7. Heroes and Villains of Ancient Mesopotamia: Decline of Akkadian rule and rise of Ur III

My Name is Tirigan of Gutium: The Last King of the Gutians

I was born among the rugged mountains east of Sumer, where the mists hung low and the people were strong but untamed. We Gutians were a hardy race, living by the axe and the bow, not by the plow. When word reached us that the mighty Akkadian Empire—once ruled by Sargon and his proud descendants—was crumbling under its own weight, our chiefs saw opportunity. We descended from the hills, fierce and hungry, to claim the lands that once belonged to the Akkadians. One by one, the cities of Sumer fell to our raids. The fields of Akkad grew wild, and their canals ran dry. They called us barbarians, destroyers of civilization—but we called it survival.

The Fall of Akkad

By the time I was young, the Akkadians had already lost their strength. Shar-Kali-Sharri’s death left no heir strong enough to bind the empire together. The cities rebelled, governors declared themselves kings, and the once-great capital of Akkad became a hollow memory. My forefathers led the Gutian kings who seized control, ruling over the Sumerians and Akkadians alike. They had no understanding of administration or writing, but they knew how to command by fear. When I rose to power, I inherited not a thriving empire, but a weary one—a land bled dry by war, famine, and corruption.

Rule in the Shadow of Chaos

I ruled from Adab, and from there I tried to bring order to a people who hated me. The Sumerians longed for their old ways—for temples tended by priests, for kings chosen by their gods, not conquerors from the hills. Yet, I was no savage. I tried to learn their customs and honor their gods, but the soil itself seemed cursed. The old Akkadian trade routes had collapsed. Cities like Ur, Uruk, and Lagash struggled to feed their people. The rivers changed their courses, crops failed, and the people whispered that the gods had turned against the Gutians. The poets of Sumer would later call our rule “the years when barley would not grow, and the people were few.” They were not wrong. Even my own warriors grew restless, wanting to return to the hills from which we came.

The Rise of Utu-hengal

It was then that the tide turned against me. A Sumerian noble, Utu-hengal of Uruk, rose up claiming the gods had chosen him to drive out the Gutians. His armies gathered strength quickly, uniting the southern cities that had long been divided. I underestimated him. I thought his rebellion would fade like so many others. Instead, his resolve was like iron. His scribes wrote that he fought “for the freedom of Sumer,” and his words lit fires in the hearts of men. City after city joined his cause, and my soldiers began to desert. I gathered my remaining forces and marched to meet him, but fate had already chosen its victor.

The Defeat and My Capture

At the battle near the city of Adab, I fell. My army was broken, my chariots overturned, and my captains slain. I fled northward, seeking refuge, but the people I once ruled turned me away. They barred their gates and offered my name to Utu-hengal. Alone and betrayed, I was captured and brought before him. He did not kill me with his sword but humiliated me before the gods of Sumer, making me swear an oath that I would never again set foot in their land. And so, the Gutian rule ended as it began—in the dust and the blood of men who sought power without understanding the land they conquered.

The Fragmentation after Shar-Kali-Sharri’s Death – Told by Tirigan of Gutium

When Shar-Kali-Sharri, last great heir of Sargon’s line, fell, the empire of Akkad began to tear itself apart. His death left no strong hand to guide the realm, no heir powerful enough to command both soldier and scribe. The kingship that once bound the lands of Sumer and Akkad in order now became a prize for the ambitious. Generals, governors, and city rulers all claimed the title of king, each calling upon their local gods for favor. The heart of Akkad, once a shining city of unity, became a battlefield of pride and desperation. I was not yet a king then, but I watched from the mountains as the empire that had once ruled all of Mesopotamia began to consume itself.

Civil Wars Among the Akkadians

In the wake of Shar-Kali-Sharri’s death, civil war erupted. The soldiers who had once fought side by side under the Akkadian banner now turned their spears against one another. Cities like Kish, Sippar, and Agade fought over who would hold the throne. The northern governors, cut off from the central court, declared independence. In the south, the ancient cities of Sumer rose in rebellion, no longer fearing Akkadian armies that had grown weak and scattered. The empire that had stretched from the mountains of Elam to the shores of the Mediterranean fractured into dozens of warring factions. Every victory brought new divisions; every defeat bred new rulers. It was as if the gods themselves had cursed the land with disunity.

The Weakening of Akkadian Power

The great canals that fed the fields fell into disrepair as war consumed every resource. Trade routes became unsafe, and famine spread through the cities. Without the power of a strong central rule, taxes and grain tithes ceased to flow. The scribes wrote less of royal triumphs and more of hunger, loss, and confusion. In those years, the people looked to anyone who could protect them—governors, generals, priests, or even bandits. The once-mighty name of Akkad no longer inspired awe, only longing for the order that was lost. In this vacuum of power, the cities turned inward, and each became its own small kingdom. The unity forged by Sargon’s conquests dissolved into dust.

Rebellions in Sumer and the South

In the southern plains, where the Sumerian cities had once bowed reluctantly to Akkadian kings, rebellion became a way of life. Ur, Lagash, Umma, and Uruk all sought to reclaim their independence. They rebuilt their temples and raised their local kings once more. The Akkadian governors stationed there were overthrown or killed, their families scattered. Even the priesthoods, long suppressed under Akkadian oversight, began to speak again in their native tongue, calling for the restoration of Sumerian rule. It was as though every god and every city had remembered its ancient pride and no longer recognized the throne of Akkad. The empire’s southern heartland, which once fed and funded its greatness, was now its fiercest enemy.

The Opening for Foreign Invasion

As the Akkadians fought among themselves, we Gutians watched. We were mountain people, strong and used to hardship, and we saw an empire that no longer guarded its borders. The armies that once patrolled the highlands were gone, drawn into endless wars in the plains. The once-mighty fortresses that defended the passes stood empty. When the Akkadians finally looked north and east again, it was too late. The Gutians, Elamites, and other highland tribes had already begun to pour into the weakened lands. We did not conquer an empire in its strength—we found it dying, and we merely claimed its remains.

The End of Akkadian Unity

By the time I came to power, there was no single Akkadian Empire left to face. Only scattered cities and weary kings remained, each holding a fragment of what once was. The name of Sargon still echoed in their songs, but his empire had become a legend rather than a living reality. The civil wars had done what no foreign enemy could—they had broken the will of the Akkadians to stand as one. From the chaos that followed, we Gutians rose to rule the lands between the rivers, but even we could not restore what was lost. The unity of Akkad died with Shar-Kali-Sharri, and with it ended the first great empire of mankind.

The Rise of the Gutians – Told by Tirigan of Gutium

We Gutians were born among the wild ridges and cold mists of the Zagros Mountains, far to the east of the fertile plains of Sumer and Akkad. Our homeland was a place of steep valleys and narrow paths, where every man learned to hunt, climb, and fight from childhood. We were herders of goats and sheep, moving with the seasons and the snows. Unlike the city dwellers of the plains, we built no great temples or palaces. Our wealth was our strength, our families, and our freedom. To the Akkadians, we were a people without law or learning, but to ourselves, we were survivors—hard, proud, and bound to the land and the gods of the high places.

The Shadow Beyond the Empire

For years, we lived in the mountains, watching the rise and glory of Sargon’s empire from afar. His soldiers sometimes came north to take tribute, to demand laborers, or to punish tribes who defied him. But the mountains were our fortress, and his armies could never hold them. When his empire was strong, the Gutians were quiet, for the power of Akkad was feared even in the hills. But when that power began to wane—after the death of Shar-Kali-Sharri and the wars that tore his kingdom apart—we saw the weakness spreading across the plains. The border guards deserted their posts, the traders stopped coming, and the mountain passes were unguarded. The empire that once cast its shadow over all Mesopotamia had grown thin and fragile.

Why We Came Down from the Hills

It was hunger that first drove us downward. The mountains gave us little, and the droughts grew longer each year. Herds died, and the streams that once ran clear turned to dust. The lowlands shimmered below us, fertile and rich, a land fed by two mighty rivers. To us, Mesopotamia seemed like a paradise of grain, cattle, and gold. But it was not greed alone that led us to descend—it was also survival. The Akkadians had once taken our young men as slaves, forcing them to build their walls and dig their canals. When their cities weakened, we saw a chance to take back what had been stolen from us. The Gutians came not as an organized army, but as waves of tribes, drawn by both vengeance and need.

