10. Heroes and Villains of Ancient Mesopotamia: Assyrian Dominance (between 2000-1000 BC)

My Name is Shamshi-Adad I: King of Upper Mesopotamia

I was born in a time when the great cities of Mesopotamia were fractured, each fighting for dominance, each claiming divine favor. The city of Assur, my home, was little more than a small trading hub clinging to its independence between larger powers. Yet from my youth, I believed Assur could be more. I studied the art of warfare, diplomacy, and administration. I watched how kingdoms rose and fell, and I knew that unity was the key to lasting strength.

Exile and Return

My early reign was not easy. I was driven from my city by stronger rivals and forced into exile. But exile taught me patience and resilience. I learned to read men, to weigh their ambitions against my own. When the time came, I returned—not as a refugee, but as a conqueror. I reclaimed Assur and began to forge alliances, shaping a new kingdom that would no longer bow to Babylon or Mari.

Forging an Empire

With cunning and strength, I extended my control across northern Mesopotamia. My armies marched through the lands of the Tigris and Euphrates, bringing cities under my rule not only by sword but through diplomacy. I built fortresses, organized governors, and placed my sons over key territories. I saw my kingdom as a single living body—Assur as its heart, and the rivers as its lifeblood. To keep it alive, every part had to work together.

Family and Fracture

But an empire built on ambition is fragile. My sons, Ishme-Dagan and Yasmah-Adad, ruled in my name, yet they often failed to uphold the strength and discipline I demanded. One was bold but reckless; the other, weak and hesitant. I wrote to them constantly, urging them to act as kings, not children. I could command armies, but I could not command the hearts of my heirs. Their failures haunted me, for they were cracks in the foundation I had built.

The Fall of My Dream

When I died, my empire quickly began to unravel. The alliances I had crafted dissolved, and the cities I united drifted apart. Yet I do not see my reign as failure. I planted the seed of Assyrian greatness. I showed that Assur could be more than a city—it could be a kingdom, even an empire. Others would learn from my example, rising to even greater heights long after I was gone.

The Birth of Assur and Its Merchant Colonies (Karum Kanesh) – Told by Adad I

Long before my time, before I forged the Assyrian kingdom, there was only the city of Assur—a modest settlement standing on the banks of the Tigris River. It began not as an empire, but as a gathering of traders and craftsmen who sought safety behind its walls. The people of Assur were not conquerors then; they were merchants who trusted in fair exchange and divine blessing. The god Ashur watched over them, and his temple became both a sanctuary and a symbol of their destiny. From this small beginning grew the first pulse of Assyrian strength—not through war, but through trade.

The Journey to the North

Our ancestors were not content to trade only among themselves. They looked to the distant mountains and valleys beyond Mesopotamia, to the rich lands of Anatolia, where metals and resources were plentiful. The merchants of Assur began sending caravans northward, carrying textiles, tin, and fine goods in exchange for silver and gold. These journeys were long and dangerous, crossing rivers and hostile lands, yet they continued because profit and opportunity outweighed fear. Over time, these traders established permanent outposts in Anatolia—places they called karum, meaning “quay” or “market.”

The Great Colony of Kanesh

Among all the merchant colonies, none shone brighter than Karum Kanesh. It became the heart of Assyria’s northern trade, a bustling settlement filled with Assyrian traders, local Anatolians, and a blend of languages and customs. There, Assyrian merchants built homes, temples, and warehouses. They recorded contracts on clay tablets and sealed them with their personal marks. Through these colonies, our people brought Mesopotamian writing, laws, and gods into foreign lands, and in return, they brought back not only wealth but new ideas and influences.

The Bonds of Trade and Trust

Trade is not simply the exchange of goods—it is the exchange of trust. The merchants of Assur relied on intricate partnerships, loans, and agreements written on clay tablets that still survive to this day. Fathers invested in their sons’ journeys; wives in Assur managed household businesses while their husbands traded abroad. Through these bonds, an early network of commerce and communication emerged, connecting Assur to distant lands. It was not empire that bound us together then, but enterprise.

The birth of Assur’s merchant colonies laid the foundation for what would later become our empire. The courage of those early traders, who ventured far from home with only their goods and their faith, proved that influence could be earned as much through wisdom as through conquest. Their colonies became bridges between cultures—Assyrian and Anatolian, Sumerian and Hittite—and through these bridges flowed not only riches but the spirit of innovation and unity. When I, Shamshi-Adad, rose to power centuries later, it was their legacy I inherited. Before Assyria conquered by sword, it conquered by trade, and it was in those merchant caravans that the true heartbeat of our civilization began.

The Rise of the Amorites and Early Rivalries – Told by Shamshi-Adad I

When I rose to power, the land of Mesopotamia was a tapestry of ambition. City-states that once bowed to the great Sumerian kings had splintered into rival realms, each ruled by its own warlord or king. Among these were the Amorites, a hardy people who had wandered from the western deserts into the fertile valleys of the Tigris and Euphrates. They were not city builders by birth, but they learned quickly, adopting our languages, our gods, and our customs. In time, they established powerful kingdoms of their own—Mari along the Euphrates, Eshnunna to the east, and Babylon in the south.

The Shadow of the Amorite Kings

The Amorite kings were clever and ambitious. They forged alliances, broke them, and forged them again as the tides of war shifted. Zimri-Lim of Mari ruled from a magnificent palace filled with murals and messengers, while Hammurabi of Babylon, even in his youth, showed a mind keen for strategy and law. They sought to dominate the lands between the rivers, just as I did. But where they relied on the wealth of cities, I relied on the discipline of my soldiers and the divine favor of Ashur. Each of us believed we were destined to rule, and destiny is a dangerous thing when claimed by more than one.

Rivalries of Blood and Power

To secure Assyria’s place among these rising powers, I waged war and forged uneasy peace in turn. My armies marched westward to challenge Mari, seizing territories that gave me control of the trade routes connecting Anatolia to the southern cities. Against Babylon, I stood firm, watching as they expanded their influence among the southern plains. It was a time of constant movement—alliances made through marriage, treaties written in clay, and betrayals whispered in temple halls. I saw in these Amorite kings both rivals and reflections of myself, for they too sought unity in a divided land.

