Imaginary interview with Ashurbanipal
by Charactorium · Ashurbanipal (684 av. J.-C. — 630 av. J.-C.) · Politics · Military · Culture · 6 min read
Nineveh, in the North Palace, at the hour when torches make the winged bulls tremble on the walls. The king of Assyria receives near a low table covered with clay tablets, a stylus still within reach. He speaks low, like a man accustomed to being listened to without raising his voice.
—They say you are a king who can decipher signs himself. Is that true?
That surprises, doesn't it? A king of Assyria holds the bow and the scepter, not the stylus. I, on the other hand, was trained as a scribe. I read the Sumerian of the ancients and the Akkadian of my fathers, I unravel obscure tablets that even my scholars set down with a sigh, and I can solve number problems. Marduk, the wise among the gods, gave me a broad mind as my portion; I learned the art of the sage Adapa, the hidden knowledge of all the scribal craft. Do not think I boast from vain pride: a king who cannot read what is presented to him is a blind man led by the hand. I see with my own eyes.
A king who cannot read what is presented to him is a blind man led by the hand.
—Why do you insist that the tablets keep a record of who owns them?
At the end of each tablet in my library, my scribes engrave a note — a colophon, they call it. It reads that this text belongs to the palace of Ashurbanipal, king of the universe, to whom Nabu and Tashmetu have given wide ears and penetrating eyes to examine writings. This is not only a mark of ownership, like the cylinder seal rolled on fresh clay to sign. It is an oath. As long as these words remain, it will be known that a king of Nineveh loved knowledge enough to gather it under his roof. Kingdoms collapse, mudbrick walls return to dust. Fired clay remembers.
The walls return to dust; fired clay remembers.
—How did you assemble this immense collection of tablets?
Through scribes and through will. I sent my men to travel through Babylonia, to enter temples and houses, to open the chests of diviners and priests. Everything that bore signs, they had to copy or bring back to Nineveh — rituals, omens, incantations, ancient songs. Some handed me their tablets trembling; no matter, they were safer with me than in a house that a fire could carry away. Thus I built, in the heart of my palace, something no king before me had dared: a place where the knowledge of the whole land would be arranged, classified, kept. Tens of thousands of clay tablets, each in its place.
Everything that bore signs, my scribes had to bring back to Nineveh.
—Among all these texts, is there one you treasured above all others?
There is that long epic about Gilgamesh, the king of Uruk who sought to escape death and met the man saved from the flood. My scribes copied the most complete version known. On one tablet, the ancestor reveals his secret: at Shuruppak, on the banks of the Euphrates, the gods resolved to send the flood. When I read these lines in the evening, I who have seen cities and kings fall, I understand that even the mightiest does not cross the gate of nothingness. That is why I preserve these words: not to console myself, but not to blind myself. A king who forgets he is mortal becomes a ridiculous tyrant.
A king who forgets he is mortal becomes a ridiculous tyrant.
—You made war on your own brother. How did it come to that?
Our father Esarhaddon meant well: to me Assyria, to Shamash-shum-ukin the throne of Babylon. One brother in the north, one in the south, bound by blood and oath. But he who is given a crown ends up wanting the whole sky. He stirred the south against me. For four years I had to march, besiege, starve that city which I nevertheless revered, whose temples I had restored and whose divine statues I had returned. In 648, the walls gave way. My brother perished in the flames of his own palace. I was congratulated on my victory. I found no word for it.
He who is given a crown ends up wanting the whole sky.
—Do you regret treating Babylon so gently before the revolt?
No. I had rebuilt its sanctuaries, brought back the divine statues that war had scattered, spoken to the south with an open hand rather than a whip. It was just. Babylon is not a province like any other: it is the old heart of the land, the mother of kings and scribes. One does not crush it as one razes a rebel village. That my brother betrayed that clemency is his fault, not mine. A king can choose to be hard or gentle; he does not choose the heart of those he elevates. I offered conciliation, and was repaid with revolt. Yet I would do the same again: better to be betrayed justly than feared unjustly.
Better to be betrayed justly than feared unjustly.
—What remains for you of the campaign against Elam?
Susa. The great holy city of the Elamites, the dwelling of their gods, the place of their secrets. In 646, I conquered it, entered its palaces, and stayed there in joy. That people had harassed Assyria for generations, from my grandfather's time and before; at the Ulaï River, our spears had already broken them. But as long as a capital breathes, the enemy is reborn. So I dismantled Susa stone by stone, carried off its treasures, brought even the bones of their kings to Nineveh. Cruel? Perhaps. But the East never threatened us again. There are houses that must be torn down so that children may sleep.
There are houses that must be torn down so that children may sleep.
—It is said that after this victory, you had yourself depicted in a garden, banqueting. What does that image show?
On the alabaster reliefs of my palace, I am carved reclining under a vine, cup in hand, the queen seated near me, musicians playing in the cool of the trees. The victor's rest. And there, in the foliage, a detail my stonecutters carved with care: the severed head of the king of Elam, hanging from a branch like ripe fruit. This shocks those who do not understand. Yet everything is said: the peace I enjoy is made of the war I won. The garden is sweet because the enemy is dead. A king does not hide this truth — he carves it in stone so that none may forget.
The peace I enjoy is made of the war I won.
—Why do so many of your walls show the king hunting lions?
Because the lion is the chaos that prowls at the edges of the ordered world. On the reliefs of the North Palace, I am shown standing on my war chariot, the composite bow drawn — that bow of wood, horn, and sinew whose arrow pierces even the charging beast. The animals released into the arena are raised for this; the people watch from the embankments. It is not a game, it is an oath made visible: as long as my hand holds the bow, the beast will not devour the herds, nor disorder the cities. The king who slays the lion says to everyone: I stand between you and the jaws of chaos. That is my burden, heavier than any crown.
I stand between you and the jaws of chaos — that is my burden.
—What is a typical day like for you, between the gods, the state, and those tablets you love so much?
Dawn belongs to the gods. Diviners examine the livers of sacrificed animals and scan the omens of the sky — an attentive haruspex is worth more than a poorly advised army. Then the correspondence from the four corners of the empire is brought to me, the reports of governors. In the afternoon, I dispense justice, receive ambassadors, record the tribute paid by subject peoples, and prepare campaigns. But when the day wanes, I sometimes withdraw to my tablets, have an ancient text copied, reread an incantation. Finally, evening: the banquet in the gardens, the musicians, the queen. People think I am entirely a warrior. They forget that I also govern with the stylus.
People think I am entirely a warrior; they forget that I govern with the stylus.
—If you could imagine being read in a thousand years, what would you want people to remember?
Strange thought, that of a reader so distant. Kings before me wanted to be remembered for their captured cities and subjugated peoples — and I too had my campaigns engraved on prisms and cylinders, year after year. But if a man from an age I will not know unearths a single thing from Nineveh, I wish it to be a tablet from my library, intact, still legible. That kingdoms fall is in the order of things; Assyria itself will fall, for nothing built by mortals lasts. But a tablet that still speaks a thousand years later — that is a king who refuses to be silent. Let me be found not by my ruins, but by my words.
Let me be found not by my ruins, but by my words.
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This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Ashurbanipal's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.