The First Raids and the Lure of Power

At first, our bands came as raiders. We struck at border towns, looting food and tools, then retreating into the hills before the Akkadians could respond. But each raid grew bolder than the last. The cities no longer had the strength to strike back, and their rulers fought each other instead of us. We saw that the mighty empire was dying, and we no longer feared it. Soon, the raids turned into conquests. We seized outposts, burned fortresses, and took prisoners to serve as guides and builders. The riches of the plains began to fill our camps. The Gutian chieftains gathered their warriors and spoke of claiming the lowlands for ourselves. What had begun as survival became ambition.

The Fall of Akkadian Rule

When we finally swept into the heart of Mesopotamia, the cities offered little resistance. The canals were broken, the armies divided, and the gods seemed to have abandoned their temples. We conquered city after city, until even Agade, the proud capital of Sargon’s empire, fell silent. The Gutian kings took the throne of Akkad, though few of us understood the weight of the crown we had seized. We ruled through fear and strength, not through law or writing. To the Sumerians, we were invaders and destroyers, but in truth, we filled a void left by a world that had already collapsed.

The Nature of the Gutian Rule

Our rule was unlike that of the kings before us. We were not builders or scribes; we were warriors. The temples decayed, and trade diminished, for we cared little for the city’s ways. Yet, in our own minds, we brought a kind of rough justice to the land. The rich who had oppressed the poor under Akkad’s order now bowed before our chieftains. The peasants who had been taxed to starvation were left alone, though famine still haunted them. The Gutian rule was harsh but honest, born not of greed but of survival. Still, the people of Sumer saw us as a curse upon their land, a punishment from the gods for their pride.

The Collapse of Akkadian Administration – Told by Tirigan of Gutium

When the last strong hand of the Akkadian kings fell silent, their empire began to unravel not in a single battle, but in the slow decay of its heart. The city of Akkad, once the beating center of power, had ruled through a vast network of governors, scribes, and soldiers. Every grain of barley, every tablet of law, every tribute from the provinces passed through its gates. But as civil wars erupted after Shar-Kali-Sharri’s death, the central government could no longer command the obedience of distant cities. Governors, once loyal to the throne, began to act as kings in their own right. They kept the taxes meant for Akkad, raised their own armies, and wrote their own decrees. The voice of the king, once feared and respected across the land, became an echo lost in the chaos.

The Silence of the Scribes

The strength of Akkad had not only been its soldiers but its scribes—the men who turned power into permanence through words etched in clay. They kept records of trade, law, and tribute, ensuring that every transaction bound the empire together. When the wars began, those scribes fled or fell silent. Without them, the flow of order ceased. Governors could no longer track the stores of grain or the movement of goods. The intricate system of rationing and taxation collapsed, and with it, the empire’s lifeblood. What had once been a realm of meticulous record became a patchwork of forgotten debts and broken promises. Even the language of Akkad began to fade, replaced once more by the old Sumerian tongue as the people turned back to their ancient roots.

Trade and the Dying Roads

In the days of Sargon, caravans had stretched across deserts and mountains, carrying copper from Magan, timber from Lebanon, lapis from Afghanistan, and grain from Sumer’s fertile plains. But when the central administration failed, so too did the roads. Merchants feared to travel, for bandits and deserters prowled the paths once guarded by Akkadian soldiers. The canals, once cleared and tended by royal decree, filled with silt, and boats that once carried goods from city to city sat rotting in the shallows. Trade, the very thing that had bound Akkad’s far-flung lands into a single empire, vanished. The cities starved, not from lack of harvest, but from isolation. A nation built on movement had fallen still.

The Fall of the Capital

The city of Akkad itself, once the pride of the world, became a ghost of its former glory. Its ziggurats, once adorned with gold and marble, stood cracked and empty. The royal court dissolved, and those who had served the kings turned upon each other for power and survival. The temples were looted, their statues broken, their priests slain or scattered. The people fled to safer lands, leaving the city to crumble into dust. Even its location was lost to time. The scribes of later ages wrote that Akkad fell because of the gods’ anger—that Enlil cursed the city for its pride. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps no human hand could have saved a realm so divided against itself.

The Return of the City-States

As Akkad fell, the old cities of Sumer began to awaken from the shadow of empire. Ur, Uruk, and Lagash, which had long been forced to obey Akkadian governors, now rose again under their own kings. But their return was not a celebration of freedom—it was a scramble for survival. Each city closed its gates, hoarded its grain, and raised armies against its neighbors. The unity that had once allowed Akkad to command both north and south was gone. What replaced it was a landscape of fear and rivalry, where alliances shifted as quickly as the river’s course. From the ruins of empire emerged a land divided, weak, and vulnerable.

Famine and the Curse of Akkad – Told by Tirigan of Gutium

When I look back upon the fall of the Akkadians, I remember not just their wars, but their hunger. Long before my people descended from the mountains, the land between the rivers had already begun to die. The rains no longer came as they once had. The winds grew hot and bitter, sweeping dust across the fields where barley should have grown tall. The canals, once lifelines of the empire, cracked and dried. Farmers stared at the empty sky, waiting for a blessing that never came. The famine that struck Akkad was not sudden—it crept upon them slowly, season by season, until even the mighty city of Sargon’s line could no longer feed its own people.

The Wrath of the Gods

The people of Sumer and Akkad believed their suffering was no accident. They said the gods had turned against them, that Enlil, lord of the air, had withdrawn his favor. The priests spoke of divine anger brought on by the arrogance of Akkad’s kings—how they had plundered the temples of Nippur and exalted themselves as gods. The poets later gave this belief shape in the tale known as The Curse of Agade. In it, Enlil curses the city for its pride, decreeing that “its rivers shall flow with dust” and that “the fields shall bear no grain.” Whether these were the words of gods or men, I cannot say. But the curse was real in its consequences. The land starved, and with it, the empire.

The Poem of Despair

The “Curse of Agade” is a song of loss and ruin—a lament for a city that rose too high and fell too hard. It tells of Naram-Sin, the grandson of Sargon, who defied the will of Enlil and brought divine punishment upon his people. It speaks of temples abandoned, of cities silenced, and of mothers who could not feed their children. The poem says, “The bright city was darkened, the joy of the land was extinguished.” Even in my own time, long after Akkad had fallen, the scribes of Sumer still whispered those words. They remembered the famine not as a natural disaster, but as the moment when the gods themselves turned their faces away from mankind.

The Years of Hunger

As the curse unfolded, the once-rich lands of Mesopotamia became barren. Grain prices rose beyond reason, and people traded their children for food. Herds of animals died, and caravans stopped coming. The poor turned on the rich, and even the temples could no longer provide relief. Cities that had once sent grain to their neighbors now sent soldiers to steal it. The smell of smoke and death hung over the plains. It was said that in those days, even the priests abandoned their shrines, for there were no offerings left to give. The famine did not strike just one city—it spread from the Tigris to the Euphrates, touching every corner of the Akkadian realm.

The Rise of Violence and Desperation

When hunger consumes a nation, peace cannot survive. The soldiers who once fought for the king of Akkad now fought for whoever could feed them. Rebellions spread like wildfire. Cities closed their gates to one another, and the once-proud empire broke into pieces. The Gutians, my ancestors, watched from the highlands as the chaos grew. We saw smoke rising from the plains and heard the cries of starving men echo through the valleys. The Akkadians, who had once enslaved and taxed the mountain tribes, now fled to us begging for food. It was then that we knew the time of the Akkadians was over.

The Fall of the Great City

When we finally descended from the mountains, the land was already broken. Akkad itself, the city of kings, lay in ruins. Its walls were cracked, its streets filled with dust. The temples of Ishtar and Enlil stood silent. The once-golden statues had been looted, and the canals that fed the city were choked with sand. The famine had done what no army could—it had crushed the spirit of empire. The people who survived wandered from city to city, carrying what little they could. The heart of civilization had withered, leaving only fragments of its former glory.