The Struggle for Supremacy

Each campaign I undertook was more than a battle for territory; it was a battle for identity. Would Mesopotamia belong to the Amorite dynasties who had come from the west, or to the sons of Assur who had been born upon this soil? My victories at Ekallatum and beyond Mari’s borders brought me renown, but I knew that no victory was ever final. The Amorites were resilient, always returning in new forms, with new alliances and stronger armies. The struggle for supremacy in Mesopotamia was a game of endurance as much as strength.

Though I contended with the Amorite powers all my life, I respected their determination. They were not merely invaders; they became part of the land they once sought to conquer. Their cities enriched the region, and their rivalries sharpened Assyria’s resolve. In the centuries that followed, Assyria would surpass them all, but their rise was the test that shaped us. From the Amorites, I learned that power must adapt or perish, and that true kingship is not inherited—it is proven in the fire of rivalry.

Unifying Northern Mesopotamia – Told by Shamshi-Adad I

When I took the throne of Assur, the lands of northern Mesopotamia were a patchwork of rival cities and petty kings, each guarding their borders and hoarding their pride. I saw not separate nations, but fragments of a single destiny waiting to be joined. I dreamed of a realm that would stretch from the Tigris to the Euphrates, united under the banner of Assur and guided by divine purpose. For too long, men had fought for scraps of power while the great empires of the past faded into dust. I resolved that Assyria would not fade—it would rise.

The Path to Power

To bring about unity, I first secured my own foundations. I restructured the army into a disciplined force loyal to the crown, not to local governors. Every soldier swore allegiance to me and to the god Ashur. I appointed capable men—many not of noble birth—to positions of command, for loyalty and skill mattered more than lineage. Through these reforms, my reach extended beyond the city walls of Assur, touching distant valleys and strongholds that had once stood apart.

Forging Bonds Through Strength and Order

Conquest alone could not hold a nation together. I understood that authority must be balanced with governance. As I expanded northward and westward, I appointed my sons and trusted governors to rule over newly conquered lands, forming a network of regional centers that answered directly to the king. From Ekallatum to Mari’s borders, I ensured that taxes, trade, and law flowed in harmony. My scribes recorded the decrees that bound this new order, and my messengers carried them swiftly across the kingdom. Assyria was no longer a single city—it was a living system, breathing with one heart.

Building the Foundation of Empire

To unite people of different tongues and customs, I used both diplomacy and divine authority. I proclaimed that Ashur, the great god of our city, was the god of all lands under our rule. His protection and judgment extended to every people who lived within our borders. Temples and monuments rose in his honor, reminding all that peace and prosperity came through loyalty to the throne. In return, I offered stability, justice, and protection to those who accepted my rule.

The Dream Realized—and the Lesson Learned

For a time, my dream of unity became reality. Northern Mesopotamia stood as one under Assyrian rule. Trade flourished, armies obeyed, and even distant kings respected our strength. Yet I learned that unity is not merely the absence of rebellion—it is the presence of trust. When I placed my sons as rulers over parts of my realm, they quarreled and faltered, unable to carry the same vision that guided me. After my death, the unity I built began to fray, for men remembered the power of the crown but not the purpose behind it. Still, I do not regret the struggle. The idea of one Assyria—strong, organized, and guided by divine order—endured beyond my life. It became the foundation of every empire that followed.

The Royal Family and Succession Struggles – Told by Shamshi-Adad I

Every king dreams not only of building an empire but of leaving it in hands strong enough to preserve it. I had two sons— Išme-Dagan and Yasmah-Adad—each dear to me, yet different in heart and in strength. From their youth, I prepared them for rule, teaching them to command men, to judge fairly, and to honor the gods. When the lands of Mesopotamia bowed to my authority, I divided the realm between them: Išme-Dagan took Ekallatum to the east, and Yasmah-Adad ruled Mari to the west. Together, I hoped they would carry on my vision of unity.

The Burden of the Crown

Yet the crown is heavier than it appears. Išme-Dagan was a warrior—strong, decisive, and loyal to my cause—but his temper often clouded his wisdom. Yasmah-Adad, on the other hand, was gentle and thoughtful, but too easily swayed by fear and comfort. I sent letters to him often, scolding him like a child. “Be a man!” I wrote. “Stand firm before your enemies. Do not waste your days in leisure.” My words were not born of cruelty but of desperation. I could conquer kingdoms, but I could not forge courage in another’s heart.

The Seeds of Division

As my health waned, I saw that rivalry between my sons was growing. Išme-Dagan sought to dominate his brother, claiming that his own strength gave him greater right to rule. Yasmah-Adad resented this and turned to local allies in Mari to protect his power. What I had built as a united empire began to crack from within. The governors whispered their loyalties to one son or the other, and distant cities hesitated to obey either. The strength of Assyria, which once radiated from a single throne, began to scatter like dust in the wind.

The Fall of Harmony

When I died, the balance I had fought to preserve was broken. Išme-Dagan struggled to maintain control, but the unity of my reign could not survive without a single will to guide it. Yasmah-Adad was soon driven from Mari, his weakness consumed by the ambitions of stronger men. My empire, built through years of conquest and reform, began to unravel in the hands of my heirs. The gods had granted me victory, but they did not grant my sons the harmony to preserve it.

The Lesson of Legacy

Now, as I look back upon my time, I see that even kings cannot escape the trials of family. The greatest empires are not undone by enemies at the gate, but by discord within the bloodline. I sought to unite lands and peoples under Assyria’s banner, yet I could not unite my own sons under one heart. From my struggles, future kings would learn that succession is as vital as conquest, and that the might of an empire depends not only on its armies but on the unity of those who inherit its throne.

The Fall and Fragmentation after Shamshi-Adad – Told by Shamshi-Adad I

When my voice was silenced by death, the throne of Assyria stood empty of its vision. I had spent my life binding together lands and peoples, weaving a fragile fabric of loyalty through strength and order. Yet an empire held together by one man’s will cannot endure forever. The day I was laid to rest, the balance I had forged began to unravel. Cities that once swore allegiance to Assur hesitated; governors looked to their own ambitions; and my sons—divided in heart and purpose—became rivals instead of brothers.

The Shattering of Unity

Without a single ruler to command respect, the realm I built began to fracture. Išme-Dagan, my eldest, ruled in Ekallatum but struggled to assert control over the western lands. Yasmah-Adad, once king of Mari, fled as the people turned against him and restored their former ruler. The alliances I had crafted—sealed through treaties, marriages, and promises—collapsed one by one. The cities of the Euphrates turned to new leaders, and the merchants of Assur once again became traders rather than citizens of an empire. The mighty Assyrian realm, born of ambition and discipline, shrank back to its beginnings.

