), or even in the open water (as Tanis II seems to suggest), this would
transform from piracy to war. In other words, it is not the involvement of the nonstate actor
that dictates the terminology employed to describe this type of action or conflict, but that of
the state actor.
Philip de Souza, with whose 1999 study on piracy in the Greco–Roman world any scholar
working in this area must contend, declined to split hairs on the issue, instead arguing that
piracy simply was not practiced in the Bronze Age. “It cannot be said that there is evidence
of piracy in the historical records,” he writes, “without some distinctive terminology. People
using ships to plunder coastal settlements are not called pirates, so they cannot really be
said to be practicing piracy.”2 8 Citing the lack of terminological differentiation in ancient
records, he continues in this vein, saying “It seems to me that there is no other possible label
for this activity than warfare.”2 9 However, de Souza has also noted elsewhere that, “if piracy

24 Karraker 1953: 15; Baruffi 1998: 10; de Souza 1999: 16.

25 Wachsmann 1998: 317.
26 Wachsmann 1998: 320.
27 Emanuel 2017: 149–150.
28 de Souza 1999: 17.
29 de Souza 1999: 16.
74 Jeffrey P. Emanuel

is defined in general terms as any form of armed robbery involving the use of ships, then it
seems to have been commonplace in the ancient Mediterranean world by the Late Bronze
Age,”3 0 noting the texts we have already mentioned here as evidence. I would agree with this
latter statement, and go a step further by suggesting that we can differentiate, at least for our
own purposes, based on the evidence at hand.

State Versus Nonstate Actors

It is certainly true that piracy typically involves nonstate actors. As Augustine wrote, in
a retelling of a Ciceronian anecdote, “It was an elegant and true reply that was made to
Alexander the Great by a certain pirate whom he had captured. When the king asked him
what he was thinking of, that he should molest the sea, he said with defiant independence:
‘The same as you when you molest the world! Since I do this with a little ship I am called a
pirate. You do it with a great fleet and are called an emperor’” (Aug. de Civ. Dei IV 4.25).3 1
This point of view rings true across the millennia. In his Treatise on International Law,
19th century attorney William Edward Hall noted that, “Piracy includes acts differing much
from each other in kind and in moral value; but one thing they all have in common; they are
done under conditions which render it impossible or unfair to hold any state responsible for
their commission.”3 2 An important corollary to this is that, if the perpetrators do belong to
a state or organized community, their actions are a violation against their own state as well
as that of their victims, and their own community can be responsible for disciplining the
offenders. A glimpse of this can be seen in Amarna letter EA 38, with the king of Alašiya’s
declaration that, “My brother, you say to me, ‘Men from your country were with them.’ ...If
men from my country were (with them), send (them back) and I will act as I see fit.”3 3
Hall continued his excursus on piracy by defining the term as “violence done upon the
ocean or unappropriated lands, or within the territory of a state through descent from the
sea, by a body of men acting independently of any politically organized society.”3 4 Daniel
Heller–Roazen, in his book The Enemy of All: Piracy and the Law of Nations, notes that
pirates have traditionally been “defined as stateless persons for whose acts on the high seas
no state would be held accountable.”3 5

War and Warfare

Conversely, for violence – even organized violence – to be classified as war or warfare, is
participation by multiple states or statelike actors required? Contra Rousseau, this seems
overly restrictive; after all, a state could well regard ongoing, low–intensity combat against
even a loosely organized nonstate threat as warfare. In the recently–published and highly
publicized U.S. Army field manual on Counterinsurgency, for example, now–retired gene-
rals David Petraeus and James Amos defined warfare as “a violent clash of interests bet-
ween organized groups characterized by the use of force” and noted that the means these
“organized groups” utilize “to achieve [their] goals are not limited to conventional forces

30 de Souza 2010: 290.

31 via de Souza 2002: 185.
32 Hall 1890: 253.
33 Moran 1992: 111.
34 Hall 1890: 257.
35 Heller–Roazen 2009: 144.
 Differentiating Naval Warfare and Piracy 75

employed by nation–states.”3 6 In the mid–1970s, Webster’s dictionary defined war as “a