The Gutian Rule Over Sumer and Akkad – Told by Tirigan of Gutium

When the Gutian tribes descended from the mountains into the lands of Sumer and Akkad, we did not find an empire ready to resist us. What we found was a wounded land—cities weakened by famine, armies broken by civil war, and people weary from endless struggle. The Gutians were not conquerors in the manner of Sargon or Naram-Sin; we were survivors, warriors hardened by hunger and harsh terrain. When the Akkadian armies fled and the cities surrendered, our chieftains took control not by decree of the gods but by the strength of their swords. We became the rulers of the plains, though we had never sought to build an empire. Our rule began not from ambition but from opportunity.

A Kingdom Without a Center

Unlike the Akkadians, we Gutians had no grand capital, no great city to serve as the seat of our power. Each Gutian leader governed from where he stood, his authority recognized only as far as his voice could carry. What the Sumerians called disunity, we called freedom. We had no vast bureaucracy or network of scribes to watch over the land. Orders were given by word, not by tablet. The Akkadian governors and priests, accustomed to clear hierarchies and taxes recorded in cuneiform, despised us for it. Yet, it was our way. The land was divided among Gutian leaders who ruled as they pleased—some with fairness, others with cruelty. To the Sumerians, it seemed chaos, but to us, it was the way of the mountains brought down to the plains.

Decay of the Cities

Under our rule, the cities of Sumer and Akkad began to fade. We were warriors, not builders or administrators. The canals that once watered the fields fell into disrepair. The ziggurats, those towering stairways to the gods, lost their keepers as priests fled or died. The scribes stopped writing, and the libraries grew cold with dust. Without the steady flow of grain and trade, hunger returned. The markets fell silent, and the laughter of children in the courtyards was replaced by the cries of the poor. The Sumerians later wrote that “barley would not grow, and the people were few.” They called it a curse brought by our hands, but in truth, we had inherited a land already dying.

The Struggle to Govern

We Gutians knew how to fight but not how to rule a kingdom of cities. The laws of the plains were strange to us. The Sumerians measured life in written decrees, taxes, and temple offerings, while we measured it in loyalty and strength. When disputes arose, they sought judgment through scribes and priests, but we settled matters with our spears and our honor. In time, this made us hated by those we ruled. They saw us as lawless and uncivilized, unfit to hold the throne once blessed by the gods of Sumer. Perhaps they were right. But I tell you this: our rule was no more cruel than theirs had been when they took our sons as slaves and called us savages. We gave back what the plains had once given us.

Temples Without Worship

The priests say that under our reign, the gods themselves withdrew from the land. The temples grew silent, and offerings dwindled. The great ziggurat of Ur, once gleaming in the moonlight, stood neglected. The temple of Enlil at Nippur, once the heart of divine power, was left in ruin. Without priests to guide them or kings to command them, the people began to lose faith. Even the gods, it seemed, turned their gaze elsewhere. The Sumerians later claimed this was divine punishment for our rule, but I believe the truth is simpler: when a people forget to care for their land, their gods grow silent, and their hope dies.

The Decline of Gutian Power

As years passed, the Gutians grew fat and complacent in the plains. Our warriors became governors, our chieftains became kings, and with comfort came weakness. The same freedom that had made us strong in the mountains left us divided on the plains. Some of my own kin fought among themselves for power. The Sumerian cities began to rise again, whispering of rebellion and divine favor. It was then that Utu-hengal of Uruk, a man of cunning and resolve, united the southern cities and struck back against us.

My Name is Utu-hengal of Uruk: Liberator of Sumer and King of the Four Quarters

When I was young, I knew only the taste of loss. The fields of Sumer lay barren, the canals choked with silt, and the temples of our gods stood silent. For years, the Gutians ruled our land—foreigners from the eastern mountains who neither knew nor cared for the sacred ways of Sumer. The people called those years the Time of Darkness. There was no king worthy of Enlil’s blessing, no justice in the cities, and no joy in the hearts of men. Yet even in those dark days, I believed the gods had not abandoned us. I was a noble of Uruk, a city that had once been the heart of kingship, and I swore that I would see Sumer rise again.

The Call of the Gods

One night, as I stood by the temple of Anu and Inanna, a storm swept through the city. The winds tore across the ziggurat, and I heard a voice carried in the thunder. It was the god Utu, lord of the sun and justice, commanding me to cast out the Gutians and restore the land to righteousness. I took this as my divine charge. I gathered the elders and the priests, and we made offerings in the sacred river, asking for favor. The people wept when I spoke to them, for they had not heard words of hope in a generation. I declared that Sumer would be free again—that Uruk would lead her people out of bondage.

Rallying the Cities of Sumer

To fulfill this divine task, I traveled from city to city—Ur, Lagash, Nippur, and Adab—calling on each to join me in rebellion. Many were hesitant, weary from decades of oppression, but the spark of freedom could not be hidden. Priests, farmers, and warriors came together under the banner of Uruk. For the first time in years, the cities of Sumer spoke as one. I swore before Enlil and Inanna that we would drive the Gutians back to the mountains that had spawned them. The temples rang again with prayers, and the hearts of men grew bold.

The War for Sumer

When word reached the Gutian king, Tirigan, that Sumer had risen, he gathered his forces and marched to meet me. We clashed near Adab, where the plains meet the river. The Gutians fought fiercely, but their power was fading, and the gods stood with me. I saw my men fight not for plunder, but for their homes and their children. When the battle ended, the Gutians were broken. Tirigan fled, abandoned by his own soldiers, and was later captured by the very people he had once ruled. I received him in chains. He was made to swear before the gods that he and his people would never again rule the land of Sumer. Thus ended the time of Gutian oppression.

Restoring the Land of Sumer

With victory came duty. The land was in ruins, its people scattered, its temples fallen to decay. I returned to Uruk and declared myself King of the Four Quarters—an ancient title once held by Sargon of Akkad, but now reclaimed for the Sumerians. I began the great work of renewal. Canals were cleared, grain was planted, and the priests returned to their temples. We rebuilt the altars of Enlil at Nippur and restored the worship of Inanna in Uruk. For the first time in decades, the people sang again. Justice returned to the courts, and the scribes once more pressed their tablets with the words of the kings.

The Dawn of a New Age

My rule was brief but bright, like the first sunrise after a long storm. I had little interest in conquest; my heart was set on restoration. Yet I knew that to secure peace, I needed allies. Among those who served me was a man of great promise—Ur-Nammu of Ur. He was loyal, wise, and strong. I saw in him the same fire that once burned in my own heart. I trusted him to continue what I had begun.

The Sumerian Resistance – Told by Utu-hengal of Uruk

For many years, Sumer lay beneath the shadow of the Gutians. They ruled not as kings blessed by the gods, but as conquerors who took what they wished and gave little in return. The canals were neglected, the temples stood empty, and the songs of the people grew silent. In the southern cities, famine stalked the streets, and despair became as common as dust. Yet, even in those dark days, the spirit of Sumer did not die. We are a people of deep roots—our cities older than the stars above the plains. We had survived floods, invasions, and the fall of empires before. Though the Gutians held our cities, they never held our hearts.

Whispers of Defiance

The first stirrings of resistance began not with armies, but with whispers. In the temples of Uruk, Nippur, and Ur, the priests began to speak once more of the gods’ anger toward the Gutians and their promise to restore kingship to a worthy ruler. Farmers, weary of giving their harvest to foreign hands, began to hide grain from Gutian collectors. Merchants found secret ways to trade among the cities, avoiding Gutian patrols. Scribes, long silenced, began again to write the names of the old gods on clay. These were small acts, but they were sparks in the darkness. And from these sparks, rebellion was born.

The Gathering of the Cities

As the Gutians grew weak from their own greed and division, the southern cities began to stir. Ur, Uruk, Lagash, and Eridu—each once great, now broken—found a common cause. Their rulers sent envoys in secret, speaking of alliance and liberation. In Uruk, I was among those who called for unity. I reminded the elders that our ancestors had built these cities for the gods, not for mountain invaders who neither wrote nor prayed. Slowly, the walls of fear began to crumble. One by one, the cities pledged themselves to a single purpose: to drive the Gutians back to their hills.