The Return of Old Powers

As my sons faltered, the Amorite kings I once fought rose again. Mari regained its independence, Babylon grew in influence under Hammurabi, and Eshnunna reclaimed its lost strength. The lands I had unified became a chessboard of rival kingdoms once more. Even the gods, it seemed, withdrew their favor, for where once the banners of Ashur flew proudly, now foreign standards filled the wind. It pained me, even beyond death, to see that what took years to build could vanish in a moment of disunity.

Lessons from the Ashes

The fall of my empire was not merely a tale of failure—it was a lesson written in clay and blood. No empire, no matter how vast or well-ordered, can survive if its leaders place pride before purpose. I had built a system of governors, laws, and armies, but I had not built a bond strong enough to outlast me. A kingdom must rest on more than fear or obedience—it must rest on shared vision. That was the truth my sons did not learn, and the cost of that lesson was the empire itself.

My Name is Adad-nirari I: King of a Reborn Assyria

When I came to power, Assyria had long lain in the shadows of greater kingdoms. The glories of Shamshi-Adad and the early empire were distant memories, and our people had endured centuries of decline, invasion, and humiliation. Yet within our walls, the spirit of Ashur—the god and the city—still burned. I was determined to rekindle that flame and restore our people’s place among the powers of the world.

Rebuilding the Kingdom

The first years of my reign were spent strengthening our foundations. I reorganized the army, demanded loyalty from my governors, and restored order in the countryside. Justice and stability were as essential to empire as the sword. I rebuilt temples to honor Ashur and the gods who had long watched over our ancestors. The people began to see that Assyria was awakening once again, not as a vassal but as a sovereign force.

The Call to Conquer

Peace alone was not enough. The lands to our north and west, once under Assyrian influence, had fallen into chaos and rebellion. I led my soldiers into those territories, and through calculated campaigns, I reclaimed them one by one. The kings of Hanigalbat, the Hurrians, and the Kassites of Babylon felt the weight of my armies. My victories were not born of cruelty but of precision—a reminder that Assyria’s strength was not lost, only waiting to be revived.

The Law and the People

As the realm grew, so did the need for order. I oversaw the formation of new laws—harsh but fair—designed to preserve discipline and respect for authority. The Middle Assyrian Laws ensured that our subjects knew their duties to king and kingdom. I believed that justice was not mercy, but balance: every man rewarded or punished in proportion to his deeds.

The Divine Mandate

I ruled under the watchful gaze of Ashur, the god who made kings and gave them purpose. Each victory, each decree, each temple restored was done in his name. I was not a king by mere birthright—I was the arm of the divine will. I sought to remind the world that Assyria was not just a kingdom of men but the earthly reflection of a divine order.

The Middle Assyrian Revival – Told by Adad-nirari I

When I inherited the throne, Assyria had nearly forgotten its former glory. The centuries after Shamshi-Adad’s death had been marked by weakness, invasion, and obscurity. Once-proud cities lay quiet, and the name of Assur was spoken with pity rather than fear. We had watched as Babylonia to the south and the Hittites to the west rose to greatness while our own borders crumbled. Yet within the hearts of our people, the old pride still flickered. I vowed to awaken that spark—to lift Assyria from dormancy and make it a power that could never again be ignored.

The Work of Restoration

My first task was not war but rebuilding. The land had grown weary, its fields untended and its roads unsafe. I restored the walls of Assur and Nineveh, rebuilt temples to Ashur and Ishtar, and called the priests back to their duties. The gods had been neglected, and I knew that a kingdom without divine favor could not stand. I revived the administration, placing strong governors in the provinces and demanding loyalty not to themselves, but to the throne. Order returned, and with it came hope.

The Rise of Strength

Once stability was restored within our walls, I turned my gaze outward. Our enemies had grown bold during our weakness—tribes and petty kings raided our borders and mocked our decline. I reorganized the army, making it a disciplined force trained not only for defense but for conquest. We reclaimed lost lands to the north and west, bringing them once more under Assyrian rule. The victories of these campaigns restored confidence to my people and reminded the world that Assyria was alive again.

The Spirit of Renewal

The revival of Assyria was not built on conquest alone, but on the belief that our destiny had divine purpose. I taught my people that Assur was not just a city—it was a sacred idea, a symbol of the gods’ chosen nation. Every victory was dedicated to Ashur, every reform done in his name. The scribes began to record my deeds once more, inscribing them in stone so that future generations would remember when the darkness lifted. In time, other kings would build upon what I began, but it was during my reign that Assyria first rose from the ashes of decline.

A Kingdom Reborn

Looking back upon my reign, I see the Middle Assyrian Revival not as the triumph of one man, but as the rebirth of a people. We rebuilt what was broken, reclaimed what was lost, and reignited the spirit of strength that had once defined our ancestors. Assyria would go on to achieve greatness beyond even my dreams, but that greatness was born from this moment of revival—from the time when we remembered who we were and chose to rise again.

Military Reform and Discipline – Told by Adad-nirari I

When I first looked upon the state of Assyria’s army, I saw disarray. The soldiers who once marched proudly under the banners of Ashur had become little more than militias—undisciplined men called upon only in times of crisis. Our borders were guarded by farmers, our officers more loyal to their provinces than to their king. An empire cannot stand upon such weakness. To restore Assyria’s might, I rebuilt our army from the ground up, forging it into a permanent and loyal force—one that would serve the crown at all times, in war and in peace.

The Birth of a Standing Army

I decreed that Assyria would no longer depend on temporary levies. Every province was to provide men who would train year-round, not just when war was at hand. These soldiers became the first true standing army of our age—disciplined, organized, and ready to move at a moment’s command. They learned not only to fight but to endure: long marches, harsh winters, and the discipline of obedience. The army became a living symbol of order, reflecting the structure of the empire itself.

The Art of Siege and Strategy

Our enemies often hid behind walls, believing stone and mortar could protect them. They soon learned otherwise. I introduced new tactics of siege warfare, using rams to batter gates, towers to scale defenses, and trenches to cut off supplies. Our engineers became as vital as our swordsmen, crafting machines that could breach even the mightiest city. No longer did Assyria rely solely on brute force; we fought with calculation, surrounding our enemies and striking where they were weakest. The art of war became a science under my reign.