state of open and declared hostile conflict between political units,” and both Hedley Bull
and Keith Otterbein defined the term as a planned and organized armed dispute between
such units.3 7 This follows Bronisław Malinowski’s definition of war as “an armed contest
between two independent political units, in the pursuit of a tribal or national policy.”3 8 The
flexibility on state status that terms like “political units,” “political communities,” and “or-
ganized groups” provide rightly “extend[s] the phenomenon of warfare to a large range of
societies.”3 9
Expanding the scope even wider, anthropologists Allen Johnson and Timothy Earle, for
example, considered all “organized aggression” to be warfare, while noting that “warfa-
re is on one phenomenon of the varying expression of aggression in varying institutional
settings.”4 0 Historian Helen Nicholson, writing on the medieval period, offered a similarly
broad definition by suggesting that it be defined as “any form of ongoing armed violence
between bands of men.”4 1
A common thread in these definitions is that they are too broad, as the only clear factor
that it serves to differentiate warfare from any other form of armed violence is its “ongoing”
nature. Clearly, as anthropologist Stephen Reyna has noted, “while most would agree with
a proposition that all war is organized violence, few would agree with its converse that all
organized violence is war.”4 2 The level of organization, both of the conflict and of its par-
ticipants, is important, as is size – not necessarily of those involved in the conflict, but of
the organization they represent, as well as the nature and scope of that conflict. After all,
as military historian David Buffaloe has correctly noted, “By its very nature, warfare is a
struggle at the strategic level. Battles are fought at the tactical level and campaigns at the
operational level, but warfare is waged at the strategic level.”4 3 Thus, a battle is not itself a
war, but is one part of an ongoing strategic struggle that we may call warfare.
If the correct reading of Ramesses III’s records at Medinet Habu and in the Great Harris
Papyrus is one of systematic, coordinated land and sea campaigns by a confederation of
tribes, for the purpose of a strategic objective, then this can very well be defined as warfare.
This might also be seen in the Ugaritic texts of seaborne assault that we discussed ear-
lier, particularly if they are correctly combined – as Itamar Singer suggested4 4 – with Ras
Shamra texts 16.402 and 34.143, which address the Hittite viceroy at Karkemiš’s struggle
with an enemy that had established a “bridgehead” in in Mukiš. Should the enemy move-
ment in Mukiš be connected to the aforementioned accounts of seaborne attack, and seen
as a land component of a combined land and sea assault? If we accept these interpretations,
then they seem to suggest that the tactic of parallel land and sea assaults was the modus
operandi of at least some groups at this time. Perhaps this includes those we associate with
the ‘Sea Peoples.’ On the other hand, while the situation described by Šuppiluliuma II in

36 U.S. Army, Counterinsurgency 2006: 1.

37 Bull 1977: 184; Otterbein 1989: 3.
38 Malinowski 1968: 247.
39 Otterbein 1989: 3.
40 Johnson, Earle 2000: 33.
41 Nicholson 2003: 1.
42 Reyna 2000: 30.
43 Buffaloe 2006: 2.
44 Singer 2011: 119–121.
76 Jeffrey P. Emanuel

KBo XII 38, who claimed that he fought “ships of Alashiya” three times at sea, and then met
this enemy once again on land, could be read similarly, it could just as easily be read less as
warfare than as a tenacious a counter–piracy operation against an equally tenacious enemy.

Piracy and Privateering

While acts of a piratical nature can be perpetrated by one state or political unit against
another, piracy itself is not carried out between states. This position was perhaps most ex-
plicitly defended by Hall, who unequivocally declared that “acts which are allowed in war,
when authorized by a politically organized society, are not [themselves] piratical.”4 5 This
is in keeping with the aforementioned definition of “piracy” that includes the requirement
that no state be able to be held liable for its perpetrators. At its most extreme, then, acts
between states that are piratical in nature would be classified as privateering, which, while
considered “but one remove from pira[cy],” is itself, to quote Fernand Braudel, “legitimate
war,”4 6 which, as historian David Starkey has explained, “might serve public as well as
private interests; at once a business opportunity, a tool of war and a factor in the diplomacy
between nations.” Starkey further notes the fact “that privateering was, and still is, confused
with piracy is hardly surprising given the similarities in the aims and methods of the two
activities. Both privateersman and pirate were intent on enriching themselves at the expense
of other maritime travelers, an end which was often achieved by violent means, the forced
appropriation of ships and merchandise. However, there had always been a theoretical dis-
tinction between the two forms of predation.”4 7

Figure 1: Matrix of military and piratical classifications, after Thomson 1996: 8.

As we see from historian Janice Thomson’s helpful matrix,4 8 an adapted version of which
can be seen here (Fig. 1), the difference between a Privateer and a Pirate is no more and no
less than the state’s investment in each. It is unlikely, of course, that freebooting sailors in at
the end of the Late Bronze Age were carrying physical letters of marque while plundering
foreign ships; such documentation, at least in the form we think of it, is an invention of the
early second millennium CE. However, state sanction of piratical acts (either de facto or
de jure) obviously predates the conflicts of late medieval and early modern history, and we
45 Hall 1890: 256.
46 Braudel 1972: 866.
47 Starkey 1990: 13, 19.
48 Thomson 1996: 8.
 Differentiating Naval Warfare and Piracy 77