The Role of the Temples

The temples played a greater part in this awakening than any army. The priests proclaimed that Enlil, lord of heaven and earth, had withdrawn his blessing from the Gutians. They spoke of omens in the stars and messages in the flight of birds, declaring that the time of liberation had come. Hymns once forbidden were sung again in the streets. The people began to believe that the gods themselves had chosen them to restore the land. Faith became a weapon stronger than any spear, for it united rich and poor, farmer and noble, soldier and priest. It gave the people of Sumer something the Gutians could never understand—hope.

The First Rebellions

The first open defiance began in Lagash, where local leaders drove out their Gutian overseers and reclaimed their city’s temples. News of their victory spread swiftly, and soon other cities followed. The Gutians, divided and slow to react, could not suppress the uprisings. In the countryside, peasants rose against Gutian tax collectors, ambushing them along the canals. Even the fishermen and herdsmen took up arms, fighting for the gods of their fathers. Though these early battles were small and desperate, they showed that the Gutians were no longer invincible. The people of Sumer had remembered their strength.

The Call to Arms in Uruk

In Uruk, my own city, the resistance took its final and greatest form. The Gutian governor fled when the people rose against him, and I, Utu-hengal, was chosen to lead. I stood before the ziggurat and swore an oath to the gods: that I would drive the Gutians from our land and restore kingship to Sumer. I gathered soldiers from every city willing to stand with us—men who had lost homes, families, and faith to years of oppression. They carried old weapons and wore no armor, but their hearts burned with purpose. The priests blessed us in the name of Enlil, Nanna, and Inanna, and the people sang as we marched north.

The Battle for Freedom – Told by Utu-hengal of Uruk

When I rose to power in Uruk, the land of Sumer was still under the heavy shadow of the Gutians. For too long, we had lived in humiliation, our temples defiled, our cities robbed of their pride. But the gods do not remain silent forever. I felt the voice of Enlil in my dreams, commanding me to take up the cause of freedom. The priests confirmed what I already knew—the time had come to cast off the yoke of the mountain people. I called upon the cities of Sumer—Ur, Nippur, Lagash, Eridu—to rise together as one. For the first time in generations, the Sumerian banners were raised not for tribute or survival, but for liberation. The air itself seemed to change; hope returned to the hearts of men.

The March of the Sumerians

We began our campaign with the blessings of the gods and the courage of the desperate. Our army was small but determined—farmers, craftsmen, and priests who had traded their tools for spears. We marched north from Uruk along the river, gathering support with every mile. In Lagash, the people opened their gates and joined us. In Umma, the Gutian overseers fled before our approach. Each victory strengthened our resolve. As we advanced, I made sure that no temple was looted, no field burned. We fought not for conquest but for renewal. This was not a war of vengeance—it was a war for the soul of Sumer.

The Enemy’s Strength

The Gutians were fierce fighters. They were hardened by mountain life, strong, and unafraid of death. Though they lacked the discipline of the old Akkadian armies, they knew how to strike quickly and disappear into the hills. Their last king, Tirigan, was a cunning man who sought to hold together what little power remained to him. He gathered the scattered Gutian tribes and marched south to face me, hoping to crush the rebellion before it reached full strength. His army was larger than mine, but his soldiers fought for gold and plunder, while mine fought for their gods, their homes, and their children.

The Clash Near Adab

The final confrontation came near the city of Adab, where the plains opened wide and the rivers curved like twin serpents. The morning was hot, and dust hung thick over the battlefield. I remember looking across the fields and seeing the Gutian lines—a restless, uneven horde shouting in defiance. I raised my hand and prayed to Enlil, to Utu, and to Inanna, asking them to guide my sword and give courage to my people. Then I gave the order to advance. Our infantry met theirs in the center, the sound of bronze against bronze ringing like thunder. The fighting was fierce, but our discipline held. Slowly, we began to push them back.

The Turning of the Tide

At the height of the battle, I ordered my chariots to circle around the flanks. The Gutians, unused to such tactics, broke formation. The moment their lines faltered, I charged with my personal guard straight into the heart of their ranks. I saw Tirigan’s banner in the distance—a crude emblem painted on goat hide—and I knew that victory lay within reach. The Gutians fought savagely, but their spirit began to waver as they saw their leaders fall. When Tirigan’s chariot overturned in the chaos, his army began to flee. The field was ours. The gods had granted Sumer its triumph.

The Pursuit of Tirigan

Tirigan escaped the battlefield with a handful of men, fleeing north in search of safety. I sent swift riders after him. The cities he turned to for refuge—those he had once ruled through fear—shut their gates against him. No one would harbor the last king of the Gutians. He was eventually captured by his own former subjects, who brought him before me in chains. I looked upon him, a man who had once claimed to rule the lands of Sumer and Akkad, now broken and defeated. I spared his life, for vengeance was not my purpose. Instead, I made him swear an oath before the gods never to return to our lands. Thus ended the rule of the Gutians.

The Rebirth of the Sumerian Kingship in Uruk – Told by Utu-hengal of Uruk

When the Gutians were finally driven from the land, Sumer stood trembling between ruin and renewal. Their long rule had left our cities weakened and our spirits fractured. Temples had fallen into silence, and the canals that once brought life to the fields were choked with silt. Yet even in those ruins, the will of the gods still lingered. The victory over Tirigan was not only a triumph of arms—it was a divine signal that the time of chaos had ended. Enlil had turned his face once again toward Sumer, and it was now the duty of men to rebuild what had been lost. The gods had withdrawn their favor from the mountains and bestowed it upon the plains once more. It was my task to answer that calling.

Restoring the Sacred Order

The first act of my rule was to reestablish the ancient order of kingship. In the days of old, the kings of Sumer had ruled not as tyrants, but as servants chosen by the gods to maintain balance between heaven and earth. The Gutians had broken that sacred bond, ruling through fear and neglecting the divine duties of leadership. I decreed that kingship must return to its rightful form—guided by faith, strengthened by justice, and devoted to the welfare of the people. To remind all Sumerians of this bond, I journeyed to Nippur, the city of Enlil, where kingship was first bestowed upon mankind. There, before the high priest, I made offerings and received the blessing of Enlil, declaring that kingship had been restored to Uruk by the will of the gods.

The Rebuilding of Uruk

Uruk, my beloved city, was the first to feel the breath of renewal. Its walls had endured the centuries, but its heart had grown weary. I ordered the temples restored, beginning with the Eanna Temple of Inanna, goddess of love and war, who had long protected Uruk’s people. Craftsmen returned to their work, masons rebuilt the ziggurats, and scribes once more filled the tablets with hymns and decrees. The people rejoiced, for they saw that their city, once broken, was rising again. In every act of reconstruction, I reminded them that we were not merely repairing stone—we were restoring the soul of our civilization.

The Return of Local Dynasties

As stability returned to the south, the great cities once more raised their own rulers under the protection of the gods. In Ur, Lagash, and Eridu, noble families reclaimed their thrones, ruling as vassals of Uruk but with local authority. These dynasties were not rivals, but partners in the rebirth of Sumer. Together, we worked to clear the canals, revive trade, and bring justice to the land. Each city once again honored its patron deity, reviving the sacred festivals that had been silenced for generations. The old rhythms of life—planting, harvest, worship—returned to the people. It was as if the land itself sighed with relief after years of neglect.

The Ideals of Kingship Renewed

In restoring the kingship, I sought not merely to rule, but to embody the virtues of leadership that had been lost. A true king, I believed, must be both warrior and priest—a protector of his people and a mediator between gods and men. Power alone could not sustain a kingdom; only justice could. I established laws to protect the weak, ensure fair trade, and prevent the oppression of the poor. I personally presided over disputes to remind all that the king was not above the law but its servant. The people began to speak of me not as a conqueror, but as a shepherd who guided his flock. That, to me, was the highest honor a ruler could receive.