The Chain of Command

Discipline without structure is fragile, so I established a clear hierarchy within the army. Generals reported directly to me, while captains led units bound by loyalty to their officers and to the crown. Rewards were granted for valor, not birthright. This merit gave rise to a new class of warriors who fought not for personal glory, but for Assyria’s destiny. Through this structure, the army became a single, united body—its strength not in numbers, but in precision.

The Spirit of Ashur in Battle

Every soldier fought knowing he carried the will of Ashur into battle. Before campaigns, we offered sacrifices and prayers, seeking the god’s blessing for victory. I reminded my men that they were not merely warriors—they were instruments of divine order. When we marched, it was as one nation, one faith, one purpose. That unity of spirit gave our army a power that no enemy could match.

Expansion into Syria and the North – Told by Adad-nirari I

Once the heart of Assyria was restored to strength, I looked beyond our borders and saw opportunity waiting in the lands to the west and north. The mountains of Anatolia and the plains of Syria had long been crossroads of trade and ambition. Yet they were fractured, ruled by petty kings who quarreled among themselves. I knew that for Assyria to thrive, we could not remain confined to the valleys of the Tigris. Our destiny demanded that we extend our influence, bringing order and unity to lands that had forgotten both.

The March Toward Syria

Our first great campaigns led us toward Hanigalbat, a region once ruled by the Hurrians and now claimed by Amorite lords. Their leaders believed that Assyria’s revival was a passing moment—that we would not dare to challenge them so far from our homeland. They were wrong. My army moved swiftly, disciplined and unstoppable. We crushed their resistance, captured their strongholds, and claimed their cities in the name of Ashur. Yet conquest alone was not my goal. I sought stability—a web of loyalty that would bind these lands to us through diplomacy as much as through war.

The Power of Diplomacy

After victory came negotiation. I understood that the sword could win land, but only respect could hold it. I allowed local rulers to remain in place if they swore loyalty to me, paying tribute and pledging their armies when called upon. I married alliances as well as forged them, ensuring that Assyria’s rule was seen not as a foreign occupation but as a return to order. My scribes recorded these treaties on tablets, sealing them in the name of the gods, so that breaking them would invite divine wrath.

The Northern Frontier

To the north lay the rugged lands of the Subarians and the mountain tribes who controlled the routes of metal and timber. These people were fierce and proud, but they too bowed before the might of Assyria. By subduing their fortresses and establishing outposts, I secured the flow of resources vital for our growing kingdom. Iron, copper, and silver from these regions fueled our expansion, while their warriors, once our foes, became part of our armies. In this way, each campaign brought not only victory but growth.

Assyria’s Rising Shadow

As our banners flew across the north and west, word of Assyria’s return spread throughout the ancient world. Traders in Anatolia spoke our name with respect; kings in Babylon watched our movements with unease. What began as conquest became transformation—the rebirth of a nation whose influence reached farther than ever before. The expansion into Syria and the northern lands was more than a series of campaigns; it was the moment when Assyria stepped onto the world’s stage once again, not as a remnant of the past, but as a power destined to shape the future.

Law and Governance in the Middle Assyrian Period – Told by Adad-nirari I

When I began rebuilding Assyria, I understood that victory on the battlefield meant little without peace in the streets. A kingdom cannot thrive when men settle disputes by sword or bribe, nor can justice be left to the whims of those in power. To restore balance, I turned my attention to law and governance—to create a structure that would guide the strong, protect the weak, and reflect the divine order of Ashur himself. It was from this vision that the Middle Assyrian Laws were born.

The Hand of the King and the Will of the Gods

In Assyria, law was not merely a human creation—it was an extension of divine will. The gods established right and wrong, and the king served as their earthly judge. Every decree I issued was inscribed in the name of Ashur, and every punishment was carried out as a sacred act of justice. To disobey the law was to offend not only the crown but the gods who blessed it. This belief gave our laws authority beyond fear; it gave them moral weight.

The Nature of the Laws

The Middle Assyrian Laws were strict, sometimes harsh, but they reflected the realities of our time. They dealt with every matter of life—property, trade, marriage, inheritance, and crime. If a man stole, he paid back many times the value. If a woman was falsely accused, witnesses determined her innocence through oath or ordeal. Honor was not a word lightly spoken; it was the foundation upon which justice stood. The punishments might seem severe to later generations, but they ensured that all knew their place within the order of the kingdom.

Justice and Social Order

The laws also preserved balance between the classes. Nobles, merchants, and laborers were judged according to their station, for fairness does not always mean equality. Each person had duties and rights, clearly defined so that the machinery of society could function without chaos. The governors in the provinces were tasked with enforcing these laws, reporting directly to the royal court. Corruption and favoritism were forbidden; those who betrayed justice faced exile or death. For a time, Assyria became a realm where law replaced fear and duty replaced greed.

Religion and the God Ashur’s Central Role – Told by Adad-nirari I

In Assyria, no king ruled by his own strength alone. Every crown, every victory, and every law flowed from a higher power—the god Ashur, the divine protector and namesake of our nation. From the day I ascended the throne, I knew that my authority came not from birth or conquest, but from his will. I was not merely a ruler of men; I was the servant and representative of the god who watched over our people. Without Ashur, there could be no Assyria, for he was the soul of our kingdom and the giver of its destiny.

The King as Shepherd of the Divine Order

I saw myself as more than a warrior or administrator—I was the shepherd of Ashur’s order on earth. Just as the gods ruled the heavens with purpose and harmony, so too must the king bring structure and peace to his people. Every campaign I led and every city I built was dedicated to maintaining that sacred balance. Before each battle, I offered sacrifices to Ashur, seeking his blessing for victory. When triumph came, I did not claim it as my own; it belonged to the god who guided my hand. In this way, kingship was not pride—it was duty.

The Heart of Worship

The city of Assur stood as the heart of this faith, its temple towering above all else. Within its sacred walls, priests and priestesses tended the fires of the god, offering prayers for the kingdom’s prosperity. I expanded and restored these temples, ensuring that Ashur’s presence was felt in every corner of the realm. Each province erected altars in his name, so that even the most distant subjects would remember that they lived under his watchful eye. Our festivals honored not only the god but the covenant between divine power and human responsibility.