should recognize that non–state actors committing piratical acts on behalf of a supportive
state are very much the ancient equivalent of the privateer, both medieval and modern.4 9 The
use of privateers, both in war proper and to harass adversaries, is well documented in Greek
history in particular, from the Classical to the Hellenistic periods. In other words, the lack
of what we may now think of as formal privateer status does not mean that this function did
not exist at the end of the Bronze Age.
At this point, we seem to be closing in on the heart of the mater: namely, if war and war-
fare require the involvement (and assent) of the state or similar organized political unit, then
privateers can be said to have been participants in war, while pirates likely cannot.
This is not to say that states involved in a conflict with each other cannot (or do not)
consider their adversary to be engaging in piracy through certain seaborne acts of violence.
In a 4th century BCE example, both Demosthenes of Athens and Philip II of Macedon ac-
cused each other of engaging in (and enabling) piracy, for the purpose both of politically
undermining and of physically and economically harming the other.5 0 On the other hand,
an Athenian treaty from the 5th century BCE clearly differentiates between enemies of the
state and pirates, declaring that their partners in the agreement are “not to admit pirates, nor
to practice piracy, nor are they to join in a campaign with the enemy against the Athenians,”
although the demarcation between campaigning, or conventional warfare, and piracy may
be as relevant here as that which de Souza emphasized, which was the difference between
pirates and the enemy.5 1
This fits with what Philip Gosse, writing in the early 20th century, described as a “well–
defined cycle” of piracy.5 2 In this cycle, piracy is initially conducted by small groups, which
work independently, using their privately–owned boats to pick off the most vulnerable prey.
Success breeding success, this can lead to collaboration between groups, and greater danger
to merchantmen. While unwieldy size, internal conflict, or a lack of sufficient prey to sup-
port it can lead to the disintegration of the larger group, this confederation can also grow to
the point where it is not just recognized by one or more states, but becomes allied with them,
effectively becoming a mercenary navy, at least for a time.5 3 Thus, in Gosse’s words, “what
had been piracy then for a time became war, and in that war the vessels of both sides were
pirates to the other.”5 4
Left out of this cycle, which we should add, is the liminality between trader or other
maritime actor and pirate, which Michal Artzy so aptly summed by noting that, as econo-
mic conditions became less favorable for “fringe” merchants and mariners, a number may
have “reverted to marauding practices, and the image of ‘Sea Peoples’ familiar to us from
the Egyptian sources emerged.”5 5 This was a reversible condition, though, and as it became
more favorable to engage in what we might call above–board activities, they could re–enter
what we might call “civilized society” at will.

49 Cf. Richard 2010: 411–464.

50 de Souza 1999: 36–37.
51 IG I 75:6–10 via de Souza 1999: 32.
52 Gosse 1932: 1.
53 Anderson 1995: 184; Hitchcock, Maeir 2014; 2016.
54 Gosse 1932: 1–2.
55 Artzy 1997: 12.
78 Jeffrey P. Emanuel

Guerrilla and Asymmetric Warfare

Piratical operations can also be seen as a form of guerrilla warfare on the sea. Long looked
down upon by states that boasted effective armies, irregular fighters have been described as
“cruel to the weak and cowardly in the face of the brave” – a statement that is likely only half
true, with the latter portion being a response borne of frustration.5 6 Likewise, counter–pira-
cy operations could be classified as asymmetric warfare, or “nontraditional warfare waged
between a militarily superior power and one or more inferior powers.”5 7
Documentary sources suggest that in the Late Bronze Age, civilized people were expec-
ted to communicate both the date and location of a battle, and to wait until their adversa-
ry had arrived and completed preparations before engaging. Only barbarians utilized the
element of surprise, exploiting their opponents’ weaknesses by attacking under cover of
darkness and avoiding pitched battle with regular troops. In Mario Liverani’s words, “This
is not war... it is just guerrilla activity – small–scale warfare, by small people, of small moral
stature.”5 8 However, for those without a professionally trained and equipped military force
at their disposal, such tactics offered the best chance not only of success, but of survival.
Because of this, for the barbarian – or for any nonstate actor – war as, by its nature, an irre-
gular, guerrilla affair. Piracy was similarly hit–and–run, at least in part for the same reason,
thus making true warfare and guerrilla activity on land, and piracy at sea, indistinguishable
only for the non–state actor.
In the ancient records, then, rather than being unable to differentiate between warfare
and piracy, we can safely say that we are seeing elements of both. Hit–and–run raids con-
ducted from the sea, such as those carried out year after year by the “men of Lukki,” should
in fact be classified as piracy, as are the unnamed threats that armed escorts, such as those
that may have been aboard the Ulu Burun ship, seem to have been employed to protect
against. However, once confederations like those described by Ramesses III become invol-
ved, it is possible to say that we have shifted from banditry on the sea to warfare – even if
actions taken by either side can be described as piratical in their nature.
Lest we conclude this examination in possession of a false sense of certainly, though, it
bears repeating that the gray area between warfare and piracy remains large, and the con-
versation will, like the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1964 ruling on obscenity, likely always hinge
on at least some element of “you’ll know it when you see it.” Or, to use an alternate cultural
reference, we must come down, to at least some degree, on the side of Obi–Wan Kenobi: the
definitions of warfare and piracy depend on your point of view.
However, as we have seen, there are lines that can be drawn between the two, and those
can be extended back through time to the Late Bronze Age, where we can differentiate –
from the point of view of our various actors – between warfare and piracy, however closely
connected they may be.

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