With kingship restored, the temples once again became the centers of life in every city. Priests and priestesses returned to their duties, and the great festivals of the gods filled the streets with joy. Hymns long forgotten were sung once more, praising Enlil, Nanna, and Inanna for delivering Sumer from its suffering. The scribes recorded these songs on clay so that future generations would remember the day the gods renewed their covenant with mankind. I ordered the rebuilding of the ziggurat at Uruk, so that our prayers might once again reach the heavens. It stood as a symbol of both devotion and endurance.

The Alliance Between Uruk and Ur – Told by Utu-hengal of Uruk

After the defeat of the Gutians and the restoration of kingship to Uruk, I knew that victory alone would not preserve the peace. The land of Sumer had been divided for too long, each city seeking its own glory. Though I ruled as king of Uruk and protector of Sumer, I understood that no single city could rebuild the land alone. Among the southern cities, none was greater in wealth or spirit than Ur—the City of the Moon God, Nanna. Its priests, merchants, and artisans were among the finest in all of Sumer. If Sumer was to truly rise again, Uruk and Ur would need to stand as one. Thus began the alliance that would shape the future of our people and pave the way for Ur-Nammu’s golden reign.

The Meeting of Kings and Priests

The first step in unity was faith. I traveled to Ur to meet its priests and elders, bringing with me gifts of grain, gold, and sacred texts. The temple of Nanna was vast, its ziggurat glimmering in the morning sun despite the years of neglect under the Gutians. There, in the courtyard of the moon god, I stood before the priests and declared that the gods of heaven had not chosen one city over another—they had chosen all of Sumer to be restored. I made offerings beside them, not as a conqueror, but as a brother in faith. Together, we called upon the gods to bless a bond of cooperation between our cities, a bond that would ensure peace and prosperity for generations.

Trade and the Flow of Life

Our alliance was not forged by words alone but by the rebuilding of what bound us—the canals, the trade routes, and the lifelines of commerce. The roads between Uruk and Ur were cleared and patrolled, ensuring safe passage for merchants and travelers. Barges laden with grain, wool, copper, and dates once again drifted along the rivers. The wealth of Ur’s ports and the crafts of Uruk’s workshops began to flow together, bringing prosperity back to both. The people who had once suffered famine and isolation now found abundance. It was said that for every jar of oil sent from Ur, Uruk returned a gift of cloth and silver. Through trade, our alliance became more than an oath—it became a living bond that fed and sustained the land.

Shared Governance and Respect

In the old days, kings of Sumer often sought to dominate one another, believing that unity could come only through conquest. But I believed differently. I knew that true strength lay in shared purpose, not in rivalry. I allowed Ur to govern its own affairs under its local rulers, so long as they honored the gods, upheld justice, and supported the rebuilding of Sumer. The priests of Ur were granted full authority over their temples and offerings, and their scribes worked alongside mine to restore ancient records lost during the Gutian years. It was in those days that I first met Ur-Nammu, a man of wisdom and ability who served as governor of Ur. He impressed me with his loyalty, his fairness, and his understanding of the laws that held a kingdom together. I saw in him a man who could one day continue the work I had begun.

The Rise of Ur-Nammu

Ur-Nammu was no ordinary official. He was a man born of noble heart and steady hand, devoted both to his people and the gods. He worked tirelessly to restore order in Ur, rebuilding its temples and strengthening its defenses. His leadership brought peace to the surrounding lands, and his name began to be spoken with respect throughout Sumer. I appointed him as my trusted ally, and together we coordinated the rebuilding of the southern provinces. While I oversaw the spiritual and political renewal of Uruk, Ur-Nammu focused on the practical restoration of Ur. In our cooperation, Sumer once again began to move in harmony, like the twin rivers that nourished it.

The Passing of Power to Ur – Told by Utu-hengal of Uruk

In the years following the liberation of Sumer from the Gutians, peace returned to the land like a long-lost friend. The canals once again carried water through the plains, the temples rang with the voices of priests, and the markets of Uruk bustled with life. My work had been great, but the burden of kingship weighs heavily on all who bear it. As I grew older, I felt the gods drawing nearer, whispering that my time among men was nearing its end. Yet my heart was calm, for I had seen Sumer restored and her people united in faith and purpose. My only concern was that the peace we had built would endure after my passing. It was for this reason that I placed my trust in Ur-Nammu, the noble governor of Ur, a man I believed chosen by the gods to continue what I had begun.

The Bonds Between Uruk and Ur

The alliance between Uruk and Ur had grown strong, forged not only by trade and law but by faith and friendship. Ur-Nammu had proven himself wise and just, ruling Ur with the same care that I ruled Uruk. He respected the gods, protected the poor, and strengthened the lands around him. I often visited Ur to consult with him, and together we offered sacrifices to Nanna, the moon god, and to Enlil, lord of the heavens. The people saw that there was no rivalry between our cities, only unity. In every decision, we worked together for the good of Sumer. I had come to see in Ur-Nammu not just a loyal ally, but a successor worthy of divine favor.

The Journey to Inspect the Canals

It was during one of my final journeys that fate revealed its hand. Each year, I traveled along the canals and rivers to ensure that the waters flowed freely, for the health of Sumer depended upon them. On this journey, I visited the southern lands near Ur, where the river met the sea. There had been reports of damage to the canals after the floods, and I wished to see the repairs with my own eyes. The day was hot, and the waters ran high from recent rains. As I rode in my chariot beside the canal banks, the ground gave way beneath the wheels. In an instant, the chariot overturned, and I was cast into the waters. My attendants rushed to save me, but the currents were strong, and I was pulled beneath the surface.

The Death of a King

Thus, my life ended not in battle, but in the embrace of the river that had given life to my land. Some said it was an accident, others that the gods themselves had called me home, satisfied that my task was complete. The priests later declared that Enki, god of wisdom and the waters, had chosen that moment to carry me into the divine realm. My body was taken to Uruk, and the people mourned for seven days. The temples were draped in cloth, and hymns were sung in every city I had freed. Yet even in their mourning, there was peace, for the people knew that Sumer was no longer adrift—it had strong hands ready to guide it.

The Rise of Ur-Nammu

When the news of my death reached Ur, Ur-Nammu stood before the altar of Nanna and vowed to continue my mission. The priests and nobles of Sumer gathered and proclaimed him king, for his wisdom and devotion were known throughout the land. He took up my mantle not as a conqueror, but as a servant of the gods, declaring that the kingship, once established in Uruk, had now been entrusted to Ur. In that moment, the power of Sumer passed peacefully into his care, blessed by both heaven and earth. There was no war, no rebellion, no struggle for the throne—only the smooth flow of destiny, as steady as the rivers themselves.

The Unification of Sumer Under Ur

Under Ur-Nammu’s leadership, the cities of Sumer grew closer than ever before. He strengthened the alliance I had begun, expanding it into a true confederation of faith and law. He restored justice to every corner of the land, built great ziggurats, and established codes that ensured fairness among all people. The capital at Ur became a beacon of learning and prosperity. I watched from the realm of the gods with pride.

My Name is Shulgi of Ur: King of Sumer and Akkad, Son of Ur-Nammu

I was born into a world that had just begun to heal. My father, Ur-Nammu, the founder of the Third Dynasty of Ur, had restored Sumer from the ruins left by the Gutians and the chaos that came before. Under his hand, the cities once again thrived, temples rose to honor the gods, and justice was written into the laws of men. I, Shulgi, was born to inherit this renewed world. From my earliest days, I was trained not only to rule but to understand the wisdom that had made our civilization great. I learned to read and write in both Sumerian and Akkadian, to compose hymns, to recite laws, and to command soldiers. My father told me that kingship was not power—it was duty. When he died, I swore to honor that duty and surpass his greatness.

The Burden of the Crown

When I ascended the throne, the weight of empire rested upon my shoulders. My father had united the land, but unity is fragile. Many still remembered the days when kings rose and fell with every rebellion. I knew that to hold Sumer and Akkad together, I must be both scholar and warrior, priest and judge. I began my reign by finishing what my father had started—the great ziggurat of Ur, dedicated to the moon god Nanna. It was not only a temple but a symbol, rising above the plains like a promise from earth to heaven. Its foundation stones still bear my inscriptions, declaring my devotion to the gods and my people.