Ashur’s Chosen Nation

We believed that Ashur had chosen our people for a special purpose—to bring order to lands consumed by chaos. This belief gave strength to our soldiers and courage to our leaders. When we marched into foreign territories, it was not only for conquest but for the extension of divine order. The god’s will was not confined to one city; it demanded that light replace disorder wherever our banners flew. To resist Assyria was to resist Ashur himself, and thus our wars became holy undertakings, meant to fulfill a destiny larger than any single reign.

Faith as the Foundation of Empire

Religion was not separate from rule—it was its foundation. Without faith, authority collapses; without purpose, conquest becomes empty. By placing Ashur at the center of our identity, I bound the people together under a shared destiny that transcended time and bloodline. This divine unity made Assyria more than a collection of cities—it made us a nation with a mission. When I am remembered, let it be said that I ruled as Ashur’s chosen servant, and that through faith, I helped turn a kingdom into an empire guided by the will of the divine.

My Name is Tukulti-Ninurta I: King of Kings and Conqueror of Babylon

I was born into an age of resurgence. My father, Shalmaneser I, had already restored much of Assyria’s former might, and I was raised to believe that the gods themselves had chosen us to rule over all lands between the rivers. From my youth, I studied war, governance, and the divine order that linked king and god. The name I bore—Tukulti-Ninurta, meaning “My Trust is in the God Ninurta”—was both a prayer and a promise. I was to be the champion of the gods, and of Assyria.

The March of Conquest

When I ascended the throne, the world trembled before our armies. I led my soldiers across mountains and rivers, crushing those who defied us. The Hurrians, the Hittites, and the Kassites of Babylon all felt the strike of my chariots and the thunder of our spears. None stood as a greater challenge than Babylon. They believed themselves equal to us, heirs of a divine heritage. Yet in the end, I captured their king, Kashtiliash IV, with my own hands and brought him to Assur in chains. Assyria had conquered Babylon—the first time in history one great Mesopotamian power had subdued the other.

The Founding of a New City

To mark this triumph, I founded a new capital, Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta, just across the Tigris from Assur. It was to be a city of divine favor, a place where my name and the glory of the gods would be eternal. I built a great temple to Ashur and to Ninurta, adorned with reliefs that told of my victories and the submission of kings. Scholars and priests gathered there, copying tablets and composing hymns. For a time, I felt I had achieved something even greater than conquest—I had created a living symbol of order in a world of chaos.

The Weight of Pride

But the gods watch closely the hearts of kings. The pride that builds monuments can also build walls between man and wisdom. My own people began to whisper that I had grown arrogant, that I had placed myself above the gods who granted me power. Rebellion took root among the nobles, and betrayal found its way into my own palace. In the end, my throne was overturned, and I fell by the hands of my own kin. Even kings are mortal when they forget humility.

The Shadow and the Legacy

Though my fall was tragic, my achievements could not be undone. I expanded Assyria farther than any ruler before me, carried its banner into Babylon, and built cities that endured for centuries. My name became both a warning and a memory: a king of unmatched ambition who reached beyond the bounds of men. In me, Assyria learned that greatness must be tempered with reverence. Yet I know that in the echoes of my deeds, in every temple rebuilt and every victory song sung, the spirit of Tukulti-Ninurta still lives—burning with the same fire that once blazed across the world.

Tukulti-Ninurta’s Conquest of Babylon – Told by Tukulti-Ninurta I

For generations, Assyria and Babylon had stood as two great powers upon the land between the rivers. We shared the same gods, the same tongue, and the same soil, yet we were bound by rivalry as old as the Tigris and Euphrates themselves. Babylon, proud of its ancient temples and storied kings, saw itself as the rightful heart of Mesopotamia. But I, Tukulti-Ninurta, king of Assyria, believed that the favor of the gods had shifted north—that Ashur, not Marduk, now held the divine right to rule. The clash between our kingdoms was not merely for land or wealth; it was a contest for supremacy over civilization itself.

The Call to War

Tensions rose when Babylon’s king, Kashtiliash IV, defied our treaties and encroached upon Assyrian lands. He believed our strength had waned, that Assyria was still a northern power easily dismissed. His arrogance would become his undoing. I gathered my armies, men hardened by campaigns across mountains and deserts, and invoked the blessing of Ashur for the holy task ahead. Our banners, embroidered with the sacred winged disk, flew proudly as we marched south to challenge the might of Babylon.

The Clash of Empires

The campaign was fierce and swift. We met the Babylonian forces near the borders of their homeland, where the fertile plains turned to fields of battle. Their soldiers fought bravely under the sign of Marduk, but our discipline and divine purpose prevailed. I led the charge myself, cutting through their ranks until their king was captured with my own hands. It was said that the gods judged the victor that day, and they judged in favor of Assyria. With the fall of Kashtiliash, the pride of Babylon was broken.

The Fall of the Great City

I entered Babylon not as a looter but as a conqueror carrying the will of the divine. The city that once called itself the center of the world now bowed to Assur. I took the statue of Marduk from its temple and carried it north to Assur, not to desecrate it, but to show that the gods themselves had submitted to Assyria’s destiny. In doing so, I declared that the balance of power had shifted forever—that Babylon’s age had ended and Assyria’s had begun.

Supremacy and Reflection

Though victory brought glory, it also carried weight. To defeat Babylon was to strike at the very heart of Mesopotamian heritage, and I knew that even the gods watched my actions closely. I sought not to destroy, but to redefine. Assyria would now lead by strength, wisdom, and divine favor. Yet in that triumph lay a warning: power is never eternal, and pride is the shadow that follows every victory. My conquest of Babylon proved that Assyria had risen to greatness—but it also reminded me that the higher a king climbs, the closer he stands to the judgment of the gods.

The Building of Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta – Told by Tukulti-Ninurta I

After my victories, I desired a monument that would outlast my reign—a place that would stand as both a symbol of divine favor and the strength of Assyria. The city of Assur, though sacred and ancient, had grown small and crowded within its walls. I sought to build something new, a city that would reflect the full measure of Assyria’s greatness. Thus, I conceived of Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta, “The Fortress of Tukulti-Ninurta,” a capital worthy of both king and god.

Laying the Foundation of Faith

The first stone of my new city was not laid for men, but for the gods. I built it directly across the Tigris from Assur, so that it faced the old city as a son faces his father. The first structure to rise was the great temple of Ashur, for without his blessing, no city could stand. Its walls gleamed with baked brick and alabaster, and its ziggurat reached toward the heavens. Priests carried sacred fire from the original temple in Assur, ensuring that the spirit of our god was reborn in this new home. In this way, Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta became not a replacement for Assur, but its reflection—a renewal of divine order.

A City of Power and Design

Around the temple, I ordered the construction of palaces, gardens, and administrative halls. Wide streets ran in perfect symmetry, lined with statues of lions and bulls to guard the gates. My architects and craftsmen worked tirelessly, blending beauty and strength so that every wall spoke of discipline and divine purpose. The city’s layout symbolized the order I had brought to Assyria—its people, its laws, and its army. Every part of Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta was a statement of balance between heaven and earth, king and god, people and power.

A Sanctuary for Learning and Legacy

Within the palace, I gathered scribes and scholars to record the histories of our conquests, the prayers of our priests, and the wisdom of our forefathers. Clay tablets filled my libraries, preserving the stories of gods and kings for all generations. Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta was not merely a seat of rule—it was a beacon of knowledge. I wanted future ages to see that Assyria’s greatness was not built on war alone, but on devotion, art, and intellect.

A Monument of Faith and Mortality

As the city rose to completion, I often walked its walls at dusk and looked across the river toward Assur. I knew that what I built would one day be tested by time and by men’s ambition. Yet, I also knew that Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta was more than brick and stone—it was faith made visible, the embodiment of Assyria’s destiny and my own devotion to Ashur. Though empires may fall and kings may fade into memory, the spirit that guided me in building this city would endure. Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta was my offering to the gods and my message to the world: that Assyria’s power was not only of the sword, but of the soul.

The Fall of Tukulti-Ninurta and Civil Strife – Told by Tukulti-Ninurta I

Every king believes his glory will endure forever, yet few understand how quickly pride can summon ruin. I, Tukulti-Ninurta, who conquered Babylon and built cities in the name of Ashur, learned this truth too late. My victories had made me powerful beyond measure, but power is a double-edged sword. Where once my subjects praised me as a chosen servant of the gods, they began to whisper that I had become something more—a man too proud, too certain that even the divine answered to his will. In my desire to secure Assyria’s greatness, I forgot that even kings must bow to the balance of heaven.

Seeds of Discontent

At first, the unrest was small—a murmur among the nobles, a hesitation in the words of my advisors. But pride blinds even the wisest ruler. My enemies grew in silence, feeding upon resentment born from fear. Some despised my conquest of Babylon, believing I had defied the sacred boundaries between the gods Ashur and Marduk. Others hated the creation of my new capital, Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta, claiming I had abandoned the ancient seat of Assur and offended tradition. I dismissed these voices as the complaints of the timid. Yet beneath their whispers, rebellion was taking root.

The Rebellion of Blood

The storm came not from strangers, but from my own blood. My sons—those who had shared my palace and my table—turned their loyalty from me, convinced that the gods no longer favored my rule. They gathered the nobles, the generals, and even priests who once stood in my presence. Civil war broke out across the land I had fought to unify. Cities that had once marched together under my banner now raised arms against one another. I had sought to create eternal order, but instead, I unleashed chaos within my own walls.

The Fall of the King

Surrounded and betrayed, I retreated to the city I had built as my monument, Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta. There, the rebellion found me. My palace—once a temple of power and faith—became my prison. The sons who should have been my heirs became my executioners. As I faced my end, I realized that no fortress, no army, no empire can protect a king who has lost the hearts of his people. The gods, who once raised me high, now turned their gaze away. My downfall was not the work of my enemies, but of my own pride.

The Lesson in the Ashes

In the silence that followed my fall, Assyria wept. My city was plundered, my empire weakened, and the legacy I had built teetered on the edge of ruin. Yet, I do not curse the gods, for they taught me the harshest and most necessary truth: greatness without humility leads only to destruction. My reign was one of brilliance and arrogance, of triumph and tragedy. I became both the symbol of Assyria’s might and the warning of its limits. Let my story remind all who rule that power is a gift borrowed from the divine—and that even the greatest king stands only as long as he remembers to kneel.

My Name is Ashur-resh-ishi I: Restorer of the Assyrian Kingdom

When I came to the throne, Assyria was weary and wounded. The glories of Tukulti-Ninurta had faded into memory, and the empire he built had long since crumbled. The Arameans pressed against our borders from the west, the Babylonians encroached from the south, and the once-proud heart of Assyria lay battered by generations of turmoil. I inherited not an empire of strength, but a land of survivors. Yet I refused to let the light of Ashur go out.

The Fire Rekindled

My first task was to restore order. I rebuilt the walls of Assur and restructured our armies, turning scattered militias into a disciplined fighting force once more. The fields that had gone fallow during years of war were sown again, and the trade routes that once carried the wealth of the world began to stir with movement. I sought to give the people not just security, but purpose—the belief that Assyria could rise again through unity and faith.

Battles on Every Front

Our enemies tested that resolve. From the south came Nebuchadnezzar I of Babylon, a fierce rival who sought to claim our lands and our pride. Yet we met him with steel and strategy, driving his forces back across the border. From the west, the Arameans harassed our towns, raiding and burning. They were a new kind of enemy—nomads who moved like shadows—but we learned to fight them on their own terms. Though victory was never total, we proved that Assyria would not be broken again.

Restoring the Sacred City

War was not my only concern. I believed that the favor of the gods was the true measure of a king’s worth. I restored the temples of Ashur, Ishtar, and Adad, and I called upon the priests to renew the sacred rites that had fallen silent. The people needed to see that the gods still walked with us, that they had not abandoned their chosen land. Each stone I raised, each altar I rebuilt, was a promise to the future—that faith would be the foundation of our strength.

Preparing the Next Generation

As I grew older, I looked upon my son, Tiglath-Pileser, and saw in him the energy of youth and the fire of destiny. I knew that I was merely a bridge between the ages—the one who held the kingdom together until a new conqueror could lead it forward. I trained him not just in war, but in wisdom: to be bold yet reverent, ambitious yet grounded. The gods had given me the task of revival; they would give him the task of renewal.

When I died, Assyria was no longer a fading ember but a flame ready to blaze again. I may not have conquered vast lands or built golden cities, but I saved a kingdom from vanishing. I kept alive the line of kings, the worship of Ashur, and the hope of our people. History would remember me as the restorer, the one who steadied the empire so that others could make it great again. I was Ashur-resh-ishi, and I gave Assyria back its breath.