The Age of Learning and Order

My reign was one of renewal and brilliance. I organized the land into provinces, each ruled by governors who owed loyalty to me alone. Every field, every flock, every worker was counted and recorded by scribes. Clay tablets multiplied like stars, each one carrying the pulse of our kingdom’s life—its trade, its laws, its taxes. I established a network of roads across the empire and built waystations where travelers could rest and merchants could exchange goods. Messengers could travel from Ur to Nippur in days instead of weeks. Justice was swift, trade was rich, and the temples overflowed with offerings.

The Scholar-King

I prided myself not only on governance but on wisdom. I wrote hymns in my own name—songs of praise to myself, yes, but also reflections on kingship and divine duty. The scribes called me “Shulgi the learned,” for I had mastered languages, mathematics, and music. Some said I was favored by Enlil, the great lord of heaven and earth, while others whispered that I claimed too much divine favor. I will not deny it—I did compare myself to a god, for I believed I was chosen to bring divine order to men. Yet, in my heart, I sought not worship but remembrance.

The Expanding Empire

To secure our borders, I marched my armies east into Elam and north into Subartu. The lands of my enemies fell beneath the banners of Ur. Tribute flowed into my cities—copper, lapis, gold, and grain. My generals extended our influence far beyond Sumer, while my governors built canals, temples, and schools. The world once again knew the strength of the southern land. Yet every conquest brought new challenges. The Amorites pressed from the west, and the highlands to the east never stayed quiet. Still, my roads held firm, and my soldiers—trained, fed, and loyal—kept the peace.

Faith and the Gods

My reign was nothing without the favor of the gods. I rebuilt the temples of Enlil at Nippur, of Inanna at Uruk, and of Nanna at Ur. The priests sang hymns written in my name, calling me the chosen son of Utu, the just and radiant sun god. I decreed that justice must shine like light—no man was above the law, not even the king. Yet, I also knew that the gods were jealous of pride. To honor them, I gave offerings beyond counting, and I led festivals that lasted for days. When the people danced in the courtyards and sang to the gods, I felt that heaven itself smiled upon Ur.

The Founding of the Third Dynasty of Ur (Ur III) – Told by Shulgi of Ur

When my father, Ur-Nammu, ascended the throne of Sumer, the land was still recovering from centuries of chaos. The Gutians had been defeated, the kingship had passed from Uruk to Ur, and the gods once again smiled upon the plains between the rivers. The people, weary from generations of instability, longed for a ruler who could bring lasting order. My father was that man. Guided by wisdom and divine favor, he established what would become known as the Third Dynasty of Ur—a new era of unity, law, and prosperity. It was more than the founding of a kingdom; it was the rebirth of civilization itself.

The Legacy of Utu-hengal

Before my father’s reign, Utu-hengal of Uruk had liberated Sumer from foreign rule and restored the sacred kingship. Yet even the greatest heroes cannot rule forever. When he perished in the waters of the canals, the gods chose my father to continue his mission. Ur-Nammu had been Utu-hengal’s trusted ally and governor of Ur, known for his loyalty and administrative skill. He did not seize power by the sword but received it through divine providence and the will of the people. In his coronation, he vowed before Enlil, Nanna, and Inanna that he would uphold justice and rebuild what war and famine had destroyed. Thus, kingship passed peacefully from Uruk to Ur, and the Third Dynasty was born.

The Vision of Ur-Nammu

My father was not merely a warrior; he was a builder and a lawgiver. He believed that a true kingdom must rest upon three pillars—faith, justice, and prosperity. His first act was to restore the temples of the gods, for he knew that no city could thrive without divine favor. He ordered the reconstruction of the great ziggurat of Ur, a temple that rose toward the heavens as a bridge between man and god. Its tiers gleamed in the sunlight, a symbol of renewed strength and devotion. Yet his greatest gift to Sumer was not made of brick or stone—it was the Code of Ur-Nammu, the first written law to bring fairness to the people. In those laws, he declared that the strong should not oppress the weak, that justice should be measured by truth, not by might.

The Unification of Sumer

Under my father’s rule, the fractured city-states of Sumer were once again brought together under one banner. From Ur to Nippur, from Lagash to Eridu, every ruler swore allegiance to the throne of Ur. The old rivalries that had divided us were replaced by cooperation and trade. The canals were repaired, and the harvests grew plentiful once more. Merchants filled the markets, and scribes recorded the movement of goods across the land. The people no longer feared invasion or famine; they looked to the future with hope. My father’s reign became known as the time when the gods returned to Sumer, blessing its cities with peace and abundance.

The House of Ur

The palace my father built in Ur became the heart of the new empire. It was not a fortress of war, but a center of governance, filled with scribes, judges, priests, and scholars. There, decisions were made not by whim but through counsel and law. From that palace, edicts were sent across the land, written in cuneiform and sealed with my father’s royal mark. The house of Ur became more than a dynasty—it became a symbol of divine kingship, guided by reason and righteousness. It was here that I grew, learning from my father the art of leadership and the weight of responsibility that came with wearing the crown.

The Inheritance of Kingship

When my father died—some say from wounds sustained in battle, others say by divine summons—the throne passed to me, his son, Shulgi. I was young but well prepared. My father had taught me that kingship was not a birthright of privilege, but a sacred trust to protect the people and honor the gods. I took up his mantle with humility and determination. I vowed to strengthen the foundation he had laid and to expand the glory of Ur to the ends of the known world. I ruled not only as a warrior but as a scholar and builder, for I believed that wisdom was the truest form of strength.

The Code of Ur-Nammu and Early Law Systems – Told by Shulgi of Ur

When my father, Ur-Nammu, took the throne of Sumer, the land was still haunted by the memory of disorder. The centuries before his rule had seen the collapse of empires, the neglect of justice, and the rise of lawlessness. The Gutians had ruled through fear, not through fairness. Even after their fall, the cities of Sumer were filled with disputes—merchants cheated their customers, officials demanded bribes, and the weak had no protection against the strong. My father understood that victory on the battlefield was meaningless if peace did not rule in the courts. He knew that the greatness of a kingdom must rest not upon the sword, but upon the law.

The Inspiration of the Gods

It was said that the gods themselves guided my father’s hand when he conceived the first great code of laws. Enlil, lord of heaven and earth, desired order; Nanna, our city’s moon god, demanded truth. My father answered their call. He gathered his scribes, priests, and judges and sought to create a system that would mirror the divine balance of the heavens. The result was what the people came to call the Code of Ur-Nammu—the foundation of justice in our age. It was written not for kings and nobles alone but for all who lived under the light of the gods, from the farmer in his field to the merchant in his stall.

The Principles of Justice

The Code of Ur-Nammu was unlike anything that had come before. Earlier rulers had spoken of justice, but my father gave it form. His laws were clear and measured, designed to prevent revenge and maintain harmony. They declared that if a man caused harm, he must make restitution—not through blood, but through compensation. If a builder’s work caused injury, he must repair what he had broken. If a man accused another falsely, he would bear the punishment meant for the innocent. The laws recognized the value of fairness and restraint, teaching that punishment must fit the crime and that the strong must not exploit the weak. These principles, simple and just, restored trust among the people and peace to the cities.

The Role of the Scribes and Judges

To ensure that the laws were known and obeyed, my father established a network of scribes and judges throughout the kingdom. Each city had its courts, and each court followed the same written code. The scribes recorded every ruling on tablets of clay so that justice would not depend on memory or whim. The judges were chosen not for their power but for their wisdom and integrity. They took oaths before the gods to rule impartially, knowing that corruption would bring divine punishment. In this way, the law became not just the command of a king but a sacred covenant between ruler, people, and gods.

Law as the Foundation of Civilization

The Code of Ur-Nammu brought more than fairness—it brought stability. Before its creation, disputes often ended in violence. A single insult could lead to feuds that destroyed families. But once the law became the measure of right and wrong, people learned to trust in order rather than vengeance. Trade flourished, for merchants knew their contracts would be honored. Farmers labored in peace, knowing their property would be protected. The law became the invisible wall that guarded Sumer, stronger than any army. It united our people not by fear, but by faith in justice.

The King as the Guardian of Law

My father saw himself not as the maker of law but as its servant. In his inscriptions, he wrote that he “established equity in the land, banished malice and violence, and ensured that the orphan and widow were not oppressed.” Those words became the measure of kingship. When I took the throne, I swore to uphold that same duty. I expanded the courts, trained scribes, and ensured that every decree bore our seal. I believed—as my father had—that the law was not simply a tool of rule but the voice of the gods.

Centralized Bureaucracy and Record-Keeping – Told by Shulgi of Ur

When I inherited the throne from my father, Ur-Nammu, the land of Sumer was vast and prosperous. Cities thrived, canals ran full, and trade stretched across mountains and deserts. But such abundance brought new challenges. The more our people produced, the greater the need for order. Grain, livestock, labor, and tribute all flowed toward the temples and royal storehouses, yet without careful oversight, even prosperity could become chaos. My father had laid the foundation for law and fairness; I sought to build upon it with structure and precision. To govern wisely, I knew I must see everything, know everything, and record everything. From that vision was born the great administrative system of the Third Dynasty of Ur.

The Rise of the Scribes

At the heart of this new order were the scribes—the keepers of knowledge and the stewards of the realm’s memory. Their styluses carved into clay the pulse of the kingdom: its harvests, its taxes, its rations, and its decrees. In the great temples of Ur, Uruk, and Nippur, halls were filled with rows of scribes sitting before heaps of tablets, pressing symbols into the clay with swift precision. They recorded every measure of grain stored in the granaries, every sheep counted in the flocks, every jar of oil distributed to the workers. No act was too small to be remembered, for I believed that knowledge was the key to strength. A ruler who knew his land completely could rule it completely.

The Birth of Standardization

To manage such a vast network of information, I decreed that all measurements, weights, and record-keeping systems be standardized throughout the empire. A shekel in Ur was to be the same as a shekel in Lagash; a cubit in Nippur was to measure the same in Eridu. No longer would merchants or governors exploit confusion for personal gain. The scribes used the same symbols, the same procedures, and the same seals, so that every tablet written in Sumer could be read and trusted anywhere. This standardization united the cities not just in law, but in practice. It turned a collection of city-states into a single, functioning machine—the body of Sumer, with its heart in Ur.

The Taxation System

With the land at peace and trade flourishing, I turned my attention to the fair collection of taxes. I established a system that balanced the needs of the people with the requirements of the state. Farmers paid their dues in grain, herders in livestock, and merchants in silver or goods. The temples and royal storehouses acted as centers of collection, where every offering and tax was carefully recorded on clay tablets. These records ensured that no man could be overburdened, nor could any governor hoard more than his share. Taxes supported the maintenance of canals, the rebuilding of temples, and the feeding of workers who built monuments in honor of the gods. Through taxation, the wealth of the land was transformed into strength for the kingdom.

Rationing and the Care of the People

I also ordered that rations be distributed fairly to those who served the state—workers, soldiers, and temple attendants alike. The rationing tablets became symbols of my reign’s justice and efficiency. They recorded the daily or monthly allotments of food, oil, and beer given to laborers. These tablets, thousands upon thousands of them, ensured that the hungry were fed and the diligent rewarded. The system was not one of charity, but of harmony; those who served the kingdom were sustained by it. Even the poorest worker, his name inscribed upon a tablet, was recognized as a part of Sumer’s greatness.

Expansion and Diplomacy under Shulgi – Told by Shulgi of Ur

When I, Shulgi of Ur, ascended the throne, I inherited not just a kingdom but a legacy of divine order built by my father, Ur-Nammu. He had restored law, faith, and prosperity to the cities of Sumer, but it was my task to ensure that our strength reached beyond our borders. I believed that Sumer was not meant to stand alone; it was destined to be the heart of a greater world connected by trade, alliance, and understanding. My reign would be remembered not only for peace within but for the expansion of influence without—a time when the name of Ur carried honor from the mountains of Elam to the shores of the distant western sea.

The Call to Secure Our Borders

Though Sumer was strong, the lands around us were restless. To the east lay Elam, whose people had once invaded our lands during the days of weakness. To the north and west were the highlands and the deserts where Amorite and Subarean tribes roamed. Trade routes crossed these lands, but they were often threatened by bandits and rival powers. I knew that peace could not be maintained by walls alone. To protect our merchants and preserve the flow of wealth, I sent forth well-trained armies to secure our borders. My generals did not march as conquerors, but as guardians of order. Each campaign strengthened the safety of our frontiers and opened new paths for commerce and diplomacy.

The Eastern Campaigns into Elam

Elam had long been both rival and neighbor—a land of mountains rich in copper, tin, and precious stones. My father had begun to establish peace with them, but I sought something greater: cooperation. At first, I led armies eastward to remind them of Sumer’s strength. Our victories were swift and decisive, for the gods favored our cause. But rather than destroy their cities, I offered peace through alliance. We exchanged envoys, and in time, trade replaced conflict. From Elam came metals, timber, and fine stones, and from Sumer went grain, textiles, and crafted goods. Thus, what began as war became friendship, and our relationship endured for generations.

The Western Routes to the Levant

Beyond the western deserts lay lands few Sumerians had seen—regions rich with cedar wood, olive oil, and copper. To the west, through Mari and beyond, stretched the road to the great sea. I strengthened our ties with these cities through diplomacy, ensuring that caravans could pass safely and freely. I sent envoys bearing gifts and treaties sealed with my royal mark. The Levantine cities responded with generosity, sending back their finest goods. Our merchants returned from these journeys with not only wealth but stories of lands filled with wonders. Through diplomacy and trade, Sumer’s influence reached farther than ever before.

The Empire of Exchange

The strength of Sumer during my reign came not from conquest but from the flow of goods and ideas. My merchants traveled freely under the protection of my banners, and every city they visited bore witness to the prosperity of Ur. We traded with the east for metals, with the west for wood and luxury goods, and with the north for livestock and wool. In return, we gave the world what Sumer had perfected—writing, mathematics, and the wisdom of civilization. The markets of Ur and Uruk overflowed with treasures from distant lands. Trade became the language of peace, and through it, the gods’ favor was made known.

The Roads and Watchtowers of the Empire

To maintain this vast network, I built roads that connected the cities of Sumer to its outer provinces. Along these routes, I placed way stations and watchtowers, where travelers could rest and messengers could change horses. This network allowed swift communication from the capital to the borders. Soldiers protected the roads, and local governors reported directly to my palace. The system ensured that news, orders, and trade could move without delay. These roads became the arteries of the empire, carrying not just soldiers and merchants but unity itself.

My Name is Abi-simti: High Priestess of Nanna at Ur

I was born beneath the silver light of the moon, in the holy city of Ur, where the ziggurat of Nanna rose higher than any tower in Sumer. My mother was a noblewoman, my father a priest of the temple court, and from my earliest days, it was said that the gods had chosen me. I grew up among the temple courtyards, where incense curled through the air and hymns were sung before dawn. The scribes taught me to read the ancient tongue of Sumer and to write upon tablets of clay. By the time I was a young woman, I could recite the hymns of Enheduanna, the great priestess of old, whose words still echoed through our rituals. When the priests of Nanna sought a new high priestess to serve the god of the moon, they called upon me. Thus began my life as the chosen daughter of Ur’s sacred house.

The House of the Moon GodThe temple of Nanna was more than a place of worship—it was the heart of the city. Within its walls, the divine and the mortal met. It was my duty to keep the sacred fires burning, to oversee offerings of grain and oil, and to ensure that the rituals were performed with purity. I also served as a guardian of knowledge. The temple held libraries of clay tablets filled with hymns, prayers, and records of the stars. I studied the movement of the moon, the tides of the river, and the seasons of planting. To serve Nanna was to understand the balance of heaven and earth. Each night, as the moon rose, I climbed to the highest terrace of the ziggurat and lifted my arms to the sky, asking the god to bless our city with peace.