Decline and Invasions by Arameans and Hittites – Told by Ashur-resh-ishi I

When I ascended the throne, I inherited not the glory of my forefathers but the remnants of their ambitions. The once-mighty Assyria had weakened under the weight of its past victories and internal strife. My people still spoke of Tukulti-Ninurta’s great conquests, but those triumphs had long faded into stories told around the hearth. The world beyond our borders was changing. New enemies emerged, fierce and unpredictable, testing what remained of our strength. The age of iron had begun, but we, the children of empire, found ourselves surrounded by forces that cared nothing for our ancient greatness.

The Rise of the Arameans

From the western deserts came the Arameans—tribes of nomads who did not build cities but wandered with their herds, striking wherever they pleased. They did not march as armies do; they moved like shifting sands, impossible to contain. Their warriors raided our border towns, burning fields, seizing cattle, and vanishing before our soldiers could strike back. They were a new kind of enemy—wild, swift, and unburdened by the walls and laws that defined civilized lands. To fight them required not only courage but adaptation. I strengthened our frontier defenses and built small fortresses along the Euphrates, but their attacks were relentless, wearing down the strength of our borders.

The Threat from the North and West

While the Arameans harassed us from the west, the Hittites and their successor states loomed to the north. Once a mighty empire themselves, their remnants still controlled the mountain passes and trade routes we needed to survive. They too sensed our weakness and pressed against our lands, seeking to reclaim what had once been theirs. Their iron weapons and fortified cities made them formidable foes. I led campaigns into their territories, reclaiming lost ground where I could, but the balance of power had shifted. The world that had once feared Assyria now saw a kingdom struggling to defend itself.

The Struggle Within and Without

The invasions were not the only threat. Years of war and instability had drained our resources and divided our people. Some of my governors acted as kings in their own provinces, hoarding supplies and ignoring my commands. The temples of Ashur still stood, but the people’s faith had waned, shaken by famine and fear. It was a time when every victory felt small and every loss seemed endless. Yet I refused to yield. Even in weakness, Assyria would not fall while I still drew breath.

Holding the Line of Destiny

Though we could not yet reclaim the full might of our ancestors, we endured. I rebuilt fortifications, reformed the army, and reminded the people that the spirit of Ashur still guided us. We may have been surrounded by enemies, but from hardship comes renewal. The Arameans and Hittites tested us, but they also hardened us. My reign was not one of conquest but of preservation—a battle to keep the flame alive while the winds of chaos swept the land. In time, that flame would grow again, burning brighter in the hands of my son, Tiglath-Pileser. The world may have tried to bury Assyria, but even in decline, we learned how to rise anew.

The Iron Age Revolution in Warfare – Told by Ashur-resh-ishi I

When I took the throne of Assyria, the world was changing in ways no king before me had fully understood. The Bronze Age, the age of our ancestors, was fading, and a new material was reshaping the art of war—iron. Stronger than bronze, more plentiful, and harder to destroy, it transformed not only weapons but the very balance of power between kingdoms. Those who mastered its forging would command the future. I saw in this new metal not just the tools of battle, but the key to Assyria’s survival and rebirth.

Forging the Weapons of a New Era

Our smiths had long worked bronze into swords, spears, and chariot fittings, but bronze was a fickle metal, reliant on distant sources of tin that were growing scarce. Iron, drawn from the earth itself, offered independence. I gathered the finest metalworkers in Assur and Nineveh, ordering them to learn the secrets of smelting and hardening this black metal. The first iron blades we forged were crude and heavy, yet even these cut through bronze as though it were soft clay. Over time, our craftsmen refined their art, producing stronger weapons, more durable armor, and tools that gave our soldiers new confidence on the battlefield.

The Transformation of the Army

With new weapons came new tactics. The old ways of fighting—slow-moving chariots and dense formations—no longer suited the changing world. The Arameans fought with speed, striking and disappearing before our chariots could react. So I adapted. I trained units of light infantry, armed with iron-tipped spears and bows, able to move swiftly and fight in rough terrain. Our army became more flexible, more disciplined, and better suited to the unpredictable nature of warfare in this new age. For the first time, Assyria began to fight as a unified machine rather than a collection of separate forces.

The Balance of Power Shifts

The introduction of iron weapons leveled the field between old empires and rising tribes. Bronze had been the metal of kings, controlled by the wealthy and powerful, but iron could be found in many lands. Even small kingdoms could arm themselves with weapons that rivaled ours. This forced us to rely not just on the strength of our metal, but on the strength of our organization. Discipline, strategy, and unity became the true weapons of empire. Through training and structure, I ensured that Assyria remained a step ahead of those who sought to use iron against us.

The Iron Age did more than change how we fought—it changed how we thought. War was no longer the domain of chariot lords and noble warriors; it became the duty of every soldier, every craftsman, every mind devoted to the defense of Assyria. Our armies grew more professional, our blacksmiths more revered, and our enemies more cautious. Though my reign was filled with struggle, I took pride in knowing that I helped lead Assyria into this new era. The Iron Age was not merely a time of sharper blades—it was the beginning of a stronger nation, forged in both fire and resolve, destined to rise again from the trials of its past.

Diplomacy with Babylon and Elam – Told by Ashur-resh-ishi I

When I came to rule, Assyria stood between two powerful and unpredictable neighbors—Babylon to the south and Elam beyond the mountains to the east. Both had long histories of greatness and ambition, and both had, at times, been our allies and our enemies. The world was weary of endless conflict, yet peace was never simple in Mesopotamia. To survive in such an age required not only strength of arms but wisdom in words. I learned quickly that a sword could win a battle, but diplomacy could preserve a kingdom.

The Southern Rival: Babylon

Babylon had always been our greatest rival and our closest reflection. Its temples, its scholars, and its kings carried the pride of ages. Yet its strength rose and fell like the river that fed its fields. When I took the throne, Nebuchadnezzar I ruled there—a man of ambition, cunning, and great power. He sought to expand his borders northward, testing Assyria’s defenses. We clashed more than once along the frontier, each seeking to prove who held the favor of the gods. But I also knew that total war between us would drain both kingdoms. So, while I defended our lands fiercely, I also sent envoys to treat with Babylon, to remind them that cooperation was wiser than ruin. Our peace was uneasy, but it held, for both sides understood the cost of defiance.