Life in the Time of ShulgiWhen I was first anointed as high priestess, King Shulgi ruled Sumer and Akkad. He was a man of wisdom and ambition, and he honored the temples as the foundation of his realm. Often he came to Ur to offer sacrifices, and I would stand beside him as he poured wine and oil before the altar of Nanna. He called himself divine, but I saw in him both a man and a ruler striving for immortality through devotion and order. He built roads, raised temples, and filled the granaries of the land. His reign was a golden age for our city. The people of Ur prospered, the canals flowed freely, and the scribes wrote of peace and plenty. I thanked Nanna each night for the favor he had shown us.

The Role of Women in the Sacred LifeAs high priestess, I led not only rituals but also women who served in the temple. Some were singers, others weavers, scribes, or caretakers of the flocks that belonged to Nanna. The temple was a world of its own—one ruled not by kings but by devotion. We women were the keepers of rhythm and order, tending the sacred duties that fed both body and spirit. Many outside the temple believed women to be weak, but in truth, we were the heartbeat of the divine. Through our hands passed the offerings, through our voices came the prayers, and through our wisdom flowed the continuity of faith.

The Golden Peace and Gathering ShadowsFor many years, life in Ur was calm. Festivals filled the streets with music and dance, and the people brought their best grain and wool to the temple. Shulgi’s decrees reached even the farthest provinces, and his scribes recorded everything—the tribute from the mountains, the herds of cattle, even the rations for the temple servants. Yet in time, whispers reached our city. The Amorites had begun to move across the western plains, and the Elamites stirred in the east. Shulgi’s successors tried to keep the peace, but their grip weakened. I watched as fear returned to the hearts of the people. We priests prayed longer, offered greater sacrifices, but the gods had begun to test us.

The end came slowly, then all at once. The Elamites descended upon our lands, and the armies of Ur faltered. I remember the night the fires rose beyond the city walls. The people fled to the temples, crying out for Nanna’s mercy. I stood before the altar, tears upon my face, as I chanted the hymns of protection. But the walls of Ur trembled, and our sacred city fell into ruin. The ziggurat still stood, but the terraces, silent.

The Religious Renaissance at Ur – Told by Abi-simti, High Priestess of Nanna

When the kings of Ur restored peace to the land, the people’s hearts turned once again to the gods. For too long, war and famine had silenced the temples, and the sacred fires had grown dim. Under the reign of Ur-Nammu and his son Shulgi, a new light dawned—a Religious Renaissance that brought both faith and prosperity to Sumer. The gods returned to dwell among their people, and the temples became the center of life once more.

The Ziggurat of NannaAt the heart of this revival stood the great ziggurat of Ur, dedicated to Nanna, the moon god and protector of our city. Its terraces rose like steps toward heaven, gleaming with fresh-painted bricks and polished metal. Each morning and evening, we priests and priestesses climbed its sacred stairs to offer prayers, food, and incense. The people gathered below, lifting their voices in song, for they believed that through these rituals, Nanna heard their cries and blessed their harvests. The ziggurat was not only a monument of worship but a symbol of the bond between earth and sky.

Temples as the Lifeblood of the CityThe temples of Ur were more than places of prayer—they were the lifeblood of the city. Within their walls, scribes recorded offerings, merchants exchanged goods, and laborers received rations for their service. The temples owned land and herds, ensuring that none went hungry. Farmers brought the first of their crops as tribute, and the priests distributed them among the people and workers. In serving the gods, we also served Sumer. Faith and economy were one, joined in the rhythm of worship and work.

The Harmony Between King and TempleThe kings of Ur understood that their strength flowed from divine favor. Ur-Nammu rebuilt the temples in honor of the gods, and Shulgi continued his father’s devotion. He appointed wise priests and priestesses, restored sacred festivals, and filled the storerooms with offerings. In return, we prayed for his reign and blessed his armies. The king ruled the realm of men, and the temple ruled the realm of the divine—but both labored together to maintain harmony in the land.

The Blessings of the GodsThrough the temples, the gods’ favor spread across Sumer. The canals flowed freely, the fields bore fruit, and peace reigned in the cities. The people once again found joy in the festivals, where music, offerings, and laughter filled the air. I, Abi-simti, have seen how devotion renews not only the soul but the land itself. The Religious Renaissance at Ur reminded us that when the gods are honored, all of Sumer thrives.

The Role of Women in the Temples – Told by Abi-simti, High Priestess of Nanna

In the days of Ur’s greatness, the temples stood not only as houses of the gods but as the heart of our civilization. Within their walls, women played vital roles—leading in faith, managing temple affairs, and preserving knowledge. The gods created balance in all things, and in the service of the divine, both men and women shared in sacred duty. It was through this harmony that Sumer prospered in spirit and in order.

Priestesses of the DivineAs high priestess of Nanna, I led the ceremonies that honored our moon god, offering prayers and sacrifices at the great ziggurat. Yet I was not alone in this sacred calling. Across Sumer, women served as priestesses to Inanna, Ninhursag, and other deities. Some cared for the daily rituals; others interpreted omens or guided the people in times of doubt. Our voices rose with the hymns, and our counsel was sought by kings and nobles alike. Through our devotion, the gods’ will was made known to the world.

Scribes and Keepers of KnowledgeMany women within the temples became scribes, learning the sacred art of writing. With stylus and clay, they recorded offerings, hymns, and decrees. They kept the accounts of grain and trade, ensuring that the temple’s wealth was used wisely. In the schools attached to the temples, young girls of noble families were taught reading, numbers, and music. Learning was itself a form of worship, for to write the names of the gods was to bring their presence to life.

Administrators of the Gods’ WealthThe temples were the centers of both faith and economy, and women often held positions of great responsibility. They oversaw workers, managed trade of wool and grain, and supervised the distribution of rations. Each transaction was recorded in the temple archives, ensuring justice and fairness in all dealings. Through their careful management, the temples became examples of divine order—places where the work of heaven guided the affairs of earth.

The Fall of Ur III – Told by Abi-simti, High Priestess of Nanna

I remember the days when Ur stood as the jewel of Sumer—the temples overflowing with offerings, the ziggurat of Nanna shining beneath the moon, and the people rejoicing in peace. Yet even the brightest light casts a shadow. After the reign of the great King Shulgi, the unity that had bound our land began to weaken. The bureaucracy that had once brought order grew heavy and strained, and the wealth that once flowed freely became harder to maintain. The gods had blessed Ur with abundance, but they also tested the hearts of those who ruled after him.

The Gathering StormsFrom the west came the Amorites, wanderers and herdsmen seeking fertile lands. At first, they traded peacefully, settling near our borders. But as their numbers grew, so did their boldness. They began to challenge the authority of our governors, seizing fields and villages. Meanwhile, from the east, the Elamites stirred in the mountains. They had once been allies in trade and faith, but envy and ambition turned their friendship into threat. They raided the border towns, seeking the riches that once filled Ur’s storehouses. The land that had long been the heart of order became surrounded by unrest.

The Burden on the PeopleAs war and uncertainty spread, the people suffered. Taxes grew heavier to fund the defense of the realm. Farmers abandoned their fields when floods or droughts came, and hunger followed. The temples, once filled with music and feasting, grew quiet as offerings diminished. The priests and priestesses prayed daily for Nanna’s mercy, yet the signs in the heavens grew grim. The king, Ibbi-Sin, struggled to hold the empire together, but the gods had turned their gaze elsewhere.

The Fall of the Great CityWhen the Elamites finally marched upon Ur, the city’s walls stood tall, but its spirit had grown weary. The Amorites attacked from the west, cutting off trade and aid. Famine crept through the streets, and the people despaired. I remember the day the temple bells fell silent—the air thick with smoke and grief as the enemy entered the gates. The ziggurat of Nanna, once the stairway to heaven, was defiled and looted. Many wept as the moon god’s statue was taken away, a sign that the divine protection over Ur had ended.

The Lament of SumerAfter the fall, poets and priests composed laments for our lost city. They sang of how the gods left their shrines, how the rivers dried, and how the people wandered in sorrow. I, too, raised my voice in mourning. Yet even in our grief, we knew that the wisdom and faith of Sumer would not vanish. Our language, our hymns, and our laws would pass to the peoples who came after us. The fall of Ur was the end of a dynasty, but not the end of the spirit of Sumer.