The Eastern Challenge: Elam

To the east, beyond the Zagros Mountains, lay the kingdom of Elam—a land as old as our own, fierce and proud. Its kings watched our struggles with Babylon and waited for weakness to exploit. Yet Elam’s power was distant, its reach long but fragile. I sought to maintain balance by neither provoking nor yielding to them. When their emissaries came bearing gifts, I welcomed them; when their armies threatened our allies, I sent warnings sharp as steel. Through caution and measured strength, I ensured that Elam remained a wary neighbor, not an invading one.

The Art of Balance

Diplomacy, I learned, is the battlefield of patience. It demands restraint even from those who wield armies. Each treaty I made was written not only in clay but in trust, and trust in those times was as fragile as parchment in fire. I treated foreign kings with respect but never submission, for Assyria bowed only to Ashur. When I spoke with them through my ambassadors, I sought to remind them that peace with Assyria was a privilege, not a gift. Our borders became the lines of balance upon which the stability of Mesopotamia rested.

Peace as a Weapon of Strength

Some say that a king’s greatness is measured only by conquest, but I say that peace achieved through power is a greater victory still. My diplomacy with Babylon and Elam did not bring eternal harmony, but it bought time—time to rebuild our strength, restore our cities, and prepare for the next generation. Through cautious words and firm resolve, I preserved Assyria when others might have seen it fall. In the end, it was not the sword that saved my kingdom, but the wisdom to know when to draw it and when to sheath it.

Restoring Ashur’s Temples and the King’s Duty to the Gods – Told by Ashur I

When I rose to the throne, the land of Assyria still bore the scars of war. Cities that had once glowed with life stood silent, their temples broken and their altars cold. The invasions of foreign enemies and the turmoil within our own borders had not only weakened our armies but shaken the very soul of our people. The fires in the temples of Ashur had dimmed, and the voices of the priests had grown faint. I knew that before I could rebuild the walls of my cities or restore the might of my army, I had to rebuild our faith. For a kingdom that forgets its gods soon forgets itself.

The Sacred Duty of Kingship

In Assyria, kingship is not a matter of inheritance alone—it is a divine charge. The god Ashur, lord of heaven and earth, entrusts his chosen ruler with the care of his people and his sacred places. I did not see my crown as a mark of power, but as a sign of responsibility. It was my duty to restore what had been neglected, to raise temples from the dust and renew the covenant between our nation and its gods. I summoned architects, masons, and priests to Assur and ordered that the rebuilding of the temples begin without delay.

Rebuilding the House of Ashur

The first task was the restoration of Ashur’s great temple, which had suffered from years of neglect. I ordered new foundations to be laid, and its walls strengthened with baked brick. The ziggurat was rebuilt to rise once more toward the heavens, its summit gleaming in the sunlight as a symbol of renewed devotion. Offerings of gold, silver, and precious stones were brought to adorn the shrines. The priests purified the sanctuaries and rekindled the sacred fires that had gone out during the years of war. When I stood before the restored altar of Ashur, I felt not the pride of a builder, but the peace of a servant fulfilling his duty.

Renewing the Divine Order

The rebuilding of the temples was more than a work of stone—it was the reawakening of divine order in the land. The people, who had lived in fear and uncertainty, once again heard the hymns of worship rising into the sky. Festivals were renewed, sacrifices offered, and the bond between king, god, and people restored. The gods were not distant beings to us; they were the guardians of our destiny, and their favor was the breath that sustained the kingdom. Through their blessing, I believed Assyria would find strength once more.

Faith as the Foundation of Renewal

When my reign is remembered, let it not be only for battles fought or borders defended, but for the faith I revived in the hearts of my people. I learned that no wall is strong, no army loyal, and no people enduring unless their souls are anchored in devotion. The temples of Ashur stand as reminders that power and piety must walk hand in hand. My duty to the gods was also my duty to Assyria, for as long as we honor them, they will guide us, protect us, and lead our kingdom from ruin to renewal.

The Dawn of the Neo-Assyrian Empire (1000 BC and Beyond) – Told by Ashur I

When I look back upon the years of my reign, I see not an age of glory, but of preparation. Assyria had endured hardship—wars with Babylon, raids by the Arameans, and the slow decay of the power our ancestors once wielded. Yet even in weakness, we learned. We rebuilt what was lost, reclaimed our borders, and restored the strength of our spirit. The dawn of the new age was not sudden; it was born through patience, endurance, and faith. The world around us was changing, and Assyria was learning to rise again, ready to enter its next great chapter.

The Foundation of Renewal

My task was to preserve Assyria in a time when others sought to erase it. I repaired walls, trained armies, and renewed the worship of Ashur so that my people would not lose hope. Each stone laid in our cities, each sword reforged in our armories, was a pledge to the future. I knew that my reign would not see the full return of our power, but I accepted that I was building the foundation upon which others would stand. Strength is not measured only by victory, but by survival—and we survived when others did not.

Preparing the Way for Greatness

It was my son, Tiglath-Pileser I, who would take the next step. I raised him to be a king not of comfort, but of conquest—to be bold where I was cautious, and to expand where I rebuilt. He inherited a kingdom stable enough to rise, strong enough to march, and faithful enough to dream once more of empire. Through his campaigns, Assyria’s name would thunder across the mountains and deserts, and the world would remember that our people were destined to lead. His triumphs were the fruit of the seeds planted in my time, when perseverance was our greatest weapon.

The Legacy of Centuries

The centuries that followed my reign saw Assyria grow beyond even my imagining. The kings who came after Tiglath-Pileser turned our realm into the mightiest empire the world had yet seen. They built roads and palaces, commanded armies that spanned continents, and spread Assyrian culture and law to lands far beyond the Tigris. Yet I believe their greatness was not born of conquest alone, but of the endurance and faith that had carried us through the darker years. The Neo-Assyrian Empire was the culmination of generations who refused to let Assyria die.

The Eternal Flame of Ashur

The dawn of the Neo-Assyrian Empire was more than a political rebirth—it was a spiritual renewal. It proved that empires built on faith, discipline, and purpose cannot be destroyed by time or war. I, Ashur-resh-ishi, did not live to see the full brilliance of that age, but I felt its light approaching. My reign was the bridge between ruin and revival, between memory and destiny. And as long as the fires of Ashur burn, Assyria’s story will continue—rising, falling, and rising again, forever guided by the hand of the divine.